will meet Speer tonight. You can catch up on old times."
"He was there after I was. I don't think we'll have much in common," Harrison replied coolly, struggling to regain some semblance of control of the flow of events.
This evening, then," Hitler replied curtly over his shoulder, as if issuing an order as he turned and stalked out of the room.
Harrison turned and went out the opposite door and stepped into the antechamber where his staff was gathered. "Gendemen," he announced coldly, "before long we're going to have to fight that son of a bitch, and we'd better be ready."
Hitler stormed into the suite where his inner circle waited. As those waiting for him came to their feet he snarled, "We return to Germany tomorrow. Operation Arminius goes forward."
CHAPTER THREE
November 10
FBI "Safe House," Manassas, Virginia
He seemed to be floating several feet above the floor of a medieval torture chamber, hovering weighdess over a scene of Boschian horror. Below him, damned souls incarnate writhed in agony, screamed in anguish .. . but there was no sound. As he drifted through the chamber he could see victims stretched out on racks while dark demons capered about them, mocking and laughing. Other victims ran hopelessly about, trailing fire as other devils pursued them, howling in silent delight.
He floated to the door—was it by an act of will? He wasn't sure — and it creaked open — sound — there was sound now; from the next room he heard screams. Now he was afraid. Terror like a gnawing rat ripped into his soul, but he could not turn back; invisible hands pulled him into the lower pits of darkness.
Here the demons were of a different breed, more humanlike, clothed in black, their faces pale slashes in the night. Their tools of torment were far more modern than those of the level above: electric sparks crackled around their howling victims, glistening needles filled with evil plunged into writhing forms strapped to stainless-steel gurneys; naked humanity in endless procession stumbled forward to their appointed doom, curling whips and snarling dogs driving them into brighdy lit tiled rooms. Iron doors slammed shut. A hissing whisper like the threat-warning of a venomous snake issued from the next room, to be instantly drowned out by gasping hysterical screams. Through a filth-smeared porthole he could see the distorted face of one of the damned, clawing at the glass with bloody fingers, scratching frantically, digging for air, for life, even as its features rotted into yellow corruption. A guard by the door looked up. His open-mouthed leer revealed a red, gaping emptiness.
"Room for one more____"
Floating above the door like a lost soul he screamed in terror and anguish for all that was lost, for the death of all, for himself.
"MARTEL!"
James Martel reached up with a cry, grasping hold of the hand at his shoulder.
"Come on, Martel, wake up."
Reality started to take hold. The man standing over his cot looking down at him with such cool disdain was Special Agent Brubaker. His eyes were red rimmed from too many cigarettes, too much coffee, and too little sleep. He'd obviously been working hard for a long time.
"Sweet dreams, Martel?"
Jim struggled for composure. He had held out against this man and his tag-team partner for weeks, and he felt a stab of shame for breaking, even a little, even in a dream. "Bathroom," Martel whispered, shrugging his interrogator's hand off his shoulder.
"Sure."
Martel stood on shaky legs and half-staggered the ten feet to the bathroom portal. There was no door, and though he had lived for several years on board naval ships the lack of privacy under these circumstances bothered him. Having given his permission, Special Agent Brubaker, who had been with him since Berlin, stood in the middle of the room, watching boredly as Jim relieved himself and then splashed cold water on his face. He looked into the rather large mirror set directly into the wall. His face, illuminated by the
"He was there after I was. I don't think we'll have much in common," Harrison replied coolly, struggling to regain some semblance of control of the flow of events.
This evening, then," Hitler replied curtly over his shoulder, as if issuing an order as he turned and stalked out of the room.
Harrison turned and went out the opposite door and stepped into the antechamber where his staff was gathered. "Gendemen," he announced coldly, "before long we're going to have to fight that son of a bitch, and we'd better be ready."
Hitler stormed into the suite where his inner circle waited. As those waiting for him came to their feet he snarled, "We return to Germany tomorrow. Operation Arminius goes forward."
CHAPTER THREE
November 10
FBI "Safe House," Manassas, Virginia
He seemed to be floating several feet above the floor of a medieval torture chamber, hovering weighdess over a scene of Boschian horror. Below him, damned souls incarnate writhed in agony, screamed in anguish .. . but there was no sound. As he drifted through the chamber he could see victims stretched out on racks while dark demons capered about them, mocking and laughing. Other victims ran hopelessly about, trailing fire as other devils pursued them, howling in silent delight.
He floated to the door—was it by an act of will? He wasn't sure — and it creaked open — sound — there was sound now; from the next room he heard screams. Now he was afraid. Terror like a gnawing rat ripped into his soul, but he could not turn back; invisible hands pulled him into the lower pits of darkness.
Here the demons were of a different breed, more humanlike, clothed in black, their faces pale slashes in the night. Their tools of torment were far more modern than those of the level above: electric sparks crackled around their howling victims, glistening needles filled with evil plunged into writhing forms strapped to stainless-steel gurneys; naked humanity in endless procession stumbled forward to their appointed doom, curling whips and snarling dogs driving them into brighdy lit tiled rooms. Iron doors slammed shut. A hissing whisper like the threat-warning of a venomous snake issued from the next room, to be instantly drowned out by gasping hysterical screams. Through a filth-smeared porthole he could see the distorted face of one of the damned, clawing at the glass with bloody fingers, scratching frantically, digging for air, for life, even as its features rotted into yellow corruption. A guard by the door looked up. His open-mouthed leer revealed a red, gaping emptiness.
"Room for one more____"
Floating above the door like a lost soul he screamed in terror and anguish for all that was lost, for the death of all, for himself.
"MARTEL!"
James Martel reached up with a cry, grasping hold of the hand at his shoulder.
"Come on, Martel, wake up."
Reality started to take hold. The man standing over his cot looking down at him with such cool disdain was Special Agent Brubaker. His eyes were red rimmed from too many cigarettes, too much coffee, and too little sleep. He'd obviously been working hard for a long time.
"Sweet dreams, Martel?"
Jim struggled for composure. He had held out against this man and his tag-team partner for weeks, and he felt a stab of shame for breaking, even a little, even in a dream. "Bathroom," Martel whispered, shrugging his interrogator's hand off his shoulder.
"Sure."
Martel stood on shaky legs and half-staggered the ten feet to the bathroom portal. There was no door, and though he had lived for several years on board naval ships the lack of privacy under these circumstances bothered him. Having given his permission, Special Agent Brubaker, who had been with him since Berlin, stood in the middle of the room, watching boredly as Jim relieved himself and then splashed cold water on his face. He looked into the rather large mirror set directly into the wall. His face, illuminated by the
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