Perfect Payback, page 13
“That’s insane.” His rested his hands on his hips. “Who do you think is trying to set you up?”
My hands shook so hard I had difficulty handling the food. Lying will do that to an honest person. “I don’t know, and I don’t want to get you in trouble. If you’ll let me spend the night and stay the next day, I’ll leave. But I need rest.”
“Of course. Stay as long as you want.” His tone was sincere, just as I’d expected.
“Have you seen Anna?” Just thinking about her saddened me. I longed to touch her soft skin and smell the wonderful fragrance of her hair.
“Yes. She knows the Gestapo picked you up, and she’s upset. Do you want to see her?” He moved to stand.
“Nein. Nein.” I gestured for him to sit back down. “I can’t get her involved, and I’m putting you at risk just by being here.”
“Don’t worry about me. This is so crazy. I know you could never do anything to betray Germany.”
I hoped I wasn’t doing anything to betray him. “Look, Fischer, I—”
Knock. Knock.
I sprang off the couch, tensing.
“Quick. Into my bedroom. Shut the door.” Fischer’s voice was soft but urgent. “I’ll get rid of them.”
I hurried to his bedroom and cracked the door so I could see.
He straightened the sofa cushion, rushed my plate of half-eaten chicken into the kitchen, and ran back out. He paused, composing himself, before opening the door. “Heidi, how good to see you.”
She walked in, and he shut the door.
“It sounded like you were talking to someone.” Heidi pushed her wind-blown hair from her face.
Fischer laughed, but it didn’t sound normal. “Nein. I was talking to myself. I often do that when I’m having a problem with my work. It helps me break up the cobwebs in my mind.”
Heidi stood by the door, her arms crossed as if she were cold. “Do you have any more news about Hans? What has the Gestapo done with him? Anna’s worried sick.”
Fischer motioned to the sofa. “Please sit. I’ll tell you what I know.”
She shook her head. “Anna called crying. I’m on my way to see her.”
“The people at the aircraft factory said Hans was a spy.”
“Do you think he’s guilty?” Heidi’s tone was low. Concerned.
“He’s not the type to betray his country.” The way Fischer stood up for me only made me more determined to prove to Hoermann and Keitel that he was innocent.
“So sad.” She shifted from side to side. “I thought I’d check to see if you had any information.”
“Anna works at the Gestapo office. I would think she’d know something,” Fischer said.
Heidi shrugged. “I asked her. Nothing was discussed in her department.”
Fischer cupped a hand over his mouth. “This doesn’t look good. But I will never believe Hans would be a traitor to his country.”
Heidi took a deep breath and exhaled, then took Fischer’s hands in hers. “I don’t know what to do to help Anna. I’m sorry to rush, but she’s expecting me. Please let me know if you hear anything.”
“Yes, of course.” He kissed her cheek. “Give my best to Anna.”
After he shut the door, I walked into the living room.
He peeked through the curtains, watching her leave. “Are you sure you don’t want me to tell Anna you’re okay?”
“Nein. Nein. I told you, I don’t want her in the middle of this.”
Fischer nodded. “Of course, you’re right.” He looked at me and grinned. “Changing the subject, you could use a fresh shirt and a good shower.”
I laughed. “I don’t think your shirt would fit, but I’ll take you up on that shower.”
He patted me on the shoulder. “I can take care of that, my friend.” He went to the bathroom, laid out a towel, wash cloth, and a bar of soap. “When you’re finished, you can have my bed for tonight. I’ll sleep on the couch.”
“That’s not necessary.”
“Nonsense. You sleep well, and I won’t wake you in the morning. You need rest.” He walked out of his bedroom and shut the door.
Just thinking about searching the apartment made me sick. The shower wasn’t going to fix my feelings, but it would wash the stink off my body. After enjoying the hot water far too long, I dried and went to bed.
The next morning, after I heard Fischer leave for work, I stayed in bed a good half hour, not wanting to do what I had to do. Finally, I pulled back the covers, dressed in the same filthy clothes, tried to ignore the stench, and went into the kitchen.
Fischer had left a note on the table.
There is a large slice of apple strudel in the refrigerator. Help yourself to the sausage and cheese for lunch. I will see you after work.
His kindness added to my guilt, but the thought of eating that repulsive sausage made me gag.
After breakfast, I started the search. I checked his bedside table—a pair of glasses, one copy of the newspaper Der Stürmer, and photos his mama wouldn’t approve of. They weren’t pictures I’d look at either. But Fischer could do what Fischer wanted.
I lifted the bedspread and looked under the bed next and found a shotgun. If he were a hunter, that would surprise me. My guess? The weapon was for protection. Luckily, I didn’t find a shortwave radio. A good sign. That was what I’d been concerned with the most.
The closet was next. I flipped through hangers of slacks, dress coats, and shirts. At the far back, I saw three dresses—one with bright yellow flowers, another with blue and white stripes, and the last a dirndl. Odd? Heidi’s? Or Fischer’s mother’s?
Several hat boxes lined the shelves above the hanging clothes. I reached up and lifted the tops off the boxes. Inside were women’s wigs in blonde, black, and brown.
Now I understood the photos. And I began to see Fischer in a different light. If the pictures didn’t drive his mother over the edge, the dresses would. As for me, I didn’t care. What he did in his private life was his business. He was still a good friend.
The last place I searched was his dresser. I looked in his sock drawer and discovered a metal object I didn’t recognize stuffed into a sock. I pulled it out and held it up, studying the two dials, number calibrations, and the depression button in the center. Shrugging, I stuffed it back where I found it—an odd place to conceal an instrument. But then, Fischer was turning out to be a little odd. I closed the drawer. Not wanting to be here when he returned, I left him a note thanking him for his kindness and called the number Keitel had given me.
He told me to meet him in thirty minutes in a wooded area behind Fischer’s place.
The sky was overcast and misty as I waited. The dreariness depressed me, and the chill caused me to shiver
At 3:00 p.m., Keitel arrived at the pickup point.
I opened the car door and slid in, blowing on my cupped hands to warm them. “Where’s Hoermann?”
Keitel turned the car around and headed back to the house. “He’s working on a project. Do you have any helpful information?”
I shrugged. “Not sure. Let’s wait until we get back. I still think you suspect the wrong man.” At least I hoped so.
We arrived at the house about twenty minutes later, when the heavy mist had turned into a shower. The windshield wipers made a soft whooshing sound as they scraped across the glass. We waited in his vehicle until several cars passed before hurrying to the back door.
Hoermann had papers spread all over the kitchen table and the countertops. He was good at his job, but his organization and neatness needed some work. “How was your night, Hans?” He never looked up from his clutter.
“Good.” Despicable me. I’d hated invading Fischer’s privacy.
Looking over the top of his half-frame glasses, Hoermann pushed away from the table and stood. “Let’s go to the living room.” He sat in a large-cushioned armchair with faded floral print marred with split seams.
I sat on the ugly brown couch. Like the chair, the sofa had seen better days.
Keitel brought a chair from the kitchen.
“Well, what do you have for us?” Hoermann linked his fingers together and rested his hands on his portly stomach.
They weren’t going to like what I had to say. I crossed my legs, resting my arm along the top of the sofa. “No shortwave radio. Nothing that would incriminate him.”
Hoermann glanced at Keitel. The disappointing looks they gave each other said it all. “If no transmission is done in a few days concerning the problem with the fuel injection system, we’ll have to concentrate our efforts on the draftsman. Are you sure there isn’t something?”
I wasn’t going to tell either of them about the dresses or wigs. I couldn’t do that to Fischer. I shook my head, then remembered something I could say. “There was an instrument about the size of a small cigar stuffed into one of his socks.” Then I went on to describe it in more detail.
Hoermann sprang from his chair, hurried into the kitchen, and returned. “Did it look like this?” He held up an item identical to what I’d found.
“Yes, exactly like that.”
Hoermann slapped his thighs, then his knees, and tried to slap the sole of his shoe attempting to do a traditional Bavarian folk dance. Finally giving up, he looked at me. “Do you know what this is, Hans?”
Chapter 28
der 28. März 1937
Augsburg, Germany
It is nice to have my journal back. My clothes and trunk, along with the rest of my possessions, have been moved here. That means I will not be going back to the hotel any time soon. Or maybe ever.
Hoermann thinks the gadget in Fischer’s sock drawer is a subminiature spy camera, so small that Hoermann could hide it in his fist. If he is right, that means Fischer’s probably taking photos of top-secret aircraft schematics. Though I am still not totally convinced he is the spy. Or maybe it is just that I do not want him to be. I am tired. I need to sleep…
“Wake up. We have news.” Hoermann stood in my doorway, his tone peppered with excitement.
I rubbed my eyes and looked at my watch. 9:00. I’d slept five hours. “What’s going on?”
“Come with me.” He didn’t wait for my reply.
I got up, slipped on my shoes, and followed him to the kitchen.
Hoermann’s cluttered mess had doubled. Even the kitchen chairs were crammed to overflowing.
“We’ve heard from the intelligence service. A transmission was picked up tonight,” Keitel said.
“And?” My heart almost stopped beating. The news could mean only one thing. Part of me didn’t want to hear it.
“Fischer took the bait. He sent out a transmission about the fuel injector.” Hoermann removed his reading glasses and looked at me as if he were waiting for me to add the punch line to a joke.
Without intending to, I obliged. “He’s the spy.”
Hoermann nodded.
Fischer was selling out Germany? How could he hate his countrymen so much he’d betray them? Why? I rubbed the enlarged knuckle on my right hand. Why would he do that? Did he think he was rescuing us from Germany’s leadership or was he being blackmailed? “When are you going to arrest him?”
“Not now. He may have an accomplice.” Keitel moved some paper stacks from a chair and sat, stretching out his legs. Locking his fingers behind his head, he said I told you so without using a word.
“If we pick him up, his partner will most likely leave the country,” Hoermann explained.
“What makes you think he has an accomplice?” I cupped a hand over my eyes and rubbed. Things were not looking good for Fischer.
“Russian spies work in pairs.” Keitel straightened and set his heavy hands on his knees. His deep-set eyes belonged to a medieval executioner with an axe. “If he’s been taking photos, someone could be helping him get those films out of the country.”
I swallowed hard as if that would get the bad taste out of my mouth. “And into Russia?” Would Fischer do that for money? He didn’t seem materialistic.
Both Hoermann and Keitel nodded.
“How will you catch the other spy?” I asked.
Hoermann peered over his half-spectacles, his eyebrows resembling slanting twigs. “We will continue to follow Fischer and concentrate on the restaurants and bars he frequents.” He cleared his throat, looking like now he had a bad taste in his mouth. “We believe he’s a transvestite.” Shifting, he cleared his throat again. “Anyway”—he waved his hand in dismissal—“We know the places they gather. We’ll film his every move. And hopefully, he’ll lead us to his accomplice.”
The photos in his bedside table and the dresses in the closet made sense now. How long had the Gestapo known about Fischer’s personal habits? I guess it really didn’t matter. “What can I do to help?”
“Once we have the films developed, we’ll need you to see if you recognize anyone he’s with.” Hoermann shrugged. “It’s a long shot, but who knows? The filming could be successful.”
“What’s your plan to film Fischer?”
“We’ve rented building spaces across from his apartment and his favorite bars and restaurants. We’re not letting him out of our sight,” Keitel said.
“What made you suspect Fischer?” I asked. That still bothered me. Why hadn’t I noticed anything peculiar? Shouldn’t I have?
Hoermann tugged on his forever drooping pants. “The night you and Fischer were attacked at the aircraft factory, he said he got to the plant after 11:00. I checked the register at the gate, and he logged in at 9:37. His lie made me suspicious. He may have been the one who jumped you and injured himself to make it look like he was attacked. We’ve tracked him ever since.”
My life was unraveling at both ends. My friend, who turned out to be a traitor to the Fatherland, was assisting Russia, a country that committed civil atrocities against its own people. Europe appeared to be rushing into war. My trust in people slowly withered like old wallpaper, curling and twisting away from the wall.
None of this made sense. None of it.
Chapter 29
der 10. April 1937
Augsburg, Germany
Being cooped up for the last two weeks has been tedious. But at least Messerschmitt allows Hoermann to bring my work from the office. The 109 engine keeps me busy when we are not watching the films taken of Fischer. We have been over them so many times looking for the smallest clue as to who is helping him. I have not recognized anyone going into his apartment or the businesses he frequents. When I suggested the draftsman at the aircraft factory as the other spy, Hoermann said that man had been cleared.
During breaks, Keitel challenges us to games of poker, betting matchsticks. Poor Hoermann does not even have a match left to light his cigar. He and I are becoming good friends as we struggle to discover Fischer’s accomplice…
I was sitting at the kitchen table going over the blueprints of the fuel injector when Hoermann burst through the backdoor.
Tilting his head back, he looked out from under those gnarly eyebrows, his dark, deep-set eyes full of anger. “This verdammt winter weather must end. It’s almost the middle of April, and this snow is driving me insane. Another arctic blast is headed our way tomorrow.”
I grinned at the mostly amiable comrade. “Why are you angry at me? I didn’t bring the weather.”
Hoermann’s temper caused him to sweat and intensified his body odor. He set his briefcase next to the sink and softly chuckled. “It’s not you, my friend. My apologies.”
Keitel followed him into the kitchen, unbuttoned his coat and laid it on the countertop. “He’s been this way all day. His bitching and moaning remind me of a constipated geriatric in need of an enema.”
I laughed, got up from the table, and grabbed Hoermann’s arm. “I’ll hold him down. Keitel, get the warm water ready.”
“Stop, Hans, you burly bastard. You’re making me laugh, and I’ll piss myself. Get me a bier,” Hoermann commanded.
I turned him loose and gently jabbed his right shoulder. “A bier it is.”
Keitel had already opened the refrigerator, pulled out three bottles, and popped the lids.
Hoermann yanked a wadded handkerchief from his back pocket, blew his nose, and then belched. He looked at Keitel first, then me. His puffy lips straightened. “See what you made me do.” He wiped his mouth with the same cloth. “Is the projection screen set up in the living room?” He pointed his bier bottle at me.
I nodded.
“Keitel, get the projector ready. I’m going to answer Mother Nature.”
While Hoermann took care of business, I helped Keitel thread the film. “What’s the location of this roll?”
“The Reigele Wirsthaus restaurant last Saturday.” Keitel flipped off the overhead light just as Hoermann came in and took his usual seat in the faded armchair.
The projector flickered, sending images across the screen of Fischer approaching the restaurant. He met a lady on the street, shook her hand, and spoke a few words before walking away.
I grabbed Keitel’s arm and shook it hard. “Run that back again.” I asked him to repeat that process two more times.
“Do you see something?” Hoermann’s voice arched as though the anticipation was more than he could stand.
“Can you pull out the previous film of Fischer at this restaurant?” Had Fischer and the woman exchanged something? Maybe film? And was that really a woman—or a man dressed as a woman?
Keitel turned on the overhead light and laced an earlier tape of the Reigele Wirsthaus. As it played, the projector heated up, the smell reminding me of an overbaked chocolate cake.
The scene was almost identical to the most recent. The same woman wearing the same coat met Fischer on the street in front of the restaurant. Again they shook hands and talked briefly.
A thump, thump, thumping started in my head, and I peered harder at the screen.
