Black Cross

“We’ve pinpointed parts of their testing program to three prison camps,” Smith concluded. “Natzweiler in Alsace, Sachsenhausen near Berlin, and Totenhausen near Rostock.”

“Rostock?” Stern exclaimed. “I was born in Rostock!”

Smith raised his eyebrows. “Were you now?”

“What is it you want to do? Disable one of these plants? A commando raid?”

“No, I’ve something a little more complex in mind. Something with a little flair.” The brigadier cracked his knuckles, beginning with his left little finger. “What I want to do is frighten the Nazis so badly that they won’t dare to use their nerve gas, not even when the Reich is falling down around their ears.”

“How can you do that?”

“I neglected to tell you one fact about the Allied gas program, Stern. After intensive analysis of the stolen sample of Sarin, a team of British chemists has managed to produce a facsimile nerve agent.”

Stern breathed faster. “How much do you have?”

“One-point-six metric tons.”

“Is that a lot?”

Smith sighed. “Frankly, no.”

“How much do the Nazis have?”

“Our best estimate is five thousand tons.”

Stern went pale. “Five thousand—? My God. How much would it take to seriously damage a city?”

“Two hundred fifty tons of Sarin could wipe out the city of Paris.”

Stern turned away from Brigadier Smith and pressed his cheek to the cold car window. His head was starting to throb. “And you have one metric ton?”

“One-point-six.”

“How wonderful for you. What do you plan to do with it?”

Brigadier Smith’s voice cut the air like a rusty saber. “I plan to kill every man, woman, child, and dog inside one of those three camps. SS men, prisoners, the lot. And I’m going to let Heinrich Himmler know exactly who did it.”

Stern wasn’t sure he had heard correctly. He took a moment to try and digest the enormity of what he thought the brigadier had suggested. “Why in God’s name are you going to do that?”

“It’s a bluff. A gamble. Perhaps the biggest gamble of the war. I’m going to use our thimbleful of gas to try to convince Heinrich Himmler that we not only have our own nerve gas, but the will to use it. When he finds one of his precious camps wiped out to the last man, yet with every piece of German equipment in pristine condition, he will have no choice but to reach the conclusion I want him to reach. That if the Nazis were to deploy nerve gas against our invasion force, their cities would be annihilated by the same weapon.”

“But how do you know Hitler won’t retaliate with his superior stockpiles?”

“I don’t. But if I’m right about Himmler running the nerve gas program on his own, Hitler will never even find out about our raid. Himmler will sweep the whole thing under the rug. Even if Hitler were to find out, he wouldn’t have any evidence to hold up to the world as an excuse for a retaliatory strike. Not the way I’ve planned this show.”

“You’re mad,” said Stern. “Hitler doesn’t need to justify his actions to anyone.”

“You’re wrong,” Smith said confidently. “Hitler doesn’t hesitate to massacre Jews, but he does try his best to cover up the fact that he’s doing it. He cares about public opinion. Always has.”

Stern felt a sudden apprehension. “Brigadier, this is a strategic mission. Why have you come to me?”

“Because my hands are tied by some regrettable political considerations.”

“Such as?”

“The Yanks are against it.” Smith grunted. “Bloody schoolboys. They’re content to fight with sticks and pebbles and hope no one gets angry enough to go home for his father’s shotgun. American opposition rules out my using British or American commandos for the operation.”

“What about your SOE operatives?”

“The Americans have elbowed their way in there as well. They’ve demanded that we set up two-man parachute teams — one Yank, one of ours — to go into France and prepare the Resistance for D day. It’s pathetic. I haven’t met one Yank who can speak enough French to order Boeuf Bourguignonne, much less fool a German.”

“So you’re scraping the bottom of the barrel. Refugees.”

Smith grinned. “Bloody terrorists, at that.”

“Do you have the authority to undertake this operation? Brigadier general isn’t exactly Supreme Commander.”

Duff Smith reached into the pocket of his beribboned tunic and pulled out an envelope. From it he withdrew Churchill’s note, which he handed to Stern. Stern didn’t blink once while he read it.

“Satisfied?” Smith asked.

“Mein Gott,” Stern whispered.

“I want you to lead this mission. Are you my man or not?”

Stern nodded in the darkness. “Yes.”

Smith reached into his jacket and pulled out a map of Europe. Swastikas covered the paper from Poland to the French coast. Stern felt his pulse speeding at the prospect of action.

“Doesn’t look like we’ve accomplished much in five years, does it?” Smith said. “Look here. There is one thing you can help me with tonight. You may already have done it.”

“What?”

“Picked the target. I mentioned three camps. To be honest, I’ve already narrowed my list to two. Sachsenhausen is simply too large for the type of operation I have in mind. It’s Natzweiler or Totenhausen.”

Stern looked greedily at the map. He knew which camp he wanted to attack. Still, he didn’t want to seem too eager.

“Natzweiler is the larger by far,” Smith said. “The SS are almost certainly killing more Jews there.”

“A larger camp would be easier for me to slip into unnoticed,” Stern pointed out.

“You won’t be infiltrating the camp. Not the way I’ve designed this show.”

“Well,” Stern said in a neutral tone, “since you have only a limited amount of gas, you could increase your chances of success by targeting the smallest camp.”

“Quite,” Smith agreed.

“How far is Totenhausen from Rostock?”

“Twenty miles, due east. It’s on the Recknitz River.”

Stern could not keep the excitement out of his voice. “Brigadier, I know that area. My father and I used to hike the wilderness all around Rostock. I used to follow the Wandervogel around when I was a boy.”

Smith studied the map. “Totenhausen is practically on the Baltic coast. Much closer to Sweden than Natzweiler is. That would simplify both infiltration and escape.”

“Brigadier, it’s got to be Totenhausen!”

“I’m afraid I can’t make the final decision tonight.” The Scotsman rolled up the map. “But I can tell you this. Totenhausen was designed solely to test and manufacture Sarin and Soman. From a political standpoint, it’s the perfect target.”

Stern tried to control his impatience. “What do I do now? Where do I go?”

“Some of my people will look after you.” Smith leaned forward and opened a window in the partition separating them from the Bentley’s driver. “Norgeby House,” he said, then closed the window and turned to Stern. “There is more to this mission than killing people. There are other objectives which are extremely important. After the SS garrison is destroyed—”

“Just a minute,” Stern interrupted. “You said we had to kill the prisoners?”

“Yes. I’m afraid there’s no way around it. We can’t jeopardize the mission by trying to warn them. Even if we did warn them, there’s no way to get them out of the camp, much less out of Germany.”

Stern nodded slowly. “Are they all Jews?”