24

Kittermaster and Spangler seated themselves in the first row, Julian and his aide in the last. The Cipher Chief snapped on a slide projector. “TOLAN AND FIVE UNIDENTIFIED PRISONERS ARRIVED OSITZ BY TRAIN 3 P.M. FEBRUARY 14” flashed on the screen.

“The problem with this message,” the code expert told his listeners, “is that we simply cannot find a place called Ositz. None of our maps, charts or directories show it. None of our people has ever heard of it. Our first assumption in a situation of this sort is that the transmitting agent, in this case a Jean-Claude, has made an error. Jean-Claude was employing the Triangle Cipher, a rather simple system. The most common cipher mistakes are usually connected with the spelling of foreign names. We believe Ositz is a phonetic attempt to spell a name, but we can’t be certain since we know nothing of Jean-Claude or his message-sending ability.”

“If it’s any help,” said Spangler, “he’s only a boy. He’s just turned twelve.”

“How would you evaluate his spelling skills?”

“Not too highly. He’s had three years of formal schooling and that’s it.”

“Thank you very much, sir.” The Cipher Chief stepped to the wall map of Europe as the lights went on. “Since Jean-Claude sent his message to St. Olaf’s in Sonderborg, we know he was employing the Death Priority, so our most immediate assumption is that he is out-of-zone, somewhere in this area.” The finger arched from the Baltic coast down through northern Poland. “As I said before, we have come across no location called Ositz, but if I might call Captain Wolsky, another possibility can be examined.”

Permission was granted, and the stout, balding former University of Chicago Polish historian entered. He walked directly to the rack of maps and pushed two aside. The geography of eastern Germany and western Poland lay exposed.

“When I was a very young child,” he said, removing his glasses, “I remember being taken to an Austrian Army cavalry training post to visit a great-uncle. He was a bear of a man who insisted on throwing me up in the air and covering me with kisses. It was a very uncomfortable day. I remember passing that way some years later and being delighted to find that the post had been torn down. I imagined that some great avenging hand had reached down from heaven and swept Great-Uncle and all his comrades from the face of the earth. The avenger had done an excellent job. All that was left at the site was a railroad station. Actually it wasn’t even a station, it was just a siding on the Sola River. Yes, here—here is where it was,” he said, pushing a red pin into the map. “You see, it is so insignificant that it isn’t even shown, but it may still exist. In Poland, railroad facilities, no matter how small, are usually preserved. What I remember most specifically about this place was the name it bore after the cavalry post was gone and only the railroad siding remained. It was one of those silly, inconsequential names that sometimes linger in the memories of children. The siding was called Auschwitz.”

Spangler rose slowly, crossed the room and studied the tiny red pin.

“I realize it is only a hypothesis,” the ex-professor continued, “but in this entire area it is the only name even vaguely similar to Ositz. It is also a name that is difficult for strangers to pronounce, let alone spell, but a child might just remember it as I did.”

“Ever heard of it?” Kittermaster called to Spangler.

“Yes. It’s one of their newer camps.”

“Ever been there?”

“No. I’ve never operated in Poland.”

“What else do you know about it?”

“Rumors say it’s big.”

“How big?”

“Big.”

“Political?”

“No,” said Spangler quietly. “Not exactly political.…”