The Haigerloch Project

And the underbrush closed in around them.

They kept running. The forest thinned. Ahead of them stretched a patchwork of fields. Close to the edge of the woods stood a barn.

They ran to it, entered it cautiously.

It was deserted.

They sank down on a pile of hay inside the door.

For a moment they sat in silence — each with his own thoughts.

Sig's face was pale, his eyes bleak. He looked out through the open barn door — out over the night-darkened land before him.

Germany.

Their passage into enemy country had been dearly bought.

Dirk stood up, walked over to the wall.

“Look,” he said. “Look what I found!”

He hauled out a rusty man's bicycle, wheeled it into the faint light from the doorway, examined it.

“Two flat tires,” he said “Otherwise as good as new.” He turned to Sig. “How are you on riding the bar?” he asked.

* * *

It was rough going on the flat tires. Sig was perched uncomfortably on the bar of the frame. It cut into his buttocks His rucksack was fixed to the handlebars. Dirk was pumping along the country road. They were a couple of miles from the deserted barn. A broken signpost had read: LANGENWINKEL, 2 KM.

The rolling hills on either side were cultivated. Fields and pastures lined the roadway. Ahead they could make out the darker shapes of farmhouses and barns. That would be the village of Langenwinkel.

They were coming up on a little roadside shrine There would be the painted figure of a Madonna under the peaked roof, Sig thought.

Suddenly two figures stepped out from behind the shrine They planted themselves firmly in the middle of the road, effectively blocking it. One of them, a burly, powerfully built man, raised a gun, aiming it directly at the two riders.

“Halt!” he commanded.

Dirk stopped at once. He almost lost his balance, but managed to steady himself. He was staring down the two black holes of a double-barreled shotgun.

“Get off!” the man ordered. “And raise your hands High!”

14

Standartenführer Werner Harbicht was tired. Tired and irritated. He glanced at the sallow-faced, middle-aged man sitting stiffly perched on the straight-backed chair across from him. Beads of perspiration stood out on the man's bald pate and glistened on his upper lip Distasteful.

It was getting late. Past 2300 hours. He had spent hours questioning the frightened little milksop And had learned nothing. The man had come prepared with reams of records and sheaves of invoices documenting the fact that the gramophone-records company Electrola Musikplatten had used its ordering-number code system for years. With charts and graphs the man had explained their marketing methods ad nauseam. Harbicht had a sinking feeling that he was getting nowhere. But why the devil had that page been torn out? There had been no new developments in the Decker case; the man had vanished without a trace, and now his hunch concerning the Electrola code seemed to be thoroughly refuted.

But his mind still itched….

He contemplated the record-company executive resentfully. He did not like failure. In others — or in himself. He knew he could, of course, get the man to admit to anything. He wouldn't shy away from a little — persuasion, if it would give him information he wanted, but it would be of no value, and he resented the sweating little man for that. He was also offended by the stink of fear that enveloped him.

There was a knock at the door. Harbicht looked toward it with annoyance.

“Herein!” he called sharply. “Come in!” Verflucht nochmal! — Dammit! — Rauner knew better than to interrupt him during an interrogation.

The door opened. His aide, Obersturmführer Franz Rauner, entered and clicked his heels.

“I beg your pardon, Herr Standartenführer,” he said gravely. “But I thought you would wish to see this at once.”

He walked over to Harbicht and handed him a note.

Harbicht glanced at it, frowning, then stiffened. He turned to the apprehensive little man watching him.

“That will be all, Herr Staudinger. For tonight,” he said curtly.

The little man looked pathetically relieved. He bobbed his bald head.

“Jawohl, Herr Standartenführer,” he said. “Of course. Thank you, Herr Standartenführer!”

He was feverishly stuffing his papers, his charts and graphs into his voluminous black briefcase.

“I suggest, Herr Staudinger,” Harbicht continued, his voice like poisoned honey, “I suggest that you give our little talk some serious thought.” He smiled — but with his lips only. “You are a pleasant gentleman, Herr Staudinger. Cooperative. Loyal to the Führer and your Fatherland, I am certain….” He frowned ruefully. “I should very much regret if our — ah — relationship should — how shall I put it? — deteriorate….

Staudinger stared at the colonel, fear darkening his eyes. He licked his bloodless lips.

“Of course, Herr Standartenführer. Of course.”