In Satan's Shadow (26 page)

CHAPTER 52

For the first time since his arrival in Berlin, York was alone in the intelligence office where he did his translating, with no one perched outside, watching the building. He was immediately suspicious, alert because of Faber’s arrest, and uncomfortable he was in a situation that was different than ever before.

He tended to his newspaper, the
Liverpudlian
, and started working his way through the personal ads. He had translated for almost thirty minutes, hurrying through the paper, when the door opened and a lieutenant entered, a man he had never before seen.

York rose and saluted.

“Sit down,” the officer said. “Continue with your work.”

“Thank you, sir.”

“When were you wounded?” the officer asked.

“A year ago, sir. In North Africa.”

“Really?” the officer asked. “With the Afrika Corps?”

York felt the hairs rise on the back of his neck. The officer’s demeanor was stern, questioning. It was an interrogation. “Yes, sir.”

“Who was your commander?”

“Colonel Dorfmann,” York said, not knowing if a man by that name even existed.

The officer thought for a moment, rubbing his chin. “No, I don’t know him. I was there in ‘41. But I suppose many men have come and gone. How were you wounded?”

“A rifle shot to the shoulder. Machine gun to the left leg.” He pointed to the cane. “I’m still convalescing.”

“Really?” the officer said with disbelief. “After a year?”

“Yes, sir.”

“I would think there was something you could do at the front. Can you cook?”

“Yes, sir.”

“And you can drive, I assume?”

“Yes, sir.”

The officer eyed him closely, studying him. “You are Sergeant Michael Becker?”

“Yes, sir.”

The officer wrote his name on a piece of paper. “Carry on, soldier,” he said, starting for the door. He then turned, an arrogant sneer on his face. “I think you can carry a gun, or at least drive an ambulance, or maybe cook for our glorious soldiers on the Russian Front. I’ll make sure you get that opportunity.”

*

Even though it was a chilly day, York walked to a planned meeting with Max. He wore a heavy coat and scarf he had purchased from a local clothing store when the weather got colder, but still shivered a bit when the breeze blew. The damp air caused his leg to stiffen, masking prior improvements, and he found himself leaning more heavily on his cane.

There were fewer pedestrians on the pavements now that winter approached. Those on the street had a reason for being there, no one strolled aimlessly or paused to study merchandise in shop windows. It was too cold. The birds were fewer, slowly disappearing as they journeyed south, and Amanda’s camera now captured inanimate objects: buildings and bridges, bare trees, and dying flowers.

York was a few blocks from the hotel when he glanced over his shoulder, making sure he wasn’t being followed. A man attracted his attention, moving at the same pace, barely a block behind. He was short and stocky, wore a black coat and hat, and had a round face with circular glasses. He seemed innocent enough. But something about him piqued York’s interest.

He wasn’t sure how long he had been there, but he did notice that the man was more focused on him than his immediate surroundings. He didn’t look at other pedestrians, ignored passing traffic, and sped by shop windows with barely a glance.

York searched his memory, wondering if he had seen the face before, near his hotel or at the cemetery, or even at any of his meeting places with Max or Amanda. He couldn’t recall, not that he would have remembered. There were a lot of short, stocky men with glasses in Berlin.

York was worried, wondering what he might have missed. He had to determine if the man was a threat. He paused mid-block to cross the street, waiting until the traffic subsided. When a streetcar approached, he hurried in front of it, knowing it would delay the man behind him.

Once he was halfway down the block, he saw that the man had crossed the street when he had, ahead of the streetcar and half a block sooner. He was still in pursuit, the distance equal, the pace constant. His face maintained the same impassive stare, seeing nothing to the right, nothing to the left, only continuing onward, intent on pursuing his prey.

York was alarmed, knowing there was little likelihood of coincidence, little chance they were destined for the same location or had left from the same starting point, moving at the same pace. He paused, stopping to look in the window of a pastry shop, pretending to study the sweets displayed. When he turned slightly, he could see the man in his peripheral vision. He had also stopped, and was looking in the window of a jewelry store.

York knew he had to elude him. At the next cross street, he turned right. He was still in route to meet Max, but straying from his original path. After a few minutes passed, he again looked over his shoulder. The man was no longer there. York quickened his pace, leaning heavily on his cane, pushing forward. Twenty meters down the street, he turned again. The man appeared, hurrying around the corner.

Now there was no question; York was certain he was being followed. But it didn’t make sense. The man was too obvious, not very good at what he was doing. It almost seemed like he wanted York to know he was there.

York continued in the general direction of his meeting with Max, but wandered a bit. He made a left at the next cross street, and then a right. The man was still there. York varied his pace, walking slower, as if his leg was bothering him, and then speeding up, as if it wasn’t. The man was undeterred.

At mid-block York turned abruptly and ducked into a café. He dawdled, studying the cakes and kreppels, letting an attractive woman go in front of him in line, chatting with the cashier.

He bought a cup of coffee, lingered a moment more looking at a chocolate cake. He glanced at the back of the café, searching for a rear exit, but didn’t see one. He looked at his watch and, after wasting five or six more minutes, he came out of the building.

York casually looked up and down the street, but saw no sign of the man. He looked at nearby shops, peered in the windows of those he could see, and saw nothing suspicious. That didn’t mean the man wasn’t in one of them, hiding, watching from afar, but there was nothing he could do about that. He walked to the nearest cross street, looking in shop windows more closely, studying those that passed, wary of an accomplice that might pick up his trail, but noticed nothing unusual.

He stood on the corner, sipping his coffee, perplexed. It could have been a coincidence. The man was far too incompetent to have really been following him. But York didn’t believe in coincidences.

He continued to his meeting with Max at the café on Kantstrasse, near his boarding house, constantly looking over his shoulder, warily watching those he passed. He arrived ten minutes late, ensuring he wasn’t followed the rest of the way. Max was waiting for him, standing on the pavement, talking to a grandmother pushing a baby stroller. That was just like him; he could chat with anyone like he had known them his entire life.

They chose to eat inside. The day had grown overcast, hinting of snow. They found a table near the front window and ordered lunch, potato salad and sausage with beer, watching pedestrians pass on the street, wary of anyone who posed a threat.

“I think I was followed on my way here,” York said softly once their waiter left and they could speak freely. “And a different officer came to the intelligence office today. He asked a lot of questions, took my name, and said he would reassign me to a post on the front.”

Max raised his eyebrows. “Gestapo?”

York shook his head. “I’m not sure about the officer at the intelligence office, but not the man following me. He was too inept to be Gestapo.”

“Don’t be so sure,” Max warned. “Maybe the one following you wanted you to know he was there. Just to rattle you, force you to make a mistake. And I think it’s interesting that an unknown officer shows up at military intelligence and challenges you, then someone follows you a few hours later.”

“I don’t know,” York said. “Maybe it’s all a coincidence.”

“Not likely,” Max said warily. “Best keep an eye out. We don’t want any mishaps.”

“We already have one.”

“Why? What happened?”

“Gerhard Faber was arrested Saturday night, although neither Amanda nor Erika knew why. I don’t know if he slipped up, or if the entire quartet is under surveillance.”

“That makes the man that followed you even more disturbing,” Max said with annoyance. “Add the officer at military intelligence into the mix, and I think the Krauts are on to you.”

“Agreed,” York said grimly.

“We’ll probably never know what happened to Faber. He did need money badly, the way the mistress was draining him. And he may have been selling information to the Russians, too.”

“I should have paid what he wanted,” York said with remorse.

“I’m not sure about that,” Max said. “Whatever you paid, it wouldn’t have been enough. He was trying to impress the woman. I’ve been in the same situation myself.”

York smiled, thinking of Max’s past. “I haven’t gone back to the drop yet. It’s probably being watched. I’m sure the Gestapo tortured Faber to get the location.”

Max was quiet for a moment, thinking. “If they weren’t watching it already. Maybe that’s how he was caught. But plans for the rocket internals are very valuable.”

“I’m worried that if Faber was being watched, the Gestapo might be looking for me.”

“It’s possible, especially given your visitor this morning. But I think it’s more likely that Faber sold information to someone else, a double agent or informant. That’s still not a reason to risk going back to the cemetery, but it is something to consider.”

York didn’t want to take the chance, but he knew how important the rocket diagrams were. Maybe he’d go to the cemetery and see if the drop was under surveillance. If it wasn’t, he’d get the plans.

“Did you meet Erika’s Jews?” Max asked abruptly.

“There weren’t any Jews,” York said, still moved by what he had found in Erika Jaeger’s house. “Only handicapped children, mentally challenged.”

Max yawned, far less interested. For some reason the Jews intrigued him, mentally challenged children did not. “Do you still intend to get them out of Germany? Seems a waste, only being children and all.”

“Yes,” York said, puzzled by his apathy. “They’re people, too.”

He shrugged. “It’s up to you. I am finalizing a route through my informant. It’s one of the escape paths the Nazis will take if the war goes badly for them. It’ll be a lot of back roads. Then all you need is a vehicle and petrol.”

“I solved the petrol problem. Amanda said she can get whatever I need.”

Max was perplexed. “Where does a violinist get petrol?”

York shrugged. “She really didn’t say. But I’ll find out once we’re ready to go.”

“You still need a vehicle, and you need a plan.”

York smiled smugly. “Actually, I think I have both.”

CHAPTER 53

Manfred Richter sat in his office at the Reich Chancellery, maps and financial reports scattered across his desk. He had established a series of safe houses to support routes through France and into Spain, others to Switzerland, and more through Austria and into northern Italy. Alternate routes were developed northward, across the Baltic Sea and into Sweden and Norway, and he was working on a new route that wound through Greece and then across the Mediterranean to Syria and Egypt.

He sighed, reflecting. It had been difficult getting Bormann to approve his plans. There was a constant demand for revisions and alternatives, secret routes known only to a handful, but eventually he had been satisfied. Then they had delicately briefed the Fuhrer, presenting the option not as a retreat, but as a counterattack, an expansion of the global conflict to other continents, strengthening the Reich. He had even gone to Hitler’s headquarters in East Prussia, remaining there for two weeks while the final details were settled, ensuring each trivial comment was addressed, guaranteeing perfection.

The escape routes hinged on the ports: Genoa, Barcelona, Stockholm, potentially Athens. Once a port was reached, transportation could be arranged on freighters or, in some cases for the more elite, through a secret rendezvous with Nazi submarines. Escapees could reach the satellite locations identified as hubs for the new Fourth Reich: Buenos Aires, Cairo, Asunción, and Damascus. He had worked with industrial leaders and Party officials, ensuring those that made the Third Reich great had a presence in each location, and the desire and ability to make the Fourth Reich even greater. Now with the development of the network in its final stages, he needed to consider his own future.

He knew his journey depended on the state of war at the time he evacuated. But he also knew that the future of the Third Reich was becoming increasingly more precarious. With the Russian army advancing daily from the east, and Allied armies entrenched in Italy and threatening invasions on multiple fronts, he must be nimble enough to choose a safe route with very short notice. In his favor, as creator of the process, was familiarity with all of them. And he had front line privileges.

His final destination was more unsettled. He was not as familiar to the Allies as the Nazi elite, those that visibly ran the Third Reich, from military strategies to governing conquered territories, from slave labor to extermination camps. But he knew he was just as culpable as they were, and he would likely receive the same treatment if captured: death by military tribunal. So if that meant leaving Germany a little earlier, when defeat was still in doubt, that’s what he planned to do. And he knew that the degree of anonymity he enjoyed would let him go anywhere, even to the United States or Canada, if he chose. The entire globe was his for the taking. He knew the routes, had the contacts and, most importantly, he knew where the money was and how to access it. He was a survivor; he always had been, and he always would be.

For emergencies, he already had Argentinian passports for himself and Kurt and Amanda. But now he had second thoughts about taking Amanda. He had already decided not to take Anna Schneider or Greta Baumgartner, or the brunette from the café he had just started seeing, or Hannah, or any one of the women in his life that served as an occasional diversion. He would probably only take Kurt. They could start new lives in an exotic location. South America and the Middle East both appealed to him; either could satisfy his needs and lifestyle. He just needed to make sure he accessed appropriate funds.

He knew Amanda’s public life as a violinist wasn’t compatible with a fleeing Nazi whose life depended on secrecy. His new world would be clandestine, quietly enjoying his successes without anyone knowing who or what he was. But that would never be acceptable to her; she lived to perform, to stand on a stage and entertain. So he had to decide what to do with her. He couldn’t take her, but he also couldn’t leave her.

He smiled, comfortable, because he was always in control. He left nothing to chance. There weren’t too many things that Amanda did that he didn’t know about. He had let her roam, on the leash he provided, but he could yank it back whenever he chose, even snapping her neck if he wanted to. Or he could let her walk away, thinking she was clever, thinking she had somehow escaped, when in actuality, he had let her go like a pet released to the wild. He found the whole scenario amusing.

Thinking about Amanda made him realize how little he had seen her. Maybe he would have dinner at home that evening; it might be nice to visit. And if Amanda still hadn’t accepted what their relationship had become and rebuffed him, he knew Hannah wouldn’t. He found the idea interesting. It would be entertaining to see how uncomfortable he could make Amanda.

He had been so busy finalizing the escape routes, finding the funding, validating their chance of success, involving leaders of industry, and gaining the approval of the Party, that he hadn’t had time for much else in his life. Now he intended to savor his success. Hannah was the perfect choice for his celebration. Or maybe Amanda, with some mild persuasion.

Manfred moved most of the papers to the edge of his desk, but took one map and marked a route from memory, using a black pen to identify back roads and small thoroughfares that led from Berlin to Switzerland. He made a detailed note where the border crossing was, using neat, deliberate printing to annotate his comments. Then he put the map on the edge of his desk, unfolded, and left the office, heading for home. He knew how happy Amanda would be to see him.