The Shadowboxer
Page 11
Vetter reached into the desk, brought out a sheet of paper and handed it to Hilka. “This is about as much as I know about the good colonel’s policy, for the moment.”
Hilka glanced down.
Printer’s Sample
For Translation
(Note: German Popular Gazette will always
appear in 75% type size.)
Composed and Approved by: L. B. Kittermaster
Type size
75%
ATTENTION ATTENTION ATTENTION ATTENTION ATTENTION
100%
TRUE PATRIOTS OF GERMANY: TAKE HEART!
100%
TRUE PATRIOTS OF GERMANY: YOU ARE NO LONGER ALONE!
100%
TRUE PATRIOTS OF GERMANY: FREEDOM IS AT HAND!
75%
TRUE PATRIOTS OF GERMANY:
50%
On this day is born the GERMAN POPULAR GAZETTE.
75%
TRUE PATRIOTS OF GERMANY:
50%
The GERMAN POPULAR GAZETTE is a weekly newspaper written and published by loyal and patriotic Germans in exile for their freedom-loving brothers trapped under the boot heel of the insane tyrant Hitler and his Nazi horde.
75%
TRUE PATRIOTS OF GERMANY:
50%
10,000,000 copies of the GERMAN POPULAR GAZETTE will be printed and air-dropped throughout your enslaved country each and every week.
75%
TRUE PATRIOTS OF GERMANY:
50%
For the first time in 10 years the lies of Goebbels will be exposed and the truth told. Here are some of the revelations to be covered:
100%
HITLER’S RECENT ATTEMPT AT SUICIDE
EVA BRAUN’S RECORD OF PROSTITUTION
GOERING’S DOPE ADDICTION
HIMMLER’S JEWISH ANCESTRY BORMANN’S HOMOSEXUALITY
75%
TRUE PATRIOTS OF GERMANY:
50%
Watch for the first issue of the GERMAN POPULAR GAZETTE. Stay tuned to your short-wave radio sets—bands 078 and 081—for the first broadcasts of the GERMAN POPULAR GAZETTE OF THE AIR.
17
Julian began Spangler’s tour at Communications, a vast complex of recently completed camouflaged Quonset huts and wooden structures at the base of the hills to the rear of the Great North Hall.
C-1, Monitoring, was the largest of the eight self-contained divisions comprising Communications. Bilingual radio operators were already tuned in on every conceivable area of Europe and North Africa from which reception was possible. The general monitoring of German domestic broadcasts took five buildings by itself. Wehrmacht communications required an additional six Quonset huts. Three wooden structures covered the French radio. Belgium and the Netherlands were assigned a building each, as were Norway, Denmark, Portugal, Spain, Morocco, Algeria, Tunisia and Libya. Eighteen buildings were devoted to British radio communications, and three more for this purpose were under construction. Switzerland and Italy had two Quonset huts each. Every monitored broadcast was wire-recorded. The personnel which manned the three daily eight-hour shifts were billeted in twenty-one barracks. A massive Quonset hut served as both mess hall and recreation area. C-1 was completely enclosed in barbed wire. No one could leave or enter without undergoing an arduous credentials inspection.
Internal Security was known as C-4. The compound contained seven buildings and was linked to the primary alarm systems at Westerly. Any penetration of the area would be recorded on its machines. C-4A was the nerve center that kept in constant contact with guard teams patrolling the one hundred and twenty miles of perimeter fencing enclosing the estate.
C-4 and C-4A, Julian pointed out, for some reason had no contact with the six-building complex known as I. P. D., Independent Penetration Detection. I. P. D. was an elaborate secondary alarm system Colonel Kittermaster had ordered installed in the three main buildings on his arrival ten days before. No one really knew its purpose.
C-5 was still under construction. This was the complex which would be fed the propaganda broadcasts emanating from the studios now nearing completion in the main house.
“What propaganda broadcasts?” Spangler asked.
Julian replied offhandedly, “Oh, didn’t I mention it before? ‘General Projects Group’ is just a cover title. G. P. G. is actually German Propaganda Group. This is all a propaganda operation. Our two main fronts are the German Popular Gazette and the German Popular Gazette of the Air.”
“All this just for propaganda?”
“Colonel Kittermaster is very well connected in Washington.”
“What’s that over there?” Spangler asked, pointing to the most heavily guarded building he had yet seen.
“A new innovation they just sent in from the States—something called the Monster Machine. I don’t know much about it myself, but we’ll find out soon. They should have it working any time now.”
They finally arrived at C-8, “Dark Channels,” located on the third floor of the South Hall. The twenty-by-twenty-five-foot table-top terrain map of Germany was divided into sixteen different-colored sectors. Sixteen headphoned DC-radio operators were seated in a horseshoe around the north, west and south perimeters, listening for signals from clandestine short-wave transmitters from their assigned zones.
“Those sixteen white flags stuck in the map,” Julian explained, “are agents who have been heard from in the last twelve hours. Those nine blue flags designate where contact was made twenty-four hours ago.”
“What are those?” Spangler asked, pointing to the five red and six black flags arching from Hamburg toward the east.
“The black, Erik, are radio operators out of action—and the red are missing agents.” Julian reached out and pulled a red flag from a spot slightly west of Hamburg. “This was the last contact with Jean-Claude.”
“What are you doing to find him?”
“This room represents only agents and radios watching for the German prisoner transfer. We are calling agents in from other operations to investigate. Those are the green flags you see moving up from the southwest.”
An officer leaned over the table and placed a black flag on Frankfurt.
“Who’s that?” Julian demanded.
“Pedro, sir.”
“What about Pedro?”
“He stopped transmission in the middle of Harmon’s message. The stoppage coincides with a British air strike on Frankfurt. It looks as if he’s been tagged, sir.”
“Why wasn’t I given an Early Report?”
“But you were, sir. I made it out myself when Pedro went off the air forty minutes ago.”
“I never received it.”
“But Colonel Kittermaster said he would give it to you, sir.”
“What are you doing sending our material to Colonel Kittermaster?”
“I didn’t send anything, sir. Colonel Kittermaster was here and took it himself.”
“He was here—in this room?”
“Yes, sir. He was conducting an inspection.”
“He has no authority to be in this room.”
“But, sir, he is the commanding officer.”
“Did he take anything else?”
“Yes, sir. He took a copy of every report we filed today.”
“What reports? Be specific! I want a complete list, do you understand? A complete list of—”
“Major Julian,” an aide called, rushing into the room, “they need you upstairs. They’ve finally got the Monster Machine working.”
18
The bridge was partially destroyed. Convoys were backed up for miles. The van, two motorcycles in front, three behind, had already been waiting five hours when the whistles and the shouting began again.
Volunteer traffic patrols frantically waved trucks and cars off the road. Drivers and soldiers dove desperately for cover as R. A. F. Mosquito bombers swept down, angled off and began the strafing. Tracers streaked along the concrete, shredding men, machines and foliage. The aircraft banked gracefully
and prepared for a second run, their twin engines muted by distance, vapor streaming from their wingtips.
Jean-Claude leaped from the culvert, darted across the road and zigzagged along the line of abandoned vehicles. The planes opened fire as he slid under the front wheels of the van. Shells tore into the metal above him. Gasoline began to drip and flare. Flames burst out around the cab. Jean-Claude rolled sideways and scrambled for the tree line.
Guards jimmied open the side door of the van. The dazed prisoners jumped to earth and were led into the woods.
Jean-Claude heard the shouts. He dashed to the cab and pulled open the door. He tugged at the dying driver, whose face had vanished into a bloody pulp, and looked up through the smoke and the flames at a map pasted on the roof. Its edges were burning. A blue line traced the route into Poland.
19
Julian entered the glass-enclosed studio and seated himself at the makeshift desk. Three telephones, one red, one white, one blue, rested before him. At the base of each instrument were a white and a yellow light. He glanced at his wristwatch. The “last-minute” adjustments had taken over three hours.
“How soon can we make contact?”
The monitor looked up from the operations manual resting on the control board at the opposite end of the room. “Oh. Sorry, sir,” he said, throwing a switch and adjusting his earphones. “We already have. Relay is waiting on the Blue Line.”
The white light on the blue telephone was flashing.
“Relay? What is Relay? I want to talk to VFW.”
“You will, sir. But we have to go through something called Relay first. I don’t know why, but that’s how it’s set up. Take the Blue Phone, sir.”
The major raised the receiver. “Julian here.”
There was no answer.
“Julian here!”
Still no response.
“Sir, maybe you should talk louder?” Monitor suggested.
“JULIAN HERE!”
Static rose in the earpiece and subsided. “Who?”
“JULIAN.”
“Please repeat.”
“JULIAN GODDAMMIT, JULIAN!”
“Julian? We don’t know any Julian.”
“Sir,” the monitor called out, “I think they want your BLI.”
“My what?”
“Your BLI—Blue-Line Identification, sir?”
“Make some sense.”
“Your code name for the Blue Phone, sir.”
“Well what the hell is it?”
“Don’t you know, sir?”
“Do I sound as if I do?”
“Oh.” The monitor hurriedly checked the identification sheet. “You’re Oop, sir.”
“Who?”
“It says Oop, sir. O-o-p.”
“OOP HERE.”
Static again rose. “We read you, Oop. Relay reads you and welcomes you aboard. Security Delay now operative. Repeat, Security Delay now operative. Stand by for transfer.”
The white light went off. The phone was dead.
“What is Security Delay?” Julian asked.
“I’ll look it up, sir,” the monitor replied, riffling through the operations manual.
The white light went on. The earpiece crackled.
“Oop?” called the Voice from Washington, “Do you read me, Oop? This is Sweet Pea calling. Do you read Sweet Pea, Oop?”
“I HEAR—I READ YOU.”
The phone went dead. The white light was off. Julian shook the receiver. “We’ve lost bloody contact.”
“Have we, sir?” the monitor asked, looking up from the manual.
“Aren’t you watching? What the hell are you doing here if you’re not watching?”
“Trying to look up Security Delay, sir.”
The white light flashed on.
“Oop,” the Voice from Washington said, “what do you think of the spanking new communications system they’ve set up for us? Only one like it in the world, I’m told. Cost better than half a million. Quite a contraption, what? Quite a thing, wouldn’t you say?”
“HILARIOUS.”
The white light went off.
“Here it is, sir,” the monitor shouted triumphantly. “‘After each and every exchange of normal conversation between the participants, a Security Delay of exactly twelve seconds will be effected during which time both instruments will be inoperative.’”
“Why?” Julian asked.
“I’ll look it up, sir.”
“Yes, hilarious,” the Voice from Washington chuckled as the white light flashed on. “‘Hilarious’ is precisely the word. Now tell me, Oop, how is England these days? Been up to London lately? Must get up to London, Oop. First-class city. I know a superlative tailor there. Owe it to yourself to drop in and see him. His name is … is … Now what the devil is that man’s name? Well, better not dawdle on things like this, right, Oop? Time is money you know. Let’s get down to it, Oop. Oop, did we pick up Olive Oyl?”
“Sir,” the monitor called out before Julian could ask, “Olive Oyl is BLI for Hilka Tolan.”
“SHE WAS DELIVERED THIS MORNING.”
Julian checked his watch. The white light remained off exactly twelve seconds.
“Splendid, Oop, splendid. And what of Daddy Warbucks? Have we found ourselves a Daddy Warbucks?”
“Daddy Warbucks is the Throne, sir.”
“EVERYONE’S IN PLACE. NOW IT’S A MATTER OF WAITING.”
Again Julian clocked the delay. The white light came on in ten seconds.
“But how long, Oop? How long a wait?”
“THE NEXT THIRTY-SIX HOURS SHOULD TELL.”
The delay took fourteen seconds.
“And if nothing appears in thirty-six hours, then where do we go, Oop? What alternatives do we have, Oop?”
“WHY NOT USE THE RETRIEVER—”
A shrill, high-pitched buzz pierced Julian’s ear. The white light was off. The yellow was flashing frantically.
“Sir,” the monitor said, with the first vestige of authority, “only Blue-Line Identification can be used.”
“Then you’d better give me Spangler’s code name—rapidly.”
“Absolutely, sir,” the monitor replied, quickly checking his chart. “Spangler is Dick Tracy, sir.”
The yellow light went off; the white was on.
“Don’t be evasive, Oop. Answer my question. If nothing breaks in the next day and a half, then where are we off to?”
“WHY NOT USE DICK TRACY? I’M HOLDING DICK TRACY—JUST AS WE DISCUSSED.”
The delay was eleven seconds.
“You took him, Oop? You actually have Dick Tracy in hand?”
“YES. AND I’D LIKE TO MOVE HIM OUT OF HERE RIGHT AWAY.”
“Masterful, Oop, masterful,” VFW stated as the white light came on. “Never thought you could manage it. But why move him?”
Julian put his hand over the phone. “Who is Kittermaster?”
“Colonel Kittermaster is Mandrake, sir.”
“I DON’T WANT MANDRAKE TO GET TO HIM.”
The white light was off eight seconds.
“Oop, are you spatting with Mandrake again? You must stop, Oop. I know your feelings about Mandrake, but you must understand—we need him! His group still holds the upper hand. Not that our stock hasn’t risen here on the Potomac. It has, Oop, it has risen sharply. Many of the right people are starting to overcome their fears about us. Bringing in Olive Oyl will add to our prestige and position. Finding a Daddy Warbucks quickly might push us over the top. But until then, bide your time. Keep Mandrake happy. Do you understand what I’m saying, Oop?”
“I STILL THINK WE SHOULD MOVE TRACY.”
“Trust in me, Oop. You know your end of this and I know mine, Trust my judgment. While we’re about it, just how is Mandrake doing with the little leftovers we’ve thrown him?”
“HE’S STILL A PAIN IN THE ASS—” The alarm blasted into Julian’s ear. The yellow light went on. The phone was dead.
“Transfer Time, sir,” Monitor announced.
“What in the name of Christ—”
“The Red Phone, sir. It’s time to transfer to the Red Phone.”
“Why?”
“I don’t know, sir. It seems to be up to Relay. We’re ready on the Red Phone, sir.”
The white light is flashing on the Red Phone. Julian picked it up. “MANDRAKE IS—”
The blast in Julian’s ear was even louder than before. The yellow light was on.
“Oh, sorry, sir,” the monitor said. “Red-Line Identification is now in effect. Colonel Kittermaster is Clark Kent. You’re Charlie McCarthy. Sweet Pea, I mean VFW, is Edgar Bergen. Spangler is—”
“Give me that damn code sheet!”
The monitor raced across the room and handed it over the desk. Julian looked down.
TOP SECRET
TOP SECRET
M. M. IDENTIFICATION
For: Conversation No. 1
5 February 1944
Copies Restricted to: LBK RELAY
VFW MONITOR I
JJ MONITOR II
NAME
G.P.G. CODE
RED LINE
WHITE LINE
BLUELINE
KITTERMASTER
GEORGE
CLARK KENT
CAPTAIN BLOOD
MANDRAKE
VFW
TEDDY
E. BERGEN
MICKEY ROONEY
SWEET PEA
JULIAN
ULYSSES
C. MCCARTHY
BEN TURPIN
OOP
CHUMLEY
WOODROW
CLAGHORN
ARBUCKLE
GOOFY
GAZETTE
G.P.G. 1
EDWARD GEE
TRUE SCREEN
KING COMICS
GAZETTE-