Chapter 16: Wildeshausen
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“I bet you thought you’d never see me again.” Klein smiled, exposing his black teeth. “I’m going to enjoy this.” He tightened his leather glove and leveled a solid blow at Henrik’s jaw. Henrik felt the impact straight through to the back of his skull. “I was three-time boxing champion of Austria.” He let loose another powerful right cross and Henrik felt the world slipping away.
“Don’t kill him, you idiot. We need information.”
“Shut up. I know what I’m doing.” Klein turned his attention back to Henrik. “No. I won’t kill him. He doesn’t deserve a quick death. I want him to feel every minute of this.” Klein circled around Henrik’s chair like a hungry lion. “You did a bad thing, Herr Kessler. Schliemann was my friend. Do you know what they did to him at The Chancellery?”
Henrik didn’t answer. His mouth was rapidly filling with blood.
“They beat him terribly. And even after he confessed to all his petty crimes, they would not stop. And do you know why, Herr Kessler? Because you told them that he was a spy. They tortured him for eight hours, and when they finally realized that he knew nothing of value, they mercifully shot him in the head. You must not expect the same kindness from me.”
“So tell me, Gustaff,” Henrik said casually, “how are the kidneys? Is your piss still pink?”
Klein’s face went bright red and then he unloaded a terrific uppercut to Henrik’s chin. Blood sprayed on the wall like a fountain. And then Henrik began to laugh.
“You imbecile. You’ve punched him senseless.” With more than a little effort, the army lieutenant pushed Klein off his quarry and up against the wall. For a second, it looked as if the beefy NCO was going to turn his rage against the lieutenant, but then his common sense returned just in time to save him from a court marshal. He lowered his arms and Hauser turned back to Henrik.
“Why do you have to be so stubborn?” he said, his tone softened somewhat. “If you will not speak to me, then to whom will you speak? Surely you must understand how this appears. Surely you must understand the position you have put me in.”
The room was spinning. Henrik sensed the desperation in the lieutenant’s voice, and it puzzled him. He had caught a traitor red-handed. Why wasn’t he rejoicing in his good fortune? Henrik remembered the last time they were in the same room together. He was one of the young officers who had descended on him at the Reich Chancellery after he had received the Knight’s Cross of the Iron Cross and the Wound Badge. In the lieutenant’s mind, Henrik was probably still a bona fide war hero. Maybe there was a logical reason for his having escaped from a German airbase and shot down an experimental jet plane, never mind traipsing all over central Europe killing Germans. Maybe his actions could be explained after all. And if they could, surely the officer who tortured this war hero while in the course of doing his duty would not be rewarded. Surely such a narrow-minded officer would be punished, and punished severely. Yes, Henrik could now see the position he had put the young lieutenant in, and he reveled in it.
“The Reichsfuhrer,” Henrik slurred through swollen lips. “I will speak to no one but him.”
The Reichsfuhrer was currently in Russia. That much Henrik knew from his brief conversation with Heydrich before the assassination attempt. But was Henrik only delaying the inevitable? In a few hours, the SS Wolf Corps would arrive, and they would not wait for Himmler to show up before beginning their own interrogation.
Hauser turned to Klein. “Get out,” he said forcefully. Klein hesitated, rage still boiling in his jowls. Then his eyes dropped and he exited the cell without a word. “As you may already know, the Reichsfuhrer is visiting the front. It just so happens, however, that this is a fiction devised by the SD to mislead his enemies. The Reichsfuhrer is indeed here, and you will meet him.”
Henrik could not hide his surprise. He looked up at Hauser and knew immediately that he’d betrayed himself. He would have to think quickly. But there was no reasonable explanation for his actions. Even the truth was too crazy to be believed. He’d given up everything—his rank, his good name, his family honor, and now his life—and for what? To save a girl, his childhood sweetheart, a Jew. But he did not escape with her. No, that would have been too reasonable. Instead, he embarked alone on some grand, noble crusade, some final act of lunacy. Or was there some other reason for returning to Germany?
Before Henrik could formulate an answer in his mind, the Reichsfuhrer walked in. Himmler was a diminutive man, with sallow cheeks, a pompous, two-fingered mustache and a particular, almost spiritual, bent for cruelty, whether physical or emotional. He was the type of man that, in any sane society, would be passed over by women and men alike as having no redeeming qualities worthy of their attention. But this was not a sane society. Germany had become drunk with the quest for glory, and men like Himmler, free from the restraints of any human decency, flourished like weeds in an untended garden.
“Ah, Lieutenant Kessler,” he said dramatically. “I wondered when we might see you again. I understand you will talk to no one but me. Well, I’m here.”
“Yes, Reichsfuhrer Himmler.” Henrik stumbled on the title, his mouth still filled with blood.
Himmler shook his head in disgust. “Clean him up.”
Hauser responded immediately, wiping Henrik’s face and allowing him to rinse out his mouth with warm water. Meanwhile Himmler took off his leather raincoat and made himself comfortable on a metal chair.
“Enough, enough,” he said impatiently. “Leave us.”
Lieutenant Hauser looked back and forth from the Reichsfuhrer to Henrik. He was apparently not satisfied with the situation. Henrik was his prisoner. If he somehow escaped from his bonds and killed the Reichsfuhrer . . . but then, that was impossible. Although he’d removed the handcuffs because they were drawing blood, the ropes around Henrik’s wrists and ankles were thick and securely tied. He wasn’t going anywhere. Hauser saluted Himmler sharply and left the room.
“Now then, lieutenant. What do you have to say for yourself?”
Henrik licked his lips. “Esther Jacobs.” Himmler’s eyebrows knitted darkly beneath his spectacles. Henrik continued his explanation. “The daughter of Professor Eli Jacobs, a Jewish engineer and physicist. They were relocated to Westerbork before I could contact them. I’ve been searching for them ever since.”
Himmler smiled with grim amusement. “Why would you want to contact them?”
“Eli Jacobs was one of nine Jewish scientists, German Jews, who theorized a method for producing sustained atomic fission. Eight of those scientists are now working with Oppenheimer in America on the Manhattan Project. Eli was the last one left in continental Europe. Without his research, our German scientists didn’t have a prayer of making an atomic bomb before the Americans. When he died in Auschwitz, his daughter, Esther Jacobs was our last, best hope. She worked with him at the University of Amsterdam.”
Henrik felt his pulse race. Had he said too much? What if Heydrich were not dead? He might have told the Reichsfuhrer what really happened. He might have told Himmler everything. Himmler leaned forward with sudden interest.
“And did you find what you were looking for?”
“Yes, Reichsfuhrer. Plutonium. The Jacobs girl was able to describe her father’s secret process for the synthetic manufacture of this essential element. With this final piece of information, I am confident that our scientists will be able to produce a working fusion prototype in a month, maybe two. I am eager to return to my work with Professor Heisenberg at the Wilhelm Kaiser Institute as soon as possible.”
“All in good time, lieutenant,” Himmler put his finger over his thin mustache as if it were a large bug that needed to be squashed. “But why didn’t you just bring her to SS headquarters in Berlin? Why Amsterdam?”
Henrik racked his brain, trying to shuffle all the pieces of his elaborate yarn into pla
ce. Why Amsterdam? Why else but the truth?
“I was helping her escape,” he said.
Himmler raised an eyebrow. “Indeed?”
“I was to put her on a ship waiting off shore.”
“There was no ship,” Himmler said emphatically.
“Of course not. I needed to gain her confidence, to make her believe that I was on her side, that I was there to save her. Only then did she confide in me her secrets.”
“Where is she now?”
“She entered the tunnel.” Henrik’s eyes darkened. “I threw in the grenade after her. Her secrets died with her.”
Himmler smiled, causing his two-fingered mustache to bunch up beneath his nose like an inchworm under a dead leaf. “You have done well, Herr Kessler. But it appears that you are not as well informed as you might think. You’ll be pleased to know that the Reichsprotektor of Bohemia still lives. Herr Heydrich sustained slight injuries, but he is expected to make a full recovery. He should be back with us very soon.”
Henrik felt his stomach twist into a knot.
“Thank heavens,” he said dully.
“Yes, I am pleased as well. We spoke briefly on the telephone immediately after his arrival at the hospital. What bothers me, lieutenant, is that he said nothing about the Jacobs girl to me. And I assure you that we are quite close.”
Henrik gulped. His mouth had become painfully dry. “No, Reichsfuhrer, I had not yet—”
“In fact, Sergeant Klein was under the impression that you were a traitor,” Himmler interrupted. “He says Heydrich was taking you to Prague Castle to be tortured when he was attacked by assassins. Friends of yours, I presume.”
“I don’t see how. They nearly killed me with their homemade bomb.”
“This much is true, but you still have not answered a very basic question. Why? Why didn’t you just tell the SS about the Jacobs when you first arrived in Germany? Why didn’t you tell Obergruppenfuhrer Heydrich when you met him? He could have initiated a search immediately. Why all these games, Herr Kessler?”
Himmler shook his head skeptically. Henrik thought quickly, but there was no logical reason. It was all just smoke. And then he remembered something Canaris had said—someone they were looking for in Reich Command. It seemed an odd remark at the time, but now it could save his life, perhaps.
“The mole,” he said almost as a question.
Himmler’s head snapped still and his eyes narrowed. “What do you know of that?”
“They spoke of him at SIS in London, an infiltrator deep within the Third Reich,” Henrik continued, warming to his story, “a senior officer, perhaps even a general. There was no way to know who he was. I could not betray myself to anyone. The fate of the Fatherland depended upon my silence. You were the only one I could trust with this secret, Herr Himmler. My information could assure our victory. Nothing else mattered except the bomb.”
Himmler took off his round spectacles and began to clean them like an accountant after a long day of pouring over his ledgers. He looked through the lenses in the light to see if they were clean and then put them back on his little, round face.
“You are wrong about one slight detail,” Himmler said calmly and Henrik braced himself, trying to remember what he had forgotten. “The mole is not a general at all, but a major.” He frowned and then called for the lieutenant. The cell door opened abruptly and Hauser and Klein entered dragging an unconscious German officer between them. They dropped the officer unceremoniously on the stone floor and Klein gave him an extra kick in the ribs for good measure. The officer groaned. Henrik did not recognize him at first he was so badly beaten.
“Klein, show him,” Himmler barked.
Klein grabbed the officer by the hair and lifted his head. The man’s face was badly swollen and bleeding, but now Henrik recognized him. It was Neils Hollingsworth, alias Major Kotch.
“In a way, we have you to thank for this.”
“Me?” Henrik asked with some surprise. “But I never knew—”
“No, no. Of course not. But he followed you, straight into Auschwitz. We never would have caught him if we hadn’t been looking for you at the same time. Apparently you and he were searching for the same Jewish girl. Thank God you found her first.”
Henrik looked at the pathetic British spy. So he did have a heart after all. And now it would cost him his life.
“Klein, release him.”
Klein looked at the Reichsfuhrer as if he’d lost his mind, but he knew better than to argue. Despite his diminutive size and mousy appearance, Himmler was a powerful man in the Third Reich, head of Germany’s secret service and to most men, evil incarnate. Klein pulled out a long, double-edged bayonet, a killing blade, and swiftly cut Henrik’s bonds with two quick strokes. Henrik stood slowly to his feet, rubbing his wrists where the rope had cut into his skin. He was still unsure whether Himmler believed him or not.
“You have one month to finish your bomb. At the end of which time I will either award you the Iron Cross 1st Class and promote you to captain, or shoot you in the head. But first I have a job for you. Sergeant, the pistol.”
Klein produced a Colt 32 from his pocket and held it out.
“Come now, Kessler. Don’t you recognize it? The Wolf Corps retrieved it from the docks where they found you. I believe it is yours.” Himmler took the gun from the sergeant and took two deliberate steps forward. Henrik sensed the end was near. But then the Reichsfuhrer held up the gun with the handle towards him. “You may have the honor, lieutenant,” he said.
Henrik stood dumbfounded for several seconds, not taking the offered gun, a plethora of irreconcilable thoughts jumbling in his brain. Was this a trick? Was the gun empty? Were they testing him or taunting him, or both? What exactly did they want him to do? And then, all at once, he understood. It was a test, a horrible test. Henrik looked back at Neils, who was just beginning to rouse from his stupor.
“But surely the Fuhrer will want a trial and a public execution by firing squad,” Henrik reasoned, trying to keep the desperation out of his voice.
“We cannot risk that, I’m afraid,” Himmler said. “There cannot be a mole in the Third Reich. Do you understand? No one must ever know.”
“But his contacts? Surely this man has information, important information—”
“Important information that must die with him.” Himmler pushed the gun handle closer. Henrik searched his mind for another excuse, but he could not delay any longer. He must take the gun. He must act. Before he knew what had happened, the Colt 32 was in his hand. Himmler took a step back, possibly not wanting to get blood on his uniform, and Henrik took a reluctant step toward the helpless British spy. Neils was fully awake now, the imminence of death causing a surge of adrenalin to pump through his veins.
“Do it!” he said boldly, defiant to the end.
Henrik took another step until he was practically on top of the major. Behind him, Himmler watched with cool disinterest, while Klein and Hauser shook visibly with excitement.
“There are two bullets in this gun,” Henrik whispered. “I can drop the two guards and kill Himmler with my bare hands. He’s unarmed.”
Neils shook his head. “And then what?”
Henrik didn’t answer. There was nothing after that. He would fire his two bullets, break Himmler’s neck, and then that would be it. Guards would burst in the room with MP40 machine guns and shoot them both dead, but at least they wouldn’t have gone down without a fight.
“I’m dead already,” Neils reasoned. “The bomb. You must stop the bomb.”
Henrik hesitated. He knew Neils was right. Nothing else mattered except the bomb. He couldn’t let Hitler have it. He was insane. He would destroy the world. Henrik knew what he had to do. He placed the cold barrel of the gun against Neils’ forehead, but he still did not pull the trigger. He willed his finger to move, but it would not. It was as if the finger had froz
en in place.
“I can’t do it,” he said with a silent gasp.
Himmler, Klein and Hauser heard none of this. They saw only a traitor begging for mercy and a cold-blooded killer prolonging the joy of the kill. As a final climax, the British spy yelled, “Do it! Do it now!” And then his brains were splashed out onto the cold stone floor.
Henrik looked at the twitching corpse for a long moment, remembering Sarah. Then he turned around, his face devoid of emotion and handed the Colt 32 back to the disappointed Sergeant Klein.