Sleeper Agent by Ib Melchior

would face, the startled man sat up in alarm and cowered against the cracked wall.
    “Up!” Tom snapped. “On your feet!”
    The man scrambled to obey. He looked bewildered and frightened.
    “Hands on top of your head. Move!”
    The man quickly clasped his hands on top of the old wool cap he wore. He stared at Tom.
    “Search him,” Tom ordered the MP’s. “I’ll cover you.”
    The soldiers began to shake down the dazed man. He stood stock still.
    Sergeant Rosenfeld came into the room. He took in the scene in an instant. He felt enormously relieved. The old pisser had not got away! He quickly grew sober. It was no thanks to him. He turned to Tom. “I got a couple of men on each exit, sir.”
    Tom didn’t take his eyes from the captive. “Very good, Sergeant,” he said.
    The soldiers had finished their search. One of them came over to Tom. “He’s clean, sir.” He handed the agent a small thin booklet. “Here are his papers.”
    Tom took the booklet. It was a Soldbuch —a Wehrmacht soldier’s identification and paybook. He glanced at it. The man was supposed to be one Hans Moser, ex-Feldwebel in the Wehrmacht
    He had expected nothing else. A name means nothing. Papers can be forged. But not so easily a physical description: six feet one inch. Blond. Blue-eyed. A hundred and eighty pounds. Thirty-nine years old. It was the exact description of the prisoner. And of SS Colonel Wolfgang Steinmetz.
    Tom stepped closer to the man. He watched him intently. “You are under arrest,” he said firmly, “ Colonel Steinmetz! ”
    There was absolutely no reaction from the captive except a bewildered stare. “I . . . I do not understand.” The man looked confused, apprehensive. Was it apprehension caused by a situation he did not comprehend? Or the fear of discovery?
    “You are SS Standartenführer Wolfgang Steinmetz, are you not?” Tom sounded exasperated. Impatient. “We know you are!”
    The man shook his head. “Feldwebel Moser, Hans. One, four, oh, two . . .” he began intoning automatically. The hands clasped on his head shook slightly.
    Tom watched him with a frown. He thought fast. He was convinced the man was lying. He was certain he was not what he pretended to be. A real scavenger would not have left the baby carriage with all his treasures in it unattended outside. And he had fielded his attempt to shock him into revealing himself beautifully. The man was good. Damned good. If he couldn’t be broken fast— now, when he had been caught off guard—he’d never break. He had to play rough.
    What was it Lee used to say? Never hit a man when he’s down. Kick him. He took a deep breath. “It’s no use. Colonel Steinmetz,” he said with deceptive calm. “We know who you are. We know why you are here.” He looked directly into the man’s pale blue eyes. “I have a message for you. Written by your wife. . . . Before she died!”
    The German’s eyes briefly widened. The muscles in his jaws momentarily corded. That was all. It was enough.
    Tom had known what he would see. That unmistakable “look” of perfect control abruptly jolted—and just as quickly regained.
    For a moment the two men stood facing each other, eyes locked. Then the German slowly turned and walked to the window. In silence he stood staring into space.
    Maria . . . It was over. So soon. He had given himself away. Like a novice he had given himself away. He knew the reaction he had been unable to check had not gone unnoticed by the American officer.
    He had taken a calculated risk. And lost. Everything. When he became aware that the building was surrounded and he was being watched, he’d tried to brazen out his disguise. A decrepit old scavenger, sleeping off his fatigue in an empty house. Why not? There were countless thousands of them. But the odds had been stacked against him. He, too, was dead.
    Without turning around, he finally asked, “My . . . son?” His voice was dark and low.
    “With your sister. He’s all