The Alice Factor

by J. Robert Janes

“And you refuse to reveal the code you used?”

  “If I’m not a spy, how can I give you a code that doesn’t exist?”

  The fact that Hagen hadn’t been broken infuriated Heydrich, but the time had come to end it all. “Very well. It is the decision of this court that you be taken to the place of execution, there to await your time of death. Heil Hitler.”

  “Herr Oberstgruppenführer, if I might have a word …”

  Heydrich turned, and for just a second paused to coldly study Otto Krantz, the man who had failed him so miserably. “Well, what is it?”

  The Berliner made a suggestion. Heydrich shook his head. Krantz was bold enough to argue. Schellenberg added a word or two in support.

  Rumors had fled through the cells by tappings, by chance whispers. Norway and Denmark had fallen. Sweden was cooperating with the Nazis. Finland had settled with the Russians. For days the skies over Landsberg had been empty of airplanes, the sound of them gone, like the sound of northward flying geese.

  Heydrich got up from his chair and came to stand in front of him. Hagen smiled, infuriating the bastard so much that he swung away and angrily shouted, “You’ll get nothing out of this one. Have him shot!”

  “But … but …” The Berliner gave a shrug. “As you wish, Herr Oberstgruppenführer.”

  Dead, Hagen could tell them nothing. Alive, there might just have been a chance.

  As Heydrich returned to his chair, Krantz heard him softly say, “Arrange it then, but lose him and pay the price.”

  “Richard, I’m here to help you.”

  “Go away, damn you! Haven’t you done enough? Irmgard was your sister, Dieter! She was my friend.”

  “She was an enemy of the Reich.”

  Hagen refused to look at him. “What the hell do you want with me? I’ve been sentenced to death.”

  “A word, that’s all. We would appreciate your help at the diamond center. If you agree, there will be a stay of execution. Who knows, you might yet prove your worth to the fatherland.”

  “You sound like a parrot.”

  “Even a parrot has the good sense to perch on its master’s shoulder when they’re out hunting.”

  Dieter sat down on the bench beside him. Richard would never agree to what he’d been told to ask him, but they did need to know if the British would send in a squad of marines to take the diamonds off. “Don’t be so stubborn. To die is senseless. I can use you.”

  “How?”

  “Let’s leave that for the moment. If you give me your word not to try to escape, I think I can get them to take us to the center. There are some things I’d like to show you.”

  “And then?”

  “A few questions, that’s all.”

  Krantz … it had to be because of Krantz. “Will I be handcuffed?”

  “Of course. The guards must accompany us, as will Herr Krantz, but once we’re there perhaps the handcuffs can be removed. What would you like to eat?”

  “Coffee. I haven’t had a decent cup of coffee in a long, long time.” It was strange to see Munich in the dark of night. Because of the blackout regulations the headlights on the cars were hooded to emit only pinpricks of light. Occasionally small blue flames at the curbside replaced the once-glowing street lamps. There was none of the glare, none of the excitement of a once-bustling city.

  Outlined against the night sky, antiaircraft batteries surmounted some of the taller buildings. There were others in the squares.

  They drove by the cathedral and then the Hofbrauhaus. They took a little detour of the place, and the sound of the Daimler’s engine was soft on the still night air.

  “Dieter, it’s good of you to take me for a spin, but isn’t there a much shorter way? If I remember it, the Villa Laumannfeld is only a few blocks from Gestapo Headquarters.”

  “I thought you’d like a drive.”

  They came to the banks of the Isar and drove along it until turning onto the Prinzregentenstrasse. Even in the blackout the city awakened memories. There was still much beauty, a generous nature hidden. Maybe someday these would triumph.

  As they pulled up to the gates of the Villa Laumannfeld, two armed SS guards shone flashlights into the car, while others patrolled the grounds with guard dogs on the leash.

  Dieter got out and spoke quietly to the guards. One of them went quickly through the duty roster. Krantz came to join them from the car that had been following. There was a nod, a grimace. “Well, if that’s what Heydrich wants, then the prisoner is all yours, my friend, but I’m leaving some of my boys just in case he tries to get smart.”

  The car door opened. The Berliner grabbed him by the arms, and in one brutal lift, he was on his feet and slammed against the side of the car. A key was jammed into the handcuffs. As they came away, Hagen rubbed his wrists and drank in the air.

  Krantz lit a cigarette, took time in waving out the match. “So, Richard, a test of your good behavior. Baron Dieter Karl gives you a reprieve. You have two days to make up your mind.” He stabbed a finger against Hagen’s chest. “My advice is to do what he wants or else you’ll be back with us.”

  Stuffing the handcuffs into a pocket, the Gestapo strode away into the night. The gates opened and they drove on through with the car full of guards behind them.

  There were some changes to the villa. A duty clerk manned the desk in the foyer. The statues were gone. Only the tiles and the cobra in the floor remained.

  The cutting and polishing rooms were full of the latest equipment, now silent but well used during the day. Guard dogs prowled loose but made so little sound the sudden appearance of them was startling.

  Upstairs, the whole of the second floor was occupied by Dieter’s apartment. An adjutant, butler, maid and cook all lived in.

  Hagen asked for a bath. Dieter clapped a hand on his shoulder and gave a laugh. “If you hadn’t asked, I would have insisted. Do you want another shirt, a better pair of shoes?”

  After months of prison even the simplest things brought an agony of guilt. A bar of soap caused utter consternation, a towel drove him to the brink of despair, the feeling of hot water gave up the ache of its loss but made him hate himself for having such luxury.

  When the butler, graying, thin and tall, brought in a complete change of clothes, a nondescript suit, shirt, tie and heavy brogues, Hagen had to force himself not to think of escape. He would fit into the crowd. He might just get away …

  Later, from the balcony, there was a view of the sky, the darkness of the gardens behind the villa, and the woods of the park beyond.

  The taste of the coffee was bitter. Sweetened with saccharine, it clung to the back of his throat.

  Krantz had figured out how to make him talk. Freedom—give him a chance of freedom, let him feel it and then take it suddenly away.

  “Richard, we still need cutters and polishers. I want you to pick out for me the best of them in Antwerp.”

  “So you can have them taken prisoner and brought here?”

  “Far better here than a concentration camp and certain death. Things can still be overlooked. Jews can be made honorary Aryans if necessary. No one need know.”

  “I won’t do it.”

  “Why must you continue to be so difficult? I’m giving you a chance to save your life.”

  “And when the list is done, what then, Dieter?”

  “We’re going to win, Richard. As in Poland, so in the West. The British haven’t got an army in France and the French haven’t the spine.

  “And you don’t have the diamonds, do you?”

  “The Antwerp stocks? They’re as good as ours.”

  “Is Cecile helping you? Will you use her farm as a staging point?”

  Richard had figured it out. Krantz must have told him about Cecile.

  “She’s very beautiful, Richard. So good in bed. Far better than Dee Dee could ever have been.”

  So it was true that she was helping them. This he couldn’t understand. Not Cecile. Never Cecile.

  “Don’t look so b
etrayed, Richard. She’s being a realist. Now tell me, will the British send men in to take the diamonds off at the first sign of an invasion?”

  “I really wouldn’t know, Dieter, but if they should succeed, what then? With the blockade that must surely be in place, you people haven’t got a chance. You’ll never get enough diamonds to run Germany’s industries.”

  Hunter grinned and shook his head. “As with your former lover, Richard, so with the Congo. I have arranged a little something no one will ever think possible. Diamonds we have, and will have regardless of the Antwerp stocks although, of course, we will have those, too.”

  “And Cecile?”

  “Will be waiting for me, Richard, and only too willing to spread those lovely legs of hers.”

  Twelve

  THE POSTER WAS AN advertisement for Chicorée-Pacha. The turbaned Turkish sultan with the golden slippers sat among his harem of beaded beauties sipping a steaming cup of coffee substitute. The smile on his face was not the grin of a lecher but that of a wholly satisfied man.

  “With all those girls,” clucked Lev. “Bernard, if that’s how the other half live …”

  Wunsch had no patience. “Lev, I did not ask you to see that, but this!”

  He tore the poster from the wall and turned it over. “Look … look at these.”

  Route signs, arrows, faint shields that could only be the shoulder badges of German parachutists.

  The roads leading toward Antwerp. The defenses of the Albert Canal and the ways to cross it safely.

  Lev let his gaze hunger over the land. They’d come out here to find the Verheyden woman, who had sent a farmer to them with a message. Three Spartan words: “Please contact me.” Nothing else.

  Her club had been closed and boarded up. The notice on the door had read: Under renovation.

  It was May 3, 1940, a Friday. The weather had never been better, the spring more beautiful. In Holland there was a full military alert; in Belgium the army had reestablished the five-day leave.

  Rachel and Moses had reached Brazil and were wanting him and Anna to join them …

  Wunsch indicated the back of the sign. “I only heard about these yesterday. I didn’t believe it was true.”

  “And the Verheyden woman?” asked Lev. “Does she know of these too?”

  It was absolutely crazy, but the diamonds were still in Antwerp. The stall, the wait-and-see had continued, the it’s-all-being-taken-care-of and, finally, the cold shoulder as other events, or the lack of them, and the terrible waiting had taken precedence.

  Churchill hadn’t sent the promised escort. King Leopold and his government still clung to their policy of neutrality.

  “Come on, my friend, we’d best find out what she has to say.”

  Parachutists … butterflies floating down in the early-morning light.

  The moors were ideally suited, Antwerp not that far.

  Wunsch longed for a cigarette, but with the coming of spring his doctor had cut him off completely. Chewing gum was of no use, but he tried it anyway.

  The farmhouse, with its square of buildings, looked deserted. It sat well back from the road, with stunted oak, marram grass and brush among the dunes behind it. Canals cut the land on either side. A windmill turned slowly on the marshes, and when he drew the car to a stop, Wunsch heard the sails creaking in the distance.

  “Lev. I don’t think she’s here.”

  They knocked but there was no answer. The curtains were all drawn. No smoke issued from the chimney, and in the cobbled courtyard of the square there was an emptiness they felt.

  Her car was in one of the barns—up on blocks and under canvas, all shiny and new looking but without its tires.

  They found the tires secreted in the loft beneath a mound of hay. What the hell …

  Lev glanced anxiously at Bernard and held his breath before saying quietly, “Does she know something we don’t?”

  “My thoughts exactly,” grunted Wunsch. “Lev, we must have a little look around but do so carefully.”

  There were bootprints in the sand among the dunes behind the place—not many of them. As a matter of fact, only a few.

  The spent cartridge of a Very light lay just beneath the sand. Brass against the buff brown grains.

  “Bernard, what has happened here?”

  “Someone came in last night.”

  “Perhaps a day or two ago,” said Lev.

  “Perhaps.”

  “At least a squad, Bernard. Twenty or thirty men. There were tire marks in the laneway. Trucks.”

  They turned to look toward the house and barns, wondering if they’d be allowed to leave. “We must not show we are aware of anything, Lev. Let met pick Martine a small bouquet of daffodils. Mevrouw Verheyden won’t mind.”

  “Not if she’s dead.”

  As they reached the house, Lev was certain an upstairs curtain had moved.

  Bernard gathered flowers as a squirrel would acorns, passing up most only to decide at last on the perfect bloom.

  Damas watched the two of them. So much was at stake. Berlin had sent thirty parachutists of the armed SS, the Verfugungstruppe * with orders to take and hold the Antwerp diamonds at all costs until the invasion overran the city. As yet Baron Dieter Karl Hunter hadn’t arrived to command his men, but the invasion must be coming soon, at any hour. Could he let Wunsch and his diamond cutter go? Should he kill them now?

  Cecile Verheyden tensely waited. Would he kill her? Would he terrorize her first? She’d been such a silly fool not to have realized others would be watching her.

  With a sharp intake of breath, Damas eased the Luger’s hammer closed. He turned away from the window and, with a smile, came toward her.

  “They’ve gone,” he said. “Now perhaps you will tell me why they came out here to see you?”

  Her eyes darted over him. Angrily she said, “How should I know? Perhaps they wanted news of Richard, perhaps they thought I could …”

  Using the muzzle of the gun, Damas forced her to face him. Her frantic eyes were very blue.

  “Could what, Mevrouw Verheyden?”

  “Could tell them if Richard was really alive. Look, I don’t know! Ask Dieter.”

  “The baron, yes.” Damas touched the soft skin of her throat with the muzzle of the pistol. He ran it under the line of her jaw until, pressing it behind her right ear, he had cocked the gun again.

  Her eyes hardened. A stillness came to her. “If you harm me, Dieter will kill you.”

  “The baron, yes.”

  Reaching up, he undid the top two buttons of her blouse. He’d seen her talking to the farmer, had had the man followed to Antwerp, to Wunsch. She’d been waiting for them. Waiting …

  Cecile couldn’t face him. Momentarily she shut her eyes, wished she could make a run for it—knew she’d have to.

  Damas fingered the frilly lace of her brassiere. “You told them to come here. You said, ‘There’s something I must tell you. A squad of men came in two nights ago.’”

  “I didn’t! How could I have done such a thing when I’m working for Dieter?”

  He hit her then. As her head jerked away, he grabbed her. She began to fight back, to kick, to struggle.

  When she made a lunge for the door, he threw her back across the bed, began to hit her again and again, not too hard but just enough.

  When she was naked, he forced the muzzle of the Luger into her mouth. “Now talk or else.”

  The Browning semiautomatic kicked a little but when she held it steadily with two hands, Arlette could let it rise and fall of its own accord and bang all thirteen rounds into the target with no trouble.

  The Lee Enfield .303 rifle and the Mauser were all right, the tommy gun far too jolting. It terrified her. The Schmeisser … now there was a slightly better weapon.

  Arlette reloaded the pistol. This time she would have to fire as she ran at the target.

  The Scottish Highlands seemed so far from what was happening in Europe. Belgium and Holland were still free and neutr
al. Perhaps the war would never come. Perhaps they’d let her go home one day.

  She mustn’t think of Richard—he was dead. She was certain of this. She mustn’t think of what might have been. She was Odette Latour now. Another person.

  The instructors never told her much, Duncan least of all. But she’d seen him leave the school in great haste, had known something must be up.

  “Och, you’ve done very well t’day, miss. It’s grand t’see a lass shoot like that.”

  Sandy McIntyre was in his sixties, a retired drill sergeant who’d seen too much of war but knew that the only hope for others lay in teaching it to them. The lass was bonny. The blush of youth and the Highlands were all about her.

  She breathed in easily and grinned at him. The compliments were few but well deserved when given. “They’ll never send me over in any case. I flunked out with my jumps. I’m to go back and try again, but I don’t think I’ll ever get the hang of it.”

  Parachuting! This ever-changing war. The Nazis had used them in Poland and Scandinavia. “Lass, the thing is to empty your mind of everything.”

  While plummeting through the darkness! To what? Some marsh? With a forty-five-pound wireless set dropped with its own chute just for you or the Nazis to find! And anyway, Belgium hadn’t been invaded. Not yet.

  McIntyre indicated the target. Arlette dug the toes of her boots into the springy turf and launched herself at it.

  The holes made a pattern about the heart and lungs. Two had, however, gone into the German soldier’s face.

  She slid the breech open and removed the clip. As she handed the gun to him, McIntyre shook his head. “From now on it’s yours. Keep it by you in readiness. I greatly fear you’re about to need it.”

  At evening they played the pipes in the glens, and from across the loch Arlette heard them. “Murdo MacKenzie of Torridon,” “Farewell to the Creeks,” “Scotland the Brave with Wings” …

  “The Battle of Waterloo.”

  A curlew called and was answered by its mate. Damas leaned the bicycle against the wall. Dressed as a priest, he approached the two men who stood in the laneway looking curiously up at the windows above the Club Chez Vous.

  So worried were they, neither heard him until he was almost upon them. Then Wunsch leaped; the diamond cutter froze.