"Our network in Italy remains strong," Rode suggested. "And Spain is possible."
"No, no. These might be good staging points for our departure, but Europe is out of the question for the near term. We will need a great deal of time to reorganize."
Becker added, "And a great deal of money."
"Yes, indeed. But here we are fortunate. Our Swiss friends are competent and extremely discreet in these matters. Considerable funds will be at our disposal. We will have the money, and we will take our time. But there is one particularly pressing matter."
Gruber stood and flicked his cigarettes spent ashes carelessly on the stone floor. "It concerns an agent of yours, General. Die Wespe."
Rode's eyes narrowed to mere slits. It was his signature stare, the mannerism that combined with his physical presence to wilt peers and underlings alike. Gruber, however, ignored it freely, in the same fashion that he ignored the flag-grade insignia on the man's collar. The structure of command was becoming increasingly fluid as a new order emerged.
"How do you know about Die Wespe?"
Gruber waved a languid hand in the air to dismiss the question as immaterial.
Becker asked, "Who is this Wespe?"
"He is a very special spy," Gruber said, "a fat little German scientist who works with the Americans." He shook his head derisively, still amazed that they could allow such a stupid breach. "He holds information that is vital to our future."
"Vital?" Rode scoffed. "I suspect it will be worthless." He turned to Becker. "The Americans have spent years and an incredible amount of money pursuing wild ideas. We explored the concept ourselves. Heisenberg, our top physicist, headed the effiSh. It came to nothing."
"We undertook a token project," Gruber agreed, "and it was a failure. However these academic types are a difficult breed. They consider themselves above the world, and some have a reputation for — conscience."
"Sabotage is what you mean," Rode countered.
"There were rumors. At any rate, our own work in the area has been feeble."
Becker asked, "What does it involve?"
Rode took a minute to explain the incredible details. He then added, "But it is only a whim on the chalkboards of certain scientists, a paper theory. Nothing has been proven."
The SS man, who knew his weapons, agreed, "I cannot imagine such a thing."
Gruber hedged, "Indeed, the concept has not yet been tested. But Wespe tells us this will come soon. Within months, if not weeks. Is this not true, Freiderich?"
Rode nodded.
"And if it should work?" Becker asked.
"There lies the significance. If it should work, my friend, those with the knowledge will control the future of our world."
Becker said, "And you think we should strive to acquire this knowledge?"
"We must have it!" Gruber paced with his hands behind his back, his angular frame leaning forward. "And it is still within our grasp."
"But are you not aware?" Rode warned, "Our agent in America, the only contact with Wespe, has been lost. He was uncovered, killed when the Americans tried to arrest him."
"Precisely," Gruber said, "which is why I have called you both here today. We must reestablish contact with Wespe, at any cost."
Rode blew a snort in exasperation, "Our networks are finished. Most of our agents have been captured or killed, and some have certainly talked under interrogation. Everything must be considered compromised."
"Agreed. Which is why we must start from the beginning." Gruber took a seat at his desk, coughing again, his lungs heaving to rid the spoiled subterranean air from his body. Recovering, he made every effort to sit erect and display strength, not the weariness that pulled straight from the marrow of his bones. Four thin file folders sat neatly stacked on the desk in front of him. Gruber split them, handing two to each of his compatriots. They were numbered for reference, simply one through four.
"We need someone fresh, someone unknown to your service, Freiderich. But, of course, there are requirements. This person must be absolutely fluent in English, and preferably has lived in America." Rode and Becker began to study the dossiers as Gruber continued. "These necessities limit our options, especially given that this person must be absolutely committed to our cause."
Gruber let that hang. He fell silent, allowing Rode and Becker a chance to take in the information. After a few minutes, they swapped files.
"There must be more information than this," Becker insisted. "Here there are only a few pages."
Gruber shrugged. "We are Germans, so of course volumes exist on each. I have taken the liberty of condensing the information."
Rode finished, and said, "You suggest that only one of these men be dispatched. If the matter is truly so urgent, why not enlist them all?"
"An intriguing thought, Freiderich. One which I entertained myself. But consider. Whoever we send must have enough information to contact Wespe." Gruber set his elbows on the desk and steepled his hands thoughtfully, as if in prayer. "Let me put forward a bit of wisdom from a friend of mine, a pilot in the Luftwaffe. One day, relating his flying experiences, he told me that he would prefer to fly an aircraft with one engine as opposed to two. He thought it safer. This seemed strange to me until he explained — an aircraft with two engines has twice the chance of a power-plant failure." He gestured toward the folders. "Sending them all would increase the probability of making contact with Wespe. But a single failure ruins everything."
The two men facing Gruber gave no argument to the logic.
"So the question becomes, which?"
Becker, the major, looked at Rode, perhaps deferring to rank, even though it held little substance here.
"Number two, without question," Rode said.
Becker nodded in agreement. "Number three is in the hospital, with injuries that might take time to heal. Four has been in Germany for a very long time. I suspect he might be too far removed from America. And number one, the Gestapo sergeant — he sounds like a killer, but perhaps more an animal."
"This one I know personally, and I would be inclined to agree," Gruber said. "But at least he would be true to our cause."
"Do you have reason to doubt number two?" Rode asked.
"No. His record is clear, although … something about it bothers me."
"I did not think anyone escaped the Cauldron on foot," Becker said, referring to the siege of Stalingrad, where Paulus's entire 6th Army was lost.
"Yes. I double-checked that. He is, as far as I know, the only one. He walked into a field hospital nearly a week after the surrender— von Manstein's relief Group. It was over fifty miles from the city. And in the middle of winter."
Rode said, "He is highly intelligent, and has fought for the Fatherland time and again. His performance reports are adequate. So what is it that you don't like about him?"
Gruber hedged, "I can't say, exactly. He grew up in America, but his father brought him to our cause at the outset of the war. Yes, he was brilliant academically, having studied architecture at the American's elite university called Harvard. But given that, his military ratings have been something less. Adequate, as you say, but nothing more. He has seen some of the fiercest fighting of the war, yet only recently found the rank of captain."
Becker said, "But any man who could walk out of the Cauldron — he is a survivor. This we need more than anything."
A distant rumble announced the arrival of another wave of American B-17s, and Gruber heard the plaintive wail of the airraid siren.