Black Cross

“Right.” Stern relaxed his neck so that his head hung limp over the chair-back. “Unless. . . ”

“Unless what?”

Stern straightened up and gave him an odd smile. “Unless I’m waiting inside the shelter with the detonator in my hand.”

“What?”

“It’s the only way,” said Stern. “I’ll wear one of the gas suits you brought from Oxford.”

“You’re certifiably nuts.”

“Are you saying the suit and mask you designed won’t protect me?”

“In a sealed room full of nerve gas? I damn sure won’t offer you any guarantee. Hell, that’s like playing Russian roulette.”

“I rather like the idea,” Stern said, glancing at Anna. “The simplicity of it. And I’ll be there to watch all those SS bastards claw each other’s eyes out.”

“Jesus,” whispered McConnell. “You’ve got guts, I’ll give you that.”

“It’s settled then.”

“Which brings us back to the radio,” Anna said softly.

Stern smoothed back his dark hair and gave her an appraising look. “You have a radio, don’t you, Fraulein Kaas?”

She shook her head. “The nearest radio we can use belongs to the Polish Resistance.”

“The Polish Resistance is operating nearby?”

“No, they’re in Poland.”

“But the border is two hundred kilometers away! You’d need a radio just to contact them.”

“I can contact them, Herr Stern. But you will have to take my word for that.”

“Why?”

“Because as reckless as you are, you might be captured. I cannot expose others to that risk.”

“You think I would tell the SS anything?”

Anna regarded him with suspicion in her eyes. “There should be no question of your talking, Herr Stern. I’m sure the British provided you with a cyanide capsule. They went to great lengths to provide me with one. Are you telling me you would not take your capsule if you were about to be captured?”

“They didn’t give me a cyanide capsule,” said McConnell. “Not that I want one or anything.”

Anna cut her eyes at Stern, but he avoided her glance.

“Do you have one?” McConnell asked him.

“Damn it,” Stern snapped, “I want to know how you’re getting word to these Poles. I must know if there’s any real chance to get word to Smith.”

“Word will get through,” Anna said with serene confidence.

“I know Smith has someone else inside that camp,” Stern insisted. “I know the codes for this mission. They were taken from that Clark Gable picture. We are Butler and Wilkes. You are Melanie. Smith’s base in Sweden is Atlanta, and Totenhausen is Tara. So tell me please who is Scarlett?”

Anna said nothing.

“You don’t have to give me a name,” Stern said, “just tell me the method of contact.”

She sighed. “Telephone. All right? Someone will call them for me.”

“From the village?”

“I will say no more.”

“I knew it!” Stern exulted. “Major Schorner is Scarlett. He is, isn’t he? Tell me! I knew you didn’t set up a link to London on your own.”

Anna went into the foyer and put on her overcoat. “Think what you wish, Herr Stern. There is only a little darkness left. I must be on my way.”

Anna arrived at Totenhausen winded and nearly frozen through from her bicycle ride over the hills. She had been rehearsing her excuse all the way: I neglected to properly store some tissue samples in the lab. . . . The words were on her tongue as the guard stepped up and peered at her through the electrified wire, but he just smiled and signaled for his comrade to open the gate.

She rode straight across the deserted Appellplatz to the hospital and entered through the back door. She made no attempt to move silently; stealth would draw more attention than noise. The hallway on the second floor was dark. She felt her way along the wide corridor until she came to the door she wanted.

She tapped softly, knowing it would be locked.

Almost instantly a threatening whisper said, “Who’s there? I have a gun pointed at you!”

“It’s Anna. Open the door.”

She heard a click. The door was pulled back. Ariel Weitz stood there in his shorts, a pistol in his hand. She walked past him into the room. It was hardly more than a broom closet, but it had hot and cold running water — luxury compared to what the other inmates endured. The smell of cigarettes and cheap schnapps hung in the air.

“What are you doing here?” he demanded.

“I need a crash meeting.”

“With who?”

“The Wojiks. And they must bring the radio.”

“You are crazy! You want me to call them?”

“Yes. Tonight. Right now.”

“I won’t do it.” Weitz shook his head with theatrical exaggeration.

“You must do it. Everything depends on it.”

His feral eyes suddenly lit up. “The commandos are here?”

“Just make the call, Herr Weitz.”

“How many? They are going to attack the camp?”

“Tell Stan to meet me at the same place as before.”

“I can’t,” Weitz said stubbornly. “Schorner will catch me.”

“I doubt that. He’s probably in bed with the Jewish woman.”

He gave her a sidelong glance. “You know about that?”

“I know many things. Why are you so anxious? I thought you were the nerveless one.”

“It’s Schorner. He’s changed. He hardly drinks anymore, always watching everything.”

“What do you expect, after one of his men is found murdered and wrapped inside a British parachute?”

“That was bad, you’re right. But I think it’s the Jansen woman as much as the parachutes. Schorner has come alive. He thinks he’s in Russia again.”

Anna summoned her most persuasive voice. “Herr Weitz, everything you have done up to this point has led to this one moment. Everything is ready. But nothing will happen if you don’t get the Wojiks to meet me tomorrow.”

He hugged his hands to his chest like a mountaineer fighting hypothermia. “All right, all right,” he said. “I’ll try.”

“You’ll do it. As soon as I leave.” Anna moved toward the door, then looked back. “And Herr Weitz . . . don’t drink so much.”

Weitz nodded, but his eyes were already far away. “I’m so tired,” he said, his voice modulating into a feminine register. “Everyone thinks I’m a monster. Even Schorner. My own people hate me worse than they hate the SS.”

“But that is what has allowed you to do what you have done.”

“Yes, but . . . I just . . . it can’t go on. I must explain. Make them see how it really is.”

Anna walked back and laid a hand on his bony shoulder. She tried not to recoil from the feverish skin. “Herr Weitz,” she said softly, “God sees how it really is.”

The bloodshot eyes opened wider.

“The Wojiks will be there tomorrow?” she said again. “Mid-afternoon? With the radio?”

Weitz closed his clammy hands around hers and squeezed. “They’ll be there.”