The three men had already emptied a couple of large steins of Löwenbrau hell—and Dirk's kidneys were quickly afloat. He had visited the cramped, pungent rest room — three urinals and two stalls. There was one small window with a sooty, cracked pane, easily opened, leading out to a narrow alley with an exit at each end. Good enough.
He watched the front door. Halfway up the two large windows that flanked it, heavy, streak-faded curtains hung from massive brass rings on sturdy wooden rods, making it impossible to see in — or out.
Oskar touched his arm.
The man who entered the Gastzimmer through the front door looked to be in his sixties. Unruly gray hair set him apart from the close-cropped Bierstube habitués. He was tall, six or six-one, Dirk estimated, with a slight stoop.
He looked around the crammed room and his eyes did not pause as they passed over the three men at the wall table near the kitchen door. For a moment he stood at the door acclimatizing himself to the din.
Oskar turned to his two companions.
“You may find the Herr Professor perhaps — strange to you,” he said slowly, as if searching for words that eluded him. “You must understand,” he said. “He is betraying his friends. His work. Himself.” Oskar spoke with quiet earnestness. “He must hate himself for it — even though he knows he must do what he does.”
Himmelmann began to make his way toward the table at the rear wall. Neither Oskar nor his two companions paid him any attention. Oskar took a healthy draft of his beer. He wiped his mouth with the back of his hand.
“But he is a man of vision, the Herr Professor,” he said softly. “He has the power to see the oak tree where only an acorn lies.”
Himmelmann came up to the table. He placed his hand on the back of the single empty chair.
“Ist dieser Platz frei?” he inquired.
Oskar glanced up. “Yes,” he said. “It is free. Sit down if you wish.”
“Danke.”
The man sat down. Expressionless eyes flitted across the faces of Dirk and Sig. Then the newcomer turned to catch the eye of the waitress plowing her way through the throng. He held up one finger. Then he turned to Oskar.
“Where is Otto?” he demanded abruptly.
“He is dead,” Oskar said quietly. Himmelmann started. Alarm showed briefly in his eyes. Oskar went on quickly. “It was an accident, Herr Professor. At the yard. No one suspects.”
Himmelmann's tension eased. “Tut mir leid,” he mumbled awkwardly. “I am sorry….” He turned to look at Dirk and Sig, his eyes hostile.
“You are Otto's — friends.” It was a statement rather than a question.
Dirk nodded. “We are.”
Sig looked at the German with distaste. How offhand the man had been in dismissing Otto's death. Was that what living in the midst of war did to you? Or living under the Nazis? Or — being involved in subversive work? He gave a quick glance at Dirk.
The plump waitress appeared at the table. She plunked down a stein of beer without disturbing the head and plunged back into the crowd. Himmelmann picked up the stein. Silently he contemplated the sparkling bubbles. Dirk spoke to him.
“You are Gustav Himmelmann?”
The scientist nodded. He regarded Dirk and Sig with hooded eyes.
“I am Van,” Dirk said. “My friend's name is Sig.”
Himmelmann nodded curtly.
“You will agree, Herr Professor, that we do not want to be seen talking too long or too seriously together — here.”
Himmelmann nodded, his face cloudy.
“With your permission, then, I will ask a few questions.”
Again the scientist nodded. He began to sip his beer.
“Very good,” Dirk said. “First, the jackpot question.” He took a deep breath. “Is the work at Haigerloch an atomic project?”
Himmelmann looked up. His cold eyes met Dirk's.
“Yes,” he said evenly.
Sig had been watching and listening closely. Involuntarily he let out a deep sigh. It startled him. He had expected Himmelmann's confirmation. But it was quite another matter to hear it spoken so bluntly.
“Who heads the Project?” Dirk asked.
“Professor Reichardt. Dieter Reichardt.”
Dirk frowned. “The name is not familiar. What kind of a man is he?”
“As a scientist he is brilliant. Politically he is naïve,” Himmelmann said. “His standard for measuring intelligence in his colleagues is the degree of their acceptance of his ideas.” He smiled a strange, cynical smile, the corners of his mouth pulling down instead of up. “Brilliance in blinkers.”
“How long have you been involved with the Haigerloch Project?” Dirk asked.
“I have been working in atomic research directly for many years,” Himmelmann answered, his voice flat. He regarded Dirk steadily. “The Project here and now is the culmination of years of extensive research and experimentation at several locations elsewhere in Germany.” He took a deep breath and continued in a monotone. “Early this year the crucial heavy-water atomic pile, the B-VIII, at the Kaiser Wilhelm Institute in Berlin, was dismantled and moved by truck convoy to Haigerloch. I came with the convoy. At the end of February, reconstruction of the pile was begun.”
He paused.
“What's the status of the pile now?” Dirk asked. “How — how close are you to being successful?”
Himmelmann's mouth drew downward in his disturbing smile. “Successful?” he asked, bitterness making his voice harsh. “The efficiency of the B-VIII pile has already far surpassed all previous results.” His bleak eyes bored into Dirk's. “A couple of days ago — in the early morning of March twenty-fourth, to be exact — the pile almost went critical. We now have all the answers. Next time — in a matter of weeks, perhaps days — we will be successful.” He looked away. “There is still time to build the Führer's atomic bomb…. Our work has been intensified. Speeded up. On his orders…”
“Have you any—”
Suddenly Oskar banged his stein down on the table, sending droplets of amber liquid splashing over the rim.
“I don't care what you say,” he stated in a loud, emphatic voice. “The switch on number two works one hell of a lot better since they fixed it.”
Dirk looked at him. He took a deliberate pull on his beer and wiped the foam from his mouth with the back of his hand, as he had seen Oskar do.
“That's your opinion, Oskar,” he drawled. “I say it is still an ass-buster.”
Oskar looked after a pleasantly open-faced young man with a grease smudge on his forehead who had just passed by the table. “Gestapo informer,” he said quietly. “Works in the yard. He thinks he is undercover. Otto made him weeks ago.”
Dirk turned back to Himmelmann.
“What about security?” he asked. “How thorough is it?”
The German frowned. “It is strict,” he said. “Strict and all-encompassing. Since Colonel Harbicht took over — even more rigid.”
“Harbicht?”
“Gestapo. Head of the regional Abteilung in Stuttgart. He has only recently taken personal charge of security in the Hechingen-Haigerloch area.”
Dirk and Sig exchanged glances.
“What's he like?” Dirk asked.