The Red Eagles (9 page)

“We go, then?”

“As your superior officer, I strongly advise it. Let’s indulge our spirit of adventure. It’s been so dull in the East.”

Paul winced.

Three days later the two men stood on the conning tower of U-107 as it eased its way out of La Pallice docks past groups of sullen-looking Frenchmen. The crew, which seemed extraordinarily young to the two soldiers, had just been told that this was not to be a fighting voyage and were trying not to express their relief too openly.

The young Bavarian captain had made less effort to hide his feelings. “Welcome to the longest taxi ride in history,” he had greeted them. Paul promised him a good tip if they made good time.

Amy walked slowly across Battery Park, savoring the touch of the cool breeze blowing in from New York Harbour. She was early for the meeting, and the grass was still covered with office workers taking in the last minutes of sunshine from their lunch hour. At the café near the ferry dock she bought an iced tea and sat down in the shade at one of the outside tables. Across the bay she could see two ferries crossing. Behind them a troopship was moving out toward the Narrows and on to Europe.

When the clock showed five mintues to two she made her way across to the terminal, bought a ticket, and joined the crowd by the embarkation doors. Looking around, she could see neither Doesburg nor the young man from the Soviet Consulate.

Doesburg, arriving a few minutes later, recognized the dark-haired slim figure near the front of the line. He mopped his brow with an already soaked handkerchief, wondering if the heat was solely responsible for the sweat. He hadn’t fully recovered from Kroeger’s dramatic appearance the previous Friday night, and the cavalier disregard of security on Berlin’s part that it implied. It might have been necessary, but he still found it hard to live with the knowledge that there was someone in America who could telephone the FBI and give away his address. But there was the money. Even $6,000 would go a long way.

The doors clanged open and the crowd surged onto the
ferry. He found Amy in the usual place on the western deck, and for several minutes they stood side by side, staring at the New Jersey skyline and saying nothing. Then they went through the prescribed routine, exchanging pleasantries about the weather, her sitting down, then him, for all the world like a pair of strangers passing the time on a voyage that both found boring. Doesburg carefully placed his folded newspaper between them on the wooden seat.

“It’s on,” he said without changing his tone of voice. He wished she’d take her sunglasses off; he found her vaguely unnerving at the best of times, and with her eyes concealed the effect was multiplied.

Amy, her pulse racing, smiled sweetly at him. “When?” she asked, indicating with the slightest nod of her head that someone was approaching them.

“On August the fourth,” Doesburg said, beaming at her. “Our relations will arrive late on the second, so they’ll have two days sight-seeing before, and then they’ll go back the next day. It’s a long trip.”

When they were alone again Amy asked, “Am I handling the operation from this end?” This was the big question, the one on which everything depended. If Berlin or Doesburg had dealt her out of the plan, then she’d have to use her only weapon – her access to Matson. She could try and cover the threat with patriotic zeal, but it would still be a threat, and she didn’t think Doesburg would take it kindly. He wasn’t the sort of man who’d like being dictated to by a woman.

“Not alone,” he said, slightly raising his hand to avert her protest. “Berlin insists that a man be in charge, but you will be his girl Friday. The two of you will be busy enough.”

“When do we meet?”

“I was about to tell you,” he said with a rare note of irritation. “He’ll be on the next ferry across, and you can go back with him. He’ll introduce himself by asking you if
you know how many stories the Empire State Building has. Read the instructions before you meet, fix your arrangements, and Joe – that’s his operating name – will report back to me. Any questions?”

She couldn’t think of any. “Joe” might be a problem, but he might also be useful in establishing the German connection. The important thing was that she was in. Moscow could decide the rest. “No,” she said coolly, picking up the newspaper. “I hope your wife feels better tonight,” she said in a louder voice as she got to her feet. The ferry approached the Staten Island dock.

Amy made her way forward to the disembarkation end, passing the Soviet consular official with no more than an affirmative glance. Once ashore she went straight to a washroom and tore open the envelope. It contained three pages of neatly typed orders under the heading
Fall Doppeladler
. She took a deep breath and began to read.

The further she got, the more elated she felt. They had simply sent back the plan Faulkner had given her, and which she, attributing it to Sigmund, had passed on to Doesburg. There would be two German soldiers, and only two – Faulkner had been worried that someone in Berlin would decide to send a platoon, regardless of the difficulties involved in concealing them. The two would be put ashore off the Georgia coast at a quarter to midnight on August 2. The location would be checked beforehand by the “American-based operatives,” and a list of possible reasons for changing it was attached. These included a Coast Guard station on the relevant beach.

The American-based operatives were also assigned other tasks. They were to check out the hijack location – Berlin had accepted Sigmund’s choice, though on what grounds Amy couldn’t imagine – and to observe the train on its July 7 run. That was this coming Friday. They were to hire “appropriate accommodation and vehicles” and acquire the
necessary weaponry – another list. “Joe will deal with this” Doesburg had scrawled in the margin against the latter.

There was nothing else of significance. All in all the three pages, which must have taken a whole night to send in cipher, amounted to little more than an announcement of the soldiers’ arrival and departure times, with a few pieces of advice thrown in. They’d bought it hook, line, and sinker.

Amy walked back to the dock, where the next ferry was already discharging its passengers. We’re halfway there, she thought. The papers in the envelope would convict the Germans on their own, and if the man from the Russian Consulate had done his job, they’d soon have Doesburg’s address.

She walked aboard, watched the water bubble and thrash as they got underway.

“Do you know how many stories there are in the Empire State Building?” a voice asked her.

“A hundred and two,” she said, turning around. “Hello Joe.”

“Rosa, I presume,” he said, treating her to a display of perfectly even teeth.

He was not what she’d expected. If anything, the opposite. He was probably younger than she; his hair was light brown and wavy above a friendly face. He had the soft drawl of the South in his voice, and though he wasn’t big, she felt he could take care of himself. Or at least thought he could.

He wasted no time on pleasantries. “We’ve got an outing to arrange,” he began, and proceeded to tell her the arrangements. He had the car and the gas-ration coupons; he’d pick her up in Washington opposite the Library of Congress at 7 P.M. on Thursday. She must get hold of the necessary maps. He liked night driving. And then he left.

She watched him thread his way down the deck, the Manhattan skyline rearing above him, and remembered her feelings as a ten-year-old, seeing it for the first time. The
Statue of Liberty, the amazing skyscrapers, the huge liners at their berths on the Hudson piers. The New World, which had turned out to be just another slice of the old.

Joe picked her up in a black Buick at the appointed time, and within half an hour they were driving west through Virginia horse country, the mountains ahead a dark line against the sunset. He drove fast but well, a fact which impressed Amy, who had never liked cars and found no pleasure in driving.

He talked almost incessantly as he drove. His favorite subject was war, the present one and all those that had gone before. As they crossed the foot of the Shenandoah Valley he treated her to a detailed account of Sherman’s March, adding for good measure an analysis of its significance in the development of modern military strategy. She made what she hoped were appropriate noises on those rare occasions when he paused to draw breath.

He said nothing about the job at hand, and while he talked Amy occupied her mind writing an imaginary report to Moscow on his motivation. She was just concluding that the game alone was what interested him when he switched subjects and started talking political philosophy. She’d been wrong. He really did believe in the Nazi cause; it fitted perfectly with his views on life in America. Miscegenation was the great evil, Roosevelt a Communist dupe, and Hitler a shining example to the white race.

“If Roosevelt wins the war,” he said earnestly, “you know what will happen? All the goddamn liberals will make a lot of noise about world democracy and racial brotherhood and all that crap. And there’ll be about two million goddamn niggers coming back from the war who’ve learned to use a gun, and their heads will be full of the same crap. The Klan will have a hard time keeping things under control.” He looked at her briefly, a look of boyish intensity that almost took the sting out of his words.

“He won’t win the war,” she said. “Not if we’re successful, he won’t.” The Klan, she thought. She suddenly felt as if they were driving into a foreign country. She’d always known it, but feeling it was different.

He was silent for a few minutes as he guided the car through the center of Harrisonburg. It was almost midnight now, but the main street was still full of people, most of them the worse for drink.

“Maybe,” he said as they emerged into the country once more. “But the times are against us at the moment. This is a bad century to live in, I reckon. But we’ll come back. Technology’ll do it, you’ll see. The machines’ll get so good we won’t need the niggers anymore. Then we can ship ’em all back to Africa, let ’em learn to look after themselves. See where democracy and equality gets ’em.”

“But it’s not just the … niggers,” Amy murmured.

“True enough. But I don’t rightly know where we can send the Jews.” He laughed. “New England maybe. And put a wall around it. Let ’em
work
for their Friday bread.” He looked at her again, his face so innocent of guile that she felt a shiver.

“It’s cold in the mountains at night,” he observed equably. “There’s a blanket in the back – why don’t you try and get some sleep? It’s another ten hours yet.”

“You’re going to drive right through?”

“Maybe. I slept all day. If I get tired, I’ll pull off the road somewhere and take a nap.”

She took the blanket and closed her eyes, grateful for the silence even though sleep refused to come. She wondered why he’d said nothing about what her role was. Southern chivalry, she supposed. Marble columns and lace and happy black faces picking cotton …

It was light when she awoke, and they were parked by the side of the highway in a deep valley. Joe was asleep, snoring softly with his head against the window. She opened the
door as quietly as she could and got out. In the near distance she heard a river and walked down through the trees toward the sound. Sunlight hadn’t yet reached the valley floor but it was already getting hot, and the night dew was rising like steam from the ground, spreading the thick fragrance of fresh grass.

Amy relieved herself in the middle of a thicket, feeling foolish that she felt the need for concealment in the middle of nowhere, and then washed her face in the fast-flowing river. Looking around, she could see nothing but trees and, above them, the higher slopes of the valley. The highway was invisible and there was no sound of traffic. It was years since she’d been so physically alone, and it felt intoxicating. Her feet wanted to dance, but this impulse, too, made her feel foolish for no good reason. She walked back up the slope, taking an almost furtive pleasure in the springiness of the turf.

Joe was awake when she returned, looking a lot less sprightly than she felt. “Okay,” he grunted, and swung the car back onto the highway. “Let’s find some breakfast.”

They ate at a truck stop outside Bull’s Gap and continued south through Knoxville, Athens, Cleveland, Chattanooga, the valley widening before them. Soon after eleven they reached Bridgeport, Alabama, found the railroad depot, and cruised the surrounding streets looking for a suitable hotel.

“That one,” Amy said, pointing out a three-story white building.

They parked the Buick and went in. “Two rooms at the back, on the top floor,” Joe told the proprietor. “We’ve got work to do,” he explained, “and we need some quiet.”

“Your secretary, I suppose,” the proprietor said with a grin, looking across at Amy, who was studying a painting on the wall.

“If she wasn’t, I wouldn’t need two rooms,” Joe said coldly.

“Okay, no offense intended.” He led them up the carpeted
stairs. “This is a decent house. You won’t be troubled by any noise.”

The rooms looked surprisingly comfortable. Amy went to the window and examined the view. “Fine,” she told Joe. He went downstairs for their luggage, and a few minutes later he pulled two identical leather cases from his bag. “German officer issue, 1910,” he said, handing her one and pulling the binoculars from the other. He studied the railroad depot through them. “Perfect,” he muttered. “As long as Sigmund has his facts right,” he said, turning to her.

“He hasn’t been wrong yet,” she said, joining him at the window. “What about the light?” she asked.

“There’s yard lamps all over the place. No reason why they won’t be on. I’m going to get some sleep.”

“I’m going for a walk,” she called after him.

It wasn’t a big town, with just the one main street and about ten perpendicular roads on each side. The faces were mostly white; this was still hill country. She walked down to the Tennessee River, which looked narrower than she’d expected until she realized that the far shore was an island in midstream. The water had none of the blue-green purity of the mountains; it was a dull brown, rolling rather than running.

She heard giggling behind her and turned to see three black children staring at her over the trunk of a fallen tree. She smiled and walked toward them. They fled, laughing.

She suddenly felt a little dizzy, and cursed herself for not wearing a hat. The heat was stifling. Back on Main Street, she bought a Coke in a general store, aware that everyone was staring at her. “Where you from, honey?” the woman serving asked her. “If’n you don’t mind me asking.”

“Washington,” Amy said, adding that she and her boss were driving down to Birmingham on business.

“Gadsden road would have been quicker,” a man observed.