Authors: John Anthony Miller
“Keep still,” a man whispered soothingly. “You’re in the hospital. You were in a train accident.”
She realized he was the doctor, and that the woman beside him was a nurse. She was exhausted, and struggled to keep her eyes open. When she tried to speak, to ask a question, she couldn’t. Her mouth was too dry. She turned her head to the adjacent bed and saw Erika, sleeping, a purple bruise spreading from cheek to temple. Then her eyes fluttered closed and, as much as she wanted to open them, she couldn’t.
The doctor turned to the nurse. “Try to contact her husband again. She may not live through the night.”
Manfred Richter was a handsome man, black hair graying at the temples, a bright smile, and a charming personality, which he usually leveraged to get his way. If unsuccessful, and his patience waned, a quick temper produced an evil, sadistic man who took pleasure in others’ pain. Given that combination, he almost always got what he wanted.
Guided by a Prussian father who was disciplined and domineering, critical and condemning, Manfred was an early devotee of Hitler. A persuasive speaker, he ensured the Fuhrer’s interests were always protected, his ideas developed, his visions created − no matter how demented they seemed. His devotion had not gone unnoticed, and his responsibilities had grown as the years passed. As Vice Chairman of the Nazi Party, he was a very public and powerful man. Yet few knew what functions he actually performed, which is exactly what he wanted. He was sinister and secretive, and one of Hitler’s most trusted disciples.
His suite at Hotel Abendstern was tasteful, but not elegant. The floral wallpaper was defined by crisp white crown molding, the parlor functional with a pleated leather couch and an oak coffee table, the feet made of hand-carved lion’s paws. A bottle of wine and two half-empty glasses, the first marred by lipstick, sat on the table beside a vase of roses, one of which was wilting.
He had only been there thirty minutes when the telephone rang. He ignored it.
Now he wondered if he should have taken it. Few people knew where he was: one of his aides, a friend who served as his alibi for the evening, and the hotel clerk, who was always discreet. But he was paid to be discreet.
The call could have been important. Maybe there was an emergency that needed his attention. He had tremendous responsibilities, and he shouldn’t ignore them. Why should he risk angering the Fuhrer, or those around him, just for a few hours of pleasure?
A briefcase leaned against the table leg, and he opened it, withdrawing a typewritten paper from a manila folder. Three columns, neatly spaced, provided dates, names and telephone numbers. It was a list of the aides in his office and who was on duty. He looked at the date and corresponding name. The man listed had earned his respect. If he was the caller, the message was important. Manfred considered calling him, but then decided not to.
He shrugged, and put the paper away. If it was that important, they would call again. He would answer the next time. His mind wandered to other issues, for a moment drifting to maps of the world with unusual routes and locations, the path that money takes in international transactions.
A nagging doubt prevented him from returning the briefcase to the floor. He withdrew one of the maps and unfolded it, muttering to himself. He grabbed a pencil and scribbled a note in the margin, capturing his thought.
He was blessed with a fabulous memory, and easily remembered rivers and routes, cities and sanctuaries, battles and ballistics. He never forgot names or faces; he catalogued strengths and weakness, and he could exploit any adversary, making them do what he wanted with minimal persuasion. He remembered all of his enemies, knowing there was little likelihood they would ever be friends.
“Is everything all right, darling?” asked Anna Schneider, a local cabaret singer. Blond with a hint of darker roots and lavishly made up, most would consider her attractive, even if a bit too salacious for Berlin, especially given the current environment.
“Yes,” he muttered, putting the map back in his briefcase and returning it to the floor. “I just wanted to make some notes.”
“Can’t you forget about that for a few hours?” she asked, miffed that she didn’t have his attention.
“I’m sorry,” he said, casting her a smile. “How could I possible think about maps with such a beautiful woman sitting beside me?”
“What was the map of?” she asked, curious.
“South America.”
She looked at him strangely. “All of Berlin is talking about the Russian Front, but you’re making notes on a map of South America.”
“It’s a military issue,” he said tersely. “I’m sure the details would bore you.” He smiled again, his eyes twinkling, his hand moving to stroke her hair.
She gave him a quick kiss, unable to resist his charm, then sipped her wine. “Who do you think was calling?”
“I’m not sure,” he said tentatively. “But I probably should have answered. Not many people know I’m here. Now I wonder who it was. I keep thinking about it.”
“I can distract you,” she said with an alluring pout. “It won’t take much effort.”
He smiled, kissed her lightly on the cheek and then moved his lips to the lobe of her right ear, gently taking it into his mouth. He traveled to her neck, planting tiny kisses, drinking the scent of her perfume. His fingers caressed her shoulder, trailed to her breast, and lightly teased her nipple though the fabric of her dress. He was interrupted by the phone ringing.
“Don’t answer it,” she said.
He hesitated. “I had better. That’s the second time.”
“It can’t be that important. I’m sure the world isn’t ending.”
“It could be something for the Fuhrer. I have to answer.”
She sighed and rolled her eyes. “Manfred, it’s just as hard for me to get away as it is for you. Let’s not waste the evening on the telephone.” To punctuate her statement, she brushed her fingernails across his chest, down his torso, and lightly across his thigh.
He sighed and leaned back on the couch just as the ringing stopped. “You’re right,” he said. “Why waste an opportunity?”
He turned to face her, his lips finding hers. He kissed her, lightly at first and then hungrily, his hand roaming her body, caressing her tenderly before finding a home on her thigh, just below the hem of her dress.
The telephone rang again.
Anna pulled away from him, frowned, and glanced at her watch. “You may as well answer it. It won’t stop ringing until you do.”
“It must be important,” he said firmly.
He rose from the couch and walked to an octagonal table against the wall. He picked up the phone, looking out the window at Stuttgarter Platz, cobblestone streets, the trees lining the road, tiny buds on branches hinting of spring. Taxis and sedans passed below, merging with busses, a dozen bicycles, and a streetcar, while a handful of pedestrians strolled along the pavement, some pausing to look in shop windows.
“Yes,” Richter asked, the receiver in his ear.
He listened, not speaking, his face firming, the muscles of his cheeks tightening. “Yes, yes of course. I’ll get there as soon as I can.”
He put the phone in the cradle and turned to Anna Schneider. “I’m sorry, darling. I have to go. It’s an emergency.”
Basel sat on the Swiss border, the Rhine separating both the city and its neighbors, France and Germany. Michael York wandered through the city streets after winter turned to spring, walking to Marktplatz where he enjoyed the Swiss architecture: brick and stone arches, French doors that led to baroque balconies, and an onion-shaped dome hinting of Russia in the shadow of the Alps. It was a beautiful city and, with the weather warming, the square was alive with people enjoying the sun, regardless of how weak it might be. They stopped at vendors’ carts for books and pastries and vegetables, or stared in shop windows at clothing, housewares, and cuckoo clocks.
He stopped at an antique shop and looked in the window, studying a cane that leaned against a roll-top desk. It was oak, the hand-carved stem depicting a vine that traveled the length. Topped with a gnarled, tee-shaped handle, one side longer than the other, it was designed for a hand to comfortably hold.
Although he could manage without a crutch or cane, limping severely and leaning to his right, he was intrigued. The cane was unusual. And it was something he could use, something he needed. More interesting, he had never seen anything like it before.
He walked into the store, finding an elderly man with a broom-bristle moustache sitting behind the counter, his head bowed, focused on a woodcarving that sat before him. York walked in, waited politely until he looked up, and then nodded.
“Excuse me,” he said, the soft German accent influenced by his Austrian mother. “I’m interested in the cane in the window. Is it really a weapon?”
The man rose, briefly stretching a back that ached from stooping and rubbing eyes strained from tedious work. “Yes, it is. It’s unique. A pistol and a knife. It’s English, actually. Decades old.”
As they walked to the display, he first noticed York’s limp. “And it’s functional,” he added. “Oak. Very strong.”
He took the cane from the window display. “It’s ingenious. The barrel is the longer side of the tee. Underneath the handle, you’ll find a metal lever, the trigger, and a tiny brass latch, the safety. Move the latch, point the handle, pull the lever, and the shot is fired. It only holds one bullet at a time. The new round is loaded from the other end.”
“Do you have ammunition?”
“Only one package of twelve bullets.”
“Can I see it fire?”
“Are you interested in buying it, or are you just curious?”
“If it works properly, and fires like any other gun, I will buy it.”
“Then come to the back. I will show you.”
The shopkeeper led him to the rear of the store, a storage room cluttered with shelves and boxes. There was an archery target lying on the floor, composed of dense hay. He leaned it against the wall and moved about three meters away. He showed York the mechanisms, and fired.
York was surprised by the power. It was loud; there was no disguising that a gun had discharged. The acrid stench of sulfur tinged the nostrils; a puff of gray smoke drifted from the barrel. The bullet pierced the target and imbedded in the stone wall.
“Perfect,” York said, awed by the design. “I’ll take it.”
“Wait,” the man said. “There’s more. If you move this catch and twist, the top handle comes off.” The man showed him, sliding the catch to one side. The stem fell to the floor, revealing a thin stiletto. The shopkeeper smiled wryly. “If the shot misses, you can surely do some damage with this.”
*
A week later, well after dark, York walked towards the Basel rail terminal, two stone towers with an arched dome connecting them, neo-baroque, graceful and balanced, marble statues adorning the roofline. He passed the building and remained in the shadows, studying the surroundings, and then furtively started down the track towards the German border.
He carried one large suitcase, all his belongings packed into it, the linings filled with Reichsmarks. Several one-carat diamonds were sewn into his clothes’ pockets, should he need more cash. He hobbled forward on his cane, carrying a leather satchel with more money tucked in the bottom, covered by books and personal effects.
His documentation was in order, the finest forgeries available, his German perfect, although hinting of an Austrian accent, and his limp genuine but mitigated by the cane, proving his cover as a veteran no longer able to serve. The photograph he always carried was in his shirt pocket, close to his heart. Just where it belonged.
Although most of the city was sleeping, he still had to hide from occasional beams cast by headlamps of approaching cars or trucks. He left the city center, the houses growing sparser, and continued along the tracks until he reached a large linden tree standing sentinel over carefully cultivated farm fields. This was the landmark Max had provided; it was where he would catch the train.
He waited in the darkness, eyeing his watch. It was close to midnight when he heard cowbells, and then the rustling of animals through the fields. A few seconds later a lantern lit the darkness, and two men were seen at the railroad, waving the light back and forth in the night.
The track begun to rumble, a light piercing the darkness, and a train whistle sounded from behind him. Seconds later the train appeared, its brakes squealing in protest, the massive line of cars gradually slowing.
The train halted feet before the cattle crossing. As York moved to the last car in the lengthy train, he could hear the conductor and engineer shouting at the farmer, telling him to get off the tracks. He slid underneath, removed a small flashlight from his pocket, and saw the door handle. He undid the catch, opened the door downward, and pointed the light into the car.
It was just as Max had described: a void among crates and cartons, two meters high and one meter square. He shoved his suitcase and satchel into the car, and then climbed in.
Seven minutes after it had halted, the train began to belch steam and slowly chug forward. Minutes later it was back to full speed, crossing the border into Germany and moving towards Freiburg.
York opened his suitcase and removed the German uniform. He changed clothes, the small flashlight clenched in his teeth, and then settled in for the journey. While he waited, he mulled over the information Max had offered on the Berlin String Quartet, provided by Kent, his predecessor. He had to find a spy among four potentials, one of whom was actually a Gestapo informant.
Amanda Hamilton was the most interesting. A British citizen anchored in Germany, her loyalties could lie anywhere, especially after her husband’s infidelity. Although it seemed their marriage had been saved, their relationship reconciled with a child on the way, York wondered if that was really the case. Was Amanda Hamilton trapped in Berlin, with no past or future? Could she be vulnerable, open to approach, especially if the hint of freedom was attached to it? He didn’t know. But he had to very carefully find out.
Erica Jaeger was also intriguing, primarily due to her need for money, always a strong motivator. She could be either a supplier of information or a Gestapo informant. Both paid well. He wondered what her political beliefs were, especially after losing her husband on the Russian Front.
Gerhard Faber, the patch on his left eye, was an enigma. A note on the back of his photograph claimed he needed money also, just like Erika Jaeger. What drove the need for money? Was it family? Or an addiction: gambling, alcohol, sex. Both Gerhard and Erika had to be approached with caution.
Albert Kaiser, the elderly cello player seemed least likely to betray his country or inform on those who might. He lived within his means, surviving on rental income and his salary as a musician, happily married with grown children. York decided to observe him carefully, but considered him the least dangerous.
Once he evaluated each candidate, he rated Erika Jaeger and Gerhard Faber the most dangerous, Amanda Hamilton the biggest mystery, and Albert Kaiser the one who required the least of his attention.
Two hours later, the train slowed, and then gradually stopped. York quickly slipped out, gathered his luggage, and closed the trap door. He slid out from underneath the train, surveyed the area as he brushed himself off and, after finding no one nearby, scrambled onto the loading dock.
As he walked into the terminal, he passed an elderly janitor pushing a broom across the floor. The man glanced at his German uniform and continued sweeping. York saw a policeman standing against the wall, sipping a cup of coffee, observing the few dozen people that wandered the terminal. York watched their reactions closely, but neither showed any suspicion.
He purchased a ticket for Berlin, via Stuttgart, sat in the terminal waiting room, and tried to relax. His train departed at five a.m., almost three hours away. His first test would come shortly; his identity papers must be flawless, and he must speak German with no accent.
Shortly after four a.m., he boarded the train with a handful of others. He chose a seat at the end of a car, with no one nearby. He put his luggage in the rack, keeping his satchel beside him.
He sat patiently, waiting with the other passengers. Five minutes later, the car doors opened and a Gestapo officer entered, his black uniform accented with a Nazi band on the left bicep. He moved down the aisle, inspecting passengers’ documentation, spending seconds with some, minutes with others.
The closer he came, the more anxious York felt. His mouth was dry, his heart beat faster, his stomach felt queasy. He took a deep breath, annoyed. How would he ever function in Berlin, the Nazi capital, if he couldn’t maintain his composure talking to a Gestapo agent that had no reason to suspect him of anything?
He forced himself to relax, looking out the window at the suburban landscape. A stone wall flanked the rail, with houses scattered beyond. A field lay on the opposite side, rising to a hill on the horizon, its peak purple against the rising sun. For a moment he was lost in thought, watching a black grouse, a red patch just above his eyes, sitting on the wall, studying the train.
“Papers, please,” the Gestapo officer said.