Fraulein Spy

by Nick Carter

  Two men looked up from a laboratory bench. The one in the wheelchair swung around and glared. The other, standing beside him, pivoted lightly and looked at Mark. He was a short man, but built like a Prussian ox, and his face looked like something that had been stitched on rather carelessly.

  "Herr Bronson. Professor Lautenbach." The Commandant slammed his heels together. "Here is Dr. Gerber, from the United States."

  The man in the wheelchair threw back his head and screamed. "One man! Where is the other? You promised there would be two. I have worked without help for months. I ask you for scientists, you say you will get them, they come and they do nothing. Why are there not two? Why do you think this one will work when the others have not?"

  "Come, now, Lautenbach," said Bronson. "You know that Lehmann is cooperating. And now we have an excellent way of making the others help. I am sure that Dr. Gerber will show Dietz and Scheuer the error of their ways."

  "You had better explain what's going on here," Mark said coldly.

  "Oh, I will," Bronson said softly. "But you will understand from the beginning that any arrogance on your part will result in a very unpleasant experience… for someone."

  "Ach, Gott!" said Lautenbach, running his fingers through steelwool hair. "Gerber, you are here to develop a weapon. One that the West has, one that Russia has, one that we Germans came so close to perfecting in that last fiasco. Now it is finished with Germany. Kaput. We put our skills now where they can be of use. By myself, I have the weapon to such a point that we can wipe out half the world. But suddenly there is difficulty. The control, you understand. Maybe we wipe out the wrong half of the world! Ha! Maybe ourselves and nothing else!" He gripped the arms of his chair and gave a wild cackle of laughter. "The power of the beast — we are in its power!"

  "Lautenbach…" Mark said slowly, a chill of horror creeping up his neck. "I thought you were dead. I thought when Berlin fell…"

  "That's what they all say!" Lautenbach screeched. "I was in hospital — those British swine, a raid — when I crawled out of that hellhole, where was there to go? To the Russians? Ha! To America! Pfui. I knew where to come. And then years later — years, years later…"

  "That is enough, Lautenbach." Bronson's thin voice lashed out. "Doctor Gerber is not here to listen to your life history. Tell him what we want of him."

  Lautenbach began with the work he had done to date, describing the trials and errors and successes and failures; and he went on, plaintively now, to detail the faults and what he knew someone with Gerber's advanced training and vast experience with atomic weaponry could do about them.

  "We are close," said Lautenbach. "But I do not have access, you understand? Some things I cannot find out for myself. Others, you, have had opportunities. We have machinery, apparatus, organization, everything everything everything we need to take over the world!"

  Mark exhaled painfully. "You're mad!" he breathed. "You're so crazy, you don't know how wrong you are. You, building a rocket? With those plans, Lautenbach, you'll be lucky if you end up with one misguided spitball. I couldn't help you even if I wanted to."

  Bronson's patchwork face shook gently from side to side. "No, no, Lautenbach. Let me answer. Doctor Gerber, we have Otto Lehmann working with us. We know exactly what we have, and what we need. And you will help us."

  Mark shook his head helplessly. He knew how close they were to success; Lautenbach was very close indeed.

  "I will not help you," he said flatly.

  Bronson produced his weird smile and raised his hands in an oddly supplicating gesture. Mark saw for the first time that the man wore flesh-colored gloves.

  "Now, Gerber," he said in his high-pitched voice. "You wouldn't want us to hurt anyone, would you? There were… let me see… some ninety people on that plane with you. Grandmothers, grandfathers, some young people, single ladies." The voice keened like an excited mosquito. "And is there not one young lady of whom you are particularly fond? How would you like it if something horrible should happen to her?"

  Mark stared back at him. I'll kill myself, he thought.

  Bronson seemed to read the thought. He put one heavy, not quite human hand on Gerber's shoulder in an awful parody of friendliness.

  "Don't try to leave us, Gerber. We want you well and healthy. If you should, for instance, die, well… then we'd have no use at all for the others, would we? You do see that, don't you?"

  "I won't help you," Mark said tonelessly.

  "Indeed you will help," said Bronson gently. "A night's sleep, a little meditation about ninety innocent souls and one very lovely lady, and we'll talk in the morning. Thank you, Commandant. Please see that he joins his colleagues."

  The Commandant grinned. "Perhaps I should set his mind at rest about the lady. Possibly she will be more comfortable in my personal quarters. Receiving my personal attention."

  "Just what do you mean by that?" Mark demanded.

  "You will find out, Doctor. And remember, the less cooperative you are, the more cause you have to worry."

  "Get out of here!" Lautenbach roared suddenly. "I have work to do. When you bring him back, see that he is ready to work too." He wheeled around violently and bent his ferocious head over the laboratory bench. Bronson smiled. "I think that we will make progress now," he murmured. One mechanical-looking hand dismissed the Commandant's small party.

  They went back the way they had come until they reached the main passage. Then they branched off, passed an elevator and took a stairway instead. When they came to a landing the Commandant snapped an order at Mark's guard. The soldier whipped out a blindfold from under his tunic and tied it tightly around Mark's eyes. Then they went up a few more stairs, made a turn, climbed again, and stopped. Mark felt a jab in the small of his back and stumbled forward. Something slammed behind him.

  "What now?" a man's voice said wearily. And then someone gasped. Mark's handcuffed fingers plucked at the blindfold over his eyes. It came off, with someone else's help. Light blazed into his face, so bright for a moment that the two other men were no more than silhouettes.

  "Oh, God," said one of them. "It's Gerber, just as they promised. But where is Ernst?"

  Mark blinked and brought them into focus, two elderly men who looked vaguely familiar. But their faces were drawn and bruised, and both looked exhausted to the point of dropping.

  "Ernst?" said Mark vaguely. "Ernst who?" Then recollection swept through him. "You mean Rademeyer? He had a heart attack in Delhi. We had to leave without him."

  "Lucky Ernst," one of the old men said bitterly. "Especially if he is dead, and out of this."

  "But who are you?" asked Mark. "Which one of you is Lehmann?"

  "Lehmann!" the shorter man barked. "Neither of us. The swine Lehmann has far more salubrious quarters. He has — 'cooperated. »

  Mark swayed tiredly, thinking longing and fearful thoughts of Elena. "Yes, but you two, Who are you?"

  "Sit down, Gerber. I am Konrad Scheuer. This is Rudolf Dietz."

  * * *

  Pete Brawn stared down at the lithe, superbly muscled figure on the floor. As he watched, the midriff met the backbone and formed a living cave. Nick rolled backwards and relaxed.

  "Man! Now I've seen everything!" Pete exclaimed. "How do you do that, buddy? And what for?"

  Nick sprang to his feet with a grin. "I do it to relax," he said. "Helps me think. And I'm thinking about how to get out of here." He had also been thinking about what he knew of Pete Brawn: Stevedore turned engineer turned building contractor; a rough, tough, self-made man who had worked his way up in the world and seen a great deal of it in the process. He was about as American as a baseball bat, and he was still almost as hard. Nick buttoned his shirt and decided to trust old Pete.

  Pete looked back at him appraisingly. "I don't know how you think we can get out of here, bud, but I'm willing to try anything."

  Nick nodded. "Let's kill the light. Take a look out the window and tell me what you see."

  "No guards right outside," Pete
said, after a moment. "Two of 'em, armed to the teeth, where we came in. Two — hmm, no — four patrolling. Separately. Lights outside a bit dimmer than they were. Window's too small to get out of. Trucks still parked where we left them. That's all."

  "Did you notice what the windows in the back look out on? Blank rock. With about a foot and a half of space between it and this building. And the chances are there aren't any guards in the narrow space. Because there isn't a back door."

  Pete's eyes narrowed. "That's right. But what good'll it do us if we can't get out that way?"

  "I think I can," said Nick. "Listen, Pete. I've got to get out of here and take a look around. Have you noticed that Mark Gerber isn't with us? They've taken him somewhere. And in case you didn't know it, he's one of America's top men in nuclear physics — the kind of guy the Chinese Reds need desperately. We've got to pry him loose from wherever he is and get ourselves out of here."

  Pete sat down on one of the four narrow army cots and stared at him. "That's a tall order, son. So that's why they brought us here. Not as hostages at all. Just for one guy, huh?"

  "Oh, I think they'll use us for ransom if they can," said Nick. "And for any number of other things as well. What we're going to have to do is organize ourselves…"

  "I'll organize, by God," said Pete, and leapt up from his cot. "We'll pull this lot together and make fighters out of them. You know what I still got on me? A knife those bastards didn't find, and a dandy little set of knuckle-dusters. Between the lot of us…"

  "That's the idea, Pete," Nick said approvingly. "Only not the lot of us. You don't really think the pilot sold us down the river, do you? Or went hours off-course because of a ventilation fault? Uh-uh. That plane was hijacked. And I saw it happen. Or beginning, anyway. Then I passed out. Probably only a few seconds after you did — I saw you reaching for the blanket when Mauriello was outside that lavatory."

  "Mauriello! The one who acts like he's seen too many American gangster movies? Sure, I saw him there. Say! Now, didn't that Chinaman…"

  "Hold it down," Nick begged. "Unless you want to invite him in here and ask him for yourself. Yes, there were three of them. The Chinaman, Mauriello, and McHugh. And they're right in this barrack, probably just waiting for somebody to try to make a move."

  Pete's eyebrows beetled downward. "Phil. Buddy. Tell me what you saw. And what the hell it means."

  Nick told him all he possibly could without giving himself away.

  At the end of it Pete whistled. "But now we're going to have to get rid of them before we can do anything."

  "That's right," Nick said calmly. "One or two, I can take. Three at a time may be a little difficult. Especially since they're in separate rooms. You understand that it won't do us any good just to tap them lightly and hope they won't bother us again. We have to put them out of action permanently."

  "I understand that," Pete said quietly. "Listen — Collins, that Air Force colonel — he'd be a good man for something like this. He's just two doors down. That's one of us for each of them. Ought to be more; maybe he can pull in someone he can trust. You think those fellows are still armed?"

  Nick nodded. "Sure of it. Once we've put them out of commission we'll have at least one machine gun, an automatic and a couple of garrotes for our own use. You going to talk to Collins, or should I?"

  "I will. We've gotten to know each other pretty well."

  "Fine. I'll take Mauriello first; he has the machine gun. They won't mind how much noise they make, but we do. I've got a knife and so have you. Collins may not have anything, so…"

  "He has," said Pete. "Commando training. He'll make out."

  "Okay, let's get going, then. Scarface has the room at the far right, facing front. McHugh far left, also facing front. You should be able to make your plans with Collins without alerting either of them. I'll go first, get rid of Mauriello, and join you."

  Nick opened their unlocked cell door and peered out. The lights were still on in the narrow hallway and some of the doors were open. From a nearby room he could hear Hansinger's voice. Another room about three doors down seemed to be serving as some sort of meeting place. McHugh lounged in the doorway, grinning as he looked in at the speakers.

  Nick strolled out into the hallway, putting an unlighted cigarette between his lips. Hugo the stiletto was sheathed inside his hand.

  Mauriello's door was open. Nick strolled past it. Nearly all the other doors were closed and muted voices drifted out from behind them. He stopped. The light was out but the passage light showed Mauriello sitting hunch-shouldered on a cot, puffing a cigarette. Nick uttered an exclamation of impatience and fumbled through his pockets.

  "You got a light, mac?" he said. "Christ, what a situation, huh?" And he leaned hopefully into Mauriello's cell.

  Mauriello grunted and reached inside his jacket pocket.

  Hugo snapped out of his sheath and Nick took one step inside Mauriello's room. His hand lunged forward and thudded against Mauriello's throat. Hugo sank deep into the bull-neck and Mauriello made a sound like a man about to vomit. Nick's left hand closed savagely over the open mouth. Hugo came out and struck again. Mauriello slumped sideways onto the cot.

  A shadow flickered past the room: Pete Brawn, on his way to Colonel Collins.

  Mauriello's cot gave up a.45-caliber machine gun; his body, a snub-nosed gun and a switchblade knife.

  Nick pushed the machine gun under the cot until further notice and put pistol and knife into his own pockets. Then he wiped Hugo, lit his cigarette, and stepped out into the hall.

  Scarface was walking down the hall towards him.

  And on Your Left, Ladies and Gentlemen, a Corpse

  Nick sucked in smoke and watched the man approach. From the corner of his eye he could see McHugh still standing in that doorway. But now, instead of looking into the room where someone was holding an impromptu meeting, McHugh was glancing down the passageway at Scarface. And at Nick.

  "Thanks, fella," Nick said to the room behind him. His thoughts raced. Scarface to one side of him, approaching the room where Pete was conferring with the Air Force Colonel. Both Scarface and McHugh could see every move he made. But Scarface might be distracted momentarily in Mauriello's room…

  "Maybe we'll think of something in the morning," he said to the dead man, and ambled up the hallway toward McHugh.

  "Hey, mister," said a voice somewhere behind him. "Moon, is it? Say, we thought of something we'd kinda like to ask you."

  "Ah, so, what is it?" Scarface answered politely. His footsteps stopped.

  Old Pete, you sonofabitch, Nick thought gratefully. He walked on and came to a stop beside McHugh.

  "Meeting?" he asked, one hand on the doorjamb and the other reaching down in a comradely way over McHugh's shoulders. "I'd like to join." Hugo clicked very quietly. Nick's arm hung in the air. "I must ask you all not to cry out or make any sort of noise." His arm flashed downward and thumped heavily against McHugh's back. He saw four or five pairs of eyes staring at him from the room. McHugh reeled and grunted loudly. His face twisted horribly with the pain and he made a lunge at Nick. "You, too, traitor," Nick said evenly, thrusting Hugo deep into the soft spot below the man's left ear. McHugh dropped, twitched once, groaned, and then lay still.

  "Sorry, gentlemen," said Nick. "But he's the man who brought us here. And unless you all want to die, we're going to have to cooperate in getting out of here. Now you'll have to excuse me. There's still one left." He turned, leaving a whispered babble of noise behind him.

  Pete stuck his white head out of Colonel Collins' door. "Got him!" he whispered triumphantly. "Mauriello?"

  "Finished," said Nick. "And McHugh. Time for another conference. Colonel? I'm going to need more help from you."

  * * *

  His body elongated strangely. The shoulders that were normally so broad and firm were oddly loose and curiously distorted. His waist was a narrow, rubbery band. Even his rib cage seemed to have contracted.

  "Jeeze!" Pete whispered. "
Buddy, you should be in the circus."

  Nick wormed his narrow hips through the almost-as-narrow opening. He landed lightly on his hands and straightened up in the space between the barrack building and the blank rock wall. No guards. Stone sky above. Dim light showing far up to the right, far up to the left. If he went left he would round the edge of the farthermost house or barrack, whatever it was, and come out in the open near that guarded sliding door in the mountainside. If he went right, he might be able to do an almost full circle around the back of the buildings.

  Right it was. He moved off like an agile shadow.

  Wilhelmina, Hugo, Pierre and Pepita were back in their appointed places around his body. One of the garrotes was in his pocket.

  The men back at the barrack were armed with a machine gun, an automatic, a snub-nosed pistol, a few spare rounds of ammunition, one garrote, half a dozen knives, and an assortment of makeshift weapons. Colonel Collins, Pete Brawn, and a young man named Jacoby had organized their "army."

  Nick slid past the next-door barrack. It was not, he knew, one of those selected by the Commandant for the passengers' use. No lights shone from within. He listened, and heard snoring. The building was very much like the one that confined the single male passengers; it probably housed enlisted men. The next building was a two, maybe four-family house. He peered in through a high window and saw a man — Chinese — stripped down to his shorts and getting ready for bed.

  Nick moved on stealthily. The next two buildings were the Army's version of semi-detached houses, urban style. This would be where the married couples were quartered. Most of the lights were still on; some of the rear windows open. He heard a woman's voice saying tremulously, "Yes, but they wouldn't have searched us if they were up to any good. I tell you, they're going to keep us here. Brainwash us, torture us, God knows what all." A male voice answered, "Honey, we've just got to keep calm. They have no reason to hurt us."

  Carter looked in and saw what looked like a sparsely furnished living room, occupied by Lee Soo, his wife, and a couple named Rieber.