1945

by Newt Gingrich

  The driver shrugged as if only mildly pained by the needless work. He reached up into the cab, pulled the keys out of the ignition, and went around to the back of the truck. He looked over at the first cop, who stood with feet apart, his right hand resting lightly on his revolver butt.

  "Go on, boy, open it up."

  The driver unlocked the door and swung it open.

  "Like I said, furniture," and he pointed up at the sofa, mattress, and bed springs piled up high.

  "Come on, Charlie, they're okay," the second cop said mildly.

  Charlie looked back over at his companion and shook his head.

  "Hal, you know they could simply have something hidden further inside. I think Stanz here should start unloading."

  "Sir," the driver pleaded, "if we don't keep our schedule there'll be hell to pay with my boss."

  "There'll be hell to pay with me if you don't get your Polack friend into that truck right now."

  Skorzeny looked over at the driver inquiringly.

  "Unload it, Stanz."

  Skorzeny stepped up into the truck and, untying the ropes that bound the sofa in place, he grabbed it and lowered it down. He looked over at the cop.

  "Keep going, boy."

  "Hey, Charlie, c'mon. We have our own schedule, you know," the second cop said.

  That dumb Polack can't even speak English and yet he runs over here and gets a job when there's more'n one ex-GI looking for work. I'm sick of these damned refugees."

  Faced with such irrefutable logic, the other policeman resigned himself to the process that was unfolding.

  Skorzeny moved the mattress and bed springs down. Behind those there was a stack of boxes ... and behind the boxes was the compartment containing his team and their equipment.

  He looked back down at the cop.

  "Keep going, boy, and let's see what's in those boxes."

  Skorzeny looked over at his driver. The man casually reached into his pocket and pulled out a fifty-dollar bill, folding it over. He walked up to the short cop and, leaning over, whispered something while extending his hand.

  The cop looked over at him, smiled and took the bribe.

  "Boy, I think you just put yourself into a whole lot of trouble," the short cop said with a cold grin. "Now you get up there too and help your friend unload."

  The driver looked back at Skorzeny, waiting for orders.

  "Hal, this boy here just tried to bribe me and it wasn't enough by a long shot," the short cop said, backing up slightly and unclipping the safety strap on his revolver.

  "Now both of you start unloading and let's see what you got in there."

  The second cop, now interested, moved up beside Charlie. The silence was broken by a lone car passing them. The road behind was black, empty.

  Skorzeny picked up a box and, turning, stepped down from the truck and started to put it down, looking up the road in the opposite direction. The car that had just passed them disappeared around the bend.

  Instead of releasing the box, he swung around with it like a discus thrower, flinging it into the second officer's face, knocking him to the ground. In the follow-up to that swing his foot flashed into his tormentor's groin, who doubled over, clenched on himself. When he'd turned back to him, the other cop was halfway up, fumbling his revolver out of its holster. Skzorzeny broke the man's neck with a single blow just below his left ear. Swinging around again, he relaxed slighdy as he saw that his driver had already kicked the gun out of Charlie's hand. The police officer, gasping in pain, began to rise.

  Skorzeny came up behind Charlie, slammed him back down.

  "I'm not a big dumb Polack," Skorzeny chuckled into his ear. "I'm a big smart German." With a quick pull, he snapped the man's neck.

  Standing up, breathing hard, he looked back up and down the road. There were still no lights, but from a distance he could hear the whisper of an approaching car.

  "Throw them in the car. Move it!" Seconds later Skorzeny had helped the driver throw Charlie and his partner into the back seat and slammed the door shut.

  "How long to Knoxville?"

  "Another three hours."

  "We can't leave them here. The alert will be out within the hour and the driver of the last car might remember something. You drive the police car and I'll follow until you find a place that's safe to ditch them. I'll pick you up then."

  "Suppose I get stopped?"

  Skorzeny shrugged. Then keep your mouth shut or you're dead."

  "Why not put them in the truck?"

  "Because we might get stopped again. Once you pull out of here, there's no longer a link between the dead policeman and us."

  "You don't know the way to our drop-off."

  "I know the address and I'll find it if need be. We don't have time to argue. Give me the keys to the truck!"

  The driver reached into his pocket and handed them over. Pushing aside the sofa lying on the ground, he reached up and swung the doors shut, locking them. The car they had heard finally came around the bend and roared past. Skorzeny climbed into the cab and slammed the truck into gear as the police car pulled out in front of him.

  April 16

  Washington, D.C.

  Major Wayne Mason, cursing roundly, finally opened the door.

  "Jesus Christ, Jim, you know what time it is?"

  "Somewhere around oh-three-hundred. Now be a pal and get me a cup of coffee." Jim stepped into Waynes apartment. Down the hallway to the back bedroom he saw a wisp of curly blond hair framing a remarkably attractive face that was peeking out from behind a half-closed door. Jim smiled and waved. The door slammed shut.

  "Jim," Wayne said sadly, "couldn't this have waited until morning?"

  "No."

  Various items of clothing formed a trail from the living room to the recently slammed door. That evidence, when combined with an empty champagne botde and a couple of long-stemmed glasses lying on the floor, didn't leave much room for further speculation.

  "We've been friends a long time, but this is pushing it, pal," Wayne said bitterly. "Six months, six months we've been thinking about it—well, I've been thinking about it— and you come gallumphing in just when—"

  "That can wait. This can't."

  "Bullshit. This has got to be some kind of spooky government bullshit, and there is nothing of that kind that can't wait for oh-seven-hundred. Now, if you will excuse me... ?" Wayne made as if to rise and see Jim to the door.

  Jim just sat there. I'm not going anywhere, not for a few minutes, anyway." He was a little startled at Wayne's attitude—his friend wasn't the sort to make such a big deal of love's labor's lost... so maybe it was love ... not that right at the moment he cared very much.

  Even Wayne's sunny disposition was starting to fray under the humorless assault. "Jim—out. Talk to me in the morning. You've had your dramatic little surprise. Now, out." Wayne pause for a moment, clearly torn between friendship and love. "Please," he added.

  As if the "please" had been a request to do so, Jim opened his briefcase, extracted a photograph, and placed it carefully on the coffee table.

  Wayne, curiosity overcoming exasperation, leaned intently over the photo. Exasperation gave way to disgust. "What is that?"

  "A dead man."

  "No shit. Makes me want to puke just looking at him. But why am I looking at him, rather than—"

  "Because I want you to tell me who he is."

  Wayne sat back on his sofa, picked up the picture and studied it closely, then looked over at Jim. "You're back in the game. How'd you get cleared?"

  "You know who this guy is?"

  "Yeah. So do you. You met him back in Berlin."

  "I knew it! I only saw him the one time, so I wasn't sure. What was his name?"

  "Hans Fretter or Freiter. Something like that. He's Otto Skorzeny's right-hand man, almost like a personal bodyguard. One tough bastard, an SS major. He was with Skorzeny at the parade, the day you got your ass in the wringer."

  "Yeah, that's where I recognized him fr
om. Look. Can you get me copies of the photos you took that day? Quietly?'

  "It'd take a little doing but... yeah, I think I can arrange it."

  "Do it. I'll have somebody drop by your office and pick them up."

  "Long as he's cleared," Mason said absently. "Where did old Hans turn up? Looks like the rats got to him."

  "Let's just say someplace unexpected."

  Wayne gave Martel a conspiratorial smile. "Couldn't let me in on it, could you? I'd love to know how this guy got his. I'd have called him damned near unkillable."

  "Sorry, Wayne. You didn't even see the picture, let alone me. Now, I need to use your phone."

  Wayne pointed to it on its little stand to the side of the sofa.

  "Isn't it time for you to go in there and soothe somebody's feelings?"

  "Yeah, okay. I can take a hint."

  "I'll let myself out," Jim said. "And thanks."

  After the door to the bedroom opened and closed, Jim smiled at the muffled protests and his friends softly soothing rejoinders. Judging from the rapidly decreasing volume, the rejoinders were apparently having the desired effect.

  Out of nowhere he suddenly wondered how Betty was doing, and if she still thought of him sometimes, and what it was she thought. He shook his head and picked up the phone. Resolutely ignoring the muffled coos and giggles that had replaced the more strident sounds of a moment before, he dialed the number and waited. Finally someone answered.

  "Sir, it's Martel. Sorry to wake you up like this, but I think the show is about to start."

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  April 16

  The Oval Office

  "Mr. President, this man is a member of an elite SS commando team, code named Friedenthaler Jagdverbande."

  "The Hunting Club," Harrison said quietly, picking up a photograph of Hans Freiter. The photograph, supplied by Mason, had been taken by him during the Victory Day parade in Berlin.

  "He floated up three days ago, just outside Charleston Harbor." Donovan dropped another photo on Harrison's desk, this one less glamorous. The President studied the morgue photograph intently for several seconds, then glanced back and forth several times between it and the one showing Freiter in SS regalia.

  "How did you come to have this?" Harrison asked. "I'd have thought that Hoover would have been the one to bring this in."

  "Remember Martel, that young naval officer McDonnell had an interest in? I sent him down to check out the report on this body. Charleston's the closest port to Oak Ridge and we had just had that mention of Manhattan. I wanted one of my people to take a look, and by sheer luck Martel recognized him."

  "Does Hoover know about this yet?"

  "No. A negative report from his investigative team will probably surface on one of his assistants' desks in a couple weeks. It will talk about crazy Jewish refugee coroners who see Nazis behind every lamp post."

  Harrison smiled. "He'll crap when he realizes you beat him to the punch."

  "That's why I thought it best that you tell him rather than me."

  "So the boss can rub it in a bit, is that it?"

  Donovan shrugged.

  "That's twice I've seen the Bureau screw up recently," the President mused. "First on Martel, and now this. Maybe they're getting too involved with their own damned infighting."

  Donovan maintained a beatific silence. There would be some sore butts in Bureau-land, after Hoover recovered from his own personal humiliation.

  Harrison turned his attention back to the photo. "You think they've infiltrated a commando team into this country?"

  They wouldn't have sent this Freiter character in alone. He's part of a strike team."

  Target?"

  "Oak Ridge. Charleston Harbor. Has to be."

  "You think this has to do with the 'Manhattan letter'?" Harrison asked reluctantly. Clearly he did not want to go where this conversation was leading.

  "Undoubtedly, sir. This 'Hunting Club' is run by an SS colonel named Skorzeny. He's the best they've got for special ops. Furthermore, he's the type who leads from the front if at all possible. I'd bet he's in this country right now."

  "Skorzeny." Where did I hear that name before?"

  "He snatched Marshal Koniev out of Leningrad."

  Harrison leaned back in his chair for a moment, fingers massaging the bridge of his nose. "And now he's here. Him and his team. Why?"

  "Industrial-grade espionage at the very least. Likely combined with sabotage. It can't be just recon. One thing the letter shows is that they know in a general way what's going on down there: if the letter's legit, they know. If the letter is disinformation, they know; elsewise how could they have inserted it? Either way, they know."

  "How many men do you think they have, Bill?"

  "I can't say yet. No fewer than three or four. No more than ... twenty. I'm guessing twelve."

  "Why twelve, precisely?" the President asked curiously.

  Donovan shrugged. "Monte Carlo odds. A guess, but a gambler's guess, better than nothing. Skorzeny had to have made some kind of compromise between effectiveness on the job and the chances of detection. I'm plunking down in the middle of that range. . . . And anyway, that's the number I'd have gone with."

  "That's one hell of a big place down there. Even the full twenty couldn't do all that much."

  "Oak Ridge has several dozen miles of perimeter to patrol. A team could slip in, do some recon, pick their moment, do their damage — I don't know enough about the place to say precisely what kind of damage, but ten pounds of Composition-C will seriously dent most anything—and then get the hell out of Dodge."

  "I don't think Hitler would authorize that."

  "Why not?"

  "An act of war on American soil would unify this country like nothing since Pearl Harbor. Especially if there were civilian casualties."

  "Well, sir, haven't we been getting signals in that direction?"

  "Winston certainly believes so. But you saw the information coming in from your own people over the last several days. Reports from Istanbul, the embassy in Kiev, Helsinki — they all indicate German feelers regarding renewed action in Russia. Yesterday the Brits ran a plane out of Iran up into the Caspian Sea. A lot of shipping has been assembled on the western shore and several new divisions are moving into Astrakhan. Hell of a lot of action to be a ploy."

  "So you're sticking with that?"

  "Not entirely. But I can't let Winston slip his leash and cry 'Havoc!'" the President misquoted. "If things do flare up between England and Germany, I've got to make certain-sure that Hitler looks like the one-hundred-percent villain that he is.

  "Sometimes Winston is his own worst enemy," Harrison added. "This would be one of those times if I let him."

  "Mr. President, are you sure this isn't a time for simple truth?" Donovan asked quietly.

  Harrison looked at the OSS chief in surprise. That from my Master of Spies? Your game has been the playing field of liars since the Trojan Wars."

  "I'll feed the enemy anything I can if it helps to beat him. Your field is different."

  "Do I sense a rebuke here, Bill?" Harrison asked in a tone of polite inquiry.

  Donovan sighed. "No sir, just an observation. You're the boss."

  "Bill, I'll tell you what I told Winston: in a situation like this 'might' just isn't enough. Winston might be right, and he might not. If he isn't, we don't need the saber rattling; it might even get Hitler going. And if he is right, I want him to look pure as a virgin, not like someone who went into a bad neighborhood looking for trouble. If we go to war with the Nazis, it's going to take years of maximum effort, and there must be no doubt in anyone's mind that we had no choice but to fight." He half-rose. "Otherwise, the country will tear itself apart and we will lose. Lose to those monsters. Would you like to see Hitler sitting in this chair?"

  Harrison paused and visibly calmed himself as he resumed his seat. "Plus there is the political side: I don't want anyone up on the Hill able to credibly say that England is trying to lure us
into another fight with Germany. Roosevelt faced that back in '40 and '41 and it, well, paralyzed him. We have to take the long view here, Bill, and so must Winston."

  "And Oak Ridge, sir?"

  "Spying, definitely. The Nazis are on to our secret. We have a leak somewhere and, by damn, it'll be plugged. They've picked up on something and are sending in their best people to check it out. You've been trying to do the same with that reported site in Poland for the last year and a half and have yet to get within a hundred miles of it."

  "Their system's a little different than ours. By the nature of our society, we are always more vulnerable than an aroused tyranny."

  "Are you certain it's Oak Ridge?"

  "As certain as can be, sir. And on my way over here I was handed something that will convince even — convince anyone." Donovan reached into his briefcase and pulled out a newspaper clipping. "Just look at this, sir. Two cops were found dead outside of Asheville early this morning. Their necks were broken."

  "And?"

  "A military-professional job. No weapons, just open-handed kills. Whoever did it was damn good. I expect Hoover will be calling you shortly."

  "He already has," Harrison said with a smile. "He's had a flop or two lately, but don't think he's gone entirely soft. The cops pulled over a moving-van. Some furniture was found lying by the side of the road about five miles from where the cops were found. The FBI thinks the police officers had started to search the vehicle and were jumped. The killers threw the bodies into the patrol car and then ran the car into a ditch farther up the road."

  "And the cops were found in the direction of Knoxville, relative to where the van was first pulled over?"

  Harrison nodded.

  It was Skorzeny. No doubt. Any lead on the van?"

  "Nothing."

  "Then they're in Knoxville by now."

  That's what Hoover thinks," the President replied.

  "May I ask what you intend to do, sir?"

  "Plenty. First, Hoover's moving a special detachment down to Knoxville right now to beef up the FBI team already there. Also, I've informed General Groves of the situation; additional military security is being assigned to