Sleeper Agent by Ib Melchior Page A

right.”
    The German turned to face Tom. He was once again in control of himself. But something had burned out in his eyes. His gray face was slack. “My wife,” he asked softly. “How did she die?”
    Tom had a quick mental glimpse of the misshapen corpse obscenely dangling from the cell window bars.
    “She . . . killed herself, Colonel. Rather than talk.” He stopped. What was the use of telling the man the whole truth? What use were the gory details now?
    Steinmetz seemed to stand a little straighter A good woman, his wife. “You said a message?”
    Tom nodded.
    She had been right. She had known her husband would get her message. But she had not known that it would be delivered by him, her hated enemy.
    “She asked you to . . . carry on,” he said quietly.
    Steinmetz looked away. “What will happen to me now?” It was a question of simple curiosity.
    “You will be taken to Army Interrogation Center, Colonel, where they’ll question you. We know you are on a special mission. They’ll find out exactly what back there.”
    Steinmetz smiled, thin-lipped with his mouth only. “I doubt it.” He searched in vain for an insignia of rank on Tom’s uniform. There was none. Only two officer’s “US” emblems were visible on the American’s collar. Curious. But the man was obviously an officer.
    “I doubt that, Herr Offizier,” he said, his voice oddly lifeless and flat. “I am only a very small cog in a very great machine. A great undertaking. Greater than you can ever imagine. An undertaking you will never know. That you cannot stop!”
    An alarm suddenly shrieked in Tom’s mind. He leaped at the German. “Grab him!” he shouted. “ Grab his jaw! ”
    But he was too late.
    Steinmetz bit down hard. In his mouth the false tooth containing the cyanide was crushed. For a split moment his eyes seemed to bulge from their restraining sockets, staring with desperate triumph at Tom. His face contorted in agony; his whole body was wracked by a violent convulsion, and he fell heavily to the floor. A savage spasm shot through him. His legs jerked once. Once again. He was dead. And with him the secret of his mission.
    Tom stared at the body sprawled at his feet. He should have known. God damn it! He should have known!
    He turned to Sergeant Rosenfeld. The young soldier looked stricken. You and me, buddy, Tom thought bitterly. We both fucked up. But at least your fuck-up was corrected. Mine can never be. . . . “Have Graves Registration pick him up,” he said curtly.
    “Yes, sir.”
    Without looking back, Tom started to walk from the room. Rosenfeld hesitated. Should he speak up? Or should he let well enough alone and keep his big damned mouth shut?
    “Sir!” he said.
    Tom turned to him. “What is it?”
    Rosenfeld bent over a stack of debris lying in a corner of the room. He pulled an old burlap bag from under a pile of broken plaster. He held it out toward Tom. “This bag, sir.” He swallowed. “The . . . the colonel, that is . . . the rag picker had one just like it In the street He doesn’t now. Maybe . . . maybe this is it?”
    Tom was at his side in two strides. He took the bag from him. He spilled the contents out onto the floor. Quickly he glanced at the odds and ends of junk. Nothing. He picked up a small tin box. He opened it. It contained half a dozen dirty cigarette butts. But under them was a piece of paper. Folded. He dumped the butts and pried the paper out. He unfolded it. He stared at it.
    There was the official embossed Nazi emblem—the eagle, wings spread wide, holding the oak-leaf wreath with the swastika in its claws.
    “ Führerhauptquartier, ” the date line read—“Führer Headquarters— -den 7. April 1945.” And printed underneath: “ Geheime Kommandosache —Top Secret.”
    Two prominent black stamps had been affixed:
    GEHEIM
    [Secret]
    CHEF-SACHE!
    NUR DURCH OFFIZIER!
    [Command Order!
    Officer Courier Only!]
    Tom read on:
    Der Reichsleiter hat nachfolgenden Befehl an den