"How did you know that?"
"But then the entire Antarctic expedition had gone seriously awry and— "
"How did you know that, Otto?"
He stopped. "Know what?"
"That I died of an illness? Earlier you said I died in a heroic aerial rescue attempt."
He frowned. "Did I say that? Did I say illness? I meant that was my assumption, our assumption, it was the natural— "
"We were in Antarctica, not Panama. There are no illnesses there— except perhaps frostbite. So: what did they tell you of my death?"
Kohl appeared to be doing an inner calculus, weighing what Owen wanted to hear. "Well, there was talk of a discovery— a dread new disease. You were one of the casualties. People felt very bad about your death. Drexler declared his intention to return the following season to perform more cutting-edge research. Except…"
"Except?"
"The war. The British navy was blocking the way."
Hart stood, restless, and paced around the small room, Kohl's eyes nervously following. Five years of questions were bubbling in the pilot's mind. He stopped and studied the German narrowly. "So you know of no weapons program arising from the expedition?"
"Absolutely not. I simply met the ship and learned you were missing along with some other crew members. Heiden told me they'd escaped from this disease and crazy whalers, there was damage… it was very bewildering."
"Other crew members? Who else was missing?"
"Well… no one, really. That I knew. Soldiers, I guess. Certainly, the important people were all there: Heiden, Drexler…"
"Greta?"
There was a pause. Kohl gave his interrogator a careful look. "No…"
Hart's spirits sank.
"Not at first, not at the docking. But she came up afterward with Drexler. She seemed quiet, subdued. Hustled off to the station rather quickly. Probably couldn't wait to get off the ship."
Hart leaned forward. "Where did she go?"
Kohl bit his lip, considering. "Don't get me wrong, Owen. I'm hesitating only because of what I heard. There was talk on the ship that… that you and Greta were more than simply colleagues. More than friends. Is this true?"
"Where did she go, dammit?"
"So you were lovers?"
Hart was quiet, looking at the calculating Kohl. Then he leaned slowly forward again, his voice tight. "Why ask questions when you know the answers?"
Kohl leaned away from the American. He was sweating despite the room's chill, and wiped his forehead with his sleeve. "It's funny how our positions have reversed, isn't it, Owen?"
"Why did you want to see me, Otto?"
Kohl automatically glanced about— Fritz's German glance, instinctive after more than a decade in the Third Reich— and leaned forward himself. His own voice fell to a whisper. "I can help you."
Hart sat back. "That's rich. How can you help me?"
"I have information you want."
"Always the salesman," Hart said, making no effort to hide his contempt. "So, what are your wares?"
"I can help you get Greta out."
Hart went rigid. "What?"
"Get her out. Of the Reich. Germany is losing the war, Owen. Everyone can see that. The noose is tightening. But you—we— could get her out. You and me. Before it's too late."
Hart felt unsteady. "Why?" he managed. "Why would we do that?"
"Because, even though she believes you're dead, she's never stopped loving you. She would escape with you. I'm sure of it. My idea… well, my plan is that you and I will contact her, and then you'll fly us both to safety. That's why I asked for you."
"You can find her?"
"Oh, yes."
"Why should I believe you?"
"Believe it. I know the exact address."
"No. The part about her still loving me. Why would she confide such feelings to you?"
"Because Greta Heinz is my daughter," Kohl said.
Hart jerked, as if struck.
"And," he continued, "Jürgen Drexler is my son-in-law."
CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO
Like a wilderness lit by lightning, Germany was a dark, flickering void at night. The necessary wartime blackout robbed it of the illumination of civilization, turning its nocturnal hours as opaque as those of the Middle Ages. From the air where Hart and Kohl flew in a light plane, only far horizons blinked. Artillery and antiaircraft fire, distant flames, the searchlights of probing air defenses— these were the signs that the Third Reich remained inhabited. Somewhere in the abyss below Greta still lived.
Hart had simply left. It was a necessity. The American air force would never permit him to go behind enemy lines to look for a woman. So he'd taken a plane and risked the loss of one empty life in a gamble for another.
Kohl had thought their scheme through. The pair commandeered a jeep, telling Hart's superiors that the wily German was going to lead Owen to a cache of stolen art near Paris in return for the American's plea for leniency. But instead of hunting for Impressionist loot, Hart accompanied Kohl to a forger who supplied them with Reich papers in return for all the dollars he could extort from the American's savings. This was followed by the borrowing of a light plane to allegedly fly the informant Otto Kohl, reputed vessel of critical strategic information, to Third Army headquarters.
"It will work if we move quickly enough," Kohl promised. And it had. Once the fugitives were aloft they turned and streaked low in the night for Berlin, skimming treetops to stay off radar screens. "They'll presume you're shot down and missing," Kohl explained. "If it soothes your conscience, you can play the spy. Your superiors would gladly give up a light plane to get a ground observation of conditions in Berlin."
"How do we get back?"
Kohl exuded confidence. "I have a farm on the outskirts of the capital. We hide the airplane there, contact Greta, then fly to Switzerland. I have access to money— enough to grease the proper palms. The Swiss will help us invent new lives, and we'll go on to wherever we want to go."
"And Greta will come with us?"
"That's up to you, of course."
Hart had gambled everything she would. And yet, he couldn't help wondering about her marriage to Drexler. Should he believe Otto's assurances that it was a loveless union, that Greta carried a torch for her so-far-as-she-knew dead American pilot? Was the relationship that of two people leading parallel but separate lives? He questioned the German more closely. "I never quite understood the hold Jürgen seemed to have on her," he said. "What is the basis of it?"
Kohl stared somberly out the cockpit window, seeming to pluck memories from the inky darkness. "Even before Jürgen," he began, "there was a man. A husband, in fact. An older German biologist at the University of Hamburg. In retrospect, the attraction wasn't entirely surprising: Greta's mother had died in childbirth, and I… well, I was abroad a lot. The girl was raised in convent and boarding schools."
Kohl shook his head wearily. "Her childhood was lonely, Owen. That was my fault, of course."
He went on to explain that the awkward union abruptly ended when Professor Heinz died in an automobile accident. For Greta, it was a crushing blow, and not just because of the loss of his security. She'd curtailed her own studies for the marriage. Its end meant her career as an unproven female biologist in a male-dominated profession suddenly held meager promise. Both her mentor and her academic momentum were gone.
Kohl had come back to Germany from Washington, D.C., to help his daughter decide her future and improve his own connections to the Reich government. He quickly decided she must find a new husband: some bright young official likely to emerge at the top of the new regime, a man who would prove as useful to him as to her.