Quickly Kieffer made an eight-loop with the webbing, slipped it over Decker's hands and pulled it tight. He wound it around the man's waist and tied it securely in the back.
He stepped in front of the trussed-up scientist.
“Your choice,” he said quietly. “You still want that knock on your head?”
Decker looked petrified. Two terrors fought in his mind. The fear of getting hurt — and the greater fear of falling into Gestapo hands without every possible proof of innocence.
He nodded.
Kieffer took the soiled hat from the man's head. He brought out his gun from its shoulder holster.
Decker shivered. He screwed his eyes tightly shut.
Kieffer quickly struck him a glancing blow on the temple, hard enough to break the skin.
Decker sagged, but caught himself.
He opened his eyes. He looked surprised.
Kieffer grinned at him.
“It's a beaut!” he said. “No one can doubt you've been hit over the head.” He replaced the hat.
Decker smiled weakly. A trickle of blood seeped from under the hat rim and oozed down his cheek. Kieffer did nothing to stem it. He took Decker's arm.
“Let's go.”
They walked to the entrance. Cautiously Kieffer looked outside. The street was empty. He stepped from the doorway and waved to the waiting jeep. At once Marshall drove up to the door.
Quickly Kieffer bundled the trussed-up Decker into the back seat and jumped in beside Marshall.
The jeep motor sputtered, missed, caught under Marshall's educated manipulation, faltered for a beat and started down the deserted Ostbahnhofstrasse.
4
Kieffer looked at his watch 0212 hours. If all went without a hitch, they'd have no trouble making the crossover rendezvous on time.
Mayen had been left behind. According to Kieffer's map, the road on which they were traveling should join the highway to Wittlich-Bitburg in less than a mile. It was a different route from the one they'd taken coming in. Kieffer had decided not to pass through the hospital area and the evacuation activity there but to get out of town the quickest way possible. It was a slightly longer route, passing through Kaisersesch instead of Daun, but there was time enough.
Decker had uttered not a word since getting into the jeep. He was huddled in a corner, his head lowered to his chest. Kieffer could almost feel the tension emanating from him. The jeep engine with the makeshift German rotor had developed a wheezing, clicking sound and missed quite often. It obviously worried Marshall, who sat rigidly hunched over the wheel. Kieffer tried not to think what would happen if the damned thing gave up altogether.
He peered into the night darkness ahead.
In the distance he could make out a row of trees marching across the countryside, diagonally to the road. That would be the highway.
They drove on.
Kieffer strained to see. He thought he could make out some darker shapes at the road junction.
They were almost there.
Suddenly the scene stood out clearly. A chill of alarm hit him.
Roadblock!
Two-wooden barriers strung with barbed wire had been placed across the road. Two motorcycles with sidecars were pulled off the road nearby, and four soldiers stood at the barriers, Schmeissers at the ready. German MP's.
One of the MP's stepped forward. He raised high his Verkehrsanzeiger—his traffic baton — an imperative order to halt. The red illuminated dot in the disk on the end of the baton glowed malevolently.
Marshall drew in his breath.
Kieffer turned to him.
“Jerry!” His voice was urgent, taut. “Stop the jeep fifty feet before the roadblock. Keep the motor running.” He gave a short nod toward the man in the back of the jeep. “Keep him quiet,” he growled, “any way you have to!” He buttoned up his greatcoat and pulled the officer's cap firmly down on his head. “If anything goes wrong — you run that damned roadblock! Get Decker back!”
Marshall started to protest.
“Do it, dammit!” Kieffer snarled vehemently. “And keep your mouth shut!”
The jeep came to a halt. The MP walked purposefully toward them.
Kieffer jumped from the jeep. Quickly, impatiently, he strode toward the approaching MP. He met him halfway. He scowled at him. In his hand he held the Wehrmacht map. For show.
A glance etched the man on his mind. Single silver cord and orange piping on his shoulder strap: Unteroffizier — Sergeant — Military Police. Half-moon chest plate with its two prominent dots, Nazi eagle and the word FELDGENDARMERIE — Field Police — daubed with luminous paint.
The MP non-com saluted smartly.
“Heil Hitler!”
With a show of irritation, Kieffer returned the salute.
“What the devil is the meaning of this, Sergeant?” he barked.
“Get that damned roadblock the hell out of the way!”
“I am sorry, Herr Major,” the MP said stiffly. “It is not possible. I am under orders to let no traffic onto the highway. It is to be kept clear for a top-priority convoy, Herr Major. It is due any minute.”
Kieffer glared at the man. His mind whirled. He knew they could not turn around and take the other route. There was no time. And he could not wait for the convoy to pass. It would take too long….
“You hear me well, Sergeant,” he snarled, emphasizing each separate word. His voice was dangerous, rising in anger until he was shouting “I am Major Ritter. I am escorting Standartenführer Adolf Himmler to the front! The front, dammit! It is of the utmost importance that we get there as quickly as possible. You understand me?”
Pointedly he narrowed his eyes, glaring at the MP.
“I am sure you know Colonel Himmler's uncle, Sergeant!”
The MP looked apprehensive.
“Jawohl, Herr Major,” he said. “May I—”
“You may not! Delay is out of the question!” Kieffer shouted. “Have I not made myself clear? Verdammt nochmal! How dare you defy a superior officer?”
The MP non-com was visibly shaken.
“I have — orders—” he started.
“Orders!” Kieffer screamed. “To the devil with your orders'” He suddenly drew himself up, shaking with rage. “Very well, Sergeant. I shall inform Colonel Himmler right now that you refuse to let him pass!”
He turned on his heel, stopped short and whirled on the terrified MP. He whipped Decker's photo folder from his pocket. Imperiously he held out his hand toward the MP.
“Your pen!” he demanded curtly. “I shall want your name. Your service number. For the record.” He smiled maliciously. “The Reichsleiter will wish to know exactly who delayed a mission in which he is vitally interested!”
The MP was chalk-faced with fear.
Suddenly the low, dull roar of many motor vehicles intruded on their attention. Automatically they both looked toward the highway. Driving with blackout lights only, the convoy was bearing down on the road junction — a giant, growling shadow snake with a thousand slit-orbed eyes.
The sergeant wet his bloodless lips.
“Herr Major,” he said, “the convoy is going to the front. Perhaps — if the colonel would join—”
“Good!” Kieffer interrupted him curtly. “See to it! At once!”
He turned on his heel and stalked back to the jeep.
“Come on, Jerry,” he said. “We—” His voice broke. He was suddenly aware of his heart pounding in his throat. He swallowed hard. “We're joining that Kraut convoy,” he finished. “Get going!”
“Jesus!” Marshall whispered. He eased the jeep into gear. There was a rough, grating sound, a dull backfire; the engine sputtered, coughed — and died.