state I
The garbage will be sorted out by lesser men ... whose hands may on
occasion reek with the stench of their lesser duties, but that's what the
chain of command is all about.
Buy it I
95
We have no time. Our eyes are turned. Our minds are occupied elsewhere.
Carry out the order on your own initiative as a good soldier should who
understands the chain of command. No one will be inquisitive; it is the
result that matters. We all know that; the chain of command, old boy.
Insanity.
By the strangest coincidence an Intelligence probe is returned by a man in
Johannesburg through which the purchase of industrial diamonds was sought.
A purchase for which a fortune in Swiss currency was tendered by Germany's
1. G. Farben, the armaments giant of the Third Reich.
PeenemUnde had the guidance system; it could be had. For a price.
It did not take a major intellect to arrivd at that price.
Industrial diamonds.
Insanity.
For reasons beyond inquiry, Germany desperately needed the diamonds. For
reasons all too clear, the Allies desperately needed the high-altitude
guidance system.
An exchange between enemies at the height of the bitterest war in the
history of mankind.
Insanity. Beyond comprehension.
And so General Alan Swanson removed it from his immediate ... totality.
The single deep chime of the clock intruded, signifying the quarter hour.
Here and there throughout the maze of dark concrete outside, lights were
being turned on in a scattering of tiny windows. A greyish purple slowly
began to impose itself on the black sky; vague outlines of cloud wisps
could be discerned above.
In the higher altitudes.
Swanson walked away from the window to the couch facing the fireplace and
sat down. It had been twelve hours ago . . . eleven hours and forty-five
minutes, to be precise ... when he had taken the first step of removal.
He had placed ... delegated the insanity where it belonged. To the men who
had created the crisis; whose lies and manipulations had brought Overlord
to the precipice of obscenity.
He had ordered Howard Oliver and Jonathan Craft to be in his apartment at
six o'clock. Twelve hours and fifteen minutes
96
ago. He had telephoned them on the previous day, making it clear that he
would tolerate no excuses. If transportation were a problem, he would
resolve it, but they were to be in Washington, in his apartment, by six
o'clock.
Exposure was a viable alternative.
They had arrived at precisely six, as the somber chimes of the mantel clock
were ringing.- At that moment Swanson knew he was dealing from absolute
strength. Men like Oliver and Craft -especially Oliver -did not adhere to
such punctuality unless they were afraid. It certainly was not courtesy. ,
The transference had been made with utter simplicity.
There was a telephone number in Geneva, Switzerland. There was a man at
that number who would respond to a given code phrase and bring together two
disparate parties, act as an interpreter, if necessary. It was understood
that the second party - for purposes of definition - had access to a
perfected high-altitude guidance system. The first party, in turn, should
have knowledge of ... perhaps access to ... shipments of industrial
diamonds. The Koening mines of Johannesburg might be a place to start.
That was all the information they had.
It was recommended that Mr. Oliver and Mr. Craft act on this information
immediately.
If they failed to do so, extremely serious charges involving individual and
corporate deceit relative to armaments contracts would be levelled by the
War Department.
There had been a long period of silence. The implications of his statement
- with all its ramifications - were accepted gradually by both men.
Alan Swanson then added the subtle confirmation of their worst projections:
whoever was chosen to go to Geneva, it could not be anyone known to him. Or
to any War Department liaison with any of their companies. That was
paramount.
The Geneva meeting was exploratory. Whoever went to Switzerland should be
man who practiced deception.
That shouldn't be difficult for them; not in the circles they traveled.
Surely they knew such a man.
They did. An accountant named Walter Kendall.
Swanson looked up at the clock on the mantel. It was twenty minutes past
six.
Why did the time go so slowly? On the other hand, why didn't
97
it stop? Why didn't everything stop but the sunlight? Why did there have to
be the nights to go through?
In another hour he would go to his office and quietly make arrangements for
one Walter Kendall to be flown on neutral routes to Geneva, Switzerland. He
would bury the orders in a blue pouch along with scores of other transport
directives and clearances. There would be no signature on the orders, only
the official stamp of Field Division, Fairfax; standard procedure with
conduits.
Oh, Christ! thought Swanson. If there could be control ... without
participation.
But he knew that was not possible. Sooner or later he would have to face
the reality of what he had done.
98
8
DECEMBER 6,1943
'41
14,
BASQUE COUNTRY, SPAIN
He had been in the north country for eight days. He had not expected it to
be this long, but Spaulding knew it was necessary : * . an unexpected
dividend. What had begun as a routine escape involving two defecting
scientists from the Ruhr Valley had turned into something else.
The scientists were throwaway bait. Gestapo bait. The runner who had made
their escape possible out of the Ruhr was not a member of the German
underground. He was Gestapo.
It had taken Spaulding three days to be absolutely sure. The Gestapo man
was one of the best he had ever encountered, but his mistakes fell into a
pattern: he was not an experienced runner. When David was sure, he knew
exactly what had to be done.
For five days he led his 'underground' companion through the hills and
mountain passes to the east as far as Sierra de Guara, nearly a hundred
miles from the clandestine escape routes. He entered remote villages and
held 'conferences' with men he knew were Falangists - but who did not know
him - and then told the Gestapo man they were partisans. He traveled over
primitive roads and down the Guayardo River and explained that these routes
were the avenues of escape.... Contrary to what the Germans believed, the
routes were to the east, into the Mediterranean, not the Atlantic. This
confusion was the prime reason for the success of the Pyrenees network. On
two occasions he sent the Nazi into towns for supplies - both times he
followed
99
and observed the Gestapo man entering buildings that had thick telephone
wires sagging into the roofs.
The information was being transmitted back to Germany. That was reason
enough for the investment of five additional days. The German interceptors
would be tied up for months concentrating on the eastern 'routes'; the
network to the west would be relatively unencumbered.
But now the game was coming to an end. It was just as well, thought David;
he had work to do in Ortegal, on the Biscay coast.
The small campfire was reduced to embers, the night air cold. Spaulding
looked at his watch. It was two in the morning. He had ordered the 'runner'
to stay on guard quite far from the camp. site ... out of the glow of the
fire. In darkness. He had given the Gestapo man enough time and isolation
to make his move, but the German had not made his move; he had remained at
his post.
So be it, thought David. Perhaps the man wasn't as expert as he thought he
was. Or perhaps the information his own men in the hills had given him was
not accurate. There was no squad of German soldiers - suspected Alpine
troops - heading down from the mountain borders to take out the Gestapo
agent.
And him.
He approached the rock on which the German sat. 'Get some rest. I'll take
over.'
'Danke,' said the man, getting to his feet. 'First, nature calls; I
mustrelieve my bowels. I'll take a spade into the field.'
'Use the woods. Animals graze here. The winds carry.'
'Of course. You're thorough.'
'I try to be,' said David.
The German crossed back toward the fire, to his pack. He removed a camp
shovel and started for the woods bordering the field. Spaulding watched
him, now aware that his first impression was the correct one. The Gestapo
agent was expert. The Nazi had not forgotten that six days ago the two Ruhr
scientists had disappeared during the night - at a moment of the night when
he had dozed. David had seen the fury in the German's eyes and knew the
Nazi was now remembering the incident.
If Spaulding assessed the current situation accurately, the Gestapo man
would wait at least an hour into his watch, to be sure he, David, was not
making contact with unseen partisans in the darkness. Only then would the
German give the signal that
100
would bring the Alpine troops out of the forest. With rifles leveled.
But the Gestapo man had made a mistake. He had accepted too readily -
without comment - Spaulding's statement about the field and the wind and
the suggestion that he relieve himself in the woods.
They had reached the field during late daylight; it was barren, the grass
was sour, the slope rocky. Nothing would graze here, not even goats.
And there was no wind at all. The night air was cold, but dead.
An experienced runner would have objected, no doubt humorously, and say
he'd be damned if he'd take a crap in the pitch-black woods. But the
Gestapo agent could not resist the gratuitous opportunity to make his own
contact.
If there was such a contact to be made, thought Spaulding. He would know in
a few minutes.
David waited thirty seconds after the man had disappeared into the forest.
Then he swiftly, silently threw himself to the ground and began rolling his
body over and over again, away from the rock, at a sharp angle from the
point where the runner had entered the forest.
When he had progressed thirty-five to forty feet into the grass, he stood
up, crouching, and raced to the border of the woods, judging himself to be
about sixty yards away from the German.
He entered the dense foliage and noiselessly closed the distance between
them., He could not see the man but he knew he would soon find him.
Then he saw it. The German's signal. A match was struck, cupped, and
extinguished swiftly.
Another. This one allowed to bum for several seconds, then snuffed out with
a short spit of breath.
From deep in the woods came two separate, brief replies. Two matches
struck. In opposite directions.
David estimated the distance to be, perhaps, a hundred feet. The German,
unfamiliar with the Basque forest, stayed close to the edge of the field.
The men he had signaled were approaching. Spaulding - making no sound that
disturbed the hum of the woods - crawled closer.
He heard the voices whispering. Only isolated words were distinguishable.
But they were enough.
He made his way rapidly back through the overgrowth to his
101
original point of entry. He raced to his sentry post, the rock. He removed
a small flashlight from his field jacket, clamped separated fingers over the
glass and aimed it southwest. He pressed the switch five times in rapid
succession. He then replaced the instrument in his pocket and waited.
It wouldn't be long now.
It wasn't.
The German came out of the woods carrying the shovel, smoking a cigarette.
The night was black, the moon breaking only intermittently through the
thick cover of clouds; the darkness was nearly total. David got up from the
rock and signaled the German with a short whistle. He approached him.
'What is it, LisbonT
Spaulding spoke quietly. Two words.
'Heil Hitler.'
And plunged his short bayonet into the Nazi's stomach, ripping it downward,
killing the man instantly.
The body fell to the ground, the face contorted; the only sound was a
swallow of air, the start of a scream, blocked by rigid fingers thrust into
the dead man's mouth, yanked downward, as the knife had been, shorting out
the passage of breath.
David raced across the grass to the edge of the woods, to the left of his
previous entry. Nearer, but not much, to the point where the Nazi had
spoken in whispers to his two confederates. He dove into a cluster of
winter fem as the moon suddenly broke through the clouds. He remained
immobile for several seconds, listening for sounds of alarm.
There were none. The moon was hidden again, the darkness returned. The
corpse in the field had not been spotted in the brief illumination. And
that fact revealed to David a very important bit of knowledge.
Whatever Alpine troops were in the woods, they were not on the edge of the
woods. Or if they were, they were not concentrating on the field.
They were waiting. Concentrating in other directions.
Or just waiting.
He rose to his knees and scrambled rapidly west through the dense
underbrush, flexing his body and limbs to every bend in the foliage, making
sounds compatible to the forest's tones. He reached the point where the
three men had conferred but minutes ago, feeling no presence, seeing
nothing.
102
He took out a box of waterproof matches from his pocket and removed two. He
struck the first one, and the instant it flared, he blew it out. He then
struck the second match and allowed it to bum for a moment or two before he
extinguished it.
About forty feet into the woods there was a responding flash of a match.
Directly north.
Almost simultaneously came a second response. This one to the west, perhaps
fif
ty or sixty feet away.
No more.
But enough.
Spaulding quickly crawled into the forest at an angle. Northeast. He went
no more than fifteen feet and crouched against the trunk of an ant-ridden
ceiba tree.
He waited. And while he waited, he removed a thin, short, flexible coil of
wire from his field jacket pocket. At each end of the wire was a wooden
handle, notched for the human hand.
The German soldier made too much noise for an Alpiner, thought David. He
was actually hurrying, anxious to accommodate the unexpected command for
rendezvous. That told Spaulding something else: the Gestapo agent he had
killed was a demanding man. That meant the remaining troops would stay in
position, awaiting orders. There would be a minimum of individual
initiative.
There was no time to think of them now. The German soldier was passing the
ceiba tree.
David sprang up silently, the coil held high with both hands. The loop fell
over the soldier's helmet, the reverse -pull so swift and brutally sudden
that the wire sliced into the flesh of the neck with complete finality.
There was no sound but the expunging of air again.
David Spaulding had heard that sound so often it no longer mesmerized him.
As it once had done.
Silence.
And then the unmistakable breaking of branches; footsteps crushing the
ground cover of an unfamiliar path. Rushing, impatient, as the dead man at
his feet had been impatient.
Spaulding put the bloody coil of wire back into his pocket and removed the
shortened carbine bayonet from the scabbard on his belt. He knew there was
no reason to hurry; the third man would be waiting. Confused, frightened
perhaps ... but probably not, if he was an Alpiner. The Alpine troops were
rougher than the
103
Gestapo. The rumors were that the Alpiners were chosen primarily for streaks
of sadism. Robots who could live in mountain passes and nurture their
hostilities in freezing isolation until the order for attack were given.
There was no question about it, thought David. There was a certain pleasure
in killing Alpiners.
The treadmill.
He edged his way forward, his knife leveled.
'Wer? ... Wer ist dort?'The figure in darkness whispered in agitation.