The Shadowboxer (13 page)

“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.

The limousine pulled to a stop. The single-lane dirt road had ended. A fifteen-foot-high barbed-wire fence lay directly ahead. The white-helmeted driver got out and presented his pass and an envelope of credentials to a yellow-helmeted guard. A yellow-helmeted driver moved behind the wheel. The fence gate was pulled open, and the car crept through. Another fifteen-foot fence loomed twenty yards ahead. The gate pushed back. The car passed through and stopped at the edge of a single-lane asphalt road. The yellow-helmeted driver climbed out and handed his papers to a blue-helmeted guard. The inspection was thorough. A blue-helmeted driver got into the front seat.

The Lincoln gained speed and shot along a broad causeway. The ground fog grew thicker. Spangler's teeth began to chatter. The headache worsened, so did the shoulder pain.

The road ended. A double line of fences could be seen ahead. Credentials were again inspected. A red-helmeted driver took the car through the gates and up to the lip of a two-lane road. The driver waited until a large circle of gold-helmeted sentries were posted around the Lincoln before getting out and disappearing into the drifting fog.

It was several minutes before another man emerged from the grayness. Spangler watched as the form neared. The mist obscured the helmetless face, but there could be little doubt that he carried a small square case. A guard opened the front door. Julian slipped into the driver's seat and picked up the intercom.

“Good to see you again, Erik,” he said nervously from behind his fogged wire-rimmed spectacles.

“Give me the case,” Spangler shouted at the glass partition.

Julian shook his head and pointed to the receiver on the back seat.

Spangler snatched it up. “Give me the goddam stuff.”

“Only if you agree to behave yourself,” Julian's voice replied over the rear speaker.

“Stop playing idiot games.”

“It is no game, Erik. It is merely self-preservation. We both realize how unpredictable you can be when you're in this somewhat tense condition.”

“I wouldn't be in this condition if you'd left my medicine.”

“But then you wouldn't be here now, would you? Or at least I couldn't be certain you would respond to an ordinary request for a meeting. And, Erik, it is most important that we have such a meeting.”

“Give me the stuff.”

“Your word to behave?”

Spangler hesitated, then nodded. The visor lowered six inches, and the case was passed over. Spangler snapped it open, spun the tops off medicine bottles and began swallowing pills.

Julian put aside the intercom, took off his glasses and began drying them. “Sorry I couldn't have met you at the aircraft, but security is cumbersome. This establishment has only been functioning for two weeks, and certain kinks are still to be ironed out.”

He replaced his glasses. “You see, the old unit,
IRAP
, the one which had you bring out Vetter and Miss Tolan, is now part of something much larger and quite spectacular,” Julian explained as he watched Spangler roll up a sleeve, dab his arm with alcohol and adjust the syringe. “I know your distaste for organizational undertakings, but this operation is rather different. It might tickle your fancy.”

Spangler injected himself with the insulin.

“Yes, Erik, I think we're onto something that will catch your imagination. Might even swerve you from your intention of retiring.”

Spangler dropped back in relief.

“The new organization is called
G. P. G.
, Erik—General Projects Group. That's only a cover title, of course. Its actual meaning is—”

“Where's the envelope?” Spangler demanded.

“Envelope? Oh, yes,” Julian recalled. He handed the thick packet over the visor. “You'll find everything in order. Tickets, check, an absolutely official discharge from the Army—or is it the Navy?”

“The passports aren't here.”

“There was a delay at the Peruvian Embassy. You know how those Latin Americans are. But it's all been worked out. Sent a special messenger to London. The passports should be at my office when we return.”

“They'd better be.”

“Erik, are you implying I misuse the truth?”

“Truth? You wouldn't even know how to spell it.”

Julian pulled his knees onto the seat and rested his back against the front door. “You see, Erik, it was
G. P. G.
who wanted both Tolan and Vetter. And now let me tell you
why
. They wanted them—”

“I know why.” Spangler said, closing his eyes and massaging the back of his neck.

“That's ridiculous, Erik. How could you know? I thought most of it up myself.”

“I know why. Von Schleiben knows why. Any Mongolian idiot who can find his way into an outhouse knows why.”

“I don't believe you, Erik,” Julian said tentatively. “I don't believe you at all. You're pulling a bluff. I'm calling that bluff. I don't think you have the vaguest.”

“My boy,” Spangler began, “it's nothing more than a matter of big political fish, little political fish. Vetter and the Tolan girl are little fish—nothing more than bait. You're hoping their escapes will frighten von Schleiben into tightening camp security—transferring some of his big political fish to more secure areas. And while the switch is on, you'll get an idea of who and how many important political prisoners are available for future netting.” Spangler opened his eyes, leaned forward and pressed his nose against the visor glass. “How am I doing?”

Julian's lips twitched.

“Now shall I tell you
why
G. P. G
. needs German political prisoners with such a black and furious passion? Or would you rather not hear?”

“Erik, must you use that superior tone?” Julian said, trying to regain his composure. “You sound like a constipated Cary Grant.”

Spangler laughed and moved back on the seat. “The reason
G.P.G.
must have political prisoners—”

He lunged forward with tremendous speed. His finger shot up and gripped the edge of the glass dividing visor. The pane snapped. Julian was halfway out the door when Spangler dove into the front seat, grabbed him by the ankle and dragged him back. The gold-helmeted sentries started for the car.

Spangler seized Julian's ear and began to twist it. “Tell them to stay where they are or off it comes.”

Julian shouted the order.

Spangler jerked him up in the seat and gave the ear an extra turn. “Now, you chicken thief: you've got thirty seconds to tell me what this is all about.”

“Jean-Claude,” Julian gasped in pain and panic.

“What about Jean-Claude?”

“He—he won't be waiting for you in Ireland.”

“Why not?”

“We had to use him.”

“Use him?”

“You were right about our forcing the transfer of German prisoners. We set up a network of observation points near each prison—prisons where we thought important prisoners might be held. We were short of observers. Terribly short.”

“So you sent Jean-Claude?”

“He volunteered. I talked to him myself on the short wave.”

“But you've never met him.”

“No. I only talked to him once—when he was sending in your information.”

Spangler jammed Julian against the steering wheel. “You moron! You treacherous moron! Couldn't you tell? From his voice, couldn't you tell?”

“Tell
what?
”

“How old do you think Jean-Claude
is
?”

“He sounded young. Seventeen, eighteen.”

“He's
twelve!
He just turned twelve years old. Now order one of your flunkies out there to get on the radio and get him out of wherever he is.”

“We don't
know
where he is. He's missing.”

Spangler grimaced and tried to think. His grip on Julian's ear eased. “Where was he when you last heard?”

“Outside of Hamburg. He was covering the Kurtweig jail—a prison relay stop. He was supposed to contact his controller every twelve hours. But the radio is dead—all radio communication in that area is dead—”

Spangler pushed Julian behind the wheel. “Drive me back to the airstrip—and you had better have that plane ready.”

Julian's ear was released. The major breathed in relief. “Stay here, Erik. Don't go to the plane. You have a better chance of finding him from here.”

“Start the car.”

“Erik, listen, please listen,” Julian said breathlessly. “We have the facilities to find him. That's why I forced you to come here. I want to help. I'll keep a plane ready. I swear I will. Once we have any information, you will be flown wherever you want. At least come and look at our facilities. I feel badly about this, Erik. I'll do everything I can to help. It wasn't
my
idea to use Jean-Claude. I tried to avoid it. You must believe me—it wasn't my idea.”

“Then whose
was
it?”

“Kittermaster. Colonel Kittermaster.”

“Who the hell is he?”

“The chief of
G. P. G.
But he's not a bad sort, Erik. It's just that he's new to espionage. He's had no intelligence training.”

Julian started the limousine up the road, past convoy after convoy of trucks, bulldozers and cement mixers. The fog lifted. The verdant rolling valley was thick with well-camouflaged construction. The overcast began to burn off. On a high hillcrest, shrouded in scaffolds, stood the Great North Hall, the South Hall and the connecting main house: the massive and venerable center of an estate known as Westerly.

16

Suite VIII-White on the fifth and uppermost floor of the Great North Hall consisted of a bedroom, a sitting room, a dressing room, a bathroom, a dining room, a kitchen and a library. The furniture and carpeting had come by air from Sloane's, the drapery and the wallpaper from Schumacher. Neiman-Marcus had designed and shipped the bathroom. All the windows were steel-grilled.

The closet in the dressing room contained five sizes of lingerie flown in from Bonwit Teller and Henri Bendel, and four sizes of hosiery from Marshall Field's.

Hilka slid on white panties and a white half slip.

“Not this?” the maid asked, holding out a brassiere.

Hilka studied the undergarment hesitantly. “No,” she finally concluded. “I think not. I've lost too much weight. I have no need for it.”

“Miss Tolan, your figure is excellent. Your breasts are high and full. Turn around and look for yourself.”

“No.”

“Then trust my word and take the bra.”

“No. I am not used to it any more. It would itch.”

“So will a blouse or sweater.”

“No.”

“Then what about stockings?”

“No. My legs are too skinny for stockings.”

“Your legs are lovely. Any woman in America would be envious of legs like yours. Please, judge for yourself. Turn around and look in the mirror.”

“No—I do not look into mirrors.”

“Then how will you be able to put on your makeup?”

Hilka studied the large selection of unopened bottles and boxes on the dressing table. “I only need lipstick. I can put it on by touch.”

“And your hair? Can you do your hair without looking in a mirror?”

“Could—could you do it for me? And cut it in the back, please?”

The closets were filled with dresses, suits, skirts, blouses, sweaters, coats and shoes from Bergdorf Goodman and Hattie Carnegie. They came in four sizes. Even so, the smallest beige turtleneck was slightly baggy and the plaid skirt had to be taken in by the maid.

The maid unlocked the entrance door, paused and gave a final touch to Hilka's hair.

“Am I—am I at all pretty?”

“
Very
pretty,” the maid told her, pressing the buzzer. “Just like Jean Arthur.”

A WAC with a gold-and-black armband guided her up two flights of marble stairs, through an electrically opened sliding door and out onto a steel catwalk. A vast modern printing complex was spread out below. At one end, workmen in yellow overalls scurried about unpacking new equipment, making final tests and adjustments. At the other, two dozen blue-coated linotypists were already busy at their machines.

The metal walkway led past room after room of glass-enclosed offices. All were fully equipped. All were fully staffed by men and women in blue jackets. No one looked up as Hilka and her guide walked by.

The two women entered the last door. A fragile elderly man with a goatee, wearing a smartly tailored long blue dust coat, was waiting.

“Vetter?” Hilka uttered in disbelief. “Martin Vetter?”

“Welcome, little Hilka—but I see you are not so little any more.”

“Was ist—”

“No, no, Hilka,” Vetter counseled gently, “English. You must acquaint yourself with the rules. If you wear blue—and you
will
be wearing blue—it means that you are German, but you must speak English. They listen in with devices to make sure.”

“I thought you were dead.”

“I am. You will find this establishment rich in ghosts—German ghosts. But enough of that. Sit down, sit down! Let me look at you.”

Hilka settled on the deep-blue satin couch as Vetter pressed a button on the desk. A man appeared from the next room with a tray of coffee, rolls, cream, sugar, butter and jam.