Wingate was determined not to allow Lisa to talk him out of what he was planning. He had no doubt that Regnais and Martens would go along. After all, once they landed in Britain with her, it would be a fait accompli. If they also had Stern with them, how could Colonel Erikson possibly object?

  And what in bloody hell would it matter if he did?

  They were mounting the stairs to Lisa’s apartment when Regnais paused suddenly on the step just above Wingate’s.

  “What is it?” Wingate asked, his voice hushed.

  “The door to Lisa’s apartment,” Regnais said. “It is not closed tightly.”

  Wingate moved swiftly up beside Regnais, his heart pounding in sudden alarm. Yes, the door was open, slightly ajar. Something was wrong, terribly wrong. Lisa would never leave her door open, not if she were inside, certainly. Perhaps she had left then. But why would she leave, and how could she have been able to lift Aldini or help him from her apartment? No. She must still be in there.

  “I don’t think she’s alone in there with Aldini,” whispered a troubled Martens.

  “Neither do I,” whispered Regnais.

  Both men looked to Wingate for direction.

  “Sit tight,” Wingate managed. “If she does have visitors, they must already have heard us on the stairs.”

  Both men nodded.

  “So we’ll wait them out. Let them make the first move.”

  That did not take long.

  Wingate heard a slight movement behind the door as someone approached it. Slowly, cautiously, it was pushed open a hair wider. Wingate carefully, silently raised his Sten. At that moment a terrific blast flung the German out the door, hurtling him like a projectile at the balustrade. With a muffled cry, he toppled over and dropped from sight.

  The door was now hanging crookedly on one hinge. Wingate charged up the stairs, and into the apartment. The interior was a hellish pocket of broiling smoke and tiny, flickering flames. The single window no longer had any glass or sash remaining. He heard groans from figures sprawled about him in the smoking darkness. Then he saw a single German, on his hands and knees, begin to raise his submachine gun. Wingate cut him down, then turned and saw several other Germans. He sprayed them thoroughly.

  One of them, in the act of crawling toward the door, began to flop frightfully as the slugs tore into him.

  “Look out, Captain! The bedroom!” Regnais called from the doorway behind Wingate.

  Wingate turned in time to see an enormous German shepherd charging at him from out of the bedroom. He managed a short burst, severing the animal’s head from its shoulder. Wingate flung himself to one side as the dog sailed on past him and thumped to a bloody halt against the wall.

  Regnais and Martens rushed in as Wingate looked frantically about for Lisa. And then he saw her. She was on the sofa, naked, her face to the wall, both arms wrapped around her head to protect it. He rushed to her side and was about to pull her around when the smoke cleared enough for him to see the enormous dark hole in her back. She must have used a fragmentation grenade, he realized.

  Gently, he turned her over, then took off his jacket and covered her with it. A thin trickle of blood was coming from one corner of her mouth. But that was not all Wingate saw. Her face was a mass of bruises, and one eye had been beaten shut, a portion of her eyebrow obliterated. He saw that she was conscious and trying to speak to him, and bent close. Her voice was barely audible.

  “Is it you, Mac?”

  “Yes.”

  He kissed her swollen cheeks and rested his face against hers and felt her arms raising slowly to fold about him. He was crying.

  “I must be a mess. They were such brutes.” He heard what sounded like a sob break from her throat. “Do not remember me like this, Mac.”

  “I won’t,” he managed, kissing her gently on the face and smoothing back her long hair. “I promise.”

  “I am not in pain,” she told him. “Isn’t that strange? At last the hurt is going. What they did to me, I did not feel. It was like someone else was with them. I thought of you. Of my father. Of my mother.” She smiled very faintly. “The grenade was under the sofa cushion. It took me so long to find it.”

  “Don’t talk,” he said, feeling the strength in her arms slacken. He looked down into her face but could not see it clearly through his tears.

  “It is all right, Mac,” she said softly. “It is all right now ... you mustn’t feel bad. There are so many of us to weep for ...”

  He did not know what to say.

  He was brushing a lock of hair back off her forehead when she died.

  “Captain ...?”

  Wingate glanced up. Martens was standing patiently beside the sofa.

  “It’s Aldini,” Martens said. “He wants to tell you something.”

  Wingate got to his feet. “He’s alive?”

  “Just barely.”

  Wingate followed Martens into the dim bedroom. The bed was a bloody shambles. The Germans must have emptied a full clip into the corporal. Regnais was on one knee beside the bed, dabbing at Aldini’s mouth with a piece of torn sheet.

  Wingate saw Aldini’s eyes brighten when Wingate bent over him. “Barack!” he croaked. “He’s ... traitor! Get the ... sonofabitch!”

  Wingate frowned, his mind racing. Barack? A ZOB commandant one of the Thirteen? Working in league with the Gestapo?

  “How do you know?” he asked, bending still closer.

  “Heard him. Recognized his voice when Gestapo ... worked me over. Just remembered where ... heard it. Barack’s voice!”

  “You’re sure?”

  Aldini nodded feebly. “Yes, Captain.”

  The three men exchanged glances.

  Aldini stirred restlessly. “How’s ... Lisa?”

  Wingate decided he would lie. “She’s okay.”

  Aldini seemed relieved. “I tried to get up to stop them. Honest, Captain.”

  Wingate took a deep breath. “That’s all right, Corporal. Lisa’s going to be fine.”

  “She sure as hell blew the guts out of them,” he whispered hoarsely. “Didn’t she?”

  “Yes, Corporal, she sure as hell did.”

  Aldini seemed to relax then, as if there was nothing more he needed or wanted. He closed his eyes. For a moment there was silence in the room as they listened intently to the sound of his ragged, tortured breathing. It was obvious his lungs had been torn up fearfully.

  His mouth began to move soundlessly. He opened his eyes, searching for them. The three men bent closer. Aldini’s claw of a hand reached up toward Wingate.

  “Get ... Barack!”

  Aldini dropped his hand. His face went slack and his large body seemed to shrink slightly under the covers.

  Wingate sent Regnais to warn Berensen and took Martens with him to Barack’s bunker. He had little faith they would find either Aaron Stern or Barack. But to his surprise, they found Barack—alone in the bunker—in the act of ripping open one of his cupboards with a wrecking bar.

  He straightened up when he saw them enter and glared at them.

  “What are you doing,” Martens asked ominously, his eyes cold, “digging for gold?”

  “Silver, if you must know. I see no reason to leave it for the Germans—or the flames.”

  “Going somewhere?” Wingate asked.

  “I am joining my comrades on the other side of the wall, Captain. Members of the People’s Army have no wish to immolate themselves for the sake of Zionists. I have stayed here long enough. It must be obvious even to an American romantic such as yourself that the Germans will have their way.”

  Wingate nodded. “Yes,” he agreed reasonably. “It is obvious.”

  “Where’s Aaron Stern?” Martens asked.

  “I ... sent him through the sewers to Botnowski. I had no idea when—or if—you would show up, Captain.”

  “You sent him?” Wingate asked. “With whom?”

  “Boris.”

  Martens stepped forward suddenly, snatched the front of Barack’s shirt and hauled him closer. “Traitor!” he cried. “What have you done with him?”

  Then Martens flung Barack to the floor.

  Barack’s face had gone deathly pale. He held up a hand to ward off any more attacks from Martens. “What, is this man crazy?” he asked Wingate, trembling. “How could he call me a traitor? Me, Kurt Barack! He must be insane.”

  “Corporal Aldini remembers your visits to the Gestapo, Barack,” Wingate said.

  “Why that’s impossible! He never saw—”

  Barack caught himself too late and realized it.

  Infuriated Martens strode forward and kicked the man brutally in the side. Barrack flopped over, crying out in sudden pain, his voice close to a shriek.

  “That’s enough, Martens!” Wingate demanded. “Leave him alone.”

  “But, Captain, this swine ...”

  “I said leave him alone. I meant it!”

  Reluctantly, Martens pulled back. Barack got slowly, painfully to his feet, watching Martens warily all the while. When he was able to stand unaided, he pulled himself together and addressed Wingate.

  “Captain, you must keep this madman from me. If you do so, I will explain to you what drove me to this extremity.”

  “Yes. Do that, Barack. I would like to hear your explanation.”

  “I am a realist, Captain. One of the few Jewish realists in this damned place, I assure you. For me—and for those like me—survival is the only thing that matters. And I shall survive, and all those Jews who think as I do will survive. They will not let themselves be led like sheep to the slaughter.”

  “I see. In order to survive, you sell out to the Nazis—to those vermin who are exterminating your people.”

  “I tried to warn them! I told them about Treblinka. But they would not believe me, Captain. They said I was mad. They said the Germans could not possibly do such things. They insisted they were useful to the Germans—too useful to be wasted in that fashion!” The man laughed harshly. “Do you blame me, Captain? How could I help such fools!”

  “You didn’t have to stay and betray them, you turd,” said Martens. “You stink to high heaven!”

  Barack licked his lips. Wingate saw beads of perspiration standing out on his forehead. “Captain, I have something you must know. In return for that, I want your promise that you will ... let me go.”

  “You want a deal, do you?”

  “Yes.”

  “Is it about Aaron Stern?”

  The man smiled. He was feeling a little more confident now. “Yes. It is about Aaron Stern.”

  “Then he’s not with the People’s Army.”

  “Of course not.”

  “Where is he?”

  “I turned him over to the Germans. They are quite pleased to get him back, as I knew they would be. He is very important to their plans for victory. I heard this from an aide to Himmler himself.”

  “And what did you get in return for turning him over.”

  “They have promised to let me pass out of the ghetto unmolested. I have an Argentine passport and Polish work papers and citizenship papers, all of them genuine, supplied by General Stroop himself. There will be no trouble.”

  “Can you get Stern back?”

  “I can tell you where he is and how you can liberate him.”

  “In return for letting you go.”

  “Yes.”

  “Captain!” said Martens. “I protest! We cannot trust this man! He deserves to die! Now!”

  “I’m handling this, Martens!”

  Barack edged away from Martens, and looked gratefully at Wingate. “Is it a deal, Captain? Freedom for my help in Stern’s recapture?”

  “Yes.”

  The man hurried to a table, snatched a piece of paper and a pencil, and quickly scribbled some instructions on it. He hurried over to Wingate and thrust the paper eagerly at him.

  “They are taking him to a secret installation on the Baltic coast. Peenemunde. There. You see? I have written it down. I overheard the Germans. Other scientists and Jews who were working with him at Stettin are going there as well. The damage to their installation at Stettin was too great. They must begin again at Peenemunde.”

  “How can this information help me get Stern back?”

  “Look! Look at what I have written. The map. Do you not see? That line is the railroad. It passes through a small forest before it reaches the German border. There, in that forest, the People’s Army could easily wreck the train and release the prisoners. There are many partisans there. I know this for a fact.”

  “When will the train be leaving with Stern?”

  Barack smiled, confident once again, full of his own importance. “You see? I can help you. There is a special train. It is coming from the Eastern front and has many other scientists on it, specialists who have been manufacturing petrol and other fuels in the Crimea. The train will arrive in Warsaw tomorrow afternoon and pull out with Stern on it the following afternoon. That should give you plenty of time to contact the partisans. It will be the only train on that line running to the coast.”

  “Where’s this forest?”

  “I have written it down. It is just beyond Piotszyn.”

  Wingate studied the hasty scrawls, then nodded and quietly began to fold the paper. At least now they knew where Stern would be in two days and where he was going. There was still a chance that they could pull it off. All he would need would be enough plastic explosives to wreck the tracks, and the partisans to back his play. It would be touch and go, but they could do it if London gave him what he needed.

  He felt a little better as he tucked the folded piece of paper into his side pocket. Seeing the satisfaction on Wingate’s face, Barack smiled and started to walk toward the cupboard he had been attacking when they entered.

  “And now, Captain,” he said, picking up the wrecking bar. “I suggest you leave here and see to your mission. I am sure Dr. Stern will be glad to see you once again. The Gestapo was not too kind to him when he told them he did not wish to work for the Germans anymore.”

  “You know that for a fact, do you?” Wingate asked.

  “Yes,” Barack said, pulling out a large metal box from a hole hollowed out of the wall behind the cupboard. The box seemed inordinately heavy. “Unfortunately, I was there when they questioned him. I tried to convince him to go along without so much fuss, but he would not listen to me.”

  “I wonder why.”

  “Barack,” Martens said softly.

  Barack looked up at Martens.

  “You shouldn’t have come back here for that silver.”

  Barack frowned. “But I need it.”

  “No, you don’t.”

  Martens wrenched back the cocking lever on his Sten and fired down at Barack. He used only a short burst, but when he was done, Barack had been nearly cut in two. Martens bent over, picked up the box, and poured the silver coins over the dead man.

  Then he flung the box away and turned to Wingate. “You can court-martial me when we get back, Captain. If we get back.”

  “I intend to do nothing of the kind, Martens,” Wingate replied quietly. “If you had not killed Barack, I would have.”

  Chapter Thirteen

  Two days later, a little before sunset, Wingate finished setting his plastic charges under the tracks and nodded to Martens, who backed up swiftly into the woods, unrolling the spool of wire as he went.

  Following after Martens, Wingate selected a site behind a fallen tree that gave him a clear view of the tracks. As Martens and Regnais watched impassively, Wingate took the Hell Box out of his jacket and attached the two wires to it.

  Then he placed the box carefully down on the ground, tucked it neatly out of the way under the tree, and stood up.

  Everywhere he looked, he saw partisans standing by themselves or in quiet groups, scattered through the trees. When he had reached the forest that afternoon—with Regnais driving them in the same German staff car they had liberated the night they were dropped into Poland—Wingate had counted at least sixty, perhaps seventy-five, armed partisans.

  In Warsaw, Wingate had asked Botnowski for the PPR’s cooperation and had gotten it, in spades. Guy Morrell had radioed London for explosives and weapons, and the RAF had dropped all that he had requested the next night. Every partisan Wingate had seen since he arrived with the explosives was armed with the latest version of the Sten, fitted like Wingate’s with silencers and canvas hand guards. As a very pleased Botnowski had informed Wingate, eight Bren guns had been dropped as well. And that was not all. At that moment a single-engine Lysander of the famed “Moon Squadron” was waiting on the edge of a clearing less than half a mile away to take Stern back to London as soon as he was liberated once again.

  There was no doubt about it. London wanted Aaron Stern. Guy Morrell emerged out of the dusk-shrouded woods above Wingate and started down the slope toward him. As the elderly British agent picked his way carefully over the rough ground, Wingate could not help but reflect on how wraithlike his skeletal figure looked in the fading light. His hand was out, his angular face cracking into a delighted grin, when he reached Wingate.

  “The train is on its way,” Morrell said, shaking Wingate’s hand firmly in greeting. “The PPR were quite successful in delaying its departure from Piotszyn.”

  “Any confirmation that Stern is on it?” Wingate asked. “I hate to have so much riding on Barack’s word.”

  “None whatsoever.” Morrell shrugged. “We will just have to hope that Barack was frightened enough to tell you the truth. But this is such a train as he described to you. Hitler is putting all his remaining eggs into this new terror weapon he is building in Peenemunde. He is stripping the Third Reich of scientists, a few of them Russian, I understand, and shipping them all to the Baltic.”

  “How soon should we expect the train?”

  “Within half an hour.”

  “Good.” Wingate turned to Regnais. “Find Botnowski. Tell him I think his men should start getting ready.”

 

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