"I am going to make this information public."
"Go ahead. A fair number of your people will applaud."
Harrison sat back in his chair, physically sickened, by the photographs, the reality that underlay them, and most of all by the almost playful nondenial. Perhaps that explained his next, ill-advised words.
"You have no idea of the character of Americans," he said in an almost conversational tone. "You have no idea of what we are, or what we stand for. We might not be able to stop what you're doing inside the land you control, not yet, but by God we won't let it spread."
"You—you?—threaten the Reich?" Hitler swelled like a venomous reptile. His rages were legendary. "Do you think we fear your mongrel nation? I hope you intended to start a war here today, because that is what you have done!" His fist too slammed the table. Louder, harder. He turned to leave.
Harrison watched as he stalked toward the oak door at the far side of the room. He knew it was histrionics, part of the famous act. He also knew that Hitler would back up those histrionics with all the power of what was at this moment the worlds greatest military machine. As for him, his administration was barely ten months old, and he was less than popular. The Isolationists and others who smelled a chance at last to undo all that Roosevelt had accomplished would surely accuse him of creating a new crisis as a diversion. As for his own party, they still looked to FDR as their leader, and might well accuse his successor of triggering an incident out of lack of experience or, worse yet, simple stupidity. Support for war in the military was nonexistent; given the current state of military preparedness they knew too well what odds they would face.
Harrison stood and uttered a single word, thereby performing the most difficult act of his life.
"Wait."
Hitler turned, even as his hand touched the door.
"Did you say something?"
"Let us continue with our discussion."
"Why? You have made your intentions clear."
"I don't want a war. The purpose of this meeting was to ensure that we don't have one."
Hitler nodded slowly, as if his better, more statesmanlike self were coming to the fore. "That was my intention as well," he finally said, and walked halfway back to the table. "How then shall we have peace?"
Harrison drew a long slow breath. "We need to find common ground. First you must understand that England's continued independent existence is a vital interest of the United States. I promise you that you will find my congressional support not so flimsy after all, if England is attacked."
"That at least I can understand." Hitler paused theatrically. "Very well then," he continued grandly, as if offering a major concession: "England may live—and keep her tottering Empire too. But they, and you, must cease all interference with the Reich's internal concerns. That is our vital interest."
There are also matters to be discussed regarding Africa, Argentina and Mexico, and the right of refugees to leave Europe."
"Details. But your OSS's clandestine support of terrorists, and your pressure against our French allies, must stop."
"Yes . . . our staffs can deal with such things later," Harrison replied, suddenly very weary. He wanted to sit again, but would not while Hitler stood before him.
"Then we are agreed in principle," Hitler announced. There are grounds for mutual understanding between us."
"Yes." Harrison had known from the beginning that something like this was about the best he could have hoped for. Still, he had the nagging feeling that Franklin would have done a better job, and not left Hitler in a mood to gloat.
"Good. After dinner we'll talk again and our staffs can start their work."
"Very well."
"Your German is excellent," Hitler said, as if they were now close friends again. "Our universities are still the best. In fact—do you know Speer?"
"I know of him."
"My Minister of Strategic Planning and Industry. Like you, he is a Heidelberg graduate. He heard me speak there, back in the early days, and joined the party. Your university has provided some of my best planners. Since they took over in '42 Speer and his staff have worked wonders."
"I'm sure they have," Harrison replied.
In fact some of those wonders they had produced were now the American President's chief concern; new German superweapons were beginning to pose a severe threat to nearly every aspect of American military technology, especially in rocketry and the secret weapons of the Luftwaffe.
"You will meet Speer tonight. You can catch up on old times."
"He was there after I was. I don't think we'll have much in common," Harrison replied coolly, struggling to regain some semblance of control of the flow of events.
This evening, then," Hitler replied curtly over his shoulder, as if issuing an order as he turned and stalked out of the room.
Harrison turned and went out the opposite door and stepped into the antechamber where his staff was gathered. "Gendemen," he announced coldly, "before long we're going to have to fight that son of a bitch, and we'd better be ready."
Hitler stormed into the suite where his inner circle waited. As those waiting for him came to their feet he snarled, "We return to Germany tomorrow. Operation Arminius goes forward."
CHAPTER THREE
November 10
FBI "Safe House," Manassas, Virginia
He seemed to be floating several feet above the floor of a medieval torture chamber, hovering weighdess over a scene of Boschian horror. Below him, damned souls incarnate writhed in agony, screamed in anguish .. . but there was no sound. As he drifted through the chamber he could see victims stretched out on racks while dark demons capered about them, mocking and laughing. Other victims ran hopelessly about, trailing fire as other devils pursued them, howling in silent delight.
He floated to the door—was it by an act of will? He wasn't sure — and it creaked open — sound — there was sound now; from the next room he heard screams. Now he was afraid. Terror like a gnawing rat ripped into his soul, but he could not turn back; invisible hands pulled him into the lower pits of darkness.
Here the demons were of a different breed, more humanlike, clothed in black, their faces pale slashes in the night. Their tools of torment were far more modern than those of the level above: electric sparks crackled around their howling victims, glistening needles filled with evil plunged into writhing forms strapped to stainless-steel gurneys; naked humanity in endless procession stumbled forward to their appointed doom, curling whips and snarling dogs driving them into brighdy lit tiled rooms. Iron doors slammed shut. A hissing whisper like the threat-warning of a venomous snake issued from the next room, to be instantly drowned out by gasping hysterical screams. Through a filth-smeared porthole he could see the distorted face of one of the damned, clawing at the glass with bloody fingers, scratching frantically, digging for air, for life, even as its features rotted into yellow corruption. A guard by the door looked up. His open-mouthed leer revealed a red, gaping emptiness.
"Room for one more____"
Floating above the door like a lost soul he screamed in terror and anguish for all that was lost, for the death of all, for himself.
"MARTEL!"
James Martel reached up with a cry, grasping hold of the hand at his shoulder.
"Come on, Martel, wake up."
Reality started to take hold. The man standing over his cot looking down at him with such cool disdain was Special Agent Brubaker. His eyes were red rimmed from too many cigarettes, too much coffee, and too little sleep. He'd obviously been working hard for a long time.
"Sweet dreams, Martel?"
Jim struggled for composure. He had held out against this man and his tag-team partner for weeks, and he felt a stab of shame for breaking, even a little, even in a dream. "Bathroom," Martel whispered, shrugging his interrogator's hand off his shoulder.
"Sure."
Martel stood on shaky legs and half-staggered the ten feet to the bathroom portal. There was no door, and though he had lived
for several years on board naval ships the lack of privacy under these circumstances bothered him. Having given his permission, Special Agent Brubaker, who had been with him since Berlin, stood in the middle of the room, watching boredly as Jim relieved himself and then splashed cold water on his face. He looked into the rather large mirror set directly into the wall. His face, illuminated by the harsh glare of a single bare bulb, was drawn and pale. A week's stubble gave him the look of a wandering vagrant rather than that of a lieutenant commander in the United States Navy. His mouth was gummy and foul tasting. He ran his tongue against the back of his teeth and looked back at Brubaker. He longed for the common decency of a toothbrush, but would be damned if he'd ask.
He stepped back out into the room. He wanted to know the time of day, but was damned if he'd ask for that either. Without waiting for the inevitable instruction, Martel turned toward the table at the far side of the room, and was surprised to see a second person on the other side of it, obscured by the glare of the lamp that was aimed at the chair on the near side. Apparently the new interrogator had come in after Martel had collapsed into exhausted sleep.
Then he recognized him.
"Grierson."
Grierson nodded. Reaching into the pocket of his double-breasted jacket, he produced a pack of Lucky Strikes and held them out.
Forgetting to hide his eagerness, Jim took the proffered pack, put a cigarette in his mouth and inhaled deeply when Grierson lit it with his Zippo, which was embossed with the emblem of the FBI.
"I just want to run over a few questions with you, Martel."
"Your boys tell you I'm ready to break and it's time to come in and get all the credit?" Jim asked, trying to sound calm and invulnerable, knowing he was doing a poor job of it.
"You know the game, Martel. We don't like doing this."
"I just bet you don't." Jim nodded toward Brubaker. "Too bad the Constitution holds back your thug over there from doing a really good job. I can think of at least one country that he'd love to work for."
Brubaker started to reach angrily over the table to grab Martel but desisted at a peremptory wave from Grierson.
Martel smiled coldly at his frustrated tormentor. The man had stayed at least arguably within the letter of the law at all times, but Martel knew that Brubaker would love to be unleashed.
"You're the expert on the Nazis, Martel," Brubaker said.
"Right. I'm the expert. They'd recruit you in a minute."
Martel's gaze shifted back on Grierson. "You know I'm clean. You've had me down here now a month at least, including this last week of nonstop interrogation. And what have you got to show for it? I'm willing to bet the heat's on to clean this thing up, to pin something on me and get me out of the way. But I'm just not cooperating, am I? And if you can't prove I did it, the leak must have happened back here in the States, and that would mean you guys screwed up."
A glance passed between Grierson and his helper. "We're just doing our job, Martel. Nothing personal. There've been leaks, serious ones, and all the little arrows point to you." Grierson paused for a moment, as if mastering impatience. "Aren't you getting tired of this game, Martel? Why don't you just come clean? Admit what you did and I'll see you get off light." He smoothed his features into something like friendly neutrality. "Martel— maybe we've been taking the wrong tack here. Maybe you just overheard something by accident and passed it on without thinking. We could go to bat for you, Martel. There's this place out in Nevada for people who have heard things they shouldn't have. You could spend the next couple of years there, then be on your way. You'd be comfortable, plenty of good food, women even! It's a real nice place, more like a resort than anything else, very pleasant. You could be there in a couple of days, getting fat and tanned. How about it, Martel? Just give us what we need. Medal of Honor winner like you, we could get you that good life easy. After a year or two you'd be free as a bird."
"It was a Navy Cross."
"What?"
"I didn't do anything to deserve a Medal of Honor. But I earned my Navy Cross."
For a moment Brubaker looked confused, then shook his head impatiently. "Look, stop changing the subject, Martel."
"I didn't do it. And you know it."
"We have all the time in the world, Martel."
Jim sighed and lowered his head.
"On May seventh you met with Wilhelm von Metz and gave him design specifications for the new Midway-class carrier, in particular details related to the armored decking and below-the-waterline armor belting."
"We've gone through this a hundred times already, and you know it's a crock. My initial contact report clearly shows I was ordered to do so through Naval Intelligence to justify von Metz's contact with me to his superiors. The information had been compromised here in the States. My guess is through a construction worker." He paused. "You guys must have messed up."
Grierson ignored the dig. "What about the tracking specifications for the Mark 23 acoustical torpedo?"
"Nothing. I've told you that a hundred times!" Martel didn't add that some years ago for an entirely different application he had invented and his father had patented the basic feedback mechanism without which the device would not be practicable.
"The meeting with von Metz on June nineteenth, the fusing systems on the same torpedo?"
"We never met on June nineteenth."
"Are you certain? My records say you did."
"Bullshit."
"I heard you say it, Martel," Brubaker interjected. "June nineteenth."
"You're wrong—hell no, you're not wrong; you're lying. We never met on June nineteenth, and I never said we met on June nineteenth."
"Cut the crap, Martel."
Suddenly some internal gauge in Martel redlined.
"Maybe you sons of bitches would like to know where I was on December fifteenth, 1943.I was fifteen thousand feet over Leyte Gulf. A Zero slipped onto my six and put three rounds into my engine and one into my seat-back. I flew that aircraft back two hundred miles with seven rivets in my back and the oil pressure dropping every minute. That's what I was doing, you son of a bitch, and it's a goddamned good thing that the crash boat was there because even if my back hadn't cracked on impact, I'd lost too much blood to climb out of the cockpit. Where were you that day, you slinking stay-at-home bastards?" He glared at Grierson. "Making time with your secretary?" He shifted his burning gaze to Brubaker. "Trying to make a date with Rosie the Riveter so you could trick her into saying the wrong thing in bed and toss her in the slammer? Where were you, you lying shits, while I was out taking bullets for my country?" Martel slumped back in his chair, eyeing his enemies with wary contempt.
For a moment there was silence. Grierson's face was a study in outrage overlaid with amazement. Brubaker was the first to speak. "Nobody's saying you didn't fight Japs pretty good, Martel. But what about your buddies, the Germans? Hell, as far as I'm concerned, you are a German. Are they paying you, Martel, or are you doing it out of pure patriotism?"
This time it was lieutenant Commander James Mannheim Martel who lunged from his chair, and it was a measure of the effect of six weeks' sleep deprivation on his fighter-pilot reflexes that Brubaker managed to lurch an involuntary step backward before Martel's fist passed through the space his face had occupied a split second before.
Curiously, Grierson shoved himself between the pair not as a fellow cop, but with the attitude of someone separating arguing peers who had passed over the edge of violence. Martel just stood there panting. Brubaker had the look of a junkyard dog being baited from beyond a fence.
"Enough!" Grierson shouted. "Martel, Bru, ease off, will you?"
"Chief, please let me squeeze him. He'll talk."
"Maybe later, Bru. Not now." Then, speaking low so that Martel couldn't hear, he added, "We aren't authorized." He turned back to Martel, who spoke before Grierson could.
"Know one thing, Grierson. Now or later, if you have one of your thugs lay a hand on me, you better kill me, because by God I'll
take it personal, and I won't be down forever. Ever been in combat, Grierson? I've killed thirty men or more." He nodded at Grierson's shoulder holster. "Ever had that thing out in the heat? Ever aim it at anybody for real? Think about it, Grierson. You and your girlfriend there."
Brubaker looked like he was about to explode. Without bothering to look in his direction, Grierson waved him back down again disgustedly. "Martel—"
Jim cut him off. "Not another word. I want a lawyer. Now."
"Think about it, Martel. As long as you haven't been charged we can still handle this administratively. Stay at that country club for a year or two. If we go to court it's twenty-to-life, hard."
"Screw you."
"Closing in on your lies, are we?" Brubaker asked with a vicious smile. "You blew it about the nineteenth and now you can't cover it up. You're nothing but a damn traitor."
"Kiss my ass." Martel shifted his gaze back to Grierson. "Charge me or get the hell out."
"Just a couple more questions, Martel."
"Kiss off." Stubbing out his cigarette he reached over to the pack that was still on the table and fished out another one. He suddenly realized that he didn't have a light and glared at Grierson, who produced his lighter.
"I'll make you a deal, Martel. I won't ask you anything I've asked before, and you answer what I ask. All right?"
Jim started to tell him where to shove his questions, then thought about it. He had nothing to hide, and didn't want to seem as if he did. Hell, he supposed he even wanted them to get to the bottom of this. He just wasn't going to be screwed with anymore.
"Sure. Why not? New questions only. No repeats. You ask, I'll answer. But start using your psywar tricks on me again, and not another word."
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