Order of Battle (23 page)

Klein looked up in half-serious alarm.

“Thanks a heap! I guess I’d better post a double guard tonight. Never was much for fiendish acts of murder and destruction.”

He had finished his job. He stood back to admire it.

“Well, that ought to do it.”

Erik checked his watch.

“I’ll have to get back to Weiden,” he said. “Pick up my partner. Get my jeep and a driver, will you?”

“I’ll drive you myself. Okay?”

“Can you leave here?”

“Sure. We’re almost done. I’ll put Simmons in charge. I want to contact Division anyway.”

“Okay. We’ll be back here in a couple of hours.”

“Right.”

Klein walked off.

Erik started for the farmhouse, when the sound of an approaching vehicle stopped him. A jeep, with only its blackout lights showing, came barreling into the courtyard and came to a screeching halt a few feet away. A major jumped smartly from the seat next to the driver and strode up to him.

“I’m Major Evans,” he announced. “Where do I find the CIC agent in charge?”

“Right here, Major. Name’s Larsen. Erik Larsen. Welcome to our little home away from home.”

“Thank you.”

The major looked Erik over.

Erik returned his attention. The first words that came to his mind were “overbearing” and “supercilious.” Somehow the man’s military police and rank insignia seemed oversized. Erik felt a twinge of disapproval. He cautioned himself. He had to work with this man. He’d stay away from snap judgments.

Evans had finished his inspection.

“Sorry I couldn’t get here sooner—uh—Larsen,” he said. “I had a couple of—uh—important matters to finish up before I could leave.”

Erik smiled. It’s possible his smile wouldn’t have won any prizes for cordiality, but he smiled.

“We’re glad you made it.”

“Major Roberts of Corps G-2 has already briefed me on this—uh—escapade of yours.”

Erik struggled not to react with too obvious antagonism to the man’s choice of words.

“Fine,” he managed. “Then you know what it’s all about.”

Evans looked painfully dubious.

“Ye-e-es.” He sighed the sigh of a martyr. “However, I don’t put much stock in the whole affair, I’m sorry to say . . .”

I bet you are, you overbearing SOB, Erik thought, his good intentions rapidly evaporating.

“. . . but Colonel Streeter wanted a—uh—competent officer on the spot,” Evans continued. “As an unbiased observer.”

“I know.”

Evans fished a pack of Luckies from his pocket.

“Smoke?”

“No, thanks.”

Evans lighted a cigarette.

“I might as well tell you now—uh—”

Evans looked in vain for Erik’s insignia of rank. He felt a sudden annoyance. It was a damned frustrating state of affairs that those CIC fellows were allowed to wear only officers’ insignia, with no rank showing. What the devil
was
this fellow’s rank? How the hell could he know how to treat him? It was enormously irritating.

“I don’t think these so-called Werewolves of yours exist,” he continued. “Their ridiculous radio nonsense notwithstanding.”

He took a deep puff on his cigarette. He blew out the smoke with obvious self-satisfaction. These CIC prima donnas needed to be taken down a peg or two.

‘The military police has never had any trouble of any kind with them,” he stated.

“I’m glad to hear that,” Erik said dryly. “You’re lucky.”

“Oh, we’ve had a few isolated incidents,” Evans admitted expansively. “Minor ones. But there’s no organized terrorist activity.”

“I see,” Erik said. He didn’t trust himself to get into a discussion with Evans. He’d keep it brief. Evans went on.

“Still, I suppose we’ll have to look into this yarn of yours, eh?” He coughed a dry laugh. “However remote the possibility may be of turning up anything concrete.”

“Tomorrow will tell.”

“So it will,” Evans agreed. He snipped the ember from his cigarette. Meticulously he broke the paper around the butt and scattered the remaining tobacco on the ground. Then he rolled up the paper into a small ball and flipped it away. “So it will. . . . What time are you planning to get your—uh—show on the road?”

“The infantry companies will be ready to move out at 0530 hours.”

“Very good.”

Evans drew himself up as if to dismiss Erik.

“Well, good night—uh—”

Again he pointedly searched for Erik’s rank insignia. His look of disapproval was obvious. Evans was irked. He could be talking to an enlisted man for all he knew! It was infuriating.

Sergeant Klein drove up in Erik’s jeep. Erik looked at Evans.

“Good night, Major,” he said. He turned on his heel and walked to his jeep.

Evans frowned after him. He was so aggravated he could taste it. He considered his situation intolerable—being forced to play nurse-maid to a couple of amateur cops and their harebrained machinations. And he was not in charge of the operation. He resented that. Deeply. Especially since he didn’t even know if the CIC agent outranked him! He strongly suspected he did not.

Evans—Harold J. Evans—was a former Chicago police sergeant. He’d been a good cop. Dependable. Incorruptible. But also opinonated and obstinate. Military life had not changed him.

He turned abruptly away and stalked toward his waiting jeep. . . .

The Schönsee-Weiden Road

2034 hrs

Krauss cautiously shifted his position. The dry leaves under his twisting body rustled softly.

He had selected the place with care. The woods came all the way down to the deep ditch running alongside the road; the underbrush was heavy. He estimated he was lying less than fifteen meters from the road itself. He knew he couldn’t be seen.

He shifted again. It was becoming increasingly difficult to remain comfortable for any length of time the longer he had to lie under the brush waiting. He’d give it another half hour. If nothing happened by then he’d have to start back to Weiden. It was a good six kilometers. They might have to make other plans. Heinz would have to decide. Or that officer from Krueger’s headquarters, who was supposed to join them with a couple of men.

The sound was hardly audible when he first noticed it. His breath became shallow as he strained to hear. The sound grew slowly louder. A vehicle. A single vehicle coming down the road from the direction of Schönsee. He pressed himself closer to the ground. It was pure instinct. He didn’t have to.

The vehicle was approaching rapidly.

He squinted at the road. The night was clear and light. He should have no difficulty seeing. He’d certainly been there long enough for his eyes to get accustomed to the diffused light. His eyes searched down the road. A distant pinpoint of light grew in size and gradually split into two. The vehicle was driving with only its blackout lights on.

Krauss kept his eyes fixed on the approaching vehicle. It was a jeep. One second he could make it out; the next it was hurtling past him and disappearing down the dark road. But there’d been time enough. Krauss felt vastly self-satisfied.

There’d been two men in the jeep. A sergeant, driving. Another man beside him. The American CIC agent. The one he’d already missed once. The target.

This was the road. This was where the Ami agents would be coming through. Both of them. He’d been right.

He pushed himself back from his vantage point. He stood up. Quickly he walked to his bicycle. He brushed the leaves concealing it aside and at once started to pedal along the darkened forest path that would take him to the outskirts of Weiden—and Heinz.

They’d have to act fast. . . .

Now.

Weiden

2047 hrs

It was close to nine o’clock when Erik and Sergeant Klein drove up before the jail in Weiden. Klein had his orders. They would all four start back for the Zollner farm at 2330 hours.

Erik entered the building. He went straight to his room. He would have two and a half hours to get some rest. He needed it. Now that it was possible to lie down he suddenly felt bone tired. He’d check with Don and flake out for a couple of hours. It might be his only chance in quite a while.

The door to the room bore the black-lettered legend
UNTERSUCHUNG
&
HAFT
—FRAUEN:
“
Search & Detention—Women.” Underneath Murphy had written in chalk: cic 212—
PRIVATE
.

Erik pushed the door open and walked in.

He was mildly surprised to find the lights on. His eyes darted to the windows. The blackout curtains were drawn. He started toward his bed. Every time he looked at it he wondered where Murphy had scrounged it. The big, ornate brass bedstead looked utterly incongruous in the bleak and bare police detention room. Don’s army cot in the opposite corner seemed to fit the situation a hell of a lot better. Still, the huge brass monster was comfortable, even if the rusty springs did creak and the old mattress was shamelessly lumpy.

He had a cozy, luxurious “at home” feeling. Crazy what you could get used to. Is there a more relative concept than comfort?

He was suddenly aware of splashing noises coming from the small alcove behind the dilapidated screen that hid the washstand with its cracked bowl and handleless pitcher.

“Hey, Don,” he called. “All set on your end?”

The splashing sounds stopped abruptly. There was no answer.

“Don?” Erik frowned. He walked toward the screen. “We’re taking off for the farm in a couple of hours. I want to grab some shut-eye. Shake it up, will you?” He pushed the screen aside.

He stared.

“Anneliese!”

The girl stood motionless. She watched him with wide, frightened eyes. She was clutching an OD towel in front of her in an attempt to hide her nakedness. Her dirndl blouse was hanging on a nail on the wall behind her.

Erik stared at her.

She was beautiful. Her blond hair was piled loosely on top of her head, the smooth skin on her neck was still wet where she had been washing herself. She looked wholly beautiful—and vulnerable. Her huge, apprehensive eyes never left him.

“Anneliese,” he said again. His voice was gentle.

The small tip of a nervous tongue darted between her lips.

“The sergeant,” she said, her voice unsteady with misgivings. “He said—he said you will both be gone tonight. He said I could stay here again. Until tomorrow. I am sorry.
Bitte,
I . . .”

Erik smiled at her.

“Take it easy. It’s okay,” he assured her. “We
are
going to be gone. In a short while. You can stay if you like.”

The girl relaxed a little. A soft smile crept into her eyes and tugged at her lips.

“Thank you,” she whispered.

She looked down at herself. She was obviously conscious of having only the towel in front of her. Holding it in place with one hand, she reached back for her blouse.

“Please?” She looked at Erik.

He smiled. He turned to leave, when suddenly the towel slipped a little from the girl’s shoulder. An angry bruise marred the velvet-golden skin. Erik frowned at it.

“What happened to you?” he asked.

Anneliese stopped her move. She tensed.

“It’s—it’s only a bruise.”

“Looks like quite a wallop to me.” He looked closer at the abrasion. “The skin’s broken. You’d better be careful of infection.”

The girl looked up at him.

“I will be all right.”

“Wait a minute. We’ll fix it.”

Erik opened a pouch on his belt and took out a small first aid kit.

“How’d it happen?”

“I—I fell.”

He removed the packet of sulfa powder from the kit.

“You should watch your step. You—”

He suddenly stopped. Quickly he looked up at the girl before him. He found her eyes.

“It was this evening,” he said quietly. “Out there. Wasn’t it?”

She nodded.

He broke open the packet. Gently he began to sprinkle the powder on the bruise on Anneliese’s shoulder. She stood quite still, as if afraid to move, watching him.

“Sulfa powder,” he explained. “That’ll take care of it.”

He was suddenly conscious of the blood pounding in his ears. He felt the gradual swelling of desire, of tenderness, of need course through him.

Anneliese.

Somehow the fine yellow powder softly dusting her golden-brown skin was immensely intimate. He let the rising flood of irresistible excitement wash over him.

He looked into her face. Her lovely, serious, questioning face . . .

And she was in his arms. A sudden, savage embrace. Defiant. A crushing, hungry kiss . . .

The towel slipped away. Erik’s urgent hands searched for and found the girl’s thrusting breasts. He cupped them, he caressed them with aching longing. He coupled his mouth to one swelling nipple and drew as much of the soft, warm firmness to him as he could. His tongue played on the distending nipple. He bit down, with just enough force to make the girl moan with pleasure.

He picked her up. He carried her to the big, ugly brass bed. He had no idea how his clothing was removed.

He stared at her young, naked body. He knew he had never seen anything more perfect, more desirable, in his whole life. Nor would he ever again . . .

His eyes went down to the entrancing cusp of fine blond hair at the apex of her slender legs.

He buried his face in the downy fragrance of woman passion. . . .

He felt both completely serene and violently excited.

He moved to her. Close. Close. Never close enough . . .

Every sense he possessed was filled with her. The scent of her excitement and desire, enveloping them both in an aura of fiery sexuality, filled his nostrils; the tiny mewing moans escaping her excited him to bursting; the salty-sweet taste of her firm young breasts thrilled him; every inch of his aroused body seemed aflame with the touch of her silken-warm skin; his eyes drank in the unbearable beauty of her lovely face, moist, parted lips, eyes closed in rapture, head thrown back in eager anticipation of fulfillment, spilling blond hair in abandoned disarray. . . . Beautiful. Beautiful. Beautiful . . .