Perfect Payback, page 11
She pointed to the room, her face tight, lips barely parted. “Nein. You go tell those people to move and have the Ratskeller pay for their dinner. I specifically asked for the table in the corner next to the fireplace, and I was told that it would be available at the time I requested.”
The young man reminded me of a scolded dog as he walked—tail between his legs—into the dining area.
I watched as he approached the customers. Luckily, they nodded without much fuss and stood as a waiter moved their plates and drinks to the table mistakenly assigned to us. The free meal no doubt made the process easier.
The spring in his step as he came back was obvious. “Fräulein, your table will be ready in a moment. Please allow us to still pay for your dinner, and I deeply apologize for the inconvenience.”
Anna smiled, a genuine smile. “We all make mistakes. But the issue is how we handle those mishaps. You did a marvelous job, and I will tell your employer this establishment is fortunate to have you.”
The glow in the man’s face told me everything about how the compliment made him feel.
I’d made mistakes in the past, and I too appreciated when people noticed my efforts to correct them.
After our table by the fireplace was cleaned, we took our seats.
Frederick, Anna’s favorite waiter—the one she introduced to me our first time here—approached us with glasses of water. As he set the drinks in front of us, she asked, “How’s your family?”
“Very well. Thank you for asking.” His expression turned warm. Leaving the menus, he gave us a few minutes before he returned to take our orders.
Anna looked at Heidi. “So what did you translate for the Augsburg newspaper today?”
She adjusted the cuffs of her white silk blouse. “Well, America is obsessed with Germany’s military advancements. A writer for the New York Times discussed the BF-109 fighter plane engine. What makes this engine so special, Hans?”
It seemed as though Heidi was always asking about my work. “It’s powerful and fast.” I shrugged.
Heidi interlocked her fingers and nodded. “Fast and powerful. I see.” She tilted her head to the side as though she judged my answer as weak and superficial.
I leaned forward in my chair. “We’ve gone over this before. Even if I told you the mechanics of the engine, you wouldn’t understand.” I grinned, taking the edge off what could be interpreted as a curt response.
Heidi’s scrunched nose reminded me of a little girl. She slouched back in her chair and smiled. “Hans, you are such a bore. I give you the best compliment I can by showing interest in you and your work. Come on, just tell me one thing about the German marvel.”
I softly tapped the table. “It doesn’t have a carburetor.”
Heidi folded her arms across her chest, looked at Anna and Fischer, then back at me. “What’s a carburetor?”
Everyone laughed at Heidi’s typical dry humor.
After a good meal and a few drinks, it was time to close out the evening. Fischer was not only a good coworker but a great friend. I was getting to know Heidi better and felt comfortable teasing her.
Wishing Anna didn’t have to leave town in the morning, I gave her a light kiss goodbye outside the restaurant and watched her walk down the sidewalk.
As I headed back to the hotel alone, I couldn’t help checking over my shoulder and wondering if I had been targeted earlier. And if so, why?
Chapter 26
der 22. März 1937
Augsburg, Germany
The weekend seemed short. My work on the 109’s engine probably helped pass the time. Fischer was taking work home to get ahead. My goal too. If I get caught, it could lead to trouble. But as he said, “What management does not know cannot not hurt them.” I remember Barron telling me about Russia wanting our fighter plane technology and how important the fuel injections system is to the plane’s performance. In light of that, sneaking the engine schematics out of the factory has been a mistake. A mistake I hope I will not regret…
When I got to work, the guard at gate was checking everyone’s identification cards closely. He stopped me and ordered that I report to Messerschmitt’s office immediately.
My shoulders tensed. Did he already know I’d taken work home?
Fischer met me in the hallway a few feet from the cafeteria. “Hans, we have time for coffee. Come join me.” What was with his huge grin? He looked ridiculous.
Shifting my briefcase to my left hand while unbuttoning my overcoat, I kept walking. “Messerschmitt wants to see me.”
Fischer gave me a thumbs up as I passed. “Maybe you’re getting a pay raise.”
“Not counting on it.” Not if Messerschmitt had discovered how I’d spent my weekend. Then I’d be getting fired.
Messerschmitt’s beautiful secretary greeted me with her usual sexy grin. “Gut morgen, Herr Pepperman. Herr Messerschmitt is waiting for you.”
I loved her soft, baritone voice. In spite of what I might be walking into, the way she directed her grin at me was a boost to my ego. “Danke.” I smiled back, giving her a slight nod, and stepped into the office.
Messerschmitt stood at the window, his back to me—feet spread, one hand on his hip, a cigarette between his first two fingers. And he wasn’t alone. There were two other men with him… one of them Hoermann.
The tension in my shoulders tripled. This summons was about more than me taking work home. The fact that Hoermann was here confirmed it. I glanced at him questioningly, but he avoided my gaze. Not good.
Messerschmitt walked from the window and took a seat at his desk. He crushed the cigarette so hard into the ashtray the tobacco splintered into different directions, his glare so intense, I looked away.
Had Messerschmitt found out about my ties to the military intelligence? Or had Hoermann let my boss in on our secret? Was he going to fire me? Or something worse? I felt queasy.
Settling onto the couch, Hoermann folded his arms across his chest, refusing to look at me in a way that negated every conversation we’d ever had.
No, he hadn’t let Messerschmitt in on anything. Did Hoermann think I had?
“Have a seat.” The other man in the room was the first to speak. Tall with a formidable physique, he had blond hair that still showed the tracks from the comb he’d obviously pushed through it earlier this morning. He pointed at the chair across from Messerschmitt’s desk, the gesture a command not a request.
My mind reeling, I sat and dropped my briefcase next to the chair. I didn’t want to give anything away until I knew what this was about. It could be nothing, right? Not even a little part of me believed that. It was definitely something. And probably something big.
The blond man moved the chair from the desk with little effort, squared it in front of me and sat, his posture a little too starched—just like his black uniform, brown shirt, and black tie. “I’m Dieter Keitel with the Reich Security Central Office of the Gestapo.”
Gestapo. My breathing growing shallow, I risked another look at Hoermann—whose refusal to acknowledge me never wavered. There were two reasons the Gestapo would be here. They’d discovered my secret meetings with Hoermann. Or they still linked me to Heinrich Adler’s death.
“Move your chair to face me,” Keitel said. “I want to look at you.” His bass voice demanded as much respect as his chiseled jawline and steel blue eyes.
My heart thrashed at the power coming off him, especially since he’d so completely directed it at me, but I did what he asked, trying not to show my anxiety. Until now, I’d never feared another man. But this man? He not only expected that fear, he’d earned it.
Keitel leaned forward in his chair, his stare piercing.
I don’t know what kicked up my heartbeat harder—wondering what he was going to say or waiting for him to say it.
“You. Are. A. Russian. Spy.” Not even under the guise of a question, those five words came at me loud and clear.
And they weren’t what I’d expected. At least, the part about Russia. Spy. Spy. Spy. The shock of his accusation boomed inside my head. What had put me on the Gestapo’s radar? All Hoermann had asked me to do was watch for potential espionage. For him. For my country. Not for Russia. And I’d seen nothing to report.
“Eyes on me,” Keitel instructed gruffly.
I did as he told me. I was innocent. So why was my heart taking off in a deep sprint? And Russia? Was this guy crazy? Brushing my hand against my chest, I kept my gaze from straying toward Hoermann and looked at Messerschmitt instead, even though getting fired had suddenly become the least of my concerns.
“I repeat,” Keitel said, “you are a Russian spy.”
I gripped the chair. “Nein, I’m not a spy.” My words were battle ready. I knew what the Gestapo did to spies. And I didn’t like having my character questioned. “I love my country. I can’t even speak Russian.” As if any of that mattered, but my desperation didn’t know that.
“Hoermann.” Keitel motioned for him to come closer.
Why hadn’t Hoermann mentioned I was on the same side? Why didn’t he now? He could’ve changed the way this conversation was going with a few easy words.
Picking up a suitcase I hadn’t noticed before, Hoermann set it on Messerschmitt’s desk, still acting as if I didn’t exist. His cold demeanor made me sweat.
For a few moments, the room was bizarrely silent except for the clock on the wall as it ticked to the cadence of my racing heart.
The Gestapo agent tapped, tapped, tapped on the side of the black case. He flipped the gold latches, and they popped against the leather case. He lifted the top. “Do you know what this is, Hans?”
Inside was a box with five or six knobs and dials with what looked like a transmitter button and a headset.
I shrugged, but my shoulders felt stiff. “A communication radio?”
The agent nodded. “A shortwave radio to be exact. Do you know where we found it?”
“How would I know that?” I shook my head. “I’ve never seen it before.”
“Interesting… since it was under your bed at the Bauer Hotel.” Each word he spoke was slow, distinct, and dipped in accusation.
Those arschlochs had been in my room. Someone was framing me. “That’s not mine.” I swallowed hard, but my mouth was so dry it was difficult to speak.
The Gestapo agent stood. “Do you know how Germany deals with spies? With traitors? With müll?”
Der Tod. The Death. “I don’t know how the radio got there.” I swiped my palms on my pants. “I’m not a spy. You’re making a mistake.” This time I couldn’t help looking at Hoermann.
He sat motionless, cold, detached. He may as well have been a statue in a park. Why wasn’t he defending me? Or at least saying something?
Keitel hiked me off the chair by my collar. “Put your hands behind your back.” He reached inside his coat pocket and pulled out a pair of Clejuso handcuffs and locked them around my wrists so tight they pinched my skin and cut off the circulation.
I looked at Hoermann, past his soiled tie and bulging girth, and he looked at the floor. I’d agreed to help him, and he’d sold me out. “Pathetic slob,” I whispered under my breath.
Meanwhile, Messerschmitt turned away and lit another cigarette. He wasn’t any better. He knew how hard I’d worked to correct the problem with the 109, how hard I’d worked here for him, yet he offered no support either.
I had no friends in this room. And that amped my fear into anger. I’d been painted into a corner with no way out. Clearly Hoermann and Messerschmitt weren’t going to be any help. That I felt betrayed was an understatement. I clinched my jaw, my chest heavy, scrambling for a way to prove my innocence.
Agent Keitel grabbed my arm and pulled me toward the door. “Let’s go.”
I jerked from his grip. “Where are you taking me?” I’d heard stories, whispers about Gestapo tactics, that melted my anger into fear once more.
Keitel latched onto my bicep, his hold stronger and forceful. “I said move. Don’t make this difficult.”
“Hans, just come with us.” Hoermann finally decided to speak.
I didn’t like what he said. Why should I listen when he’d done nothing to help me? “I trusted you.” Each word was an accusation.
Picking up on the fact that I was about to spill everything we’d talked privately about in the past, he grabbed my other arm, his stare warning me to say nothing else. “If you’re not guilty of espionage, you’ll be released. Now move.”
“You and I both know exactly what I’m not guilty of,” I mumbled as he walked me to the door. I didn’t bother looking back to Messerschmitt. No better than Hoermann, my boss could go to hell. I hoped he choked on that filthy tobacco stick.
Walking down the hallway in handcuffs was humiliating. About thirty people stood by their office doors gawking at me. Some of the looks were of disgust, others appeared sympathetic.
I passed Fischer leaning against his doorframe. His eyes were fixed on me, but I had no idea what he was thinking. I’d expected at least a little something from him. A smile of encouragement. A glance of empathy. We were friends, weren’t we?
Hoermann opened the back door to Keitel’s car, helped me in, and slid in next to me—a little too close.
Keitel drove us out of the factory parking lot.
The silence was interrupted only by the shifting of gears and the thud of tires passing over potholes in the road.
The longer we drove, the more regret gnawed at my gut. I should never have agreed to help Hoermann. “Damn it, someone talk to me. Where are you taking me?”
“Away from Augsburg,” Hoermann answered with disgust, as if I’d been the betrayer.
There was still time to become that. “I’m not guilty of anything.”
“Then you won’t mind telling us all about the shortwave radio and who you are working with.”
I wanted to say, I’m working with you. But something made me bite back the words. I kicked the back of the seat instead.
Keitel swerved off the road, hitting the brakes so hard my head bounced against the window. Turning, he pointed at me. “You kick the back of this seat again, and I’ll pull you out of the car. Believe me, you won’t like what happens next.” The rage in his words made me a believer.
I sat back, thinking about torture—pulling fingernails, beatings, cutting off ears—then death. Not a good picture. Did things like that actually happen, or were they stories spread to keep German citizens in line? The more I learned about the Nazi Party, the more I hated their ideology.
About forty-five minutes later, the car turned onto a dirt road that led to a rundown, old stone house that looked as though it should be deserted. It wasn’t. A single empty vehicle sat parked in front.
Hoermann forced me out, and we followed Keitel up the concrete steps and through a heavy, weather-beaten door.
The stale, metallic smell of blood mixed with urine and vomit hung in the air, giving a new validity to those stories of torture. Were these smells the remnants of people who were here before me? Did their deaths linger on the walls and the floor?
Keitel dragged me to the middle of the room and forced me into a metal chair in front of a table. He stepped to the other side to sit in a matching chair that had been pushed close to a large floodlight.
Not terrible. A floodlight I could handle. I relaxed a little until I saw another table against the wall lined with short strips of rope and a few pairs of rusty pliers.
Keitel caught me looking at the table. “Ah, you see the pliers. We use those to crush knuckles. The ropes? You don’t want to know what they’re used for.” His grin convinced me I was in the presence of evil.
I glanced away not wanting to think about what might happen in this room.
Two men stepped out of the kitchen. One had a huge white bandage on his nose. The other’s walk was labored, his legs spread out. The chumps from Friday night. Not a welcome sight.
“Did you know they tried to rob me?” Gesturing toward the men, I looked at Hoermann.
Hoermann shook his head while Keitel looked at the two but said nothing.
I wanted to ask the one with the bandaged nose about his breathing and the one with the tender testicles about his sex life, but my 150 IQ suggested that wasn’t a good idea, and I listened. No doubt they’d relish the opportunity for payback. I glanced at the pliers again. I had enough issues right now without antagonizing those melonheads. I smelled my own sweat, sure that everyone else could too. I must project strength, not weakness. Couldn’t expose my inner fear. I tried to clear my throat, but it was so dry I could barely swallow. “Can I have a glass of water?”
Keitel tipped his chin toward the man with the nose patch. “Get him some water.” Then he moved behind me. “I’ll uncuff you, but don’t try anything foolish.”
I heard a click and felt the steel binders detach. I flexed both wrists, the blood flow to my fingers slowly returning.
Nose Patch brought me a glass of water, but he slapped the back of my head before giving it to me. His way to get even. The urge to punch him back was hard to ignore.
I drank the cool liquid. All of it. Who knew if they’d give me any more?
Keitel slid into his chair, and the stiff-legged man brought over a manila envelope and set it on the table.
Hoermann studied both of us for a moment, then turned and walked out the door. Not that he’d been any help, but his leaving added to my growing anxiety.
Keitel opened the packet, pulled out a binder, then turned on the floodlight, directing the light at my face.
I lifted my hand to shield the glare. Sweat popped out on my forehead.
“Put your hand down and look at me.” Keitel barked the order.
Obeying, I squinted but could barely see him.
