“We live wherever London needs us. Move all the time.”
The meeting was over. Anna gave the Poles the rest of the food from McConnell’s bag. Miklos thanked her effusively, while Stan greedily eyed Stern’s Schmeisser. On impulse, McConnell reached into his bag and took out his own Schmeisser, which he held out to Stan and indicated through hand motions that he was willing to trade for the bolt-action Mauser and a box of cartridges. Stern started to object, but then apparently thought better of it.
They made the trade.
As they were leaving, Stan Wojik gestured at Stern with his new submachine gun and said, “Can you fool the Germans in that uniform?”
In a transformation that stunned McConnell and Anna more than the Poles, Stern planted both feet wide apart on the ground, squared his shoulders, put his hands on his hips and barked several lightning commands at the Wojiks in harsh German.
The big Pole took a step back and laid his hand on the meat cleaver. Then he looked at McConnell and laughed nervously. “I think maybe he does that too well! Careful he doesn’t get to liking it.”
Stern relaxed and shook Stan Wojik’s hand again. “Your radio set has adequate range?”
“Sweden is only a hundred and sixty kilometers across the water.” The Pole grinned and thumped his broad chest. “If we don’t get confirmation, I’ll steal a boat and sail across myself! You’ll get your bombs, my friend. Farewell.”
“
As they drove back along the Dettmannsdorf road, Stern said, “That’s the kind of brave son of a bitch who won’t survive this war. He’ll never win a medal, and he’ll die blindfolded and alone against some dirty brick wall.”
“Shut up,” Anna said from the backseat. “Even if that’s true, there’s no point in talking about it.”
McConnell had to agree.
They had no trouble getting back to Anna’s cottage. The trouble started after nightfall, when McConnell and Stern tried to slip up into the hills to retrieve the two gas cylinders they needed to booby-trap the SS bomb shelter. Three times they had to drop to their bellies in the snow to avoid SS patrols with dogs. The soldiers were working in pairs, mostly on foot, though one motorcycle with a sidecar had roared past on the narrow switchback road, spewing a rooster tail of snow behind it.
Before leaving the cottage, Stern had told McConnell that their German uniforms would be enough to prevent anyone taking a close interest in them. So far, he had shown no inclination to test his theory.
When they finally reached the pylon where the cylinders hung, McConnell caught his breath in astonishment. The two wooden support poles were as thick as oak trees, and joined at the top by a heavy crossarm. He could faintly see the outline of something hanging from one of the power lines, but in the confusion of the treetops he couldn’t be sure what. He did not see how they could climb to that crossarm in the dark, but Stern lost no time proving the boasts he had made at Achnacarry. He quickly donned his climbing spikes, then the gas mask McConnell had persuaded him to wear (though without the full body suit it was practically useless), tied a long coil of rope to his belt, and went up the pole like a chimpanzee. Forty seconds after he put metal to wood, he was straddling the crossarm sixty feet above the ground.
McConnell heard a few metallic clinks above him, but nothing else. After about fifteen minutes, the first gas cylinder materialized out of the darkness above his head. The camouflaged tank descended silently, swinging in a gentle arc as Stern lowered it with the heavy rope. When McConnell tried to stop the swinging, to keep the protruding pressure triggers from striking the snow, the cylinder knocked him to the ground.
Seeing this, Stern tied off the rope at the crossarm and descended. He had wisely disarmed the triggers before lowering the cylinder, and the two of them let the tank down without serious incident. By the time Stern climbed the pole and repeated the process, his muscles were cramping from overexertion.
“You’ve got a big stain on your uniform,” McConnell told him when he reached the ground the second time.
“Tar,” said Stern, pulling off his sweat-soaked gas mask. “The nurse will have to get it off. Are you ready?”
“I don’t suppose we can drag these things?”
“Not if you want to live until morning. The tracks would lead the SS right to us. What is it, Doctor? What are you thinking?”
McConnell crouched beside one of the cylinders. “I was thinking . . . we might be able to test the gas before the raid, to see if it works or not. Then we’d know whether the attack was even worth trying.”
“Can we do that?”
McConnell lightly touched one of the pressure triggers, then examined the cylinder head. “I don’t think so. Not without losing the entire contents of a cylinder. We’d have to trip a trigger to get the cap off, and after the cap is blown, there’s no stopping the gas.”
“What the hell?” said Stern. “Let’s try it. One cylinder should be enough to kill everybody in that bomb shelter.”
“You’re missing the point. If we empty one of these things, and the gas works, it could kill every living creature for a hundred yards around. How long do you think it would take Schorner’s patrols to discover that? Also, the SS would hear the detonator go off. And even wearing a suit, I wouldn’t want to be anywhere close when it blew. It’s just too goddamn dangerous.”
McConnell stood up. “No dress rehearsal. Let’s move.”
“McShane said something about using carrying poles to move the cylinders,” Stern said. “We can tie our toggle ropes between two long branches and cradle the tank like a body on a litter.”
“Sounds good. It’ll take two trips, but it’ll be worth it.”
It took a few minutes to find dead branches strong enough to take the weight, but once they did, the rest went quickly. They moved with silent purpose through the trees, each knowing that poor concentration could mean death for them both. Their spirits rose when new snow began to fall, mercifully covering their tracks.
They buried the two cylinders in a copse near the winding hill road. It would be a simple matter for Anna to stop Greta’s VW there tomorrow night, just long enough for Stern and McConnell to chain the tanks under the car.
On the way back to the cottage, they kept off the road as much as possible. They were moving down the Dornow side of the hills when Stern smelled the telltale odor that had given him early warning of danger so many times in his past: cigarette smoke. He reached out for McConnell’s arm, but felt nothing.
He dropped onto his belly without a sound.
A match flared in the darkness three meters ahead.
In the first second Stern realized many things: that they had blundered unawares onto a road cut; that there were two SS men standing in the cut, holding machine pistols in one hand and cigarettes in the other; that their heads were at the level Stern’s knees had been before he dropped; that McConnell was too far away to warn without giving himself away. He could only hope the American had smelled the smoke in time.
He hadn’t. By the time the match flared McConnell was already at the edge of the road cut. When he tensed, his weight broke the ledge of packed snow and he half-tumbled, half-slid down into the road and crashed onto his stomach.
The SS men nearly pissed themselves with fright, but they managed to throw down their cigarettes and aim their machine pistols at the groaning figure on the ground. A German shepherd broke into furious barking.
Seeing the dog, Stern simply ceased to exist in his own mind. He possessed no mass, made no motion. He knew the slightest sound or faintest odor might draw the animal’s attention.
One of the SS men dragged McConnell to his feet and shined a flashlight into his face. The second man covered him with a machine pistol. The SS uniform and captain’s rank badge confused them. They didn’t recognize McConnell, but they weren’t yet confident enough to treat him like a criminal. The man with the flashlight began asking questions in rapid-fire German while the shepherd growled menacingly. McConnell said nothing, merely handed over his forged identity papers.
The man with the flashlight examined them closely.
Four feet above them, Stern silently slipped his Schmeisser off his shoulder and crept forward like a mink over
