“I do not know at what level this operation has been mismanaged,” the Minister broke in. He glared icily at Scharff. “But I intend to find out.”
Scharff felt anger rising in him. He hid it. Well. He was used to that. Instead he automatically flashed one of his switchcord smiles. He wished to hell that he'd never heard of that verfluchte Marcus device. And most of all the damned crash, which had seemed like an orange falling into his Aladdin turban; a chance to penetrate the secrecy of the Marcus project — a feat that so far had proved impossible — and with risks that should have been minimal. Now the damned risks were growing — and they had become risks to him. He cursed. He knew a scapegoat had to be found. So far he was the logical one. A part of his mind set out to find another, as he went on.
“I admit, Comrade Minister, that — based on the information given me — my first evaluation of the situation and the windfall it might have afforded us was, eh, perhaps optimistic—”
“Overly optimistic,” the Minister interjected acidly.
“—overly optimistic. I shall, of course, instigate a thorough investigation of how the mission was handled — eh — in the field. I felt—”
Again the Minister interrupted, a small sneer of contempt on his face. He adjusted his pince-nez eyeglasses — a gesture not lost upon Scharff.
“So, Herr Oberst,” he said. “Am I correct in assuming that without the device, or part of it, and without the pilot, it will be impossible for Dr. Krebbs to accomplish anything?”
Scharff nodded heavily. “You are correct. But—”
“But Marcus can duplicate his work.” It was a statement, not a question.
“Of course. But even he will not know why his equipment malfunctioned, why the plane carrying it crashed, until he can talk to the pilot. That is essential. We—”
“Then we must see to it that he does not do so, mustn't we, my dear Scharff?” Again the man's voice was deceptively gentle.
Scharff looked sharply at his superior. “I — understand,” he said.
“Excellent.” The Minister adjusted his pince-nez. ”I shall leave it in your hands, then. Entirely.”
He stood up.
Scharff at once rose to his feet. He almost clicked his heels. Some habits linger for a long, long time.
“Of course, Comrade Minister,” he said.
Without another word or a glance the Minister left the office.
Standing behind his desk, Scharff contemplated the closed door. He was troubled. The Minister had come to him. Not a good sign. But — there was a way, a way to come out of this shitty situation without his own skin being befouled…
His mind flitted back to another state minister he'd known. Long ago. He, too, had worn pince-nez spectacles. When he had been at his most considerate, his most calm and friendly, another meat hook in the Gestapo building was about to be occupied. He shivered. He suddenly realized he was still standing stiffly behind his desk. He sat down. Heavily.
He picked up the phone and jiggled the cradle.
“Get me Blücher,” he snapped. “OV III. At once.”
He waited. He fished a handkerchief from his pocket and wiped his face. As he had expected, it came away soggy with sweat. Zum Teufel damit!
“Blücher?” he said. “How fast can you get new orders to our agents in California?… Next contact at 1600 hours, their time. Good… Here are the orders to be transmitted to the agents in the field at once: Effective immediately, your target is to be eliminated.”
He took a deep breath.
“I repeat. Kill your target!”
6
Tom's eyes smarted. He squinted out over the open valley exposed before him as he emerged from the mouth of a narrow canyon. The broiling sunlight shimmered on the sands, the heat creating hazy false horizons. He eyed the stretch of desert immediately in front of him, a flat, rough area dotted with large, humpbacked islands of hard-packed sand, overgrown with spiny vegetation. He studied them. They promised shade and concealment. Hesitantly he started down the gentle slope of the alluvial fan extending from the gorge, headed for the nearest dune. He was bone tired, and his whole body ached with exhaustion. Half running, half stumbling, he made for the island of safety…
The two seventeen-year-old boys lying in the shade of one of the brush islands near the road giggled at one another. The joint they had been smoking was taking effect, and the world was their oyster — although admittedly a damned hot one and totally misplaced.
They'd been visiting Scotty's Castle in the north end of the valley and were on their way back to the campground at Texas Springs, in no hurry to get to the place — and parental supervision. They'd enjoyed the far-out Moorish mansion, lavishly built by the equally far-out Death Valley Scotty two lifetimes ago, and they'd joked over the old pictures of Scotty from his days as a prospector and as a trick rider with Buffalo Bill's Wild West Show. But they had been pissed off when the two superskirts they'd tried to pick up turned out to have their folks in tow and the hoped-for little bit didn't come off. They hadn't even been able to cop a feel.
It had been a long, hot and tiring trip, and when they'd begun to check their eyelids for pinholes on the way back, they'd decided to get horizontal for a while — and the brush-covered sand dune had seemed as good a rest-’em-up place as any. Now the joint was gone, their fancy mopeds were pushed in under the brush, out of the sun, and all was well with the world.
Suddenly one of them sat up and peered toward the nearby foothills. He pointed.
“Hey!” he giggled. “Look! What's that?”
“What?”
“Over there. By that gorge. See it?”
They both looked.
In the distance a figure could be seen making its way down the slope from the ravine, moving in a curious, staggering half-run. It was impossible to make out what it was, but it seemed human, with tattered clothing hanging from it, moving in a half-crouch.
“Looks like a spaced-out OM.”
“That's no old man. You're spaced out,” the boy giggled.
“Well, he's sure's no superjock,” his companion countered. “He looks wrecked!” He looked eagerly at his friend. “Hey! Let's go mess around with him.”
Quickly they hauled their mopeds from under the brush. They started up and careened toward the foothills, cutting across the desert.
“Come on!” one of them shouted exuberantly. “Drop the hammer down! You don't have to double-nickel it. There're no Evel Knievel smokeys out here, man!” He managed to perform a half-assed wheelie as both roared across the desert.
Tom looked up in wild alarm as the high-pitched whine from the mopeds shattered the silence around him. Across the desert two terrifying creatures were hurtling down on him, spewing sand and dust, their racket angrier and more frightening than any of the others that had pursued him.
In quick panic he looked around. There were no places to seek refuge. He began to back away from the strident menace racing toward him. He glanced back toward the canyon from where he'd come — and scrambled back up the slope toward the break in the humpbacked hills.
On the desert below, the two boys had come upon a dirt trail that led up toward the canyon mouth. They gunned their mopeds — mufflers rolling thunder over the sand — and raced to cut Tom off.