“This really is pointless, Baron.” Colonel Blok was sitting in his chair again, next to Michael. On a tray in front of him was a plate of sausages and sauerkraut and a crystal goblet of white wine. Blok had a napkin tucked in his collar and was eating his dinner with a silver knife and fork. “You know I can kill you anytime I please.”
Michael snorted blood from his nostrils. His nose might be broken. His tongue found a loose molar.
“Major Krolle wants to kill you now and be done with it,” Blok went on. He chewed a bite of sausage and dabbed his lips with the napkin. “I think you’ll come to your senses before very much longer. Where are you from, Baron? Moscow? Leningrad? What military district?”
“I’m…” His voice was a hoarse croak. He tried again. “I’m a British citizen.”
“Oh, don’t start that again!” Blok cautioned. He took a sip of wine. “Baron, who directed you to Theo von Frankewitz? Was it Chesna?”
Michael didn’t answer. His vision blurred in and out, his brains rattling from the beating.
“This is what I believe,” the colonel said. “That Chesna was in the business of selling German military secrets. I don’t know how she learned about Frankewitz, but let’s speculate that she is involved in a network of traitors. She was helping you with your mission-whatever that was-and she decided to intrigue you with some information that she thought you might take back to your Russian masters. Dogs do have masters, don’t they? Well, perhaps Chesna thought you might pay for this information. Did you?”
No response. Michael stared past the blinding spot lamp.
“Chesna brought you to the Reichkronen to assassinate someone, didn’t she?” Blok cut a sausage open, and grease drooled out. “All those officers there… possibly you were going to blow the entire place to pieces. But tell me: why did you go into Sandler’s suite? You did kill his hawk, didn’t you?” When Michael didn’t answer, Blok smiled thinly. “No harm done. I despised that damned bird. But when I found all those feathers and that mess in Sandler’s suite, I knew it had to be your doing-especially after that little drama on the riverbank. I knew you must have had commando training, to have gotten off Sandler’s train. He’s hunted over a dozen men on that train, and some of them were ex-officers who’d fallen from grace; so you see, I knew no tulip-growing ‘baron’ could have beaten Sandler. But he gave you a run, didn’t he?” He poked his knife at the blood-crusted bullet gash on Michael’s thigh. “Now, about Frankewitz: who else knows about the drawing he showed you?”
“You’ll have to ask Chesna,” Michael said, probing to see if she’d been captured.
“Yes, I will. Count on it. But for right now, I’m asking you. Who else knows about that drawing?”
They didn’t have her, Michael thought. Or maybe it was just a faint hope. The security of that drawing was paramount to Blok. Blok finished his sausage and drank his wine, waiting for the Russian secret agent to answer. Finally he stood up and pushed his chair back. “Major Krolle?” he said, and motioned the man forward.
Krolle came out of the darkness. The rubber baton was upraised, and Michael’s bruised muscles tensed. He wasn’t ready for another beating yet; he had to stall for time. He said, “I know all about Iron Fist.”
The baton started to fall, aimed at Michael’s face.
Before it could smash down, a hand grasped Krolle’s wrist and checked its descent. “One moment,” Blok told him. The colonel stared fixedly at Michael. “A phrase,” he said. “Two words you got out of Frankewitz. They meant nothing to him, and they mean nothing to you.”
It was time for a shot in the dark. “The Allies might think differently.”
There was a silence in the room, as if mere mention of the Allies had the power to freeze flesh and blood. Blok continued to stare at Michael, his face betraying no emotion. And then Blok spoke: “Major Krolle, would you leave the room, please? Bauman, you, too.” He waited until the major and his aide had left, then began to walk back and forth across the stone floor, his hands behind him and his body crooked slightly forward. He suddenly stopped. “You’re bluffing. You don’t know a damned thing about Iron Fist.”
“I know you’re in charge of security for the project,” Michael said, choosing his words carefully. “I presume you didn’t take me to Gestapo headquarters in Berlin because you don’t want your superiors to find out there’s been a security leak.”
“There has been no leak. Besides, I don’t know what project you’re talking about.”
“Oh yes, you do. I’m afraid it’s no secret any longer.”
Blok approached Michael and leaned over him. “Really? Then tell me, Baron: what is Iron Fist?” His breath smelled of sausage and sauerkraut.
The moment of truth had arrived. Michael knew very well that one sentence might spell judgment for him. He said, “Dr. Hildebrand’s created something quite a bit more potent than delousing spray, hasn’t he?”
A muscle clenched in Blok’s bony jaw. Other than that, the man didn’t move.
“Yes, I did get into Sandler’s suite,” Michael went on. “But before I did, I got into yours. I found your satchel, and those photographs of Hildebrand’s test subjects. Prisoners of war, I suspect. Where are you shipping them from? Here? Other camps?”
Blok’s eyes narrowed.
“Let’s speculate, shall we?” Michael asked. “You’re shipping POWs from a number of camps. They go to Hildebrand’s workshop on Skarpa Island.” Blok’s face had turned a shade gray. “Oh… I think I’d like a sip of wine, please,” he said. “To wet my throat.”
“I’ll cut your throat, you Slav son of a bitch!” Blok hissed.
“I don’t think so. A sip of wine, please?”
Blok remained motionless. Finally a cold smile crept across his mouth. “As you wish, Baron.” He took the goblet of white wine from the tray and held it to Michael’s mouth, allowing him one swallow before he drew it away. “Go on with this fanciful conjecture.”
Michael licked his swollen lower lip, the wine stinging it. “The prisoners are subjected to Hildebrand’s tests. Over three hundred of them so far, as I recall. I assume you speak regularly with Hildebrand. You were probably using those pictures to show your superiors how the project’s coming along. Am I correct?”
“You know, this room is very strange.” Blok looked around. “You can hear the dead talking in it.”
“You might want to kill me, but you won’t. You and I both know how important Iron Fist is.” Another shot in the dark that hit its target; Blok stared at him again. “My friends in Moscow would be thrilled to pass that information along to the Allies.”
What Michael was hinting at took root. Blok said, “And who else knows about this?” His voice was reedy, and there might have been a quaver in it.
“Chesna’s not the only one.” He decided to lead Blok by the pinched nostrils. “She was with you while I was in your suite.”
That sank in. Blok’s expression was stricken for a second as he realized that someone on the Reichkronen staff must be a traitor. “Who gave you the key?”
“I never knew. The key was delivered to Chesna’s suite during the Brimstone Club’s meeting. I returned it by dropping it into a flower pot on the second floor.” So far, so good, he thought. It would never occur to Blok that Michael had descended the castle wall. He cocked his head to one side. His heart was beating hard, and he knew he was playing a dangerous charade but he had to buy time. “You know, I think you’re right about this room. You can hear the voice of a dead colonel.”
“Mock me if you wish, Baron.” Blok smiled tightly, whorls of red in his cheeks. “But a few injections of truth serum and you’ll tell me everything.”
“I think you’ll find I’m a little tougher than Frankewitz was. Besides, I can’t tell you what I don’t know. The key was delivered, and I returned it in an envelope along with the film.”
“Film? What film?” The quaver was more pronounced.
“Well, I wouldn’t have gone into your suite unprepared, would I? Of course I had a camera. Also furnished by Chesna’s friend. I took pictures of the photographs in your satchel. Plus those other papers, the ones that looked like pages from an accounting book.”
Blok was silent, but Michael could tell what he must be thinking: that secrets under his responsibility were out, possibly headed by courier to the Soviet Union, and the Reichkronen was a nest of traitors. “You’re a liar,” Blok said. “If these things were true, you wouldn’t be volunteering them so freely.”
“I don’t want to die. Neither do I care to be tortured. Anyway, the information’s already been passed. There isn’t anything you can do about it now.”
“Oh, I disagree. Very strongly.” Blok reached onto his tray, and his hand gripped the fork. He stood beside Michael, his face blotched with red. “I’ll tear the Reichkronen to the ground and execute everyone from the plumbers to the manager, if that’s what is necessary. You, my dear Baron, will tell me all about how and where you
