The Haigerloch Project

“Work the rope loose,” he growled. “Hurry! Gisela! Stand in front of him. Cover him!”

He heard her voice, husky with tension. “Yes, Dirk.”

Harbicht was smiling again. A derisive grimace.

“Throw your gun away,” he cried. “Come over here. Slowly. With your hands on your heads. All three of you.” His voice was mocking them. “Then we will talk deal!”

Dirk's thoughts were racing. Time A few minutes. Seconds, perhaps. He had to stall. How? Oh, God, how?…

Sig was working feverishly. The first few turns came off easily. He was down to the last belaying loop. It was caught and wedged so tightly by the enormous weight of the catwalk that he could not budge it. Desperately he ripped and clawed at the jammed rope, splitting his fingernails. He made no headway….

Dirk riveted his eyes upon the Gestapo colonel. The man was the only thing in the world that existed for him. He stood like a menacing SS Mephisto clad in his black Nazi uniform, feet firmly planted on the stage floor, oblivious to the spirals of smoke rising around him. He seemed to have stood there in the middle of the empty stage for hours….

Stall!

“Colonel Harbicht!” he yelled. “Perhaps you are right. Perhaps you can get us to talk. But — it will take time. Do you have that time?”

He strained to make out what was happening behind him. It was impossible…. What was Sig doing, dammit? What was holding him up. He fought down the urge to turn around. Hurry…!

“If you will let the others go,” he continued, “I will talk now! Answer any questions you may have!”

Harbicht made a small gesture of dismissal with his hand. Somehow it was a gesture infinitely sinister. “Only one question is of interest to me,” he cried. “Answer that for me. Now! And I may be inclined to discuss letting the girl go free!”

“What is it?” Dirk yelled.

“Tell me why the reactor test at Haigerloch failed.”

Dirk's heart skipped a beat. The test was a bust! And the Germans did not know why! They'd pulled it off. God dammit, they'd pulled it off!.. More than ever it was imperative that they not talk. The thought was sobering. He took a firm grip on his Luger. He shot a desperate thought at his partner. Sig!…

“I don't know what you are talking about, Colonel,” he shouted. “You should know that already. We blew it up!”

Harbicht glared at him. He did not comment. It was enough. The charade was over. He would give the order to fire. Only one of the terrorists was armed. The leader. They would shatter his knees. He smiled a chilling smile at the thought. The man would still be able to use his tongue….

Sig was sweating. His hands were bloody. The rope would not come loose…. One last thing he could try. But the SS would surely see him do it. He would have to try to move the belaying pin itself. Jiggle it in its socket. The rope might slip off. Just might… But he would have to use all his strength. He placed both his hands on the head of the pin. With all his might he pulled. He pushed. He jerked and jerked….

Harbicht saw the sudden movement. He froze. In that single instant he knew with blinding certainty that something was irretrievably wrong. He raised his hand….

There was a sharp whoosh. The rope flew from the belaying pin. It whipped up into the air.

Out over the stage the heavy catwalk hurtled toward the stage floor from the gridiron above, the rope screeching through the pulleys.

For a split second the SS soldier guarding the break in the wall glanced up In that same instant Dirk fell to one knee and emptied his gun at him. The man toppled over — dead before he could even register the cause of his alarm.

The catwalk crashed to the stage. The fire-weakened floorboards over the center trap gave way in a thundering cascade of charred and splintered wood. The catwalk, the flooring and the SS men plummeted down into the inferno raging in the storage rooms below the stage.

All but Harbicht.

At the last possible moment he grabbed hold of a protruding plank. Desperately he fought to hold on. To pull himself up. To crawl to safety.

Dirk and Sig and Gisela stood petrified with shock, their eyes fixed on the sight….

A gaping hole had opened up in the middle of the stage. A hole into hell itself. Below, fire and smoke boiled and belched in unbridled fury. Sprawled across the blazing papier-maché rocks from some Wagnerian opera, tangles of burning tree limbs, carts, benches, stools, picture frames — a jumble of a thousand theatrical props — two figures were being consumed by the flames. Costume mannequins? Or Rauner and the SS man…

Harbicht was hanging over the seething pit like a pig over a roasting fire. His uniform was beginning to smoke.

Dirk took a step toward him. The singeing heat drove him back.

Harbicht's eyes met his. The hate in them seared Dirk's own, or was it the scorching heat from the pit below?

The skin on Harbicht's hands and face was blistering. His hair blazed.