Sleeper Agent by Ib Melchior Page A

questioningly at her. “In Pilsen? In a strange town? You do come from Bayreuth, don’t you?”
    “Yes.”
    “And you didn’t think it necessary to carry your German identification card with you—in Czechoslovakia? ” His tone of voice eloquently conveyed his incredulity.
    “No.” It was barely a whisper.
    “What would you have done if you’d been picked up?” Larry asked suddenly. “Or had an accident?”
    The girl looked quickly toward the source of this new thrust. “I . . . I don’t know,” she whispered. “I . . . never thought . . .”
    Tom frowned at the Kennkarte. There was . . . something. But, dammit, it would take the whole bag of tricks, no doubt, to get at the truth. Time. And time they did not have. There were hundreds of others still to be screened. Hell, he thought, what kind of Mata Hari could this frightened kid be, anyway? There might be another way to get to her. A quicker way.
    He smiled at her. His voice was friendly and relaxed. “Very well, Frau Bauer. Your papers seem to be in order.” He gave the Kennkarte back to her. He watched her closely.
    The reaction he expected did not come. The tenseness in the girl’s face did not change. The fear in her eyes did not diminish.
    He was puzzled. He had been sure she would relax once her identification had been accepted. He watched her. Watched her slender hands unconsciously twisting and untwisting the heavy shoulder strap on the bag she clutched to her.
    Something else?
    “Frau Bauer!” His voice was suddenly sharp. “Give me your bag!”
    There was a barely perceptible gasp from the girl. The blood drained from her face, leaving her tanned cheeks a sickly gray.
    Something else . . .
    Without a word she handed him the bag.
    He took it. He turned it upside down. Its contents spilled out upon the table. The girl watched, mesmerized. He moved the objects about. A large comb. A purse with a little money. A purple hair ribbon. A lipstick. Handkerchief. A small pocket knife. A piece of paper with several safety pins attached. A child’s toy whistle. A fountain pen. And . . . ah! There it was.
    He picked it up. A solid gold medal, twice the size of a silver dollar and many times as heavy, with a bas-relief religious motif embossed on both sides.
    He had found the “something else.”
    The medal must represent a fortune to her, he thought. Her only means of starting a new life for herself and her boy, once back in Bayreuth, the only concrete hope in her nightmare world.
    It explained her extreme nervousness. She was simply afraid he’d liberate the only thing of value she possessed. He felt sorry for her. His guilt feelings began to stir again. Angrily he suppressed them. He knew damned well how irrational they were.
    He handed the heavy gold piece back to the girl. “Here,” he said, his voice reassuring. “You’d better hold on to this.”
    She took the coin. Her fingers touched his. They were cold.
    So certain had he been that he’d found the reason for her uneasiness that he almost missed her reaction. Or rather, lack of reaction. The girl did not relax. She showed no relief as she held the gold medal tightly clenched in her fist.
    Tom shot a glance at Larry, but his partner’s attention was on the release report he’d already begun to fill out.
    Tom felt his pulse quicken. He had misread the girl completely. He suddenly knew he had to follow through. He scooped up the rest of the girl’s belongings and dumped them into her handbag. He gave it to her.
    She seemed to relax. She clutched the bag to her. She even looked a little smug as Tom unhurriedly reached over and picked up the release form filled out by Larry. He appeared to study it, but his thoughts were racing.
    It was not the medal, not the gold value of it that concerned the girl. He was sure of it. It was easy to verify.
    He looked up at her. He smiled. “That’s a very interesting medal you have there,” he commented. “Let me see it again.” He held out his