Authors: John Anthony Miller
York went to the parking lot of the Berlin Theater, cautiously surveyed the area, then slid behind the tree and removed the top stone on the garden wall. He found Faber’s note, insisting that communication be conducted at the cemetery.
He frowned, annoyed at Faber’s behavior. The cemetery wasn’t safe. Did Faber realize that, or was it a trap? Were they both being observed, baited, controlled by the Gestapo until enough information had changed hands to ensure their deaths?
He had to find a new drop, somewhere information could be exchanged without fear of discovery. His predecessor’s description of the cemetery drop, relayed through Max, did have some validity. There was something to be said for hiding in plain sight. No one suspected anyone would be brazen enough to do it. But that wouldn’t last forever. It was only a matter of time before they were found out. He had to find another location, whether Faber liked it or not.
York got a taxi and went to the cemetery to put the money at the drop. The morning newspaper was lying on the back seat, and he read it with interest. The Kursk offensive, Operation Citadel, was more than a month old. The northern portion of the German advance, initially successful, had withdrawn to its starting point. The southern offensive still met with some success, but he wondered for how long, especially now that the Germans were taking troops and sending them to Italy.
The headlines portrayed the battle as a reorganization of the front lines to strengthen the German position. The Fuhrer, a military genius, was preparing for the next phase of Eastern Front offensives, tricking the Russians into the web he weaved. York wondered if the information provided by Amanda and Erika had reached the Russians. And if it did, was it a factor in the current stalemate?
More ominous for the Germans were the Allied advances in Italy. Starting in Sicily and advancing across the island, they invaded the mainland and started moving northward. York suspected an Allied invasion of France or Greece would follow, but he didn’t know when.
Given the global conflict, and the many fronts that Germany would have to defend, York realized how vital Manfred Richter’s initiative really was. The Nazis had no intention of surrendering. They were regrouping, changing the theater of war, retreating to fight another day. Suddenly he was nauseated. What if the war wasn’t ending, but only beginning?
The taxi pulled to a halt at the cemetery entrance. York asked the driver to wait, telling him he would only be a few minutes. He exited the vehicle, studied the surroundings, and when satisfied he wasn’t being observed, he walked down the lane that was lined with graves.
He didn’t like the cemetery on Sundays. There were too many people paying respects to lost loved ones; it was too emotional. As he walked towards the drop, he studied those that passed him. There was a young lady with two small children, her face a mask of sadness, and then another woman with a teenage boy who looked lost and alone. York suspected they were the families of men killed in the war, lucky enough to be buried where they once lived. Maybe they had returned from the front to local hospitals, but then never recovered.
He went to the drop, walking fast but leaning on his cane, and quickly studied the surroundings. When satisfied no one observed, he removed the finial, took the drawings, and stuffed some money inside. He walked to the edge of the lane. Just as he turned, he saw a man approach from the opposite end, hurried, frantic.
York left, waited a moment, and then walked back in the lane. The man was leaning protectively over the iron fence, his body hiding his movement. York was about to retrace his steps and try to exit unseen, when the man turned to face him.
As soon as he saw York, the man moved away from the fence. He tried to appear casual, staring at the tomb and pretending to pay his respects. A patch over the left eye identified him as Gerhard Faber.
York didn’t want to arouse suspicion, but he also didn’t want Faber to see his limp, a characteristic that made him easily recognizable. He turned to the nearest grave and bowed his head in silent prayer.
He could see Faber occasionally turn, watching him. He pretended not to notice, keeping his head low, his gaze focused on the headstone before him. After a respectable amount of time, he edged towards the end of the lane, waiting to exit when he wouldn’t be seen.
An elderly couple entered from the opposite end. As Faber turned to observe them, York hurried around the corner, walking as straight as he could. He rushed back to his taxi, climbed in the back and waited. When Faber left, he would follow him and check the drop later.
Ten minutes passed, and then he saw the familiar figure of Gerhard Faber, slender and attractive, his hair meticulously combed, the patch placed strategically over his left eye. He stood at the entrance, studied people coming and going, then climbed into a taxi parked by the gate.
York ducked down in the seat, and instructed his driver to follow them. The taxis moved towards the center of the road, on to the boulevard, weaving in and out of weekend traffic, battling a sea of bicycles.
As they continued driving eastward, York grew curious. He knew Faber lived in Charlottenburg, not too far from the cemetery, and he found the route they were taking intriguing. Where was Faber going? They continued across the western sector of the city to Tiergarten, where Faber’s taxi turned on Von-der-Heydt-Strasse.
It was an exclusive neighborhood, beautiful homes, foreign embassies, breathtaking gardens. It wasn’t an area he would expect Faber to frequent. His taxi stopped in front of a majestic house, a bit tired, the paint on the shutters faded, where a group of workmen were replacing the stone walkway in the garden.
York told his driver to stop halfway down the block, far enough away to not seem suspicious, but where he still had a clear view. Faber exited the cab and greeted one of the workmen. The man showed him the walkway, pointed at some stone borders to the flower beds, and waited expectantly. Faber put his hand in his pocket, withdrew some money, and handed it to him.
York smirked, knowing Faber had just taken the money from the drop at the cemetery. Now he needed to find out what his connection to the property was. Could it be a friend or relative he provided financial support to, similar to Erika Jaeger and her mother?
As if his thoughts had been read, the front door opened and two women, one young, the other older, but closely resembling each other, came down the steps. The youngest walked up to Faber and hugged him, planting a quick kiss on his lips. The older, probably the mother, motioned to the garden, and pointed to some brickwork at the base of the steps.
York shook his head. So Faber was leading a double life, supporting both a family and a rich mistress. Or maybe it was a one-time rich mistress. But it didn’t really matter what Faber’s motive was, as long as he provided information.
York directed the confused driver to take him back to the cemetery. After casually strolling around the area to ensure he wasn’t being watched, he made his way to the drop. He removed the top of the corner post, finding only a note, no drawings. He looked around, made sure it was safe, and replaced the finial. Then he sat on the bench and decoded the note.
NO DRAWINGS UNTIL I GET MORE MONEY. MUCH MORE. DON’T DISAPPOINT ME.
York frowned. He had had enough of Gerhard Faber. He took a pen and scribbled on the bottom of the note:
WRONG MOVE
He had the perfect plan to improve Faber’s attitude.
By the end of August, the Russians had beaten back German advances at Kursk, retaking all ground lost during the initial offense. Their success was due in part to British Intelligence’s knowledge of German plans in advance, with continued validations as the attack commenced. Many sources contributed to the Allied efforts, so the impact of information provided by Amanda and Erika would never be known. The subsequent Russian victory gave further evidence of the weakening Third Reich, which had lost North Africa, retreated in Russia, and now had another front in Italy to defend.
York continued to get information from Erika and Amanda, delivering photographs and any gathered intelligence to Max for transmittal to London or Switzerland. Erika’s logistics information was related primarily to German transfer of troops and supplies to the Italian and Russian fronts, but the movement of men and commodities provided an effective snapshot of the Nazi war machine.
He still reported to the intelligence office three mornings a week, sometimes for an hour, sometimes for two or three. The same men were always there, alone or in combination, also translating, or pretending to. He was sure they watched him, but he ignored them, diligently performed his assignments, and left, nodding to whatever occupant might be in the room.
York had decided to let Gerhard Faber think about his message for a few weeks before he put his plan into action. He knew how badly the viola player needed money, and he suspected he would do anything to continue the charade with his once-wealthy girlfriend.
Amanda and York met on a regular basis as she delivered photographs. Initially it had been twice each week, then three, and eventually four times. And then without even realizing it, they met almost daily, although sometimes for only a few minutes. As time passed, there were fewer photographs with military merit and more of birds and buildings, which often prompted hours of discussion littered with laughter and occasional flirting.
The tap on the door was timid and tentative, totally unexpected. York looked at his watch. It was almost 8 p.m. He sat at the table by the window, Amanda’s latest photographs spread out before him. He grabbed a pistol and tucked it in the back of his pants, took his cane and unlatched the safety on the hidden barrel.
The knock came again, a little more insistent. He put his hand on the knob and prepared to crack open the door.
He glanced back at the table, the photographs spread upon it, and rushed back to collect them. He shoved them in a large envelope and put them under the mattress, returning to the door as another knock was delivered.
“Yes?” he asked.
“It’s Amanda.”
He opened the door, smiled, and quickly glanced down the hallway. It was empty.
“Come in,” he said. “This is a pleasant surprise.”
“Manfred never came home for dinner,” she said. “The maid said he left a message, claiming to be out of town on business.” She smiled bashfully. “I know it wasn’t planned, but I thought I would take a chance and see if you were here. I was hoping you might have time to talk.”
He was glad she came. He touched her arm, gently caressing her without even realizing it. “Of course I have time. And even if I didn’t, I would make time.”
She laughed lightly, her eyes twinkling, and held up a package. “I brought a bottle of wine and some cheese.”
“Great,” he said, grinning. “We can have a party. Come sit down.” He retrieved the envelope from under the mattress. “I was just going through some of your photographs. They’re wonderful.”
“Thank you,” she said, having heard his compliments many times but still appreciating them. “I do love it. But the violin leaves little room for much else.”
York made sure the curtain was closed and they sat at the table. Amanda poured two glasses of wine and cut up the cheese.
He put a slice in his mouth and washed it down with a sip of wine. “This is very good.”
“I’m glad you like it. German cheese is so underrated. The Swiss get all the credit.”
He smiled. “I’m glad you came,” he said softly. “But isn’t it risky, especially with your maid at home?”
She shook her head. “I don’t think so. She stays in her room after dinner, and I stay in mine. Manfred is usually gone for days, sometimes the entire week, which is fine with me. Even when he does come home, I’m asleep when he gets there. I was very careful coming here. No one saw me.”
He relaxed a little. She was petite and soft-spoken and had an innocent, child-like quality. But she was also strong and intelligent and aware. It was easy to underestimate her. She wouldn’t make any mistakes.
“How long will it take to plan the escape?” she asked. “It’s already been a few weeks.”
York frowned. He wondered what was taking so long, too. “I’m not sure. There are a lot of details to address, the route we take, our final destination. I have to discuss it with my contact, who communicates with London.”
She looked anxious, and a flicker of fear crossed her face. “It’s hard to act like everything is normal. Even with the string quartet. When will you talk to your contact again?”
“In a few days. I’ve discussed an escape route with him several times, but in regard to another issue. He’s been working on it. We should be leaving shortly.”
His answer seemed to satisfy her, and her thoughts drifted. “I found a canvas travel bag today,” she said. “It’s about this big.” She held her hands apart. “It can easily be carried, and it will fit my negatives, violin, and some clothes.”
“The less you take, the better,” he said.
“I understand.” She sipped her wine, pausing, hesitant. Then she looked at him. “I can’t thank you enough for all you’re doing for me.”
“I’m honored,” he said. “You’ve provided a wealth of information to the Allies and made a major contribution to the war effort.”
She watched him coyly, and although he avoided her gaze, she was insistent, and eventually their eyes met. Her eyes were searching, inquisitive, looking for an answer.
“But that isn’t your only reason, is it?” she asked softly.
He looked at her, vulnerable, unable to hide what he felt. After a minute had passed, he answered. “No, that isn’t the only reason.”
She moved closer, her hand on his, her face near, their eyes locked. “What is the other reason?”
He wasn’t sure what to say, hesitating before mouthing the words slowly. “You’ve made me see things I would never have seen, feel what I couldn’t feel. Each day I see you, my life feels more complete.”
“I’m touched,” she said softly, her eyes not leaving his. “You’ve enriched my life, too. In more ways than you know.”
He was uncomfortable, nervous, caught in emotions he couldn’t control. “You’re fascinating, probably the most intelligent person I ever met. But you would never flaunt it or use it against someone less brilliant. You’re talent is amazing. You bring tears to my eyes when you play the violin. I look at your photographs in awe, fascinated how you somehow bring people or birds to life, capturing the light so perfectly, or the expression on someone’s face.”
She smiled subtly, already knowing what he had yet to realize.
He paused, his heart beating a bit faster, struggling to say what had to be said. “I find you incredibly attractive on so many levels, the way your eyes twinkle, your smile, the bubbly enthusiasm that surrounds you. Each day with you is cherished, never to be forgotten.”
He stopped when he realized he was rambling. He looked away, embarrassed. “I’m sorry,” he said. “I’m probably not making much sense.”
“So there’s more than just the need for military information?” she asked, hiding a smile.
He took a deep breath. “I have to admit…,” he stuttered. “I care… I mean, you…”
He didn’t complete the sentence. Her mouth found his, softly and gently, her lips brushing his lightly, then forceful and insistent, her tongue searching his mouth. They embraced hungrily as she pulled him closer, savoring the sweetness.
They parted, breathless, and he planted tiny kisses on her face, her cheeks, and then back to her mouth, lingering, and then moving to her ears and neck, his hands roaming her body, brushing her breasts. Their breathing became labored, hurried and frantic, a tingling warmth traveling through their bodies and into their loins.
York nudged her to stand, and led her to the bed.