himself of that sight, but his eyes wouldn’t let the tears go. Why weep when the tortures were already done? No, the time for tears had passed. It was time now for cold reflection, and a gathering of strength.
His body hurt like hell. Even his brain felt bruised. He lifted up the sheet and saw he was still naked. His flesh resembled a patchwork quilt, rendered in shades of black and blue. His wounded thigh had been stitched up and painted with iodine. Various other cuts and punctures on his body-including the stab wounds inflicted by Blok’s dinner fork-had been treated with disinfectant. The kennel filth had been scrubbed off him, and Michael figured that whoever had done the job was deserving of a medal. He touched his hair and found that it had been washed, too; his scalp stung, probably from an astringent lice-killing shampoo. His beard had been shaved off, but there was a fresh rough stubble on his face that made him wonder how long he’d lain in an exhausted slumber.
One thing he knew for certain: he was famished. He could see the slats of his ribs, and his arms and legs had gotten thin, the muscles wasted. On a small table beside his bed there was a silver bell. Michael picked it up and rang it to see what would happen.
In less than ten seconds the door flew open. Chesna van Dorne came in, her face radiant and scrubbed of its commando charcoal, her tawny eyes bright, and her hair in golden curls around her shoulders. She was a beautiful vision, Michael thought. He was hardly distracted by her shapeless gray jumpsuit and the Walther pistol in its holster around her waist. Following behind her was a gray-haired man with horn-rimmed glasses, dressed in dark blue trousers and a white shirt with his sleeves rolled up. He carried a black medical bag, which he set on the table beside the bed and unsnapped.
“How are you feeling?” Chesna asked, standing by the door. Her expression was one of businesslike concern.
“Alive. Barely.” His voice was a husky whisper. Speaking was an effort. He tried to sit up, but the man- obviously a doctor-pressed his hand against his chest and eased him back down, which was about as difficult as restraining a sickly child.
“This is Dr. Stronberg,” Chesna explained. “He’s been taking care of you.”
“And testing the limits of medical science at the same time, I might add.” Stronberg had a voice like gravel in a cement mixer. He sat on the edge of the bed, produced a stethoscope from his bag, and listened to the patient’s heartbeat. “Breathe deeply.” Michael did. “Again. Once more. Now hold your breath. Let it out slowly.” He grunted and took the instrument’s ear cups out. “You’re wheezing a bit. Low-grade infection in the lungs, I think.” A thermometer slid under Michael’s tongue. “You’re fortunate you keep yourself in such good condition. Otherwise twelve days in Falkenhausen on bread and water might have left you with much worse than exhaustion and congested lungs.”
“Twelve days?” Michael said, and reached for the thermometer.
Stronberg grasped his wrist and pushed it aside. “Leave that alone. Yes, twelve days. Of course you have other ailments as well: a mild case of shock, a broken nose, a severely bruised shoulder, a bruise on your back from a blow that almost ruptured your kidneys, and your thigh wound was close to contracting gangrene. Lucky for you, it was caught in time. I had to clip some tissue, though; you won’t be using that leg for a while.”
My God! Michael thought, and he shivered at the idea of losing his leg to a knife and bone saw.
“There’s been blood in your urine,” Stronberg went on, “but I don’t think your kidneys are permanently damaged. I had to insert a catheter and drain off some fluid.” He removed the thermometer and checked its reading. “Low fever,” he said. “At least you’ve cooled off since yesterday.”
“How long have I been here?”
“Three days,” Chesna said. “Dr. Stronberg wanted you to rest.”
Michael could taste bitterness in his mouth. Drugs, he thought. Antibiotic and tranquilizer, most likely. The doctor was already preparing another syringe. “No more of that,” Michael said.
“Don’t be an idiot.” Stronberg grasped his arm. “Your system’s been exposed to such filth and germs you’re fortunate you don’t have typhus, diphtheria, and bubonic plague.” He jabbed the needle in.
There wasn’t much he could do about it. “Who cleaned me?”
“I hosed you down, if that’s what you mean,” Chesna told him.
“Thank you.”
She shrugged. “I didn’t want you infecting my people.”
“They did a fine job. I’m indebted.” He remembered the smell of blood on the forest trail. “Who got hit?”
“Eisner. He took a bullet through the hand.” She frowned. “Wait a minute. How did you know anyone was hit?”
Michael hesitated. How indeed? he thought. “I… didn’t know, for certain,” he said. “A lot of bullets were flying.”
“Yes.” Chesna was watching him carefully. “We’re lucky we didn’t lose anyone. Now maybe you can tell me why you refused to come out with Bauman, and then wandered into camp more than eight miles from Falkenhausen. What did you do, run that distance? And how did you find us?”
“Lazaris,” Michael said, stalling while he thought up a good answer. “My friend. Is he all right?”
Chesna nodded. “He brought an army of lice with him. We had to shave him bald, but he said he’d kill anyone who touched his beard. He’s in even worse shape than you, but he’ll live.” She raised her blond brows. “You were about to tell me how you found us?”
Michael remembered hearing Chesna and Bauman arguing that night as they came out of the tent. “I think I went a little crazy,” he explained. “I went after Major Krolle. I don’t recall much of what happened.”
“Did you kill him?”
“He… was taken care of,” Michael said.
“Go on.”
“I took Krolle’s motorcycle. That’s how I got through the gate. A bullet must’ve punctured the gas tank, because I only got a few miles before the engine stopped. Then I started walking through the woods. I saw your flashlights, and I came in.” Flimsy as hell, he thought, but that’s all he could come up with.
Chesna was silent for a moment, staring at him. Then she said, “We had a man watching the road. He saw no motorcycle.”
“I didn’t use the road. I went through the forest.”
“And you just happened to find our camp? In all the woods? You stumbled onto our camp when none of the Nazis could track us down?”
“I guess I did. I got there, didn’t I?” He smiled wanly. “Call it destiny.”
“I think,” Chesna said, “that you’ve been breathing through another hollow reed.” She came a little closer to the bed as Stronberg prepared a second injection. “If I didn’t know you were on our side, Baron, I might have grave misgivings about you. To beat Harry Sandler at his own game is one thing; to travel, in your condition, over eight miles through the forest at night and find our camp-which was very well hidden, I might add-is something quite different.”
“I’m good at what I do. That’s why I’m here.” He winced as the second needle broke the skin.
She shook her head. “No one is that good, Baron. There’s something about you… something very strange.”
“Well, we can debate this all day, if you like.” He let feigned exasperation creep into his voice. Chesna’s eyes were sharp, and they saw his evasion. “Have you got the plane ready?”
“It’s ready, whenever I want it.” She decided to let this matter go, for now. But this man was hiding something, and she wanted to know what it was.
“Good. When can we leave?”
“There’ll be no traveling for you,” Stronberg said firmly. He snapped his bag closed. “Not for two weeks, at least. Your body’s been starved and brutalized. A normal man, one without your commando training, would be a basket case by now.”
“Doctor,” Michael said, “thank you for your attention and care. Now would you please leave?”
“He’s right,” Chesna added. “You’re too weak to go anywhere. As far as you’re concerned, the mission is over.”
“Is that why you got me out? To tell me I’m an invalid?”
“No. To keep you from spilling your guts. Since you were imprisoned, Colonel Blok has closed down the Reichkronen. From what I hear, he’s been questioning all the employees and going over their records. He’s having the place searched room by room. We got you out of Falkenhausen because Bauman let us know Blok was about to
