perhaps, slapping against the hull, caught in the push-pull of the current.
The guard rounded the comer; Spaulding’s belt whipped around his neck,
instantly lashed taut, choking off the cry.
David twisted the leather as the guard sank to his knees, the face
darkening perceptibly in the dim spill of light from the porthole, the lips
pursed in strangled anguish.
David did not allow his victim to lose consciousness; he had the Alpine
pass to cross. rnstead, he wedged his pistol into his trousers, reached
down to the scabbard on the guard’s waist, and
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took out the carbine bayonet – a favorite knife of combat men, rarely used
on the front of any rifle. He held the blade under the guard’s eyes and
whispered.
‘Espaftol or Deutsch?’
The man stared up in terror. Spaulding twisted the leather tighter; the
guard choked a cough and struggled to raise two fingers. David whispered
again, the blade pushing against the skin under the right eyebafl.
‘Deutsch?’
The man nodded.
Of course he was German, thought Spaulding. And Nazi. The clothes, the
hair. PeenemUnde was the Third Reich. Its scientists would be guarded by
their own. He twisted the blade of the carbine bayonet so that a tiny
laceration appeared under the eye. The guard’s mouth opened in fright.
‘You do exactly what I tell you,’ whispered David in German into the
guard’s ear, ‘or I’ll carve out your sight. Understand?’
The man, nearly limp, nodded.
‘Get up and call through the porthole. You have an urgent message from …
AltmWler, Franz AltmOller! They must open the door and sign for it…. Do
it! Nowl And remember, this knife is inches from your eyes.’
The guard, in shock, got up. Spaulding pushed the man’s face to the open
porthole, loosened the belt only slightly, and shifted his position to the
side of the man and the window, his left hand holding the leather, his
right the knife.
‘Nowl’whispered David, flicking the blade in half circles.
At first the guard’s voice was strained, artificial. Spaulding moved in
closer; the guard knew he had only seconds to live if he did not perform.
He performed.
There was stirring in the bunk beds within the cabin. Grumbling complaints
to begin with, ceasing abruptly at the mention of Altmfiller’s name.
A small, middle-aged man got out of the left lower bunk and walked sleepily
to the steel door. He was in undershorts, nothing else. David propelled the
guard around the comer of the wall and reached the door at t ‘ he sound of
the sliding bolt.
He slarnmed the guard against the steel panel with the twisted belt; the
door flung open, David grabbed the knob, preventing it from crashing into
the bulkhead. He dropped the knife,
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yanked out his pistol, and crashed the barrel into the skull of the small
scientist.
– ‘Schweigen!’ he whispered hoarsely. ‘Wenn Anen Ar Leben Lieb ist!’
The three men in the bunks – older men, one old man – stumbled out of their
beds, trembling and speechless. The guard, choking still, began to focus
around him and started to rise. Spaulding took two steps and slashed the
pistol diagonally across the man’s temple, splaying him out on the deck.
The old man, less afraid than his two companions, stared at David. For
reasons Spaulding could not explain to himself, he felt ashamed. Violence
was out of place in this antiseptic cabin.
‘I have no quarrel with you,’ he whispered harshly in German. ‘You follow
orders. But don’t mistake me, I’ll kill you if you make a sound!’ He
pointed to some papers next to a microscope; they were filled with numbers
and columns. ‘You!’ He gestured his pistol at the old man. ‘Give me those!
Quickly!’
The old man trudged haltingly across the cabin to the clinical work area.
He lifted the papers off the table and handed them to Spaulding, who
stuffed them into his wet trousers pocket.
‘Thanks…. Now!’ He pointed his weapon at the other two. ‘Open one of
those crates! Do it now!’
‘No! … No! For God’s sake!’ said the taller of the middleaged scientists,
his voice low, filled with fear.
David grabbed the old man standing next to him, He clamped his arm around
the loose flesh of the old neck and brought his pistol up to the head. He
thumbed back the firing pin and spoke calmly. ‘You will open a crate or I
will kill this man. When he’s dead, I’ll turn my pistol on you. Believe me,
I have no altemative.’
The shorter man whipped his head around, pleading silently with the taller
one. The old man in David’s grasp was the leader; Spaulding knew that. An
old … alter-Anflihrer; always take the German leader.
The taller PeenemOnde scientist walked – every step in fear -to the far
comer of the clinical workbench, where there was a neat row of keys on the
wall. He removed one and hesitantly went to the first steel crate. He bent
down and inserted the key in the vault lock holding the metal strip around
the edge; the strip snapped apart in the center.
‘Open the Rd!’ commanded Spaulding, his anxiety causing
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his whisper to become louder; too loud, he realized.
The cover of the steel crate was heavy; the German had to lift it with both
hands, the wrinkles around his eyes and mouth betraying the effort
required. Once at a ninety-degree angle, chains on both sides became taut;
there was a click of a latch and the cover was locked in place.
Inside were dozens of identically matched compartments in what appeared to
be sliding trays – something akin to a large complicated fishing-tackle
box. Then David understood: the front of the steel case was on hinges;* it
too could be opened -or lowered, to be exact – allowing the trays to slide
out.
In each compartment were two small heavy, paper envelopes, apparently lined
with layers of soft tissue. There were dozens of envelopes on the top tray
alone.
David released the old man, propelling him back toward the bunk beds. He
waved his pistol at the tall German who had opened the crate, ordering him
to join the other two. He reached down into the steel crate, picked out a
small envelope and brought it to his mouth, tearing the edge with his
teeth. He shook it toward the ground; tiny translucent nuggets spattered
over the cabin deck.
The Koening diamonds.
He watched the German scientists as he crumpled the envelope. They were
staring at the stones on the floor.
Why not? thought David. In that cabin was the solution for PeenemUnde. In
those crates were the tools to rain death on untold thousands . . . as the
gyroscopic designs for which they were traded would make possible further
death, further massacre.
He was about to throw away the envelope in disgust and fill his pockets
with others when his eyes caught sight of some lettering. He unwrinkled the
envelope, his pistol steady on the Germans, and looked down. The single
word:
ecbt
True.. Genuine. This envelope, this tray, this steel case had passed
inspection.
He reached down and grabbed as many envelopes as his left hand could hold
and stuffed them into his trousers pocket.
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It was all he needed for the indictment.
It was everything. It was the meaning.
There was one thing more he could- do. Of a more immediately practical
nature. He crossed to the workbench and went down the line of four
microscopes, crashing the barrel of his pistol up into each lens and down
into the eyepieces. He looked for a laboratory case, the type which carried
optical equipment. There had to be one!
It was on the floor beneath the long table. He kicked it out with his bare
foot and reached down to open the hasp.
More slots and trays, only these filled with lenses and small black tubes
in which to place them.
He bent down and overturned the case; dozens of circular lenses fell out
onto the deck. As fast as he could he grabbed the nearest white stool and
brought it down sideways into the piles of glass.
The destruction wasn’t total, but the damage was enough, perhaps, for
forty-eight hours.
He started to get up, his weapon still on the scientists, his ears and eyes
alert.
He heard it! He sensed it! And simultandously he understood that if he did
not spin out of the way he would be dead!
He threw himself on the floor to the right, the hand above and behind him
came down, the carbine bayonet slicing the air, aimed for the spot where
his neck had been less than a second ago.
He had left the goddamned bayonet on the floorl He had discarded the
goddamned bayonetl The guard had revived and taken the goddamned bayonetl
The Nazi’s single cry emerged before Spaulding leaped on his kneeling form,
smashing his skull into the wood floor with such force that blood spewed