Greg Iles - Black Cross

Brigadier Smith folded his maps with amazing dexterity for a one-armed man, then tucked his case under his arm.

“Take him up the hill, Sergeant,” he ordered.

When Stern finally trudged into the Nissen hut behind the castle, all his muscles were shaking with fatigue. By then someone had sent an orderly to the hut with blankets, pillows, and matches, but McConnell was not yet asleep. He was reading his German textbook by the light of the paraffin lamp.

Stern collapsed onto his cot and lay staring at the ceiling.

McConnell closed the book. “What were you doing to get so wet?”

“Studying electricity. What about you?”

McConnell dropped the textbook on the floor. “Colloquial German. SS protocols and orders. Plus a little organic chemistry.

“Say something in German.”

“Wie geht es Ihnen?”

“ Ach , your accent is terrible!”

“Tell me something I don’t know.”

“Don’t worry,” Stern said in an exhausted voice. “I’ll do any talking that needs to be done. I doubt we’ll have to do much.”

“I suppose we’re going in dressed as Germans?”

Stern turned his head and looked across the narrow space that divided them. “Why do you say that?”

“Christ, they’re fitting us up with German weapons, they’ve got me studying SS orders. . . What else could it be?”

Stern said nothing.

“I’ve been doing a lot of thinking lying here,” McConnell said. “And I’ve got to tell you, this mission doesn’t make sense.”

Stern’s voice was suddenly wary. “What do you mean?”

“I mean how the hell are two men going to disable a nerve gas plant? One man, really. As far as I can tell, I’ve got nothing to do with the sabotage. There must be other men going on this mission. Men we have yet to meet.”

“Is that all you’re worried about?”

“No, frankly. It’s the whole concept. Look, Stern, whether you believe it or not, I am committed to this mission. But I don’t like problems that don’t add up. It’s the logic — or rather the absence of it — that bothers me. I just don’t see how Brigadier Smith can be telling us the truth. At least he isn’t telling me the truth.”

Stern tried to sound unconcerned. “Why do you say that?”

“Think about it. If the Allies possess no nerve gases, as Smith claims, this mission of ours isn’t going to solve the problem. So we disable one plant. Big deal. I know for a fact that the Germans already possess massive stockpiles of Tabun, and probably Sarin as well. My seeing the inside of the plant that produces Soman would help Allied research, granted, as would photographs. But is that worth letting Hitler know how much we fear his nerve gases? That’s what this raid is going to do.

“Also, Smith claims he’s sending us in there to steal a sample of Soman. He doesn’t need us for that. SOE already managed to smuggle out a sample of Sarin without our help. I analyzed the damned thing myself.”

Stern watched McConnell closely.

“But if the Allies do possess nerve agents, this mission is completely unnecessary. We could simply send a sample of our gas to the Reich Chancellery. ‘Sorry, Adolf, we’ve got it too.’ ”

“The British wouldn’t do that,” Stern said.

“Why not? We know the Germans already have the stuff. And by doing that we would avoid any chance of a massive retaliatory gas strike. If we cause a large release of Soman in the process of disabling this plant, Hitler might well hit London with every ounce of nerve gas he’s got.”

Stern forced himself to keep silent. The American’s questions were disturbing — unless you possessed the missing pieces of the puzzle. Unless you knew that the British did possess their own nerve gas, but only a minuscule amount. And that in ten days, Heinrich Himmler was going to convince an uneasy Adolf Hitler that the super-weapon best suited to destroying the Allied invasion on French sand was nerve gas. And that the only chance of stopping Himmler was to convince him that Hitler’s fears were true: that the Allies not only had nerve gas of their own, but would not hesitate to use it.

Stern knew McConnell would instantly grasp the logic of that. But he also knew the American would never willingly take part in the ruthless attack required to do the convincing. Yet one question McConnell had raised stuck in Stern’s mind. If the British possessed a limited amount of their own nerve gas — as Brigadier Smith claimed — why didn’t they simply send a sample to the Reich Chancellery as McConnell had suggested? Or at least leak evidence of their capability to Himmler? Why risk massive chemical retaliation by wiping out everyone in Totenhausen?

As he tried to fall asleep, Stern could not suppress a suspicion that even he was not being told the whole truth about the mission. And only then did he realize that the first worm of doubt had entered his mind long ago, probably the moment he realized Brigadier Smith intended to lie to McConnell. Because if the SOE chief was willing to lie to an American to manipulate him, he would not hesitate to lie to a Jew he considered a terrorist.

The question was, what could he be lying about?

Deep inside the Porton Down chemical research complex, a frustrated chemist stared through a heavy glass window at the hairy face of a Rhesus monkey. The monkey was strapped to a metal chair inside a chamber not very different from the E-Block at Totenhausen Camp, though much smaller. The chemist knew it must be his imagination, but he had the distinct feeling that the monkey was grinning at him in mockery.

“Increase the dose,” he said.

The hiss of gas released under pressure sounded in the lab.

The monkey bobbed its head several times, but continued to breathe. And yes, it was very definitely grinning now.

The chemist slammed a hand down on his knee, then went to his desk, picked up the telephone and asked to be connected to a telephone number he had been given early that morning. There was a bit of a muddle at the other end, but soon an authoritative voice said, “Brigadier Smith here.”

“This is Lifton, sir. Porton Down. We’ve established a new limit, but I’m afraid the news isn’t quite what we’d expected.”

“Well?”

“Nonlethal after forty-two hours.”

“Bugger all!” Smith bellowed. “What’s the problem?”

“It’s stability, sir. We’ve got lethality, and if I may say so, we’re lucky to have that. The Germans have had their best people on this for years. Given time, I’m sure—”

“Doctor, you have exactly five days to give me a gas that will remain lethal for one hundred hours. Keep me posted.”

The chemist jumped at the sound of the disconnecting line.

“Oh, Richards?” he said to his assistant.

“Yes?”

“Do we have a pistol near to hand?”

“Not that I know of, Doctor Lifton. One of the guards outside might lend us one, I suppose. Why?”

The chemist stared furiously into the gas chamber. “Because I’d like to shoot that damned monkey.”

19

Rachel’s plan to gain Frau Hagan’s confidence had worked. She wasn’t sure why. Perhaps it was the fanatical vigilance with which she guarded the door each night during the Circle. Or perhaps the detailed answers she gave when Frau Hagan asked about war news she’d heard on the BBC in Amsterdam before being captured. Once she had even sensed a vague sexual interest on the Block Leader’s part. In the end she did not care why Frau Hagan had taken her under her wing — only that she had.

For the last two days, the big Pole had invited Rachel to come on what she called her “morning patrol” of the camp. Rachel felt terribly nervous without Jan and Hannah beside her, but Frau Hagan assured her that the children were safe. The “patrol” was really more of a morning constitutional, though the Block Leader did notice many things Rachel missed. She noted which sentries were posted where, which of the three SS doctors under Brandt had slept late, the volume of black market traffic in clothing and utensils and sexual favors exchanged behind the showers, and a dozen other things.