Von Steigerwald stroked his chin. “Dis place you know, ja?”
The shabby man nodded. “Indeed I do, Colonel. Few, if I may say it, know the facility and its prisoners as well as I.”
“Goot. Also you know Herr Churchill. He vas your leader in de var, so it must be so. He ist here. Dis I know. In Berlin he ist wanted, ja? I am to bring him. Show him to me. At vonce!”
The shabby man cowered. “Colonel, I cannot! Not with the best will in the world. He’s gone.”
“So?” Von Steigerwald’s hand had crept to his Luger, lifting the shiny leather holster flap and resting on the ivory grip; he allowed it to remain there. “The truth you must tell now,
The shabby man nodded vigorously. “He was, Colonel. He was captured in a cellar in Notting Hill. So I’ve been informed, sir. He was brought here to recover from his wounds, or die.”
“He ist dead? Dis you say? Vhy vas not dis reported?” Von Steigerwald felt that he needed a riding crop—a black riding crop with which to tap his polished boots and slash people across the face. Donovan should have thought of it.
“I don’t believe he is dead, Colonel, but he is no longer here.” The shabby man addressed Sergeant Lohr in halting German, asking him to confirm that Churchill was no longer there.
Sullenly, Lohr declared that he had never been there.
“Neider vun I like,” von Steigerwald declared, “but you, Schpencer, I like more petter. He vas here? You see dis?”
“Yes indeed, Colonel.” The shabby man had to trot to keep pace with von Steigerwald’s athletic strides. “He seemed much smaller here. Much less important than he had, you know, on my wireless. He was frightened, too. Very frightened, I would say, just as I would have been myself. Pathetic at times, really. Fearful of his own fear, sir. You know the Yanks’ saying? I confess I found it ironic and somewhat amusing.”
“He ist gone. Zo you say. Who it is dat takes him?”
“I can’t tell you that, Colonel. I wasn’t here when he was taken away.” The shabby man’s tone was properly apologetic. “Sergeant Lohr would know.”
Von Steigerwald asked Lohr, and Lohr insisted that Churchill had never been held in the facility.
This man, von Steigerwald pointed out, says otherwise.
This man, Lohr predicted, would die very soon.
Von Steigerwald’s laughter echoed in the empty tunnel. “He vill shoot you, Schpencer. Better you should go to de camps, ja? Der, you might lif. A Chew you are? Say dis und I vill arrange it.”
“I’d never lie to you, Colonel.”
“Den tell me vhere dese cars are vhere de prisoners stay. Already ve valk far.”
“Just around that bend, Colonel.” The shabby man pointed, and it seemed to von Steigerwald—briefly—that there had been a distinct bulge under his coat, a hand’s breadth above his waist. Whatever that bulge might be, it had been an inch or two to the left of the presumed location of the shabby man’s shirt buttons.
Lohr muttered something, in which von Steigerwald caught “
“It’s the WCs,” the shabby man explained. “They empty onto the tracks. The commandant had the prison cars moved down here to spare our headquarters.”
“In de S.S.,” von Steigerwald told him, “we haf de prisoners clean it up. Dey eat it.”
“No doubt we would.” The shabby man shrugged.
“One becomes accustomed to the odor in time.”
“I vill not. So long as dat I vill not pee here.” Von Steigerwald caught sight of the stationary railroad cars as the three of them rounded the curve in the tunnel. “Every prisoner you show to me, ja? Many times dis man Churchill I haf seen in pictures. I vill know him.”
Lohr muttered something unintelligible.
Von Steigerwald rounded on him, demanding that he repeat it.
Lohr backed hurriedly away as von Steigerwald advanced shouting.
The shabby man tapped von Steigerwald’s shoulder. “May I interpret, Colonel? He says—”
“
“He said—well, it doesn’t really matter now, does it? There he goes, back to headquarters.”
Von Steigerwald studied the fleeing sergeant’s back. “Ist goot. Him I do not like.”
“Nor I.” The shabby man set off in the opposite direction, toward the prison cars. “May I suggest, Colonel, that we begin at the car in which Churchill was held? It is the most distant of the eight. I can show you where we had him, and from there we can work our way back.”
“Stop!” Von Steigerwald’s Luger was pointed at the shabby man’s back. “Up with your hands, Lenny Spencer.”
The shabby man did. “You’re not German.” “Walk toward that car, slowly. If you walk fast, go for that gun under your coat, or even try to turn around, I’ll kill you.”
Twenty halting steps brought the shabby man to the nearest coach. Von Steigerwald made him lean against it, hands raised. “Your feet are too close,” he rasped when the shabby man was otherwise in position. “Move them back. Farther!”
“You might be English,” the shabby man said; his tone was conversational. “Might be, but I doubt it. Canadian?”
“American.”
The shabby man sighed. “That is exactly as I feared.” “You think President Kuhn has sent me because he wants you for himself?” Von Steigerwald pushed the muzzle of his Luger against the nape of the shabby man’s neck, not too hard.
“I do.”
Von Steigerwald’s left hand jerked back the shabby man’s coat and expertly extracted a large and rather old- fashioned pistol. “It would be out of the fire and into the frying pan for you, even if it were true.”
“I must hope so.”
“You can turn around and face me now, Mr. Churchill.” Von Steigerwald stepped back, smiling. “Is this the Mauser you used at Omdurman?”
Churchill shook his head as he straightened his shabby coat. “That is long gone. I took the one you’re holding from a man I killed. Killed today, I mean.”
“A German?”
Churchill nodded. “The officer of the guard. He was inspecting us—inspecting me, at the time. I happened to say something that interested him, he stayed to talk, and I was able to surprise him. May I omit the details?”
“Until later. Yes. We have no time to talk. We’re going back. I am still an S.S. officer. I still believe you to be an English traitor. I am borrowing you for a day or two—I require your service. They won’t be able to prevent us without revealing that you escaped them.” Von Steigerwald gave Churchill a smile that was charming and not at all cruel. “As you did yourself in speaking with me. They may shoot us. I think it’s much more likely that they’ll simply let us go, hoping I’ll return you without ever learning your identity.”
“And in America …?”
“In America, Donovan wants you, not Kuhn. Not the Bund. Donovan knows you.”
Slowly, Churchill nodded. “We met in …In forty-one, I think it was. Forty would’ve been an election year, and Roosevelt was already looking shaky in July—”
They were walking fast already, with Churchill a polite half-step behind; and Von Steigerwald no longer listened.
Aboard the fishing boat he had found for them, Potter cleared away what little food remained and shut the door of the tiny cabin. “Our crew—the old man and his son—don’t know who you are, Mr. Prime Minister. We’d prefer to keep it that way.”
Churchill nodded.
“If you’re comfortable …?”
He glanced at his cigar. “I could wish for better, but I realize you did the best you could. It will be different in America, or so I hope.”
