Black Cross

“The shoemaker makes shoes. Weitz summons children to be violated, then killed.”

“What about the last boy?”

“Probably gassed with the men,” someone speculated.

“No,” said Frau Hagan. “He was shot last week. At the pit.”

“Why didn’t you tell us?” asked a dismayed voice.

“What could you have done, Yascha?”

Rachel realized then that Frau Hagan could recognize people by the timbre of their whispers.

“Enough talk,” the Pole said conclusively. After a brief silence, she said, “You have good ears, Dutch girl. Irina flattened herself against the outside wall to avoid the searchlight. Is that what you heard?”

Rachel swallowed. “I heard something. I lived in hiding for three years in Amsterdam. Above a shop. There were customers in and out all day. The slightest noise meant danger.”

“You learned well. From now on, you will guard the door.”

Rachel closed her eyes. Was that a good thing, to be guard? If it kept her in Frau Hagan’s good graces, it probably was. But would the woman called Heinke become her enemy now?

“Did you hear me, Dutch girl?” Frau Hagan asked.

“Tomorrow I guard the door.”

“Yes. Now sleep. Everyone.”

Rachel heard the creak of brittle wood as the Block Leader climbed into her bunk. Since her second day in camp, Rachel had watched the men with pink badges — and every other man — like a mother hen, but so far had detected no sign of impropriety toward Jan. Could the commandant of Totenhausen be the danger Frau Hagan had warned her about? Could there be two kinds of selection that had to be avoided to survive? If so, how could she protect her son? The Herr Doktor held absolute power of life and death over every inmate. He had already ordered the death of her husband. If Klaus Brandt wanted to abuse her Jan, she was helpless to stop him.

With a shiver of loathing, Rachel remembered Ariel Weitz. If Weitz was Brandt’s procurer, perhaps he could be bribed to leave Jan alone. She had the five diamonds. Yet even if Weitz could be bought, would it help? Brandt probably chose his victims while walking through the camp in his white coat, pretending to be a healer. It was unspeakable. Yet it was reality. She could not fly back to Holland with her children beneath her wings. She would have to think of something.

Where could help lie? The shoemaker had proved he had compassion, but Rachel had hardly seen the man in the past four days. And what of Anna Kaas? The young nurse obviously felt some sympathy for the prisoners. Could she suggest some way to keep Jan out of harm’s way? Rachel thought of Jan and Hannah lying in the Jewish Children’s Block just meters away. A Sephardic Jewess from Salonica had the job of sleeping in the children’s block to keep order. At supper Rachel had given her half of her own bread ration in exchange for a promise that Jan and Hannah would be allowed to sleep side by side. She’d considered offering the woman a full week’s ration in exchange for her job, but finally decided against it. A week without bread would set her on the road to starvation, and while she would be closer to her children, she would be farther from the adult women who knew the rules of survival, particularly Frau Hagan. As a German shepherd howled on the camp perimeter, Rachel decided that the Block Leader was her tether to life, her bridge to survival. Whatever Frau Hagan needed, she would get from Rachel Jansen.

Guarding the door would be only the beginning.

16

McConnell’s driver arrived in Oxford at six A.M. as Brigadier Smith had promised. One hour later he deposited his passenger and two extremely heavy suitcases at the entrance to King’s Cross Station in London, with instructions to board Train 56, which departed at 7:07 A.M. for Edinburgh, Scotland.

The station echoed with the voices of servicemen from ten different countries wearing dozens of different uniforms, and all apparently more lost than McConnell. He did not see how he could possibly find Smith — or how Smith could find him — in the throng. Yet as he sidestepped a Canadian in the midst of bidding a tearful farewell to an English girl six inches taller than himself, he felt someone tug at his arm. He turned and looked into the twinkling blue eyes of Duff Smith. The SOE chief wore a natty tweed jacket with the left sleeve pinned to the shoulder.

“No uniform today, Brigadier?”

Duff Smith smiled but said nothing. He led McConnell to a private compartment, a luxury beyond price on the crowded train. Jonas Stern sat sullenly beside the window. After closing the door, Smith shook McConnell’s hand and said in a jovial voice, “Glad to have you aboard, Doctor.”

McConnell nodded at Stern, but the young man offered no greeting. McConnell’s trained eye instantly noted the faded hematomas beneath his skin. Obviously Stern had not spent a peaceful week since their last meeting.

“What’s all that rubbish?” sputtered Brigadier Smith, pointing at McConnell’s bags. “You’re not going to Brighton for the month, you know.”

“I know. It’s equipment, and it’s necessary.”

“We’ll be supplying your gear for this trip, Doctor. You’ll have to leave these behind.”

“You can’t supply this equipment, Brigadier.”

Smith looked intrigued. “Let’s have a look, then.”

McConnell turned the heavy suitcases on their sides and opened them. One contained what appeared to be a pile of folded rubber, topped by some type of transparent rain gear for the head. The other case held two yellow cylinders about twenty inches long, and some corrugated rubber tubing.

“Is that German printed on those tanks?” Smith asked.

“Yes. These are portable oxygen cylinders taken from crashed Luftwaffe bombers. I figured if we’re trying to pass ourselves off as German, we should be carrying German equipment.”

“Good thinking, Doctor. Really. But I don’t think I’ve ever seen a gas suit quite like that.”

“It’s the latest American impermeable suit.”

“How in God’s name did you get hold of it?”

“I still have a few friends Stateside, Brigadier. Edgewood Arsenal in Alabama. I’ve been experimenting with this suit for a month now. The clear vinyl gas mask was developed for soldiers with severe head wounds. I modified it to accept a hose from these oxygen cylinders, using some new equipment from the underwater diving field. I also developed and installed a specially trained acetate diaphragm to enhance speech capability. You’re looking at the only airtight suit in the world that allows soldiers to see each other’s faces and speak while fighting.”

Brigadier Smith looked at Stern. “I told you he was the right man for this job, eh?”

For once Jonas Stern had no glib remark ready. “Do you have two of those suits?” he asked.

McConnell closed the cases and sat down opposite him. “Yes. And you’re damn lucky we’re about the same size.”

Brigadier Smith picked up a straw basket from the floor. “Rations in here, lads. I won’t be making the trip with you, but I’ll see you sometime tomorrow.”

“So where are we going?” Stern asked. “Can’t you tell me, now that he’s finally here?”

Smith stuck out his lower lip. “If you must know, you’re going to Achnacarry Castle.”

“Where in God’s name is that?”

Duff Smith smiled. He’d heard that question repeated a hundred times before. Achnacarry. The name alone was enough to send some men into a cold sweat. “Some say it’s the end of the world,” he said. “But there’s others who claim Achnacarry’s the next thing to heaven. Mostly Scotsmen. Camerons, at that.”

McConnell looked up sharply at the name Cameron.

“Why the hell are we going there?” Stern pressed.

Smith stopped smiling. “First, secrecy. Second, training. Third, time. Gentlemen, I cannot tell you why, but the time factor has suddenly become critical. In eleven days, the target of our mission will cease to have any strategic value.”

“But if time is a problem,” Stern argued, “why go all the way to Scotland? For God’s sake, just tell me what you want done and put us into Germany. I’ll make sure it gets done.”