by James Thayer
"I'll be getting back to Washington tomorrow," Sackville-West continued as he stood. "You'll receive my communiqué within the week on your London assignment. It may require a few short trips across the channel. You know how this work goes."
So much for the soft assignment.
Sackville-West showed them to the door, and Heather asked, "What will happen to Hess?"
"He'll be kept in hospitals or safe houses until the end of the war," Sackville-West replied. "Then he'll go on trial like any other Nazi criminals we manage to catch. This little episode will never be allowed to become part of the history books, though. It makes some people high up in various government circles look rather foolish. Me, for one. And some others higher up than I. Have a good time in England, then. I'll show up in a month or so to see how things are going."
When Heather grinned, Sackville-West added hastily, "Not those kinds of things."
The Priest bid them good-bye at the door, and as they reached the sidewalk Heather asked, "Do you think you can stand me for a year?"
"I'll have those brief, fun-filled jaunts into Germany and occupied France when I need a rest."
"My flat isn't very big, if it's still standing at all."
"I don't take up much room."
On the sidewalk, in Chicago's cold December, they held each other. For the first time, the joy of holding her was not overwhelmed and deadened by suspicion of treachery. His dilemma had been resolved in a way he had thought impossible that morning. She was alive and with him, with him for a long time. With his arms wrapped around her, Crown felt light and complete and contented.
Contentment. It filled him. It had been a long time since he felt this way. Years. No, only a month, since Miguel Maura was murdered. A part of him had been torn away that night on the Dearborn Street Bridge, ripped out and replaced with blue-cold revenge that had chilled him for a month. That was gone now. As they embraced, Crown could feel Heather replace that dead part of him. She healed and replenished and lifted him. A year of her in London. Maybe more. Crown laughed abruptly and squeezed her hard.
"I bet this works out between you and me," he said, looking into her kelly-green, wonderful eyes.
"I think it will, John."
An hour later, they arrived at the EDC house in the escort car, and Crown knew something was terribly wrong when the red light did not flash from the second-story window in response to his signal. Crown shoved the iron gate, and it swung open freely. Why wasn't it locked? Oh, Jesus, no!
"Wait here, Heather." His throat was tight.
"What's wrong, John?"
"Something bad. Really bad. Better get in the car." Crown's voice trembled, and as if to compensate, he drew his pistol.
She followed him up the porch stairs anyway. Rather than press the signal buttons under the mailbox, Crown pushed on the front door. It was unlocked, and opened under the pressure. There was no sound from inside. There should have been buzzers and code words and radio static and grumbling. Nothing.
The door bumped into a soft object and stopped. Crown pressed it again, and it gave a few inches, then stood firm. An arm plopped out from behind the door. A dead arm connected to a dead body. Moving very quietly, very tentatively, Crown stepped around the door. The window guard had been shot in the chest. That is, his chest had been laid open by a stream of bullets shot at close range. The guard's army Colt lay on the windowsill, untouched.
"Oh, God, the house has been blown," Crown whispered. He looked again at what was left of the window guard's chest. "Willi Lange."
Heather had seen too much that day to be shocked at the sight. She paused for only a moment, then asked, "What happened?"
"The German stormtroopers got out somehow. Jesus, and I thought we had Hess beat."
With his pistol in front of his face, Crown walked lightly into the kitchen. He knew what awaited them, and he was right. The radioman was slumped over his table. He appeared to be napping, with his chin resting on his folded arms. His chair sat in a pool of blood. A single knife thrust into his back had ended his life.
There was no further need for stealth. No one would be alive in the EDC house. Crown ran up the stairs to the second floor. The second-floor guard, Jones, lay on the floor, shot in the back. A pistol lay next to him, but Crown doubted he had had a chance to use it. He had fallen out of his chair sideways without turning around, completely surprised. His red flashlight had rolled ten feet down the hall.
The cell-room doors were open, of course. Their bolts were intact, which meant they had been opened with keys. Von Stihl and Lange's shackles lay on their beds. They displayed no signs of force, so they had also been opened with a key. Hess's room was empty. His kit of pills was gone, as was his change of clothes. He had casually packed, knowing someone was coming for him.
"John, where is Professor Ludendorf?"
Then it hit him, the full scope of the German plan, their full plot. He had been completely duped. He had played his hand just as Hess had dealt it. He had been led by the nose, step by step. Hess had been the puppeteer, and Crown had let himself be pulled by the strings, blinded by revenge and all the other smoke screens Hess had thrown up.
"He's gone, Heather." The words almost choked him. "Ludendorf let the stormtroopers and Hess out of their cells, and they hit the guards, and they've gone."
"Why?"
"So they could get away, for Christ's sake!" Crown felt like shooting something, and he lined the Smith and Wesson up on Hess's bed. "No, not so they could get away." The next realization made Crown's head swim. "They could have done that days ago. And they could have killed Fermi with the bomb if they wanted to, because if von Stihl and Ludendorf were working together all along, then Ludendorf wouldn't have told me about the bomb just in time for me to diffuse it unless they had another purpose. . . . "
The last words were said as he jumped down the stairs three at a time and rushed into the radio room. He pushed the dead radio operator out of the way and dialed the Metallurgical Laboratory.
"Get me Enrico Fermi's office. Hurry. . . . Yes, this is John Crown. Where is Dr. Fermi? . . . He's not? When was he due back after the experiment? . . . Yeah, I'm worried too, now."
Crown quickly replaced the receiver. "They've got Fermi."
He grabbed Heather's arm and fairly dragged her out of the house. Crown yelled instructions to the other escort cars, and he and Heather jumped into the center Ford.
It screeched from the curb, shot down Kimbark, and whined around the corner onto Fifty-seventh. "There's only one way they can get out of the country in a hurry, and I played into their hands on that, too."
"Where are we going?" Heather asked, much calmer than Crown was.
"To Midway Airport. They knew we were flying back to England tonight on the same bomber, and they must have guessed that I called the bomber crew and had them prepare to depart."
"I don't understand how Professor Ludendorf could do this."
"He was obviously in on it from the beginning. I doubt he and Kohler were paid vast sums, like we thought about Kohler, but they were probably dedicated Nazis from way back."
"How did they fool us?"
"The 'us' is very kind of you," Crown replied, winding the speeding car around a pod of startled students. "Ludendorf and Kohler were sent to England and made to look like tremendously successful interrogators. The Germans fed them supposed defectors for a year or two. The defectors told Ludendorf and Kohler military secrets in order to make them look like premier interrogators. Ludendorf and Kohler knew about it all along, of course. Hell, all of that fabulous information was planted by Hitler. Sure it was accurate, and it cost the Germans many lives, but it was planted nevertheless, to make Ludendorf and Kohler look good."
"That sounds like a lot of trouble."
"Well," Crown said as the car tore through Washington Park, oblivious of the "Slow—Children" signs, "because the professor was so productive with the other defectors, it was only natural that the British give Hess to him for interroga
tion. And it was only natural, then, that Ludendorf and Kohler accompany Hess to the U.S. The entire ruse was to find the U. S. experiments and kidnap Fermi."
Crown ran a red light, then another, and left several drivers shaking their fists at him. Heather dared not look at the road, so she peered at Crown and said, "I still don't understand. If Ludendorf was working with Hess, why did he tell you about the bomb at the experiment?"
"When Ludendorf found out Kohler and Smithson were dead, he knew I'd suspect him. So he simply went to his backup plan and told me of the bomb. It worked. The moment he told me about it, I no longer suspected Ludendorf at all. And after I dragged Hess to the squash court and he broke down at the last moment and ordered the bomb diffused, I didn't suspect Hess of anything more. I thought I had discovered the plan, and I relaxed accordingly. And then I reported all was well to the Priest." Crown felt like banging his head against the steering wheel. "Hell, there probably wasn't even a bomb at the squash court at all. It was just a trick to make me believe the danger was over."
"And you think von Stihl and that Willi Lange are in on it, too?"
"Sure. Now I know why they went to all the trouble to brutally hijack the dynamite truck. They wanted the whole Chicago police force after them, because they intended to be caught. And they left a bunch of clues no professional would ever leave, like stealing a truck with 'Bakery' painted on it and letting the neighbors see it. Von Stihl wanted to be captured, because he knew Everette Smithson would suggest they be locked up at the EDC house. That was part of their plan."
"Why?"
"You saw all the carnage back there. Von Stihl and Lange had to get inside the EDC house so they could help Hess break out. Ludendorf unlocked the doors, sure, but those guards wouldn't have let Hess out on Ludendorf's say."
Crown ran his sixth red light, and he would have enjoyed it if he had time. He had astutely, and somewhat miraculously, avoided hitting cars and trucks enjoying their rights-of-way.
"Von Stihl and Lange had another job, too. They were probably the muscle used to kidnap Fermi right after the experiment."
"Why didn't they kidnap him earlier? They would have had opportunities."
"They wanted to wait until Fermi's experiment was successful. It wouldn't have made sense to kidnap him and take him to Germany a week ago, because once there, he would've had to build his graphite pile all over again to prove his theory, before they could work on the bomb."
"Dr. Fermi would never help the Nazis, even if they could get him to Germany."
"Wrong. The Nazis can make anyone do anything. Look at the scientists making heavy water in Norway. They don't want to, of course, but they do anyway."
"Why?"
"Pressure. Incredible pressure. It works, believe me."
"So kidnapping Fermi was Hess's goal all along?" Heather asked, bracing herself against the door as the Ford swerved into the Midway Airport entrance drive.
"That's right. Finding the experiment, then kidnapping the top scientist. So far, they've succeeded because we underestimated them every step of the way."
They sped along the airport perimeter road toward hangar 17, past the DC-3's and Stratoliners and experimental air-force planes hidden under tarpaulins. Crown felt himself build as the adrenaline started to pump. He gripped the wheel tighter, and Heather could see him focus again, just as he had done in the cathedral four hours before. It seemed like a week ago.
"John, is the bomber crew at the airplane?"
His reply came several seconds later, forced through layers of concentration. "Yes, they've got it ready to go. On my orders."
"Well, I don't see how those two stormtroopers can take over a plane. There must be eight or nine crew members."
"Von Stihl and Lange will handle them just as easily as Hess handled me. The crew doesn't stand a chance, not with von Stihl's brains and Lange's skill. Not a chance."
Hangar 17's black bulk, partly disguised by the night, loomed ahead of them, and Crown turned sharply off the perimeter road to the hangar driveway. The hangar's side door was partly open, and light poured through it. The Ford skidded to a stop near a fire truck parked alongside the hangar.
"If that plane is in the air, we've lost them. It's got to be in that hangar." It sounded like a prayer.
With pistol in hand, Crown ran to the side door. He peered through it without opening it farther. Oh, God! No bomber! He pushed open the door, and the vast, well-lit hangar stretched out before him. The huge front doors were open, through which the plane had passed, probably just a few minutes before. Crown felt small and cold and alone in the enormous structure.
He was not alone. A herd of miniature men was lined up against the back wall of the hangar, reminding Crown of a nativity scene. They weren't miniatures, they were real, but far away, the other side of the building. The men were frozen in fear. One of them, the smallest, stood apart and was pointing a submachine gun at the crowd.
Without knowing his next move, Crown walked toward the tableau. Halfway across the hangar, he recognized Wing Commander Stratton. Next to him was the surly waist gunner, but now his face contained terror identical to the others'.
Willi Lange's Schmeisser was pointed at Stratton's stomach and did not waver as Crown approached. Crown stopped twenty yards from Lange and pointed his pistol at the corporal's head, but the submachine gun did not move.
"Looks like a standoff, Lange."
Crown didn't think a Wehrmacht submachine-gun expert was capable of laughing, but there it was, crackling out into the hangar like static electricity. It ended quickly, and Crown expected a response, but got none. Lange's eyes remained riveted on the bomber crew.
"Lange, if you lay down the weapon, you might live through this."
The little German smiled under his scrubby mustache and said evenly, "Crown, I have been ordered to keep this crew here, one way or the other. The colonel did not specify how I do it. I would prefer they live, but if you fire that pistol, I promise that every one of them will die, regardless of the part of me you hit."
Crown would have risked it with anyone else but this man. Lange's trail of feats testified to his deadly ability.
Crown asked, "You creased von Stihl's head with a bullet, Lange?"
The corporal smiled again and said, "Just enough to make it look bad. The colonel wasn't even nervous when I did it."
No, Crown wouldn't take the chance. But he kept Willi Lange's ear in the pistol's sight. Lange didn't bother to look. Supreme confidence. Was there something standard to do in this situation? What would the Priest have done in his younger days? Hell, what would he do now? Do something, asshole.
The deep bass of Iron Mike's engines settled it. The sound bubbled into the hangar and shook its flimsy walls. Lange's weapon did not move from the group as Crown backed up several yards, then turned and ran to the gaping double doors. The Flying Fortress was taxiing past the row of hangars out to the end of the runway. It trudged forward ponderously, with power and purpose. At the tip of the runway, it slowed and yawed starboard to line up for takeoff. For several seconds, Iron Mike sat heavily on the runway, its tail almost touching the concrete and its nose high in the air, looking like an enormous metal frog about to leap into the sky. The plane's running lights were off, and no light emerged through the cockpit windows or the greenhouse. A giant, blind monster. It began to roll forward slowly, deliberately.
True inspiration comes only during times of stress. As Crown stood helplessly watching Nazi Germany's deputy führer about to pilot a stolen plane into the sky with America's top nuclear scientist his captive on board, a moment of absolute stress, the solution came to him. It was fraught with risk and danger, but then, it seemed to Crown that stopping a Flying Fortress would be inherently dangerous, regardless of how it was done. Iron Mike's four engines growled to a higher pitch as the plane lumbered down the runway toward Crown, picking up speed as the giant props blew back a violent stream of air over the wings.
Crown turned on his heels and sprinted
to the side of hangar 17, climbed to the running board of the fire truck, and squinted into the darkness of the cab at the dashboard. The key was in the ignition. Of course it was. It was a fire truck that had to be ready on a moment's notice. Crown jumped into the cab, turned the key, and flattened his heel against the starter button. The truck's engine turned over immediately, and Crown rammed it into first gear.
The big Dodge had surprising acceleration for a fully outfitted pumper. And that's what Crown needed, because he saw Iron Mike rolling down the runway toward him just a hundred yards or so from hangar 17. God, it looked immense, a man-of-war about to muscle itself into the sky. Crown heavy-handed the truck through the gears, and it passed the docking trucks parked on the gravel edge and shot onto the runway.
The Fortress accelerated, gobbling up the runway. Its tail lifted off the ground as it bore down. Iron Mike saw the pumper at that instant. It veered to the far side of the concrete strip as it came. One tire bounced along the gravel on the side of the runway, but the plane did not slow. The four engines boomed with sound as it tried to beat the oncoming truck.
Crown aimed the pumper as if he were leading a clay pigeon at a trapshoot. The closer Iron Mike got, the faster it came, and the last fifty yards to the truck were covered in only seconds. A collision was unavoidable and an instant away.
Crown dived to the truck's floor just as Iron Mike's far starboard propeller sheared into the cab, through the seat, and into the pumping engine on the bed. A second propeller followed immediately and tore the roof off the Dodge. The sound of tearing metal rocked the cab. The propellers exploded into fragments as they churned through the truck. Bits of razor-sharp metal streaked through the cab as if a grenade had blown.
Iron Mike, suddenly without starboard power, pivoted violently 180 degrees, tottered up on one wheel as the port wing scraped along the ground, and came to a dead stop, pointing up the runway the way it had come. It bounced back down to two wheels and lay emasculated and immobilized. The two starboard propellers had been sheared off.