Stealing Trinity (4 page)

The rest, a contingent of battle-hardened veterans, were quick to their Kalashnikovs and sure of aim. The Hispano-Suiza made no more than ten meters before its two left tires were shot out. The car skidded abruptly into a ditch, but the soldiers took no chances -- they'd all made it this far, and with one of their brethren already lying in a pool of blood, they kept at it. Their weapons blazed until nearly spent of ammunition.

The soldiers approached the smoldering mess carefully, and one of the men pulled out his last grenade, icing for a ghastly cake. He was about to lob it through what had been a window when the authoritative voice of his lieutenant called clearly.

"Wait!"

It was a word that Colonel Hans Gruber, wounded and writhing in the wreckage, would later wish he had never heard.

Chapter 4.

U-801 cut a rough line through the North Atlantic, choppy ten-foot seas washing across her dull black deck. Alexander Braun stood atop the sail -- the boat's hardened oval watchtower -- straining to see through the blackness that was amplified by a thin overcast above. The wind was out of the west, perhaps ten knots, but added to the fifteen-knot headway of the boat, and a temperature in the forties, it made for a brisk experience.

Two other men were also stationed atop the sail, the assigned lookouts, one to port and one to starboard. They'd started their shift thirty minutes ago, but neither had yet found a word for Braun. He wasn't surprised. It was part of the reason he was up here to begin with -- to escape the crew, who were not enamored with the stranger who wore civilian clothes. Nine days ago they had plucked Braun out of a raft just off the Baltic coast, an orphan rescued from a war that was going badly in every quarter. From there, U-801 had followed the balance of her orders and churned west.

She was a Type IX, a long-range variant, and each day her course remained steady, the longitude increasing. Aside from the boat's captain, no one knew the precise destination, but it mattered little. Everyone understood that they were getting dangerously close to the well-guarded shores of America -- carrying no torpedoes, little food, and perhaps not enough fuel to make the return leg. The risks were enormous, and with the war nearing its end, the hardened crew of U-801 wanted only to go home.

Footsteps clanged up the metal ladder from the control room below, and Braun turned to see the captain appear. He was a young man, only thirty Braun had discovered, though the war and weather had given him ten years more. He sported a scraggly beard, as did most of the crew, and his teeth were a sailors, yellow and rotted from years of rough coffee and neglect. He sauntered ahead against the breeze and took up a post next to Braun at the forward rail.

"So, Wermacht, we are nearly there."

Braun had never volunteered a name, and the captain had never asked -- probably guessing he'd not get the truth. He simply addressed Braun as "Wehrmacht," an unclassifiable specimen of the German war machine. And it always came in a pointedly derisive cadence.

"One more day beneath the surface," the captain continued, "and we will be rid of you."

Braun responded, "And I will be rid of you."

The captain grinned. "The seas, they have improved. Better than the first night."

The man was goading him. During daylight hours, the boat was forced to run submerged, to avoid being spotted by ships or patrol planes. But at night she surfaced to vent and charge the batteries, and also because, there, her speed was eight knots better. On the first night of the voyage a weather front had moved in, rocking the boat mercilessly. Braun, having not been to sea in years, had retired to his tiny room, and the crew clearly found amusement in his mal de mer. The next day Braun had recovered, and it had not been an issue since, but the captain still prodded.

"Have you taken any messages tonight?" Braun asked.

The captains humor faded. "No. Our request for refueling on the return leg -- it has not been answered. This is very unusual."

A rogue wave slapped audibly against the boat, and both men ducked their heads as salt spray flew over the rail.

"I expected them to deny it. But not even a reply."

"Are you sure the radios are working properly?" Braun asked. He knew the boat was tired. Her hull was pockmarked with dents, as if the ship s provisions were regularly dropped aboard from a great height. And the crew seemed to spend most of their time on repairs, often makeshift jerry-rigs to skirt around the shortage of spare parts. Every time they surfaced, a bucket-line detail emptied out the bilge. The engine fuel was being filtered through old underwear.

"Our radios are fine. We are just beginning to capture the broken signal of a Canadian radio station. No, it is not our gear."

"The end -- it can only be a matter of days now," Braun said pensively.

"Yes. Which leads me to the question -- should we continue?"

Braun himself had given the question much thought. He was to be dropped in a raft three miles off the coast of Long Island, with clothes, identity documents, and ten thousand American dollars that would allow him to immediately blend in. If the war should end before they arrived -- or if it had already ended -- what were his options? U-801 would return to Germany for surrender. The crew would be vetted, and some would undoubtedly point their fingers at the man who claimed to be a military officer, but was certainly a spy. The Allies would be most interested, and jail time was possible. Of course, if it was the Russians doing the questioning, there would be nothing beyond a single bullet in Braun's future. Returning to surrender was not in his best interest.

"My mission is of vital importance," Braun insisted. "Your commander made this quite clear, did he not?"

The captain laughed. "Of course. But then, my commander is an idiot who has not been to sea since the last war."

Braun cursed inwardly at his error. Here was a man who had survived by thinking independently, making it through four years in a combat theater where 70 percent casualties was the grim fact.

He would not be cowed by threats from superiors when there were far more immediate dangers in the skies and waters all around.

Braun smiled. "You have not seen an idiot until you've met my own commander. Now there is a bastard. But all the same, I must get to America."

"For our Fuhrer?"

"No, Herr Kapitanleutnant. For our country."

Chapter 5.

Major Michael Thatcher pedaled his bicycle briskly at the shoulder of the Surrey road, the morning chill offering its usual incentive. His small, wiry frame gave minimal aerodynamic resistance, and he kept his head down to maximize the effect. The trip from his cottage to Handley Down was a matter of eighteen or nineteen minutes depending on the wind and, to a lesser extent, the condition of the road, which had a nasty tendency to deteriorate under heavy rain. Thatcher himself was not a variable.

His legs churned in steady time, notwithstanding the uneven gait -- his left leg, artificial from the knee down, had never mastered the upstroke. Thatcher spotted Handley Down right on time as he rounded the last bend. Typical of the English country manors of its era, it was shameless and unrestrained, an overbearing statement of class and station. Huge fortress walls stood guard on all sides, protecting the forty-odd rooms that lay within. The place had been requisitioned for the cause in 1940 and, approaching the gated entrance, Thatcher tried to imagine what it might look like in another year's time. Minus the drab olive jeeps and sodden sandbags, it would revert to its proper owner, Lord somebody-or-other, and the offices and holding cells would be smartly reshaped back into dens, libraries, and servants quarters. The crater near the stables had a number of possible uses, but would likely be filled in and smoothed over out of respect for the crew of the B-17 that had smacked straight in last August. Only then could the gentry return and the parties begin.

Thatcher slowed as he approached the perimeter gate. Six months ago he would have endured a stern challenge from the guards, but now, with things winding down in Europe, the mood had lightened considerably.

"Mornin', Major," a corporal called out as Thatcher approached, his lazy salute an apparent afterthought.

Thatcher braked to a full stop and balanced the bike by his good leg. His return salute was crisp. "Good Morning, Thompson." He looked into the tiny shack that served as shelter for the guards. It was empty. "Where is your second?"

"Ah . . . well that would be Simpson, sir. He's gone for our morning tea."

"Corporal, this post is assigned in pairs. It is a dereliction of your responsibilities to --"

Thompson interrupted, "Here he comes now, Major."

A chunky enlisted man waddled up the path from the main house, a battered teapot in his hand and a stupid grin on his face. Thatcher frowned and issued a firm warning, "We're not done yet lads, do you hear?" He pushed off and covered the last hundred yards to the house, knowing the two guards were probably enjoying a laugh at his expense.

He leaned his bicycle against a young beech tree and secured it with a chain and lock -- the law was clear on securing all forms of transportation, and no caveat was made to exempt military installations. Thatcher entered Handley Down through its grand main entrance. Two massive oak doors, no less than twelve feet high, stood guard at the columned portico. On the wall next to these stalwarts was a poorly stenciled sign that read: combined services detailed interrogation centre.

Thatcher heaved his way through the doors and into a voluminous lobby that swallowed all comers. Large enough for a small-sided football match, it was another study in contrasts. The Italian marble floors were scuffed and encrusted with streaks of mud. A fine table held a lovely bouquet of roses, the vase a dented metal canteen. The walls were adorned with decorative columns and fine paintings that depicted past lords and ladies of the house, yet accenting this was a drab collection of army posters encouraging everyone to keep their lips sealed and buy bonds to support the war effort.

Thatcher strode to the familiar hallway, no attempt made to mask his limp. There had always been an unevenness about him, even before the air crash. His brown hair was typically askew, his nose had been broken more than once in a series of childhood skirmishes, and one leg had always been somewhat longer. The injuries he'd picked up from the ditching of a Lancaster bomber had actually leveled things on that count, though standing straight he was now often told that one shoulder drooped. None of it bothered him.

Thatcher paused to study a large cork bulletin board at the hallway entrance. Only months ago it had been strictly business -- security directives, status reports, and detail assignments. Now the thing was dominated by situations wanted, job postings, and get-rich schemes. Everyone was moving on, it seemed, ready to put the war behind.

He navigated to his own wing and turned into the office labeled: colonel roger ainsley. Inside was a neat, orderly place. In better times it had served as the library. The walls were lined from floorboard to ceiling with books, rich and scholarly volumes that held no relevance whatsoever to the business at hand. The place held a harsh odor, a hundred years of cigars, brandy, and varnish mixing defiantly.

"Roger, we must do something about the security situation!"

Roger Ainsley looked up from his desk. He was a large man of indeterminate shape, a few extra pounds softening all his edges. His hair was prematurely white and thin, and a set of metal-framed reading glasses completed the grandfatherly appearance. In spite of a two-grade advantage in rank, he allowed Thatcher the familiarity of first names.

"Good morning, Michael. And yes, I know. We had this discussion last week."

"Lax, I tell you! I saw the breach in the fence as I was riding in. It's been over two weeks since that car skidded through and nothing's been done."

"I'll see to it, Michael. Coffee?" The colonel pointed to a pot on his desk. "You should have come last night. The rugby squad were spot-on in their debut. Quartermaster Harewood had a memorable try, although it was at the expense of three teeth and a fractured mandible."

Thatcher ignored the match report. He was in full mood. "This impending victory in Europe is having a positively corrosive influence on standards here. Our battle is not over! We're holding nine high-ranking Nazis, and it's imperative we get every useful scrap out of them. If any should manage to escape--"

"Eleven," Ainsley interrupted.

"What?"

"Eleven. Two more came in last night."

"Who are they?"

Ainsley shrugged. "That's always the question, isn't it? They were captured two days ago trying to leave Berlin. One had information regarding a freighter that was scheduled to sail from Rome to Cartagena, Colombia. Rather ambitious, if you ask me."

"Have we talked to them yet?"

"Phelps took one -- he got name, rank, and a sworn statement that the other man worked for Gruber in SD headquarters."

"You're joking!" Everyone here knew that Colonel Hans Gruber was a senior officer in the Operations Directorate of the SD.

"This fellow is apparently only a corporal, mind you, but if it's true--"

"Can I have a crack?"

"I thought I'd give him to you."

"Capital," Thatcher said. "It's been two weeks since we've had any fresh blood. I'll see him straightaway. And I'd better take that coffee. You know how the new ones are -- if they're of a mind to talk we could be at it all day. And he might have something I can follow up on." Thatcher was an interrogator, but he had also become the unit's bloodhound -- when questioning divulged the whereabouts of important war criminals, Thatcher was sent to track them down. It had happened four times so far this year, and he'd found them all, although one was already in a pine box. "Have him brought to room three. And get Baker to stand watch, the big lad. That always intimidates--"

"Michael--" Ainsley interrupted, his voice thick in exasperation.

Thatcher lost his thought, seeing concern on his commander's face. Ainsley got up, went to the heavy oak doors, and eased them shut. Thatcher wondered what this was all about.