Chapter 6

In Carey's absence, Matt learned much about the task that lay ahead. Roland Guthrie explained what he had learned. The discovery of the young French scientist could cripple an entire civilization overnight, and for that reason, was given top priority by both East and West.

It was a highly concentrated tranquilizing agent that, when added to a city's water supply would place great masses of the population in a state of catatonia. As little as a pound packet could pollute an entire city the size of London. Its delayed effect would negate all purification efforts, since, by the time it acted, almost every citizen would have absorbed enough to render himself motionless. Its effects would assume control of the victim within about fourteen hours.

It was no wonder that the major powers were anxious to control the chemical. But the Nazi party had never been considered a potential bidder. Not until recently. The scientist, Christine Lavie, had been seen in the company of recognized Neo-Nazis, and that ignited panic both East and West. Neither British Intelligence nor the CIA knew quite how to cope with it, and Russia's countermoves were, of course, unknown. The Nazi enemy was virtually invisible.

The intelligence organization knew about Die Spinne, and had many ODESSA figures' under surveillance, but not enough was known. Too much was underground and in foreign countries.

The significance became apparent, however, when word seeped through that this was the Nazi year of celebration. It marked the second decade since Martin Bormann's escape from Europe. Celebrations were scheduled in the Tyrolean village that served as the escape route for Bormann into Italy. It was obvious that the Nazis wanted to make the anniversary a memorable one.

"That's establishment stuff," Matt said restlessly. "You don't suppose the allied intelligence forces would let the Nazis break loose, do you ? They probably have this Lavie broad isolated right now."

Guthrie had been seated across from Matt at the dining room table. He rose and went to the cupboard for a tumbler. He was shaking his head when he returned. "As I said, I'm in the cold now, but from what I've heard my son saying . . ."

"Your son?" Matt said as Guthrie poured a drink of gin. "What's he got to do with anything?"

Guthrie grinned. "My son Charles is an agent, old boy. Didn't I mention that? We aren't very close, I'm afraid, so he seldom confides in me. But I've made a point of listening to a few telephone conversations. Facts added up. Anyway, to get on-the western establishment is biding its time. They believe this will be a good time to nip this Nazi thing in the bud. They hope to time their moves to coincide with the meeting of all the Nazi leaders."

"Where is that supposed to take place?" Matt said, pouring himself another drink.

"Intelligence is working on it around the clock, but I think I already know. I'm not naive enough to think intelligence won't learn what I know, but I don't think they're in on it yet. We have just enough jump on them to cart off our Nazis for bounty. We'll be highly patriotic and mercenary as well."

At Matt's insistence, Guthrie came to the point. He explained about the Nazi organization behind all their former members, providing the families with funds, and even schooling. ODESSA, the organization founded by former SS officers, was known to operate one school in Austria, but Guthrie was aware of another that few people knew about. Guthrie told Matt about the fog-shrouded island off the tip of northern Scotland. There was a school there that had been under private ownership for many years, having been purchased in the late 1930's with Swiss money. Guthrie pointed out that its students, a few at a time, had been enrolled from all over the world-Cairo, Brazil, Argentina. He said that practically every child screened through England was of obvious German descent. It had been a hunch of Guthrie that this remote island, referred to by many as Fog Island, was actually an ODESSA-sponsored school for future Nazis.

"My God." said Matt, his gin buzz taking on a tone of irritability, "British intelligence must have every face on file, every room bugged and photographically monitored. If what you say is true, they'd have infiltrated that joint a hundred times over the years."

Guthrie finished his gin, and smiled. "You would think so, but I have strong doubts. It's too obvious, you see. The tree blends with the forest. No, I doubt if Intelligence has a listing on Fog Island at all."

"How do you know about it?" Matt said, rising to stretch.

"That's where my son enters in," Guthrie said, gesturing with animation. "I heard him mention a short wave radio that had been pinpointed in London. For a short time there was some suspicion. It seems a German radio enthusiast immigrated recently from Rio. While at first the man was considered highly suspicious, he has since been cleared. I'm not that easily convinced. I did some investigating, and through short wave monitoring, traced more than fifty pick-ups in Oslo. There were three exchanged between his radio and an unknown transmitter in the vicinity of Fog Island. The conversations were mundane, but who's to preclude a simple coding system?"

"What were the conversations?" Matt asked.

"They were in German, and very brief, and nothing much was said, but I can play them for you, and we can pick them apart. Anyway, it's a start, and coincidentally, this radio buff holds a striking resemblance to you. A bit thinner, perhaps, but close enough. If my hunch is correct, we could work something out. Since this chap hadn't left South America until six months ago, and since he has made daily radio communications with them, it's doubtful he's even been to Fog Island, isn't it?"

Matt flopped down again and stared at Guthrie. "Go on."

"Well-I've rented a flat a block from the chap's place. Perhaps we can get to know him in some way. With your sparkling command of the German language, all sorts of possibilities might arise."

"You bastard," Matt said in a deep growl. "You're damn sure of this Fog Island set-up, aren't you?"

Guthrie blinked in reaction to the sudden anger, but didn't lose his composure. "It's a commanding hunch, old chap."

"You know damn well this guy is a Nazi, and you want me to try on his shoes."

Guthrie faltered, and then shook his head with incredulity. "You are really quite amazing, Pyne. The OSS should never have sent you down. You seem to be reading my mind."

Matt poured a half glass of gin and slugged it down. He grimaced, then spoke in a gin-toned, rasping voice. "I study the lad, practice his voice qualities, and when you say so, I'm supposed to infiltrate that lousy goddamned Fog Island you're talking about. You're dying to get my balls in a vise, aren't you ?"

"Easy, Matt. Easy does it. That's precisely what I had in mind, but nobody's forcing you. I had hoped a chance to nail Bormann would be enough incentive to bring you around."

"You're a one-way bastard, Guthrie, and a sneaky bastard to boot. Why didn't you say straight out you had me measured for a long pine box?"

"It shouldn't be all that dangerous. In your brief wartime career you found yourself in sticker situations. There were several reasons I chose you, incidentally. First of all, your general physical make-up, but more importantly, there was my recollection of your uncanny talent for mimicry. That's in your file, you know. You were regarded as a first class imposter, and-a master of the language art. Then, of course, there was your feeling about the Nazis to single you out."

Matt sighed, no longer angry. "And money means this much to you? Or am I to take all the risks?"

"Money is of great importance to me. I might as well make a personal confession. Matt. Perhaps it will bind us a bit closer. I have a particularly prodigal wife. When I married her, she was quite wealthy, but the money trickled away. It was the children, I think, that made me do it, but I've been dipping into her majesty's funds just a bit. I can't retire, you see, until restitution is made."

"Well, I'll be dammed," said Matt with wry amusement. "I would have pegged you as a paragon of virtue."

Guthrie shrugged wearily. "I do give that appearance, fortunately. That's why I've never been audited."

"How much have you pinched?"

"A few thousand pounds more than I have on hand. But an amount that our reward will cover nicely."

"I see," said Matt pensively.

"Then I'm divorcing my wife," Guthrie volunteered. "I've despised that vulture for lo, these many years. Lord, how I envy your life, with girls like Carey, with fun, sex, and freedom. I hope I'm not too old to enjoy life. Once in my life I'd like at least a chance."

Matt didn't react to his emotional outburst. It was obvious the gin was taking its toll. Matt simply stared at him, hoping to get back to the business at hand. Soon Guthrie straightened up and returned to the point. He asked Matt if he could sever all previous commitments, to give his full time to the project. Matt assured him that he could. If Guthrie wanted it that way, he could accompany him right now to the new headquarters. He wouldn't leave Carey as much as a note.

Guthrie agreed to the wisdom of the move and helped Matt carry his boxes of belongings to the car on the street below. For a moment Matt hesitated, remembering the twenty pound note, but then he recalled Carey's financial windfall. He could use the twenty, and she wouldn't need it.

The flat was well north of the city, in a lower social setting. The rooms were comfortably furnished, but no penthouse off Park Avenue. There was a small sitting room, kitchen, and two small bedrooms. There was a gas-burning fireplace in the living room. Matt started to take his things into the first bedroom, but Guthrie halted him. "Uh-my things are in there old chap."

"Your things?"

"Of course, I'm moving in with you."

"Won't somebody at the office get nosey if you don't show up for work?" Matt asked.

"No, I'm beginning a fortnight holiday starting tomorrow. My wife thinks I've gone fishing. I'm free, old boy-for two glorious weeks."

Matt mumbled and proceeded down the narrow hallway. The rooms smelled musty. The previous tenant must have smoked cigars.

It was late in the afternoon when Matt started receiving involuntary mental flashes of Cary's sad face. It had been a dirty way to ditch her, but perhaps for the best. But when visions of her compact body joined the saddened face, Matt started to dread it. It would be lonely without her warmth and comfort and good-natured presence. Rollo Guthrie was one hell of a poor substitute.

Matt was tired and hoped he would get to bed early, but Guthrie had other plans. "This chap always leaves his room about now. He goes to a pub just a few doors from our flat. I've already established myself with the woman who runs the place, and I've seen this German on several occasions. Let's go for a drink, all right?"

Matt shrugged and got back into his coat. He needed a shave quite badly by this time, but it could wait until morning.

The pub was typical. The paneling was scratched and worn in places, the seats were wooden and hard. The lights were low at the bar, but brighter toward the rear where a boisterous dart game was in progress. Guthrie greeted the huge over painted proprietress and ordered gins. Matt had to look again at the girth of the amazing woman as she bent down to get their glasses. She weighed at least three hundred pounds, and was obviously devoid of upper teeth. She chomped her gums rhythmically. "There y'ar, gentlemen," she said between gasps for breath. Guthrie paid her. "Hope you lads will like our part of town."

Guthrie thanked her, but his mind was elsewhere. He whispered to Matt that their German target was just entering. Matt casually gave the man the once-over, and was mad. Guthrie said he looked like Matt, but how could he? The guy was blond, and weighed at least ten pounds less than Matt. Matt didn't consider himself competition for Rock Hudson, but he felt he was more attractive than the German.

The German stood at the end of the bar and ordered a stout. In the light, Matt was able to look at him closer, He had a straight nose, blue eyes, and rather even features. He appeared to be around Matt's age, and his hair was short cropped. This was observed when he removed his seaman's stocking cap. Perhaps with the help of some peroxide, a diet for a week or so, and a short haircut, Matt could make the description match. Matt was already at work on the transformation. But halted himself.

This was crazy, wasn't it? What was he letting Guthrie lead him into? He must really be off his rocker. But despite his momentary lapse into rebellion, his mind refused to put the challenge aside.

Matt waited for the German to have two more beers, but then it was too late for contact. The bar was closing. On the way out, Matt spoke to the German in a friendly way, but made no attempt to communicate further.

Matt was keyed up after this and lay awake for half the night plotting his next moves. He would circulate in the neighborhood as much as possible in the hopes of running into the German, and would hope that the chap was lonely for company. He would see who visited the man's rooms, and at the proper time he would take a look through his things. Matt was aware of the time problem and would let no moment pass without progress.

The next day Matt spent several hours listening to the German's tapes over and over. He detected no code in the variant message. It was mostly ham radio gibberish, but he did use the tape to get a fix on the voice quality. A day later, when Guthrie was out of the flat, Matt simulated one of the tapes verbatim. When he returned, Matt played it to him, and fooled him completely. Guthrie was sure the tape was the original one, and that was good. The voice and the accent were captured completely. Matt had his hair cut, but would wait until the strategic time to use the peroxide he had purchased. Food wasn't particularly important to him, unless Carey prepared it, so a liquid diet was easy to follow. It consisted of milk, vitamins, and plenty of gin. He would easily lose the necessary weight.

On the fourth night, Matt managed to engage the stolid German in a brief conversation. He used the fellow countryman ruse to break the ice, and they spoke briefly in German. The man, whose name turned out to be Fritz Heintz, was obviously pleased at the discovery of a fellow countryman, but when the conversation touched upon the personal, he withdrew his friendliness. Matt didn't press. He would wait for the Nazi to come to him. Later, if Fritz still shut him off, Matt would employ other tactics. But there was time.

The night following their initial meeting, Fritz invited Matt for a drink. They had both downed several at the pub, but it was closing.

This was the time for Matt to move swiftly, so he purchased a bottle of gin to help things along.

Fritz was very nearly drunk after the first gin, and made no pretense about his Nazi philosophy. This was baited by Matt, who spouted party line expletives to get the ball rolling. But when Matt would direct the conversation to specific areas, the German responded with a change of mood. He would become maudlin, and fraternal, and reminiscent about the fatherland. Fritz didn't admit that he couldn't return to his homeland, but the tone of his nostalgia implied it.

It was nearly two when a buzzing sound scratched the silence of the room. Fritz glanced toward the bedroom door and rose nervously from his easy chair. "You must leave me alone now, comrade," he said urgently. "We meet again tomorrow night."

Matt didn't show alarm at the sound of the buzzer, although he knew what it was. It was obviously a signal Fritz had devised to announce an incoming radio message. Before this juncture, Matt not only had seen the high-powered radio equipment, but when Fritz had gone to the bathroom, Matt had planted a bug in the lamp of the living room. Now they had the personal sounds of Fritz Heintz completely covered.

The surveillance proved only one thing to Matt. This was that Fritz was one hell of a solitary character. He had no callers, had few radio messages, and wasn't even prone to talking to himself. He was sure Guthrie had ushered him into a blind alley.

But then a significant message came over the airwaves. It said from the other end: "We are starting to celebrate now. We have a beautiful French cousin staying with us." Later, after a series of meaningless contacts with half a dozen hams, another message was recorded. This time it was from Fritz to a station in the area Cairo. "I spoke with your friends to the north," said Fritz in a chummy voice. "They have a French visitor, so they won't be communicating for a while."

There was no code as such, but the message would have meant little to the average ham operator. Often personal information was passed along by members of the club. Only Matt and Guthrie knew what this bit of gossip was really saying. Apparently Miss Lavie was in the hands of the Nazis, and Fritz was passing the news along via a secret network of hams. The moment was drawing near, and it was time for Matt to take his first big swing at the ball.