by Erik Foge
The warm summer air slowly transitioned into a damp, humid atmosphere. The musty odor of rotten hay and animal feces breached the sack and filled Erik’s nostrils. He figured from the smell that he was in a horse stable. He prepared himself for the worst, took a deep breath and slowly exhaled. Then he cleared his head and recalled his knowledge of the French Resistance. CIA training taught him to deal with being interrogated. He felt slightly disoriented from the attack and might very well have to get used to sleep deprivation and isolation. Getting over the hurdle of questions is not so much the problem, but the uncertainty of not knowing how long he had until they put a gun to his head and pulled the trigger was definitely problematic. Erik was pushed and forced to sit on a hard chair. His hands were pulled behind his back, and the coarse rope was wrapped around his wrists and pulled tight, which caused a sharp pain in his wrists.
“Quel est votre nom?” A deep, calm voice asked in a demanding tone.
“I don’t speak French,” Erik replied in English.
Erik smelled cigarette smoke and heard the owner of the voice suck in a long breath, presumably taking a drag from his cigarette. “What’s your name?”
“Erik Függer.”
The voice drew closer. “I want you to be aware of the severity of the situation you are in.”
Erik felt and smelled his interrogator’s breath, which reeked of an acid mix of cigarettes and coffee. The sound of hay cracked underneath the man’s feet that told Erik that the interrogator walked to his other side. “It’s important that if you want to leave here unharmed, much less alive, you have to be completely honest with me.”
Erik nodded. “I understand.” He heard the interrogator walking away, followed by the scrape of a chair and the sound of a body settling on a seat. Suddenly, the sack was removed, and Erik sucked in a welcomed breath. His eyes slowly adjusted to the dimly lit, airless room and confirmed his assessment of his whereabouts. The clear-span construction stable had a gable roof and stalls with hinged doors, but no horses. A stocky man sat in front of Erik. The light from a single kerosene lantern exposed his bullish bloodshot eyes. Behind the interrogator stood two solid individuals with muscular arms, holding MP-40s. On the wall behind them, there was a battered map of Northern France with military tactical symbols indicating size and type of unit. Small pins with flags—apparently red for German and blue for allied—extended from the symbols. Beside the map was a flow chart of the German leadership in France with both names and photographs; some had a red X marked on them. Erik recognized most of the officers on the chart. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw two solidly built figures that hovered behind him. He looked forward and into the eyes of the interrogator.
The interrogator raised one eyebrow in a questioning slant, and, exhaling smoke, observed, “You speak very good English for a German officer.”
Erik nodded.
“Are you working for the Nazis?” The interrogator leaned forward. “Or are you a spy?” He leaned back again.
“I’m a field operative with the OSS.”
He folded his arms across his chest and gawked. “I see,” he said with a you-don’t-really-expect-me-to-believe-that tone. “What are you doing in this part of France? We’re normally aware of any operations.” The interrogator leaned forward, his aristocratic face emerging from the darkness. He had a round chin and shrewd-looking eyes and studied Erik’s features with a bewildered expression. “Strange, that in this case, we’re not,” he replied in a biting tone. “You care to explain yourself?” He squared off his shoulders, took a drag of his cigarette and waited for Erik’s answer.
“My mission is to take Field Marshal Rommel to General Bradley’s headquarters in Rennes.”
“The American General Omar Bradley?” The interrogator scoffed as if the idea were preposterous.
Erik nodded again.
“Now that is a lofty goal,” he said with a condescending grin, then gave a mocking chuckle.
Erik stared at him impassively.
The interrogator got up, strolled by Erik and blew smoke in his face. “I was not aware the field marshal was located in this area of France.” His tone turned serious and he squinted his eyes. “Why would he trust you?”
Erik, having insight into the interrogator’s body language, replied with a sardonic grin, “In the OSS we have ways of persuading people to see our point of view.”
The interrogator rubbed his chin, and a grin of rapport appeared.
Erik’s eyes narrowed. He sat sphinxlike and refused to let the interrogator intimidate him. “Are you afraid? We in the OSS had this encounter with you planned before our meeting with General Bradley.” The interrogator opened his mouth to try to get a word out, but Erik continued before the man could draw a breath. “Reach into my right tunic pocket and pull out the paper.”
The interrogator motioned for someone behind Erik to retrieve the paper. With his elbow against Erik’s neck, the man pulled out the paper and placed it on the table. The interrogator quickly unfolded it and studied it. “What’s the significance of this?”
“Those are the individuals who were to be a part of the provisional government if Hitler died.”
“You mean the failed attempt to kill him?”
“Exactly. Since the plot failed, I’m to get Rommel to General Bradley’s headquarters so we can end this war.”
The interrogator’s gaze bounced back and forth from the paper to Erik.
“If you don’t release Field Marshal Rommel and me, you and you alone will be responsible for the failure of the Allied campaign of occupied France.”
The interrogator pointed an accusatory finger at Erik. “I hope you are who you say you are.” Then he leaned forward with his hand on the table. “We will have to confirm it.” He got up, strolled away from the table, then looked at Erik out of the corner of his eye, and asked, “What is France’s favorite composition?”
“Beethoven’s Fifth Symphony,” Erik said without hesitation, knowing that the first three notes of the symphony were similar to the Morse Code for V, V for victory and that BBC radio played it on June fifth, 1944 so the French resistance would know the invasion was coming.
The interrogator tossed the paper on the table and motioned to the man behind Erik. Erik’s hands were untied. “Coffee?” The interrogator asked, his voice suddenly pleasant as he gave his cigarette a final draw, then killed it on the table.
“Thank you.”
“While you are here,” the interrogator said, “you will be escorted everywhere you go.”
“Do you mind if I get my map out of the Kübelwagen so we can plan my journey to Rennes?” Erik said. “I don’t think I need an escort for that.”
The interrogator nodded. “Agreed. The car is right out that door,” he made his next point clear, by squinting his eyes with his arms crossed. “If you try anything or leave, I assure you, you and Rommel will die.”
One of the men entered the room with a tray covered in steaming mugs. He served the coffee and motioned Erik to get his map.
Coffee in hand, Erik walked out of the stables and strolled toward the gravel driveway. If he was being escorted, his tail was staying well out of sight. As his eyes adjusted to the brightness, he contemplated what Jamie was doing at this very moment and wondered if she was thinking of him. The smell of sweet wildflowers drifted under his nose. He glanced up; boundless puffy white clouds floated in the sky, and birds chirped gaily in a nearby tree.
Suddenly, a chill ran up Erik’s spine, just like it had back in the hospital when the man in the black SS colonel’s uniform had turned up. He faced front and found himself staring into a 9mm Luger pointed directly at him by the same sinister-looking individual. The Colonel peered contemptuously at Erik with cold blue-grayish, shark-like eyes. A lump appeared in Erik’s throat, and he approached with caution. The man studied Erik, apparently taking a quick inventory. Erik noticed his gaze register the coffee in Erik’s right hand. No doubt, he noted it as Erik’s dominant hand.
&nbs
p; Erik stopped. “Are you the one who’s supposed to help me get to General Bradley’s Headquarters?”
“Isn’t that obvious?” the Colonel replied venomously.
“With that Luger pointed at me, I have my doubts.” Erik analyzed the situation, and he felt the Colonel’s eyes examining him carefully. He guessed that since the Colonel held the Luger with his right hand, he was right handed also. Erik knew nothing about his opponent, except that, by the man’s physical appearance, he could inflict serious damage. Slowly, Erik closed the distance between them, tightening his grip on his coffee mug handle. “You are aware the French resistance is in the château right now,” Erik said.
The Colonel shrugged slightly as if the news was of no consequence.
“They almost killed me,” Erik continued, “and they are especially not going to like you, much less trust you, since you’re wearing an SS uniform.”
His eyes sharpened. “The resistance is of little concern. As for you, Dr. Függer,” the Colonel continued with an edge of impatience in his voice, “this will be over quickly, and I’ll leave as quickly as I came in.”
“So you know my name, and you were at the hospital?”
The Colonel nodded impassively.
“What’s yours?”
The man said nothing, his expression blank.
Erik jerked the mug that tossed the scalding coffee into the Colonel’s face, at the same time he side-stepped to the left, out of the path of the Luger. The man squinted and shielded his face with his left hand, while squeezing off a round, barely missing Erik. Moving swiftly, Erik turned his back to the Colonel’s front while he used his left hand to grab the side of the gun to control the barrel. Then he used his right hand to control the Colonel’s right arm into an arm-bar-position causing extreme hyperextension, which caused him to drop the Luger. Erik immediately kicked it away. Seizing the opportunity, Erik continued his attack and smashed his left forearm into the Colonel’s neck. The Colonel cringed from the force of the impact.
Reacting as trained, the Colonel exhaled sharply to control his pain, then without warning, he executed a solid hook to Erik’s right rib cage, knocking the wind out of him, causing several ribs to crack. Erik, in a brief state of disorientation, released the Colonel’s right hand, and they both stepped back, putting distance between them. The Colonel shook his head and took a deep breath through his nose. His eyes turned even colder, and the men squared off in a fighting stance.
“You’ll be sorry you did that, bookworm,” he said, his mouth crimped in annoyance.
Erik took a deep breath, and a sharp pain lanced through him from his cracked ribs, but he didn’t let it show. “Don’t you care about the peace treaty?” he demanded and tried to make sense of the man’s motives. “Do you understand the opportunity we have here if we take Rommel to Bradley’s headquarters?”
The Colonel gave a blank stare. “I have my orders, just like you.” An evil smirk came over his face. “But I came prepared. In a manner of speaking, soon the trouble of this war will be left behind you.”
“Are you interested in ending this war?” Erik studied the Colonel’s posture and dropped into a crouched position, while slowly moving to his left in preparation for the next attack.
“You surprise me; you still don’t have a clue.” The Colonel shook his head in disbelief. “Peace is no concern of mine. I’m simply following my orders.”
With a sinking feeling, Erik realized that the Colonel was an assassin and could be with the Phoenix Group and this would be a fight to the death. So he took a gamble and replied. “You’re with Phoenix Group, part of ONE.”
The Colonel grinned and nodded. “I was born in the flames of hell and baptized in human blood. I’m the nightmare the devil dreams about.”
Aimed to confuse Erik, the assassin jerked his head to fake a change in direction, then closed the distance between them and threw a combination of punches at Erik’s face. Erik blocked with his hands. The assassin performed a swiping push kick that caused Erik to fold and stumble back. An explosion of pain hit his right knee, and a snarl of agony spread over his face. He grinded his teeth against the pain.
The assassin advanced and threw a punch toward Erik’s face, but he blocked it. In the corner of his eye, Erik saw the assassin’s oncoming attack and did a low squat to avoid the Colonel’s right hook. Erik’s mind was focused on his next attack. He knew exactly what he had to do, and how to do it, and he was glad that the moment of his attack had come. Before the assassin could reposition himself, Erik countered with all his strength, and threw a solid jab to the assassin’s bladder. A spasm and a look of confusion crossed the assassin’s pale face and it caused him to buckle over. Next, Erik launched an explosive uppercut to the assassin’s chin as he leaped up. Clearly, he never believed Erik was capable of getting the better of him. He backed up, giving Erik enough time to get to his feet. Again, they distanced themselves from each other and squared off in a fighting stance.
“You’re competent for an analyst, unlike the other two before you. I believe their names were Knight and Mulder,” the assassin said coldly.
”I try,” Erik said boldly. “But I thought you’d be better.”
The assassin launched a Blitzkrieg attack, quickly throwing a fist as a decoy while delivering a front-snap-kick, which caused Erik’s left patella to dislocate upward. A sickening wave of pain rushed through Erik; he cried out in pain and fell to the ground with tears in his eyes. The assassin strolled over, pulled out his SS dagger, and prepared to complete his mission. He looked at Erik as one would a cockroach needing to be stepped on. “Are you going to give up now?”
Erik shook his head.
“You’re only prolonging the inevitable,” the assassin said. “There’s no need for you to suffer. Like your girlfriend, you can enjoy a swift death.”
The assassin’s words hit Erik like a punch to his gut. His anger built to rage, and his nails dug into his palms. “You bastard!” He shouted. “Why? She had nothing to do with this!”
“You can ask her yourself in the afterlife. Are you ready to meet your woman now, analyst?”
Erik reached into his pocket, grasped the Cross pen Jamie had given him, and slowly pulled it out, while waiting for the assassin to come closer. Then, when in striking distance, Erik screamed in hatred and stabbed the assassin’s left Achilles tendon, which caused the man’s eyes to bulge from their sockets. He cried out from the pain and dropped his dagger. The assassin’s veins in his neck stood out in livid ridges as he picked up Erik and threw him against the Kübelwagen. Erik lost his breath for a second, and the assassin fell back, pulled out the pen, and went to retrieve the dagger.
Erik scanned his surroundings, evaluated what he could use to defend himself, and noticed the MP-44 in the back of the Kübelwagen. The assassin picked up the dagger. While he kept one eye on his foe, Erik reached in the backseat, grabbed the MP-44, and got it in firing position. The assassin prepared to throw the dagger. Then he saw that Erik had already chambered a round in the gun and looked down the sights at him. The Colonel’s face was deathly pale, and perspiration was dripping off his chin and he looked intently into Erik’s cold, blue, murderous eyes. He suddenly understood and waited, almost fearfully, for the terrible punishment that he was about to receive.
“Surprise, you son of a bitch!” Erik squeezed the trigger, released rounds into the assassin’s body, and turned it into Swiss cheese. When the firing stopped, the assassin’s body lay on the ground; blood trickled out of the open wounds and slowly penetrated the soil. Erik took shallow breaths because of his cracked ribs, and, in extreme pain, leaned against the Kübelwagen for support. Members of the French Resistance came running from all directions.
“What the hell have you done?” asked the interrogator, as he stared at the assassin’s lifeless body and then back at Erik. “You’ve sealed our fates!”
Erik quickly defused the situation. “You have nothing to worry about.”
“You killed an SS co
lonel!”
“Because he was after me! Not you! Lastly, he was an American like me.”
The interrogator walked up to Erik, his eyes red. “How are you so sure?”
“Because if he wanted all of us dead, he would’ve called for reinforcements, and they’d already be here.”
“You walk a thin line,” the interrogator whispered. His eyes narrowed. “I don’t trust you, but you have me in an awkward position.”
Erik nodded, his eyes strained from his injuries. “Neither do the individuals who sent me here,” Erik replied, thinking of Cole and Plackett.
“I can see why. You leave in the morning and never come back here.”
Erik nodded.
“Are you injured?” He motioned two men forward.
“My left knee is dislocated, right knee bruised and several ribs cracked on the right side.”
“I’ll make sure you’re taken care of, but you leave tomorrow at first light.”
11. SECRETS REVEALED
“Secrets are made to be found out with time.”
— Charles Sanford
Washington, D.C.
Jamie rollerbladed in perfect form, gliding like a figure skater on the ice, while she listened to her IPOD. A song came on that reminded her of the day she had taught Erik how to rollerblade. The memory brought a smile, and she wondered what he was doing at this very minute; maybe convincing someone how important history is. She hoped she would get a call or text message from him, but she would have loved to hold him in her arms and kiss him. A glance at her watch told her that she had to get back and get ready for dinner. She rolled out of the park just as a silver Audi A6 pulled up to the curb; the passenger’s tinted window slid down and she heard a familiar voice.
“Jamie, we need to talk,” Jacques said as he opened the door.