The Haigerloch Project

The Bierstube was packed with men, all talking too loudly and laughing too boisterously. It sounded as if, for a brief span of time, they were trying to drown out the dismal voices of war. Every table was occupied and only a few scattered chairs were empty, one of them at the table Dirk, Sig and Oskar had taken. They had come early, before the shift break at the railroad yards had jammed the place. They had chosen a small table against the wall near the kitchen door, waiting until it had become available and barely beating two burly stokers to it. Dirk had selected it. The wall protected their backs and the door would provide a quick exit if necessary. It also afforded a good view of the front entrance and the side door to the rest room, the only other means of entering or leaving the main Gastzimmer. It was as safe as possible.

Weber had taken them to the Bierstube. He and Otto had met Himmelmann there before. It was always filled with customers intent only on their beer and temporary escape; a place where nobody paid anyone else the slightest attention. Himmelmann, who stayed in Hechingen, had a room nearby, and it was not unusual for him to stop in at Zum Güterzug for a short beer.

The three men had already emptied a couple of large steins of Löwenbrau hell—and Dirk's kidneys were quickly afloat. He had visited the cramped, pungent rest room — three urinals and two stalls. There was one small window with a sooty, cracked pane, easily opened, leading out to a narrow alley with an exit at each end. Good enough.

He watched the front door. Halfway up the two large windows that flanked it, heavy, streak-faded curtains hung from massive brass rings on sturdy wooden rods, making it impossible to see in — or out.

Oskar touched his arm.

The man who entered the Gastzimmer through the front door looked to be in his sixties. Unruly gray hair set him apart from the close-cropped Bierstube habitués. He was tall, six or six-one, Dirk estimated, with a slight stoop.

He looked around the crammed room and his eyes did not pause as they passed over the three men at the wall table near the kitchen door. For a moment he stood at the door acclimatizing himself to the din.

Oskar turned to his two companions.

“You may find the Herr Professor perhaps — strange to you,” he said slowly, as if searching for words that eluded him. “You must understand,” he said. “He is betraying his friends. His work. Himself.” Oskar spoke with quiet earnestness. “He must hate himself for it — even though he knows he must do what he does.”

Himmelmann began to make his way toward the table at the rear wall. Neither Oskar nor his two companions paid him any attention. Oskar took a healthy draft of his beer. He wiped his mouth with the back of his hand.

“But he is a man of vision, the Herr Professor,” he said softly. “He has the power to see the oak tree where only an acorn lies.”

Himmelmann came up to the table. He placed his hand on the back of the single empty chair.

“Ist dieser Platz frei?” he inquired.

Oskar glanced up. “Yes,” he said. “It is free. Sit down if you wish.”

“Danke.”

The man sat down. Expressionless eyes flitted across the faces of Dirk and Sig. Then the newcomer turned to catch the eye of the waitress plowing her way through the throng. He held up one finger. Then he turned to Oskar.

“Where is Otto?” he demanded abruptly.

“He is dead,” Oskar said quietly. Himmelmann started. Alarm showed briefly in his eyes. Oskar went on quickly. “It was an accident, Herr Professor. At the yard. No one suspects.”

Himmelmann's tension eased. “Tut mir leid,” he mumbled awkwardly. “I am sorry….” He turned to look at Dirk and Sig, his eyes hostile.

“You are Otto's — friends.” It was a statement rather than a question.

Dirk nodded. “We are.”

Sig looked at the German with distaste. How offhand the man had been in dismissing Otto's death. Was that what living in the midst of war did to you? Or living under the Nazis? Or — being involved in subversive work? He gave a quick glance at Dirk.

The plump waitress appeared at the table. She plunked down a stein of beer without disturbing the head and plunged back into the crowd. Himmelmann picked up the stein. Silently he contemplated the sparkling bubbles. Dirk spoke to him.

“You are Gustav Himmelmann?”

The scientist nodded. He regarded Dirk and Sig with hooded eyes.

“I am Van,” Dirk said. “My friend's name is Sig.”

Himmelmann nodded curtly.

“You will agree, Herr Professor, that we do not want to be seen talking too long or too seriously together — here.”

Himmelmann nodded, his face cloudy.

“With your permission, then, I will ask a few questions.”

Again the scientist nodded. He began to sip his beer.

“Very good,” Dirk said. “First, the jackpot question.” He took a deep breath. “Is the work at Haigerloch an atomic project?”

Himmelmann looked up. His cold eyes met Dirk's.

“Yes,” he said evenly.