Heroes

by David Hagberg

Deland straightened up, bringing his arm back, and he threw the rock, leading the helmeted driver by several feet.

  Deland got the impression of a pair of goggles turning toward him just before the rock struck the driver in the side of the head.

  The man’s left leg went up into the air; the bike went straight for about ten yards, but then it swung sharply to the left, bumping over the edge of the road at the same moment it fell over on its side and skidded into the ditch with a tremendous crash, sending the driver tumbling end over end into the ditch.

  The motorcycle’s engine raced wildly for a second or two before it suddenly sputtered and died. The silence encompassed everything.

  Deland was on his feet, racing up the ditch toward the courier, the night suddenly too still.

  The courier lay on his back, his right arm twisted impossibly beneath him. Deland pulled the man’s goggles up. The driver’s eyes were open. His tongue lolled out of his mouth. Blood covered the side of his face. His neck was broken. He was dead.

  Deland looked both ways down the highway. No one wa coming. Yet. But the sky was definitely getting lighter in the east.

  He dragged the driver along the ditch back to the culvert.

  There he stripped the man’s leather jacket, leather trousers, and boots, then put them on.

  When he was finished, he stuffed the body deep inside the culvert. Certainly no one from the road would be able to spot the body. And only someone down on his hands and knees directly in front of the opening would see a thing.

  All that had taken less than ten minutes, but as Deland hurried back to the downed motorcycle, he knew that he was seriously pressing his luck. Sooner or later another vehicle would be coming along the highway.

  He lifted the bike and with great difficulty managed to get it back up onto the highway.

  The front fender was bent into the spokes. Deland pried it away and carefully looked over the machine. There didn’t seem to be much damage. Some dents, paint scraped off, and the handlebars slightly askew. But the odor of leaking gasoline was very strong.

  The motorcycle started on the third try, its engine roaring into life, its headlight coming on.

  He adjusted the rearview mirror, pulled the goggles down over his eyes, and slowly accelerated down the highway.

  The courier’s orders were to deliver a dispatch to the commander of the air base at Luckenwalde, directly south of Berlin.

  Deland skirted the ruined sections of Potsdam and stopped beside the road twenty miles away, to go through all of the courier’s papers. Besides Luckenwalde, the courier also had travel passes for bases and supply depots covering half of Germany.

  South, beyond Erfurt, Deland figured his risks would rise. But no one stopped couriers who obviously were in a hurry on a very important mission.

  Once south of Stuttgart, making it the rest of the way to the Swiss border and then across would be fairly simple. He hoped.

  By morning he would be in Bern, he thought, putting the bike in gear. Definitely, he would be having a Swiss breakfast. And for him the war would be at long last over.

  It was late morning, only a few minutes before noon, Canaris suspected. There were no clocks in his bedroom. He would not allow them. Here is a place for sleep, he maintained; for rest, where time does not matter.

  He still wore his dressing gown as he paced back and forth while sipping his coffee.

  He stopped at the window and looked out across the paddock.

  Motte and one of the other Arabians were romping along the fence line. They seemed happy. Unconcerned.

  Canaris let his eyes lift to the sky. During the night the weather had turned sour. An overcast had blotted out the stars, threatening to bring rain. It was cooler now, too.

  There was a strangeness to the very atmosphere, he decjded, that could not be entirely explained by the overcast. When Jesus Christ had been hung on the cross, the afternoon was said to have turned odd. The radio was comparing the Fuhrer’s escape with the resurrection. And in a way Goebbels’ people were right.

  Adolph Hitler was the God of the German peoples. It was right that he should rise, Phoenixlike, from the terrible flames and ashes of Rastenberg. It wouldn’t be long before they’d be calling his Wolfsschanze Calvary.

  Someone knocked at his door, breaking him out of his thoughts.

  He turned as Mohammed came in.

  “Good morning,” Canaris said. His voice sounded weak, even to his own ears. It had been a long, trying night at his office in Eiche. There had been so many telephone calls.

  “Major Meitner is downstairs. He says it is urgent.”

  “Send him up. And bring more coffee.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  Canaris knew exactly why Meitner had come. And he knew exactly what he was going to say to his old friend in reply. But there was still work to be done, loose ends to be picked up.

  He put his coffee down and took a cigar from the humidor on the fireplace mantle. He had just snipped the end and was lighting it when Hans Meitner, in uniform, came in.

  “Good God, I thought you would be ready to leave by now,” Meitner said. He looked as if he hadn’t slept in a week. There were circles under his eyes, and his skin was sallow.

  “You should get more sun, Hans. Really, you are looking terrible.”

  Mohammed came with more coffee, and poured Meitner a cup. He withdrew, closing the door behind him.

  “All hell is breaking loose, you know,” Meitner said.

  “All across Germany, I suspect.”

  Meitner nodded. “There has been a steady stream to Prinzalbrecht Strasse. It will grow.”

  “There will be many arrests before it’s over, Hans. I know that.”

  “Yours?”

  Canaris shrugged. “One can only hope for the best.”

  Meitner hit the side of his leg with his hand in impatience. He was enough of an old school officer not to say something impatient. “Then you are planning on leaving? Will you go to Algeciras?”

  At the mention of the city Canaris’ heart clutched. “Algeciras,” he said the word half to himself. He would never see Algeciras, or his love … never. He had known that for some time now. He shook his head.

  “What, then? Surely, meiner Admiral, you are not going to remain here and simply do nothing?”

  “That’s correct.”

  Meitner seemed relieved, but Canaris’ next words dashed any hopes he might have had.

  “I am staying, of course, but there is plenty to do. And of necessity, you are going to have to run my errands.”

  “But, sir …”

  Canaris had to smile indulgently. “Let’s have no double standards here, my old friend. If I were to tell you to leave, would you?”

  For a moment Meitner resisted. Finally he shook his head. “No, meiner Admiral. I will remain to the end. And beyond.”

  ‘#~&

  Canaris nodded. “In the meanwhile, there are two things you must try to do for me.”

  “I will try, but it has become very difficult now with all the arrests. Everyone is being watched.”

  “Do what you can,” Canaris said.

  “Yes, sir.”

  Canaris put down his cigar and went to his small writing desk in the corner by one of the windows. He wrote a series of four numbers on a slip of paper. He turned back and handed it to Meitner.

  “It looks like the combination of a safe,” Meitner said.

  “Exactly,” Canaris said. “Start left.”

  “Where?”

  “Behind my old office at Maybach II. There is a central storeroom.”

  “Yes, I know it. The place has become a scrap area for discards.”

  “The safe is there. Inside, on a middle shelf, are three leather bound volumes. Black. No markings.”

  “What are they,’ sir?”

  “Diaries.”

  It took a moment for the significance to strike Meitner, and when it did, he turned very pale. His hand shook. “Gott im Himmell Why did you leave
them there, meiner Admiral?”

  A mistake, Canaris thought. A blunder. “There was no time,” he mumbled, turning away. “And I naturally thought I would be returning.” He turned back. “Don’t ask what is in the books. Don’t look at them. Just remove them from the safe and bring them to me.”

  Meitner nodded heavily. “Yes, sir.” He looked at the combination.

  The diaries contained everything. The business with Schrader and Freytag-Loringhoven had only been the end-result of years of discussion. Names. Dates. Places. But the books had always had an aura of history to them that fascinated Canaris. He realized now that the aura had been more like the open flame, and he the moth. Deadly.

  “There is another thing you must do for me,” Canaris said, shaking off the darkness.

  Meitner looked up.

  “Do you remember our friend Dieter Schey?” Canaris had been thinking about him a lot just lately.

  “In America? At Oak Ridge? He sent the ruined film over.”

  Canaris had to smile. He nodded. “The one. I must know what has happened to him.”

  “I have heard nothing, Herr Admiral.”

  With luck, Schey was dead or captured by now. But Canaris had to know for sure. Schey was the one man who had the potential knowledge to change the course of the war. He was, perhaps, the most dangerous man on earth.

  Meitner put his cup down and pocketed the safe combination.

  “I don’t know what I’ll be able to find, but I will try.”

  “That is all I ask, Hans. That is all,” Canaris said. He walked him to the door and then downstairs.

  “There can be no delays, Hans. The diaries first, then information about Schey. When you have both, return here.”

  They shook hands at the front door. Meitner was very tense.

  “There is nothing I can say to convince you to leave, meiner Admiral?”

  “The same argument you would have me use on you.”

  A faint smile passed Meitner’s lips, and he shook his head.

  “With luck I will return this evening.”

  “Then good luck and Godspeed, Hans.”

  Meitner paused on the front step, then turned back. “I’m stepping out of bounds … but I was wondering if you would like me to get a message to Algeciras?”

  Canaris shook his head. “Under no circumstances.” He would not have her name tainted.

  “I understand, sir,” Meitner said. He turned and left.

  Another car was just coming up the drive when Meitner left in his. Canaris’ stomach tightened, until he realized it was Helmut Maurer.

  The car pulled up and parked at the foot of the stairs. Maurer got out and came around.

  “Uncle Mau,” Canaris said when his very old friend and neighbor came up the stairs.

  “You look terrible, Willi.”

  “Is that why you came so early? To tell me that?”

  “No,” Maurer said. He was dressed in civilian clothes. Like Meitner, he appeared to have gotten no sleep last night. He seemed very harried. “Nor can I stay. I must get right back.”

  “What is it?” Canaris asked, alarmed now.

  “They’ve arrested Georg Hansen. He’s at Prinz-Albrecht Strasse this very moment.”

  Hansen had been chief of AMT/Ausland Abwehr, Section I.

  But more importantly, he had been one of the chief conspirators planning Hitler’s death. He was mentioned prominently in Canaris’ diaries. Conversely, he was in a perfect position to mention Canaris’ name and have his story believed. This was terrible.

  “I thought so,” Maurer said, reading much of Canaris’ thoughts from his face. “You are going to have to leave. Immediately.

  They will almost certainly arrest you. Today, perhaps tomorrow.

  But very soon.”

  He heard a horse whinny—it sounded like Motte—in the back, and his heart went out to his animals. To all of them.

  “Do you hear me, Willi? Or has something struck you deaf and dumb? You must leave!”

  Canaris shook his head. “No, Uncle Mau, I will not leave. I did not plan to assassinate our Fiihrer, and I am glad that the plot failed. Do you understand that?”

  “It will not matter! Don’t you understand?”

  “You must do something for me.”

  “I am trying! Verdammt!” Maurer said with great feeling.

  They still stood on the porch. He came closer to Canaris and lowered his voice. “There already have been executions. There will be more. Many more.”

  Canaris was outwardly unmoved.

  “In the name of God, Willi, you must save yourself.”

  Canaris smiled, and reached out and touched Maurer’s arm. “I am more interested in saving Germany.”

  Maurer started to say something else, but he clamped it off.

  Instead, he looked deeply into Canaris’ eyes and sagged as if some of the air had been let out of him. He shook his head.

  “That’s better,” Canaris said. “Now, I need some information.”

  “Yes?”

  “There is an underground group in Berlin. Run by a man named Dannsiger. They help Allied fliers, I believe.”

  “They were smashed last night.”

  Canaris had been prepared to go into much greater detail so that Maurer would understand what he was talking about. This revelation stunned him.

  “What is it, Willi?” Maurer said, alarmed. “Good God, don’t tell me you were involved with them as well?”

  “No,” Canaris said. It meant there was no longer any sure way in which to contact Dulles in Bern. At least no way which Canaris was aware of. The RSHA would perhaps know some of the conduits. But he could not ask Maurer that. He simply could not ask the man to betray his country.

  “What about Dannsiger’s group? What’s your connection?”

  “One of my people infiltrated it some years ago. I wanted to get him out. I don’t suppose anyone survived?”

  “There may have been one or two escapes, from what I gather. One of our people who acted as an informer, then as a lure, was killed. He claimed an American spy was in the group.

  We think he may have murdered our man. He’s still at large. But he’ll be found. Unless he has help.”

  Hope had flickered for a moment, but then it had died. One or two men on the run could offer no help. Even if one of them was an American spy.

  “I can arrange to get you out of the country,” Maurer was saying. “I spoke with Kaulbars. He believes we can get you to Sweden. But you would have to leave now, this afternoon.

  Before light tomorrow you would cross.”

  Canaris shook his head. “No, Uncle Mau, I will not desert Germany.” “Then you will die here,” Maurer said in frustration.

  “As so many others have and will. It will not be unique.”

  A tear formed in Maurer’s eyes. “Willi, is there nothing I can say to you?”

  “Are you my friend? My comrade?”

  “Yes. Of course.”

  “Then that is enough,” Canaris said. “Now you must return to your office before you are missed.”

  Maurer wanted to say more, but he suddenly turned, went back to his car, and moments later was heading down the driveway.

  Canaris watched until the car was out of sight, then stepped off the porch and ambled around to the back of the house as Motte came galloping up from the paddock and Kasper and Sabine bounded from the backyard.

  Hans Meitner did not return until well after two in the morning.

  The house had been settled down for several hours. Canaris was seated in darkness in his study, which faced the long driveway up from the street. The dogs were asleep on the Persian rug at his feet.

  Kaulbars had come this afternoon to add his plea to Maurer’s, for Canaris to run. But he had not stayed long.

  There had been a few telephone calls later, but very few. The taint was on him now. Anyone associating with him would probably fall as well.

  He spotted the flash of headlights in the trees be
fore he actually saw the car. For a few seconds his entire body went rigid with the thought that they were coming for him so soon. It was a favorite Gestapo trick to come for their victims in the middle of the night. He had once heard an officer boast that midnight arrests accounted for an eighty-seven percent increase in immediate confessions. The man had laughed out loud, then added that the statistic included confessions people made for crimes they hadn’t even committed.

  The car came into view and parked. Meitner got out.

  Canaris met him at the front door and led him around to the study. Once he had the door closed and the heavy curtains drawn over the large windows, he turned on his desk lamp, which threw a soft glow downward, leaving the upper half of the room in shadows.

  Meitner looked frightened.

  “Bad news, Hans?” Canaris asked.

  Meitner nodded. “Meiner Admiral, I …”

  Canaris held him off. Now that he knew the flavor, he decided he could wait for a moment or two before he listened to the details. At the sideboard, he poured cognac for both of them..

  “Sit down, Hans.”

  Meitner sat heavily on the wide couch and tossed his drink back. Canaris refilled his glass, then perched on the edge of his desk.

  “Now tell me first, what news of Dieter Schey?”

  Meitner seemed surprised by the question. “There is very little news, from what I can gather. He radioed for a rendezvous someplace in New Mexico … that is in the Southwest, I believe.”

  New Mexico. The implications were electrifying. Schey had evidently eluded capture in Knoxville and in Washington, D. C., and had somehow made it all the way across the country. That, in spite of the fact the American authorities had his description.

  “Was the rendezvous made?”

  “No. That is the difficult part. We believe Schey’s contact was arrested some time ago.”

  “Then if Schey did make his rendezvous, it would have been a setup. He would be taken.”

  “Presumably. But there is no way of verifying it.”

  “Why was he given rendezvous instructions in the first place?”

  “It slipped through. It was a mistake.”

  It took a moment or two for the significance of Meitner’s earlier statement to sink in. When it did, it provided another shock. “We have no one left in the United States?”