and have them take it out into deeper waters and drop it there.
He had begun to discreetly organise this ‘tidy-up’ job, once more returning to DC and the dark dungeons of the Department floor, at least for a few days, providing old Bob with a bit of company while he set about making the necessary calls to start the wheels turning when, as an old acquaintance of his had the habit of saying, the proverbial hit the fan .
He discovered there was some damned journalist poking around in the town near the crash site. Poking around and asking questions. God knows if the nosy shit-stick had access to diving equipment and been down below to take a look at the plane.
He hoped to God that this guy hadn’t.
Agitated and unnerved by the thought, he distractedly rubbed his temple, attempting to ease away the tension building up there. He didn’t need this. Not now. After so much hard work on his part, for so long . . . so much dedication, it could all unravel if this nosy sonofabitch managed to spot what was down there in the plane. If he sat back and did nothing, there was just enough out there to be pieced together. There was enough there to tell the tale; enough goddamned skeletons to crucify the Department.
What the hell - not to put too fine a point on it, to crucify him.
He took a deep breath, still gently caressing the side of his head, trying to massage his headache away and clear his mind, and decided the next move.
This needs to be handled carefully, gently, my friend. Observation first; find out how much he knows, see what he’s got, if anything, and then take it from him. Most important . . . find out the exact location of Medusa, and remove what’s down there .
He picked up a phone.
He needed a small team of freelancers, ones with street surveillance experience and enough smarts to stay invisible. And, of course, the dive team.
And that was pretty much going to clear out the last of the Department’s budget.
Chapter 11
Finding KG-301
11 April 1945, east of Berlin
The road leading into Berlin was a logjam of vehicles, mostly trucks, he noticed. What was left of the Eastern armies had precious few armoured vehicles left, and those that hadn’t been torn apart by T34s or enemy artillery were being mustered for one of several rearguard actions being hastily thrown together along the Potsdam River.
Leutnant Höstner shook his head. This ragtag procession of men, trucks and the occasional horse-drawn cart wasn’t an army any longer. It didn’t deserve that kind of description, that kind of word. It didn’t deserve any word that conveyed the concept of order, discipline or structure. This was a disorganised rout, little more than a shambolic stream of refugees, united only by a shared desire to leave behind a war they had lost months, if not years, ago.
It certainly wasn’t an army. Not any more.
The road had been used as one of the principal supply arteries leading east through Poland towards Russia. It had been widened and resurfaced to facilitate the movement of vehicles and supplies and had been a superbly efficient channel down which thousands of trucks had passed effortlessly since ’41 to supply the rapidly advancing eastern front. But now it was riddled with potholes and craters and caked with a thick layer of mud.
Höstner scanned the trucks as they passed by his parked VW Kubelwagon and the spare supply truck he’d commandeered. The men in the convoy stared contemptuously at him as they rolled past, seeing his uniform and instinctively reacting with thinly veiled hostility. Several men spat in his direction. Most of them were too tired to offer even that gesture. A year ago his SS uniform would have been intimidating to these men, four years ago it would have inspired admiration from many of them. Right now, Höstner felt like he was wearing a big bloody target.
It was cold. He’d been standing here for well over three hours, since first light, waiting for the column to arrive. He wasn’t
He had begun to discreetly organise this ‘tidy-up’ job, once more returning to DC and the dark dungeons of the Department floor, at least for a few days, providing old Bob with a bit of company while he set about making the necessary calls to start the wheels turning when, as an old acquaintance of his had the habit of saying, the proverbial hit the fan .
He discovered there was some damned journalist poking around in the town near the crash site. Poking around and asking questions. God knows if the nosy shit-stick had access to diving equipment and been down below to take a look at the plane.
He hoped to God that this guy hadn’t.
Agitated and unnerved by the thought, he distractedly rubbed his temple, attempting to ease away the tension building up there. He didn’t need this. Not now. After so much hard work on his part, for so long . . . so much dedication, it could all unravel if this nosy sonofabitch managed to spot what was down there in the plane. If he sat back and did nothing, there was just enough out there to be pieced together. There was enough there to tell the tale; enough goddamned skeletons to crucify the Department.
What the hell - not to put too fine a point on it, to crucify him.
He took a deep breath, still gently caressing the side of his head, trying to massage his headache away and clear his mind, and decided the next move.
This needs to be handled carefully, gently, my friend. Observation first; find out how much he knows, see what he’s got, if anything, and then take it from him. Most important . . . find out the exact location of Medusa, and remove what’s down there .
He picked up a phone.
He needed a small team of freelancers, ones with street surveillance experience and enough smarts to stay invisible. And, of course, the dive team.
And that was pretty much going to clear out the last of the Department’s budget.
Chapter 11
Finding KG-301
11 April 1945, east of Berlin
The road leading into Berlin was a logjam of vehicles, mostly trucks, he noticed. What was left of the Eastern armies had precious few armoured vehicles left, and those that hadn’t been torn apart by T34s or enemy artillery were being mustered for one of several rearguard actions being hastily thrown together along the Potsdam River.
Leutnant Höstner shook his head. This ragtag procession of men, trucks and the occasional horse-drawn cart wasn’t an army any longer. It didn’t deserve that kind of description, that kind of word. It didn’t deserve any word that conveyed the concept of order, discipline or structure. This was a disorganised rout, little more than a shambolic stream of refugees, united only by a shared desire to leave behind a war they had lost months, if not years, ago.
It certainly wasn’t an army. Not any more.
The road had been used as one of the principal supply arteries leading east through Poland towards Russia. It had been widened and resurfaced to facilitate the movement of vehicles and supplies and had been a superbly efficient channel down which thousands of trucks had passed effortlessly since ’41 to supply the rapidly advancing eastern front. But now it was riddled with potholes and craters and caked with a thick layer of mud.
Höstner scanned the trucks as they passed by his parked VW Kubelwagon and the spare supply truck he’d commandeered. The men in the convoy stared contemptuously at him as they rolled past, seeing his uniform and instinctively reacting with thinly veiled hostility. Several men spat in his direction. Most of them were too tired to offer even that gesture. A year ago his SS uniform would have been intimidating to these men, four years ago it would have inspired admiration from many of them. Right now, Höstner felt like he was wearing a big bloody target.
It was cold. He’d been standing here for well over three hours, since first light, waiting for the column to arrive. He wasn’t
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