The Hunt

Keegan sat in the back booth of The Rose. The table was covered with newspaper and magazine clippings. As he read them he moved them from one pile to another. There was a space for a third pile—possibilities—but that space was empty. He had hired two clipping services to scan periodicals, one east of the Mississippi, the other west, looking for murders, offbeat crimes, anything with the number 27. Each day thick envelopes would arrive and he would go through the clippings, looking for something, anything, that might give him a clue to the whereabouts or exploits of 27.

He recognized the tall, lanky man when he entered the bar, even though he was a mere silhouette, framed by the sunlight streaming through the door.

Smith.

This would be bad news.

Smith walked the length of the room and sat down. He motioned to Tiny. “May I have a glass of your best white wine, please?” he asked pleasantly.

“How did you dodge the twins?” Keegan asked.

“Hoover called them in. He’s so busy rounding up subversives he needs everybody he’s got.” He motioned to the clippings as Tiny brought his wine. “What’s this all about?”

Keegan explained the clippings to him.

“He’s not going to do anything to screw himself up,” Smith said.

“He’s not perfect,” Keegan answered. “Nobody’s perfect. He’s going to make a mistake and when he does, I’ll know it. If I don’t read it or hear, I’ll feel it. I can feel his heart beating. I can feel the sweat in his palms.” He nodded sharply. “I’ll know it.’

“Mr. Keegan, you’ve been after this guy for almost a year and you’re still no closer to him than you ever were.”

“Wrong, Mr. Smith. I was three miles away from him last week. I’ll tell you what I know about him. He’s six-one. Blond. Probably has green eyes. In excellent physical shape and a real charmer. And he’s got three bad wounds on his left cheek. We learned that from the pilot that flew him to Albuquerque. He carries a gold Dunhill cigarette lighter with a wolf’s head on the top. I have his fingerprints. We know he used the identity Fred Dempsey. The guy’s a chameleon. He can switch identities faster than you can switch hats. He’ll do anything to survive, Steal, kill, makes no difference. So far he’s killed at least eight people that we know about. When he runs, he makes it appear that he’s dead. He killed a forest ranger named Kramer, buried him in a lake and skied out of there—thirty-five miles, some of it through a blizzard. He killed a family of four, then skied another fifteen miles and paid some local stunt pilot a thousand dollars to fly him into Albuquerque, not Denver, which would have been the obvious thing. He doesn’t do the obvious. If we hadn’t been on his ass, he would have gotten away with it. He did the same thing in Drew City.”

“But he did get away, Keegan. By now he could be anywhere. In any disguise and with new papers. And . . . now he knows somebody’s on to him.”

“That’s not going to change him,” said Keegan. “He’s a classic psychopath, Mr. Smith. Hell, he kills when he doesn’t have to. He killed that family in Colorado, two kids, mother, father, totally unnecessary. Everybody in Aspen knew what he looked like.”

Smith shrugged. “He doesn’t like to leave tracks,” he said. “In the intelligence field that isn’t uncommon.”

“You mean it’s condoned?”

Smith scowled at the question, which he considered naïve. “Nothing’s condoned, nothing’s forbidden. Those things go unsaid. Cut a man loose like that, his primary objective is survival. He’s got a job to do, an enemy agent loose two thousand miles from home in hostile territory. What would you do? Anyway, that question’s moot, Mr. Keegan. What do you do next? You’ve lost him.”

“I don’t know, but I promise you I know this guy better than anybody in the bureau. I know this guy better than anybody and if anybody can catch him, I can.”

“Hoover’s going to handle this in his own way and in his own sweet time,” Smith said matter-of-factly. “And frankly he regards the espionage angle as a joke. Right now his only interest in Twenty-seven is that he’s suspected of mass murder and unlawful flight.”

“So? Let Hoover put his face up in the post office and in the newspapers. Release the story. Really turn on the heat.”

“Not a chance,” Smith said, shaking his head. “If it turns out to be a false alarm, he’ll look stupid and Hoover would rather blow off his foot than look stupid.”

“Tell you the truth, it probably wouldn’t work anyway. I promise you this: Twenty-seven has a plan. He is never caught without a plan. Now that he knows he’s hot, I’m sure he’s got a plan for that, too.”

“Suppose he’s been activated?” Smith asked.

“I don’t know,” Keegan shrugged. “Hell, I need a break. If I don’t get one, whatever he’s going to do, he’ll do. And don’t ask me what that might be. I’ve burned up my brains trying to figure that one out.”

Smith sighed. He took another sip of wine.

“Look, let them play it their way, and I’ll play it mine,” said Keegan. “What have we got to lose?”

“It’s just a matter of time before the bureau figures out who you are and when it does, we’ll need a skyhook to get Hoover down off the ceiling.”

“Obviously Hoover doesn’t believe a man can reform.”

“Are you kidding? If he had his way he’d abolish trials by jury and make jaywalking a federal offense. I’m sorry, Mr. Keegan. Donovan and I are both impressed with what you’ve done but it’s an FBI case now. You’re off it.”

“What!” Keegan yelled. Everyone in the bar looked back at the booth. Keegan stood up. “Bullshit!”

“I’m sorry,” Smith said defensively. “The FBI’s on it because it’s a fugitive case. Espionage has nothing to do with it.”

“Then I’ll do it on my own,” Keegan said venomously.

Smith chuckled and shook his head. “How? You don’t have anyplace to start.”

Keegan didn’t answer. He knew the clippings were a much longer shot than going through the FBI records, but they were his last gasp.

“Of course,” Smith said, “there is one option.”

Keegan stared at him suspiciously. “What kind of option.” “Sign a contract with the Office of Information Coordination,” Smith said. “That way we can justify an on-going investigation on the grounds that we suspect him of being an enemy agent. Hoover’s only interest in him right now is as a fugitive.”

“Mr. Smith, I’m not a spy. I don’t belong in Donovan’s network.”

“Takes all kinds,” Smith said. “Besides, the Boss and I agree you did a hell of a job tracking him down in Colorado.”

“You’re telling me if I join this new intelligence outfit, I can keep going on this?”

“For the time being.”

“And then what?”

“Then you’ll be on our team.”

“And at your beck and call?”

Smith nodded slowly. “We’ll have a training course set up by the new year. We have a place set up in Boston. Two months. We would expect you to take the course. Hell, Keegan, look at it this way, we’ll probably be in the war soon anyway.”

“Not if Siebenundzwanzig can help it.”

Smith opened his briefcase and took out a contract and handed it to Keegan.

“Think it over,” he said.

“How about Dryman?”

“I don’t think we can justify using an Air Corps pilot and plane any longer. He’s due to be discharged in two months anyway. They’ll return him to his previous base and begin processing his discharge.”

“Credentials?”

“You have to surrender the White House authorization. After you complete the course in Boston you’ll get new credentials from the OIC.”

“And in the meantime Twenty-seven is on the loose and France and England are at war with Germany.”

“With the FBI on his tail.”

Keegan snorted. “For the wrong reason.”

“Don’t sell them short. They just might turn him up with the information we’ve given them. They certainly have the resources—which you don’t have.”

Keegan toyed with the contract. Finally he folded it and put it in the inside pocket of his jacket.

“I’ll think about it,” he said.

“Excellent,” Smith said with a wry grin. “Keep in touch.”

In the war room of his headquarters in Munich, Adolf Hitler stood before a towering map of Europe, staring smugly up at the colored lines which represented his Blitzkrieg of Poland. In two weeks, his troops had swept like two pairs of ice tongs, east across the Polish corridor then south, and east across southern Poland, then back up to link with the northern divisions. Warsaw was surrounded, battered by two weeks of devastating bombing raids.

Poland was his.

He laughed aloud. Behind him, Vierhaus applauded lightly.

“My congratulations, mein Führer. The whole world now knows the meaning of Blitzkrieg.”

Hitler nodded emphatically several times, his eyes burning with the fever of victory. “Exactly as planned,” he bragged softly. “Sixty thousand dead, two hundred thousand wounded, seventy thousand prisoners. And the war is less than three weeks old.”

“Next it’s France and then we drive the British back across the channel, eh, mein Führer?”

The mere mention of the English Channel gnawed at Hitler’s stomach. He stared at the narrow strip of water separating Europe from Great Britain. Although he never talked about it, the Channel was his greatest threat. He did not believe he had the resources yet to invade England.

“Never underestimate your enemy, Willie,” he said, waving his finger at Vierhaus. He strolled around his desk, his fists tight at his sides. “The British are tough. Proud. Dogged. They are exploiters. They are a psychological force embracing the entire world. And they are protected by a great navy and a very courageous air service.”

“Supplied by the Americans,” Vierhaus added.

“Exactly,” Hitler said. “You understand what I am driving at, eh, Willie?”

“Yes, mein Führer.”

“How fast can you activate Siebenundzwanzig?”

“I am ready to order the U-boat south, mein Fuhrer.”

“Who is in command?”

“Captain Fritz Leiger.”

“Ah!” Hitler said with raised eyebrows. “The U-17. And Siebenundzwanzig?”

“We are in touch with him through the newspaper ads. We can activate him immediately.”

Hitler eyed Vierhaus with suspicion.

“You anticipated my decision, Willie?”

“Not exactly, mein Führer,” Vierhaus said, not wishing to bruise Hitler’s fragile ego. “With the war in Europe, I am afraid Leiger may change his plans. Go someplace else. This may be our last opportunity.”

Hitler smiled. He put his hands behind his back, slapping the back of one in the palm of the other. “Of course you realize Operation Gespenst will force an open confrontation with the Americans.”

“They are supplying the British anyway. All they need is an excuse to get into it. They have just approved eighty-five million dollars for new aircraft, most of which we suspect will go to the Allies. Now is the time, men Führer. The longer we can delay the Americans, the better.”

“Of course, of course, I agree. We have nothing to lose anyway. When will the U-boat be in position?”

“It should take three weeks.”

“And when do you plan to carry out the mission?”

“The third week in November. On their Thanksgiving holiday. The timing could not be better.”

Hitler smiled. He went back behind his desk, patting his hand rapidly on it and then nodded.

“Gut, Willie. You have done an excellent job and so has Siebenundzwanzig. Activate him immediately. He has waited long enough. And so have we.”

The conning tower cut the smooth surface of the sea like a knife and a moment later the U-boat silently surfaced. The captain rapidly climbed the ladder up through the narrow con and, opening the hatch, stepped out into a cool September breeze.

Two other officers followed. Below him, two gunners emerged from the deck hatch to man the 8.8-centimeter gun. Nobody made a sound.

The captain peered through his glasses, scanning the black sea ahead of them, keening his ears. In the silence, he heard the deep rumble of engines, barely audible. He strained his eyes. Dimly in the dark, ships began to take shape. He counted them, aware that a hundred yards to his starboard, a second U-boat, the U-22, had surfaced.

“Small convoy,” the captain whispered. “I make six ships. No escort yet.”

“Shall I signal?” the mate whispered.

“Not yet

Like many of Germany’s U-boat commanders, Fritz Leiger was not a Nazi. A career navy man, he was a militarist with little interest in politics. But like most German military officers, he resented the Versailles treaty for the damage it had done to Germany’s pride and economy, so he favored the war against the British and French. He was a short, heavyset Austrian with a thick mustache and a stoic personality. He knew the dangers of U-boat service as well as the stress his crew would suffer before the war was over, so he cultivated few friends among his men. Although he was a fair and compassionate skipper, he felt he could not afford the luxury of comradeship.

In this first month of World War II, there were fifty-two Unterseeboote operating in the North Atlantic, type VIIC U-boats with a crew of forty-four men, a single deck gun, two antiaircraft cannons and five torpedo tubes. Leiger had been one of the first of the U-boat commanders. He had helped to develop the wolf- pack strategy, shadowing convoys and summoning other U- boats which would then launch nighttime surface attacks on British ships carrying aircraft and armaments from America to Great Britain. In twenty-eight days of war, the wolf packs had sunk nineteen British ships. Leiger’s sleek, gray shark, the U-17, had accounted for four of these, including the passenger ship Athenia, which had gone down with 1,400 crew and passengers, twenty-eight of them Americans.

Leiger suddenly stopped scanning the darkness and leaned forward. Refocusing his binoculars, he saw what a submariner fears most, the bubbling white water spraying off the bow of a British destroyer as it circled wide in front of the convoy and straightened out. The U-17 was directly in its path.

“Destroyer!” he yelled down into the con. “Prepare to dive.”

The warning horn blasted as Leiger and the bosun leaped through the hatchway and dropped down the narrow tube to the command deck of the sub. The bosun pulled the hatch closed behind him and locked it.

“Con clear!” he yelled.

“Take her to thirty meters,” the captain ordered. “We can’t risk a surface shot. Up periscope.”

He had his cap on backward and as the sub leveled off and the periscope rose, he swung it around. The destroyer was in the cross hairs, one thousand meters away and closing fast. He could see her silhouette clearly now as she sliced through the ocean toward them. He swung the scope around and focused on the convoy.

“Mark,” he said.

“Six hundred and fifty meters,” came the answer.

Leiger hesitated for only a moment before making his decision.

“First?” he said, still peering through the periscope.

“Yes, sir?”

“We’ll take the two lead ships. Launch four torpedoes, speed thirty-five, then we’ll dive immediately to sixty meters and go under the convoy.”

“Under the convoy, sir?” was the mate’s surprised answer.

“That’s right. The destroyer’s closing fast. When we fire, she’ll be looking for us on this side of the convoy.”

The first mate quickly nodded.

“Yes, sir.”

The captain, ignoring the destroyer, fixed the cross hairs on the first ship in the line. Just behind it, partially hidden by the shadow of the first ship, was a second vessel. By plan, the second submarine would take the last two ships in the convoy. Evasion was up to the individual sub.

“Reading?” the captain asked.

“Five hundred meters.”

“Mark.”

“Mark.”

“Down periscope.”

The slender tube slid soundlessly below the deck. Leiger looked at his watch, counted soundlessly to himself.

“Fire one.”

“Fire one . . . one away.”

“Fire two

He and the mate repeated the ritual until they had launched four torpedoes. Then:

“Take her to sixty meters, First. Ten degrees left. All ahead full.”

The U-boat tilted sharply. There was a clatter of falling objects along the length of the narrow vessel as she dove and leveled off. They could hear the steel fish whining through the water. A moment later they heard the first explosion, then the second.

“That’s one,” Leiger said with a smile. They waited, heard the sound of the third torpedo diminish.

“Missed,” the captain said with disappointment. Then the fourth one hit.

A series of explosions echoed through the sea as the boilers in the first ship exploded. Then the second blew up. The U-boat crew held their positions, staring at the steel hull over their heads as if it were a mirror reflecting the surface above them, wondering where the Brit destroyer was.

Then they heard four more torpedoes screaming through the ocean, heard two more explosions

“Gut!” Leiger said. “U-22 got one of hers.”

The thunder of the convoy engines grew louder as the U- 17 slid neatly beneath it. The sub was filled with sounds: rumbling engines; tortured steel as the first ship slid beneath the waves; the groaning of steel plates; the sharp twang of them buckling and popping from the pressure of the sea as the shattered ship dropped to the bottom; the dull phoom of depth charges reverberating through the water as the destroyer assaulted the U-22.

Safely on the opposite side of the stricken convoy, Leiger brought the U-17 up to twenty meters and raised the scope. The black sky was afire. Two of the torpedoed ships were still afloat but ablaze and listing. The rest of the convoy was scattering, taking evasive action. Beyond it, in the garish red light, the destroyer was careening through the sea as it launched depth charges from its stern.

They could easily take two more, Leiger thought. Only one destroyer and she’s occupied. One of the ships, a tanker, her gunnels almost awash from the weight of her heavy cargo of oil, made a sharp turn and suddenly was a perfect target. Five hundred meters away.

“Is the rear tube loaded?”

“Yes, sir.”

“All back two-thirds. . . prepare to launch . . . four hundred meters, mark. . . fire five . . . all ahead full.”

He watched the tanker through the periscope, counted the seconds silently to himself, then the torpedo struck. The whole ship seemed to explode in a great, broiling inferno. A few seconds later they heard the explosion and felt the U-boat shake slightly.

“Direct hit amidships!” he cried out and the crew cheered. “She’s an oil tanker, burning to sea level,” Leiger continued. “There goes her backbone. . . she’s breaking amidships

and she’s going down. Down periscope, First. Take her to two hundred and seventy degrees, Bosun - . . all ahead full.”

An hour later they were safely away from the stricken convoy and its guardian angel. The crew was quiet, dispirited. They had heard nothing from the U-22 and presumed she was sunk.

“Excellent show, gentlemen,” the captain told the crew to bring up their spirits. “We’ll ride at twenty meters for half an hour and then we can all get some fresh air.”

He went back to his cabin. Ten minutes later, the radioman appeared at his door.

“I have a message, Captain.”

“Yes?”

“It was from Mother. She kept repeating one word . Halloween.”

Leiger’s expression changed only slightly. He nodded.

“Thank you.”

When the radioman departed, Leiger closed and locked his cabin door.

“Damn,” he said to himself, opening the safe and removing an official envelope marked Geheim and below it, Gespenst.

“What the hell is this going to be about?” he wondered angrily. He withdrew the orders for this top-secret mission, which he knew simply as “Ghost.”

Leiger’s eyes narrowed with curiosity and annoyance. He had suddenly been ordered south, out of the killer lanes where the action was and into the clear waters of the southern Atlantic, where the 220-foot-long steel cigar could easily be spotted from the air.

To make matters worse, for the length of this new mission he was under the command of Die Sechs Füchse, an intelligence unit of the Schutzstaffel Leiger hated the SS and the Gestapo with a passion, as did most military men in Germany. He considered Hitler and his cronies thugs, psychopaths. This professor, Wilhelm Vierhaus, was to him one of the worst. Although they had only met once, Leiger had taken an instant dislike to the crippled intelligence chief, an arrogant man so thirsty for victory that he had lost all sense of honor.

Leiger pored over his charts with a pair of dividers, measuring the distance to his destination, the eastern coast of Grand Bahama Island in the Bahamas. His ship had a surface speed of about seventeen knots, seven underwater, and if necessary could dive comfortably to a depth of 120 meters. They could stay underwater for up to twenty-two hours at a “creep” speed of four knots.

Calculating his distance, Leiger figured if he traveled at maximum surface speed during the night, underwater during the day to avoid detection, and the weather held up, the trip from his position southeast of Greenland to Grand Bahama would take about seventeen days. He had three weeks to make the journey.

“Verdammt!” he said, angry that he had been ordered away from the action for some stupid “intelligence” mission.

In Bromley, New Hampshire, which had less than 2,500 residents, an old man struggled through the lobby of the only hotel in town. His hair was a white wisp, his face prune-wrinkled. His clothes, though neat and clean, were a site too big and sagged on a body obviously shrunken with age. His back was bowed and he wore wire-rimmed glasses. He used a cane to support his right leg, which appeared to have been weakened by a stroke.

“Good morning, Mr. Hempstead,” the desk clerk said.

“Hello, Harry,” Hempstead answered in a shaky voice. “Any mail today?”

Harry checked the mail slot, knowing it would be empty. Hempstead had been at the hotel for almost a month now. Every day he looked for a letter from his son but in the time he had been at the hotel he had received no mail.

“Sorry,” Harry told him.

The old man shuffled out the door, went toward the diner as he always did. On the way, he stopped at a newsstand and picked up The New York Times. As he walked on, 27 felt very proud of himself. The disguise was perfect. The wrinkles on his face hid the three gouges in his cheek. It was unlikely that whoever was after him would look for a seventy-year-old man in southern New Hampshire. He settled in a corner booth of the diner, ordered sausage and rolls and coffee, and turned to the Personals section of the paper.

The code was known as Schlussel Drei, the Three Code. The base message was a fake, identified by a series of numbers within that message. The actual message was then derived by adding three to the first number, subtracting three from the second, adding three to the third and subtracting three from the fourth. Reading through the personals, he stopped suddenly. His heart began to race. There, in the third column halfway down the page, was the message he had been waiting six years to read.

Charles: Have 8 seats for the show on the 14th. Will meet you at 9 P.M. at the 86th Street station. Elizabeth.

Twenty-seven decoded it as 5, 17, 1800 (6 P.M.) and 89. 5.17.1889—Hitler’s birthday.

“My God,” he said, smiling to himself, unable to conceal his excitement. “The mission has been activated.”

Eighteen days later, in the last week of October, the U-17 slipped around the eastern shore of Grand Bahama Island and found a suitable hiding place among the brush on its eastern tip, hopefully hidden from the prying eyes of U.S. Navy PBYs, which patrolled the entire area. With lookouts liberally posted, Leiger decided to permit his men the luxury of swimming, fresh fish and fruit and eggs, which they could buy on cautious visits to the villages a few miles away. He had been advised that he would have to remain in these waters for almost a month, so his plan was to move every three or four days, waiting until dark, then seeking out a new and sheltered cove or inlet in which to hide.

Leiger was to wait for a relayed signal from a mother ship farther out at sea before opening his second set of sealed orders. But now that he was safely alee on Grand Bahama, he could wait no longer. He locked the door to his cabin, opened the safe, removed the envelope and tore it open.

He read the instructions slowly, drumming his fingers on the desktop as he scanned the orders. When he was finished, he slid the sheaf of papers back in the envelope and returned it to the safe. Only then did he sit back and mentally digest what he had just read.

“Mein Gott, “he said half aloud. A daring plan. Insane really. And yet. . . it might just work.