Authors: James Thayer
"So'll I. I'm in a hurry. Those blokes didn't let me off my other duties tonight. They just added this one. Let's get the coffins on the ramp first, and we'll load the one on the roller last." Crown lowered his voice and added, "That way, maybe we can get the good-looking nurse to hang around here long enough to get her name. She seems attached to that coffin. Must have been one of her patients."
The nurse's devotion to the casket was touching. She insisted that Atley and the truck driver move the coffin with unusual care, and she walked beside it as Atley pushed and Crown guided the box into the truck and lowered it from the roller to the truck bed. As Atley secured the truck's canvas flap, Heather touched his arm and said, "Thank you. You don't know how much he means to me."
Probably not. Rudolf Hess awoke sitting comfortably in a flight seat on the Fortress. He had no recollection of the coffin.
A blue light on the cabin roof fluttered, returning Crown's thoughts to the Fortress. Waist gunner Jimmy Toland buckled himself into the gunner's seat with practiced hands. Toland now concentrated on Heather McMillan rather than Crown. Rudolf Hess roused himself from his stupor and helped Heather into the safety harness. She smiled her thanks. Josef Ludendorf's straps were so tight, he appeared to be strangling.
Iron Mike
banked to port and shuddered as the landing
gear locked into place. The pale light in the fuselage cabin dimmed and flickered out. A distant electric engine whirred as the flaps lowered. The engines cut back, and the bomber was ominously silent. Josef Ludendorf's hands jumped spastically as the plane touched down at Chicago's Midway Airport.
V
I
RON
M
IKE'S
BELLY HATCH SWUNG OPEN,
and John Crown dropped to the concrete. He stood in a low crouch and squinted against the sleet sweeping across the runway. A British commando came through next, quickly turned a full circle, and trotted to his post near the starboard wing. Another trooper followed and ran to his position under the nose of the bomber. Both moved with practiced efficiency despite the Thompson submachine guns under their overcoats.
At Crown's hand signal, three automobiles, parked fifty yards off the port wing, slowly approached the bomber in procession. Although it was dark, their headlights were off, and after hours of thunder from the bomber engines, the cars seemed eerily silent. Heather's admirer limped to Crown's side. He carried a submachine gun under the folds of an overcoat draped over his arm, and he pointed it at the chauffeur of the first car, a dark green Chevrolet. The trooper grinned evilly and looked for an excuse to blow out
the windshield. The driver, peering through the jerking wipers, saw the weapon but did not slow. Halfway to the bomber, he signaled for a right turn. The commando reluctantly lowered his gun.
The remaining passengers were helped through the hatch by a commando who took a little too long assisting Heather. Ludendorf, drained from the ordeal of the landing, shakily two-handed himself to the ground. He mouthed a silent prayer of thanks. Hess slipped through the hatch and landed with surefooted grace. The remaining British trooper followed.
Hess began to whine as the convoy rolled away from the bomber. "
Mein Gott
," he whimpered, "
es ist kalt
." He repeated the complaint several times, to no one, then switched to accented English. His face completely lacked animation. His thick black hair was disheveled, and heavy stubble darkened his receding chin. His eyes were dulled by the clouded, distant look of paranoia. Heather tried to draw him into a conversation, but Hess ignored her and rambled on about the cold. Crown asked himself how this shell could have been one of the most powerful men in Germany.
The convoy rolled through the early-evening sleet on Fifty-ninth Street toward Hyde Park, due east of Midway Airport. They passed block after block of small blue-collar homes with well-groomed yards. Small trees planted along the parking strips approached their first winter, and their leaves blew through the convoy.
"I hope my assistant was helpful setting up the house," Ludendorf said quietly.
"Kohler was very helpful. We did a lot of work in a short time."
"Kohler is a good man," Ludendorf continued. "He's the strong man of our team."
They used the ancient interrogation technique called
strong-man/weak-man or good-guy/bad-guy. One interrogator, Ludendorf, is sympathetic and understanding. The other, Kohler, paces back and forth in front of the subject, gesturing wildly, threatening, swearing. Occasionally the good guy tells the bad guy to calm down and take a break. He offers the subject cigarettes and coffee. Soon the subject looks to the weak man for relief from the abusive onslaught. The subject continues to resist pressure from the strong man but begins to confide in the weak one, who tactfully asks the same questions. The strong-weak team is the most effective method of soft interrogation extant.
"Kohler and I go a long way back, Crown. He was a student at the University of Munich. One of my pupils. He was editor of the student newspaper in 1933, while I was chairman of the overseeing board. He received the same threats I did. Even harsher threats, because he was not a faculty member. In the early years, the Nazis found it easy to bully students, you know. I tried to help him while I was there, but things got bad for him after I fled. He was severely beaten twice. After the second beating, he contacted me in London, and I sent him a little money to escape. He was my research assistant for a while, and then I began using him at the EDC."
"Where's his family?" Crown asked, having already read Kohler's file. One of the Priest's maxims was never turn off free information, even if it seemed duplicative.
"His mother passed away years ago. And his father is still in Munich. He's got a good job there and apparently does not open his mouth against the Nazis, which Kohler resents. His father thinks Peter is a traitor. He has not heard from his father in years."
"Is Kohler a full-time interrogator now?" Crown asked, looking over his shoulder at Hess, who was still whimpering about the weather. Flecks of spittle had collected at the
corners of his mouth. The commando on Hess's right was scowling with disgust. Heather jotted down Hess's complaints.
"Oh, yes, when there is someone who needs questioning. Other times, he does what most people think the EDC actually does, poring over German magazines and newspapers, gleaning facts about German society, government, and so forth. We have an impressive file, you know, and can easily justify our existence to any nosy member of Parliament."
The convoy entered Jackson Park and wound its way around the grass playfields and ponds. The park was Hyde Park's immense baby-sitter. It could accommodate a dozen baseball games and hundreds of swimmers, joggers, squirrel feeders, and courters. After nightfall it also accommodated roaming bands of hoodlums.
Crown leaned closer to Ludendorf and asked, "How often is Hess like this?"
"Well, most of the time he just sits and stares. And sometimes, like now, he whines for hours about almost anything, the food, his bed, or the company, meaning me." Ludendorf smiled depreciatingly. "Other times, he is ingratiatingly polite, complimenting me on my tie, my coat, my ancestors, anything. And once in a while he will pompously lecture about the Fatherland and how it is the seedbed of Western civilization. He talks about the purity of the Aryan race and the insidious effect the Jews are having on his pure German stock. You do not know how hard it is for me to sit through that stinking pap."
"I've only heard him a few minutes, and I'm already getting the idea," Crown answered. "I don't care what the psychiatrists say, our friend Hess is crazy."
The convoy turned north on Kimbark and continued past a few scurrying students with heads bent against the wind. College students differ from campus to campus, Crown thought. He had graduated from the University of Oregon
in 1930. It was a fine academic institution, but an enterprising student could drown the academic flavor with football, beer, coeds, and sultry Oregon spring evenings. It wasn't done here. The University of Chicago undergrads Crown had seen in his days in Hyde Park were invariably intense, with brows furled in concentration even as they walked. Most looked at the sidewalk a few feet ahead of them, perhaps afraid the beauty of the Quad would disrupt their problem-solving. Their arms were always full of books on abstruse subjects reserved by other colleges for graduate students. A few had furtively glanced at Crown as they passed in the Quad, instinctively knowing he was an outsider and would never understand academic pressure and zeal. Crown had never seen so many pimples in his life.
The convoy slowed in front of a nondescript brick house on Kimbark near Fifty-sixth Street. That is, nondescript to an untrained observer. The home was heavily, though discreetly, fortified. Like Smithson's house a block away, an iron-spike fence surrounded the small yard. The spikes were made of one-half-by-two-inch iron bars set only four inches apart, thereby making it impossible to look into the yard from anywhere but directly in front of the house.
Crown emerged from the Ford and walked to the gate. After several seconds, he located the hair-width strand of wire that completely circled the house on the fence. If it were depressed or broken by an intruder climbing over the fence, an alarm would sound in the house. Crown looked up to the dormer and casually touched his nose. A dull red light flickered behind the gauze window shade. Crown's hand brushed his chin, and he heard the faint click of the gate lock being electronically thrown open.
Smithson's gardener had done an expert job disguising the second warning signal. A strip of turf crossing the front yard and circling the house had been lifted from the lawn just long enough to place a pressure-sensitive mat under it.
The turf was replaced and the yard watered heavily. Only a few strands of dying grass indicated the lawn had been tampered with. Even the weight of a small dog on the strip of grass would toll bells in the house.
The draperies of the large picture window facing the porch were drawn, and a subdued light shone through the fabric. The light was a ruse. Three feet behind the window, a bulkhead made of three-inch walnut planks had been constructed from the living-room floor to the ceiling. A guard was permanently stationed between the bulkhead and the window, where he could see the yard easily through the deceptively transparent draperies. The light bulb that gave the home a lived-in appearance was in a small box to prevent light from dulling the guard's vision. A bullet might make it through the fence, the window, and the guard, but it would not penetrate the plank wall.
Crown felt under the mailbox near the front door and found two buttons. He pressed the first button three times and the second button twice. The front door clicked and Crown stepped inside.
"Nothing rhymes with orange." He said the code words, feeling ridiculous. But he had shot a man once because the code was not forthcoming, and Crown knew the bulkhead guard holding the .45 pistol had been given similar instructions.
"Nor with purple," came the reply. The agent put the weapon back on the windowsill and resumed his watch.
Crown signaled the convoy. A commando emerged and held the door for Heather and Hess. Another soldier stood near the car door and scanned the windows of houses across the street. Two escorted them quickly through the gate and to the porch.
The commandos amused Crown. They had been ordered to act like civilians doing everyday business. But they looked just like what they were—dangerous, trained men
on an important assignment, keyed up, ready to explode, fingers taut on triggers. God save a plumber from walking out of a nearby house carrying a length of pipe. He wouldn't make it through the front door.
Crown closed the door behind the group and turned to face Peter Kohler.
"Welcome to our house." Kohler smiled, his English lightly accented with his German upbringing.
"Glad to be here," Crown replied, shaking Kohler's large hand. He was a wide-shouldered man in his late twenties. Kohler wore a short-sleeved flannel work shirt, and the cords of muscle were visible on his hairless arm. Crown guessed the German's neck size at eighteen inches. Kohler had receding, wispy blond hair and a nose that had been broken and badly reset. His smile was marred by a chipped front tooth. Crown knew his gentle handshake belied the power of the man. "Looks like a good job preparing the house while I was gone."
"Actually, I only did the legwork," Kohler demurred. "Everette Smithson was very helpful. He could secure a soccer field if he had to. Professor," Kohler said as he held out both hands to Ludendorf, "good to see you. You look like the trip was terrible."
"It was. It was. I haven't taken a full breath since we left Croydon Airport hours and hours ago."
They laughed together, and Kohler took the professor's briefcase. Then Kohler stopped short.
"Ah, Deputy Führer Hess, welcome to America. I understand this is your first visit here." Kohler's voice took on a hard edge as he slipped into the strong-man routine. Hess stared wide-eyed at Kohler, and the edges of his mouth turned down in fear. He locked his lips and said nothing.
"Come, come, Peter," said Ludendorf, "we can talk to Rudolf later. He needs a good meal and some sleep first."
"Let's not waste time with this—"
"Peter," Ludendorf interjected harshly, "we'll do as I say."
"
Ja, Professor
," responded Kohler, sounding suitably reprimanded. The little act was impressive and professional.
Crown introduced Heather McMillan, and Kohler said he was charmed as only a European can say he is charmed. Heather said she was glad to know him, and it bothered Crown. And that disturbed him further.
"We've done some work on the interior of the house, too, John. Why don't I show the three of you around? Hess can wait in the office," Kohler said as he pointed to a door to the rear of the living room. A commando gently took Hess's arm.
Kohler led them up the stairs to the second-floor hallway. A heavyset man sat on a three-leg stool, and his posterior hung over the edges. He turned, nodded a greeting, and resumed surveying the yard and street. A scoped .30-06 rifle lay in a case at his feet near a telephone. A flashlight with transparent red foil taped over its lens lay on the windowsill.