The Haigerloch Project

“Let me see it.”

Kieffer took the notebook. He opened it. It was a folder holding two photographs. An elderly man and an elderly woman smiling gently from opposite sides.

“My — parents,” Decker said. He sounded apologetic. He held out his hand for the photo folder.

“You'll have to get rid of it,” Kieffer said gruffly, angry at the man's stupidity. “It cannot be found on you if we are stopped and you are searched. A man being abducted hardly has time to pick up a family photo album.”

“No,” said Decker. His outstretched hand began to shake.

“It's for your own protection, dammit!”

“No. I shall keep it.”

Kieffer glanced at the German. He recognized the look of near-panic in the man's eyes. Perhaps the photos were his assurance, he thought. His link to sanity. He could not take the chance of having the man lose control. Not now.

“All right,” he said shortly. “But I shall keep it — until we are safely across the lines.” He put the little folder in his pocket.

“That's it,” he said firmly.

Decker looked down.

“Anything else?”

Decker shook his head.

Kieffer unrolled the webbing.

“Put your hands behind you,” he ordered.

Wordlessly the German obeyed.

Quickly Kieffer made an eight-loop with the webbing, slipped it over Decker's hands and pulled it tight. He wound it around the man's waist and tied it securely in the back.

He stepped in front of the trussed-up scientist.

“Your choice,” he said quietly. “You still want that knock on your head?”

Decker looked petrified. Two terrors fought in his mind. The fear of getting hurt — and the greater fear of falling into Gestapo hands without every possible proof of innocence.

He nodded.

Kieffer took the soiled hat from the man's head. He brought out his gun from its shoulder holster.

Decker shivered. He screwed his eyes tightly shut.

Kieffer quickly struck him a glancing blow on the temple, hard enough to break the skin.

Decker sagged, but caught himself.

He opened his eyes. He looked surprised.

Kieffer grinned at him.

“It's a beaut!” he said. “No one can doubt you've been hit over the head.” He replaced the hat.

Decker smiled weakly. A trickle of blood seeped from under the hat rim and oozed down his cheek. Kieffer did nothing to stem it. He took Decker's arm.

“Let's go.”

They walked to the entrance. Cautiously Kieffer looked outside. The street was empty. He stepped from the doorway and waved to the waiting jeep. At once Marshall drove up to the door.

Quickly Kieffer bundled the trussed-up Decker into the back seat and jumped in beside Marshall.

The jeep motor sputtered, missed, caught under Marshall's educated manipulation, faltered for a beat and started down the deserted Ostbahnhofstrasse.

4

Kieffer looked at his watch 0212 hours. If all went without a hitch, they'd have no trouble making the crossover rendezvous on time.

Mayen had been left behind. According to Kieffer's map, the road on which they were traveling should join the highway to Wittlich-Bitburg in less than a mile. It was a different route from the one they'd taken coming in. Kieffer had decided not to pass through the hospital area and the evacuation activity there but to get out of town the quickest way possible. It was a slightly longer route, passing through Kaisersesch instead of Daun, but there was time enough.

Decker had uttered not a word since getting into the jeep. He was huddled in a corner, his head lowered to his chest. Kieffer could almost feel the tension emanating from him. The jeep engine with the makeshift German rotor had developed a wheezing, clicking sound and missed quite often. It obviously worried Marshall, who sat rigidly hunched over the wheel. Kieffer tried not to think what would happen if the damned thing gave up altogether.

He peered into the night darkness ahead.

In the distance he could make out a row of trees marching across the countryside, diagonally to the road. That would be the highway.

They drove on.

Kieffer strained to see. He thought he could make out some darker shapes at the road junction.

They were almost there.

Suddenly the scene stood out clearly. A chill of alarm hit him.

Roadblock!

Two-wooden barriers strung with barbed wire had been placed across the road. Two motorcycles with sidecars were pulled off the road nearby, and four soldiers stood at the barriers, Schmeissers at the ready. German MP's.

One of the MP's stepped forward. He raised high his Verkehrsanzeiger—his traffic baton — an imperative order to halt. The red illuminated dot in the disk on the end of the baton glowed malevolently.

Marshall drew in his breath.

Kieffer turned to him.

“Jerry!” His voice was urgent, taut. “Stop the jeep fifty feet before the roadblock. Keep the motor running.” He gave a short nod toward the man in the back of the jeep. “Keep him quiet,” he growled, “any way you have to!” He buttoned up his greatcoat and pulled the officer's cap firmly down on his head. “If anything goes wrong — you run that damned roadblock! Get Decker back!”

Marshall started to protest.