The Haigerloch Project

He had a sudden icy vision of Ramon, his Filipino classmate. The guy looked just like a Jap. He'd been picked up by the police in some little Midwestern town where he'd been sent on his field problem. It was a good idea — the field problem. It was as close to the real thing as a novice agent could get — without laying his life on the line. He'd be up against the FBI and local law-enforcement agencies who didn't know him from the real article. It wasn't always a picnic. The local gendarmes who'd picked up Ramon thought they'd captured themselves a real, hot-off-the-griddle spy. They'd beaten the shit out of him. Broken his nose, half his teeth, seeing themselves making the Midwest safe for democracy. They didn't know, of course, that Ramon was one of the good guys, and they took their own sweet time calling the Washington executive number he'd finally given them.

The FBI knew just as little about him, he realized. They didn't know he was on an OSS field problem. He had no identification. It was a kind of getting-back-in-shape exercise after his abortive mission. His chest and elbow suddenly hurt. He swore under his breath. Shit! They'd play it for real, too….

He adjusted his head-set. It felt sweaty. Did his ears sweat, for crissake?

He had to make sure. If it was an FBI intercept — he'd better beat it the hell out of there. Fast!

His fingers flew over the keys.

IF PAUL WHAT IS MANNY'S RETREAT?

He waited.

Almost at once the answer came.

SHITHOUSE.

He sighed.

WILCO, he sent. HOTEL ADAMS FRANKLIN NEAR POTOMAC OUT.

He sat back. He was conscious of his body relaxing. He had not been aware of his tenseness.

It had to be Paul. Only he could know that the camp latrine was nicknamed Manny's Retreat because Mannering, the mess sergeant, spent all his leisure time there reading girlie magazines.

He ripped up his enciphered message. He packed up his X-35 set that looked for all the world like an ordinary portable typewriter. An Underwood.

He contemplated the antenna rig.

The hell with it.

Dirk Vandermeer, OSS agent Van G-8, stretched out on the bed to wait.

9

Major Rosenfeld felt like a salesman — with a second-rate product to sell. The worst of it was that he had to make the sale. He had nothing better to offer. And General McKinley was no easy mark.

He glanced at Colonel Reed. Your turn is coming up, Buddy, he thought without satisfaction.

He cleared his throat and continued his presentation. His sales pitch.

“Vandermeer possesses the following qualifications necessary for the job, sir,” he said persuasively. “He was born in Rotterdam in 1919 and came to the States as a pre-teenager. His father, still living, is a cheese importer in Brooklyn. The boy spent his high-school vacations in Holland and practically crisscrossed Germany as a Wandervogel—”

McKinley raised an inquisitive eyebrow.

“A term for young hikers, sir, making their way on foot through the country,” Rosenfeld explained. “He learned to speak German fluently on those trips,” he continued. “Not a difficult thing to do for someone brought up speaking Dutch.”

He referred to some notes.

“He joined the OSS immediately after Pearl Harbor,” he went on, “and finished all training courses in the top ten percent.” He frowned slightly. “He — he did not like being addressed by his OSS code name, Van G-8, and chose to be called by his own name, Dirk, contrary to instructions” He glanced at the general. “He is — eh — somewhat of an individualist, sir, but most effective. He has already proven himself courageous, imaginative and resourceful. He—”

Hold it, he thought. Don't oversell. He cleared his throat.

“He has had field experience on two OSS missions in Holland. The first an unqualified success. The second terminating in quite serious injuries. He—”

“How serious?” McKinley interrupted.

“One rib on his left side was partly sheared away, sir His left elbow was shattered He has regained only partial use of the arm. About eighty percent. He can, however, function perfectly all right and has recuperated remarkably well. But those wounds will provide him with a bona-fide excuse for not being in uniform in Germany.”

“He hasn't come up — eh — gun-shy in any way, has he?”

“No, sir. There have been no indications that he has.”

McKinley nodded. “I see.” He paused.

Here it comes, Rosenfeld thought bleakly.

“What are his scientific qualifications, Major?” the general asked.

Rosenfeld looked him straight in the eyes.

“None, sir,” he said. “None whatsoever.”

McKinley frowned. He sat back in his chair.

Okay, Reed, Rosenfeld thought, take it, dammit, take it!

“Sir.” It was Colonel Reed. “We do have another possible subject.”

“Let's have it.” McKinley sounded cool.

“His name is Brandt, sir. Sigmund Brandt.”

“Another OSS agent?”

Reed looked uncomfortable.

“Yes, sir,” he said, “and — no….”

“Which is it?” the general asked icily.

“Yes, sir. Since this morning.”

“What training has he had?”

“None.”