Heroes by David Hagberg (books under 200 pages .TXT) 📕

thinning white hair as best he could without a mirror.

Lunding tapped his recognition signal on the wall next door.

Canaris glanced toward the foot of his cot. The wall there was scratched from his tapping. Kriiger knew damned well what was going on here. So far nothing had been done about it, though.

Canaris suspected that Stawitzky monitored their conversations.

It didn’t matter somehow. Not here”.

He crouched down at the end of his cot, his chain dragging across the floor, waited for a break in Lunding’s code, and then tapped out his own recognition signal: “Good morning … C.”

Lunding’s code seemed erratic this morning. Over the weeks they had come to know each other fairly well, and now Canaris was certain that his friend was excited about something.

“Slow down; I am confused,” he laboriously tapped, letter by letter.

“There will be a trial,” Landing signaled. “Here. Very soon.”

“For whom?”

“You. Oster. Sack. Others.”

Canaris sat back on his heels. His trial. But Meitner had not sent up an attorney yet. He could not go to trial without counsel.

They’d have to understand that.

Lunding was tapping something else, but Canaris interrupted.

“How do you know this?”

“Kogl knows. Trustees. Rumors.”

“When?”

“Soon.”

Someone was in the corridor and suddenly at Canaris’ door.

He tapped the danger signal then just managed to scramble back to his cot when the door swung open and Kriiger and another SS corporal entered.

The one hung back while Kriiger unshackled Canaris’ ankles and then released his handcuffs.

“Where is my breakfast?” Canaris demanded.

Kriiger didn’t bother looking up until he was finished; then he got up and pulled Canaris to his feet.

“My breakfast,” Canaris said. His voice was very weak, and his stomach was churning with the thought that his already meager rations would be cut further.

“Put on your shoes,” Kriiger snapped.

“What is happening here …” Canaris started when Kriiger yanked him around.

“Forget the shoes,” he shouted, and he propelled Canaris out into the corridor.

The other corporal came behind them as Kriiger led Canaris down the corridor and then into the interrogation room. Stawitzky wasn’t there yet. Kriiger roughly tied Canaris to the chair in front of the table, and then he and the other man left.

Canaris’ heart was beating rapidly, his breath came in ragged, shallow gasps, but he was unable ta control it.

The worktable was loaded with knives and pliers, with needles and things that looked like files or rasps. Many of the tools were covered with blood; others, laid out like instruments at an operating room table, were gleaming.

The door opened and Canaris jerked.

“Good morning, sailor boy,” Stawitzky said breezily as he came around in front of Canaris and leaned against the worktable.

Canaris looked up at him. He knew that his lips were trembling; he could not control that either.

“What’s the matter this morning; has the cat got your usually very sharp tongue?” Stawitzky asked. Casually he reached behind him and plucked a pair of bloodied pliers from the table.

With a great effort Canaris drew himself up, willing himself toward some semblance of self-control. “There will soon be a trial, and then we shall see.”

Stawitzky smiled. “Yes, there will be a trial,” he said. He leaned forward. “But tell me, Canaris, how did you know this?

Who told you? Your colonel friend?”

Canaris actually managed a slight shrug. “You forget that I was once head of the most powerful secret service in the world.”

“Was, sailor boy, but no longer.”

“Where is my breakfast?”

“In good time, my dear fellow, all in good time. Meanwhile, there are a few things I would like to get straight. Just for the record.” Canaris said nothing.

“Does the name Hans Gisevius mean anything to you?”

Canaris’ eyes narrowed. This was old ground. It had been covered at Prinz-Albrecht Strasse. What was the man trying to accomplish now?

“Of course I know the name,” he said.

“Of course,” Stawitzky said. “And you must have known that the traitor maintained contacts with the Polish Government pigs in Switzerland. You did know that as well?”

“No, I did not. This has already been addressed, Herr Kriminalrat.”

“Yes, I know. I think Alien Dulles was an old friend of yours.”

Canaris again held his silence.

“You know, the OSS chief in Bern,” Stawitzky said. He leaned forward, tapping the bloody pliers in the palm of his hand.

“The connections are crystal-clear. From you to Gisevius. And from that stinking traitor directly to Dulles.”

“No,” Canaris said.

“You are guilty, you miserable little bastard,” Stawitzky shouted. “Guilty as hell, not only of plotting to assassinate our Fuhrer but of high treason as well.”

“That is not true,” Canaris shouted, although his voice was very hoarse and weak.

“You try to topple our government from within, while at the same perfidious moment you treat with our enemies,” Stawitzky screamed. Spittle flew from his mouth.

“You cannot prove that.”

Stawitzky advanced menacingly on Canaris, his face puffed up and red, an artery throbbing on the side of his neck, the whites of his eyes crisscrossed with broken veins. “You will hang here, you miserable little traitor. You have stabbed the Fatherland in the back for the very last time. You and your bunch of sneak thieves: Oster and Sack and Bonhoeffer and Gehre. Oh yes, Gehre, too. You will see!”

“I have done more for Germany than you can imagine.”

“I think you have done more to Germany than even I can suspect. But it will all come out, Canaris. You shall see. And then you will surely swing at the end of a rope.”

“It is you who will swing,” Canaris shouted.

Stawitzky stepped back and laughed. “Oh yes? And for what, might I ask, sailor boy?”

“The Americans are knocking at our back door. And this is a concentration camp. Those are crematoria in back.”

Stawitzky’s face screwed up into a grimace. “You little sneaking bastard!” he screamed. He wanted to lash out. It was clear to Canaris. But something stayed his hand. There was something even Stawitzky was frightened of.

He finally turned and slammed the pliers down on the worktable.

“Kriiger!” he shouted at the top of his lungs. “Kriiger, get in here!”

The door slammed open a second later, and Stawitzky spun around.

“Yes,