He hoped, though, that the absence would go unnoticed until he and his wards were well away. With that in mind, he ordered them back onto their horses, and trotting ahead of them, backtracked a half mile to the edge of the open basin, where a lane ran along the forest's edge, toward the higher mountains at the head of the valley.

They camped two miles above the basin, beside a mountain stream. There was a cattle trail along it, leading to an alpine pasture with what, on his map, seemed to be a cow camp. The map showed not only contours-the terrain-but forest, colored pale green, with openings in white, and buildings shown as tiny squares. The trail they'd followed was marked by a curling line of tiny dashes. In Oregon the cattle would be untended, but here, he suspected, someone would be with them.

Sooner or later, someone would come across the truck and report it, hopefully only after several days. But it might already have happened. Then the SS would know in what area to look. That meant pushing on as fast as they could, faster than Edouard and Berta might think possible.

Dusk had begun to settle, and Macurdy ate with the others, though lightly, appeasing his surly stomach. He'd chosen the hard tough heel from each end of the loaf, along with a slice of cheese, taking small bites, chewing slowly and thoroughly.

Tomorrow was important. They had a long way to go. He could only hope no one would find the truck for a while.

38

Bruno Krieger

The Munich airport felt like summer. Lt. Karl Hintz perspired in his black winter uniform. The only protection from the midafternoon sun was the black command car he'd arrived in, and it was like an oven. If the damned plane had been on time… Or had it been sent to the wrong airfield? Perhaps the officer he waited for had landed at the fighter base.

At any rate here he was, melting into his boots.

A plane approached from the north-most did, here-and grew larger to his hopeful eyes. The hope faded: It was a nondescript, single-engined craft resembling some used for civilian purposes before the war. Idly he watched it assume a landing course and make its approach, flaps down. It lifted its nose, and the wheels hit the runway smoothly, the plane slowing as she rolled, finally to taxi toward the SS parking strip and black sedan. The plane too was black, and now he could see the SS death's head emblem on its fuselage, and a swivel-mounted machine gun by the door.

Apparently, Hintz decided, this was it after all.

It stopped, propeller feathered, engine idling, and a man wearing fatigue coveralls swung easily out the door; a crew member, Hintz decided. Clearly not the important man from Berlin he'd been sent to meet.

Still, the man walked directly toward him, remarkably tall despite round shoulders, and with indecently long arms that hung like an ape's. Hintz stared. The nearer the man came, the more alarming he looked, swarthy as a Greek and lanternjawed, with cheekbones like russet doorknobs. Despite his complexion, the deep-socketed eyes were pale blue. Hintz stared. The creature stopped in front of him, its slight smile sardonic. It had been stared at before.

"I am Captain Bruno Krieger," he said, adding "eil Hitler!" and saluting. The salute, it seemed to Hintz, held something between disdain and contempt; he wasn't sure if it reflected disrespect for the salute or for himself.

The man stood as if waiting, and abruptly Hintz realized he hadn't returned the salute! And neither had his driver! "Heil Hitler!" His heels clacked, his arm shot out, and he almost shouted the words, the driver echoing them.

The pale eyes washed over him, leaving heat and queasiness behind. "Well? Are you going to take me to Major Hauser? Or must I stand in the sun the rest of the day?"

"Of course," Hintz said, then realized his answer could be taken either way, and hurriedly opened the car door for the visiting captain. Contempt, he decided. The captain's tone had definitely been contempt, and directed at him. As they drove away, he thought, Wait till you report to Major Hauler in that fatigue coverall. He will rake you over the coals till you cry for mercy.

Major Hauser did no such thing. He'd never before seen Bruno Krieger, but he knew his reputation. The disgraceful looking troll had been one of General Heydrich's favorites, a hunter and triggerman who, after Heydrich's death, had remained popular with headquarters in Berlin, despite his well-known lack of courtesy. For he was more than a faithful and deadly hound; they were numerous in the SS. Krieger had a reputation as uncannily skilled in tracking, getting close to, and destroying the victims assigned him. There were even some-notably Reichsfuhrer Himmler-who credited Krieger with occult powers. He was said to have terminated, decisively, several conspiracies against important figures, including, it was claimed, one against der Fuhrer.

It was also said that Heydrich had intended to promote him to major, but Krieger had demurred. Promotion, he'd said, would weaken his position. As a captain-a common enough rank-most saw him as the sword of the general who'd sent him, representing the authority of his commander. As a major, that perception would be reduced; some would look at him as having only his own authority. It was also told that when der Fuhrer heard the storyand Heydrich had made sure he heard it-he dictated a letter to the captain, with a copy to his personnel file, expressing his admiration. Thus Hauser was cordial, though maintaining his nominal seniority, and Krieger did not bait him as he had the young lieutenant.

"What can you tell me about this Kurt Montag?" Krieger asked.

"Essentially nothing that was not in my report to Berlin, or in their reports to me. He presented himself as mentally and physically defective, and became the most promising psychic in das Weutische Projekt. Then he was sent to England to make difficulties for Anglo-American headquarters there, using some confidential means, reputedly psychic. But in fact he was an American officer, who then captured the Abwehr's London station chief and his staff. Which of course resulted in a chain of arrests, and collapsed the entire London-area operation."

"A London informant reports that `Kurt Montag's' real name is Chris McCarthy. He is a decorated American Farschirmjager from the fighting in North Africa and Sicily, a man with neither conscience nor mercy."

"Our Captain Reiter investigated the destruction at Schloss Tannenberg. With information from a neighboring farmer and a surviving psychic, he established that Montag-McCarthy returned via parachute, apparently alone, and destroyed the Schloss not only with its entire complement of our people, but with the Voitar quartered there. Our records show there were five tons of TNT stored in the cellar. It was undoubtedly this he used, after transferring part of it to the other wing to ensure that no one escaped alive. All this while a guard platoon was stationed in the building."

"The TNT had been taken there for use in bargaining with the Voitar, but for some reason they lost interest in it. Colonel Landgraf three times requested its removal, but Berlin had not gotten around to it." He shrugged. "The manpower shortage, I suppose. It was certainly not something they'd send interned Balts or Frenchmen to do."

Hauser spread a map on his desk. "Your quarry escaped the Schloss in one of our trucks there, taking with him three of the four surviving psychics: a man, a woman, and a ten-year-old. They left with him willingly. Yesterday, forest workers covered the truck abandoned here, hidden in the forest." He pointed at an X penciled on the map. "Obviously they intend to escape via Liechtenstein. He was undoubtedly provided with military maps, and well-briefed on routes out of the country. So he knows he will have to take one of these." The finger moved decisively, there and there and there. "He will know that with a woman and child, anything more difficult is impossible, whether on horseback or on foot."