Greg Iles - Black Cross

“Pull into the trees,” Anna instructed. “Off the road.”

McConnell obeyed. Stern got out and looked around the car, his Schmeisser at the ready. McConnell followed, carrying a bag containing bread, cheese, and his own Schmeisser.

“I’ll go ahead,” said Anna. “Stan is very careful. I’ll talk to him first, explain things before you come out. In those uniforms, he’d shoot you down without a second thought.”

But when they arrived at the meeting place, no one was there. Stern and McConnell crouched in the snow while Anna walked into the middle of the clearing. A half hour later, a thin, nervous young man walked out of the trees and began speaking to her. He was unarmed, and looked strangely familiar to McConnell. They spoke a full five minutes before Anna motioned for Stern and McConnell to come out.

“Say something in English,” she told McConnell. “Hurry.”

“Well . . . fourscore and seven years ago, our fathers brought forth upon this continent a new nation, conceived in liberty—”

“Good enough?” she asked the thin Pole.

The young man mulled it over.

“Stan already saw both of you,” she told Stern. “He could have killed you any time. I’m glad he’s in a good mood today. Put your gun on the ground.”

Stern reluctantly obeyed.

“They don’t have their radio.”

“ What ?”

“They share it among three resistance groups. But they can get to it by midnight tonight.”

“That gives Brigadier Smith less than twenty-four hours to set up the bombing raid,” Stern said. “It’s going to be close.”

McConnell started as a giant of a man stepped from the trees less than twenty meters away. He had a thick black beard and carried a World War One vintage bolt-action rifle — probably a Mauser — which he pointed right at Stern’s chest. McConnell didn’t blame him. Stern looked every inch an officer of the SD.

“ Co slychac ?” Stern said in a friendly voice.

The big man’s face brightened. “ Pan mòwi po polsku ?”

Stern switched to German. “A little. I was born in Rostock. I knew some Polish seamen.”

The bearded man held out a meaty hand. “Stanislaus Wojik,” he said, vigorously shaking Stern’s entire arm. “That’s my brother, Miklos.”

Stan Wojik looked like a man who had lived by his hands before becoming an amateur soldier, but his brother Miklos was almost a caricature of a starving artist — a second-chair violinist in an orchestra of modest reputation. Hollow cheeks, and large eyes as sincere as a child’s. McConnell suddenly realized where he had seen the brothers before. They were the two other members of the “reception party” that had met the Moon plane on the night he and Stern landed in Germany. He reached into his sack and took out a block of English cheese. Stan nodded thanks and tossed it to his brother.

“Stan speaks fair German,” Anna said.

“Good,” said Stern, squarely facing the big Pole. “I think I should hold my gun on you while we talk. If someone comes up on us, I’ll say you’re both our prisoners. We stopped to eat.”

Stan Wojik shrugged and laid down his rifle. Stern picked up his Schmeisser. McConnell noticed that Stan Wojik had a heavy meat cleaver hanging from a leather thong on his belt. The big man patted it and laughed.

“I used to be a butcher,” he said. “I still cut meat occasionally.” He grinned. “Nazi sausage, when I can get it.”

Stern laughed appreciatively, then in a mixture of Polish and German began explaining what they wanted. Stan Wojik listened intently, nodding during each pause. McConnell only followed about half of the exchange. Stern and the elder Wojik ate cheese while they talked, but Miklos sat quietly beside Anna, his eyes hardly leaving her face.

When the conversation was finished, Stan turned to McConnell and said in German: “You are American?”

“Yes.”

“Tell Roosevelt we need more guns. We need guns in Warsaw, but Stalin won’t give us any. Tell Roosevelt with guns we can beat the Nazis ourselves. We aren’t afraid to fight.”

McConnell saw no point in trying to explain that the odds of him ever talking to FDR were slim to none. “I’ll tell him,” he said.

He was surprised when Stern took a sheet of notepaper from an inside pocket and handed it to Stan Wojik. The Pole seemed surprised too. McConnell walked over to read it. Stern had hand-printed a message in English, followed by Polish and German translations:

CODE: ATLANTA Freq: 3140 Request diversionary air raid very near but not on TARA on 15/2/44 at precisely 2000 hours. Raid absolutely essential to success. BUTLER and WILKES.

“Is this smart?” McConnell asked. “What if he’s caught?”

Stern shrugged. “If he’s caught, that note will be the least of our problems. Without that air raid — in the right place and at the right time — our plan won’t work. You said that yourself. It’s worth the risk of him carrying the note to get the message right.”

Stan Wojik nodded.

“Where do these men live?” McConnell asked, unable to curb his curiosity.

Miklos laughed. “We are from a place called Warsow, on the Polish border.”

“Warsaw?”

“War sow ,” Stern corrected. “It’s a small village near the island of Usedom. That’s where the Peenemünde rocket complex was until the big bombing raid last August.”

Stan Wojik understood enough of this to add, “Much experiments still go on. Rockets fly all across Poland. Airplanes without pilots. Very dangerous weapons.”

“Is there still an SS garrison at Peenemünde?” Stern asked.

“Some SS, yes.”

“They forced you out of Warsow?” McConnell inquired.

Stan shrugged. “Hard to fight the Germans in towns.”

“You live in the forests now?”

“We live wherever London needs us. Move all the time.”

The meeting was over. Anna gave the Poles the rest of the food from McConnell’s bag. Miklos thanked her effusively, while Stan greedily eyed Stern’s Schmeisser. On impulse, McConnell reached into his bag and took out his own Schmeisser, which he held out to Stan and indicated through hand motions that he was willing to trade for the bolt-action Mauser and a box of cartridges. Stern started to object, but then apparently thought better of it.

They made the trade.

As they were leaving, Stan Wojik gestured at Stern with his new submachine gun and said, “Can you fool the Germans in that uniform?”

In a transformation that stunned McConnell and Anna more than the Poles, Stern planted both feet wide apart on the ground, squared his shoulders, put his hands on his hips and barked several lightning commands at the Wojiks in harsh German.

The big Pole took a step back and laid his hand on the meat cleaver. Then he looked at McConnell and laughed nervously. “I think maybe he does that too well! Careful he doesn’t get to liking it.”

Stern relaxed and shook Stan Wojik’s hand again. “Your radio set has adequate range?”

“Sweden is only a hundred and sixty kilometers across the water.” The Pole grinned and thumped his broad chest. “If we don’t get confirmation, I’ll steal a boat and sail across myself! You’ll get your bombs, my friend. Farewell.”

“ Dowidzenia ,” said Stern.

As they drove back along the Dettmannsdorf road, Stern said, “That’s the kind of brave son of a bitch who won’t survive this war. He’ll never win a medal, and he’ll die blindfolded and alone against some dirty brick wall.”

“Shut up,” Anna said from the backseat. “Even if that’s true, there’s no point in talking about it.”

McConnell had to agree.

They had no trouble getting back to Anna’s cottage. The trouble started after nightfall, when McConnell and Stern tried to slip up into the hills to retrieve the two gas cylinders they needed to booby-trap the SS bomb shelter. Three times they had to drop to their bellies in the snow to avoid SS patrols with dogs. The soldiers were working in pairs, mostly on foot, though one motorcycle with a sidecar had roared past on the narrow switchback road, spewing a rooster tail of snow behind it.