Scharff gave him a quick glance. He walked over to his desk and stood for a moment in thought. Then he looked up at Krebbs, his quick smile more chilling than ever.
“Yes,” he said. “You will, won't you? Eventually.” He seemed to be making a decision. “Perhaps — now. It may give you a head start. In your thinking.” He looked steadily at the scientist. “Your friend Dr. Marcus has developed a Laser Activated Energy Beam. A particle beam. Extremely powerful. The Americans call it the XM-9. It is a far cry from the high-energy laser with which they first shot down a drone target over the New Mexico desert in 1973—as far a cry as their moon-lander from their Model-T Ford.” He glanced at Krebbs. “You are familiar with the case, Dr. Krebbs? And with the — eh, tank-like mobile laser developed by the American Army some years later?”
Krebbs nodded. “Not in detail, of course.”
“Of course,” Scharff said dryly. He went on. “Coupled with their new eye-movement sight that is mounted on the pilot's helmet, this device has the capability to destroy any attacking missile, rocket or aircraft. Unerringly, Herr Doktor Krebbs, and instantly. In flight. Regardless of any evasive maneuvering attempted.”
He let his words sink in.
“Instantaneous intercept, Herr Doktor. And total destruction. It makes it impossible for our defense forces to bring down any enemy bomber or ballistic missile equipped with this Marcus device. It is impervious to any intercept. It makes it possible for our enemies to deliver anything anywhere. And unfailingly. The implications should be clear to you.”
He walked up to the intently listening Krebbs. “As you can see, it is imperative that we learn all the specifications of this device. Possessed unilaterally by the Americans, it could completely upset the balance of power between them and us — in their favor. We cannot allow that to happen. That is obvious.”
He turned away and sat down at his desk. “As you can see, you are now privy to a top state secret,” he said dispassionately. “I am confident that you are fully aware of the implications of that, too. Good night, Herr Doktor. The guard outside will show you to your quarters.”
He watched the dazed scientist leave the room. He smiled to himself. He felt quite certain of the man's unreserved cooperation. He had no doubt that he would be able to ensure it. His early training as a young SS officer in the Gestapo during that organization's most powerful years had been very useful to him in his present position. He anticipated no problem. Not with the good Herr Doktor Wilhelm Krebbs…
But there were other matters. He picked up the phone. He spoke crisply:
“Richter, get me OV III — Major Blücher.” Impatiently he waited. “Blücher? Scharff here. This is a top-priority request… Yes… Have we any sleeper agents with technological knowledge in Southern California?… I need it at once… I'll wait.”
He drummed his fingers on his desk as he waited. Was it an old Nazi marching song?
He let his thoughts wander… He had a twinge of doubt. Was he doing the right thing? Was the action he was about to take in his best interest? He brooded over it. He needed a big case. He needed something to solidify his position at the highest level. He needed it badly. He still grew coldly furious when he thought of the memo he'd intercepted. “Not decisive enough,” it had said. He! Gerhardt Scharff! His service in the Gestapo from the first had been exemplary. He had the commendations to prove that. From Himmler himself. Still hidden away among his possessions. And his service to his new masters had been equally valuable. Always. So what if he did look out for his own welfare first?… “Replacement with a younger man should be considered.” He knew those “younger men” clawing their way up. Zum Teufel damit! No young postwar brat could begin to do his job as efficiently as he, Gerhardt Scharff.
And now this Marcus thing. He knew it had been a big question for a long time. He knew the Russians wanted information about it. Badly. He also knew they did not yet want to risk creating an international incident by an overt act, such as — eh, abducting Marcus himself or one of the few others who were familiar with his — eh, device. But this pilot, lost in the wilderness as he was — that was another matter. His — eh, disappearance could easily be explained without any suspicion falling on outside forces. And he would be able to give valuable information about the device he had been testing, to him and to the Russians. If he, Gerhardt Scharff, could get the information — preferably by obtaining the device itself, but that seemed problematic — or through the pilot… If his, Gerhardt Scharff's, actions should succeed where nothing else had — his post would be secure. He would be important.
If.
He'd had to make a decision fast. As soon as he'd learned of the opportunity. And he had decided. Decided to go ahead — on his own. Without consulting anyone and thereby running the risk of losing the full credit.
What if it did go wrong? The whole damned situation admittedly was a long shot. But careers were built on long shots. The chance seemed worth taking. It would be unfortunate if the attempt failed — but not dangerous. The risks were minimal. And if anyone at a later date objected to his unilateral action, he could plead the urgency necessary to launch the undertaking. He'd had to make a fast decision. That, after all, was what he was paid to do.
Anyway, some risk had to be taken. And taken now…
Or he might be terminated.
In his business that meant only one thing.
Was he over re-acting? Was he letting his judgment be influenced by his preoccupation with Marcus, and his need to rectify past mistakes? With the threat of — termination…?
He was brought out of his reverie as the voice on the telephone came back. He listened briefly.
“I see… Two.” His face grew dark. “One of them broke his cover to transmit the XM-9 crash information?… No, I did not know!'” He sounded annoyed. “Is he still safe? In place?… Good. Here are your orders — effective at once.”
His voice became hard.
“Activate them both.”
6
Colonel Jonathan Howell was angry — and when he was, he didn't mind showing it. It made no sense to him to let a good, honest emotion go to waste. Paul Jarman and Quentin Ward stood before him in his office, both looking tired and grim. He glared at them.
“Damn his hide,” he growled. “I'll throw the damned book at him. Walking away from his chute.”
“He is not responsible, sir,” Ward spoke firmly.
Howell fixed him with an icy stare. “Explain.”
“The head injury, sir. Of course, without an examination, I—”
“I don't want a medical diagnosis, Major,” Howell cut him off. “Just an explanation.”
“His brain may be affected,” Ward said. “Damaged. He is not himself.”
“Are you telling me that Major Darby has lost his mind?” Howell asked acidly.
Ward was not to be put off. “I am saying that I believe him to have suffered brain damage, Colonel. He may be mentally deranged. It's the only explanation for his aberrant behavior,” he said reasonably.
Howell stood up. He turned his back on the two junior officers and stood for a moment, pensively looking out the window into the night.
Ward made sense. He and the other search parties had returned when darkness fell. They had not been able to spot Tom again.