Odds Against

Chapter One

March 1939

The Stearman Kaydet bounced on the dusty tarmac. Hutch groaned and grabbed the sides of the open cockpit as the pseudo-pilot in the front seat once again tried to bring the plane down to earth. Again the Stearman bounced and inevitably the novice pilot yanked back too hard on the yoke. Airborne for the third time, the trainer threatened to stall. Lieutenant Kenneth Hutchinson tapped the would-be pilot on the shoulder and motioned that he was taking over. Hutch put his hands on the controls and gently eased the plane back under control by leveling the rate of climb. After circling the airfield, Hutch brought the much-abused little biplane gently back to the flat California desert.

After taxiing down the back runway toward the Quonset huts that made up the only type of human habitation within a hundred miles, Hutch dismounted the plane in disgust. Yanking his goggles and leather helmet off, he left the young trainee to his own devices, fearing that he would say something inappropriate for an officer and a gentleman. As he yanked his silk scarf from his neck, he turned to the sweating trainee.

“Check out this bird then meet me at the debriefing shack, Smith!” the blond lieutenant snapped, running his hand through his closely-cropped, damp hair.

“Yes, sir,” the younger man croaked, snapping a crisp salute which his instructor acknowledged then spun on his heel toward the buildings along the runway. With relief, the trainee began making his post-flight checks.

In the shack that doubled as briefing/debriefing center as well as command operations, Hutch voiced his thinning patience to his fellow training officers.

“I’ve had it!” he snapped to Captain `Wild Bill’ Hanover.

“Take it easy, Hutch. They’ll learn one of these days,” said Hanover soothingly. Hanover could be soothing since he had had time to unwind from his morning training mission over the California desert, and Hutch had had two difficult flights this afternoon.

“What’s the point of teaching these idiots all this? For months we’ve been trying to drill the finer points of night landings and take-offs. Then last week somebody added glider drill.” Hutch snorted in disgust as he made for the so-called water cooler. “They can’t even land and take off in broad daylight, let alone at night…Christ, it’s hot.” He snatched a cone-shaped paper cup from the dispenser and filled it with the lukewarm liquid; the cooler gurgled gently.

While Hutch sipped at the tepid water, Hanover concisely summed up the reason for teaching the fumble-fingered idiots (as Hutch was fond of calling all the men sent for training by G2 operations).

“Orders.”

“When I was transferred to G2, I had imagined something more exciting than attempting to give flight training in the middle of the god-damned desert.”

“Imagining yourself seducing all those luscious frauleins, huh?” Hanover snickered.

“Well, at least I’m scheduled for a few days leave before I go TDY. And you, my laughing friend, have inherited that jerk, Smith. Good luck, I think you’ll need it.” Hutch started to leave the sweltering Ops room with its despondently humming fans.

“Off to the bright lights again, Lieutenant?” Hanover leered. “She must be something. When do we finally get to meet this doll?”

“Never,” Hutch laughed a bit nervously; “not to a bunch of love-’em-and-leave-’em types like you prop jockeys!”

With a sigh of relief, Hutch slipped out of the ops room. The last of the bantering had finished shredding the little patience he had left, and “Jones”–no “Smith”–was waiting sheepishly for the reaming out Hutch was about to give him.

After pointing out in grim detail the flaws of Smith’s take off, landing, and flying techniques, Hutch wearily headed for his quarters to strip off his flying suit and leave the isolated desert outpost. In the fading sunset, he packed the Ford Coupe for the desert crossing. He made sure he had plenty of water for the touchy flat-head V-8 engine. Because the motor was notoriously sensitive to heat, Hutch usually planned his trek to Los Angeles during the nighttime hours. Quite often the damned thing vapor-locked as well as simply overheated. But he loved his now somewhat battered little car. The desert had not been kind to Myrtle.

Hutch acknowledged the salute of the Gate MP as he roared into the California twilight. The twisting dirt roads were seldom better than goat tracks, but each mile was sending him closer to his lover in L.A.

Stopping on a small rise outside Barstow, he cut off the straining engine before it could conk out on its own. He relaxed his head back on the seat and recalled his last leave. Starsky had been especially beautiful and sexy on the moonlit beach. It had been such an isolated stretch of gleaming sand that they had snuggled and loved in the moonlight. Over a year he had spent under the spell of one man…one dark-haired gypsy lover that had satisfied him in a way that no woman or wife had. The laughing blue eyes and skewed sense of humor off set his normally overly serious military mind set.

Hutch had to admit that West Point had given him a set of values and sense of honor that had been lacking in his home life. But David Michael Starsky had given him a sense of life. Hutch’s hitch with the Army would be up shortly. He was going to resign. He could hear his father saying, “I told you so.” But he wouldn’t know that the young chemist rather than dissatisfaction with Army life was the reason for his resignation. He needed to spend more time with his lover. He was sure he could find some sort of work, even commercial flying. There seemed to be more flying operations every day. He hadn’t told Starsky of his plans to resign from the military. He wasn’t sure how he would react. The volatile brunet was concerned about the European situation. However, he would cross that bridge when he came to it.

Sighing, Hutch leaned over the back of the seat to reach the storage area and pulled out the large can of water. He got out of the car and opened the hood. The powerful engine was still steaming. He moved to the fender and carefully began pouring water over the fuel pump mounted on the firewall above the `v’ between the two banks of cylinders. The water should cool the fuel enough to return it to its liquid state so the fuel pump could send it on to the carburetor. That was the theory anyhow. Normally it was successful. He would only have to do this a couple more times as the blazing heat of the day rapidly dissipated.

Hours later, after having fought the Ford Coupe through overheating and near vapor-lock, Hutch impatiently slammed the car door in the driveway of the small cottage in the hills above the winking lights of Los Angeles. After stretching cramped muscles, he opened the domed trunk and got out his military-issue flight bag.

Whistling softly, he turned his key in the door of the imitation log cabin that he rented cheaply by the month even though weeks might go by without habitation. Then he opened the softly creaking door and slipped down the short hallway to the bedroom. He noted that his weekend companion was already starfished untidily on the barely adequate double bed.

Hutch’s whole attitude brightened as he watched the boneless sprawl of the figure on the bed. Silently he crossed the short distance from the rough-hewn door to the bed. Smiling slightly, he leaned down and kissed the nape of the neck exposed amongst the dark curls. Snuffling, the object of his attentions tried to bury itself deeper into the coverings. Hutch carefully began revealing more and more of the muscular back. He followed the exposure with kisses down the spine while carefully lowering his hip to the edge of the bed. Resting both hands on either side of the now exposed torso, Hutch continued mapping the body with his tongue and lips.

Muttering what sounded vaguely like curses, the figure rolled over and opened bleary, blue eyes. Raising himself up on his elbows, David Michael Starsky, Ph.D., kissed his lover softly on the mouth.

“Mmmm…” Starsky snuggled closer, and rubbed his head against Hutch’s neck and shoulder.

“You’re late this time,” the young scientist whispered, as he offered his mouth for another kiss.

“Nearly wrote off another Kaydet this afternoon,” Hutch murmured before responding to the offered lips.

Hutch’s hands explored the reclining body, quickly wiping the last fuzziness of sleep from Starsky. Hutch felt Starsky’s response begin to harden against his hip while long-fingered hands rubbed Hutch’s flank. Then Hutch squeezed the tight ass beneath the covers as Starsky fumbled with Hutch’s shirt and slacks’ fastenings. Pulling back from the bed, Hutch rose and stripped hurriedly and slid beneath the bedding. There was just enough chill in the room to make contact with the sleep-warmed body a doubly comforting.

Urgency of long denial made the hurried frottage spiral out of control quickly. Grabbing both hot, hard cocks in one hand, Hutch quickly brought himself and his lover to the edge of need. Reaching from under the covers to the bedside stand, Hutch set the cheap furniture rocking dangerously. Cursing fervently, he steadied the swaying nightstand.

“Shit!” Starsky levered himself up to assist in the search for the stuff that seemed as elusive as the “damned Pimpernel.” Jammed clear to the back of the drawer, Hutch’s reaching fingers finally located the miscreant object. The cap stiff from disuse caused Hutch’s fingers to grate on the ridges of the top. The blankets puddled around their hips to be kicked on down to the foot of the bed.

Mumbling under his breath, Starsky took the cream from Hutch and grimaced as it finally gave in to his onslaught. Hutch’s fingers intercepted the billowing cream from the metal lip. Grinning in quiet concentration, Hutch leaned forward and began to anoint the rampant shaft in front of him. Starsky sighed as magic fingers restored the urgency to his manhood, which the search for a certain tube had nearly destroyed. Finishing the delicate task, Hutch quickly reached behind to lave more of the lubricant upon his own backside.

Turning around, Hutch presented himself in the classic position of submissional preparedness with elbows on the pillows and ass in the air.

“You get to be first all the time,” Starsky grieved.

“Get on with it, Starsk. You’ll get yours, never fear.”

Needing no further encouragement, the young scientist leaned forward to the welcoming body. With short, gentle nudges, he sheathed himself in the lean body. Hutch moaned with pleasure as Starsky finally hit the magic spot.

Leaning back, Starsky squeezed the mounds of fine white ass as his penis nearly slid out. Starsky was fascinated with the slip and slide of his hard, reddened flesh moving in and out of the lean, ivory body. Urgency began to catch up with him, however, and he slammed his cock harder into the compliant tunnel. Moving forward, he rested his hands on either side of the sweat-dampened face. He thrust again and again while watching the tightly closed eyes.

Reaching under Hutch’s body with one hand, he squeezed and pulled the hard cock. Then resting on the outstretched back, he used his other hand to massage the furry balls hidden farther back. This last assault caused the cock in his hand to begin to spasm. The tightening of the muscles of the blond’s body on his own penis caused his own hard thrust and stiffening which heralded his climax.

Both men dropped limply to the mattress. With a slight squelch, Starsky slid regretfully from his lover’s body.

“Yummm, that was long overdue, lover,” whispered Starsky.

Hutch pushed himself off the bed. He padded to the adjoining bathroom for a damp towel. Cleaning himself and Starsky efficiently, he tossed the towel carelessly to the floor beside the bed. He climbed onto the mattress, straightened the blankets, before gathering the precious man into his arms. Spooned together, he drifted briefly on the edge of consciousness, then knew nothing until he heard the shower roaring while late morning light filtered through the blinds. As the shower stopped, Hutch groaned and grabbed the errant pillow to bury his head deeper. There was a measure of peace until he felt a hand tugging on the bedclothes.

“Get up, Hutch. It’s nearly noon. And if we don’t hurry, we’ll miss the Saturday matinee.”

Struggling to recover the sheet, Hutch snuffled into the pillow. “Oh shit, what is it this week? Last time not only did I have to put up with the Bijou’s version of “Our Gang,” but I had to sit through Flash Gordon twice,” complained the airman as he made another futile grab for the disappearing pillows and covers.

“It’s a great film. Y’all love it!”

“What is it?” despaired Hutch.

“C’mon, Hutch, ya don’t wanna miss `Tarzan and the Green Goddess!'” chortled the curly-haired ruffian.

Finally giving up on fighting the octopus-like hands, Hutch raised himself up and threw his feet over the edge of the bed, tangling the covers even more thoroughly than Starsky had been able to.

“It’s all about Tarzan…”

“Spare me the details,” Hutch muttered, heading for the shower and slamming the bathroom door on his lover who was extolling the virtues of Johnny Weismueller in the celluloid jungle of South America.

In the shower and while shaving, Hutch speculated on how his purportedly brilliant lover could be so enthralled with B-grade Hollywood flicks.

* * *

After an afternoon of chattering, restless kids, topped off by a swinging, yodeling Tarzan, Hutch broke the news of his temporary duty to Starsky. They were lounging in the small, sparsely furnished living room of the cabin after the exhausting afternoon movie.

“TDY… What’s that? Translate it to plain English. This military jargon is a real pain in the ass,” Starsky complained, walking to the living room window and enjoying the view of the pines and scrub oak.

“TDY is Temporary Detached Duty. Doesn’t mean I’ve been transferred…only working somewhere else for a while.”

“How long is a while?”

“Three months at the FBI facility in Quantico, Virginia.” Hutch joined his lover at the window and stroked the Starsky’s broad shoulders.

“Shit,” Starsky commented, disappointment rampant in his sapphire eyes. “We have so little time together as it is, between you and the Army and me and the damned lab.” He turned from the window and rested his arms on the taller man’s shoulders.

“Yeah, babe, I know. I don’t like it either. But until my hitch is up, I’m stuck being moved at the whim of the Army.”

“And you might not be able to get out. There’s a war comin’, Hutch.”

“Yeah, you might be right. But I don’t think America is going to get tangled up in another European mess like the last one.”

“This one is different. Adolph Schicklgruber just demanded that Poland give up Danzig and the corridor between Germany and Prussia. The Poles ain’t gonna do that and the Limeys and the Frenchys will back `em.”

“But that’s still no reason for America to intervene.”

“That damned `Paperhanger’ won’t be satisfied with just grabbing up Eastern Europe. He’s got world conquest on his mind. Then there’s what he’s doing to the Jews.” Starsky dropped his arms and turned back to the window. Now he was gazing blankly at nothing, no longer enjoying the view.

“I think that’s just some wild rumors,” his lover soothed, reaching for the other man. “Besides, the English and the French seemed fairly convinced that Hitler will be satisfied with the areas ceded at Munich. The British Prime Minister…what’s his name? Yeah, Chamberlain seemed to think those concessions would guarantee peace.”

Not wanting to be soothed, Starsky shook off the light grip. “I don’t think it’s rumors. I think there’s something to it. I don’t want you over there either. And Madrid has fallen to the fascists. It’s getting nastier and nastier. I just don’t see how the US can stay out of it. And I don’t want you involved.”

“Aw, Starsky, there’s a huge ocean between us and that war. Even Roosevelt can’t involve us without the permission of Congress. He may think he’s some sort of dictator, but the Congress will keep him in line.” Hutch moved closer again and, once more, kneaded the tense shoulders of his lover.

Shaking his head at the occasional stubborn streak that cropped up in his companion, Starsky diplomatically changed the subject.

“Whatcha gonna do in Virginia?” he asked with weary resignation. This argument/discussion had been gone over before. He leaned back and relaxed against the bony frame behind him.

“Encryption,” Hutch answered, silently agreeing to the truce. He raised one hand to run his fingers through the springy curls on Starsky’s head.

“Huh?”

“Codes and coding machines. This is the first training that I’ve had since G2 tapped me a couple of years ago. The only contact I’ve had with those spies are the idiots that come in for flight training. I’m not much impressed with that bunch.”

“Oh.” Starsky wiggled against the stroking hands. Hutch thought of a big, black alley cat. He was expecting a purr momentarily.

There was an uneasy pause while Starsky moved away and unconsciously ruffled his own curls. “So how long before you leave?”

“I got a week then I’ll catch the train back to the east coast.”

“A whole week, huh? I gotta teach four classes next week, but I’ll put the lab on the back burner. I’ll say I’m not feeling very good,” Starsky said thoughtfully.

“What’s going on in your lab?”

“Oh, a bit of this and bit of that. Some research contracts for the government,” Starsky evaded. They walked back to the couch and sat down knee to knee.

“Yeah, I know. I don’t wanna know.”

“Somethin’ like that,” Starsky responded. “Say, whaddya say to Chinese tonight? Got this great recipe from my lab assistant.”

“No. The last time you had a `great’ recipe from her, I had heartburn for a week. How about I treat us to real Chinese in town?” Hutch countered.

“Great! Thought you’d say something like that!”

“Oh God, another plot!”

Starsky snickered and dove for the kitchen before the blond could grab him.

* * *

The all too-short week was passing in a kaleidoscope of images for Hutch. Lazy days spent relaxing on lonely beaches were his favorite times.

Now he gazed fondly as his lover strutted down the quiet boulevard. Starsky had mentioned something about a hot dog stand just outside the zoo that made the best “dogs” outside of New York. Indulgently Hutch followed the intent man in front of him. Secretly Hutch disliked the plump “dog” with “everything” that Starsky seemed so enthralled with.

“There it is!” gushed Starsky as he pointed to a gayly painted pushcart situated under a grove of orange trees. “Ya’ll love `em. Real New York hot dogs!”

Hutch allowed himself to be tugged along to the cart. Enthusiastically Starsky ordered two dogs with all the trimmings along with two large fresh orange juices.

Watching his lover sigh over the hot dog swimming in onions, sauerkraut, mustard and other items that didn’t bear reflection, Hutch nibbled gingerly at the strings of kraut hanging from his sandwich. He gulped down the orange juice, savoring the freshness and natural sweetness. He surreptitiously dumped the offending dog in the convenient trash can. To distract Starsky from his heinous crime, he started a conversation. His mouth seemed to run amuck.

“My hitch with the Army is up this summer. I think I’ll resign.”

“Huh?” Starsky gulped down the last massive bite of hot dog. Gulping and wiping his mouth with a paper napkin, Starsky looked at Hutch. “You’re serious, aren’t you, buddy?”

“Yes, I don’t get off much anymore on war games. Then I think I’d rather be in L.A. Great climate…and it has other attractions too.”

Starsky grinned.

“That’d be great,” Starsky mumbled around the last of his orange juice. “Say, whaddya think of a European tour this summer? Elise is in Paris with that band. I’d like to see her.”

Hutch looked momentarily puzzled.

“Elise, my sister!”

“Yeah, I know; I just thought she was in New York with your Mom.”

“Nah, she met up with some schmuck who convinced her that her future was in his band. So they toured the Catskills for a while, but didn’t make much of a splash. Now they’re in Paris. I’m kinda worried about what kind of a mess she’s gotten herself into.”

“Okay, Paris in the summertime. Somehow that just doesn’t have the romance of springtime in Paris.”

“I’ll give you springtime in L.A., you blond bombshell,” the scientist muttered starting to amble down the street.

“Where to now?”

“Where do you think, dummy?” Starsky purred, sidling back to his tall, lank lover.

“Yeah, that’s a good idea,” the flier agreed, following his lover to the car. They slid into opposite sides of the car then Hutch turned the key and pushed the starter button. Releasing the clutch after a few moments to let the engine warm up, he was startled to find a very warm hand on his thigh. His foot released the clutch suddenly and the Ford lurched away from the curb and died.

“Damn,” Hutch muttered, restarting Myrtle under the trying circumstances of the roving hands of his lover. Finally he had the coupe moving down the quiet streets that were lined with orange groves and an occasional home. The orange groves gave way to heavy brush as the Ford wound up the road away from the valley. Hutch stopped the car for them to watch the brightly burning disk of the sun slip down below the horizon. Starsky slid over to rest his head on the blond’s shoulder. No words were necessary as Hutch gently turned the dark head toward him. Their lips touched then the kiss deepened.

Pulling back, Starsky murmured, “Home, James, and don’t spare the horses.”

* * *

Starsky stood on the concrete platform and watched until the El Capitan was completely out of sight. With a sigh, he turned and went out to the street with the rest of the dispersing farewell-makers. He looked at the little coupe and shook his head over the dust and dents that never seemed to bother Hutch. But Myrtle was in his care for the next three months. Perhaps he could spiff her up a bit. He settled on the lone bench seat, shoved the clutch to the floor, and ground on the starter until the engine caught. Reaching for the knobbed column, he shifted gears and backed the beast out of the parking space, heading for his own place near the campus. He had put his worries about the experiments on hiatus until the glorious week with Hutch was over. Now it was time to get back on track and see what should be done.

He sat in the parking space outside his small bungalow, thinking of the final experiments of a week and half ago. The effect of the drug on the rats and mice in residence at the lab had been devastating. The stuff was effective as a vapor, or in direct contact with skin. He wasn’t sure if it ever lost its effectiveness. But he had burnt all the rats, mice and containers that had been in contact with the stuff. He was lucky that he was normally such a careful scientist, belying his normal recklessness in private life. The one time he had breathed a minute amount he had been terribly ill, suffering dizziness then vomiting. All this from the residue left after the laboratory rats had died in convulsions. And he had been wearing rubber protective gear. Now he had come to the decision. Why wait any longer?

Starting the engine of Hutch’s coupe, he backed away from the curb and made the short run to the campus. Using his campus parking space (that was usually empty), he strolled toward the lab and his office.

Entering the building that was normally empty on weekends, he was slightly amazed to find that Anna was at her desk typing away on his notes. He frowned at this, but said nothing. Her dedication was phenomenal. He greeted her congenially.

“What are you doing working on Sunday, Anna?”

“Just catching up your notes for you.”

“Not necessary,” Starsky said, turning toward his door. “But bring what you have in to me. I need to do a bit of catching up myself. Then go home, for God’s sake. Enjoy your Sunday. You spend too many hours here as it is.”

“Yes, sir. Right away, sir,” Anna clowned, gathering up the scattered sheets of paper.

After handing over all the scribbled papers, Anna went to gather her jacket and purse. “Are you sure you don’t want me to stick around and help a bit?”

“Nah, go enjoy your afternoon.”

Starsky studied the pages that Anna had typed. She hadn’t reached the part about the extended life of the toxin, but she had seen the parts about all the rats and mice that had died so quickly and painfully. Luckily, she also hadn’t reached the nitty gritty of the formula. However, if his notes disappeared, it didn’t matter much what she thought she knew. In the quiet moments of the past week, he decided to hang the consequences. The implications of the toxin in the wrong hands was just too scary for words. He gathered up all his files, stuffed them into his briefcase and went to the basement.

There, he opened the door of the furnace and tossed the contents of the briefcase into the flames. Standing motionless, he watched the flames lick at the mass of paper and finally engulf it. He slammed the heavy door and bolted it.

With a much lighter heart he ascended the stairs, and whistling softly, headed for the front door of the building. The damned stuff was gone in all its glory. He wasn’t sure he could ever redo the research, and he wasn’t ever going to try. He would tell Stannick to go fly a kite. In fact, he would probably enjoy it. The more he thought about it, the more he was SURE he would enjoy telling that egghead to stuff it.

He left the campus not planning to return until class on Tuesday morning. It would be a relief not to have to haunt the lab. Simply being with Hutch had cleared his head on the issue. He didn’t feel he could talk to Hutch about it even obliquely, but he could think clearly in his company. He was sure Hutch would back him on this decision, but he felt the ultimate responsibility was his alone.

* * *

Unbeknownst to Starsky, Anna had not left the building but had watched him leave his office and go to the basement with his briefcase. She had then observed him coming back. After he left she used her key and searched the office. He had been quite efficient. There was not one scrap of paper relating to the toxin that he had been working on. She found nothing to enlighten her when she made a quick search of the basement.

Quickly leaving the office, she hurried down the street to a filling station. At the station’s pay phone, she dropped a nickel in the machine and called a number she had memorized long ago.

“I think he burned some of his notes this afternoon,” she said with no preliminaries. “At least he went to the basement with his briefcase. The furnace is located there.”

After listening to the male voice on the line, she replied, “No, I don’t think that will do any good.” Anna listened again, then answered, “You don’t understand! I think he only likes boys. I don’t think I have the equipment! I tried that before, and he just walked off.”

Another pause while she listened again. “Yes, that’s his place.”

Again she listened and nodded, “Yes, yes, I quite understand.” Anna imagined her contacts would find what they needed at the professor’s place. She couldn’t conceive of anyone getting completely rid of something as valuable as his experiments could be.

* * *

Watching his Chem 101 class gathering their books and muttering about the upcoming test, the young professor sorted his notes and started gathering up his materials. Finals were next week, so he had to go back to his office and see if Anna had typed up the test.

Heaving the bulky chemistry books into his arms, Starsky moved toward the door of his classroom and noticed that Dr. Stannick, head of the Chemistry Department, was watching him with a steely glint in his brown eyes. “I want to talk to you about the Q-11 toxin that you have been working on,” the gray-haired individual commanded.

“How about now? I have another class in the physics building at three.”

Settling himself a little while later on the arm of a student desk, Stannick began, “I understand that you have dropped the line of research you were so enthusiastic about last fall. I thought it seemed rather promising as well.”

“Yeah,” Starsky replied, running a hand through his dark hair. “Oh, it killed the fleas and lice. But it also killed the hosts. I decided it was just too dangerous to keep around. Some of it made me feel a bit funny for a while, even in full protective gear.”

“You decided! You young punk; that is something for the head of research to decide; namely me.”

“Well, I trashed all my notes,” countered the young man.

“I would assume that even a careless scientist like you would have kept a sample. I want it.”

“No. No sample. No notes. No nothin’.” Starsky was highly insulted. He was never a careless researcher. He kept meticulous records and was very careful of safety. His care in research was probably why he was alive.

“Shit! Your work in that lab doesn’t belong to you. It belongs to the people funding the research, namely the United States Government.”

“Well, I don’t have anything to show you.” Starsky shifted the books in his arms and made for the door.

“Damn you, I’m talking to you,” the professor hissed as he stood up. “You don’t have tenure, and I damn well will see to it that you don’t get it if you don’t produce those notes or the Q-11 toxin.”

“I guess you’ll have to do what you have to do since I don’t have either the notes or Q-11,” Starsky snarled, going out through the door to the hall. He had not anticipated this. But suddenly he knew he was doing the right thing.

Following the young man, Stannick said, “I think you might as well clean out your office. A teaching assistant can give the tests next week.”

“Right,” Starsky snapped, hurrying down the hall, suddenly anxious to be free of this place.

* * *

Muttering under his breath, Starsky began filling boxes with his possessions as Anna came through the door.

“Professor Starsky, what is going on?” she whispered as she watched him carelessly tossing reference materials and teaching notes into the cardboard boxes. Looking at the half-full containers, Anna surmised, “You’re leaving.”

“At the request of the Head of the Department.”

“Heavens! I had no idea,” Anna paused. “Let me make it up to you somehow.”

“Not your problem.”

“Let me cook your dinner tonight, at least,” she insisted.

Feeling a bit lonely and at loose ends, Starsky agreed.

Starsky finished his packing wondering where he was going to get a job. Teaching jobs at the university level were not that easy to come by. He had gotten this one with his uncle’s help. Now that his uncle was gone, he was on his own. Well, he could go back to working on cars. Working as a mechanic on the side had gotten him through college. He loaded Hutch’s car while ruminating over his somewhat chancy future. He did have a small nest egg which would get him by for a few months. By the time it ran out he should have landed some sort of job. No matter if he ended up standing in a bread line, he felt sure he had done the right thing.

As he was leaving the campus parking lot, he decided he would get rid of the bungalow and move into the cabin in the hills. He was glad that he was on a month-to-month lease. That was one place he could cut a few corners. Imagining Hutch’s expression when he came off TDY occupied the drive to the house.

He called his landlord and made arrangements to move out the next week. The landlord was not unhappy. Property around a university was always rentable.

Humming, Starsky pulled into the driveway of Anna’s apartment building. He hadn’t been here since the disastrous night that she had decided to seduce him. He snickered again at her reaction to his getting up abruptly and pleading sudden indigestion–not all that impossible considering her cooking skills. Maybe she had improved, but probably not. Oh well, he had come for the company, not gourmet cooking.

Sauntering up to the second floor of the apartment complex which was surrounded by palm trees, Starsky rang the bell. He leaned back on the balcony and looked at the pool. It was a nice touch, though he wondered briefly how a lab assistant and secretary could afford a place like this. Perhaps she had independent means.

Anna Gerhardt answered the door in loose white dress simply belted in turquoise with matching high heeled sling pumps that accented her shapely legs.

“Whee,” he whistled, leaning against the door jam and motioning her to turn around.

“Good evening, Doctor,” Anna replied. She stopped posturing and gestured him into the apartment. “Can I fix you a drink?”

“Yeah, sure. Actually I’d prefer a beer if you have one.”

“One beer coming up.”

Starsky prowled the apartment, half afraid to sit on the pristine white couch and chair. Everything was determinedly modern. What he could see of the kitchen through the swinging doors gleamed spotlessly.

Anna returned from the ice box with a frosty bottle of beer which Starsky gulped gratefully. He was now regretting his decision to come. He would have been better off moving up to the hills and getting a good night’s rest. He watched Anna drinking her martini as she deliberately settled her dress and legs. Starsky supposed that hope springs eternal. He sat gingerly on the edge of the heavily stuffed winged chair. Anna licked the edge of the glass and looked at him over the rim. He was wondering exactly how to get out of the situation this time. She shifted slightly, showing even more shapely leg.

“Actually, Professor. I had an ulterior motive for asking you here.”

“Yeah?”

“Yes. I know you didn’t want to turn your research over to the university. But I have a friend who knows someone who might just be interested in paying you what that formula is worth. I know the school wasn’t paying you anything near the value of something like that.” Anna ran her hands through her long hair and then tossed it back off her forehead. She never noticed the look of consternation that passed over Starsky’s face. “Anyway, I can’t blame you for saying you threw it away. Those idiots at school just don’t appreciate brilliance when they see it.”

“I…er…I don’t know what to say,” Starsky muttered. “But I’ll tell you what I told Stannick. I trashed all the notes and the stuff itself. Even if I wanted to, I couldn’t sell what I don’t have.”

Starsky was stunned that she thought he simply wanted more money. Money for the formula hadn’t entered his naive head. Yeah, he guessed there was probably some foreign government or foreign chemical company that might just pay for his research. All that was immaterial, however; Q-11 was burned in the furnace of the Chemistry building. That settled it as far as he was concerned.

Anna leaned forward on the couch toward him and said, “Oh, I’m sure you could redo the work easily–couldn’t you?”

“I don’t know. What I DO know is that I really don’t want to.”

Anna rose and went to the record player in the corner beside the balcony. “What about some Harry James?” she tactfully changed the subject. Starsky was grateful as he got up to look over her shoulder at the disks she held.

Starsky excused himself early after dinner, saying he had quite a bit of packing to do since he could no longer afford his cottage. He suspected Anna’s contacts weren’t the guys in the white hats. He would wait until Hutch was back in a couple of months and perhaps his associates in G2 would be able to help him out. But then he would have to admit that his formula was worth something.

He pondered all the ramifications of the conversation with Anna. She had been passing on information to someone about his research, but he had no idea who it might be. He shook his head over the thought that she was sure he had burned his notes because of the money. That floored him almost as much as her idea at selling it.

Arriving back at the bungalow, he turned on the lights to discover his home had been turned inside out. Literally everything was askew. The stuff he had packed was strewn all over the floor, and things he hadn’t gotten to were scattered everywhere. He shoved some papers off the one easy chair, sat down, and put his head on his hands. Coming home to find this was a shock. He had heard about people who had been burgled, but had never experienced it himself. Feeling somewhat light-headed, he searched the rubble of the room for the phone. He put in a call for police headquarters and reported the crime.

Moving to the kitchen, he put the coffee pot on the stove, measuring out the grounds and water mechanically. Going over the living room and bedroom, he couldn’t find anything missing. Not that he owned anything of much value. Assistant professors barely made enough money in this day and age to pay rent and buy groceries. His only major purchase had been the radio which picked up short wave and police calls as well as the local bands. It was sitting on its side with some of the wiring and the speaker pulled out. Somehow the poor radio now looked almost obscene.

He looked up as the flashing lights of the police cars drew his attention through the sheer curtains.

 

Chapter Two

April 1939

Inhaling deeply on her cigarette, Anna continued her stroll through the dimly lit park. Before leaving her apartment she had changed from the flowing white dress and pumps to gabardine slacks and a light sweater. Comfortable oxfords completed her costume. The slight breeze whispering through the overhead palm fronds caused her to draw the sweater tighter around her.

Taking another drag on the Camel, she looked up at the swaying palm trees which vaguely repulsed her. She could never get used to the climate of this sick American town. There was no true winter to settle one’s soul, only the continuing sunny days and occasional rain showers which didn’t make up for the lack of snow. And in summer there was the stifling heat. However, tonight was pleasant enough, she conceded.

“Fraulein,” a voice whispered from behind her.

Turning slowly and without surprise, Anna watched the shadowy, plump figure detach itself from some flowering shrub that she had never bothered to learn the name of. She tossed her glowing cigarette to the ground and rubbed it out.

“I kept him as long as I could. I did as you suggested. I tried to interest him in selling the formula. I couldn’t push too much or he would have been suspicious.” Anna was nervous meeting her superior. She hoped he wouldn’t send too critical a report back to the Fatherland.

“You did well. However, there wasn’t a scrap of paper at his house that seemed to have anything to do with these experiments. Are you sure he took everything out his office?” Inaudibly, she sighed her relief at his off-hand praise.

“I’m certain. I searched that place before he was fired and after.” With a dawning look of comprehension, she continued, “He must have burned everything. Mein Gott! He really did dispose of the formula and notes! What are we going to do?”

“Not to worry, Fraulein. We have another plan which we will now put into operation.” The baldheaded man lit a cigarette. His round spectacles briefly reflected the flickering glow of the match.

“He is going to move. He didn’t tell me where.” She paced the sidewalk in agitation.

“We will watch him, Fraulein. You go about your work as usual. Dr. Stannick’s staff may come up with something else that will interest the Third Reich. Just keep doing your job. Dr. Starsky is now my responsibility.

Anna nodded and continued her stroll through the deserted park. The Nazi agent melted into the bushes. Anna wasn’t sure if she would recognize him on an L.A. street. However, that was not her job. She would continue snooping at the lab. Perhaps her contact was correct and there was another formula for the Third Reich. She stopped under a dim street light and lit another cigarette. With a lighter heart, she headed for her parked car. Her superiors would handle that queer little Jew. She smiled to herself considering what might become of him. Without any regrets, she dismissed him from her mind and walked briskly to her car.

* * *

A little less than two weeks after the fiasco of Anna’s dinner party, Starsky hummed as he puttered around the small log cabin. He had managed to salvage his radio from the chaos of his burgled bungalow. Wasting no time, he had packed his few belongings and moved the next day. In 24 hours he was completely moved into the cabin that Starsky had always thought of as his and Hutch’s refuge from the real world where love affairs like theirs had no place.

Hutch was in a worse position than Starsky; if the Army ever caught up with him, his career was over. Starsky, on the other hand, as a college teacher, might have some colleagues that were a bit more tolerant, though he’d never counted on it. The world of the university ivory towers was a stilted and unreal place. Starsky had always kept his personal life private on campus. This place, nestled in the heavy brush and trees of the California hills, was somewhere he could be natural with his lover.

Squatting down to light a fire in the fireplace, he contemplated the next few weeks of leisure. He would have to start hunting for a job, but for now he was glad to have a while to think things out. He was getting to the stack of books he had been putting by for years. Now he would have time to read “Gone with the Wind.” Living so close to the movie capital of the world, he had heard all about the hunt for the stars of the soon-to-be-released movie. Perhaps he could get to a few of Fitzgerald’s books that he had been saving as well as Hemingway’s.

Watching the hungry flames devour the kindling, he smiled. It would be a lovely vacation even though he was so far from the beach. Back in his cruising, beach combing days, he had enjoyed putting on a cut-off pair of dungarees with tattered canvas deck shoes and wandering the beach. Occasionally he had even met a beautiful young man to share the beach cottage for a night or two; but he had never had anything permanent until that night at the Beverly Wiltshire. It was there he had met Hutch, sitting on a lonely barstool listening to the soft music of Glenn Miller coming from the ballroom. It had been a New Year’s Eve to remember.

* * *

Kenneth Hutchinson had been sitting on a padded barstool sipping a drink when Starsky had entered the chic lounge. Starsky had been a bit depressed over his Uncle Benjamin’s death. Benjamin Schwartz had raised him after his father had been killed on the streets of New York. His mother in her grief had turned her attention to his sister, Elise, and inward to herself. The teenage youth had been allowed to run wild on the Brooklyn streets, and only after he had been arrested for shoplifting had his mother taken notice of him. To separate him from his wild companions, she had sent him to Los Angeles and his Uncle Benjamin.

Smiling fondly, Starsky recalled the tall, imposing figure that had met the fifteen year old’s bus. Benjamin had steered the boy’s wounded mind to academics and sports. He had graduated from High School with honors. Under his uncle’s influence, he’d been accepted at Stanford and graduated in record time with a degree in Chemistry.

The beautiful blond at the bar drew his attention again when he called for a refill. Casually the two men began chatting of inconsequential topics. They continued to drink, with Starsky quickly becoming quite drunk. During the course of the conversation, he decided that his plans for an affair with the blond would have to be canceled once he learned of Hutch’s recent divorce. However, he was simply enjoying the company of the young Army officer. Therefore, it was a surprise when the blond offered his hotel room for the young scientist to sleep of his excesses, and even greater surprise when the officer made a pass at him on the couch in the suite of the Beverly Wiltshire Hotel.

* * *

The fire crackled and sputtered, catching the larger logs on fire, startling Starsky from his very pleasant reminiscences. Rising, he put the screen up and moved toward the radio, ready to sit down and listen to “Amos and Andy,” one of his favorite comedies. He liked Edgar Bergen and Charlie McCarthy, but occasionally he turned on that guy, Orson Wells. He had such a sexy, deep voice.

Just before clicking on the radio to warm it up, he thought he heard a car coming up the drive. He turned and looked for lights out the living room window and wondered who could be coming as headlights bobbed up and down the gravel road. Leaving the radio off, he moved toward the front door, frowning. Not too many people knew where he was now living. Probably someone was lost in the labyrinth of dirt roads scattered through the trees and brush.

He opened his door and watched three men get out of a 4-door Packard of some indeterminate dark color. The men shrugged their jackets straight and headed for his door.

As the three men moved into the light from the porch, he noticed that two taller figures could be advertisements for Hitler’s Aryan perfection. One was blond and at least a head taller than Starsky. He looked a little uncomfortable in the dapper pinstriped suit he was wearing, as if he might be more suited to khaki.

The other large man drew David’s attention as he cracked his knuckles coming up the steps. He was nearly as tall as the other. His short-cropped, wavy red hair was receding a bit from a high forehead set off by bushy eyebrows.

The third member of the trio was very unimposing in comparison to the hulks accompanying him. He was a small, soft, round figure in an ill-fitting gray suit. His nearly bald head gleamed in the porch light which also reflected off the round spectacles he wore perched precariously on his narrow nose.

When all three men were on the stoop, the shorter of the group cleared his throat. “Dr. Starsky?”

“Yes, that’s me.”

“We have some business with you. May we come in?”

“Yeah, I guess so,” Starsky said, moving back into the house. The three men followed him.”What can I do for you?”

“Perhaps we can do something for you. You see, we are friends of Anna Gerhardt. She said she had spoken to you regarding our purchasing something of yours. I am Ulrich Behrman and my associates are Hermann Steinfort and Karl Mueller.” Behrman reached into his breast pocket and drew out some official-looking documents. “These are my credentials. We represent the government of Deutschland.”

“Well, I have nothing to sell.”

“One moment, Doctor. I understand you are unemployed. The German government knows the value of bright young minds such as yours. Our government is quite willing to pay any reasonable fee for your formula. Perhaps even an unreasonable one.”

“The answer in plain English is no!”

“You are quite sure, Doctor?”

“Damned sure. I think you’d better just leave.”

“We will, Doctor. But first I want you to look at some pictures.” The man reached for his breast pocket.

“I don’t believe we have anything to discuss. Now, get outta my house before I throw you out.”

“Now, now, Doctor. Calm yourself. Look at these,” the short balding man said, thrusting a sheaf of papers in Starsky’s face.

Grabbing the papers, Starsky started for the fireplace with them.

“Kurt,” the fat man snapped.

The redheaded man in the pinstriped suit grabbed the chemist’s arm and said, “You’d better do as Herr Behrman says. Look at the pretty pictures.” The man leered and his pale gray eyes glittered in the artificial light.

Starsky opened the folded paper. The first one was of Elise, his sister. It was a stock publicity shot, he guessed. The next was his mother taken from the streets of New York while she was gossiping with old Mrs. Rosenberg on the front steps of their apartment building. “What the hell is this supposed to mean?” he demanded.

“Continue looking, Doctor,” Kurt growled, breathing tobacco-laden air on the smaller man. Starsky shuddered. Hutch smoked occasionally, but in contrast to the German, the tobacco on Hutch’s breath had a pleasant, sweet smell.

Unfolding the next sheet, he saw that it was a United Press wire service release with a wire photo. He grew more agitated as he read the short news story. It stated that Lisa Star, young singer with a jazz combo performing in a Paris nightclub, had been brutally beaten and assaulted. Lisa Star was the stage name that Elise had chosen when she started in show business.

“What the fuck is going on?” he snarled.

“Sit down, Doctor. You have something that the Third Reich could find very useful. You have refused to sell it to us, and we have taken steps to show you that we want what you have very badly. You will give it to us. Or your poor mother in New York may suffer a similar fate to your dear sister. Perhaps a Jew bitch with two large Negroes would be of some amusement to you. This time I am sure we can show you some much better photos than what United Press sent to the LA Times of your lovely sister.” The fat balding man laughed nastily, and the two muscular men snickered.

The blond, Herman, wandered the small living room touching and handling photos and mementos, making Starsky feel somehow dirtied. Then the red-headed Kurt crossed his arms and watched the scientist from under bushy brows.

“I don’t have the god-damned formula! I burned everything weeks ago. Didn’t Anna tell you that?”

“Well, in that case, Herr Doctor, you will simply have to redo your work. This time under the supervision of the Third Reich.”

“You guys are crazy!” Starsky shouted, heading for the phone.

“I wouldn’t be so hasty, Doctor. What will you tell the police? That we are Nazi spies? Even if that were so, we have diplomatic immunity. And,” the fat man smiled, “think of your mother and those two big Negroes. Do you think she will enjoy that? Then there is your sister: Paris is so close to Germany. She could be foolish enough to travel to the Fatherland. You know how women are foolish sometimes.”

Rubbing his bald head, he smiled gently at the confused young man. “Now, I am sure that you will make the decision to come to the Fatherland and do that little bit of research.”

“Shit! And I’m supposed to believe that you will leave my Mom and Sis alone if I do that?”

“What you can be sure of is that if you don’t, what I say will happen. You cannot protect them. Even now those Negroes are following your mother as she shops and visits with that nice Mrs. Rosenberg from across the hall.”

“Damn,” Starsky whispered, seeing defeat looming before him.

“You will pack a few things. Almost everything you will need will be provided by the Third Reich. You will catch the train early tomorrow. The Wednesday after you reach New York, you will board the SS Hamburg for Bremen.” The bald man reached into his pocket and displayed a thick folder. “Here are the tickets for your travel.”

Stunned, Starsky listened without hearing as the greasy little man explained how he would travel halfway around the world.

“Hermann, you will stay here with the good Doctor and see to it that he gets some changes of clothes packed. Kurt and I will be back in time to take all of you to the station. Please make sure that our friend does nothing foolish. You might impress upon him that you are in charge of him from now on.” The Nazi agent paused then continued, “Make it look like he left on his own–no messes–nothing to arouse suspicion.” Herman nodded as the other two agents left through the front door.

Starsky numbly watched as the Nazi agents left what had been his refuge from the real world. The real world had come crashing through the door. He looked up at Hermann. The hulking figure was watching him through narrowed, speculative, watery-blue eyes. Then Starsky looked into the flickering, cheerful flames.

As Starsky stared into nothingness, Hermann went into the bedroom to search out the battered suitcase. After nearly filling it with some hastily found bits of clothing, he moved into the adjoining bathroom. Vaguely Starsky heard the clattering as shaving gear and tooth cleaning implements were tossed into the open bag on the bed. The man even searched through the drawers of the night stand.

Jolted out of his reverie by the clatter of the bedside lamp falling, Starsky stood and fumbled in his slacks for the keys to Myrtle. He pulled the keys out of his pocket and started toward the front door.

Hermann came out of the bedroom, “I wouldn’t do anything foolish, Herr Doktor,” he said softly.

“Fuck off.”

Starsky kept going. He’d go to the FBI or somebody. Someone had to believe him and protect his mother and sister. Just as he got to the door, a meaty hand grabbed him by the shoulder and yanked him back into the living room. “I said not to be foolish,” the Nazi agent snarled.

Starsky spun and threw a punch at the grinning face of the German. The combat trained-soldier easily blocked the blow.

“So this is how it is to be. That’s fine with me, Jew Boy.”

Hermann lunged toward him as he bolted toward the door. The struggle was lopsided and brutal. Steinfort pulled no punches and his final kick to the groin slammed Starsky to the floor where he cracked his head on the stone hearth beside the dying embers of the fireplace.

Dazed from Hermann’s punches and his intimate contact with the hearth, Starsky barely noticed the Nazi picking him up in a fireman’s carry and transporting him to the next room where he tossed him on the bed. The case beside him was hastily swept to the floor with a careless swipe of a beefy paw.

Panting slightly from the effort of subduing the young professor, Hermann yanked off the professor’s shoes and socks. Then he quickly ripped the light sport shirt off, stopping to look at the glazed blue eyes. His glance traveled down the revealed torso. There was no undershirt to protect the figure from his gaze. Roughly he undid the slacks and slipped them from the slim hips. He fingered the briefs momentarily then pulled them down and ran his hands over the flaccid genitals

The scientist moaned and began to flail his arms. Herman got up and searched the closet for neckties. Finding some outrageous ones in flashy colors, the Nazi smiled, flipped his victim to his stomach, and used them to tie the now moaning man to the bed.

Leaning over the prone figure, he showed Starsky a close-up of his nicotine-stained teeth. Grabbing the dark, curly mass of hair, he pulled the young man’s head back as far as straining ligaments and tendons would allow.

“Listen, Jew Boy, I’m going to prove to you who is the `boss’ as you Americans say. Understand this Herr Behrman may look an ineffectual, smiling idiot, but he isn’t. You will do as he wishes sooner or later. It would be better for you if it is sooner.” The German dropped Starsky’s head back to the rumpled sheets.

Starsky closed his eyes and tried to believe that this was some B grade Hollywood melodrama. Try as he might he couldn’t smell the popcorn or hear the rustling of the kids at a Saturday afternoon matinee at the Bijou.

His first intimation of what Hermann was about was a fiery pain over his buttocks. He yanked back on the iron bedstead which creaked with the strain, feeling another fiery pain on his ass as he turned his head. Hermann had taken Starsky’s belt and was using it in the time-honored fashion of fathers the world over. As the heavy strokes continued, Starsky found his eyes beginning to tear. He bit his lip until it bled into his mouth to stop the screams. But eventually nothing stopped his sobs and cries. The beating laced his back and thighs in flame as well.

The next Starsky knew, cool hands were rubbing his inflamed rear. Then the hands were gone and he heard the popping of trouser buttons. The bed creaked as a new weight was applied. He knew what was coming and was helpless to stop it. He sobbed in anticipated pain–a pain perhaps worse than any other. There was heavy weight on his back; he tensed his muscles against the coming invasion.

“I’m not to damage you so bad you can’t travel or work when you get to the Fatherland,” a deep voice whispered over his shoulder. Then the weight was gone as work-roughened fingers lubed his opening. Then those same hands grasped his hips and pulled him to his knees, which nearly refused to support his body.

“Nice tight ass, Jew Boy,” the Nazi murmured as he centered himself and thrust with his hips, impaling himself between the welted cheeks in hard, fast motion.

Starsky whimpered as he was pierced and reamed by the thick penis. He struggled against the silk ties, but the knots only tightened and abraded his wrists. The grunting man would thrust then rest, and nibble the nape of the chemist’s neck in a grim parody of Hutch’s caresses. Finally the agent raised back on his own haunches yanking the other’s hips back with him. Head thrown back, he pumped three times and then froze in orgasm.

Flexing his back as he got off the bed, the Nazi agent went into the bathroom and cleaned himself thoroughly. Straightening his clothes, he left the young man tied to the rumpled bed as he went to the kitchen, rummaged around and made some coffee.

With feet propped up on the cheap chair, he sipped his steaming black brew. He watch dispassionately as a car pulled into the drive and two men got out. Behrman and Karl opened the front door and came directly into the kitchen. Karl went immediately to the stove and poured two cups of coffee. He offered one to his superior.

“Where’s our scientist?” the rotund man asked, taking the coffee handed him by his underling.

“In the bedroom contemplating his multitude of sins,” Hermann smugly returned.

“Enjoy yourself, did you?”

“Ya, nice ass!”

“Get him ready to travel, Karl. The train leaves at 6:00 a.m.,” Behrman ordered, turning to the burly man sipping coffee at the counter. Behrman did not envy the young man his trip to Germany. But all Jews were whores, weren’t they? He settled his heavy bulk on another of the rickety kitchen chairs.

Turning back to Hermann, he said, “Give him two of these. They’ll keep him quiet and happy in public. Then what you do in private is your business, as long as he reaches Bremen in one piece and able to give us that formula. Be very careful of your activities until you get on the ship. Americans will react badly to the kidnaping of one of their own. Even a Jew.”

With a sketchy salute, the hulking blond left the room to help his cohort.

Nasty to have to use these Neanderthal types, thought Behrman, getting up for another cup of the coffee still warming on the stove. But the Jewish mongrels had to be disciplined. So it was in the best interest of the Third Reich to leave it in the hands of those who enjoyed their work. And the SS sergeant certainly enjoyed his work.

He sat down on the hard chair, lit his pipe and contemplated how a good security officer got into the business of kidnaping. It had all started with the Fueher’s fascination with chemical warfare, which was fast becoming an obsession. He was ordering further developments from I. G. Farben and other chemical companies. And every time a report came across anyone’s desk regarding chemical research, it was flagged to be forwarded to Berlin. Anna’s early reports had been so forwarded. As the research had become critical, Behrman and his team had been transferred to the United States. It had been quietly speculated in some agencies that this obsession of the Fuhrer’s was a reaction to being gassed in the Great War.

Behrman rose and tapped his dying pipe on the edge of the kitchen table, then put it away in his breast pocket. The glowing embers of tobacco flickered briefly on the scarred linoleum floor unnoticed by the Nazi agent as he left the room. Glancing through the door of the bedroom, he saw that the young Jew was dressed, but looked somewhat glassy-eyed. Behrman assumed that the drug had been given. Karl and Hermann were tidying up the room, covering up any signs that the cabin had been left without planning.

Walking into the now neat room, he spoke to his two henchmen, “Here are the tickets for the train trip to New York. You will have one change in Chicago. Also, here are the tickets for the Hamburg. Keep him drugged until you are on board ship.”

“We have his passport. It was in a drawer,” Karl interjected.

“Excellent.” Behrman commented. “It will not be necessary to use the one made up by our Embassy personnel. Here is the Visa and notice of employment by Farben Chemical in case there are any nosy American immigration people.” Behrman paused and looked at the object of his quest. The young Jewish scientist seemed to be understanding little of the conversation which was just as well. He turned back to the two other men. “Your train leaves in a few hours. Make sure you do not draw attention to yourself or your charge. I must get back to the Embassy. There is a reception there tonight I must attend. Use his car and leave it on the street near the depot.”

“Heil Hitler,” the Gestapo agents responded, raising their arms in salute.

“Heil Hitler,” Behrman answered, leaving the bedroom and the cottage behind. His car could be heard grumbling down the narrow driveway.

* * *

The gentle rocking of the Pullman car set off another round of nausea in Starsky. He began gagging and coughing.

“Gott damn! I told you to take it easy on that drug,” Kurt snarled as he began manhandling the semi-conscious scientist to the bathroom. Leaving the young man draped over the john, he rang for the porter.

Shortly, there came a discreet knock from the narrow passageway. Hermann opened the door a crack.

“Y’all rang, sur?” the heavily accented voice said.

“Ya,” the blond agent answered. “Our friend has been sick. We need the room cleaned and some fresh towels.” Hermann motioned Kurt to the bathroom.

The redhead slid into the tight confines and latched the door, watching dispassionately as his charge continued to vomit. He could hear Kurt telling the porter about their friend who had celebrated their trip a bit too much and was now paying for it.

“Yessa,” the black porter said. The vague sounds of his cleaning could be heard over the rush and clack of the train as it picked up speed after its last stop somewhere in the western Arizona desert.

Grabbing a towel and soaking it in the miniature sink, Kurt roughly cleaned up the shaky individual at his feet. He flushed the john and put the seat down, then picked up the limp figure to seat him on the toilet, with back propped against the wall. He used one hand to hold Starsky and unbuttoned his filthy clothes with the other. Efficiently he stripped the man of his shirt and slacks. He was quick and neat considering the cramped quarters in which he had to work.

Starsky moaned and Kurt grabbed his throat and squeezed. “Be quiet, Jew Boy!” Starsky quieted at the overt threat.

Through the rocking wall, Starsky heard the black accented voice of the porter thank Hermann for his tip and leave with a snap as the door closed. He was again alone with his tormentors.

Kurt grabbed him by his hair…one of Kurt’s favorite moves…and forced him out into the main room of the compartment. Off balance in the swaying car, Starsky gratefully slid into the seat beside Hermann. He shuddered at the memory of those rough hands as Hermann steadied his body. He pulled away from the hulking blond, who slid a hand down to his thigh. The thin cloth of his shorts didn’t absorb much of the heat from the large hand.

Kurt latched the door to the passageway and pulled down his case from the overhead storage compartment. He took out a set of handcuffs and something else that Starsky couldn’t see. He threw the cuffs to Kurt, who in turn, shoved Starsky around and cuffed his hands behind him. Starsky struggled, but weakly, the drug having sapped his system of any strength. A heavy piece of cloth was forced between his lips and tied behind his head before Hermann shoved him to the floor on his stomach. He started to gag, then controlled the urge. If he got sick now, he would surely choke which wouldn’t be pleasant.

Sharing a bottle of whisky, his two keepers amused themselves with a deck of cards and some sort of gambling game. The rhythmic swaying of the car soon had Starsky dozing even in the uncomfortable position of belly-down on the rough carpeting of the railway car. It wasn’t until rough hands were shoving him over the small table that he awoke fully. His shorts had been stripped off and the two men were laughing drunkenly and rubbing his still bruised ass. He tried kicking, but the couch prevented any effectiveness. He tried to blank his mind as the two Nazis took turns fucking him. Inwardly he cringed away from the assault. The pain asserted itself and he tried to cry out, but the gag restrained that outlet.

Finally the two were satisfied and shoved him back to the floor. He lay panting, breathing hard through his nose. He shivered at the chill on the floor and tried to curl in on himself, but again the couch and table prevented him from moving much. Though his mind screamed at his helplessness, he would survive this somehow and get back to Hutch. Aaah, damn, Hutch. When Starsky didn’t contact him, Hutch wouldn’t know what to think. He got through the rest of the weary day and into New Mexico by envisioning his blond bombshell.

* * *

The boarding ramp beneath his feet kept swinging in and out of focus. David Starsky staggered up the incline leaning heavily on the Nazi agent’s arm. The reek of the cheap booze nauseated him. Mueller and Steinfort had liberally doused him in liquor in the men’s room of Pennsylvania Station. Due to his drug-induced haze, he only vaguely remembered getting off the Pullman car from Chicago. The vaulted ceiling of the depot had dizzied him. Somewhere in his foggy mind he had heard the metallic voice on the loudspeaker list the trains arriving and departing for the World Fair. He had planned a summer visit east to see his mom and take her to the Fair.

“Well, I never…” A high pitched feminine voice pierced his consciousness. “You should be ashamed of yourself, young man. A gentleman would at least start the trip sober.” A heavy-set matron shoved passed Starsky and his escort, knocking him roughly into the agent’s arms.

Chuckling evilly, Hermann murmured in Starsky’s ear, “My, my, Professor, you’ve shocked the lady. We’ll just have to think of something on board the ship to keep you occupied so you don’t continue to upset the lovely woman.”

The overweight matron sniffed and grabbed her apologetic husband by the arm, then marched to the top of the gangplank. Smiling smugly, Hermann grasped Starsky’s arm painfully to escort him the rest of the way up. The purser at the top of the boarding ramp looked at the credentials flashed by Karl. “Aah, Herr Steinfort and Herr Mueller, we have the cabin ready that our Embassy specified for you and your friend.” Turning to a white-uniformed young man, he said, “Show Herr Steinfort and party to cabin 1642.” The young steward raised his brows then snapped his heels together and led the three `drunks’ below deck. The outraged woman sniffed again and demanded to be shown to her quarters, shrilly protesting that drunks had been waited on before her.

Ears ringing from the loud-voiced woman, Starsky tried to keep track of stairs and corridors, but the way became too confusing to keep track of.

Somewhere in the bowels of the SS Hamburg, the white-coated steward stopped at a leather padded door marked 1642 which he opened. He led the way into a compact sitting room. “I am Jurgen,” the steward said in heavily accented English. “If there is anything you need, day or nacht..night, I am instructed to be the only one to service this suite.” Jurgen held out an ornate key.

“Very good,” Steinfort replied, taking the key from the surprisingly delicate hands of the steward. Holding onto the young professor, he steered him toward the adjoining sleeping room.

 

Chapter Three

Late June 1939

“Come in, Lieutenant Hutchinson,” the general ordered from behind his desk. Briskly Hutch entered the spacious office and came to attention with a crisp Academy-trained salute. Off-handedly the Brigadier waved his hand at his forehead and motioned the tense lieutenant to a chair in front of his desk.

Stiffly Hutch settled gingerly on the edge of the leather-padded luxury of the chair. Young lieutenants didn’t get called into Brigadier General’s offices every day, especially one that was attached to the office of the Secretary of War. Hutch studied this general as much as was possible. He was not impressive if one didn’t look at the stars on his shoulders–just a middle-aged, slightly balding, slender individual. If Hutch had met him on the street in civies, he wouldn’t have noticed him at all. It was the gleaming stars that kept Hutch on the edge of his seat.

“Relax, Lieutenant,” the general muttered. “Generals do not eat young, green lieutenants for breakfast, no matter what the rumors say.” The unimposing gentleman shuffled the file on his desk, then began speaking in soft, modulated tones.

“Lieutenant Kenneth Hutchinson, born Duluth, Minnesota in 1913.” The general paused and looked speculatively at the ramrod straight young officer before continuing. “Hmmm… quite good grades at the Academy. Ranked in the top fourth of your class, graduated 1934.” With a twinkle, the general added, “I didn’t do quite so well, somewhere near the middle, if I remember correctly.” Then General Morton laughed whole-heartedly. “Lieutenant, please relax.”

Reluctantly Hutch settled down in the leather padded chair. He would have preferred to be at attention–then at least he knew the procedure.

“Tell me, what do you think of the situation in Europe?”

“I think the continent is ripe for war, sir.”

“What do you think of the United State’s involvement in a European conflict?”

“I don’t think we’re ready militarily–or at least as far as air power is concerned. I’ve been looking at the war in Spain and the Germans have some pretty impressive planes, especially the Messerschmidts.” Hutch was beginning to feel more and more like a cadet. The general was throwing questions at him, expecting well thought-out answers. The teachers at the Academy might be posing the same questions to this year’s cadets.

“Hmmm… So you wouldn’t recommend the United States enter this war?”

“It’s not for me to say. If I’m sent to fight, I’ll do my damnedest. I think the American fighting man is as good as any. But I am concerned about our hardware. I spent some time on the Texas desert a couple of years ago, and the tank men I talked to thought the Panzer was a much superior tank.”

“Then I think you can understand why we don’t want an incident that will hasten the American involvement?”

“Yes, sir.”

“You have spent the last 18 months stationed at Fort Irwin in the California desert, haven’t you? I can understand that it would not be a favorite assignment for a young buck like you.”

“Yes, sir.”

“Teaching young G2 recruits the basics of flying?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Not quite happy with your post?”

“No, sir…er yes, sir.”

“Lieutenant, please speak plainly.”

“Well, I’ve blown off a bit of steam here and there about the quality of the pilots. But everyone has the right to bitch, sir.”

“Yes, Lieutenant, you are quite right. However, on your next assignment you will have to work quite closely with some of those `fumble fingered idiots’ you spoke of so lovingly.”

Hutch looked up, startled, wondering where the general had gotten his information. After having spent the past few months in the training facility in Virginia, he had a lot more respect for the intelligence operations of G2. Now he was getting the feeling there had been more research done on him than he thought possible. But where was it all going? Why was he here basically interviewing with a general from the War Office? It still wasn’t making any sense. But lieutenants don’t ask generals to please get down to brass tacks, they listen respectfully. So Hutch was prepared to listen.

“Uh…I meant idiots in the air, sir,” he said at last.

The general chuckled. “But you could work with an outfit of idiots couldn’t you? Especially if you could do the flying, right?”

“Yes, sir!” The past few months had been grueling, but he felt that he might be able to pull his weight on almost any covert operation G2 was involved in. He had spent these months in a training atmosphere more physically demanding than any he had ever experienced.

“Well, bearing our conversation in mind, go down the hall and report to Briefing Room 6. Colonel Jorgenson and Major Henderson will fill you in on the details of your assignment.”

Hutch rose and snapped, “Yes, sir.” Then he briskly saluted and turned on his heel and headed for the door.

After Hutch left, the general punched a button on his desk and said deferentially, “You heard, sir?”

“Yes,” a faintly accented voice answered over the intercom. “Seems like ideal officer material. I only hope that he can get that other young man out of the situation he has gotten himself into.”

“Ideal officer material except for a few bad habits. Both of them,” the general replied.

“If that young man in Germany has developed what Dr. Stannick thinks he has, we need him here. If the price of his research is fucking politicians, I’ll get down on my hands and knees for him. In the wrong hands, that development could spell defeat for this country, General Morton.”

“Yes, sir,” the general answered. His tone was clearly mollified.

* * *

Hutch sat in the briefing room at a small round table with a tall, red-haired colonel, who was studying fuzzy black and white photos that were flashing across a screen mounted on the wall in front of him. Vaguely he heard the whoosh of the projector. Each one was a different shot of the same man. Hutch knew those features. He watched patiently and silently, wondering what was going on. His Academy training kept him from blurting out some inane comment while his normal powers of observation began to kick in. He first noticed that Starsky seemed to be uneasy in the situations. The figure on the screen lacked his normal exuberance. Then the setting began to look unfamiliar. Finally it clicked…the setting of the pictures were off because they were foreign. What? A foreign country? Yes, that must be it!

“In brief, Lieutenant Hutchinson, this is your assignment: Find this man and bring him back to the States,” the colonel stated, fingering the file in front of him. “I will turn you over to Major Henderson for a complete briefing.” Without further explanation the Colonel rose, and Hutch moved with him, throwing a smart salute. The colonel returned it and left the room, leaving the door open for a short, swarthy man wearing a major’s gold leaf to enter. Hutch again saluted stiffly. He was doing more saluting today than he had done since the Academy.

After returning Hutch’s salute, the major held out his hand, and began speaking with a soft southwestern accent, his complexion belying his Anglo name. “Lieutenant Hutchinson, my name is George Henderson. I’ll be briefing you on this mission.”

Hutch took the outstretched hand. “Pleased to meet you.”

“Good; let’s get right down to business, Hutch. I may call you Hutch? I noticed in your records that all your colleagues call you Hutch.”

Hutch nodded. “Yeah, let’s get on with it.”

“Presumably you recognized the pictures that Colonel Jorgenson showed you a few minutes ago?”

“Yes, Dr. Starsky is a friend of mine.”

“Were you aware that Dr. Starsky was going to Europe this spring?”

“No, I wasn’t aware of any plans like that. I think he would have told me if he’d had any.”

“Well…your friend left the country at the beginning of April. He went to Germany. Would you have any idea why?”

“No. Though I wouldn’t have been surprised if he had gone to France at the end of the spring term. He has a sister there touring with a jazz band. He was concerned about there being a war, and that she might be in the combat zone or something. But Germany! He’s a Jew for God’s sake! Would Elise have something to do with this?”

“We’re not sure. She was beaten and assaulted in a back alley in Paris a couple of weeks before he left.”

“It would make sense if he went to Paris then, not Berlin or Germany.”

“However, the ticket purchased in his name was for Bremen, Germany. We have reason to believe that he might been have coerced into leaving the country.”

“Why?”

“As a friend of his, I would have thought that you would know that he was engaged in some very sensitive research.”

“I asked him what went on in his lab. We joked about creating another monster for Frankenstein. But he always said that I didn’t want to know. So I left it at that.”

“Hmmm…sounds like he was being discreet with you. It seems that possibly his assistant wasn’t quite so discreet. In fact, we have reason to believe she might be working for the German government. Did you know her?”

“Only through her atrocious recipes.”

“Huh?” Henderson cast Hutch a piercing frown.

“Only in the fact that occasionally Starsky would fix some awful meal and blame Anna for the recipes. I never met the woman. Starsk indicated to me that she was a competent assistant. It never went further than that.”

“Back on track, lieutenant,” the swarthy major snapped.

“Yes, sir. I was only trying to remember if I had ever seen her.”

“And have you?”

“No, we never went near the campus when I had a weekend pass. Why all this fuss about Starsky? Why have I been called in here and questioned by a general?”

“You were never aware of Dr. Starsky’s line of research?”

“No, never,” Hutch flatly denied.

“I don’t know all the details, but it seems as though your er… friend, while researching pesticides, stumbled onto a substance that could have terrible applications in the area of chemical weapons. He tried to destroy all the evidence, but the head of his department found some notes that had accidentally slipped behind a file cabinet in his office. The implications horrified Dr. Stannick. When he couldn’t locate Dr. Starsky, he made it known to the government. So if your young friend is working for the German government, he could cause us some grave problems. We still aren’t sure if he left on his own, or on some mistaken quest, or if the bucks were big enough to tempt him. We do know that he is employed by I.G. Farben Chemical Works near Stuttgart. He has been there for the past month. He seems to be moving around freely. Some of the General Staff think that he just might have been paid enough to overlook the inequities practiced on Jews in that country.”

“For God’s sake, Major, the man is Jewish, and from what I hear the Fatherland doesn’t treat Jews all that well…brilliant scientist or not. And Starsky was the one giving me the lecture on the treatment of Jews in Germany. He didn’t go for the money.”

“Our man on site has not been able to contact him. He finally had to return to the Embassy in Berlin. We thought perhaps you could make this contact. You must convince him to come out with you.” The “or” was left unspoken.

“Or what…You’re going to kill him, aren’t you?” Hutch roared and leaped to his feet.

“Lieutenant, sit down. That’s an order.”

Hutch sat.

“If your young friend cannot be gotten out, yes, he will be killed. If he is a traitor, then he is not the man you thought. If he is being abused, then he might be better off. We do know what they do to Jews in that country. Perhaps more than you do. And certainly more than the general public knows.”

Hutch sat and gazed out the fly-spotted window. He got up and began pacing the floor. He hadn’t received any answers to his letters to Starsky the past few weeks. He had assumed that the scientist had gotten very involved in his research. It was not unknown for that to happen. He knew there were times Starsky never went home, sleeping at the lab to watch over critical experiments. The lack of communication had not been unusual.

Damn, he hadn’t realized that what his high-spirited friend had been doing could get him into a situation with international implications. It all seemed to be something out of a bad spy novel. The man with the twinkling blue eyes had always spoken off-handedly of creating monsters or researching vampires. For a moment Hutch felt a flicker of annoyance that Starsk hadn’t confided in him; but it passed as quickly as it had come. The scientist in his lover couldn’t reveal his lab findings. The spy Hutch was becoming understood.

Oh God, Starsky loved monster films about mad scientists. Now he was cast in that role, but the implications were mind-numbing. It might have been amusing if he had felt like laughing.

Shaking his head as he paced the room in the silence afforded by the major, he knew without doubt that he had to find Starsk. During the last few weeks he found that he really did want to resign so he could spend his life with the volatile scientist. During their acquaintance the relationship somehow had slid from lust to love.

“Do I have a chance?” he finally questioned.

“Perhaps. You are well qualified for the job. You speak the language to a degree. You know the professor. You might be able to make contact without arousing too many suspicions too soon. You will have the support of MI6. MI6 has some very close contacts in the region. There are a lot of `ifs’, Lieutenant. We think Dr. Starsky and his research is worth the effort. However, the odds are heavily against you. Do you want to be a part of it?”

“God, yes!”

“Excellent,” the Major briskly commented. “Come along downstairs. We’ll get you kitted out. General Morton has had your orders cut. You’ll officially transfer to our Embassy in Berlin. But before you take your post you will want to do a bit of sightseeing. Isn’t that right, Lieutenant?”

Hutch could only nod. The swiftness of his involvement stunned him, and he kept his mouth shut.

While moving down the stairs, then down a dingy hall at a rapid pace, the major continued his briefing. “The British Secret Service has a man in Stuttgart. He has been funneling reports to us via London. One department of MI6 is ready to make a try for the professor. We have asked them to wait for you. The canny Scot running that department isn’t pleased, but there have been discussions in some very rarified realms.”

“I’m not sure I understand?” Hutch frowned. “Why insist on waiting for me? I’m completely inexperienced.”

“Well, for a couple of reasons: One, our boss wants a finger in the pie. He doesn’t want the US to be completely shut out of the information received. Also you have some unique qualifications…foremost of which is your friendship with the subject. Frankly, it is thought if it comes down to the abduction of an unwilling subject, you might make it that much easier.”

Again Hutch could only nod. Assisting in the abduction of his lover was not high on his list of things to do. He would go along with this charade since he was absolutely sure that Starsky was being held against his will. He understood that both governments had to cover all the bases. But he had only one concern–the safe return of David Starsky.

“Study the records on file here. Then we’ll get down to the nitty gritty of your cover. Another thought might be that along with your sightseeing tour of Germany, you might be hunting some of your mother’s family. It is your mother that has a German heritage?” Hutch again nodded. He had scoffed at the competence of G2, but now he was wondering where all this information had come from. They had his life, chapter and verse, as well as Starsky’s.

The major started to turn away at the door to the Records Room toward the young WAAC in charge then changed his mind, “Remember this, Hutchinson–you will be pretty much on your own. The United States can’t afford an incident that will start this war prematurely. Any incident that upsets the Third Reich will be disavowed at all levels. You’ll hang alone. I want to make sure that you understand.”

Hutch nodded. This was the same speech that General Morton had given him a while ago. Do the job and don’t involve the good ol’ U. S. of A.

“So General Morton intimated.”

“I just want to emphasize this to you before you go in,” the Major returned, “G2 is prepared to throw you to the wolves and go for your scientist any way that they can.” There was nothing Hutch could say to this. He was simply happy to have the opportunity of going to Germany with even a bit of help and sanction from his superiors. He would have gone anyway, but this made it easier. If he wasn’t successful, he didn’t care if he was thrown to the wolves.

After that pretty speech, the major introduced Hutch to the sergeant in charge of the files. As he left he said, “Come back upstairs in about an hour to pick up your orders and travel vouchers.”

* * *

It was nearly a week later when the four huge engines of the Yankee Clipper droned as Hutch tried to study the papers in his possession. After all the study in Washington, he nearly knew the file by heart. But still he flipped through the file, not really able to take his mind’s eye off the photos of Starsk. He had seemed to be walking the streets of the small German village. But the body language in the pictures told of defeat. Hutch felt it would take a lot to defeat David Starsky.

Many of the shots had shown him in the company of a bull-necked Aryan type. One photo had shown this muscled figure clutching Dave above the elbow. David had been grimacing into the hidden camera. Had the fucker been hurting Starsk? It was unknown. The latest photos had been wired back only hours before he left Washington. These photos had been forwarded from an MI6 resident agent in Stuttgart. MI6 had agents scattered throughout the Third Reich.

The trim stewardess in her crisp pseudo-military uniform staggered down the narrow aisle between the rows of seats. She was asking everyone to tighten their belts as the weather was a bit rough over the rocky island that was their refueling stop. Hutch automatically checked his belt and glanced up into her startling green eyes. She smiled, and getting no reaction from the handsome blond, passed on to the next passenger. Hutch had noticed she had had her hands full with some of the passengers’ airsickness and others’ multiple questions about the new-fangled overseas air travel.

Hutch’s distraction waned as she continued back to the galley. During the briefing with Henderson, it was decided that he would play the role of American Military Playboy. Henderson’s one comment was that it was too bad he flew airplanes instead of riding polo ponies. Since his father had made a great deal of money during the depression years, it would not have been inconceivable for him to be that type of soldier. Because Hutch wouldn’t accede to one of the fancy eastern private schools and had opted instead to take an appointment to West Point, his father had cut him off without a penny. But fate had intervened. Hutch’s grandfather died just before his appointment came through, leaving him a sizable independent income. He had never had to depend on either his father or the Army pittance.

So with Major Henderson’s blessings and some astute string-pulling by General Morton, he had used some of his own money to fly the ultra-new passenger route across the Atlantic. He would make the crossing in just over one day instead of a near week of the fastest passenger liners.

He would land next on the misty isle of Ireland. After that followed a much shorter hop to London where he would meet up with someone from the British Secret Service. This agent might have more information on the lab at Stuttgart. Eventually Hutch would go to the Templehoff airport and finish his trip by rail to Stuttgart.

He started packing away the unlooked-at file as he felt the plane begin its descent to the island for refueling. His ears popped as the altitude of the flying boat dropped then turned into landing pattern for Foynes, Ireland.

* * *

London–June 1939

Studying the drops of rain spatter on the window, a slender man slouched against the gray metal side of a tall filing cabinet. It was one of his favorite positions when he was in the Controller’s office. The Chief of Continental Operations for MI6 resided behind a massive desk. On the desk were scattered files and a teacup bearing the dried residue of Earl Grey.

“That, gentlemen, is the situation at this point. There have been some consultations in some very rarified areas of the Foreign Office,” concluded the Controller, checking his teacup. He thought momentarily of ringing his secretary for more tea, but put aside the idea temporarily.

“I don’t quite understand why we need the Americans in the operation at all,” the man muttered, leaning against the file cabinet. “If this were strictly an MI6 operation, we could be in and out of Germany with no one the wiser.”

“Only the Americans,” commented the slumping, dark-haired agent seated in one of the hard oak chairs in front of the Controller’s desk. The hard chairs were one reason the other agent preferred to lean against the file cabinet. During long sessions in the room, the chairs became almost unbearable on one’s backside. “And the government wants to earn as much good will from the Yanks as possible.”

“And that’s the crux of the whole matter,” the Controller responded from behind the desk. “There are some delicate negotiations going on behind the scenes with Roosevelt that are vital to our forthcoming war effort. In the American Congress there is a very strong element that favors an isolationist stance. The President would like to lean toward aiding the United Kingdom, but there are men in Congress who favor standing neutral. And some actively backing Germany.”

“Bugger the American Congress,” a sotto voice stated from the area of the file cabinet.

“Better you than me, sunshine,” the agent sitting down retorted.

“Now, I have been looking at the records of the man that will be going to Germany. He has a close relationship with the missing scientist. That may make your job somewhat easier. At least he has a military background, graduate of West Point, and some training at their FBI facility in Virginia.”

“Just a bloody amateur,” from the file cabinet came the soft mutter. “I can just see us playing nanny to a General Custer.”

“That’s enough, Doyle,” the commanding individual snapped from behind the imposing desk. “If you don’t want to take the assignment, I will assign someone else to go with Bodie.”

Doyle left off leaning on the file cabinet and began to pace the floor. “Naw, I’ll take the assignment, but I still think the Yank should be left in London. We can go in and get the scientist. Better yet, why don’t we just silence him for good?”

“You will go in and work with the American. And it is a last resort to silence the professor. If it comes to leaving him in Nazi hands and not getting him out, then you have the option of terminating him. It would be best if he were brought back. The Americans do not have a complete formula for what he was working on. Both governments would like to have that weapon.” The older man paused and rose from his desk. He moved toward the ornate cabinet under the window. He did not notice that his agents stiffened and looked at one another.

He opened the cabinet and removed some glasses and a heavy crystal decanter. He frowned, and leaned down to look deeper into the cabinet. Then he turned to see only two very blank stares from the two agents. Bodie was looking intently at the hunting print over his desk. Without comment, he returned to his desk with the items he had removed from the cabinet. He continued briefing his agents.

“Also, we’d like to know how much he has given to the Hun.” The Controller carefully poured a measure of his rather diminished supply of pure malt scotch in all three glasses. He shoved two across the desk to his agents who grabbed them with relief, then lifted his glass in a token salute. Both had a thought that he might know what had happened to the missing scotch. Naw…

 

Chapter Four

July 1939

As in any large city, London was busy and congested, so it was with difficulty Hutch finally located a taxi. The cab careened wildly through narrow streets on the wrong side of the road, neither of which did anything for the nerves of the fighter pilot. After attempting to teach “idiots” to fly, he was just as glad he didn’t have this driver as a student. To his relief, the cab stopped at an unimposing, ancient stone building on a quiet street. If Hutch ever had to retrace his steps, he would hope for a homing pigeon.

He paid the driver in pound notes drawn from his wallet which was filled with almost any currency used in Europe, with more in a belt around his waist. Also hidden in the belt was a small velvet pouch of investment grade diamonds. During his stay in Washington, he had contacted an old friend of his father’s through whom he had converted some of his investments into the high quality diamonds. G2 did not know of this transaction; neither would MI6. He did not want to fail because of a lack of funds when there was so much sitting in his Duluth accounts.

Looking up at the building after the cab left, Hutch wondered if one walked boldly up to offices that housed a nation’s Secret Service. Finally he did simply that. At the front desk of a rather shabby reception area, a young man glanced briefly at his passport and asked him to make himself comfortable. Hutch eased himself into an ancient chesterfield wondering how long this whole procedure was going to delay him. He wanted to start exploring Germany, but knew that he needed expert assistance. He was a complete novice. If the Brits were willing to send an experienced team with him, he had better take them up on it.

“Will you come this way, `Leftenant’?” a quiet masculine voice giving his rank the English pronunciation, interrupted Hutch from his speculation regarding surreptitiously invading Germany. He looked up at a tall, dark young man who continued speaking. “You may leave your luggage with the receptionist.”

“Certainly,” Hutch answered, stopping to drop off his luggage behind the receptionist’s desk.

The very fit-looking young man led him up some worn stairs then down a narrow hall. Stopping at an unmarked door, the young man gestured him into a small outer office where a uniformed young woman was furiously typing. She looked up as he entered and nodded him toward a solid oak chair across from her desk. She paused briefly to push a button on the intercom and say, “The American `leftenant’ is here, sir.” The vague tinny reply was lost in the distance between them.

With a flick of her cropped hair, she indicated that he was to pass through the door behind her desk. Hutch opened the door to a slightly larger office with windows on one side. Rising from behind a large ornate desk, was a small, balding, sandy-blond man. Coming toward Hutch he thrust out his hand, and as he moved closer, Hutch got the impression that here was a man one shouldn’t mess with. His slight stature belied the presence of authority in his movements and body language.

“I am George Cowley, Lieutenant,” the sandy blond figure said, giving his rank the correct American pronunciation overlaid with a rich Scottish burr. Cowley gestured to his left, and Hutch noticed for the first time two young men lounging against a steel file cabinet. “These are two of my agents, Raymond Doyle and William Bodie.”

Hutch appraised them as he turned to take Doyle’s outstretched hand. Doyle had an unruly mop of auburn hair which was reminiscent in style of Starsky’s, Hutch noted with a twinge of pain. After shaking the proffered hand of the slender man, he turned to Bodie and grasped his hand, noting his well-fitted suit and close-cropped dark hair. Neither man reached to Hutch’s height, but a feeling of competence radiated from the two as power had emanated from their slight, middle-aged commander.

Limping slightly, the older man moved back behind his desk and motioned all three younger men to chairs arranged in a semicircle in front of his desk. Shuffling the papers in front of him, Cowley did some appraising of his own. He saw a tall, rather weary, blond young man with a drilled military bearing. Warm American blue eyes met his icy Scot’s ones over the desk without flinching.

Liking what he saw, the controller relaxed back in his chair and said, “Lieutenant Hutchinson, your government wants to get back an American scientist who may have developed some terrible chemical weapon. His Majesty’s Government officially wants nothing to do with chemical weapons.”

Hutch nodded and glanced at the two men seated with him. Both were casually listening to their boss; however, the revelation of the chemical nature of the weapon brought a raised eyebrow from the dark, brooding Bodie.

“Bearing the fact in mind that `officially’ His Majesty’s Government does not sanction the development or use of chemical weapons, there are certain segments concerned about the acquisition of these weapons by a potential hostile foreign power.” Cowley paused and cleared his throat.

“There is one more fly in the ointment, so to speak. This department is badly funded and I can only spare two men for this assignment, Lieutenant. But that is not the critical problem. If you gentlemen run into difficulties on foreign soil, both Great Britain and the United States must disavow any knowledge of the operation.”

“Bloody Operation Susie,” Doyle muttered. “I might have known it.”

“Yeah, it figures,” Bodie answered softly to his partner. “All those years Willis spent hunting commies at Oxford when the real threat was a short, arrogant Austrian.”

“Bodie!” Cowley reprimanded, not wishing to air interdepartmental politics in public. “Now, gentlemen, given those conditions, are you still willing to accept the assignment?”

Doyle and Bodie were a bit startled that the Scot was offering them any sort of choice. Ordinarily the Controller of Continental Operations gave an order, and the agent did it or died in the trying.

“Of course, sir.” Both young men answered in unison.

Hutch turned to his companions, somewhat surprised at the strength of their support. His involuntary “What!” caused Doyle to shift his slender frame around to look Hutch in the eye.

“We volunteered for this mission. Didn’t much care for the Hun getting somethin’ this nasty.” Hutch noticed Bodie raise his mismatched eyebrows at his companion. Perhaps there was some unvoiced objection from that quarter, but a quelling glare from Doyle seemed to take care of it.

“At least we know it’s an Operation Susie goin’ in. Unlike some operations I can remember,” Bodie muttered. Turning his glare to the unperturbed Commander behind the desk, he achieved the same result. Hutch finally decided that it was an old grievance with his superior over someone or something called “Operation Susie.”

“Och, enough, gentlemen,” Cowley ordered. “Lieutenant, give me the papers you brought from Washington. I will need some time to get them decrypted. Bodie and Doyle will take you to their place for the night. It’s probably just as well if you don’t spend too much time on the loose in London considering your connection to the missing man. You may fill my men in on whatever you think would be helpful about your friend.”

Hutch started at the reference, however oblique, to his relationship to Starsky.

“Easy, lad,” Cowley soothed, “Your superiors filled me in on ALL the pertinent details. I had to know what might be going through your mind before I agreed to risk two of my best agents.” Cowley ignored the smirk that Bodie exchanged with Doyle.

Rising from his chair, Hutch handed over the briefcase that he had been carrying for so long. Cowley held out his hand to the younger, taller blond man who gratefully shook it. “There will be another briefing at oh eight hundred tomorrow to sort out the details of the mission. Get a good night’s rest, Lieutenant. You look like you could use it.” Then Cowley motioned all three of them out of his office.

After retrieving the flier’s meager luggage from the receptionist, the MI6 agents led the near comatose American to a small, dark green sedan behind the building. Hutch barely noticed the bright yellow roadster beside the sedan. He loved showy cars, but this one got only a passing glance. After turning over his files to Cowley, he then realized that he couldn’t remember sleeping much on the flight over. Or even if he had eaten the meals provided en route.

He folded himself into the cramped back seat of the unknown vehicle while Bodie tossed his battered flight bag into the boot of the car. Hutch had absolutely no idea what passed for automobiles in this country, but noticed immediately they were not built for his frame. He leaned heavily against the window and watched London pass before his eyes without really seeing a thing.

“Yank. Oh Yank?” The young curly-headed man was leaning over the back of the front seat toward Hutch. “Are you hungry?” the man questioned. Hutch vaguely recalled he was the one called Doyle.

“I think so.”

“Pull in here, Bodie,” Ray Doyle gestured toward a parking spot at the curb.

The car slid to an abrupt halt before an aging brick building with a weather-beaten, swinging sign that proclaimed it to be the Brewer’s Arms. After the auto settled, Hutch unfolded his long figure from the car and stumbled after the two Brits.

They entered through a heavy wooden door into a dark, smoke-filled atmosphere. The room had a low ceiling with heavy wooden beams and paneling. Bodie turned to Hutch and motioned him to a table near the wall. Doyle followed Hutch to the table as Bodie strode over to the oaken bar. He spoke briefly to the barmaid. She laughed and flashed her eyes at his handsome profile as she pulled three pints from the taps in front of her. Bodie grabbed up the glasses and headed back to the table where Hutch and Doyle sat unspeaking.

“They make the best ploughman’s lunch in London,” Bodie commented as he handed the beers around. Hutch took a sip of his and nearly choked. Oh God, the land of warm beer. He had forgotten. He sipped on it again, finding it much stronger than he was used to. He knew he would be drunk quickly if lunch didn’t show up soon. He set his beer down and looked around the place. There was a darts match going on amidst some loud talk in an accent he was hard-pressed to understand.

On the scarred table in front of him lay a pack of unfamiliar cigarettes with a stripe-shirted sailor decorating the cover. He shook out a cigarette and a small piece of cardboard about the size of a playing card fell out along with it. He turned the card over and saw that it had the insignia of an RAF squadron with a small plane in the background. He concentrated until he jogged his tiring brain. It was called a “stringbag.” Not exactly one of England’s most modern aircraft. He looked up to see Bodie holding out a lighter, so he leaned forward and took a drag on the cigarette. He found that it was comparable to cigarettes State side, and he leaned back to enjoy the nicotine rush while turning the card over and over in his hand.

“Latest fad, collecting these,” Bodie said, indicating the card with his blunt forefinger.

“Now, Yank,” Doyle said, tapping on Hutch’s hand to get his attention. “Give us a few more details about the situation?” Bodie was looking at Hutch intently as well.

Hutch proceeded to tell them what little he knew regarding Starsky’s so-called disappearance from L.A. Others were calling it a disappearance, but Hutch was sure it was an abduction.

Wearily organizing his thoughts as he flicked the ashes off his cigarette, Hutch began his narration. “In late March, Dr. Starsky had an argument over the toxin with the head of his department, a Dr. Stannick. This Stannick says Starsky felt it was too dangerous to be allowed into the wrong hands. Stannick then admits that he lost his temper and fired Starsky. Starsky walked out of the building and packed his stuff, and he wasn’t seen by Stannick after that. Guess Stannick went looking, after he discovered some bits of research behind a file cabinet, but Starsky had moved out of his cottage.” Hutch paused, thinking if he had resigned instead of taking the Virginia assignment, he would have been in California and possibly able to help. “What Stannick found in the few papers he had must have scared him to death. He lost no time calling the FBI, who in turn must have notified military intelligence.”

“Did anyone else know about his experiments?” Doyle was questioning while tapping his fingers on the table thoughtfully.

“Yeah, he had a secretary. There was some speculation in Washington that she might have been involved. The FBI has her under surveillance at the moment.”

“It’s a bit dodgy that he up and disappears right after making some sort of important break through in his experiments; especially if everyone thinks the notes and data have been destroyed,” Doyle commented, looking at his partner and receiving a slight nod. “Yes, just a bit on the suspicious side. The Hun probably offered just a bit more money than any school teacher could resist.”

“No!” Hutch snapped, starting to rise from his chair. Bodie was already on his feet and shoved him back down.

“No need to take it so personally, Yank. But we do have to `cover all the bases,’ as you Americans say.”

“It’s still a bit suspicious that the next time he’s found, he’s in Germany working for a German company,” Doyle pressed.

“He’s not that kind of person,” Hutch stated. “I don’t care what you think, but David Michael Starsky wouldn’t sell out for money. He didn’t worry about money.”

“Everybody worries about money,” Doyle snarled. “You can’t tell me teachers in your country make so much they don’t have to worry about it.”

“Starsk just didn’t let it get him down,” Hutch retorted. He angrily ground out his cigarette before it could burn his fingertips.

“Easy, mate,” Bodie said quietly, putting a firm hand on Hutch’s forearm. “It’s not that we don’t believe that you believe what you say, but we need to consider all the possibilities, as I said before.”

Hutch sank back down into his chair.

“Got anything else you can tell us?” Doyle asked.

“That’s basically it,” Hutch concluded. “He’s working for Farben near Stuttgart.” He drew out some photographs of Starsky taken around the village on the outskirts of the larger city. Hutch detailed the information Henderson had given him regarding the situation near Stuttgart. He mentioned the two men that seemed to be in charge of Starsky–or the men he hung around with, whatever the case might be. He elaborated a bit on his own cover as well.

“Well, we have a PCO in Stuttgart,” Bodie commented, shoving the photos back across the table to Hutch. “Murphy’s on station there, isn’t he, Doyle?”

“Yeah, and Murph’s a good man. We’ll ask him to see if he can pick up on the habits of our friends here,” he said, pointing to the stack of photos. “P’haps he’s got a local he can use. Ya know how much cover those PCOs are.”

“PCO?”

“Yeah, MI6 has a few agents stationed around Europe supposedly doing Passport Control. I don’t think the cover is much good, but if we don’t contact Murph directly it should be all right.”

“Oh.” Hutch still was not much enlightened. They were all distracted as the barmaid arrived with their lunch and continued her flirting with the handsome Bodie. Hutch found the plain fare surprisingly good–or else he was simply hungry.

* * *

Starsky sat at the small lab table and studied the microscope in front of him. Rubbing his hand through his now closely cropped dark waves, he made some notes on the pad at hand then looked through the scope again. Yes, perhaps this was on the right track. He made some more notes and leaned back to massage his aching neck. The threats against Elise were getting more violent, and unless he produced something soon, they might be carried out. On a regular basis he received candid shots wired from the German Embassy in Paris. Some of the shots were grainy, but the subject was definitely his elfin-like sister. She had even autographed one and dated it for the photographer. All this was to keep him in line. This latest development in the research should calm the threats down. There were pictures taken of his mother, but not with the frequency of Elise.

“Dr. Starsky?” a voice queried from the doorway.

“Yes, Dr. Vogel.”

“It is time to close the laboratory for the weekend. Everyone wants to get home on time tonight. The Fuhrer is speaking on the radio. Please hurry.”

“Yeah, Heil Hitler,” Starsky answered, muttering under his breath, “Heil, Schicklgruber.”

Putting his notes away in the desk, he shrugged out of his white lab coat and went toward the door, dreading as always his evenings at the small cottage on the edge of Stuttgart with his roommates, Kurt and Hermann. One or the other always picked him up and escorted him there where he spent his evenings and weekends in isolation with the two men or at least one of them. Occasionally, Hermann would disappear into the local red-light district for a few hours or to the local beer garden.

Outside the door he was met by Kurt. He nodded casually to the man and moved down the corridor to the outside door. The black Mercedes sedan was waiting, Hermann driving. He got into the back seat and Kurt sat beside him. Hermann drove slowly down the winding tree-lined drive from the Farben Chemical Complex.

“Dr. Vogel says that you have made some progress this week. Perhaps we shall have a celebration tonight,” Kurt commented, smiling at his charge.

Starsky made no comment. He had learned the hard way to keep his mouth shut and appear to cooperate. He had hopes of making just enough progress to keep Vogel happy, and Elise out of the agent’s hands. He was guarded too closely to even think about escaping in a foreign country where he didn’t know the language or geography.

The black sedan stopped outside a well-lit beer garden. Starsky was a little dismayed to find that this was the type of celebration that Kurt had been referring to. Though he had hoped for a quiet night to catch up on some reading, he docilely followed the large men into the smoky, crowded interior. The three men took a table near the back of the room where a young Fraulein in a tight bodice took their orders for dark German beer. In any other circumstance, Starsky would have enjoyed the beer.

Under the table, as the waitress returned with their drinks, Kurt began fondling Starsky’s thigh. He nearly sighed, but did not allow himself the luxury. It was going to be one of those nights. Kurt was nowhere near as rough a lover as Hermann; in fact, Hermann had been told to lay off the scientist since Starsky was needed in good health to work. Only during his rebellious moments was Hermann allowed off his leash. Kurt, however, was another story.

Starsky sipped his beer, watching the crowd become rowdier and rowdier as the evening progressed. Kurt and Hermann took turns dancing with different bar girls. They were getting a bit drunk, but never forgot their job.

The American watched as black-uniformed SS troopers shoved their way through the crowd to one of the few empty tables. Even arrogant Luftwaffe officers grabbed their drinks and moved off. Two of the troopers stepped over to the piano which had been tinkling out a mournful Lily Marlene. Soon the rousing Horst Wessel reverberated off the walls as bar maids returned to them over and over with more beer. There were squeals of dismay and delight as the troopers fondled and pinched the young women.

The SS troopers eventually got into a rough scuffle with a Luftwaffe sergeant; his friends jumped into the fray. Kurt and Hermann yanked their American charge back behind the protecting bar, and laughed with glee as punches were delivered on both sides.

The scuffle died a natural death, and the two groups of military began buying each other drinks. The hour grew late and the beer garden was ready to close down for the evening. Starsky was both relieved and sorry, knowing he still had to satisfy Kurt with either his ass or his mouth.

“Take our little friend back to the house,” ordered Hermann, “The Fraulein and I are going to her place for a while.” Hermann rubbed his hands over the giggling blonde barmaid standing beside him. He nuzzled her ear and pushed her toward the stairs at the rear of the main hall.

Casually Kurt held Starsky’s arm as they left with the rest of the disappearing crowd. Shoving Starsky into the car, Kurt fitted a short set of handcuffs, kept affixed to the dash there for that purpose. Kurt could then concentrate on his driving.

It would be a long night for Dr. David Michael Starsky, ending with him being chained by the ankle to the iron bedstead that he slept in. Kurt would release him in the morning and escort him back to the lab. This had been the pattern for the weeks that he had been in Germany. He thought with longing of the footloose days in Los Angeles. He never let himself dwell on Kenneth Hutchinson–that was the road to certain insanity.

* * *

Unconsciously scratching the irritating itch on his midriff, Hutch slid farther down in the padded seat. He knew without looking that the small passenger craft was losing altitude for a landing. He yawned as the changing air pressure became uncomfortable, one of the hazards of flying being the constant changes in air pressure. He started again to scratch beneath his belt, then moved his hand away as he remembered that the maddening itch was the small pouch of diamonds. He debated again the advisability of declaring them. No, they were his ace-in-the-hole. He would have to take the chance of being caught smuggling them into Germany.

Casually he glanced back toward the rear of the compartment. Seated near the galley were the two British agents posing as young men on a hiking holiday. The three would accidentally meet at a bar Bodie remembered from his infrequent holidays to the continent.

The lurch, and screech of tires heralded the landing of the small Lufthansa passenger aircraft. The motors reversed and roared before the brakes were applied. Hutch looked out his window as the plane taxied toward the off-loading area, getting his first look at Germany. He could see the new construction going on at Templehof. There was supposed to be a massive new aerodrome built in the near future that would board or disembark passengers of nearly twenty planes. That would be some hangar, Hutch decided, as the small plane came to halt. Passengers heaved sighs of relief and began reaching for their possessions. Hutch waited as the clanking of opening doors and rumbling of portable steps alerted the passengers that it was nearly time to deplane.

Waiting patiently in the line as the hostess wished each passenger a good visit to her country, Hutch shuffled along behind a robust woman and her husband as they discussed in English the amenities of various hotels in the Berlin area. Obviously they had traveled to the Third Reich before, as they spoke admiringly of the German system of government and the wonderful roads that Herr Hitler had built.

After finally disembarking, Hutch was directed through some large doors with the other foreign passengers. He worried momentarily about the diamonds. Surely the immigration officials would have no reason to body-search a vacationing American Army officer ostensibly looking-up the home of his ancestors before taking up his post at the American Embassy in Berlin. That was the cover Hutch would use during his tour through the German countryside: He was looking for long lost relatives on his mother’s side of the family. He had even acquired a few names and places that might be possibilities, as well as some faked possibilities near Stuttgart.

Much to his relief, the search of his person and luggage was a mere formality. He found himself in conversation with a Luftwaffe officer outside the airport while trying to hail a taxi to take him to his downtown hotel. “I overheard that you were in the American Army Air Corps,” the young man in a Luftwaffe uniform commented. “I am much interested in your fighter planes.”

“Oh.” Hutch took in the flying emblem on the trim uniform of the figure standing beside him. Taxis were beginning to line up on the street. He smiled at the engaging eager young man who must have been his junior by four or five years.

“Ya, I hafe heard about a new fighter that might be as good as our 109. Hafe you know anything about it?”

“I was in Air Training Command. So I don’t get to fly the latest. Hopefully I can change that.”

“Ya, teaching young–how do you say it?– `fools’ to fly could be nerve making. Are you visiting Deutschland for the first time?”

“Yes, I’m trying to find some of my mother’s people before taking up my assignment at the American Embassy.”

“Ahh, you are a Deutschlander.”

“On my mother’s side only.” Hutch was beginning to become uncomfortable with the conversation.

A taxi pulled up to the curb and Hutch moved toward it. The young officer grabbed Hutch’s arm. “Perhaps ve could get together for a drink and discuss flying. Vere are you staying?”

Hutch mumbled the name of his hotel and started to say that he had a lot of sleep to catch up on since he had been traveling so long. Then he remembered his playboy image though he certainly didn’t feel much like one at the moment. “Where do you recommend?” he asked reluctantly.

The young German officer named a club. Hutch shook his head.

“Do you know my hotel? Maybe we could meet in the lobby. Oh, say about 10:30 tonight?”

“Ya, I will meet you there.”

The two fliers shook hands as a taxi arrived for the American. The young Oberleutnant smiled and ran for the car with military emblems emblazoned on the sides which was stopping for him.

After a struggle with his nearly lost German, Hutch finally managed to convey to the taxi driver which hotel he wanted to go to. The wide streets of Berlin were interesting with the ancient buildings, but everywhere Hutch looked there were swastikas being displayed. Occasionally he caught sight of the uniformed military hurrying here and there on business or pleasure. The bright June day seemed to be an excuse for the population to be wandering the streets and enjoying the lovely summer.

But Hutch was depressed since he was sure Starsky was not enjoying anything about this summer. He had not allowed himself to dwell on what kind of circumstances Starsky might have been enduring the past few weeks. Surely if his scientific expertise were needed, he would be kept in good health. Certainly that must be the case.

After reassuring himself, Hutch sighed as the taxi pulled up to a large brick building with a canopied doorway. It was a bit ostentatious, but in keeping with the playboy Army officer image he was trying to portray. The doorman opened the automobile door with a flourish and called for a bellman to hurry for the luggage that Hutch was putting on the sidewalk. Check-in turned out to be a simple routine with the desk clerk speaking perfect English.

Once in his fourth floor suite, Hutch indulged himself in a bath and shave then sent for room service. It was a bit of trial with the phone operator’s lack of English and his broken German, but eventually he had light meal sent up with some heavy dark beer. After calling for the bellman to retrieve the tray, he loosened his tie and reclined on the bed. He would be meeting with the British agents in a couple hours, then had to do some night life in Berlin afterward. He would need a bit of sleep if possible. Lately sleeping had been a uneasy , restless affair because of his worry about Starsky.

Perhaps because he was finally in Germany or because exhaustion was catching up, Hutch slept three hours and woke the most refreshed he had felt since this whole ordeal had begun.

* * *

It was early evening when Hutch dressed for his meeting with the British agents to be followed by his engagement with the young Luftwaffe flier. As he finished dressing, he called the front desk to get him a cab for his trip to the out-of-the-way bar where he would meet with the English agents.

The phone rang within ten minutes to tell him that his cab was waiting. He went down on the elevator and out through the high ceilinged lobby. He tipped the doorman generously and gave the driver the address in his poor German. The trip across the busy city took longer than he expected so he was about 15 minutes late for his meeting.

He entered the darkened bar and looked for his contacts. He couldn’t spot them so he went to the bar and ordered a Campari. He leaned on his elbow and surveyed the room in what he hoped was casual manner. As he started to sip his drink his elbow was roughly jostled. Cursing lividly, he turned to look into laughing blue eyes. “Sorry, mate,” said Bodie, reaching for a bar napkin and wiping ineffectually at the stains appearing on Hutch’s suit coat and tie. “Let me buy you another.” The Brit turned to the barkeeper and ordered Hutch another drink in impeccable German.

“Name’s Bodie,” the agent said, introducing himself.

“Ken Hutchinson.” The fresh drink arrived and Bodie paid for it.

“Why don’t you join me and my friend?”

“Yeah, it is a bit lonely,” Hutch answered. “Thanks.”

Moving toward the rear of the crowded bar, Bodie led the way to a small table hidden by a large potted plant. Doyle slouched easily on the hard chair. He shoved a chair toward Hutch with his foot and nodded at the introduction by Bodie.

The conversation was trivial as the three men pretended to get acquainted. Finally Bodie slid an envelope under the table to Hutch who slipped it into his pocket. “Murph sent this message. It seems he’s got to leave Stuttgart rather abruptly. Something about his cover bein’ blown. So we’re really on our own,” Bodie commented, looking indifferently around the crowded bar.

“You’ll leave for Stuttgart tomorrow?” Doyle questioned.

“Yeah.”

“We’re getting a bus late tonight. Don’t hurry. Take about a week to make the trip. Stop and search for your lost relatives. We’ll look the place over before you get there,” Bodie commented, making sure that the patrons of the bar were busy with their own pursuits. “In that envelope are more pictures and the address of a good hotel. Check in at that hotel and wait to be contacted by us. Our PCO contact has your friend under surveillance by some of the local help. Now, get on with your tour of Berlin night life.”

Rising from his chair, Hutch thanked the two men for the drink and started to turn away. His hand was trapped by Doyle momentarily. “And Yank, don’t do anything stupid. It’s our heads as well as yours and your mate’s.”

Hutch took in the icy green eyes and nodded, then shouldered his way out of the bar. It was nearing nine o’clock. He was to meet the German Officer at 10:30 back at his hotel. There was enough time to go back and change out of the spoiled clothes.

Promptly at 10:30 the German officer presented himself at the front desk of the hotel and called for Hutch. The two officers shook hands and chatted briefly as they moved toward the waiting car where there were two more Luftwaffe officers. Hutch was a bit worried, but as the evening wore on he became disabused of the notion that his cover had been blown. It was simply a drunken brawl involving young officers on leave for the first time in a month. The only good to come out of the hangover he was going to have on the upcoming train ride across Germany was the name of a friend of one of the officers at a local bomber base outside Stuttgart. He didn’t know if it would be useful or not, but he filed it away for future reference.

Pleading an early morning departure from Berlin, Hutch was finally able to take a cab back to his hotel. He left the Luftwaffe officers continuing their steady drinking and flirting in the bar.

 

Chapter Five

The metallic clacking of the wheels on the tracks and the swaying of the car distracted Kenneth Hutchinson from the lovely green, rolling hills outside his window. Hutch felt he had spent his life rather than a few days in musty churches as he had built his cover, looking for his grandparents’ records. He didn’t know much about them and hadn’t really paid much attention to his mother’s comments of where they had come from in the “old” country. It was just as well this whole process was a “cover” for he wasn’t going to receive any prizes for his research. He had sat and stared at the old hand-written texts that his high school German wasn’t adequate to translate and he had interviewed aging priests who had done their best to be helpful to the young American.

Now he was finally on his way to Stuttgart and Starsky. He hoped that Bodie and Doyle had located him. It seemed as though they had gotten good information from their Stuttgart contact. There had been grainy photographs in the envelope passed to him in the bar in Berlin. In most of them he could vaguely identify his lost lover.

The train rocked to a halt at another small depot. With no more interest than he had for the rolling fields, meadows, and occasional forest, Hutch noticed black-uniformed figures mounting the train at this last stop. The death’s head emblem on their caps identified them as part of the elite SS corps. Arrogantly they pushed old men, women and children out of their way. One old woman surreptitiously made a two finger sign as she turned away to trudge off into the depot. With a slight smile, Hutch turned back to the English language newspaper he had been holding to make people think that he was reading.

The door to his compartment clattered open and two of the black-uniformed figures shoved their way in. Hutch put up his paper and watched them stow their cases in the overhead racks and under the seats. He turned back to his newspaper and tried to concentrate on the printed words in front of him.

He noticed that the two were officers, which was not surprising since he was riding in a first class car. He kept his eyes on the paper and tried to ignore the other two men. The door slammed open to admit an attractive brunette woman carrying a huge purse and some cases. The officers helped her put away her possessions and began a flirtatious conversation, leaving Hutch relievedly ignored. He had felt exposed being alone in compartment with the two Nazi officers even if his cover was solid. He did have a guilty conscience regarding his mission. He was afraid that his ability to play the role might be strained beyond belief with these men. The woman was a great distraction.

The train shuddered then began slowly moving out of the station. He knew that it was only a few more hours to Stuttgart. As the wheels began their hypnotic clacking again, Hutch leaned back against the window and tried to doze. The conversation in the car became louder, then the men and the woman got up and left, probably heading to the lounge car for a drink. Left in peace, Hutch finally dozed for real. He only woke completely as the train finally pulled into the Stuttgart station.

Gathering his cases from the overhead racks, he edged his way down the narrow passageway to disembark the train. He had only a couple of small pieces of luggage so he had checked nothing and could immediately search out a taxi to take him to the hotel the British agents had arranged.

The hotel was a quietly elegant affair on a busy boulevard. The doorman took his meager luggage and ushered him inside. He found that his reservations were ready so he went directly to his suite to freshen up and hope for an immediate contact with the two agents.

His hopes were slowly dashed as the hours passed in the quiet, elderly hotel. Finally the young lieutenant went down to the in-house restaurant. He ordered a simple meal and a dark, heavy beer. He sipped on it and listened to a quiet combo play unfamiliar music.

Returning to his room on the third floor, he tried to interest himself in the genealogy files he was compiling. Strangely enough, he thought he had actually traced his mother’s parents to a small village. One mystery had been solved. His Grandfather had been an enlisted man in the Prussian army and seemed to have left the area under some sort of cloud. He had sent for his pregnant bride a few months later from New York.

He wondered where Starsky’s family had come from. Probably from some Eastern European country…Poland? The name spelling could have been changed or even completely modified. Damn! Thinking about Starsky brought up all sorts of pain for him. He should have known there was a problem when there had been no letters from him. He should have returned to the West Coast right then. However, good little Kenny Hutchinson always did what his authority figures ordered. His one rebellion had put him in a system where there were “daddy” figures galore.

He leaned back in his overstuffed chair and looked at the dim chandelier swaying slightly in the breeze from the open window. Then he was back on the rented sailboat rocking gently on Mission Bay. They had taken their Thanksgiving holiday in the Navy town of San Diego. Renting the boat had been a lark in which he had indulged Starsky. The twinkling blue eyes had assured him the owner-Starsky-was an experienced sailor. It had been a luscious time of sipping chilled wine and making love on the narrow bench that posed as a bunk on the little boat.

He had discovered the twinkling blue eyes had lied, but he hadn’t cared. Between them they had managed to simply fire up the auxiliary motor and had anchored in a quiet cove. They were rough-housing in the small cabin when the young scientist had pinned him to the cot–and suddenly the eyes were no longer sparkling.

“I love you, gorgeous man,” the curly-haired scientist murmured as he held the Lieutenant down on the bunk. “I want to marry you.”

Hutch had been taken slightly aback. He rested his head back into the pillows and allowed himself to relax in the arms of his lover. As he thought about it, he realized for the first time this was a feeling he had never felt with his wife. Looking up into the suddenly very vulnerable face with its slightly too-long nose and endearing moles, he nodded. “Oh, God, me too!” he murmured fervently. Then he freed his hands from the loose grip and pulled the terribly precious man to him. The lovemaking had been frantic and satisfying this time on the deck of the boat.

A gentle tapping from without startled him out of his memories. He opened the door to a slouching Doyle who simply shoved himself through the door followed by a glowering Bodie. “Damn, it’s pissing down out there,” snarled Doyle, shrugging out of his damp, steaming leather jacket. Looking around the restrained elegance of the suite, Doyle flicked his hand out. “The Cow never gives us this kinda cushy cover.”

“Just lucky, I guess,” Bodie commented, as he made a survey of the room and settled his frame on the soft divan next to the window. “Nice, this. I could get used to this life.”

“What the hell took so long for you to make contact?” Hutch demanded sharply. His nerves were on edge after the slow trip across Germany, followed by the spell of waiting in the hotel.

“We were waiting for you to finish dinner. Nice, was it?” Doyle had as sharp an edge to his tongue as Hutch.

“Why the hell didn’t you just make contact in the restaurant?”

“Dressed like this?” Doyle snapped, pointing to his rumpled clothes. “We’re poor working men on a cheap holiday on the continent.”

“I never thought,” Hutch answered. “But you left the contact so vague.”

“Preserve me from amateurs!”

“That’s quite enough, both of you,” Bodie snapped, finally tiring of the game. Turning to Hutch he said, “We’ve located your mate. The local contact here, Murphy, had to get out a couple days ago. He was declared persona non grata, but he had found the Professor.”

“We’ll have you make your first contact tonight. It seems your mate hangs out at a local beer garden after work with a couple of Gestapo types,” Doyle added as he sank into the armchair that Hutch had been occupying earlier. He stretched out his long slender legs and sighed. “We’ve been observing the Professor for the last few days. Figure the pub is the best place for any kind of outside contact. At Farben it’s completely out. Their security would give the Tower a run for its money. Then the cottage where they live is in a small suburb. No reason for an American tourist to find it.” Doyle paused. “You’ll see if you can make a casual meeting in the pub while Bodie and me set up a distraction for the two heavies.”

“Right.” Hutch was already heading for the door.

“No, Yank.” Bodie quietly stopped the airman. “You can’t go to this type of place dressed like a bloody lord.”

Doyle rose from the chair and went over to Hutch. He grabbed the neatly tied tie and loosened it then threw it over on the chair. He rumpled Hutch’s neatly combed military hair. Then he unbuttoned the jacket and the top buttons of his shirt.

“Guess he’ll do as an American tourist gone slumming. Whatcha think, Bodie?”

“Have to, won’t he?”

The three men left the hotel and walked out into the drizzling rain. Hutch would have called a cab, but Bodie motioned to a small automobile parked at the curb. It resembled nothing more than a giant bug, and Hutch noticed that it said Volkswagen on it. Then he discovered all over again that European cars were not made for him as he folded his lean frame into the ledge that seemed to pass for a rear seat in the back of the “people’s car.”

Through darkened, damp streets Bodie guided the car. The streets got progressively narrower until, from his American perspective, they diminished into alleys. Bodie seemed to have a suicidal impulse to his driving, appearing unconcerned that his partner was slouching against the door with his hand braced on the dash. Bodie abruptly twisted the wheel of the little car and manhandled it next to the curb. About halfway down the block, or what passed for blocks in this city, were the bright lights of a drinking establishment.

Bodie turned around to Hutch. “Give us about five minutes, then you come in and try to be casual,” he instructed. The two British agents then left the car and sauntered down the sidewalk, giving every appearance of being slightly tipsy. Hutch checked his watch and settled in for a long five-minute wait.

* * *

In the dimly lit beer hall, Starsky slumped at a table near the rear. He stared into his dark beer and occasionally sipped a little. He rarely let himself become the slightest bit drunk. Since he had been recreating more and more of the formula, the nights at the beer garden became more and more frequent. Hermann and Kurt were getting a bit bored with their job, probably since he hadn’t caused any trouble after the aborted escape attempt in the small Colorado town. They were pursuing their pleasures more often.

Starsky was depressed. He even remembered the small concrete station platform in Colorado that night. On a weatherbeaten sign had been the Spanish words La Junta. He had managed to slip his keepers since the drug dosage had been cut down. His reaction to the drug in Arizona had made his keepers a bit more careful with how much they forced on him. However, there had been enough of it in his system, he finally decided, to impair his judgment. If he had had any sense, he would have known that escape was impossible that night.

He had slipped out of the car and down onto the opposite side of the train from the station, carefully trying to make his way across the tracks to anywhere that was away from the hissing train. He hadn’t counted on being missed quite so soon, but Kurt had come rushing out and had seen him. He had tried running across the tracks only to come in harsh contact with a freight car parked on the siding. He had started to slide under it when he had caught his foot in some mechanism beside the rail. While freeing his pants cuff, Kurt and Hermann both had run up puffing, their guns drawn. Freeing him, the two men helped him to his feet and escorted him back to the train.

Nearly sobbing with frustration, he had been unceremoniously shoved into their compartment. With little gentleness two white tablets had been forced down his throat.

Then his memories began fading…mercifully, he imagined, from the aches and pains he suffered the next time he surfaced, just as the train was entering the huge Chicago switching yards.

Mentally sliding back to the present, he scanned the dim room without much interest, noting that Kurt and Hermann were in animated discussion with two foreign tourists at the far end of the bar. Glancing on around his surroundings, he nearly missed the familiar lean figure lounging against the bar. Hutch! His mind sang with sudden joy. Hutch cared enough to travel halfway around the world to find him. No, it couldn’t be,–he must be seeing things.

Intently he rose from behind the small circular table and began easing toward the bar, never taking his eyes off the figure there. He steeled himself for the disappointment he was sure must come. Watching from behind a pillar, he drank in the sight of the lover he had thought never to see again. How the hell had he gotten here? Damn the man! He must have pulled some strings in Army intelligence or through his family to find him.

Aww shit, here was just one more complication in his life. Somehow he must convince Hutch to get out and leave him here. He was positive that Hutch had some wild idea about trying a “white knight” stunt, but he must disabuse him of that. Making up his mind, he straightened his shoulders then glanced over at his keepers. They were still talking to the two men at the far end of the bar as he moved up beside the blond. “Just what the fuck do you think you’re doing?” he whispered.

Hutch flinched and blinked at Starsky in disbelief. “I’m here to take you home,” he said without preliminaries in a low, hoarse voice, seemingly overcome with emotion.

“What if I don’t want to go?”

“Starsk, I love you!” Hutch responded under his breath, leaning toward the other man. “And I know that you love me.” He paused. “Any problems, we can solve…”

Hardening his heart against the love shining in the blue eyes looking at him so earnestly, Starsky hissed, “Love is all well and good, soldier boy. But considering the amount that they’re paying me for this work, I can’t afford to give it up for a two-bit soldier! Then there’s the fact I’ve got two lovers who are real men, not sentimental slobs like some I could name.” With his heart nearly breaking, David Starsky turned away, heading for the men’s room.

“Starsk…David, wait please!” Hutch reached out and put his hand on the other’s shoulder.

“No, Hutch, get the hell outta here! Live your own life and leave me to mine. I’ve got exactly what I want. What I don’t want is you here screwing it all up.” Leaning in close to Hutch’s face, he snarled in a low voice, “Got exactly what I need! Ever had a cock in your mouth and one up your ass, soldier boy? It’s a real thrill.” He paused and saw the shocked comprehension in the blond’s eyes. “Now get the hell outta here and back to your square life!” Nearly shuddering at that particular memory, Starsky hoped the crudeness of the remark would send Hutch to safety.

With inward sadness he shrugged off the restraining hand and went on toward the men’s room, knowing it was the only thing he could do. If he were to try and leave with Hutch, Kurt and Hermann would probably simply kill the airman. But foremost in his mind were the threats to Elise and his mother–he had no choice.

He entered the restroom, noting that it was empty, and leaned against the wall next to the urinals where he raggedly sobbed. He had been repeatedly raped and beaten, but he had had the satisfaction that THEY hadn’t broken him. Instead he had broken himself by telling Hutch to get out and leave him. That had been final straw. The racking sobs stopping in a few moments, he shoved himself off the wall and headed for a stall as he heard a noise from the hallway. He slid into the confined space and began straightening himself mentally and physically, knowing he still had a role to play. As he left the stall, he saw Hermann leaning against the door frame.

“Get back to the table. The next time you have to take a leak, tell one of us or tie a knot in your dick.” Shoving himself against the slighter man, Hermann continued, “I could cut it off.” Booze and tobacco smells nearly knocked Starsky over. “Then you could use the fraulein’s. You’re never going to have much use for it again, Jew boy.” Hermann snickered and turned into the empty stall.

Slipping out from the claustrophobic presence of Hermann, Starsky rushed through the door and back into the bar. The smoky dimness made him blink back further tears, but he noted that Hutch no longer leaned against the ancient bar. He quickly returned to his table and chugged the now flat beer, oblivious to that fact as he hurriedly downed it. Everything was flat. He would finish the formula as quickly as possible, then he could only hope they would kill him. He was weary of stalling for time and hoping for a future that was impossible.

* * *

Watching raindrops scuttle down the windshield of the agents’ car, Hutch was numb. Starsky actually wanted to stay in Germany! Hutch had thought it would be so easy: He would waltz in there, pay off the guards in diamonds, and carry his lover off into the sunset a la one of Starsky’s celluloid melodramas. He had never thought that money or rough sex would tempt his lover. He sighed and leaned against the door post.

The doors of the car clicked open revealing the two British agents backlit by the dim street lights. “Any luck, Yank?” questioned Doyle, not letting his usual hostility show.

“No, he turned me down on leaving Germany. Said that they were paying him too much to leave for any… soldier boy. I can’t believe it!” Hutch’s tone was anguished. He couldn’t tell the strangers the rest of Starsky’s reasons.

“Well, I guess that’s that,” Bodie stated as he settled himself in the driving seat. He started the motor and backed the car out into the nearly deserted street. Most of the customers had long since hurried to their own transportation or rushed down the street in the diminishing rain. “Whaddya think, Doyle?”

“Yeah, we go tonight. Those two Nazi types are a bit squiffy. Should make them all the easier to handle.”

“Tonight! You’re going after Starsky tonight?” Hutch interjected from the back seat. “You aren’t going to kill him?”

“Nah, mate, we’ll just have to convince him to come along peaceable like,” Doyle muttered.

“It’s like this,” Bodie explained, “We’ll try to bring him out. But if he’s going to fight us all the way, we may have to…” he let the sentence trail away. Hutch understood all too clearly the implications and made no comment. He had always known that the Brits considered killing Starsky a viable option. Even his own government would not take them to task for that action . He would just have to see to it that it never happened. He would guard Starsky with his own life. It was something that simply felt right.

“Anything you can’t live without at your hotel?” Doyle questioned. “Got your passport with you?”

“No and yes,” Hutch answered shortly, uneasy with his own thoughts. A raised eyebrow from Bodie to Doyle simply said they knew what was going on in the blond’s skull. Neither one especially wanted to take out the scientist, but if it was the only way, they would do it. Another raised eyebrow reiterated Doyle’s earlier comment about working with amateurs.

The car sped down the street and left the more inhabited part of the city. Eventually Bodie pulled over into a darkened driveway. Both British agents got out of the car. Bodie went to the front of the vehicle, opened the boot, and began taking out a few items. There was a lightweight Sten gun along with clips of ammunition for it. Both men slid into shoulder holsters with hand guns, blackened their faces, then turned to the curiously watching Hutch. From the satchel in the boot Bodie threw out some slacks and a sweater followed by boots and heavy socks. All landed at Hutch’s feet.

“Get into those things,” he commanded, walking over to the satchel to remove a few more items which he stashed on different parts of his person. Doyle was doing the same thing. Reluctantly Hutch saw the sense of changing clothes. His trim, double-breasted pin-striped suit was not suited to a kidnapping. And that was what it was going to be, he supposed, given Starsky’s attitude toward being rescued. It was a tad hard to rescue someone who didn’t want to be saved.

“You had this planned all along,” he told Bodie and Doyle accusingly.

“Nah, mate, just a contingency plan,” Doyle retorted. “Thought there was a chance he might just walk out of the pub with you.”

“I mean that tonight was the time, no matter what.”

“Yeah, look at the moon.” Hutch looked up into the misty sky. He couldn’t see any moon. “If we wait too long, we end up trying a bit of housebreaking or border-running during the full moon. Not the best idea.” Bodie walked around the car and began to put Hutch’s discarded clothes into the boot of the Volkswagen. “Then there’s the added bonus that our targets all have been drinking pretty hard. Should make them a bit easier to take.”

“Get in.” Doyle motioned to Hutch as Bodie got in the driver’s side. Hutch complied. This whole sequence of events was advancing faster than he had expected. He should have understood that the agents would want to hit the cottage while the occupants were vulnerable.

Bodie drove on a few more miles through the thinning city outskirts then he slowed to stop and cut the headlights on the small car. While carefully letting his eyes adjust for a few minutes, he began to fill Hutch in on the plan. “The targets should have reached their place a short time ago. We hung around the bar long enough to make sure they were thoroughly drunk and leaving. Now we’ll park as close to the house as possible. Doyle and I will go in and take care of the roommates. Give us about thirty minutes then you come in and help us deal with your friend.”

“I’m going in with you,” Hutch argued, half afraid that by the time he got there Starsky would be dead.

Sensing his suspicions, Bodie raised another eyebrow at Doyle. He then added, “We won’t harm your mate if he doesn’t force us to. If there are shots or other loud noises, bring the car up to the door and get in there fast.” Bodie reached down to the floorboards of the car and brought up a Luger. “Here, use this if you need it. Notice we’re trusting you not to rush in and screw everything up.”

Doyle muttered something nearly unheard. Hutch thought it might be “bloody amateur.”

Bodie started the car and continued down the narrow lane. The eyes of the three men were now reasonably adjusted to the darkness and the shadows of the surrounding trees were not as unnerving as before. Bodie pulled the small car off the road into the bushes.

“House is about a hundred yards straight up this drive,” Doyle mentioned as he unlatched the car door at his elbow. “Don’t get up there too soon and spook the heavies,” he cautioned.

After sliding out of the car, the British agents quickly faded into the underbrush which barely twitched at their passing. They moved with all the silence of Red Indians, and Hutch couldn’t quite remember where they had gone. There weren’t any bushes fluttering to give evidence of their passage.

* * *

Bodie watched in satisfaction as Doyle slipped from shadow to shadow. He had taught him everything he could about moving in stealth, lessons he had learned the hard way while mercing in Spain. That had been a bloody rout at the end. He had barely escaped with his life as the foreign brigades disbanded when the fascists took control of the valiant country that had fought overwhelming odds for its freedom.

Doyle stopped and motioned Bodie forward. Easing himself beside his partner, he saw they were at the edge of a clearing. In the midst of which set the cottage. It was small, but like all German residences, very neatly kept. There was a dim light in what was the living room. Murph’s surveillance had covered the cottage pretty thoroughly without outright burglary.

Nodding at Doyle, Bodie took the lead. There were few words necessary between the two–Bodie would take the door and Doyle the window to the bedroom. Bodie slid his hand into his pocket for the thin cord which coiled there. Something flashed in Doyle’s hand. It was a slender throwing knife. He was almost as good with a knife as he was with the Webley. Bodie grinned ferally as he slipped up to the heavy door and slammed it open. The man dozing in the arm chair grunted and started to raise his hand to reach for the gun on the table beside him. Bodie leaped forward and slipped the loop of cord around the man’s neck. The red-head jerked and struggled as the thin cord cut off his wind. Bodie held the loop tight until the struggles ceased. The air was permeated with a foul smell as the dying man’s sphincter relaxed. Bodie shuddered. This was never pleasant.

Moving away from the body, he leaned over the table and controlled his own instinctive response. A hand lightly touched his shoulder, and he flinched.

“Easy, mate. He deserved it.” Doyle said, “After you take a look in the bedroom, you’ll understand. But for now, I think I had better get the flyboy up here. His mate is in a bit of shock. Besides, I imagine the Seventh Cavalry is coming up the drive about now…with about as much discretion as General Custer at Little Bighorn.” Doyle moved toward the sagging front door.

Getting his racing heartbeat back to normal, Bodie entered the bedroom. He almost expected a blood bath from what Doyle had said. On the floor lay a muscular blond man with a knife in his back. He removed the slim stiletto and absentmindedly wiped the blade on the man’s shirt. Looking up he saw the scientist shivering on the bed. He had drawn himself up toward the head of the bed as far as the chains on his ankles would allow. Lying on the floor beside the bed was a short riding crop.

Bodie walked quietly over to the bed, searching his pockets for the lockpicks he always carried. Doyle had sent him in here for two purposes–one was to show him he had not killed in vain, and the other was that he was better with a standard set of lockpicks. Doyle could manage, but he would be quicker. A further example of his misspent youth, he supposed.

The chains rattled as the scientist tried to get farther from the imposing figure Bodie supposed he must present. His dark clothes and blackened features must make him rather scary. He felt he should say something, but could only murmur inane things like “easy” or “won’t hurt you”. He felt completely out of his depth and hoped Doyle would hurry with the airman. It was his problem to comfort the shocked scientist.

* * *

Hutch settled himself down, checking his watch every thirty seconds. The time dragged on and on. He kept himself busy checking the cartridges in his gun finding only one clip of eight shells. Probably that would be more than enough. He looked at his watch and smiled. One whole minute had passed while he was checking his gun. At this rate he could probably give the car a tune and oil change and still have time left over. He smiled to himself and mulled over his two cohorts. Not the easiest of men to get along with. But they seemed more than competent as he had expected in London. He knew nothing about them beyond their names which probably even weren’t their own.

He looked at his watch again. Ten minutes, he sighed. Hell, he was going to go on in. He slipped out the car as soundlessly as he could and began moving through the bushes and trees beside the driveway. He came out into a clearing and saw that the lights were burning brightly in the small house. He edged up to the garden fence then heard a rustling behind him. He turned and found himself looking into twinkling green eyes.

“Bang, bang, you’re dead. Ya outta be a bit more careful of your back side, Yank,” Doyle said. “Was just coming to get you. Get inside before any nosy neighbors come walking their dogs, eh””

Following Doyle into the small living room, Hutch was struck by the stench that greeted him–then he noticed the sprawled figure on the chair. “Jesus Christ, you killed them.”

“Yeah, that was the plan.”

“Shit, I thought you’d just disable them or something,” Hutch’s eyes glittered as he stared at Doyle.

“Listen, Yank, this is not a game. If we’re going to have a chance of getting out of this ruddy country, we need all the edge we can get. If killing a couple of bastards will give us that bit of edge, then I’ll kill a couple more,” snarled Doyle.

“He’s right you know,” another voice interrupted. Hutch turned to see Starsky standing barefoot, zipping up a pair of wrinkled cotton slacks. “They died a little too easily to suit me.”

Starsky walked over to the inert form on the chair, managing a tight smile as he turned to Hutch. He seemed to wilt as he clutched Hutch’s shirt front and buried his head beneath the other man’s chin. He shuddered, “I was so afraid you believed me in the bar. Then I was so frightened you wouldn’t.”

Doyle watched the tableau with interest. There was a bit more to the professor than just a pretty face. He was tough if he managed to get himself together after the scene Doyle had witnessed in the bedroom before knifing the burly blond Nazi. The scientist had been spread eagled on the bed, being beaten with a riding crop across his already well-bruised ass.

Bodie touched Doyle on the sleeve. He nodded toward the two figures now huddled on the floor stroking one another and whispering.

Doyle reluctantly turned to the Americans. “I hate to do this, but we’ve got to get going. Dr. Starsky, please get up and finish dressing.” Doyle knelt down and put a hand on the bare shoulder.

“God, Hutch, I can’t go with you,” Starsky whispered. “Don’t think I don’t want to go. I want that more than anything. But I can’t.”

“You have no choice,” Bodie interjected harshly before Hutch could speak. “Get dressed. We can’t hang about here any longer.” He briefly paused. “Doyle, you help him. Hutchinson can help me get the bodies to the cellar. If we’re lucky no one will come looking until after the weekend.” He didn’t want the two left together at this point. Nor did he want the American airman hatching any plans that might bugger the whole operation. He had been reasonably sure the ploy in the pub wouldn’t work. If it had been that easy, there would have been no reason for the young scientist not to simply have taken himself to the American Embassy. There was an unknown reason for the man to submit to obviously brutal circumstances. Right now, he didn’t have time to worry about it.

Doyle lifted the nearly naked man from Hutch’s lap and propelled him into the small bedroom, noting with distaste the restraints on the bed as he sorted through the meager belongings in the closet and drawers. For someone who was supposed to be receiving a lot of money for his labors, he had certainly not spent any on himself. And unless he liked his sex rough, Doyle could see no reason for the man to want to stay in Germany. There were a few things that weren’t connecting up; and Doyle hated mysteries. He watched the subdued scientist silently dress himself.

“I’m glad you killed them,” Starsky said in a hoarse, dry voice. “But you’ve really made it so I have no choice now. I have to go with you.” He bent down to tie his shoes. “But…you’ve just signed the death warrant for my sister, damn you.” Starsky glared up at the man watching him.

“Your sister? What does she have to do with this? When we checked this op out, your sister was in Paris doing nicely with a small band on the Left Bank.”

“Yeah, and they have agents watching her. If I don’t produce, she gets roughed up. Shit, shit,” Starsky muttered in an anguished voice.

Well, that explained a few things, thought Doyle. He had wondered why a Jewish American scientist would give himself over to the Third Reich.

 

Chapter Six

After taking turns cleaning themselves up in the small bathroom, the British agents hustled the Americans out of the cottage. The four men squeezed into the cramped car Bodie had brought up the driveway after he and Hutch had disposed of the bodies–the car’s appearance going unnoticed, since Hutch was being sick in the bushes along the driveway. The car was barely adequate for the four men, but thoughts of the situation stilled any complaints.

Once in the car Starsky leaned his head against Hutch’s shoulder in exhaustion. The evening’s events had him reeling. Hutch shifted his long legs the best he could and took Starsky gently in his arms, not caring what the two agents thought.

Bodie started the clattering engine, which seemed unnaturally loud in light of the recent events. Slipping the clutch, he backed the car around and began to drive back to the main road. Thus occupied he began to outline the plan for slipping out of Germany.

“We’ll go north and cross the Rhine at Mannheim then make for Belgium preferably -but Luxembourg will do. From Belgium we should have no trouble getting to Calais where MI6 should have transport waiting for us. The tricky part is simply getting to Belgium.”

“Isn’t there a more direct route into France from here?” questioned Hutch.

“Yeah, but it goes directly through the Siegfried Line and then the Maginot Line. Considering the current political situation, I don’t imagine either Germany nor France would welcome us waltzing through their defenses,” Bodie laughed with bitter humor.

“But I need to get to Paris as fast as I can,” Starsky whispered, leaning toward the dark head in front of him.

“Paris! This tour only goes back to London.”

“But Elise…” Starsky’s voice trailed off in hopelessness.

“Who’s Elise?”

“His sister,” Doyle answered, “Seems our Nazi friends were threatening grievous bodily harm to his family if he fucked up. Especially `is sister, her being so convenient and all. We’ve made him fuck up and I suppose he’d like to try his hand at rescuing her.”

Hutch looked at Starsky in quiet awe. That explained the conversation at the beer hall. That explained a lot of things Hutch had not been able to understand. He squeezed the thin shoulders in sympathy.

“As soon as we can, we’ll notify the French Surété. They’ll protect your sister,” Bodie answered, not liking his own response at all. Unfortunately he had his orders.

Starsky slumped back against the blond, drained. His body ached, but his heart hurt even more. He had endured the worst that Kurt and Hermann could hand out in hopes of preventing a similar fate for his sister. Now all that endurance seemed for nothing. He sighed, thinking how once more he seemed to have no control over his fate.

Reaching into an inside jacket pocket, Doyle extracted a folder of papers which he passed to Starsky over the top of his seat. “Here are your visas and a British passport. We didn’t have time to forge an American one. The beauty of this one is that it isn’t forged, but the genuine article. The visas are a bit of a mixed bag, however. You entered the country with Bodie and me, and you’re leaving with us. You are now David Hyde-White, an old school chum of Bodie’s.” He paused to smile grimly at the huddled figure in the back seat. “One thing. You’ve got laryngitis. You can only whisper. Your accent stinks!”

“If you can’t remember to keep shut, I’ll give you a sore throat for real,” Bodie supplied. “As we said earlier, this is not a kid’s game. It can get us all killed.”

Bodie’s driving was the most subdued that Hutch had seen so far this night. He was therefore startled when the man yanked the wheel, killed the lights, and pulled to the side of the road.

“What’s going on, mate?” Doyle asked, voicing everyone’s question.

“Think there’s a road block on the other side of this rise. I gotta glimpse of something from the top of the last hill.”

“Couldn’t have found the bodies back at the house and blocked the road this quickly,” Doyle murmured speculatively. “Must be something else.”

“Yeah, but what?”

“There’s only one way to find out,” Doyle answered as he handed the metal-framed Sten gun over his seat to Hutch. “Put that under your feet and leave it there.” He then loosened the gun in his shoulder holster.

“Guess we’ll try out the Professor’s cover a bit sooner than anticipated,” Bodie said, letting out on the clutch and maneuvering the car back onto the road while turning on the headlights.

“Put that gun away, Yank,” Doyle ordered when he saw Hutch had the Luger in his fist. “Get it out of sight. You’ll know when you need it. And so far you don’t know if you need it or not.”

The Volkswagen was fast approaching the blocked road. Both British agents heaved a quiet sigh of relief as it became evident that the road was blocked by the Wehrmacht, regular German Army, not the SS or Gestapo. Stopping beside a young corporal with a pimply face, Bodie rolled down his window and began making inquiries in excellent German. As the explanations continued, he finally shrugged his shoulders and pulled out his papers.

“He wants to see our passports and visas,” Bodie said, reaching for the forthcoming folders from the other three men.

After examining the papers for what seemed an eternity, the young corporal carried them to the officer resting in the staff car at the side of the road. He examined them carefully and handed them back to the corporal. Bodie casually passed them back to his comrades. The pimply corporal snapped his heels and saluted, “Heil Hitler.”

“Yeah, Heil Hitler,” Bodie muttered, backing the car around and returning down the road. He drove carefully, not wanting to call attention to them.

All were trying to stop the adrenalin pumping into their systems. Bodie noticed that his hands were actually quivering on the steering wheel. He grasped it harder before one of his Yank charges could notice that he was as human as anyone else.

“What’s the story?” Doyle questioned when he thought he could trust his voice.

“Actually it’s bloody tragic and humorous at the same time,” Bodie quipped. “The Wehrmacht has chosen this weekend for maneuvers. They have all roads blocked from Mannheim and beyond. They are doing tank exercises. Nothing to do with us. But it could bugger our whole plan for getting out of the country. I think they’ve closed the border, as well. This could be a cover for something and the quicker we get outta this effing place the better I’ll like it.”

“I imagine that makes about four of us,” Doyle said wryly.

“Have another contingency plan?” Hutch questioned. He felt Starsky stiffen under his hands.

“It’s getting a bit late. We’ll go back to your hotel and get out the maps and see what routes are available,” Bodie answered wearily. He didn’t like it when a plan wasn’t working. “We have a few hours until daylight. I think the Professor could use some rest. We probably still have a couple of days before the bodies are discovered.”

Looking at Starsky, Doyle asked, “Did you have much company on weekends?”

“No, there was only an SS corporal who would occasionally come around and get drunk with Kurt and Hermann,” Starsky replied, not wanting to remember those rare weekends. It had usually been a rough two days for him. “They didn’t have any friends in the area. And didn’t seem to want to make any.”

The outskirts of Stuttgart were beginning to come into view. Still driving a bit subdued, Bodie set as rapid a pace as he dared in the circumstances. He parked the car on a side street, off the busier boulevard that the hotel fronted. He reached into the glove box and drew out a small bottle of scotch.

“Was saving this for something else entirely,” he said as he applied it to his face like after shave. He handed it to Doyle who did likewise. Starsky and Hutch complied with the unspoken command. It wouldn’t take a whole lot to act drunk, Hutch decided as they got out of the car. Bodie paused and threw his jacket over the Sten gun on the floor of the car. Then all of them began staggering up the street.

The night clerk silently handed Hutch’s room key to him as he disapprovingly frowned at the foreigner’s display of bad manners. Once in the sitting room of the suite all four men slouched into chairs or divans. After a few minutes Hutch noticed Starsky’s pale face. He rose, pulled Starsky to his feet, and shoved him toward the ensuite bathroom. He followed closely and sat his lover on the john while he removed his shoes and ran a hot bath. Starsky stood and removed the rest of his garments. He looked at the highly polished tile floor unable to look Hutch in the eye.

Hutch had been leaning over the tub testing the temperature and did not notice the attitude of the man quietly standing beside him. He raised up and drew in a sharp breath. Bodie had tried to fill him in on the condition of the scientist, but still Hutch was not prepared for the reality of it. Starsky was thin to the point of emaciation, and the stripes both old and new on his back, ass, and chest startled him. Starsky stood there as if he was terribly ashamed…as if it was all his fault.

Hutch grabbed him and held the seemingly fragile body close to him. “Oh God, Starsk,” he murmured. “How could anyone do this to you?”

Starsky flinched in the embrace as the roving hands rushed over his bruises wincing as Hutch rubbed his ass. The blond abruptly stopped and pulled back.

“Shit, I’m hurting you. Damn, I’m sorry. It’s just I can’t seem to touch you enough.”

“No, never stop touching,” Starsky whispered, pressing further into the embrace. “I just thought you might not want to look at me. I was never a candidate for Mr. Universe, but I’m not sure if anyone would want to look at me now.”

“I can’t get enough of looking at you, you idiot.” Hutch hugged him then began moving him toward the tub. “I’m gonna wash you, hold you, and make you understand that you are the most wonderful thing in my life.” Gently, he helped Starsky into the tub. “Lay back. I’m going to do everything. First thing, I’ll wash your hair. Why’s it so short?” Hutch asked as he dampened the dark head and began massaging in shampoo.

“Better than it was,” Starsky answered. “They shaved it off the day I arrived on board the Hamburg.” He nearly shuddered, but controlled the reflex. He still remembered crying uncontrollably as Kurt applied the shears and snickered the whole time. It had been a lesson in humiliation he would long remember. It was best that Hutch not know all the details. No, he didn’t regret the British agents killing the two Nazis. Not at all.

Hutch listened to the inflexible voice. He continued his washing and scrubbing, trying to incorporate a slight massage. He noticed that there were old bruises and new ones. Now was not the time to question him, Hutch knew. It was all too close, and Hutch was afraid of his own tenuous control.

The water was becoming tepid and his charge was showing grogginess. Hutch opened the drain and helped the scientist to his feet. He gently toweled the hair and body as the smaller and now, much slighter, man leaned into him. He led his companion to the large, soft bed. With no resistance Starsky allowed himself to be put under the covers and tucked in like a four-year old. It felt nice, and he mumbled that to his lover. Hutch stood long moments as his charge dropped off into an exhausted sleep.

He turned and started out to the sitting room, but was halted in the doorway by what he saw. Bodie lay with his head thrown back on the top of the couch, while in his lap Doyle was quite busy. Hutch slipped away unseen, he was sure, back into the bedroom, silently closing the door. He got out of his clothes and slid under the covers with Starsky. Gathering up the sleeping man in his arms, he settled in for some rest, knowing the British agents were not planning on working on their contingency plan at the moment. He smiled as he went gently into the realm of Morpheus.

It seemed as though it was only a moment later he heard water running in the bathroom. He nearly groaned as abused muscles from the previous night made themselves known. He hadn’t thought he had worked that hard. Probably he was stiff from riding in the cramped car.

“It’s getting late. You’d better rise and shine,” Bodie said from the bedroom doorway. He obviously had just had a shower. His hair was shining, and he was wearing Hutch’s robe. “I’ve ordered room service. Be here in a few minutes.” He turned back to the sitting room.

Hutch reached for the mound beside him, smiling as Starsky groaned and gave an involuntary shiver. Hutch stroked the closely cropped black silk hair. Rolling over, Starsky looked into the loving blue eyes. “Thought it was all a dream. One that I didn’t want to wake up from,” said Starsky, pulling the rumpled blond head to him. “Love you, you know.”

“I know. Can’t tell you how much I love you and how I’ve missed you.”

Reluctantly they broke their clinch when there came a discreet knock at the door of the bedroom. Remembering the precariousness of their situation, Hutch rolled off the bed and pulled Starsky after him. They cleaned up, shaved, and dressed hurriedly with Hutch managing some slacks for Starsky that weren’t inconveniently large. He rolled the cuffs since nothing could be done about the length. The few clothes they had packed were worn and wrinkled and Starsky seem disinclined to wear them. Then they went out to the living area to find the two British agents demolishing breakfast.

“Better get a move on or the human dust bin `ere won’t leave a thing,” Doyle said, motioning toward his partner. Hutch thought the intake of food was pretty evenly matched, but Bodie had been lavish in his order. There was plenty for all four with a bit left over. The two Americans did their part to uphold the honor of their country in the eating department at least. For the first time in weeks, Starsky felt like eating and he did the hotel chef justice.

“Now to business,” Doyle said as he began clearing the low table of the remains of their meal.

Bodie began shaking out some maps. All four men gathered around to watch and listen. None of the routes left seemed very direct to Hutch. The crossing of the Rhine River was a major stumbling block as it could only be crossed at so many places. It was logical many of these bridges would be in use by the military this weekend. Hutch wondered distractedly what could be up within the military establishment, though he actually didn’t care. All he wanted was to get himself and Starsky out of the country. It seemed to be a difficult undertaking at this moment.

Then it hit Hutch as he studied the map. Something on the map seemed familiar. There was an air base at Esslingen. His young Luftwaffe oberleutnant in Berlin had given the name of a friend…Damn, what was his name? He searched through his wallet and found the scrap of paper. Yeah, Leutnant Georg Helwig, and there was even a phone number. Why couldn’t he contact this leutnant and try to get on the base or at least near it? He could take the man to a meal or drinks and then see if he could pick his brain. After all, they were both airmen.

As Doyle and Bodie discussed the various roads, Hutch thought more and more on his plan, deciding it just might work. With the help of the two British agents, they might sneak onto the base, get a plane, and fly the relatively short hop to France. He could see the political complications, but at this point getting out of Germany seemed the first order of business. He had a hunch that the wily fox in London would come to their rescue in that situation. He might not back them on government orders while on German sovereign soil, but possibly he wouldn’t let the French hang them out to dry. He knew that getting onto the base might be costly. The Brits seemed to kill so easily, but then he thought of Starsky back in the hands of the sadists and was quite glad that the British agents were so competent in that area.

There was a lull in the conversation going on around him. Bodie rose and went to the phone to order lunch. Hutch discovered he was hungry again. Tension was burning calories in all of them.

When Bodie returned to the table, Hutch took a deep breath and then plunged in, “What about this?” He explained about his contact at the Esslingen base. Both agents thought it over and his reasoning that Cowley might back them once on French soil.

“Might work. Just might work at that,” Doyle mused.

“If you can locate and fly the bird, we’ll take care of the details of getting on the base,” Bodie volunteered. “But I think I might give London a bit of warning.”

Bodie rose and walked around the room picking up and putting down items. His whole concentration seemed to be on the various sundries adorning the room.

“I’ll go back to the PCO and see if a message can be got through to London while you take your new friend to dinner,” Bodie remarked, trying to sound very casual.

“Not by yourself, mate,” Doyle interjected. “That whole operation is probably compromised since the Huns ordered Murph home.”

“But the Cow should know that some birds might be landing in a foreign country.”

“Yeah, but not that way.” Doyle thought for a few minutes. “We’ll simply telephone him and try a bit of double talk. As far as we know, we aren’t compromised. Hutchinson’s cover is still intact, as well. Actually all of us except the Professor can pretty well come and go as we like.”

“You’ve made your point, Ray. We’ll go check the equipment in the car and see if we can make a phone call.” Turning to Hutch, he said, “You try your contact. Don’t leave the Professor alone, though. Once we’re back you can go out on the town with the young leutnant. Pick his brain as much as you can about security, times when they change the guard. If there are dogs and so forth. As well as placement of the planes…what kinds…”

“Leave the planes to me,” Hutch returned. “That’s something I understand.”

“Right,” Doyle said, pushing Bodie toward the door.

The two agents quit the room, leaving Starsky and Hutch really alone for the first time in months. Each appeared slightly uneasy with the other. The night before they had been alone all night, but exhaustion had claimed them so that there had been very little intimacy.

Not knowing what to say, Hutch simply opened his arms and Starsky nearly flew into them. They moved to the sofa and held each other, savoring the few minutes of peace and quiet. “We’ll get to Paris and get Elise,” Hutch murmured in Starsky’s ear.

“If you would have asked me even last night if it was possible, I would not have believed you. But now I’m sure we will.”

But holding each other was a luxury there was no time for right now, and finally Hutch rose and went to the phone. Using his limited German, he managed to get the call through, learning Leutnant Helwig was in his quarters and would call back. It took only a few minutes for him to get back to Hutch, but the blond had spent his time pacing the floor. Starsky looked pale and drawn as he reclined on the divan.

When the phone finally rang, both Americans flinched. After being in Germany for over a week, Hutch’s German was improving to the point he could understand limited conversation though his speaking ability was still weak. But even with this handicap, he managed to set up a meeting with the young officer, who had spoken English with a distinct British twist. Being fliers they had a lot in common and Helwig seemed distinctly bored with his duty on the small facility. He seemed very glad to meet the American flier.

After getting off the phone, Hutch looked at his pale companion and suggested he rest for a while.

“I’ll lie down here now, then rest more while you’re out on the town with your pilot friend.”

“Right. And I can rest with you.” Hutch had the feeling Starsky simply didn’t want him to get too far away. He sat on the sofa and held the dark head in his lap, and before long a slight snore was heard from the man he held. Hutch stretched his legs and leaned his head back against the cushions, surprising himself by falling asleep until the door opened to admit the two agents. Starsky didn’t even stir when Hutch put his head on a pillow and went over to the table to talk.

“We didn’t get hold of Uncle George, but we did make contact with Aunt Sally,” Doyle said. “There just might be some back-up in France for us, if we get that far.”

“Did you catch up with the Luftwaffe?” Bodie asked Hutch.

“Yeah. I’m meeting him in the hotel bar tonight.”

“You find out all you can about that base,” Doyle ordered.

“I fully intend to. It’s my head as well as yours, as you keep pointing out.”

“We all need some rest,” Bodie observed reasonably as the two began sniping at each other.

“Yeah, and we’ll take the bed this time. a night on that couch nearly ruined me back,” Doyle muttered, standing up, grabbing Bodie’s hand, and pulling him toward the bedroom.

Hutch smiled. Subtlety was not exactly Doyle’s style, but Hutch was beginning to like him more and more. Hutch went back to the couch, gently lifted Starsk’s head, replaced it on his lap, then drifted into that limbo somewhere between sleep and waking.

* * *

Once the bedroom door was closed, Doyle turned to Bodie, shoving him against the door frame, attacking the willing mouth with his own. He pulled his head back and licked his lips as he began rubbing the darker man’s chest with one hand. His other hand was busily engaged in slipping buttons out of small holes.

Meanwhile, Bodie was making free with the slender torso in front of him. He was running his hands up and down the knobbed spine, settling finally to slip his hands under the belt to find the taut buttocks. He massaged the straining muscles as he reveled in Doyle’s hands on his own body.

“Gotta have you,” Doyle whispered as his hands found the other man’s trouser buttons and swiftly popped them open. He kneaded the hardening flesh that he found. “Bed -now,” he gasped.

Forestalling his partner, Bodie pulled Doyle’s head up and gently kissed the upturned features one by one. He licked his eyelids and moved down to the misshapen cheekbone that gave Doyle’s face character. He then centered his attentions on the soft lips, where with gentle insistence, he inserted his tongue between Doyle’s teeth and ran it over the chipped tooth.

Doyle growled and began to assert his dominance. He turned Bodie toward the bed while working on the fastenings of his own clothes. There was no reluctance as Bodie stripped on his way to the over-sized bed. He relaxed back against the elaborate headboard and enjoyed the view of Doyle’s back side as he slipped out of the tight-fitting cords he had been wearing.

Then Doyle turned to face him, feasting his eyes hungrily as his partner leisurely rubbed his own genitals. “Like that,” Doyle murmured. “Like watching you get yourself off.” He sauntered closer, but only to observe while Bodie rubbed himself with more enthusiasm. Doyle sat on the edge of the bed while Bodie paused in his masturbation to make room on the soft mattress for the eager voyeur.

Bodie started to return to his manipulations when Doyle reached out and held his hand away from his hard, weeping cock. Doyle took his other hand and lightly ran a fingertip down the underside of Bodie’s eager penis, smiling as Bodie’s hips lifted involuntarily, seeking the source of pleasure. Doyle reclined back on his elbow and continued tantalizing Bodie, using light touches to enthrall his willing victim.

“Ray, please.” Bodie moaned his frustration while trying to remove his hand from Doyle’s gentle restraint. But Doyle clamped down on it, and continued his lazy tickling of Bodie’s genitals, moving on down to the furry sac that was drawing up tighter. Then his head swooped down to the penis which was arched over the flat belly and, though he didn’t do more than delicately lick the glans and sip from the slit on the crown of the cock, Bodie was soon thrashing and panting as his frustration increased. Doyle sat back with satisfaction.

“Bloody hell, what are you doing to me?” Bodie panted. He was at the point of whimpering when Doyle finally reached for the tube of cream left on the bedside table earlier in the day.

“On your belly, sunshine!” Doyle said, gently massaging his own neglected manhood with the white cream. Then he ran a hand down the other man’s flank to direct him onto his knees. He admired the tight buttocks and lavished attention on them with his mouth and hands. Then unable to wait any longer, he parted the cheeks and knelt behind his partner. With one smooth thrust he entered the white hot tunnel. Bodie yipped softly at the sudden sharp pain which was quickly masked by pleasure as Doyle’s penis found his prostate. Doyle couldn’t contain himself long only delaying a few brief moments…then simply hoping that Bodie was ready, for he could no longer deny his own needs. He began pumping in a steady rhythm as old as time itself.

Eventually he remembered his partner and reached one hand around to the other’s pulsing cock. He found Bodie’s hand already frantically rubbing and pulling, leaving Doyle to concentrate on his own pleasure. He quickened his pace since he was now sure that his mate was enjoying the process. It didn’t take long until he was shooting his wad deep in Bodie’s body, and he momentarily froze while his nerves resounded with pleasure. Then he felt the muscles contract around him as Bodie came. He rested on the broad back, trying to bring the spinning world back into focus.

Both agents collapsed down on the bed, each panting and exulting in their private universe. In their own way, each felt he had been taken over the top and dropped in a breathtaking dive. There were no words to describe the sensation.

As the panting gradually subsided, Doyle managed to stagger to his feet to retrieve the washcloths and pitcher of water left on the washstand by the window. He gingerly dabbed at his tender privates, then carried the damp cloth to his mate and performed the same ritual for Bodie, whose eyes only fluttered briefly during the intimate attention. He tossed the cloth in the general direction of the washstand before he slid onto the bed.

Pulling up a light blanket, he covered them both as he wrapped himself around his partner. Nothing was said for several long moments as both relaxed and dozed in the afterglow of sex.

“Think this wild-haired scheme of Hutchinson’s has a chance?” Doyle asked, unconsciously running his hand down Bodie’s arm.

“Might. Just have to see, won’t we?”

“Thought of any other options?”

“Only a hard run for Switzerland. I’m not sure what is going on around here. But having the Wehrmacht on the move bothers me. I have a bad feeling about all of it. I want outta this bleeding country as soon as possible.”

Doyle rolled over onto his elbow and looked down at Bodie. “You know we can’t let the Nazis get the Professor back.”

“Yeah,” Bodie sighed despondently. “Our Yank lieutenant will have to be taken care of as well.” Bodie sat up abruptly and pulled Doyle to him. “I hate these missions.”

“Starsky would be better off dead than back in their hands. Remember that. If caught after this escape attempt, I think he’d probably end up in one of those camps we keep hearing about. Think of that.” Doyle paused and pulled his troubled partner closer. He had grown to like and admire the tough scientist, who had coped well with a situation that might well have broken a lesser man. To have to murder him would be difficult, indeed. “Hell, the plan will simply have to work. Or we’ll make that run for Switzerland.”

Bodie smiled and began adjusting the covers and pillows for them to relax back down in the bed. “You’re right, Ray. We’ll make it work.” He didn’t want to think about eliminating the Americans, either. The plan would work…it had to.

Both agents had tried to avoid liking the Americans, knowing what the outcome of the mission could be, however, they had not been successful. They couldn’t help but admire the guts and determination of the scientist nor could they condemn the flier’s devotion to his mate. The loyalty of the pair to each other had struck an empathetic cord in the MI6 agents.

 

Chapter Seven

Returning late to his hotel suite after a “night on the town” with members of the Luftwaffe, Hutch found his three companions scattered through the three-room suite either asleep or just dozing. Bodie was untidily sprawled on the four poster bed, while Starsky was stretched out on the couch with one leg thrown over the back.

Strangest of all, however, was Doyle sprawled on the floor beside the couch with one arm pillowing his head and the other holding Starsky’s hand. Doyle was the first to stir as the door snicked shut behind Hutch, freeing his hand as he sat up and rubbed his eyes. Hutch felt a momentary flash of jealousy as Doyle patted the sleeping man’s shoulder–he was unable to cover his anger as Doyle looked up at him.

“It’s not what you may imagine,” Doyle said quickly. “`E’s been having a few nightmares. Not surprising, of course. Considering…”

“I’m sorry for even thinking anything,” Hutch sighed, relaxing. “It’s just that I feel so…so….”

“Yeah, kin imagine,” Doyle said, involuntarily glancing toward the bedroom. “So how did your meeting with Helwig go?”

“Yeah, fill us in.” Bodie was yawning as he emerged from the bedroom, stretching like a large black cat.

“Helwig’s base seems to be a refitting and repair depot. He’s absolutely thrilled with the duty,” Hutch reported sarcastically, his empathy for the frustration of the other flier evident in his voice. “He says all types of planes are coming or going all the time, which is both to our advantage and disadvantage, as I see it. It may work to our advantage in that a missing plane may not be so noticeable. But finding one fueled up and ready to go may not be as easy as I thought.”

“What about security?” Bodie questioned.

“Just getting to that,” Hutch answered, rummaging through the desk by the window. He finally came up with some hotel stationery and a pencil, then sat down at the table where he began to sketch on the back of a sheet of paper. Doyle and Bodie seated themselves around him and watched silently.

“This is the main gate,” Hutch explained pointing to the top of his paper and marking a small “n” for north. “Now the interesting part is that the repaired or refitted aircraft are pulled off to the perimeters of the base to get them out of the way.”

“We sure as hell can’t walk in the main gate,” Doyle snapped, looking at the crudely drawn map.

“I think there is a main road on the south side of the base. On the east is woodland, I believe. On the west I have no idea.”

“Anything on the guards?” Bodie questioned.

“Not a whole lot. These young officers didn’t seem too security conscious. Not a high priority installation, so security might be a bit lax. Did find out that some of the guards had dogs, though.”

“Damn, I hate dogs,” Bodie moaned.

“Not much information to go on,” Doyle commented, “but I’ve been looking at the map. Crossing the Rhine and avoiding the Army on maneuvers may be more of a problem, and we’d have to go quite a bit out of our way to cross anywhere else. So this seems to be our best option.”

“Yeah, and we’re a little short on time before our friends at the cottage will be missed.” Bodie added, “It’ll have to be just before dawn. If we leave it until tomorrow night, we run the risk of someone finding the bodies at the cottage. But damn–dogs.”

“Relax, Bodie, I’ll handle the dogs,” Doyle answered soothingly.

“See that you do.”

At the sound of muffled stirring from the couch. Hutch got up and went over to sit on the edge beside his friend. He stroked the downy soft head. The curls were missing, but the nearly black hair was wavy and still tactilely satisfying to Hutch.

“Mmm…” the sprawled man muttered, swinging his leg off the back of the couch. “`Tis you.”

Hutch tenderly helped his lover to an upright position, then briskly turned Starsky around and began lightly massaging his neck and upper shoulders. Starsky leaned into the gentle hands.

“Love you,” Hutch whispered, into the closest ear.

“Get the information the Brits need?”

“Hope so,” Hutch said as he continued his impromptu massage.

“What I wouldn’t give to see that base in daylight,” came from the dark-haired figure bent over the table.

“Yeah, but ya might as well wish for the moon. I don’t think we can take the chance of staying in town another day.”

“I think we have to. We need to recce that woods.” Bodie pointed to the square of paper on the table. “What are the chances the Gestapo will trace the Professor to this posh hotel?”

“Depends on whether our American flyboy was noticed.”

“Yeah, and there’s still the chance that the bodies will go undiscovered until late Monday when no one shows up for work.”

“Guess we’ll have to take that chance.”

“We’re not going tonight?” Hutch interrupted.

“I think not, mate,” Bodie answered. “We need to get a look into those woods. See where we can get through the wire and the position of the guards. This information is simply too sketchy.”

“We’ll take a bit of a sightseeing tour out that way in the morning. Bodie and I are supposed to be hiking so that’s exactly what we’ll do.”

Turning his attention to Starsky, Hutch said, “Let’s go to bed for the rest of the night.” He grabbed Starsky’s hand and led him to the bedroom where he quietly but firmly closed the door. It was obvious he wanted some privacy.

Gently he began stripping his lover of the ill-fitting clothes. They had taken a few things from the cottage, but not a lot. They didn’t want the Gestapo to get the idea the scientist had gone willingly. Getting some breathing space for Elise had been Starsky’s unvoiced thought when he packed.

Hutch gentled the revealed torso with its scars, carefully touching all the small white or red marks. He wanted Starsky to know that he was not repulsed by anything that had been done. He finished stripping his lover by removing slacks, shoes and socks. When the last items put him kneeling at Starsky’s feet, he gently touched the quiescent cock in front of him, doing nothing in any kind of hurry. Starsky’s sharp indrawn breath was his only clue he wasn’t touching a statue.

“Please, lover,” Hutch murmured, rubbing Starsky’s legs. “Just let me touch you, nothing else.”

Leaning over, Starsky grabbed Hutch under the arms and raised him to his feet. “Touch me all you like. I love you touching me.” He leaned forward and softly kissed the pilot on the lips. It was not a reaming of tonsils, but a soft touching that gradually expanded into a deeper kiss. Starsky did not break the kiss as he began fumbling with the buttons of the man’s shirt in front of him. Without looking, he made a respectable dent in the buttons and finally managed to slip the shirt off Hutch’s shoulders. Pulling back from the kiss, Hutch wrenched off his undershirt then fumbled with his fly as nervousness made his fingers thicken.

Between the two of them, they finally managed to disrobe the pilot. Both men were unwilling to let go of the other so getting down to the level of the bed was somewhat awkward…but they accomplished the task with only a few muttered oaths.

Once there, Starsky began an elaborate exploration of the upper torso of the man he loved. He kissed and licked the nipples presented to him. He entwined his fingers in the light hairs of Hutch’s armpit, then licked and sucked his way down to the flaming erection the airman sported. With gentle fingers and grunts, he kept Hutch from reciprocating.

He licked and nibbled gently at the straining cock, working his way down to the tightly drawn up balls. He moved back to the cock as he felt the man under him begin to strain. Covering the erection with his mouth, he took in as much as was comfortable. He sucked harder and stopped to lick his way up and down the rock-hard member. He took it into his mouth again and worked on it diligently until he felt the spasms of orgasm. He waited quietly, drinking in all the cum Hutch had to offer. Then he licked him clean and didn’t neglect the now-relaxed balls. Starsky was amazed that he could still perform this small task. He had been forced so often he had wondered if he could willingly touch another man. Having accomplished that, he felt much relieved. There were other things he might have trouble with, he knew, but this was a start on his way to freedom-freedom from intimidation and fear.

Starsky drew back and looked at the blissful expression on his lover’s face. The expression made his efforts seem very worthwhile. Hutch’s eyes were still closed as he reached for the scientist, pulling the smaller man down on top of him as he began to massage the man’s genitals. As much as he tried to avoid flinching, it still happened, and Hutch stopped immediately. It was not going to be that easy, Starsky realized, wondering what he could possibly tell Hutch.

“No,” Starsky whispered, holding the long-fingered hand away from his body. “Shit, I thought I could stand you doing it.” Starsky almost sobbed as he pulled away. “I can’t stand being touched there any more. They ruined me, I was afraid of that. But I thought if anyone could touch me it would be you. Oh God, no…no…” The involuntary crawling of his skin as Hutch had tried to stroke his manhood had been more than he could control. Hutch’s other touches were welcome, and perhaps these touches would be later. Perhaps there was hope for intimacy later–perhaps it was just too soon.

“Let me try again,” Hutch begged. “Please, Starsk?”

“No, just let it be. It’s wonderful to hold you and love you. I just can’t let anyone touch me there if I have a choice,” Starsky said flatly. “I miscalculated, that’s all, I thought if it was you, it would be different, but it isn’t, Damn it!” He pounded the inoffensive pillow in frustration.

Hutch pulled away and looked at the implacable face above him. “If that’s what you want, okay. But later I want to try and erase those memories. We’ll work it out, you’ll see.” Hutch mourned their lost innocence, yearning to go back and murder those two in the cottage all over again–very slowly this time. He wished that he had had a hand in their demise. The Brits had made it too easy for the Nazis by half.

Starsky settled down on Hutch’s chest and nodded. He didn’t quite believe it, but he wanted to remove the miserable, frozen look from Hutch’s face.

They shifted around until both were comfortable and he pulled covers up over them. Hutch was dismayed by Starsky’s actions, but thought he could understand. Now, in a foreign hotel, was not the time or place to thrash it all out. Both men finally turned on their sides and settled in for the night, spoon fashion, though Hutch was awake a long time contemplating how to handle the fears inhibiting his lover. He was sure it could be worked out…it had to be, didn’t it?

* * *

The two Americans spent a restless few hours until they were awakened by splashing water from the nearby bathroom. Hutch was trying to push from his mind what must have been done to Starsky to inhibit his once so uninhibited lover. Starsky moaned and woke suddenly as though he was reliving some very bad old memories. Thus it was a relief for both men to hear a soft tap on the door that heralded the entrance of Doyle.

“Breakfast will be up shortly,” the curly-haired man announced leaning through the doorway. “Bodie and I will probably spend the day on our hiking tour.”

With an effort Hutch got up from the bed and helped his friend to his feet. Together they staggered to the bathroom to clean up for the day. It was Sunday, hopefully their last day on German soil. Watching Starsky use his razor, Hutch was troubled. He, probably unrealistically, hoped their relationship would survive the trauma of the past few months. But Starsky was scarred in mind as well as body, and Hutch hoped that he had the patience to help him through the rough times ahead. Yet he still mourned the laughing lover of the past year in L.A. There was a knock on the hall door so Hutch hurried his own toilette.

Bodie and Doyle were setting up room service on the small table that had held the maps yesterday. Again Bodie had been very generous in his order, and three of the four men ate a great deal with little chatter. From beneath lowered lashes, Hutch noticed that Starsky seemed to be merely pushing food around on his plate, occasionally nibbling here and there. Hutch was sure the incident during the night was the cause of his lack of appetite. Perhaps after the British agents were gone for the day, he thought, he could reassure his lover.

“I think it would be best if the Professor didn’t leave the hotel,” Doyle said around a mouthful of food. “You, Hutchinson, on the other hand, could move about a bit. Someone might wonder about an American tourist spending all his time in a hotel room.”

“I think I’ll stay in,” Hutch decided, “I’ll call the hotel doctor for something for an upset stomach.”

“Yeah, that’d be all right,” Bodie said, “Doyle and I will take a little walk in the woods, have a bit of a picnic, then be back here around midnight. I think we’ve spent all the time in your hotel room that we should. So far, I imagine, the staff thinks we’re getting over a monumental drunk. But I don’t think it will work for another day.”

“Meet us in the alley behind the hotel around midnight,” Doyle instructed, “If you have any problems, get out of the hotel and wander. But still be behind the hotel at midnight.”

“Something comes up and you can’t make it,” Bodie paused and thought for a moment, “go back to that pub at 11 p.m. the next night and every night thereafter. If we can’t meet you, someone will eventually.”

“As we’ve said, I think Hutchinson’s cover is good. Just don’t do anything to break it and draw suspicion to yourselves.” Doyle put on his leather jacket as he rose from the table. Bodie got up as well and hunted for his jacket, then seemed to remember he had left it in the car.

The two agents left the hotel room in silence after their speeches regarding security. Hutch hoped that it would not come to using the contingency plans outlined by the two agents, a quiet day in the hotel room might be just the ticket to getting Starsky rested up for the flight back to reality. The whole situation seemed to be so unreal it was taking on the aspect of a bad melodrama.

“I’m going to take a bath and get some rest,” Starsky announced, almost as if suddenly he didn’t want to be alone with Hutch. Hutch could almost understand. He was a little uncomfortable with the situation after the problems of the previous night too. He nodded, and said he would call the front desk to have the bellman bring up something for an upset stomach. If the staff thought there was someone else in the room, they would likely think he had brought back a woman.

He made the call and was assured there would be a remedy brought up immediately. He paced the tiny sitting room waiting for the bellman. He didn’t quite know what to do about the problem in the next room, but he had a hunch that he couldn’t leave it until later as he had first thought. Some of it had to be brought out in the open or it would fester like an untreated boil. When the bellman arrived with his stomach remedy, he had made the decision that he had to talk to Starsky…he just wasn’t sure what to say.

He sat the bottle on the desk and waited until the shower quit running. He heard some rummaging in the drawers in the bedroom, then silence after bedsprings stopped creaking. Hutch knocked softly on the door before he went in.

Starsky lay on the bed fully dressed with his arm thrown over his face hiding any reaction to the man coming across the room. Hutch paused and looked at the terribly thin figure, then settled himself on the edge of the bed. He put his hands on either side of the reclining figure.

“No matter what happened last night, I just want you to know that I love you,” Hutch said softly. “I want you sexually, but if that’s not possible. I can handle that. Please, don’t shut me out, Starsk. That would be worse for me than if you had been murdered by those bastards.” Hutch paused waiting for a sign…anything that would let him know there was still hope for the two of them.

“You don’t know,” Starsky murmured, sounding far away, “I thought that it was all over when the English guys killed those bastards. Now I find that they’re still with me, still haunting me. Christ, don’t you think I want everything like it was? I feel so unclean! I know it’s all my fault. But…if I hadn’t destroyed those notes, if I had turned them over to Stannick, if I had agreed….”

“Starsky, shut up!” Hutch interrupted. “What was done to you wasn’t any more your fault than that earthquake a while back. Damn it, you listen to me, I LOVE YOU. I want you, And you are not guilty of anything. You made all the right decisions for the right reasons and it’s nearly over now. Those bastards haven’t won. I won’t let them.” Hutch was leaning over his lover, eyes furious.

Reaching out his arms, Starsky drew Hutch down on top of him, snuggling his face into his strong shoulder. “Oh God, perhaps you’re right. In fact, intellectually I know you’re right, but I can’t seem to feel it. Does that make sense to you?”

“More than you can imagine,” the blond responded, leaning down and gently pressing his lips to the darker man, “We’ll make it right somehow. Just don’t shut me out like you started to a few minutes ago.”

“Perhaps after you hear the whole story you’ll prefer to be shut out,'” Starsky muttered bitterly.

“No,” Hutch responded flatly, “I want you to tell me everything.”

“I can’t. At least not right now.”

“Fine, but I don’t think anything will be right until you do. But I’ll wait until you’re ready. Just remember I love you and no matter what, I want to stay with you, even if that means never touching you again. I won’t like it, but if that’s what it takes to be with you. I’ll manage somehow.”

“You mean that, don’t you, babe?” Starsky asked, looking into the intense blue eyes, “God, I’m not sure how I’ve come to deserve you.”

“Damned right I mean it. And don’t you forget it. Now, since we will probably have a big night tonight, why don’t I order us something nice from the restaurant? And one more thing…” Hutch paused.

“Yeah?”

“Not one more word about you not deserving anything. You’re a wonderful, beautiful, brilliant person, You didn’t deserve these past three months, but you do deserve all the good we can find together,” Hutch said forcefully, “And that’s the end of the Hutchinson Lecture. Now I’m going to call room service. Anything special you want?”

“Yeah, a hot dog, but I’ll settle for whatever the chef thinks is appropriate for today.” There was the hint of a twinkle in Starsky’s sapphire eyes for the first time in too long.

* * *

Doyle leaned his head back against the frame of the door of the Volkswagen. It was lightly misting and he felt vaguely damp from his foray into the woods. Bodie would be back shortly with the report on his section of the base perimeter. He wasn’t too sure he liked the idea of being dependent on an amateur to fly them out of the country, but it looked as though that might be the only reasonable solution. Their exploration of the roads leading out of Stuttgart in most directions had led them to various roadblocks by the Wehrmacht. The flap wasn’t big, but seemed to include most of the surrounding countryside. He had watched tanks moving toward the east and some toward the west. The predicted invasion of Poland might or might not be starting. It was hard to tell. One would reasonably expect a huge build-up before the invasion, but so far it didn’t seem that this was it.

He never heard his partner approach until Bodie tapped lightly on the window–but then he hadn’t expected to, Bodie was good when he was in the countryside. He wasn’t as handy on the streets of London, but he was catching on fast. The two agents were well matched–Doyle had come from the back streets of London and Bodie from the foreign brigades of Spain.

“I think we’ll manage to get on the base,” the dark-haired Bodie commented as he slid into the seat beside his partner. “There’s bloody little security on this side of the base. Quite a few airplanes just sitting there. I hope our hotshot pilot can fly one of them. Of course, there are the bloody guard dogs…” He paused and looked at the tousle-haired Doyle, “Your job, right, mate?

“Yeah, no problem there. Some day you’ll have to tell me why you hate dogs so much.”

“Not just any of the brutes, just the ones that are trained to attack you and chew off yer balls.”

“Naw, they don’t teach `em to do that.”

“Damned Hun does. Saw a mate get mauled by one in Spain. He wasn’t any good for women or boys after. Just a kid he was too.” Bodie shuddered. “He finally hung himself.”

Doyle decided that it was too soon in their relationship to push the man beside him. “Back to the city and find a quiet pub to pass the time?” he asked.

“Yeah, I think we got everything we need this afternoon. If the plan works, we won’t need much in the way of supplies. But it’s better to have a few things that we never use.”

“Think we ought ta get some petrol for the car?”

“Yeah, we might have to use it more than for wandering out here. Our playboy pilot might not be able to get one of the Hun planes off the ground. Or whatever.”

Doyle started the car, backed it quietly out of the woods, and drove carefully back toward the brightly lit city. After fueling the car, he found a quiet beer hall and parked nearby. The two agents checked the time. They still had a few hours until they had to rendezvous with the Americans, and took the opportunity to enjoy a hearty meal and a couple of beers.

 

Chapter Eight

Sunday Midnight

Hutch had considered very briefly checking out of his hotel, but common sense told him checking out late at night without his luggage would tend to rouse suspicions. The niceties of civilization were not for a spy, he mourned silently.

He had put on the heavy clothes provided by the English agents, insisting that Starsky put on an extra shirt and his leather jacket with the fur collar he had bought somewhere on his trip across Germany. It could be cold flying at night, depending on the altitude, even in the balmy summer of Europe.

The two Americans had gone down the back stairs to the alley behind the hotel. Earlier in the day Hutch had checked to make sure that the back stairs did indeed lead to the alley. He didn’t want to miss the British agents simply because he had gotten lost on the way to the rendezvous.

Once in the dank alley, Hutch pulled out his pocket watch and verified the time by the dim bulb over the doorway. They were a few minutes early. As if of one thought, he and Starsky moved away from the lighted doorway and waited behind some fragrant garbage can outside the entrance to the kitchen. It was late enough that the kitchen was empty of even dishwashers and busboys.

“It’s hard to believe that we’re actually gonna get away,” Starsky whispered. There was no obvious reason to whisper, but the circumstances made both men jumpy. Time progressed at a snails pace as in all waiting situations, but this seemed interminable. Hutch couldn’t check his watch since this area was not illuminated. He thought with bleak humor it would be just their luck some criminal would try to knock them on the head for their cash. He still had plenty of money and hoped that he would no÷ have a use for the French Francs stowed in his money belt. The diamonds he had naively pinned his hopes on to bribe the guards rested in the same belt as well.

Starsky punched him in the ribs as a shadowy figure appeared at the end of the alley. Both Americans shifted farther back into the meager cover provided by the garbage can and wall. Watching the slowly advancing man, Hutch was relieved to recognize Doyle’s slender form and distinctive hair style. Reminiscent of Harpo Marx at times, Hutch thought wryly.

He nodded at Starsky and they slipped out of their hiding place. Doyle noticed the movement at once and motioned them to him. He nodded approvingly at their mode of dress and lack of encumbrances. “Bodie’s parked the car at the end of the alley. You two all set?”

At their affirming nods, he quickly led them back to the waiting motor. Bodie had the car idling and it took only moments before the four men were scooting down the street in the small bug.

“We’ve found a place in the woods to leave our faithful steed. And I think there are a few places in the wire where we can slip through,” commented Bodie as he turned down another narrow street. “As you guessed, the security seems to be a bit lax. I’m not complaining, ya understand.” Bodie seemed to have chosen an untraveled route to leave the city. Hutch fully approved since their time could be running out. The bodies at the house could be discovered at any time, though somehow he kept forgetting the two murders.

“Nowhere’s the plan,” Bodie stated. “Doyle and I will cut the wire and if there are any guards, we’ll take them out. You, Hutchinson, concentrate on getting to a plane and doing whatever pilots do before takeoff. Doyle and I will cover you. You, Professor, stick with your mate and get on that bloody plane. That’s about as detailed a plan as we can have. Things may happen fast.”

“And Hutchinson,” Doyle interjected, “you are to get the Professor out of here tonight. If something happens, you’re to go without us. We have other contacts in Germany and can make our way to them. But your first job is to get the Professor out of Germany. Understand?”

Hutch nodded and echoed, “I’m to see that Starsky gets out of Germany tonight, no matter what.”

“Yeah, that’s the drill. All of the rest of us are expendable except him,” Bodie said grimly, knowing if the tables were turned the pilot would be left behind.

It seemed there was nothing more to be said as the cramped car continued its journey through the quiet streets and into the countryside. Each man had his own concerns and thoughts regarding forthcoming events. Starsky was especially upset that getting him out would take precedence over the escape of the British agents. He didn’t like it, but then had set down the rules. It was their game.

The small German car skittered roughly down a sharply inclined dirt lane, then Bodie maneuvered it off the road and through the underbrush. He stopped after about fifty feet, and all four men extracted themselves from their crowded quarters. Bodie opened the boot and brought out his kit bag. The other three men blackened their faces and hands at his direction, as he did his own, then he issued out the guns. Hutch had his Luger weighing down his pocket, Doyle had his Webley plus the Sten gun. Bodie just had the revolver he had been carrying the two previous nights, and was stowing other items around and on his person. Doyle checked his knife in the sheath at the nape of his neck. Starsky wasn’t too upset not to be armed as he had never had any experience with weapons of any kind.

Doyle began tearing loose branches from the bushes in the area and covering the car. Hutch saw what he was doing and began to help. As Bodie finished stashing objects on his person, he adjusted the straps on his bag to slip it on his shoulders, leaving his hands free. Starsky made himself useful helping Bodie lift and settle the pack comfortably. When the car was hidden as well as it could be, the three men turned back to Bodie who nodded toward the deeper forest.

“About half a mile that way is the wire. Doyle and I will go first and take out the sentries. Hutchinson, you get in fast and see about a plane; one close to where we go through might be nice. But use your best judgment.”

Hutch nodded and followed as the two British agents began leading the way through the trees. The light rain of the day had dissipated, but the clouds hung low to the ground, making it a great night for breaking and entering. Hutch simply hoped he could get the plane off the ground on an unfamiliar airstrip. He knew the overall layout of the runways, but not having seen them would make it a bit difficult. He could only hope there were few trees and power lines. Bodie might not like moonlit nights, but pilots loved them.

The hike was a pleasant diversion for Starsky. He hadn’t been out and felt free for the first time since he had hiked in the hill above LA in March. He watched his three companions and tried to be as relaxed and casual as the two English agents seemed to be. There was no chatter between the four of them. The clouds that were worrying Hutch seemed to be lifting more each moment. The front that had obscured the area seemed to be slowly leaving so at least they might luck out and have a break when he was trying to take off.

Eventually the trees became wider spaced and the forest opened up into a clearing, with a few sparse bushes and occasional trees dotting the landscape up to the barbed wire of the airbase compound. All four men instinctively hunched over as they covered the short distance to the wire. Doyle and Bodie brought out their wire cutters and went to work on it. Everyone froze as steps were heard. Doyle nodded at Bodie and then both slipped through the hole in the wire. Two sentries were making their patrol sans dogs.

Crouched down in the shadows provided by the sparse trees that lined the compound just outside the wire barrier, both agents checked their preferred weapons. Doyle had his knife in his hand, but Bodie was empty–handed. For very quiet operations he liked to use his bare hands. As the two sentries moved past, the agents silently rose. The Germans weren’t looking at the area they were patrolling, but foolishly chatting quietly. Bodie grabbed one around the neck while Doyle grabbed the other. There was a soft sigh as Doyle dropped his with a quick knife across the throat. Bodie put his other hand on the back of the head of his guard and jerked quickly. This German also died quietly. Bodie took the Nazi’s rifle and with ease levered a shell into the chamber. He moved farther onto the tarmac and scanned the area, then nodded to his partner.

Doyle, who had stationed himself close to the wire, motioned for the Americans to move onto the base. Hutch took the lead and began looking for the planes that were supposed to be stored on the perimeters of the base. The only likely looking one was about a hundred yards down the fence. It was a three-engine job vaguely reminiscent of a Ford Tri-motor. Hutch notice a fuel truck sitting near it and hoped it had been fueled.

The four men started toward the plane as Hutch indicate with a wave of his hand that was the one he would like to try. The men jogged down the runway apron, Bodie leading the way with the German rifle held across his chest, his finger on the trigger. Hutch and Starsky loped between the agents while Doyle ran easily a few feet behind the others. Periodically he stopped and trotted backwards scanning the area to their rear.

“I’ll check it out,” Hutch puffed as he wrestled the small door behind the wing open and brought the steps down to the tarmac. Everyone flinched and looked around nervously as the metallic sounds rang loudly in the now clearing night. All were aware that sounds could either travel quite far in such weather conditions or that the diminishing cloud cover could muffle them.

Hutch boarded the tri-motor and went forward to the cockpit. Doyle unstrapped the Sten gun from his shoulder and cautiously scanned the area around that side of the plane. Bodie crouched down, holding the sentry’s weapon at the ready, and slipped around the tail section to observe that area.

Hutch emerged from the plane a short time later, announcing. “It’s about outta fuel. Can you two work the pump while I put it in the tanks?” Both English agents nodded. Doyle handed the Sten gun to Starsky, quickly demonstrating how it worked, and adding that the safety was off and a round chambered. Bodie slipped out of his pack and set it on the ground near the tail section. He carried the Nazi’s rifle to the tank truck where he leaned it carefully against a rear fender. It would be hand there in case of trouble.

Hutch took the hose and climbed up onto the wing of the plane. The agents moved over to the tank truck and began pumping the mechanism in turns. While Doyle pumped, Bodie would hold the rifle at the ready and paced around the truck. When Doyle tired, Bodie would take over the pump and Doyle, the rifle. The process was long and nerve racking until Hutch was finally satisfied there was enough fuel in that wing tank. Then he climbed down and made for the other wing, dragging the hose. Doyle protested, but Hutch explained that for take off the plane would have to be balanced in weight on both wings and he wasn’t sure he could do it from the cockpit. The two agents again began their turn and turn again pumping and watching.

In the meantime Starsky paced around the plane, hoping against hope no one would notice the activity at the bomber. He tried to remember all he knew of guns, but his mind was a blank. All he could think of was that one pulled the trigger and bullets came out of the barrel, and he hoped that was all he had to know. He occasionally glanced at the pumping process, wondering when it would be finished. He shifted the awkward, to him, machine gun in his arms and continued his pacing to the other side of the plane.

An eternity later Hutch climbed down from the wing and carried the hose back to the truck. He was sweating from his efforts as were the two agents who had been doing the work.

“Now I’ll go do the pre-flight check,” he said to his three companions. He ran quickly behind the wing and climbed up the short ladder into the body of the plane.

Starsky handed the Sten to Doyle, who began patrolling the other side of the plane away from the door to the cargo/passenger hold. Bodie grabbed up his pack and tossed it in through the open doorway. At that moment one of the three engines of the tri-motor coughed and spluttered, then fired up raggedly. This distraction caused the three men at the back of the plane to flinch then glance around at the enormously loud noise.

Bodie motioned for Starsky to enter the plane as Doyle came around from the other side. At that moment Bodie was struck hard above the waist by a large black dog. The dog was silent except for a few low growls as he went for the agent’s throat. The impact of the dog took the agent down to the tarmac with the dog on top. He had managed to get one arm up to protect his throat and the other hand was pulling at the dog’s head. He couldn’t grab the animal’s neck because of the heavy spiked collar it wore.

Doyle started toward his partner as a heavy caliber gun went off. He staggered and burned off a heavy burst of fire as he was falling. The dog’s handler continued coming, but his shots were going wild for he was dying as he fell. Even with a wound in the leg, Doyle’s fire had laced a neat pattern across the man’s chest. Doyle heard the snarls of the dog increase in volume and knew he had failed his mate–he had promised to take care of the dogs for him.

Starsky saw the fallen German rifle and dashed for it. He thought of firing at the dog, but was afraid of hitting the struggling agent. He grabbed the gun by its muzzle and stock then swung the butt in a short arc, connecting with the dog’s ribs and scraping along its head. The animal yelped and switched its attention to Starsky. He righted the gun and lunged with the bayonet in an unconscious but classic thrust. The razor–sharp knife entered the dog’s chest and it howled briefly as the bayonet pierced the pericardial cavity and finally the heart. Starsky dropped the weapon in shock as the animal continued to quiver and shudder before it finally lay still.

In the meantime, Doyle was struggling against pain and unconsciousness as his leg throbbed in an icy fire. Bodie was moaning on the ground as he rolled to his knees, trying to get up without touching his hands to the rough surface of the runway apron. He knew at least one pair of fangs had punctured his right hand all the way through between thumb and forefinger.

Starsky rushed to Bodie and helped him to his feet. The first thing he noticed was the man’s hands and arms were bleeding, and there was a long gash on his cheek where a tooth had traced a bloody path from eye to mouth.

The engine on the other wing, then one on the nose began firing up as Starsky silently cheered. Bodie had moved to Doyle and was struggling to lift his partner toward the lowered ladder to the cargo hold of the plane. Starsky grabbed Doyle’s other arm and the three made their way up to the door. Doyle climbed in first, favoring his bleeding leg. Bodie couldn’t grab anything with his mangled hands, so Starsky lifted him as gently as he could under the arms. Vaguely he thought he heard Doyle shouting at Hutch to get the hell outta there.

As the doorway cleared of bodies, he climbed inside. It took him a few moments to figure out how to put the steps up and swing the heavy door closed. As the steps finally moved into their slot, the big plane turned onto the runway and began moving. With more effort he managed the door before the plane picked up too much speed. Starsky wasn’t sure he could have closed it if Hutch had gotten going much faster.

Doyle looked up at the panting scientist and slumped on the floor. As he had thought, there was more to the man than first appeared. He had handled the dog very well. “Thanks, Dr. Starsky,” Doyle said with respect clear in his tone. Starsky looked up and nodded, still trying to regain his breath. He was badly out of condition, he decided, if that effort had made him breathless.

“Damn it, Doyle, you said you’d take care of the dogs,” Bodie moaned, cradling his lacerated hands. His complexion was chalky under the smeared, black make-up.

“Looks like the Professor did it for me,” the curly-haired Brit retorted.

“Yeah. Thanks, Doc,” Bodie said, turning his attention to the pale–faced American still sitting by the door.

“I never did anything like that before,” Starsky responded. “I never knowingly killed anything before.” His voice was shaking with emotion.

“Don’t worry about it,” Bodie returned. “Those dogs are trained killers. I lost a mate in Spain to one. The damned things are as much soldiers of the Reich as the sentries we killed.”

The plane was moving faster down some unseen runway. At least unseen to the passengers. Then there was the strange near weightless sensation as the wheels almost left the ground. Then with a whisper of effort from the three straining engines, the plane was truly airborne. All three men sat quietly as if in awe that it really had happened. They were in the air over Germany. They might make it back to England. There was almost a collective sigh released from the three men.

The spell was broken as Doyle crawled, favoring his wound, across the narrow fuselage and helped the quivering American take a seat beside Bodie. Both men were pale and shaky. Refusing to worry about his own throbbing wound, Doyle began rummaging through the knapsack Bodie had dropped on the floor before.

Ah, there it was. And unbroken. Seven-year-old pure malt scotch–some of the Cow’s private reserve Bodie had snatched a few weeks ago on a dare from Anson after sharing a stake-out of the Japanese Embassy.

“Doyle, you are a lifesaver,” Bodie said gleefully, as Doyle handed him the bottle. Gingerly, in deference to his mangled hands, Bodie took the bottle and lifted it to his lips for a heavy swig before passing it to Starsky. He momentarily stared at it then he, too, took a long swallow before handing it to the other agent. Doyle sipped a more moderate amount.

“There’s a small first aid kit in the pack. If you wouldn’t mind, mate,” Bodie said to Starsky.

Starsky began shuffling through the pack and finally found the small case. There were a few bandages and some aspirin, but not a whole lot more. He took out the bandages and notice some small packets underneath, which he thought might contain some sort of powder for a wound. He looked up to see Doyle slitting his own trousers with his knife, sweating rather heavily. He must be in shock, thought Starsk, chiding himself for having been worried about killing a dog when one of his companions had taken a bullet. He shook himself and moved over to check out the large purplish hole in Doyle’s leg from which blood sluggishly pulsed out. He felt underneath and found a larger exit wound. He was relieved. From what little he knew of bullet wounds, he was sure it was best that the bullet had passed through the limb.

“What’s this powder?” he questioned the sweating man in front of him.

“Sulfa powder, I think. There’s some hypos of morphine there too.”

Starsky nodded in comprehension and reached once more for the pack. He found the case with the drug ampules.

He hoped the yellowish stuff was that new wonder drug, sulfa. He would hate for the Brit to get an infected leg and maybe lose it because of the necessity of rescuing him. He sprinkled on the powder and then wrapped the leg firmly in the gauze. Doyle nodded his thanks and leaned back against the thin wall of the bird as it thrummed into the night.

Starsky wanted more than anything to go up and be comforted by Hutch, but he saw the misery in Bodie’s eyes as he leaned into his partner and knew Bodie needed some attention, too. He took each hand and gently sprinkled the powder, then bandaged the whole hand into a mitten-like configuration. Then he worked on the agent’s arms and lastly his face. Bodie was terribly pale and had whimpered a few times during the process. He knew some of the shock was mental from facing the raging dog, as the wounds were mostly quite shallow. Starsky had distracted the animal before it had managed to do more than slash except for the puncture wound. He gave that area special attention.

Starsky loaded one of the syringes, leaned over and showed it to Bodie who nodded resignedly. He was not fond of drugs, but this time the ragged wounds in his arms and hands were a burning fire and he needed relief.

“How do I do this?” Starsky asked Doyle, who was watching the tender ministrations of the American quietly.

“In any large muscle, such as the arm or hip,” he replied. Usually he would have had some remark to make about his mate’s well-padded rear at this kind of moment, but the look in Bodie’s eyes forestalled any such attempt at humor.

Starsky nodded and bared Bodie’s well-muscled upper arm. Bodie flinched and screwed his eyes shut before the scientist struck. Starsky had given shots to laboratory animals on occasion, but never to a human before, and he shook as he quickly stuck the needle into the flesh. Bodie froze until the needle was removed. Starsky looked over at Doyle and lifted the needle questioningly Doyle shook his head. “Not yet, anyway.” He reached for the pack, shook a handful of aspirins out of the glass bottle and swallowed them with a swig of scotch.

“Think I’ll go check on Hutch,” Starsky remarked as he repacked the knapsack of the agent. “Holler if you need anything.”

Doyle nodded. Bodie’s eyes were closed and he slumped heavily against his mate. Either he was unconscious from the drug or had fallen asleep. Doyle shifted and slid his arm around the other agent. Bodie slid down to rest his head on Doyle’s shoulder.

Grimacing at the stiffness from his unaccustomed squatting position, Starsky rose and grabbed for an overhead stanchion as the plane’s tail wiggled in the air like a cheap hooker’s. Holding the bar, he staggered upward toward the cockpit. He slipped gratefully into the right-hand seat next to Hutch who was busily checking gauges and holding the yoke of the craft. He fumbled a little as he buckled the unfamiliar harness when the plane side-slipped in the dissipating weather front.

“What happened back there?” Hutch shouted over the noise of the three motors.

“Another guard with a dog this time,” succinctly replied the scientist, leaning back against the copilot’s seat.

“Dead?”

“Yeah, but Bodie got chewed up some by the dog, and Doyle took a bullet in the leg.”

Hutch noted the whiff of liquor on his lover’s breath as he leaned close to hear and silently approved, knowing it should relax him somewhat. Perhaps he would even sleep there in the copilot’s chair.

Hutch glanced over at the tight expression on Starsky’s face. He knew there was more to the story than he was letting on. Time to wheedle it out of him when then didn’t have to shout, he decided. He turned back to his controls and checked the compass. It wouldn’t do to fly the wrong direction after all the trouble of getting the plane. He thought the fuel gauge said something like half full. Then hadn’t gotten as much gas on the plane as he had hoped, but there was nothing he could do about it now. He had found some maps in the cockpit and tried to figure the best route to the west, avoiding the most traveled routes shown. He was flying a southwesterly course and wanted to turn dead west before he ran into the Alps. He had no idea what the ceiling was on this bird and he had no wish to fly into the jagged peaks that made up the Alps.

He pulled up on the stick as he figured he was far enough away from the base now not to be noticed. He hoped the plane had the ability to get above the clouds. He wanted to check the stars and compass to set his course. Like all flyers he used the stars and landmarks on the ground to navigate, or radio beacons. But he was completely unfamiliar with any landmarks so he would have to use the stars and compass. The clouds began to thin then diminished rapidly. The clear night sky was a welcome relief, but he felt a bit naked and exposed.

He checked his position. Basically all this kind of navigation could give him was the proper direction and he was still flying southwest. He computed his airspeed and approximate length of time in the air to determine the rough distance that they had traveled. Hmm… Might just be time to turn west. No, best to drop below the clouds to get a look at the ground configuration now that he had confirmation from the stars of his direction bearing. He would do that in a few minutes. He gave them a bit more time to be well away from the base.

Starsky dropped his head back and watched Hutch fiddle with some instruments. The noise of the pounding engines was beginning to bother him just as Hutch tapped him on the knee and held out a set of headphones. He fit them to his head and sighed at the relief. Hutch settled back, as he was satisfied with their course for the moment.

Hutch pulled out a pack of German cigarettes he had found on the pilot’s seat. He coughed softly as he lit one with his eyes closed. Starsky knew he was trying to keep his night vision reasonable as well as his nerves calm. He closed his eyes and hoped for some rest. He must have dozed some because his next conscious thought was to wonder why the plane was falling out of the sky. He looked over at Hutch and saw that the pilot was pushing the yoke forward, with the bomber angling down through the thin clouds. During his sleep the plane had traveled out of the front that had been socking in the Stuttgart area.

“What cha doin’?” he shouted at Hutch, trying to make himself heard over the roar of the engines.

“Dropping down to see if I can find any landmarks,” Hutch answered, watching the clouds seemingly roll out of his way. It was nearly hypnotic, but pilots learned early to keep the clouds from mesmerizing them. The sky was lightening behind them, the false dawn giving him a bit of help in finding something to navigate by. He was looking for rivers or cities, hoping the river he would find would be the Rhine. He knew once he crossed the Rhine he would be close to being home free. Coming out of the now sparse clouds, he thought he could see a silver ribbon that could be the river. He turned the plane in that direction.

Both men in the cockpit were startled as a small plane dived across their path. Hutch instinctively pulled back on the yoke, bringing the nose of the bomber up. He reached forward to the dash and flipped some switches. There was garbled static from his headphones that Starsky had no chance to understand. The smaller plane again buzzed the nose of the bomber and waggled its wings as it snarled upward in its climb.

“What’s he want?” Starsky questioned as Hutch busily worked with the flight controls and the radio.

“Think then want us to identify ourselves.”

“Damn! Whatta ya gonna do?”

“I’m heading back for the clouds. Maybe I can lose them. My German isn’t good enough to bluff them.”

“But perhaps mind is.” Both Americans turned to find the British agents standing at the doorway of the cockpit. Doyle was leaning heavily on Bodie’s shoulder in deference to his throbbing leg. Bodie was gingerly palming the door frame as the bomber bucked in the slipstream of the fighter as it made another pass.

Hutch yanked off his headphones and mike. He handed them to Bodie as the agent moved up between the seats. Doyle hobbled forward and grabbed the back of Hutch’s seat.

“Tell `em she’s just been repaired and we’re making a test flight,” Hutch instructed. “And that we have been having radio problems. I’ll fiddle with the sender so there’s a lot of static.”

“Right. Anything about their jargon I should know?”

“Probably. But we’ll have to chance it.”

Bodie began speaking into the mike as the Messerschmidt made another pass in front of the aging bomber. There was a garbled answer as Hutch quickly cut off the radio at the throat-cutting motion of Bodie.

“I don’t think I completely convinced him.”

“I’m heading for that front just ahead. Maybe we can lose them in the clouds long enough to cross the frontier. I was reasonably sure that I saw the Rhine before the 109 spotted us.”

Doyle settled with a sigh to the floor of the crowded cockpit. Bodie continued to lean over the two shoulders and watch the upcoming clouds. Hutch had switched the radio to receive only. Bodie listened to the radio traffic between the 109 and its base. Dawn was definitely lightening the sky.

“Think they’re a bit suspicious,” Bodie commented as the radio traffic continued. “Better get into those clouds as soon as possible.”

Hutch advanced the throttle of the old bomber to the maximum. He no longer was worried about fuel economy. No use saving fuel if they were to be shot down momentarily. The plane began to vibrate somewhat as her engines extended themselves. The weather front was coming up fast, but Hutch could see that the fighter was shadowing them closely. He wasn’t sure the clouds were dense enough to shelter them.

“Bloody hell!” Bodie snarled. “They’ve twigged to the missing plane and that this might be it.” The clouds were growing into slightly heavy wisps around the cockpit windows. Hutch could see the fighter changing course and heading directly for them. Then the clouds obscured it. Hutch changed altitude and direction rapidly, not choosy as to where he went. His course was now more south than west and his altitude 1,000 feet higher. He was still pushing the old bird, and her engines were beginning to vibrate worse. He wondered if her mechanical problems had really been solved back at the base. He turned again toward the west, and changed altitude once more, hoping he was still headed toward the French border. If his maps and charts had been right, it wasn’t far from the Rhine to the border in this area.

Time stood still in the cockpit. No one said anything or even tried to speak over the noise of the straining motors. The plane bucked and yawed in the heavy clouds as lightning flashed through the gray masses. The wind began tossing the plane like a chip of wood on a summer breeze.

“Gonna haveta go down and get out of this if I can,” Hutch shouted. The others nodded.

Hutch pushed down on the yoke and the bomber responded almost in relief. The wind died a bit and suddenly the plane was out of the clouds and into a graying dawn. The fighter wasn’t in sight. Hutch took another reading on his compass and adjusted his course. All four men scanned the overhead clouds and the area beside and below the ship. The bomber droned on as the light expanded from the horizon behind them.

Again time moved at a snail’s pace as Hutch scanned the ground for any Landmark. He could only keep on the westerly heading, hoping France was somewhere close.

Bodie lowered himself to the deck, but continued scanning the sky around and behind the bomber. Hutch was fighting the controls as the vibration continued to build in the starboard engine. He kept glancing out the window, hoping that the engine wouldn’t fall off. He checked the other engines and they seemed to be performing sturdily. It was just the one on the starboard side that seemed determined to cause trouble.

“Aw, shit! Fighter at two o’clock high, I think,” Doyle snarled as he spotted a shadow coming toward them.

“Fucking hell!” was all the breath Hutch wasted as he began pulling back on the stick, heading for the thunderstorm raging in the clouds above. The elderly bomber was maddeningly slow in a climb and the pitch change on the starboard engine though Hutch couldn’t take the time to worry about it. He just pulled harder on the yoke, praying that he didn’t cause a stall.

“Son of a bitch! I think they’re shooting at us,” Doyle yelled as he saw red flashes from the wings of the oncoming craft. Then the bomber shuddered as the machine guns made a neat row of holes in the fuselage. The bomber seemed to hesitate in its climb. The starboard motor stuttered and missed. Hutch tried to adjust the fuel mixture to the engine, but everything was happening too fast. The engine coughed and made one more attempt to continue firing, then died. The propeller blade began to slow and a blackish streak was sputtering out from behind the big rotary engine.

The fighter had made its turn and was coming back toward them. Heavy caliber wing guns were spurting fire in the emerging sunlight. Hutch tried evasive zigs and zags, but the ME109 stuck like glue to the bomber’s tail. The other wing engine began spouting flames back from its prop as the bullets from the fighter disabled it. Hutch quickly cut the fuel mixture off to that engine and the bomber began a slow descent toward the earth. The plane could maintain its flight on two engines, but was never designed to fly on one. The fighter strafed the falling bomber. Bullets laced the wings, but the tanks were so nearly empty no fire started immediately.

The fighter made a lazy turn in front of them and started to fire its machine guns again. All four men watched in horrified fascination as the ME109 dived toward them…suddenly it pulled up and broke off its dive. It circled above them then turned back toward the rising sun.

The ground was rushing up rather quickly as the men in the plane turned their attention away from the departing plane. Hutch was fighting the craft with all his strength, trying desperately to keep the nose up on the bird. Starsky reached for the control in front of him and grabbed it, lending his strength to his lover.

“Hand on! I think this won’t be one of my better landings,” Hutch yelled as the ground rushed up to meet them. The British agents settled down on the floor and braced themselves as best they could.

* * *

In Starsky’s returning consciousness, he became aware of a strong odor of high test gasoline and outrageous pain. He thought he had climbed the height of his pain threshold in the hands of the Nazi agents; however, he discovered at this moment he had barely scratched the surface. Without opening his eyes he catalogued his aches and pains -his chest had a knife sharp pain with each breath he took and his head felt like someone had ripped his scalp off just above his eyes. He opened his eyes at last to a red haze and instinctively wiped his hands over foggy eyes, relieved to see immediate clearing. He glanced down at his hand and saw that the back of it was bloody. He must be bleeding into his eyes.

He wondered how rational he really was, his last memory of pulling for dear life on the yoke that was now pressing painfully into his abdomen. He wiped his eyes again, this time on his sleeve as his vision blurred once more. Part of his last memory had been a kaleidoscope of brown and green rushing up at him. He glanced up at the windshield of the cockpit to find it was no longer there. There were shards of glass all over him. He looked over at Hutch who lay unmoving, draped over the yoke of the plane.

Bright sunlight glared in at the unprotected figures in the plane. He could see without straining much that one of the two English agents was jammed between Hutch’s seat and the outside wall of the cockpit. Again he became aware of the heavy odor of gasoline. Damn, then had to get out of there. The plane might go up like a bomb any minute. He struggled with the straps of his seat belt. Glancing over again, he saw that Hutch was breathing shallowly, but showing no signs of consciousness. He shoved hard on the yoke, and it groaned as it moved away from his body, no longer pinning him to the seat.

Gingerly testing his limbs, he found that all of them seemed to function, more or less. He unbuckled his harness and clambered out between the seats. He saw that Bodie was blinking his eyes and looking around the shattered ship. Bodie went through the process of testing his own limbs, and seemed to be surprised everything was working. He looked up at the nearly standing Starsky. “Gotta get outta here,” he muttered. “That’s petrol I smell.”

“Yeah,” Starsky nodded, extending his hand to Bodie who grabbed it, then swore as he tried to stand.

“Think me leg’s a bit tricky,” he murmured. “But there’s no help for that now.” He paused and leaned on Starsky and the seat in front of him. He nodded toward Hutch. “Is our pilot alive?”

“I think so.”

Moving crabwise, Bodie held onto the seat and leaned toward Doyle, feeling under his chin for the large vein that flowed in the neck. He turned back to Starsky and nodded with relief. “So’s Ray. Let’s see if we can get `em outta here.”

Starsky and Bodie gently pulled Doyle’s legs out straight. The curly-haired agent moaned and threshed his arms briefly. He didn’t regain consciousness, but he was feeling the tug on his limbs.

“Must have a broken leg,” Bodie commented, leaning down to get a different grip on the man, this time in his belt. Starsky couldn’t be of much help until Bodie got Doyle out into the aisle. With much grunting effort, Bodie managed to get Doyle into the area directly behind the cockpit.

“I’ll manage him. See what you can do with Hutchinson,” Bodie ordered, trying to gently drag the unconscious Doyle down the narrow fuselage toward the hatch which had popped open on impact with the ground.

Starsky tugged on Hutch’s arm without much success, then saw the chair Hutch was still strapped to had broken when the plane crashed. He moved around behind the seat, then pulled Hutch and the seat away from the mangled controls of the ship. Then he went back, unbuckled the harness, and pulled Hutch as gently as he could down onto the floor of the plane. He checked him for broken limbs. Bodie shouted at him.

“Hurry up, Professor. I think this plane is getting touchy. It might go up any minute. Get your mate outta there. We’ll check him over later.” Starsky nodded at the sense of the order.

He took Hutch under the shoulders and began backing down the narrow aisle of the bomber, wincing as his head bumped various unidentifiable pieces of the craft hanging from the ceiling. He struggled on down the long passageway which seemed like a long black tunnel that was getting longer and blacker by the minute. He stopped, panting, raised one arm, and wiped it over his eyes. Without looking, he knew his scalp wound was bleeding again, at the same time aware he was nearly at the door. Bending down and fighting the ensuing dizziness, he began tugging on his burden again. The effort of staggering into the door frame made his vision flutter red and black, and he leaned drunkenly against the door frame. Bodie appeared at his side and together they managed to slide the unconscious blond from the plane.

“Let’s get as far away from here as we can,” Bodie said, taking up his partner. He tried to carry Doyle over his shoulders, but finally had to set him down and drag him.

Starsky stumbled behind, dragging Hutch and not noticing much about where the agent was leading. Blindly he followed until his feet went out from under him and he tumbled down a slight incline, the whole world slipping away. He distantly heard Bodie curse lividly–then there wasn’t much at all until a heavy weight shoved him down into something soft and squishy.

* * *

Bodie watched as Hutch rolled into the drainage ditch on top of the now unconscious scientist. The death grip the Professor had had on his friend as he passed out assured that Hutch came down on top of him.

Bodie slipped down the slope to throw himself on top of the moaning, half-conscious Doyle as he heard the unmistakable whoosh of petrol alighting. Then there was the artificial thunder of the remaining wing tank exploding–one wing had been completely dismembered on impact. He ducked his head into Ray’s shoulder as bits of debris pelted the figures in the ditch. The crackling of the burning plane continued as he rolled over and watched black smoke begin to obscure the cobalt blue of the morning sky.

They wouldn’t go undiscovered long, he knew. But who would discover them was anybody’s guess. The American pilot had done his best with the unarmed, awkward plane, but the old bomber hadn’t ever been much of a challenge for the modern ME109. It had swooped and fired its machine guns at leisure. He wasn’t sure who it had broken off the engagement before finishing off them off.

As the burning plane continued to snap and pop, Bodie watched the sky above him. He had thought of trying to wake up his companions and get them marching somewhere, but he knew the condition of his ankle wasn’t going to allow anything like that. He was reasonably sure Doyle had at least one broken leg plus the bullet wound. The Professor must have a severe concussion considering the scalp wound and the way it bled. He wasn’t sure about the pilot, but guessed he probably had a concussion as well.

They had given it their best shot. If they were still in Germany, Bodie hoped for a quick execution. He pulled Doyle around and held him in his arms before succumbing to the ever-encroaching blackness. He vaguely heard a clanging as he slipped down deeper, and wondered what the bell was. Perhaps it was a nearby church. At that point he didn’t care.

 

Chapter Nine

A metallic clanging was the first thing David Starsky became aware of as he painfully regained consciousness. Then he noticed the acrid odor of smoke hanging heavily in the atmosphere. His attention was seized by a throbbing in his chest that increased and ebbed with each breath he drew–next of a heavy weight on his legs. His legs were numb, and for a moment he was panic stricken. Then he realized it was something–no, somebody–was resting on his lower body.

The clanging continued–it was beginning to get on his nerves. With extreme care, he raised himself to his elbow, and saw that the weight pinning him down was another person. Then he saw the halo of blond hair and knew without doubt that somehow Hutch was lying across his lap and legs. He could feel the heavy breathing of the pilot, giving him another reason to be relieved. Even though the weight on his lower torso felt like a dead weight, it wasn’t. The clanking drew his attention again.

“Hutch!” There was no answer, but the breathing continued, punctuated by an occasional groan. He reached down and stroked the mud-smeared face.

Looking around he saw that he and his companions were lying in a rather damp ditch. The clanging grew louder and a large brown cow moved into his field of vision, placidly grazing on the coarse grass of the ditch. As he moved, the cow raised her head and looked at him with inquiry in liquid brown eyes. Obviously deciding he was not dangerous, she lowered her head with another clang and continued grazing. She was moving steadily toward the British agents who were sprawled together farther down in the ditch.

The pain in his head and chest forced Starsky to relax his arms and recline back to the ground. Every time the damned cow moved her head, the bell around her neck shattered his peace. He decided that no matter how friendly Bossy was, he simply had to get her to move on somewhere else. He tried to slide out from under the weight that was Kenneth Hutchinson. Resting on his hands and knees, he waited for the wave of dizziness to pass. Taking very shallow breaths, he looked his lover over carefully.

“Get it off me!” Bodie shouted, waving his hands at the cow with grimy bandages dangling from his wrist and fingers.

Startled, Starsky stopped his examination of Hutch and saw that the cow had made her way to Bodie and was rubbing the hornless poll of her head against his shoulder. Bodie was struggling to get away from the overly friendly bovine, futilely trying to shove her away from him. She calmly took it all in stride and licked his forehead and face, her bell clanging with every swipe of her tongue.

“Get away from me, you bloody bugger,” Bodie yelled, trying to get to his feet only to find his injured ankle wouldn’t support him. He crawled away, with Bossy following, her splayed hooves landing dangerously near his body.

At that moment Doyle came awake, with an instinctive reaction to his partner’s panicked voice. He rolled over and came up to crouch, his throwing knife ready. When he saw what was troubling his partner, he began to laugh hysterically.

“Cut out yer cackling and help me, you idiot!” Bodie snarled at his partner. To give Doyle credit, he did try to stop laughing and get up, but his injuries soon had him panting and leaning on three good limbs on the ground.

While watching these antics, Starsky had painfully risen to his feet and was staggering toward the cow that had finally lost interest in licking the agent’s face. She simply stood over him, occasionally grazing and stomping flies. When the scientism finally got to her, he gingerly grabbed the wide leather collar that held her bell and began tugging on her neck. While she turned her head to him, she didn’t budge. Starsky tried again to lead her away from the agent on the ground, but she simply lowered her head and continued to graze until Starsky finally found a fallen tree limb on the ground which was actually not much more than a twig. He waved it at her and lightly slapped her on the shoulder. She blinked in mild offense, then quietly took herself up the hill, bell ringing with each step as Starsky limped along behind. She moved down an ambling path toward a distant farmhouse.

Watching the languidly flicking tail of the brown cow with great relief, Starsky slowly sank to the ground, rubbing his aching chest. In the excitement over the cow, he had temporarily forgotten his aches and pains. He rubbed his hand over the ache that seemed to compress his head and found his closely cropped hair a sticky, matted mass.

At the sound of a groan, he looked down the gentle slope of the drainage ditch and saw that Hutch had changed position. Not bothering to get up, he slid down the slope on his backside, avoiding suspicious looking piles in the grass.

“Hutch? Are you okay, babe?” he questioned as he reached the prone figure then ran his hands through the fine gold hair. As his fingers found a lump on the side of Hutch’s head just above his ear, the blond groaned again. He slid even closer to the pilot, rolled him onto his back, and lifted the fair head onto his thigh. He was panting shallowly by the time he completed the operation, once more wrapping his arms around his chest.

Dragging his aching ankle, Bodie slid over to the two Americans. “He all right?”

“Think so. He’s got a goose egg on his head,” Starsky replied. “May have a concussion.”

Getting up on his knees, Bodie ran his hand down the pilot’s arms and legs. Grunting from the effort, he said, “Think `e’s got a broken arm, but his legs seem to be all right.”

Doyle was checking out his own legs and found that his right knee felt puffy and swollen. He hoped it was only wrenched and not broken. Taking a deep breath, he struggled to his feet and limped toward the other three. Damn, it was the same leg that had the bullet hole in it. Just his bloody luck, he thought.

As all three of the conscious men were continuing to take stock of their aches and pains, a loud clattering motor noise made all of them look toward Bossy’s field apprehensively. Slowly the noise came closer to the drainage ditch which sheltered the fugitives, and eventually an open vehicle came into view. The three were relieved to see that the rough terrain car did not sport a twisted cross. It was immediately apparent as four men emerged from the car that they wore the uniform of the French Military. The men were speaking liquid French syllables and gesturing toward the smoking ruin of the JU52.

“Over here,” Bodie shouted to the four French officials.

The uniformed figures turned their attention to the men in the ditch. One reached for a sidearm as he began moving down the incline.

Bodie raised his hands and said, “Je suis anglais.”

“Anglais!” The man reaching for his pistol relaxed slightly as he and the others walked swiftly toward the kneeling fugitives.

“Parlez-vous anglais?” Bodie questioned. Turning to his companions he said, “I’ve just about used up all the French I know.”

“Oui, I speak English,” the one wearing the shoulder boards of an officer said. “You were the passengers of that plane?”

“Yes,” Bodie answered. The other two were happy to let Bodie be the spokesman for all. Starsky pulled the unconscious Hutch farther up onto his lap. “My partner and I work for MI6, British Intelligence.”

“MI6. What are you doing with a Deutsch plane?”

“It’s a long story and we are in need of medical attention, especially our pilot who’s still unconscious.”

“Oui, je comprend… I understand.” The officer turned to one of his companions and began speaking rapid French none of the men on the ground could follow. One of the uniformed men dashed up the incline and back to the car. He got in and sped off in a hail of dust with a distinct lack of respect for the suspension.

“I have sent for an ambulance,” the officer said, moving farther down into the ditch at same time moment Hutch began thrashing and moaning. Starsky attempted to soothe him, while Bodie leaned forward to help hold the man in a supine position on Starsky’s lap. Finally he quieted, but one flailing arm had struck Starsky across the face. The Professor had only an impression of a reddish-black haze forming on his field of vision before collapsing back on the damp grass.

After that Starsky was vaguely aware of the medical personnel arriving and getting them all into the ambulance. He heard Bodie explaining something about calling his boss–then he was in a white room strapped to a bed with tubes attached to his body. He was floating gently in a haze of drugs, which finally allowed him to sleep. He had tried to find out something about Hutch, but couldn’t make himself understood by the nurses who were wearing some sort of huge elaborate headdresses.

* * *

Four days slipped away from Starsky in a confused array of medical indignities involving drugs, bedpans and bed baths before he was pronounced out of danger and was ensconced in a bare white hospital room with his three companions. He had a large bandage over his stitched head and heavy strapping on his cracked ribs. He spent his days drifting in and out of the light sedative that was deemed needed for his wounds.

Bodie’s leg had a large white cast on it. He was dependent on a wheeled chair since his sore hands made the use of crutches difficult. He was still occasionally feverish from the infection which had developed in the dog bites on his hands and arms.

Doyle’s knee, as it turned out, was badly wrenched and the calf had only a mild infection from the bullet wound. The doctors, in their infinite wisdom, chose to immobilize it, though not as elaborately as Bodie’s ankle. Doyle was rapidly making forays out into the hall and to the bathroom on crutches. The nursing sisters were always returning him in disguised disgust. His outrageous flirtations made no dents in these serious ladies’ facades.

Hutch had been the worrisome case, as he had a concussion and a broken wrist. But he had regained consciousness the second day after they had arrived at the hospital in Nancy, France. Now with his arm in a cast and sling, he spent most of his days dozing.

Thus it was that the scientist was startled out of his usual afternoon nap by a quiet, “Dr. Starsky?” spoken by a slight, sandy-blond man in civilian clothes.

“Yes?”

“I’m Major Cowley of MI6. Are you feeling better after your accident?”

“Yeah. You’re Doyle’s and Bodie’s boss, right?”

“Yes. I’m here to make arrangements for all of you to be transported to London as soon as possible.”

“I’d like to go to Paris instead,” Starsky answered, stiffly raising himself off the pillows to a sitting position. He didn’t want to be at a disadvantage when confronting this soft-spoken man.

“I understand. But your sister is no longer in danger. As soon as Doyle reported four days ago, we sent agents to Paris. Your sister is safe at this moment in the American Embassy. We also notified your FBI regarding your mother, and I think Mr. Hoover will take good care of her. Our main concern is that you are well and safe. We will return to London and meet with a Colonel Jorgenson from American Army Intelligence who will be arriving later in the week.” Starsky was unaware that part of the bargain for assisting in his release was the sharing of his research with scientists in England.

“Thank you,” Starsky whispered, lying back in the downy pillows, feeling much relieved. Perhaps at last his personal nightmare was coming to an end.

“I will let you rest now, Doctor,” the sandy haired man said, moving on to Bodie’s bed where he stood looking down at the unconscious agent for a moment. Then he stopped at Doyle’s bed, forcing Doyle to look up from the book he was reading. The two chatted quietly for a time, then Cowley limped from the room.

* * *

August 1939

Once more Starsky was on a plane humming through the night sky. This time it was slightly more comfortable…at least there wasn’t a German fighter shooting at them. It was, however, another bomber minimally modified for passengers, this time an English one with uncomfortable bench seats mounted along the fuselage. The twin engines were nearly as noisy as three had been. The vibration from the engines had his ribs aching again.

The four recent fugitives from the Third Reich slumped uneasily, enshrouded in their own thoughts. Engine noise, vibration, and lack of privacy made conversation difficult, if not impossible. The plane was not just chilly as they had been warned, but was simply freezing. All of them shivered in the leather flying jackets provided by the RAF crew.

Starsky’s ears popped with the first warning of the plane’s losing altitude. The Wellington was slowly descending toward a small RAF base outside the metropolitan area. Starsky tensed as his ears popped again, and there was a definite noseward list to the plane. Involuntarily he snatched up Hutch’s hand in a death grip. Hutch leaned toward him and looked him in the eye.

“It’s just like riding a horse, babe,” the blond whispered into the scientist’s ear. “Once you fall off, you’ve gotta get right back on.” He was, of course, referring to getting back in a plane after a crash. Starsky gulped almost audibly and nodded.

“It’s just like riding a horse. Once you fall off, you’ve gotta get right back on,” repeated itself in his head as the plane swayed and rose briefly on a thermal. “Just like riding a horse.” What did he remember about that? All he knew was that the terror he was feeling in the plane was similar to the feeling he’d had when Hutch had tried to make love to him in the hotel room in Stuttgart. “Once you fall off, you’ve gotta get right back on.”

Suddenly it hit him. His Aunt Syl had been a horse trainer and stunt woman for the movie industry when he had moved in with his aunt and uncle at fifteen. He remembered her telling him of an incident in her youth when she had been in her late teens and was breaking a young horse. Tina, she had called it, a fiery sorrel mare with a personality to match her coat. She thought she had the mare fairly docile and was taking one of the first rides out of the breaking arena when the mare came uncorked. His aunt had managed for a few bucks to remain mounted, though actually only long enough to be thrown on the hard, unforgiving gravel driveway. She had been knocked unconscious and spent about a week in bed. When she recuperated, she had discovered that her father had been enraged at the red mare and had sold it immediately. She never had a chance to get back on the mare, and she said it had taken her years to get over the fear of breaking another horse. She was positive that not getting back on the horse had been the problem.

Perhaps, Starsky mused, as the plane banked into its landing pattern, that was the problem with him and Hutch. He was afraid to get “back on.” He consciously tried to relax and found it was not an impossible task as the plane seemed to slam down on the runway. He took a deep breath and leaned back against the thin wall of the plane’s outer skin. Hutch patted him on the knee and leaned back as well while the engines reversed and brakes were applied by the RAF pilot. The plane turned and began taxiing back down another runway toward some brightly lit buildings.

As a scientist, Starsky was anxious to experiment. He wanted to try out his theory of getting back on the horse as soon as possible, and wondered just when he and Hutch would have some time to themselves. There had been conversations about his “debriefing,” but the only debriefing he wanted at the moment was with Hutch in a nice, private place. Perhaps that was possible.

Opposite the squat building at the edge of the runway, the bomber halted. The twin engines cycled down to a low growl as the pilot waited for his VIPs to depart the aircraft. The RAF sergeant, who had been in charge of the passengers, moved to the front of the plane where he began opening the belly door. Two more uniformed figures climbed the ladder and entered the plane to help the semi-invalid passengers down the ladder. They began with Bodie and helped him to his one good leg and then up the sloping floor of the fuselage. With Bodie cursing lividly as he was helped out of the small hatch, the other passengers who were more mobile stiffly rose to their feet. Starsky helped Doyle with his crutches then took Hutch’s good arm. They patiently waited their turns to deplane. The hatch was a cramped exit and speed was not for the four injured men.

Once the four were out on the tarmac of the British air base, Starsky noticed in the glittering lights that a large black automobile was idling nearby. Major Cowley stepped out from a rear door and motioned them toward the vehicle. While the two agents were being helped into the car, the Major turned his attention to Starsky. “We have just gotten word that your sister is on her way to New York,” the taciturn MI6 supervisor commented. “There is a safe house where you and your companion will be taken for your debriefing during the next few weeks.”

“Okay,” Starsky muttered, taking a deep breath and mentally preparing himself for the grilling. He was reasonably sure that His Majesty’s agents would be more civilized than the ones on the other side of the Channel, but it would still be rigorous. Hutch touched his elbow as if he understood. Perhaps he did.

The two Americans settled themselves in the waiting Rolls. Leaning back into the soft, leather seats was a luxury that was exceedingly welcome. The car purred into the night with its passengers still not making much conversation.

Starsky noted that the windows of the limousine were darkened like a bootlegger’s car. He remembered seeing the long black cars roaring through the streets of New York, sometimes spitting machine-gun fire. In fact it had been one of those drive-by shootings that had killed his policeman father. Until that incident he had planned to join his father serving the city of New York in a blue uniform.

With a sigh he straightened his aching torso, then reached a hand over to the blond at his side. Having the pilot back beside him where he belonged was very reassuring. The drive continued down country lanes as Starsky intermittently dozed and made silent plans for his latest scientific experiment. It would probably shock the eminent scientists lined up to interview him if they knew the object of his next research project. Hmm….

* * *

Dawn was breaking as the limousine motored down a winding, gravel, tree-lined driveway. The tires made a delicate whispering noise as the car swept around the last bend and gently halted in front of an impressive set of double doors which were opened immediately by a tall, formally dressed man. By this time the driver had exited his door and was opening the rear door for his passengers. He doffed his cap to Major Cowley, who nodded in return.

“Major, I have the rooms prepared as you requested,” the tall butler announced. “I have the Americans in the Victoria suite and your agents just across the hall in the Albert suite. I hope that is suitable.” His mellow voice was the epitome of perfect tone with just the right amount of deference to his superior.

“Of course, Kyle,” the Major answered. He turned and watched the battered figures emerge from the car. “These two gentlemen are the Americans I spoke to you about. This is Dr. David Starsky from Los Angeles, California,” he indicated the scientist, “and this is Lieutenant Kenneth Hutchinson of the American Army.” Both Americans nodded wearily to the formally dressed figure. “And of course, you know my men, Bodie and Doyle.”

Kyle bowed to the tired men then turned to the MI6 controller. “I understand that the Americans have no luggage. I hope it is acceptable, but I have inquired with some of the servants for serviceable garments until suitable ones can be acquired.”

“Excellent, Kyle. I imagine that these gentlemen would like a hot bath and some tea. Then I think we can leave them to rest.”

“That has all been seen to, sir.”

“I’ll leave them in your capable hands, then,” Cowley replied, turning back to his car. “Bodie, Doyle, I will expect a written report by three o’clock on Friday.” He stepped into the car through the door the driver was still holding open. The driver firmly closed it and went to his seat on the right hand side, then put the idling engine in gear. The big sedan moved down the driveway at a sedate pace, with Bodie and Doyle watching until it was out of sight.

“Kind of him. Friday! Doesn’t he know that this is Thursday morning?” Bodie growled, turning to follow his partner up the wide steps to the beckoning, cheery doorway.

“Coulda said three o’clock Thursday,” Doyle defended, limping into the bright hallway. The two Americans were already slowly mounting the wide winding stairway following a solemn, heavy-set housekeeper. Kyle was waiting for them at the foot of the stairs. They labored up the long flight of stairs together, both leaning heavily on the bannister and their walking aids -Bodie’s crutches, Doyle’s cane.

“Could get used to this real easy,” Bodie commented, looking at the heavy carpeting on the floors and dour paintings hanging on the walls.

“Wouldn’t advise it. The Cow is only letting us recuperate here to keep an eye on our guests. Otherwise it would be a cottage hospital in Yorkshire -if we were lucky.”

“Yeah, and I’m going to enjoy every minute of it that I can.”

“Good idea, that.”

Kyle had stopped and was indicating a lighted doorway to the right of the hallway. “The Americans are just across the hall, sirs. There should be plenty of hot water for bathing in the en suite bath.” The look on his face indicated he thought they needed it badly. “Your luggage arrived from London this afternoon and everything has been put away. There are refreshments here,” he added, indicating a table loaded with food by a wide window. “Please ring if there is anything else you need.” The butler then left the room with quiet efficiency. The two agents limped to the table and began availing themselves of the food.

Across the hall the two Americans were doing the same thing. The snack prepared was tasty and refreshing after so long a time spent eating the questionable nourishment hospitals the world over considered appropriate for convalescing patients.

“These biscuits are great,” Starsky muttered around a mouthful of crumbs. He noticed that his ears were still ringing from the whine of the engines of the transport plane, and he still felt like he was flying. Obviously he didn’t have his land legs yet.

“They’re scones, Starsky,” Hutch replied, reaching for the last one on the plate as they leaned back and looked at each other. It was great to be alone and under no pressure at last. The idea of the debriefing brought a certain amount of pressure, but nothing like that put upon them in the Stuttgart hotel room.

The two men finished up at the table, then made a quick trip through the bathroom then to the master bedroom. There were two bedrooms, but they decided they would share one, neither caring what the servants thought of their sleeping arrangements. They made little conversation as they found sleeping apparel laid out on the beds, and promptly fell asleep in each other’s arms.

* * *

It was early afternoon before the two Americans stirred from their bed. Hutch managed to wake Starsky by accidentally slamming his arm into the nearly healed ribs. Groaning, the scientist rolled over carefully and gingerly levered himself to a sitting position on the edge of the bed. It took him a moment to stiffly rise and walk to the bathroom. He finished his business and met Hutch headed in the same direction. He had found tooth powder and brushes which he had gratefully used. In a few minutes Hutch had availed himself of the same conveniences.

With care, Starsky lowered himself to the bed. He watched the golden haired man come from the bathroom wearing only the pajama bottoms provided by the efficient English household staff. Patting the bed, he indicated to Hutch he wanted him to join him there. He began explaining about his revelation on the plane the previous night. Though he wanted to start his experimentation immediately, Hutch was hesitant. He remembered the incident in Germany all too vividly.

“If I don’t get back on that horse soon, lover, I may never have the nerve to try again. Please?” the dark-haired figure pleaded.

Hutch had no resistance when Starsky pleaded with both his mouth and sky-blue eyes, so with some misgivings he relaxed beside his lover. Starsky found it difficult to lie on the bed any way but on his back, so it was up to Hutch to make the accommodations. His arm was an encumbrance to finding a position that he could manage.

“Hold me,” Starsky whispered as Hutch lay on his side with the cast awkwardly under him. Finally Hutch sat up and began exploring the body still encased in the cotton pajamas, rubbing the torso then moving down toward the abdomen. There was some tightening of stomach muscles, but there was no protest from the man lying on the bed.

“Okay, babe?” the blond questioned. “Want me to stop?”

“Don’t stop…never stop. Aah, that feels good.” Starsky reached out and stroked the concerned face briefly, but reaching up with his hands caused a twinge in his chest, forcing him to pull back.

Hutch lay down on his side close to the other man’s hip so he could reach over to lick and kiss the flat stomach. The muscles flexed under his assault as he made his way through the curls to the quiescent penis. The tension grew in the muscles, but there was no protest from the scientist. Finally Hutch raised his head and relaxed back on the bed, the strain on his arm wearing him down.

At last Hutch turned on his side and began gently humping against the firm thigh. He wanted to reach out and slam himself into the man he so fervently desired, but he was still only semi-hard. It was a gentle friction that was pleasant but not urgent.

“C’mere, lover,” Starsky whispered. “Let me help a bit.” It was awkward, but Hutch managed to scoot up on the bed where Starsky could reach him. Starsky continued the gentle rubbing, but a complete hard-on wasn’t forthcoming; the drugs he had been taking were probably the problem. He had been warned by the French doctors that there might be a slight problem so Hutch wasn’t overly concerned. Getting Starsky back on his “horse” was the primary concern right now.

There came a discreet knock at the door to the sitting room, forcing Hutch to call out, “Just a moment.” Although the interruption was not unexpected, both men felt a keen disappointment and with reluctance, drew apart. Leaning down to kiss Starsky’s forehead, Hutch murmured, “Be right back, babe.”

Hutch looked around and found a black robe, grabbed it up and went through the sitting room to the door. He opened it to find Kyle standing outside.

“Major Cowley would like to see you and your companion at your earliest convenience, sir,” Kyle said. “There is a selection of clothes in the wardrobes. Perhaps you and your friend can find something to your taste until more suitable garments can be acquired.”

“Tell the Major that we will be down in about a half an hour,” Hutch replied without enthusiasm.

“Please come to the morning room. There will be refreshments there. I wasn’t sure if you would prefer breakfast or lunch, so both will be available.”

“Thank you. Anything will be fine.” The butler bowed himself out of the doorway and Hutch closed it. He went back into the bedroom to help Starsky, who was struggling to get out of the huge four-poster. He pulled the dark-haired man gently to him and put his good arm around him. Starsky raised his head for a final kiss. Eagerly the blond bent down and slid his tongue in the willing mouth.

The two men quickly washed, shaved and dressed, yet stealing a moment here and there to stop and caress each other. They found a variety of sizes and styles of clothing in the two closets. Hutch selected some light gabardine slacks with a polo-necked shirt while Starsky found a pair of brown corduroys that pleased him, along with a tan sport shirt. They were stuck wearing the shoes they had been given in France; however, there were plenty of clean socks. Taking a final swipe at his fine, flyaway hair which had grown out more than he was used to, Hutch walked into the sitting room to help Starsky tie his shoes. His strapped upper torso made doing the simplest things difficult.

“Guess I need a valet,” Starsky grinned. “Wonder if Kyle could provide?”

“Probably without turning a hair,” the blond returned, extending his hand to help the scientist to his feet. Getting up was an experience that Starsky could do without, but he simply gritted his teeth and stood. He lived in fear of sneezing or laughing, now.

They sauntered downstairs, taking a few extra minutes to look in awe at the house they were guests in. They had completely overlooked their elegant surroundings in their exhaustion the previous night. Once they reached the main floor they had to inquire of a pretty young woman, probably a maid, for directions to the morning room. They entered nearly on time, almost exactly half an hour after talking to Kyle. The two agents and Cowley were eating and chatting quietly, but on noticing their arrival, Cowley rose and came toward them holding out his hand. “Good to see you, gentlemen. You’re looking much better this afternoon.”

“Amazing what a good night’s sleep will do for you,” Starsky agreed, looking around the room. Spotting the buffet laid out on the sideboard, he gazed at it longingly.

“Please get yourself something to eat,” Cowley invited, noticing the direction of the American’s glance. “Then we will discuss your debriefing schedule.”

Both Americans walked to the sideboard and loaded their plates, then sat at the linen-covered table with the English agents. The controller of European Operations allowed them to take the edge off their hunger before he began giving them an idea of their schedule. “Tomorrow morning, Dr. Starsky, there will be some scientists from our weapons development department. We would like to you to brief them on what you accomplished in the United States and what you managed in Germany.”

“While I was working on this for the United States Government, I decided I really didn’t want anyone to have the formula. I think it’s too dangerous, especially in the wrong hands. I don’t want to work on it for the British government, American government, or the German government.”

“But you must understand, Doctor, if you have given an inkling of this to the Nazis, the Allies must have the same information. Your own government has given us permission to debrief you, and we will share the information between us.” Cowley paused and ran his hand through his thinning blondish-red hair. “After dealing with the Germans, do you really want them to have this tactical advantage over us?” Standing up and leaning over the table to emphasize his point, he continued, “Make no mistake about this–England and her allies will be at war with them before the end of the year, if not sooner. If you aren’t our friend and ally, you will be considered our enemy.”

“Now, wait a minute,” Hutch said, rising from his chair. “That sounds to me like a threat.”

“No, Lieutenant, I am not threatening anyone, but that is how some members of the government establishment will want to view it. There will be pressure to make your friend cooperate at all costs.” He paused and sat down before continuing, “However, this is not Nazi Germany; you are both free to leave whenever you like.”

“Major Cowley, I was simply explaining my reasons for destroying my notes in the first place,” Starsky said. “I think I have seen the error of my ways. If any government is going to have this, I think the American and English governments would be best. I have felt the coercion of the Third Reich–rather personally, I might say.”

“But I don’t like anyone threatening you, even with the best of intentions,” Hutch said, turning to his lover.

“I just wanted to see how far they would go. Obviously not as far as their enemies.” Starsky then turned around to the glowering MI6 agents. “I’ll meet with your scientists and help them all I can. I did destroy my previous work so it will be an uphill battle for a while.”

“You were testing me,” Major Cowley muttered incredulously. He sat down then and looked at the young scientist with a certain amount of respect.

After that confrontation, the negotiations went smoothly. For security reasons it was arranged that the scientists would meet on a daily basis at the estate. Starsky requested and easily received permission to have the afternoons free, simply saying he wanted time to relax and regain his strength. What he didn’t know was that Cowley had cut his agents’ rest short that morning and obtained an oral report on the German adventure. Then, in a quick trip back to the city, the Major had consulted with Dr. Ross, MI6’s resident psychologist, who had recommended against pressuring the scientist. She felt he needed time to come to terms with his kidnaping, abuse, and threats to his family.

Starsky didn’t care how he had acquired the free time. He had his own plans for the afternoons and evenings. He did have some scientific theories to test out….

Chapter Ten

September 1939

Starsky grunted as once again the hard plaster connected with his lightly strapped ribs. His experiments were not going as well as he had thought a few weeks ago. The logistics of making love with one person in a large arm cast and the other with cracked ribs had slowed the process considerably.

At the beginning, having both participants on pain-killing drugs had been another deterring factor, but they had been diligent. At every opportunity they had worked on the touching and holding even if coming to climax wasn’t for either of them. Drugs may have slowed Hutch down, but his worry and concern for his uneasy partner had toned down his libido even more. Perhaps knowing that the pressure was off him had relaxed Starsky so the leisurely petting sessions were not really any hardship for either man.

There was discreet privacy to enjoy being together and getting to know one another again at the safe house provided by His Majesty’s Government… “safe house” more like “a safe mansion,” it seemed. Starsky had been enthralled with the huge stately home, where many afternoons had been spent in exploration. Coming from an American middle class background, he was intrigued with any society that had breakfast rooms, morning rooms, libraries, and other rooms he could see no use for.

“Cuddle up a bit closer.” The whisper came from the fair head above him. Starsky snuggled down burrowing his head deeper into the shoulder and chest that welcomed him. He began running his hands down the smooth torso which was somewhat thinner than before. He entwined his fingers in the blond curls below the flat stomach.

“Aah, babe,” the blond moaned, as the questing fingers found their target and massaged the base of the burgeoning erection. He was finally getting some reaction, Starsky noted with satisfaction, aware Hutch had been off the painkillers for a few days. He fiddled with the furry sac beneath the erect staff and started to move toward the object of his ministrations with his head when the arm bearing the cast struck a glancing blow to his head.

“Damn!” the scientist muttered, removing himself from the unconsciously flailing weapon. Taking his free hand, he held down his lover’s errant broken arm, then began to work in earnest on the now weeping cock. He licked and sucked it, then the balls beneath. He slid a questing tongue behind the balls to accompaniment of a groan which originated at the head of the bed. Then he worked his way back up to the throbbing penis. Working solely on the cock he held in one hand, Starsky attacked the crown with his mouth…it didn’t take much more to send Hutch over the top. As the spasms quieted, he scooted back up toward the head of the bed, licking his lips clean of the final drops of cum.

Watching and touching the luscious body beneath him had stirred a bit of interest for the first time in Starsky’s own nether regions. He simply lay back and enjoyed the sensations. Hutch was leaning over him on his good arm.

“Touch me…there?” he requested. “Please?”

“Ya sure, babe?”

“Yeah, gotta get back on the horse,” he muttered, starting to reach for himself. Hutch brushed Starsky’s hand away and replaced it with his own.

Then Hutch dropped his flaxen head and began tentatively licking from the navel down, through the nest of dark curls toward the semi-tumescent penis. It was difficult with one arm incapacitated, but he persevered. He licked the flaring head of the circumcised cock which twitched but did not come fully erect. There was some tensing of the sturdy frame beneath him, but not outright rejection. He moved down to the relaxed balls and found some tightening there. He moved back to the cock and lapped it like an ice cream cone There was more reaction–not quite enough–but the best so far. The “horse theory” seemed to be working. In fact, he was more encouraged that evening than he had been previously. He would still have the cast for quite a while, but neither of them was taking any more drugs–that had to help.

Hutch stopped his explorations of the body beneath him at a tap on the shoulder which meant Starsky had taken all he could. He moved back toward the head of the bed and leaned down to kiss the scar on his lover’s forehead. The ugly black stitches were gone, replaced by a pink, slightly puckered scar that gave Starsky’s dark eyebrows a somewhat rakish appearance.

The cessation seemed opportune, as they heard a tapping on the hall door of their suite just moments later. Stiffly, both reached for their robes, with Starsky yelling, “Just a minute.”

Pulling his robe around him, Hutch, went into the sitting room and opened the door to find the two crippled British agents standing–well, leaning–on cane and crutches in the hall. Bodie gave the Americans a smirk at their mode of undress as he entered their sitting room with Doyle hobbling along behind. Bodie carefully laid his crutches beside the couch where he had chosen to sit and hopped around to sit down. Doyle chose a wing-backed arm chair to do the same.

“The balloon went up this morning,” Bodie remarked, sitting forward on the overstuffed couch.

“What do you mean?” Hutch asked, frowning, his posture stiff in the straight-backed chair he occupied beside the ornate writing table by the window.

“The bloody Hun invaded Poland this morning,” Doyle explained. “We just got word on the BBC. Guess we got out of that effing country just about right.”

“Yeah, it’s war…And British Nationals wouldn’t have been too welcome…especially MI6.” Bodie was now resting back in the softness of the couch.

“Are you sure there can’t be any more negotiations?” Starsky asked, seating himself at the other end of the writing table on another fragile looking chair.

“Nah, got a treaty, haven’t we?” Bodie answered. “A few months ago the PM said any attack on Poland would be the same as an attack on the Empire. So there’s not much chance for reconciliation. The army is mobilizing right now.”

“An expeditionary force is heading for the Continent as soon as they can get it worked out,” Doyle supplied.

The two Americans looked at one another. It was not their war, but they felt somehow very much involved.

“Got a drink hidden around here?” Bodie inquired, looking at the Americans expectantly.

“Yeah. Some of your boss’s pure malt okay?” Hutch asked, rising and going toward the a small cabinet behind the couch. He pulled out a crystal decanter and some glasses and poured neat shots all around. It certainly was a relief to be able to have an occasional drink again. Alcohol had been strictly forbidden with his medication.

Starsky came over to lend his help to the temporarily one-armed pilot. He grabbed up three of the glasses and passed over two of them to the agents, keeping one for himself. He seated himself on the arm of the sofa.

“So how’s the debriefing going, now?” Doyle enquired.

“Not too bad, now that I’ve convinced everybody the Nazis don’t have the complete formula either. Still trying to rework it. Stannick sent over the notes he found in my old office and they help a bit.” Starsky still sat rigidly upright, but the taping was mostly gone from his chest and he no longer lived in fear of an unexpected sneeze. And he could rise from chairs without the intense agony of the previous weeks.

“Just as well if you don’t perfect it, mate,” Bodie said quietly. “Wouldn’t want to be on the front line if they loosed something like you described.”

“That’s the problem with the whole thing. It’ll kill friend and foe alike.” Starsky took a gulp from his glass. The fiery liquid burned what he hoped wasn’t a new path into his stomach.

“When are they letting you Yanks head back to the States?” Bodie questioned, sipping his Scotch gently with the respect that it deserved.

“I’m thinking of sticking around for a while,” Hutch remarked, staring at the Persian carpet, aware of Starsky’s questioning glance. “I imagine the RAF needs pilots, and soon as I get this rock off my arm, I think I can get a place. I have reasons to want to get into this fight.” He looked at his lover meaningfully.

“Hutch! You never said a word about this.” Starsky abruptly rose to his feet then clutched his chest as the sudden movement caused a sharp pain in his ribs. “Damn it, you should have consulted me!”

“Yeah, babe, I know,” Hutch murmured. “But I think it’s something I have to do.” He rose and held out his hand to the scientist.

But Starsky turned and hurried from the sitting room. Hutch started to follow him then sat back down on the spindly chair which rocked under his suddenly lax weight.

“Guess we’d better be leaving,” Doyle observed. “Looks like you’ve some things to settle with the Professor.” Doyle reached for his cane and climbed to his feet. Bodie, too, was preparing to leave.

“Good luck, mate,” Bodie said, holding out his hand toward the pilot, who was still staring at the expensive carpet and never saw the offered comfort. He merely nodded his downcast head, leaving the agents to look at one another; Bodie raised an eyebrow and Doyle nodded. Quietly they let themselves out of the unnaturally still room.

Kenneth Hutchinson sat at the table and studied the intricate pattern woven into the lush carpet under his feet. He vaguely heard the door click as the two agents left, He knew they were rightº he had to talk to Starsky. He wasn’t sure what to say, but he knew in his heart fighting Germany was the right thing to do. He hadn’t mentioned to anyone some of the things he had seen but had to ignore as he crossed Germany. He had seen an old man wearing the yellow Star of David being kicked and beaten by storm troopers. That incident, even as isolated as it was, confirmed his suspicions of there being something fundamentally wrong with the Nazi state.

Oddly enough, even though his civilized sensibilities were offended by the events he had witnessed, there was something else behind his decision. It was a strong feeling that he must fight in this war and do it from the battleground in the air. It was as if his whole purpose in being was to do this one thing. He couldn’t consciously put it into words, yet he would have to make Starsky understand. It was within the realm of possibility that his lover would reject the whole concept. He wondered if he could reject his destiny, if his lover couldn’t understand his position. He had a strong hunch that he could not.

With resolve he rose and went into the bedroom where he found his lover and friend lying on the large bed, his arms clutching his aching chest. “Babe?” The word emerged from Hutch as a mere whisper.

“Damn it, Hutchinson,” Starsky burst out. “There’s a real shooting war starting over there.” He eased himself into an upright position. “It’s none of our business now.”

“I’ve been thinking about this ever since we got to England.” Hutch paused and stepped closer to the figure reclining on the bed, hoping proximity might be the answer. “I resigned my commission last week.”

“Don’t do it, Hutch!”

“Don’t do what?”

“Not for revenge.”

“Is that what you think?”

“What else?”

“I’m not doing it for revenge. No… that’s not true. There’s a certain amount of revenge involved…Certainly I was upset–but that’s too mild a word. Rage, yes. Rage! I feel rage at what was done to you…that anybody could think they could do such a thing….” Hutch’s voice broke with emotion he hadn’t released before.

Starsky grabbed the shaking shoulders and pulled the blond to him, unmindful of the twinge in his upper torso. “Somehow, I know this is something I must do.” Hutch murmured. “It’s as if I was born to do this. I don’t think I have any choice….Sounds weird, but that’s how it is.” Hutch pulled away from the light restraints of the loving arms.

“I think I’m beginning to understand,” Starsky nodded. “You have to fly those planes at this momentous time in history.” Starsky spoke with a certain amount of sarcasm but knew there was a great deal of truth in his statement as well. Hutch felt he had to fly in this war.

Hutch nodded. “It’s as if I was born for this job….Shit!” He rose and began pacing the bedroom like the proverbial caged lion. “I just don’t know how to explain it.”

“Yeah,” Starsky answered slowly. “I think I understand where you’re coming from, but it’s still a shock. I’m not sure if I can take losing you.”

“Just because I join their air force doesn’t mean you’ll lose me. I’m not even sure that the RAF will want a flier with a broken wing.” Hutch gestured to his casted arm. “Maybe I’m being a bit melodramatic. Maybe they’ll pat me on the head and send me home to Uncle Sam.”

“C’mere,” the scientist hoarsely whispered. “I wanna hold you. I know they’ll want a pilot as good as you are.”

Hutch sat down on the bed and braced himself on his good arm so that he put no weight on his partner’s vulnerable ribs.

“Love you,” Hutch whispered, nuzzling the other man’s neck. “I promise not to get killed.”

“Don’t make promises you can’t keep. Just make this one–that if you ever stop loving me, you’ll tell me immediately.”

“But I’ll always love you!” the blond protested…then set about proving the statement with actions in lieu of words.

Hutch began opening the red velvet robe and licking what he could find of the chest that was exposed around the bandages. It was awkward with his broken arm, but he wanted the physical contact. Starsky sat up, moved over, and pulled him down on the still-rumpled sheets. With care for the arm that was cast, he lay on top of the blond, aware of a distinct hardening in his groin. He began rubbing against the other’s hardening erection as his actions pulled apart the dark robe that Hutch wore. Hutch reached with his one good hand for the now nearly complete erection. Starsky felt as if he would come any moment…but then Hutch stopped and looked up into the intense blue eyes, delicately rubbing his hand over the now weeping cock.

Starsky sighed and found he couldn’t hold the position over Hutch and limply collapsed back on to the bed. Immediately the pilot raised up on his good arm and began licking and sucking the cock that was finally hard following such prolonged disinterest. He sucked on the tightly nested balls and hungered to do more, but didn’t for fear of the one reaction he didn’t want to ever see again–that of his lover pulling away from him.

Hutch pulled back to watch the face of the man lying on the bed. The blue eyes opened and questioned him. Hutch sat back on his heels and reached over Starsky to the night stand, coming back with a jar of lotion. He delicately swathed the throbbing erection in smooth white cream, then quickly oiled himself. Starsky had closed his eyes during the process, aware the weeks of more and more touching were paying off. Hutch positioned himself over the supine figure and tried to take the cock into his body…with only one hand it proved to be more than he could accomplish.

His soft plea of “Help me, babe,” forced Starsky to open his eyes and recognize the problem.

“How about doing it the easy way? On your belly.” Suddenly Starsky felt the need to fuck his companion, no longer wanting to play the passive role in their love-making. He watched the expression on Hutch’s face as Hutch in turn took in the change in Starsky’s attitude, registering that his tentative demeanor was gone. Starsky grinned and nodded to the blond.

In total excitement Hutch complied with the order from the brunet. Yeah, this was the easy way, he thought, able to balance on both the cast and his good arm. Starsky knelt behind the narrow hips and rubbed the puckered opening, then leaned forward as far as his strapping would permit. He began inserting his aching penis into the longed-for tunnel. He moaned and so did Hutch, both ecstatic that it was finally coming to this. Starsky momentarily mourned the reason for his sudden need to assert his dominance. He might be losing his lover at any moment and he wanted more moments like this before that could happen.

He stroked his lover’s tender insides with his cock and reveled in the feeling, trying to make it last as long as he could, savoring the feeling of unity. He tried to get as deep as possible. Then he felt he could no longer hold off the spasms, growling as he drove harder onto his lover’s lean frame. He ignored the twinges of warning his tender ribs gave out. Then suddenly he froze, the moment of orgasm so intense that he understood the French “little death.” He relaxed over the hunched figure and stayed that way until there came a muffled protest.

Then he slid down onto the downy mattress, still panting from his efforts. His limbs were so watery that he couldn’t have moved if there had been a bomb in the next room. Hutch was draped over him on his good arm and trying to stroke his face with the stiff fingers that peeked out from the plaster.

“That was wonderful.” Starsky could only manage a whisper, unable to trust his voice.

“It was worth working for, wasn’t it?” the pilot answered. “Love you, babe.” Then Hutch’s elbow simply wouldn’t hold him anymore and he collapsed back into the feather pillows.

Starsky slid over to him and put his head on the smooth, white chest, snuggling down and making whuffling noises like the cow had when she had rubbed against Bodie. Hutch had been unconscious at the time, but since had been regaled with the tale complete with sound effects, by both Starsky and Doyle. Bodie had pouted for days after the telling. Hutch smiled and drifted off to sleep. The butler would ring them in plenty of time for the late dinner which was customary for this “safe house.”

Just before dozing off, Starsky murmured something in Hutch’s ear.

“Mmmf,” Hutch muttered. “What the hell did you say?”

“Said, don’t `go off me’ like the Brits say, before we have a chance to make love without rib strapping and casts. I’ve sorta forgot how it’s done.”

Hutch snickered in his lover’s ear and heard an answering rumble. He wasn’t sure if it was a purr or laugh…he didn’t care–he loved it either way.

* * *

“May I speak to you a moment, Major Cowley?” The tall, lean American was standing in the doorway of the high-ceilinged library. The Controller of Continental Operations for MI6 had been busily studying a report from one of his operatives on the war-torn continent of Europe. He raised his head and nodded to the young American.

“What can I do for you?” Cowley asked as the flier seated himself in a leather, wing-backed chair. The flier cleared his throat and looked around at the bookshelves lining the walls.

Finally he spoke, just before the Major lost his patience. “I have decided I would like to join the Royal Air Force. I am wondering if you could direct me where to go and what to do.”

Cowley rose from his chair and walked back to one of the bookshelves. He pulled out a book which activated the sliding door to a liquor cabinet. “Are you sure this is what you want to do?” he questioned gruffly.

“I think so,” Hutch answered. “I want to get into this war. I think it is worthwhile to fight the fascists.”

“Are you aware of all the ramifications of the step you are proposing to take, Lieutenant?”

“No. That’s why I’m asking you for help.”

“First of all, Lieutenant, have you resigned your commission from the American Army?”

“Yes, sir. My term of service was up while I was in Germany. I sent off my official resignation a few days ago.”

“All right.” Cowley poured two drinks and offered one to Hutch.

“Thanks.” Hutch gingerly sipped the fiery Scotch, having learned the hard way about Cowley’s private reserve. It was so smooth you could slip into drunkenness before you knew what had hit you.

“Now,” Cowley said, reseating himself behind his desk. “Are you aware that if you join the RAF you will have to forfeit your American citizenship? Your government seems to take a dim view of its citizens hiring themselves out as mercenaries and joining foreign armies.”

Looking up in shock, Hutch wasn’t sure he had heard the Major correctly. “Give up my citizenship?”

“Aye, lad. It’s not something to take lightly, is it? Not something to do for a lark. Give this some serious thought. If you decide you still want to join, I’ll put in a word with Air Marshall Denning.” Cowley returned to the papers he had been studying when the young American had entered the room.

Knowing he had been dismissed, Hutch answered, “Yes, sir,” and exited the library. He had to restrain himself from saluting.

Cowley looked up and watched the tall young man leave. The Royal Air Force could do worse than sign this young man up. Both young Americans had been worth the risk of the raid into Germany. The scientists doing the debriefing of the young chemist were excited about his line of research, which differed greatly from their own experiments with biological weapons such as anthrax. He sipped his drink and turned his attention back to the plight of the young woman in Germany.

* * *

In a light mist, the driver opened the door of the sedan for the two men on crutches and canes. Doyle swore as he banged his already aching knee on the protruding window crank. The knee had been twisted and turned for each x-ray by seemingly sadistic technicians. It was a subdued Bodie that waited with uncharacteristic patience while Doyle cursed the unhearing door.

As Doyle finally slid over to the far side of the back seat, Bodie handed his crutches to the driver and gingerly lowered himself to the seat. After closing the door, the driver entered the front seat. The dark sedan left the busy hospital behind. The driver skillfully maneuvered the car through the throngs of late day traffic, heading for the countryside and the stately mansion that housed the agents and their American charges.

Doyle observed his companion with trepidation, then finally asked, “What did the doctors say this time?”

Bodie turned his gaze from the busy streets, “Not healing, is it.” His voice was thick with suppressed emotion.

Doyle wasn’t sure if it was anger, fear or what. He couldn’t tell if it was directed at him or the world in general. The normal ESP of the two partners was cut through at the quick.

“Did they say why it wasn’t healing?” Doyle questioned, carefully containing any emotion on his part.

“They don’t know, do they. With all their fancy degrees and machines, they can only tell me what it isn’t doing, and that’s not getting better.” Bodie turned to look at the thinning traffic as the car left the busy city. “Might have been caused by all that business after the crash…or it could be that ankles are simply tricky buggers to heal.”

The light mist of the city deepened into a heavier rain as the sedan moved down the narrow country lanes. The silence in the car was broken only by the rhythmic strop-strop of the windscreen wipers as each agent retreated into his own world.

Doyle couldn’t help Bodie out of this situation. He would have to dig his own way out of the mire…and it could take a very long time.

* * *

Early 1940

“Wanna fuck?” Hutch whispered in the ear that was now nearly covered in dark curls. “Wanna fuck a newly made Flight Lieutenant?”

Starsky turned from the tall, heavily draped window where he had been standing in the dark, peering through the blackout curtains, watching a mist-laden London street. He lifted his arms up to cross them behind the neck of his taller lover. “Yeah, but lemme look at you first.”

Hutch stepped back, clicked his heels together, and gave Starsky a salute, palm outward in the British fashion. He turned and showed off the neatly fitted khaki blouse which tapered to his slender waist. Starsky whistled in admiration.

“Promotion, ya know,” Hutch said. “Flight Lieutenant is the same as captain in our army.” Starsky looked at the pips on his shoulder, knowing he would have to take his lover’s word on that. He couldn’t read the pips on the British uniforms, but he supposed before it was all over he would be an expert in English military insignia.

“You said something about fucking, Lieutenant?” he murmured as he moved toward the impressively uniformed figure in front of him. Hutch’s eyes lit up at the proposition. “Let’s get you out of that fancy suit,” Starsky continued, reaching for Hutch to lead him to the spare bedroom of the flat. They shared Bodie’s and Doyle’s flat when they were in London as housing during the fighting in Europe was hard to get. Besides, there was really no necessity to have their own flat, since they were so seldom in London. Hutch would soon be assigned to an outlying fighter base, and Starsky was working with the scientists in a secret laboratory away from the city.

Once in the bedroom, Starsky reveled in removing the uniform from the blond, then relaxed as Hutch returned the favor. Tonight was the night, he had decided. No one had fucked him since that last night Hermann had abused him in Stuttgart. Hutch had been patient with him as he recovered his equilibrium, but both were fit and healthy now. Hutch’s cast had come off before he went off to train on Spitfires, or “Spits” as he called them.

Hutch finished removing Starsky’s shorts and kissed his way up the scientist’s torso. He stopped to nibble gently on the brown nubs surrounded by curling dark fur as his hand massaged the rising penis. There was no difficulty now in getting that organ’s interest. He nuzzled the exposed neck offered to him.

Starsky began returning the caresses, first licking at a sensitive ear then moving down the curve of the neck to the collar bone. His hands were busy in the short coarse hair of his lover’s groin before he tweaked the rising cock gently and rubbed the tender glans near the head.

Both men shifted until they could reach each other’s cocks with their mouths. There were muttered curses from both of them as the sixty-nining became frantic. Starsky pulled back from Hutch, who moaned and blindly reached for the scientist. Starsky reached for the bedside table and grabbed the tube resting there, carefully screwing off the lid and taking a glob on his fingers. As Hutch obligingly started to turn over, Starsky stopped him with his free hand.

“Not this time,” Starsky said softly. “I want you, Blondie. I want you up my ass where you belong.”

“Are you sure? I don’t mind if you can’t handle it yet.”

“It’s not fair for you to always play my bottom. Besides, I miss having you right where I want you; where you belong.”

“Okay, but only if you’re sure?” Hutch was worried. He had attempted this a few weeks ago and Starsky had pulled away screaming so loudly that Doyle and Bodie had come rushing in with their guns drawn. After that, Hutch hadn’t wanted to hurry anything.

“Don’t talk it to death, Hutch. I think I know when I’m ready.”

“All right. But if you can’t stand it, don’t wait until you’re screaming. I can stop.”

“I know you can, lover.” Starsky had often been amazed the past few weeks at the control that Hutch had shown. He had always stopped and waited until Starsky was able to go on which was why Starsky was sure he could make it this time…just knowing if he said stop, Hutch would do so. He reached for the wilting cock nested in the short blond curls, scooting back so he could reach the half-shrunken organ with his mouth. He tongued and licked it back to its previous size and strength, realizing how much he loved the man. He then lubed the erect cock and rubbed it gently, not wanting to try the iron control of Hutch too soon. As he reached to do himself, Hutch took the tube from him.

“Let me,” Hutch whispered…and Starsky turned over on his stomach. Hutch worshiped the body presented to him. He ran his hands over the lovely white ass, and slid his fingers into the pink anus, finding the opening tight, almost virginally tight. He took great pains to open and relax the muscles guarding Starsky’s body from invasion. Long minutes passed as he used first one finger, then two, and finally three. He waited for the word to stop which never came. Always before, when he had reached this point, Starsky had stopped him, screaming and crying like a baby the first time. Then, he had been so embarrassed at finding the English agents in his room, he had nearly become hysterical. It had taken days to recover from that incident, the newly made flight lieutenant recalled.

Hutch wanted nothing to mar this night, so he was especially slow and careful to make no sudden moves and to always telegraph his intentions in some manner, sometimes vocally and sometimes with body language.

When he was finally ready to breach his lover’s defenses with his cock, he had to stop and pump his wilting erection. It took only moments to restore his flagging interest. He carefully inserted the broad head of his penis into the well-greased opening and waited to see if it would be accepted. When no objection was forthcoming, he proceeded to make short, gentle thrusts. He froze momentarily but saw there was still no objection from the figure under him; no encouragement either, he noted uneasily. But he continued with slow deliberation, until he was completely sheathed, panting with the effort of maintaining control. He yearned to pound into the body offered him, but the trust being given was so absolute that he couldn’t even think of betraying it.

“What’re waitin’ for, ya blond lunk?” The voice from below was muffled by bed coverings and Hutch’s own body. “Move, you bastard, before I die of frustration.”

Relieved by the admonition, Hutch began moving hard in and out within the tunnel that gripped him. He pounded harder, but never quite without control until he finally froze in orgasm. Then he remembered that he hadn’t done Starsky the courtesy of reaching around. He felt around with his hand and encountered only a wet, sticky, withering penis. It was with relief when he slowly slipped from Starsky’s body, knowing Starsky wouldn’t hate him for not stopping. Starsk had actually come while he was being fucked!

“You okay?” Hutch asked still holding the quiet man from behind. They had fallen to the bed without changing relative positions.

“Okay?!” Starsky whooped. “That’s the understatement of the year. I’m wonderful. I’m great. You’re great. I feel like I’ve never been made love to before.” He stopped his testimony, turned over and grabbed Hutch around the shoulders. “They’re gone! They’re buried. And you did it! All the ghosts are gone!”

Starsky pulled Hutch to him and kissed him soundly on the lips. He began to pull him from the bed. “I think this calls for a celebration. There’s this terrific pub–the Red Lion–it has great beer and snacks. Getting to where I can really go for fish and chips.”

Hutch suddenly was back in L.A. when he was taking Starsky to get hot dogs, and he knew he had his lover back complete. The irrepressible little boy was reasserting itself after months of being lost in the shadows somewhere.

Already out of bed, Starsky was grabbing on his slacks, and humming as he headed for the bathroom. Hutch relaxed back against the headboard and listened to the transformation he had never expected to see. He hadn’t realized the ghosts of his recent past had been depressing Starsky to such a degree. He joined the scientist in the bathroom to clean himself up only to have Starsky flip water into his face which called for instant retaliation. The bathroom was slippery and damp by the time the water fight was won by Hutch’s overbearing reach and by a final threat to dunk his lover’s head in the toilet bowl. Starsky retreated to the bedroom crying “foul.”

“Gotta clean up this mess,” Starsky muttered, peering back into the bathroom. “Bodie’ll kill us. You know what a neatnik he is.”

It took a few minutes and quite a few dry towels to get the bathroom back in an order that might suit Bodie. Then the two Americans finished dressing.

“C’mon, Hutch,” Starsky cajoled, slipping into dry slacks and shirt. “After all that exercise, I’m starving. I can just taste those nice, greasy fish `n chips.”

Hutch groaned and reached for his uniform. Maybe he wasn’t so glad to have the “nut” back on track. He would have to start sitting through dumb movies and eating things that should never pass through human throats. Then he laughed at himself as he straightened his tie. “Be careful what you wish for,” he said to himself; he had wished for this and he wasn’t going to knock it now.

Bounding down the steep stairs, Starsky shrugged into a heavy knitted cap and wool jacket. English winters seemed very cold to the Californians. Hutch followed more discreetly, carrying his RAF issue overcoat. Once on the street, Starsky led him with unerring instinct, despite the gathering fog, down three blocks and over one. There were no lights visible in any windows, and no street lights, of course. Blackout was in effect and had been for months without much reason.

Hutch noticed an ancient wooden sign proclaiming this The Red Lion. Must be the place of the wonderful fish `n chips. Hutch sighed. It looked as though life was returning to normal with David Starsky–or as at least normal as life with Starsky could ever be.

 

Epilogue

August 1940

The limping, khaki-uniformed man shouldered his way into the noisy pub where cigarette smoke hung heavily in the overheated atmosphere. The crowd moved to give him access to the bar, probably mistakenly assuming his limp was the result of military heroics.

“Jack!” he shouted over the din of conversation and the drunken darts match taking place at the other end of the long oaken bar. The heavy-set, balding man behind the bar came lumbering over, his eyes brightening as he recognized the figure waving at him.

“Bodie! Glad to see ya. Wanna pint?”

“No. Where is he, Jack?”

“Table in the back.” Bodie started to turn away when the bartender reached out and momentarily stopped him. “Any word on `is mate?”

“Might be. Can’t be sure.”

The bartender nodded and turned away.

Bodie shuffled through the tables surrounded by uniformed figures and giggling young women. He recognized a scattering of RAF squadron insignias, Royal Navy uniforms, and Royal Marines, all trying to have a good time before the worst could happen. Bodie tried to shake off the gathering depression knowing that at least tonight he was bringing someone good news.

Bodie limped across to a sheltered table with a lone occupant where the loneliness was almost palpable. A nearly empty bottle of scotch and a pack of Players decorated the scarred table, along with an overflowing ashtray. Leaning heavily on his cane, he touched the hunched shoulder of the dark-haired American. The wavy, ebony head lifted and there was dull recognition in the midnight eyes.

“Bodie. Siddown.” Starsky waved his smoldering cigarette at the empty chair. “Babysitting again?”

“Had enough to drink, haven’t you, Professor?”

“Nah, never enough!” Starsky put his head down on the small table and shuddered visibly.

“Just thought you’d like to know there is a possibility that a certain Flight Lieutenant was brought across the Channel in a French fishing smack tonight.”

The quiet comment had an immediately sobering effect on the American scientist. He straightened and bent toward the British officer, “You’re sure?”

“I don’t think there is much question about it. He landed at Southampton a few hours ago.”

“Oh my God. I thought I had lost him,” the American whispered, sure that if he spoke in a normal tone of voice it would break like a pubescent child’s.

“Got a car and driver outside, if you’re interested,” Bodie offered.

“Interested! Of course I’m interested. Just how did you find this out?”

“George Cowley has his ways. Want to go?”

“Yeah!” The American shoved some pound notes onto the table and gathered his uniform cap. Even scientists in this war were considered part of the military.

The two men left the pub and went out into the unnaturally dark city. The city was eerie and unreal in its current blacked-out condition. Not a thread of artificial light impinged on the full moon’s realm. Air raid sirens hadn’t sounded this night, but they soon would. It was a clear night with a nearly full moon…bomber’s moon. Bodie’s driver quickly got out and opened the door for the two men. At a word from Bodie the sedan sedately moved through the seemingly abandoned streets of London.

“Doyle?” Starsky asked gently. He remembered a rambling conversation with Bodie a few nights ago before Hutch had gone missing. That night he had taken a drunken Bodie home.

“Still in France. Haven’t heard from him in two weeks,” replied Bodie, his tone of voice demanding that the American restrain his questions.

Starsky and Bodie were both virtual non-combatants in this war as far as anyone living in a country that was bombed nightly could be. Bodie–because his ankle had never properly healed. He shuffled paper for intelligence, he said, though Starsky speculated he was still working for George Cowley.

Doyle had been dropped behind enemy lines to help work with the French Resistance fighters some weeks ago, still seeming to draw the difficult assignments. From the drunken comments of a few nights ago, Starsky knew Bodie was frustrated he wasn’t there to back up his mate. At the moment he did his duty to Cowley and Country, however painful that duty was.

Starsky was working on weapons development at a secret site outside London, but Bodie seemed to always know where to find him. Hutch had been shot down three nights ago, escorting bombers over the Channel. Since then Bodie had shown up at the Red Lion each night at closing to see him back to his flat. Yeah, George Cowley had his ways.

“Is he hurt? Are you absolutely sure it’s him?”

“Don’t know, mate. Just reasonably sure that a blond Flight Lieutenant with an American accent is Hutchinson.”

Starsky nodded and rested back against the padded seat with some relief. Perhaps Hutch could get some leave since he hadn’t missed a mission since before Dunkirk. But Hutch loved flying his Spit; there was no chance that this dip in the Channel or bail-out over enemy territory would deter him from taking the next mission.

Starsky sighed–at one time he had been the reckless one of the combination; now he was the conservative one, just hoping that they would survive the war. His personal nightmare hadn’t ended; it had just taken another form.

The End