Perfect Payback, page 12
The sound of pages flipping seemed deafening in the almost empty room. “Well, Herr Pepperman, you’ve had an interesting life. This information describes you as a very active young boy, participating in soccer, ice hockey, and boxing. You were also a good student, top of your class, but at times challenging. Fistfights with older boys. Teachers had to correct your disruptive behavior. You must have been a real thorn in their sides.”
“Bullies.” Still squinting, I tried to focus on him. “The older boys bullied my classmates, and I took up for them. Is that a crime?”
“Did you win most of those fights?” Surprisingly, there was a note of admiration in his voice.
“What do you think?”
His laughter echoed off the cold, dirty, bare walls. “I think you probably did.”
Keitel’s dossier about my life went on for a least an hour. The light never wavered from my face as sweat dripped down and off my chin. The Gestapo knew I’d only lost two boxing bouts from the time I was sixteen through college. They knew about all the medals I’d won. They knew about my father’s brother Wilhelm moving to America.
Keitel took off his coat and rolled up his sleeves with his massive hands. “You visited with your Uncle Wilhelm and his son Patrick at the Olympic Games in Berlin.”
“Yes.”
“Your uncle works for the American government.” He flipped the pages of the manual aggressively.
“No. He’s an accountant.”
“He’s a spy.” Keitel leaned in.
Could he not hear the truth in my voice? My eyes were tired. I rubbed them with my thumb and middle finger.
Keitel nodded toward one of the thugs.
My hands were yanked behind me and once again shackled. This time behind my head.
“We’ve tracked your uncle from London to Hamburg,” Keitel said. “Do you communicate with him about your job?”
“Nein. I hardly correspond with him at all.” Where was the Gestapo getting their information?
“Who do you talk with using the shortwave radio?” Keitel’s voice ranged from very soft to very loud, his intimidation intensifying the interrogation.
“I told you the radio is not mine. Someone planted it in my room.”
The questions lasted all day. Keitel alternated having me sit and stand. And the light, so close to my face, almost burned. Sweat ran to the end of my nose. Not being able to wipe my face was another form of torture. I shook my head to get rid of the water, but more kept coming.
My legs ached from my hips to my feet, the pain so severe it felt like bee stings, pulsating at times. I was a disciplined person, but my emotions were out of balance. Without balance, there was no sanity. And always, that verdammt light shined in my eyes. The only saving grace? The pliers and ropes remained on the table unused.
Keitel finally walked away from me.
I caught his silhouette staring out the window. I couldn’t see Hoermann and the other two men, but I heard them moving behind me.
“Do you ever take work back to your hotel room?” Keitel asked, walking back to me.
“Yes.” Fischer and his dummkoph ideas. I knew taking work out of the office wasn’t allowed. Was that what landed me here on Keitel’s interrogation chair accused as a Russian spy? It didn’t even seem logical.
“Who do you share work secrets with?” Keitel continued his questions.
“No one. I’ve told you over and over that I’m not a spy.” Irritation mixed with exhaustion tainted my voice. “I took work home because I cared about my responsibility. I’m serious about my job.”
After a while, I couldn’t concentrate on his questions. The temperature dropped with the sun, and I was so cold I shook, and all I could think about was sleep. Every time I dozed off, someone sprayed ice water in my face. I became disoriented, and I hallucinated about wild boars chasing me through the forest.
Somewhere in all of this, I heard the door open and saw the outlines of a few more men enter the room. One strode over to whisper something in Keitel’s ear. Whatever was said changed his demeanor and made me think the man must be Keitel’s superior. I don’t know how long they stayed, but finally they filed out the door.
Fatigue settled in, and I pulled the plug on the chatter in my head. The questions and hallucinations and freezing water continued.
The sunrise came through the window three times before Keitel said to Hoermann, “Let’s take him to another location. I’ll get the car. You ride with him in the backseat.”
This was it. They were done with me. Now that I had no value, they were going to kill me, and there was nothing I could do to stop them. Closing my eyes, I gave up the fight to stay awake.
“Hans, Hans, wake up.” Someone lightly tapped me on the cheek. “Hans, can you hear me?”
Soft music was coming from somewhere. So weak I could barely raise my head, I opened my eyes to Hoermann’s face blurring in and out of my vision.
“You’ve been asleep for twelve hours.” Keitel leaned down on my other side and tugged on my shoulder. “Hans, can you hear me?”
Gasping for air, I let him help me sit up so I could look around. I was alive. And in a new place. The room was covered in faded floral wallpaper. There with empty spaces on the wall where pictures had once hung. The smell was different too. In place of urine and the metallic odor of dried blood, remnants of powder and perfume lingered. Maybe a woman’s space. But one thing was for sure, there were no lights, pliers, or ropes. And the other two men were gone.
Hoermann smiled. He actually smiled and seemed relieved. “Are you okay?”
Keitel left and came back with a sandwich. “I know you are hungry.” He handed me the plate. “Here, eat.”
I glance around again. “You’re not going to kill me?”
“We were never going to kill you,” Hoermann said.
Hoping the food wasn’t poisoned, I snatched the plate and took a bite of the sandwich, then another, and another. While still chewing, I asked. “Where am I?”
“You’re in a house in Augsburg.” Keitel had gone from impossible interrogator to normal person.
They let me finish my meal, and Hoermann brought me a glass of water. After he’d filled the glass twice more, I wiped my face with the back of my hand. Feeling stronger, I got down to business. “I want answers.” I grabbed his sleeve.
He tried to pull it from my grip. “You’ve been through a lot.” He attempted to soothe me with his tone.
It didn’t work. “Oh, really.” I gave him a glare and released his shirt.
Hoermann looked at Keitel, then back at me. “We know you’re not a spy, but we had to make it look as though you were. “
“What?” I mustered as much rage as I possibly could.
“We have an idea who is stealing our secrets,” Keitel said, “and we need you to set a trap for him. Will you help us?”
“Help you?” I focused all the contempt I was feeling at the man who seemed to have forgotten he’d tortured me for days. “After what you did to me?”
Keitel brought a chair to my bed and sat. “We had to make this look real in front of the other Gestapo agents because we can trust no one. I’ve applied sleep deprivation on a number of men, and everyone, except you, capitulated and told me what I wanted. You are one tough-minded bastard.” His tone was congratulatory.
“Most people would have lied to stop the interrogation,” Hoermann added, clearly proud I’d passed his insane test. “But you didn’t crack. You are to be commended.”
“That’s because I had nothing to tell. If I had, I would have told you.” Idiots. I wanted to scrub the floor with the two trottels, although I knew I was in no condition to do so.
While they continued to smile at me, I ran my hand over my head so I didn’t use my fists on them. How had I gotten into this mess? Even more, how could I get out?
Chapter 27
der 27. März 1937
Augsburg, Germany
I found paper in the house at Augsburg. It is not my journal, but it will have to do. Something about putting my life on paper helps me to sort it out. And right now, there is a lot to sort out. Messerschmitt had been in on Hoermann and Keitel’s plan all along. Does that mean I am not fired? As for whatever Hoermann has next for me, all I know is this line of work is definitely against my calling. Unfortunately, I do not think I am going to have a choice but to follow through…
The sun had just gone down when I heard a vehicle pull up. Keitel and Hoermann had gone out for the afternoon and left me alone. I looked through the curtains and watched them walk around to the back of the house.
The squeaky, water-stained door opened, and they both entered through the kitchen. Hoermann raised his hands above his head, lifting four bottles of Grolsch lager bier. “For your enjoyment, Pepperman.”
Keitel removed his black leather coat and draped it across a chipped wooden chair. “Is there anything else we can get you?”
“How about a razor?” I pointed to my stubbled whiskers. “And a change of clothes?” I tugged on my shirt.
“Not just yet. I’ll explain later.” Keitel put a brown briefcase on the table. Click. Click. Both latches flew open, and he pulled out a binder. Accepting the bier Hoermann handed him, he released the wire restraint, popped the cork, and took a big drink. When he set it on the table, foam gushed from the top.
Hoermann and I popped the corks on our own drinks. I lifted the bottle to my nose. Hops, barley, and yeast. It had been days since my last bier. I was going to thoroughly enjoy this delicious golden nectar before Keitel got down to business.
My opinion had not changed about the Gestapo agent. He was a loyal Nazi, and his political affiliations were twisted. I couldn’t help but grin at Hoermann. But I didn’t know how I could have been so wrong about the Abwehr Intelligence officer when I first met him in Baron’s office in Stuttgart. He had appeared to be loyal to Hitler, but it was his country he truly loved.
Keitel opened the three-ringed binder. “With your boss’s help, we’ve developed a plan to catch the suspected spy.” He had trouble turning the flimsy pages with his large, vein-covered hands and big fingers.
I leaned forward. What he said piqued my interest. “You said a plan to catch the suspected spy. You must have a name.”
Hoermann and Keitel looked at each other.
“We suspect two people,” Keitel said.
“Who?” I asked.
Hoermann’s sly smile seemed to indicate he knew. “One is a draftsman at the aircraft factory. He works in a different building, and you probably don’t know him.” There was a heavy pause. “The other”—he pulled on his earlobe—“is Ernst Fischer.”
His words were slow to register. I leaned back in my chair, shocked. “You’re joking, right?” No possible way Fischer was a traitor. I was a good judge of character. It had to be the draftsman.
“Do you think it was a coincidence Fischer was the one who found you the night you were attacked at the aircraft factory?” Hoermann asked.
“Here’s what we know.” Keitel’s words were concise. “Shortwave transmissions have been coming from the apartment complex where Fischer and the other man live. But we can’t pinpoint the exact location of the signals. This is where you come in, and why we can’t get you a new set of clothes. You’ll go to Fischer’s apartment and tell him you escaped from the Gestapo and want to hide out a few days until you can leave Augsburg.”
I turned my hands palms up. “What good will that do?”
Keitel lifted his hand. “You must let me finish. Messerschmitt knows you and Fischer are friends. He will ask Fischer to put your briefcase, the one you left next to Messerschmitt’s desk, in your office.”
“But why do I need to stay at his apartment?”
“I’m getting there.” Keitel’s voice took on some impatience.
Well, he definitely wouldn’t like what I said next. “You should know I had schematics of the 109 in my briefcase, and I wasn’t supposed to take work home.”
“Yes, we know.” Hoermann flipped his empty bottle in a trash can near the door. “Messerschmitt blew a gasket when he opened your briefcase. You’ll have to answer for that later. But he did remove the blueprints. Because you’re the only one who works on engine issues at the facility, Fischer won’t suspect that you’ll have left false information in the briefcase.”
“And just what false information would I be leaving?”
“Anything that won’t set off his alarm bells.” Hoermann shrugged. “But something that will be interesting enough for him to share.”
“If he’s the spy.” He couldn’t be. But I’d do what they asked. “I’ll jot down that the 109 fuel injection malfunctions after twelve hours and the injector needs to be redesigned.” It seemed a plausible lie.
Hoermann grinned as he tapped his fingers together. “If we intercept a radio transmission stating the fuel injector needs to be redesigned, we’ll know he’s the spy.”
I nodded. It was a clever plan. One that would let Fischer off the hook when he didn’t take the bait. “When is all this going to take place?” I looked at both men.
“Write the note,” Keitel said. “We’ll give it to Messerschmitt tomorrow. He’ll put it in your briefcase but won’t have Fischer take it to your office until we know you’re at his apartment.”
“What if Fischer doesn’t find the note or even go through my briefcase?”
“Then he’s probably not a spy,” Keitel said.
“Whose idea was this?” I crossed my arms, still not convinced.
Keitel pointed to Hoermann.
I wasn’t surprised. Whatever physical qualities Hoermann lacked, his mind made up for. But not all of his plan made sense. “I still don’t understand why you want me to stay with Fischer.”
Hoermann took a handkerchief from his back pocket, blew his bulbous nose, then stuffed the soiled cloth into his pants. “While he’s at work, you’ll have plenty of opportunities to look for evidence.”
“To clear him?”
“To catch him.” Keitel countered
I shook my head slowly from side to side. “This is a waste of time.”
Ignoring that last comment, Hoermann said, “After 10:00, we’ll drive you within a couple of blocks of his apartment and drop you off.”
“What if he’s not willing to take me in?” I lowered my head.
“We’ll hang back and see what happens. If he doesn’t want you to stay, we’ll pick you up and go with another plan.” Taking a cigar from his shirt pocket, Hoermann held it at an angle. He struck a match and kept it near the end of the tobacco, rotating the cigar until it was lit. His first draw seemed slow and controlled. After a few seconds, he tilted his head back and gently blew out a large puff of smoke.
The smell reminded me of the first time I met him. “What’s the other plan?”
He scratched his throat with his stubby fingers. “I’m working on it.”
“So, you have no other plan,” I said.
As if he hadn’t heard me, he walked out of the room and back to the kitchen.
When we left the house, we stepped into a moonless night. A loose shutter banged against the side of the house, wind whistled through the trees, and branches bent and scraped against the roof. I’d been reading Poe in my spare time. All the images of his stories stuck in my head.
I started to shake, not from the cold but from the unknown. I buttoned my coat and lifted the collar to block the wind. We walked to the front of the house, and I drew in several noisy breaths. I spat on the ground, then jammed the spit into the grass with the heel of my shoe before getting into the car. Just thinking about what I was about to do angered me.
As promised, Hoermann and Keitel dropped me a couple of blocks from Fischer’s apartment.
A car turned the corner onto his street. Anna’s car. I ducked behind a tree until the vehicle passed, warmth spreading up my arms into my heart. I wanted so much to see her. I watched her car until she turned into her building area and disappeared, my longing for her undeniable. Would I ever see her again? Did she know about my arrest? If she did, would she ever look at me again the way she used to? Could we have the same relationship?
Letting those thoughts go for now, I crossed the street. The curtains in Fischer’s living room were opened, and I saw him inside dancing around, flipping his arms in an awkward motion.
I let out a quiet chuckle. It didn’t seem possible he could be a traitor.
Raising a closed fist to the door, I rapped twice, wondering what he thought of me being a spy and if he’d even invite me in, let alone let me stay.
He opened the door, mouth parting, and adjusted his glasses. “Hans, what are you doing here?” He grabbed my arm, pulled me inside, shut the door, then locked it.
“Thank you for letting me in.”
He rushed to the window and pulled the curtains shut. “What’s going on? I’ve been worried about you.”
Could I do this? Could I lie to my friend? Yes, because that was how I was going to clear him. I bolstered myself up inside to play the role I had to. “The Gestapo’s been interrogating me.” I let all my earlier fear from when I’d been arrested show in my eyes. “I managed to escape. You’re the only one I can trust.”
Concern for me growing in his face, he pointed to the couch. “Sit, let’s talk. Can I get you something to eat or drink?”
“Yes, please.” I plopped down hard, feeling all the weight of what I was about to do. “I haven’t eaten in two days.”
After getting me some roasted chicken and a glass of water, he sat in a chair across from the couch. Thank goodness he didn’t offer that gosh-awful sausage he loved.
“Why did they arrest you?”
I chewed and swallowed a bite of chicken. “Someone hid a shortwave radio under my bed at the hotel. The Gestapo searched my room and found it. They think I’m leaking secret military information.”
