Page 35 of Clive Cussler The Iron Storm
That Kreisberg caught Bell’s slight hesitation told him the German interrogator was a formidable opponent and that he had to keep his wits if he wanted to walk out of the office on his own steam. He climbed back to his feet.
“Sorry. I was just told that I might die tomorrow. It took me a second to process that. I’m no spy. I was a passenger in the back of that plane when the pilot took off after the balloon. I am a victim of circumstance.”
“What was the pilot’s name and the type of aircraft?”
“Whiddle, Weddle, Wendall, something like that. I met him just moments before we took off. They called the plane a Bristol. Beyond that I’m not sure.”
“A newer plane?”
With the wreckage burned to ashes Bell saw no reason to lie. “I believe it was a new model, yes.”
“I was told by your arresting officer that you shot up the plane in question after you landed. Why is that?”
“I may not be a combatant, Major Kreisberg, but as a Canadian, I am a loyal subject of the king’s. I felt it was my duty.”
To Bell’s surprise, that answer actually seemed to impress the German. He had probably been raised since birth to always do whathis nation asked of him. He seemed to have accepted Bell’s story about being a journalist because he didn’t ask much about his background. He had a few more questions about the 22nd Squadron, which Bell deflected by pleading ignorance. Thankfully Schmidt wasn’t called in for any more of his special brand of TLC.
“Very well, Mr. Abbott,” Kreisberg said after thirty minutes or so of questioning his newest prisoner, “Baron von Richthofen will be here tomorrow around ten, and your fate will be in his hands. If your story deviates from his I will shoot you myself. Do we understand each other?”
“Your meaning is quite clear, Major.”
As Bell was led back to the dungeon cell, he knew that he would either escape successfully tonight or die trying. There was no way he would let that German have the satisfaction of executing him.
18
Sergeant Jurgen Schmidt removed hiscap at the bottom of the stairs leading to the Ratskeller in the little village down the hill from the castle. This particular tavern wasn’t in the basement of the town hall, as was typical, but in a building next door. The atmosphere was smoky and loud. Having such a large military presence in such a small town had made the villagers rather prosperous over the past year, and with no other entertainment for miles around, the pub was usually busy.
He scanned the room for his contact and saw him sitting at a corner table with the woman who accompanied him at times. A half-full pitcher of beer and two glasses sat on the tabletop. Karl Rath saw him, but didn’t acknowledge him.
Schmidt grabbed an empty glass from the bar near the taps and went to the table. There were no extra seats, so he hunkered down next to the leader of their anarchist cell. Despite the burns on one cheek and half his forehead, and the eye patch, Karl Rath remaineda rather striking person. Not handsome, but masculine and forceful, a natural leader others gravitated toward without understanding why. The woman was pretty, in that French willowy way. Though he had seen Rath in the tavern every three days for the past two weeks, as had been prearranged, this was the first time they’d spoken.
“Who is she?” Schmidt asked bluntly as he filled his glass from the pitcher.
“A woman of no consequence,” Karl Rath said. The sergeant looked at her and saw she obviously understood German because his words had stung. Her pouty lower lip quivered and tears welled up in her lovely eyes. Rath added, “She’s just cover I brought from Belgium. Locals here leave me alone if she’s with me.”
“She not part of the cell, then?”
“No. But she knows the consequences if she were to ever betray me.”
“As long as you deem it safe to share the news.”
“What news?”
Schmidt said, “Another pilot arrived today. We now have the three you said we’ll need. But there is a problem.”
“Tell me,” the anarchist said.
“It is likely he will be shot tomorrow morning.”
“What? Why?”
“He claims to be a reporter from Canada, but I have my doubts. So does Kreisberg. He said he was a passenger in a British observation plane when the pilot crossed the line to shoot down one of our balloons.”
“You said he’s a pilot,” Rath protested, his remaining eye glaring.
“He is. They then got jumped by von Richthofen’sJasta11 and the British pilot was killed. This so-called journalist said he dumpedthe body and took the controls himself. He claims that von Richthofen forced him to land the plane so it could be examined by our people. The Red Baron himself is coming to headquarters tomorrow to give his account of the events. Kreisberg knows the two stories won’t corroborate and that the man’s a spy.”
Rath sat back to consider his next move.
