The Shadowboxer Page 9

  The meeting began informally. Photographs of Hilka Tolan’s impersonator were distributed. Von Schleiben was told that the woman had already taken Hilka’s place in Isolation Four, B Barracks. Phone communication with the operations area was established. The six rings of interior security were in place. The exterior rings outside Oranienburg were poised. On orders from the Council the final phase of the Webber Proposition was ready to be put into effect: all outgoing movement in the thirty square miles surrounding Oranienburg would be stopped. Anyone trying to leave the perimeter would be seized. Entry was open. Departure impossible.

  “Very much like a lobster trap?” von Schleiben noted.

  “Exactly, Herr Obergruppenfuehrer,” Platt replied.

  Von Schleiben was full of questions. Was everyone certain that the last stage of the plan should be put into effect? After all, since Gestapo had been elevated to co-sponsor of the operation and almost every police and intelligence agency—with the exception of Abwehr—was deeply involved in it, a failure would be most humiliating: Perhaps they should stop and reassess the situation.

  “Herr Obergruppenfuehrer,” Platt rejoined, “the plan, whatever its merits, has been executed to perfection. No one will be able to leave that area.”

  “Even so,” von Schleiben said, “I feel a vote should be taken.”

  The show of hands in favor of proceeding was unanimous. Von Schleiben smiled and signaled his agreement. Platt called in the order by phone. Confirmation that Webber Proposition was in full initiation was received within ten minutes.

  Von Schleiben led the members of the Council to the adjoining underground mess hall, where a lavish champagne supper had been prepared. The officers held up their glasses and waited for a toast from their leader.

  Von Schleiben smiled without amusement and snapped his fingers. The provost hoisted the famous locker in front of the General. Von Schleiben lifted the lid, peeked inside and tilted the metal container forward. Webber’s decapitated head bounced out and rolled along the table. For some inexplicable reason the monocle over his left eye was still set firmly in place.

  PART TWO

  The Julian Proposition

  13

  Goebbels Seduces His Own Twelve-Year-Old Illegitimate Daughter! Hitler Sets Up Special Tribunal!

  —Headline from the German Popular Gazette,

  printed 17 January 1944, for release 6 April 1944

  The o.s.s. Lysander liaison aircraft skimmed over the moonlit Channel swell, cleared the English coastline, banked sharply and droned due south.

  A melody was heard. Hilka Tolan began to stir. Her lips moistened. Her eyes flickered open and slowly focused on the back of the pilot’s neck. She tried to shift position, then looked down. She was strapped into a bucket seat. There was a gentle tug at her left arm. Hilka glanced to the side. A lean man with beret and leather cycle jacket was sitting cross-legged on the cabin floor humming to himself as he filed the steel manacle encasing her wrist.

  “Where are we?” she finally asked.

  “Aha,” Spangler cried out expansively, looking up, “awake at last! And how does your jaw feel?”

  Hilka studied the violet-eyed, sharp-nosed windburned face. The cheekbones were high. The thin lips curled in a tight, curious smile. She found something crudely handsome in him. Something childlike. Something unrevealed and brooding. “Where are you taking me?”

  “Excuse the sock in the face, lass. I’m not one to be hitting the ladies. But you was kicking up one helluva ruckus back there in Germany—and anyway, I was forced to reach some messy conclusions with that Webber, conclusions you might not have found overly appetizing. But that’s all done with and now, as you see, you’re safe and snug.”

  “Am I expected to thank you?”

  Spangler laid aside the file and began bending the blood-caked handcuff. “If your right arm’s a little sore, don’t worry, it’ll wear off. I had to inject you with a sleeping drug—easier to travel without you clawing at me. Do you feel up to some Coca-Cola and doughnuts? They’re not bad at all.”

  He strained harder to snap the manacle. The metal wouldn’t give. Filing resumed. So did the humming.

  Hilka turned away and rested her head against the cold perspex of the canopy. “Take me back,” she said softly.

  “Take you back?”

  “To the camp. To Oranienburg.”

  “Why, did you leave something behind?”

  “You had no right to come for me. I told them I didn’t want to leave. Take me back,” she begged desperately, as a solitary tear trailed down her cheek.

  “If I were you, dear child, I’d stop the play-acting and try one of these doughnuts.”

  Hilka glowered at Spangler. “Who are you?”

  “A myth.”

  Spangler swung his legs up and draped them over the auxiliary gas tank in front of him. He handed the file across to Hilka. “Here, you saw for a while. It’ll take your mind off things. And anyway, it’s your wrist, not mine.”

  Hilka looked down at the file she was holding and then stared back at Spangler. He was checking his watch. His hand darted into his pocket, withdrew a small box and poured the last of the orange capsules into his other palm. Spangler examined them with obvious dissatisfaction and gave the container an extra shake. Nothing came out. He tossed the box away and put the pills into his mouth. He chewed with obvious relish as the plane dropped sharply.

  “Coming in,” the pilot called back over his shoulder.

  The Lysander bumped down and bounced forward over the rough landing area. The engine cut and the craft braked to a stop.

  “Boyo,” Spangler said to the pilot with a yawn, “I’ve had me one helluva long night. Be a good fellow and deliver our pretty lump of weeping cargo here, will you, and pick up my things. A suitcase and envelope will be ready. I’ll wait here and spin meself off an erotic dream or two until we leave.”

  “Sorry, sir, we’re not leaving. This is the end of the line.”

  “Don’t be ignorant, man. You’re to turn this flying tin pile around and take me to Dundalk.”

  “Orders just came over the radio, sir. This is as far as we go.”

  “Far as we go, is it?” Spangler muttered as he pushed out of his seat. “You stay where you are and wait for me.”

  He unbolted the cabin door, lifted it and jumped down onto the thick, moist fairway grass of the abandoned golf course.

  “Get me Julian,” he shouted to the solitary mechanic hurrying toward him.

  “Major Julian isn’t here, sir. He’s—”

  “Then get Hanson or Green, and put some snap into it.”

  “They’re not here either, sir. No one’s here. The entire operation moved out two days ago.”

  “Moved out? Where?”

  “Don’t know, sir. But there’s another plane waiting for you on the third fairway.”

  “The hell with the other plane. Get this one refueled and load on my things.”

  “Sir, there are no things. There is no more gas.”

  “There’s a suitcase. There’s an envelope. Now get them for me.”

  “Sir, nothing is here, nothing at all. I wouldn’t lie to you, honest. Everything is gone.”

  Spangler stiffened, then dashed through the rough, up the overgrown path and into the unlit gabled clubhouse. The main floor was stripped bare. He took the stairs two at a time and raced down the corridor. The padlock and hinge were missing from his private room. He threw open the door and rushed in. Everything was gone. The room was empty.

  There was a grunt of rage as Spangler’s fist crashed through the plaster wall. He rolled back against the doorframe and fought for control. His breathing eased. He checked his watch, thought for a moment and then darted from the room.

  The mechanic was pulling camouflage netting off an American twin-engine Beechcraft parked under the trees off the beginning of the third fairway. Spangler boosted himself through the fuselage door and hurried forward to the pilot’s compartment.

 
“A small case?” he demanded. “Did you bring a small black case for me?”

  “No, sir,” the captain replied.

  “Anything else? Was anything else left? Any other package?”

  “Only food and beverage, sir. But I do have a bottle of rye here, if you’d care for a taste.”

  “Are you taking me to Julian?”

  “I’m not acquainted with the name, sir.”

  “Well, find out, dammit, find out. Radio ahead and ask if Julian is waiting. Major Julian.”

  “Can’t use the radio, sir. Security silence, you know. But even if I could, I wouldn’t know what signal to send.” He pointed to a small metal box attached to the instrument panel. “I’m being directed by ground control.”

  “You mean you don’t know where the Christ we’re going?”

  “That’s about it, sir.”

  Two lines of facing bucket seats were fastened to the cabin walls. Spangler sat across from Hilka. The propellers whined, the aircraft taxied forward and turned. The pilot opened the throttle and released the brakes. The lift-off seemed to relax Spangler.

  He closed his eyes and breathed deeply. The drone of the Cyclone engines began to lull him. He felt a lightness, a certain drift. The smell of fresh bread grew more distinct. He saw himself in the distance descend the stone steps and start down the narrow cobble-stoned street. His stride was long and determined. It stopped before the bakery. He turned and continued on past the line of lead-paned shop windows. He stopped again by the green copper Goethe statue in the small square. Organ music came from within the single-spired medieval church opposite. He gazed at the columned building to its right, bolstered his courage and started across.

  “Are you all right?” Spangler heard the voice call urgently. “Do you hear me. Are you all right?” He felt the hand on his leg. He blinked down. Hilka was kneeling before him.

  “What’s the matter, luv?”

  “You were shouting,” she replied in relief. “You must have been having a nightmare.”

  “Don’t have nightmares.”

  “But look at yourself. You’re soaked through with perspiration.”

  “Always work up a good sweat sleeping.”

  “You were shouting.”

  “Shouting what?”

  “Something about Forst. Is that the city Forst?”

  Spangler inadvertently touched his face. The skin was cold and moist. “Go roll your bandages somewhere else,” he snapped.

  “Excuse me?”

  “Get away. Scram. Stop bothering me.”

  Hilka rose and backed off in confusion. She started to turn, but hesitated. “Your accent?”

  “Now what?”

  “Your accent has changed. When we talked before you had an English accent.”

  “I guess that makes us a matched pair of Sunday liars, eh?”

  “Liars? I don’t understand.”

  “How long are you supposed to have been in a concentration camp?”

  “Almost … three years.”

  “Three years at Oranienburg?”

  “I was at Belsen and Mauthausen before.”

  “Come here.”

  Hilka came closer.

  “Take off your clothes,” Spangler ordered.

  She didn’t move.

  “Take them off.”

  “Why should I?”

  Spangler reached up and tore away the front of her dress. Her naked breasts jutted high and firm. She covered herself and spun away.

  “Baby,” Spangler said indifferently, “women who’ve been in camps only a month don’t hesitate when they’re ordered to take off their clothes. Women who’ve been in camps for almost three years don’t have any breasts left. They’re all dried up inside and out. And, lady, they don’t cry, they never never cry—there just aren’t any tears left.”

  “I can explain—”

  “Explain to someone who gives a damn. I’m finished with all of you. I’m out of it. I’m stepping away for good. So just sit down and keep quiet—and stop your goddam staring.”

  14

  Jean-Claude pulled his knees tight to his chest and wedged himself into a sitting position between the twin chimneys on the roof. The bricks radiated a slight amount of heat. He pulled tight the lapels of his stolen Luftwaffe overcoat in a vain attempt to keep out the early-morning snow.

  Six, he reminded himself, breathing on his ungloved fingers. I mustn’t forget. There should be six. Six.

  He waited less than an hour. The rumbling came from the north. This was good. Spangler had said they would come from the north. If they came within a day it probably wasn’t a decoy. If they came within a day and there were six men, not five or seven, then the transfer was in effect. Spangler had told him the quicker they moved, the more reliable the indications. If the Germans took their time, then watch out for a trick. A trick would take time to plan.

  Jean-Claude inched up and along the roof crest until he could look directly across into the yard of the ancient prison. Two SS motorcycles preceded the windowless Gestapo van up the narrow, snow-choked street. Three more motorcycles followed. The iron gates opened, and the convoy turned in. The van swung around and started backing toward the prison building. Jean-Claude focused his binoculars as the canvas was unfastened and the rear of the truck unlocked. Two shadowy forms were pulled down and shoved into the prison. Jean-Claude counted under his breath as the third and fourth appeared. Then the fifth. He strained at the eyepieces. The sixth finally emerged and disappeared inside. Six shadowy forms. Six faceless men.

  Jean-Claude started down the roof and suddenly stopped. Should he wait? If this was only a transfer point the trucks might stop just long enough to refuel. They might leave again shortly. The prisoners would be coming out of the building then; they would be coming out in his direction; he might be able to see their faces: he might be able to discover if the Orator was among them. But the message from Spangler had been specific: Count the prisoners. That was the most important thing. Identification was secondary to the count. If there were six, get word through to the north. There were only two routes the Germans could follow from here. Let the north find out who was in the shipment.

  But what if it really was a decoy? Jean-Claude asked himself. Why not wait a little longer and see if this is a decoy or the real thing? The men up north were American agents. Does Spangler trust American agents? They were new, were they not? What if they bungled it?

  Jean-Claude moved back between the twin chimneys. Yes, he had better wait a little longer. Not till daylight, but just a little longer. After all, what else did he have to do?

  The SS emerged within the hour, formed a large ring in the courtyard and held their machine pistols at hip level. Jean-Claude raised his field glasses over the roofcrest and followed the first prisoner out the door and into the center of the circle. An order was shouted. The prisoner, hugging his arms to his body, began running in place in the ankle-high snow. On command he executed four awkward knee bends and a far from successful push-up. Another order was called out. The prisoner scrambled into the rear of the van.

  Jean-Claude swung the glasses back to the doorway and watched the second prisoner go through the same procedure as the first.

  The third prisoner was somewhat more defiant. He stepped from the building and hesitated. The order was repeated. The man raised his head and stared up into the snowfall without moving forward. Jean-Claude strained at his binoculars, etching into memory every detail of the wide nose and the dense eyebrows. The hair seemed silver-blue and was cut close to the square skull. The man’s complexion was sallow, his jaw tight and obdurate. It was the eyes that differed from one of the six photographs Jean-Claude had taped to his wrist. They were hardly eyes at all, mere dark depressions above the flat cheeks. Perhaps the insufficient light caused the effect, but Jean-Claude had no doubts—he had found the Orator.

  A third command was shouted. Still the Orator did not move. He was truncheoned to his knees and dragged into the van.

&nbs
p; Jean-Claude bicycled for more than an hour before reaching the convent grounds. The greenhouse was a shambles. Table after table of seedlings had been overturned. The floorboards had been torn up. Smashed radio equipment was scattered among the debris. Guenther was nowhere to be found.

  Jean-Claude rushed up the ice-covered path, circled the main buildings, cut through the orchard and started for the chapel. He heard the chanting of morning Mass and ducked behind a row of snow-laden bushes. The final blessing was given. The doors opened and the long line of nuns trailed silently out. Jean-Claude crouched lower to give the column time to pass. He peeked up. Sister Brendon was standing above him.

  “Get away from here,” she said gently.

  “But Guenther—”

  “They have taken Guenther. They have taken the Mother Superior and ten of the sisters. Now go.”

  “You have to get word through to—”

  “We don’t know anyone, don’t you understand? We don’t know you or your friends or anybody. They have taken the Mother—and ten of the sisters. The soldiers will be coming back for more of us. We have done all we can. So go, go. I’m sorry, but go.”

  15

  Teams of soldiers began extinguishing the blue-flamed fog torches lining the landing strip cut in the forest. Spangler settled uneasily into the back seat of the Lincoln. His teeth began to chatter as the car moved forward. He clamped them shut and glanced out the rear window. Hilka was descending from the Beechcraft. A second limousine and a contingent of guards waited for her.

  Spangler’s car swerved onto a forest road.

  “Where the hell are we?”

  “Hunting preserve, sir,” answered the white-helmeted driver.

  “Hunting preserve where?”

  “Westerly, sir.”

  “What the Christ is Westerly?”

  A glass shield rose out of the top of the front seat and sealed shut in the roof bracket. Spangler leaned forward and pounded against the thick pane. The driver ignored him. Spangler tried the rear doors. They were locked from the outside.

  The first traces of a headache began throbbing at his temples. A slight spasm in his left shoulder was followed by a dull, lingering pain. Spangler clutched his arms tight to his chest and stared out the window. He would see nothing but forest and haze for the next half hour.