In Satan's Shadow (9 page)

CHAPTER 16

Manfred Richter sat in a conference room at the Reichstag, flanked by a group of leading industrialists. They represented the largest companies in Germany, all major contributors to the war effort and a large part of the nation’s economy. They were focused on two topics, labor and foreign investment, at a time and place dictated by the Nazi Party, represented by Manfred Richter.

The initial presentation, given by a representative from Friedrich Krupp AG, made a request for additional labor needed to meet increasing product demands. Richter listened intently, always courteous and polite, usually the first to offer a joke, but always aware of the extreme power he held, the resources he controlled. He could tell the industrialists were acting as a united front, a bargaining position of strength, but he didn’t really care. They would do what he told them to. He could be congenial, if he wanted to, or he could be demanding and dictatorial. It really didn’t matter. Ultimately, he would get what he wanted.

“How mobile are your production capabilities?” he asked, catching them off guard.

The answers varied, the businessmen wary and cautious. They knew Richter was cagey, and none wanted to over-commit and risk disappointing him or the Fuhrer.

“There are opportunities on the Russian border, the Ukraine, Latvia, Estonia, Lithuania. Build your factories, and you will have workers. The concentration camps, and the labor they provide, are also a possibility. Tell me how far from Germany you can economically manufacture and how soon you will be ready. And I will ensure you succeed.”

Several of the men exchanged wary glances. After Germany’s defeat at Stalingrad, the Russian theater was not as secure as it once was. A factory built in Latvia or the Ukraine could soon be under Russian control, especially if Germany didn’t start reversing recent losses.

“We think closer to the Fatherland, or slightly east, is most feasible,” one of the businessmen said delicately, wary of Russian advances.

If Richter understood the veiled meaning, he didn’t show it. He stood and paced the room as the discussion continued, his hands clasped behind his back. He liked to be in control.

“We also have to be safe from Allied bombings,” the executive from Friedrich Krupp AG reminded him.

“Then I suggest building new factories at concentration camps and prisoner of war facilities, or expand what you already have there. The labor is free and the Allies will never bomb them.”

The industrialists seemed relieved, a potential success path provided. They whispered among themselves before another self-appointed spokesman, an executive with the chemical giant IG Farben, offered a solution.

“Give us one week,” he said. “And we’ll provide desired locations.”

Richter turned and studied the man’s face, reflecting on the offer. “One week,” he said. “That’s fair. Now for the next issue on the agenda.”

He pointed to a map of the world that dominated one wall of the conference room. “Is everyone clear on where investments will be made overseas?”

Those in the room nodded. They knew nothing ranked higher on Richter’s priorities than this. They also knew that complete cooperation was expected.

Richter pointed to several countries around the globe, many in South America, others in the Middle East. “There must be funding centers from Germany to these locations. Each corporation will deliver their plans for expansion to me in one month. I expect them to be very detailed.”

He left the conference, got into his chauffeured sedan, and directed his driver to the home of the German State Radio. He entered the building, found the office of the program director, but was stopped by a receptionist.

“I’m sorry, sir. You need an appointment.”

Richter smiled, nodding politely. He would use his charm. If that wasn’t effective, he would use his temper. “I’m sure that’s normally the case. But as Vice Chairman of the Nazi Party, I don’t think it applies to me.” He handed her a business card.

She read the card and paled. “Yes, of course. Excuse me for just one moment.” She poked her head in the office door, spoke softly for a few minutes and then motioned him forward.

Richter entered the office to find an owl-like man behind a large desk cluttered with papers and records.

“Mr. Richter, what a pleasant surprise,” the man said. “I am Hermann Gunther, program director. How can I be of assistance?”

Richter muttered a greeting and handed the man a record. “Play this song, often and with enthusiasm. I expect many people to buy it once it airs.”

Gunther glanced at the label. The artist was Anna Schneider. He had never heard of her. “I’m not familiar with the singer,” he said hesitantly.

Richter smiled in the arrogant, superior way that power allows. “And what does it matter if you are familiar with the singer or not? I told you to play it. Nothing else should concern you.”

Gunther’s eyes widened, stunned by Richter’s attitude. He paused a moment, trying to carefully phrase his answer. “Between newscasts and music dictated by the state, we have little air time for popular music. Given that, I only accept the best.”

Richter’s face hardened. He leaned across the desk. “Maybe you misunderstood me. I told you to play this record, and to play it often.”

Gunther felt beads of perspiration forming on his forehead. “It’s not that simple,” he said delicately. “A panel of station experts must approve the record. We get many requests each week. From those submittals, we choose what will be played.”

Richter noticed a framed photograph on Gunther’s desk. It appeared to be his family, a lovely wife, two daughters, maybe teenagers, and a young son. He stared at Gunther with a meaningless smile, reached across the desk, and picked up the photograph. “Is this your family?” he asked.

Gunther paled, understanding the implications, the veiled threat that Richter appeared to be making. “Yes,” he said softly. “It is.”

“Very handsome,” Richter said, studying the picture. “I assume they’re serving the Fatherland?”

“Yes, of course,” Gunther said, stuttering. “My wife works in an armaments factory, my children are in school.”

Richter nodded, his smile fading. “That doesn’t seem to be enough,” he said casually. He put the picture back on the desk. “I think they could be doing more. How old are the children?”

Gunther paled and moved the photograph closer, as if by doing so he could protect them. He looked at Richter, his eyes wide. “I will do everything I can to accommodate you.”

“Mr. Gunther, it’s very important that you listen to me closely.” Richter paused, watching, letting his words weigh on the listener. “I told you when I came in, that this record will be played on your station, and with enthusiasm. I think you understand that perfectly, don’t you?”

Gunther was not a brilliant man, but he was smart enough to know when a battle was lost. “Of course, Mr. Richter,” he said, shocked and stunned. “I would be happy to honor your request. We can’t wait to play Miss Schneider’s record. I’m sure it will be very popular.”

Richter stood to leave. He shook Gunther’s hand, his polite smile returning, even though it wasn’t genuine. “I knew it would be a pleasure to do business with you, Mr. Gunther. Miss Schneider is a rising star. And that’s exactly how you will treat her.”

CHAPTER 17

Amanda Hamilton looked at York, her eyes wide, her mouth moving but producing no sounds. She glanced quickly in all directions, scanning the park to ensure no one was watching them, before her eyes returned to his. Another moment passed before she finally spoke.

“Are you trying to get yourself killed, Mr. Becker?” she asked, in German.

“No, I’m not,” he replied. “I’m trying to keep a lot of other people from getting killed.”

“And what do you want from me?”

He paused, trying to think of how to ease the tension. He didn’t want to end up like Kent. He smiled slightly, trying to disarm her.

“Continued conversations like we had at the café?” he asked, his eyebrows arched innocently.

“Somehow I think your interest goes beyond music.”

He sighed, studying her cautiously. “It does. Although I thoroughly enjoyed every word of our conversation.”

She tensed, her eyes fiery. “Why have you approached me like this? Who do you think you are?”

“As I said before, we have much in common.”

“You don’t even know me,” she argued. “Why are you putting me in such a precarious position?”

“It wasn’t my intent,” York said. And he meant it. He didn’t want her harmed. Even if she was at risk.

“Then what is your intent?” she demanded.

He decided to be honest. “Information,” he said simply.

“What makes you think I have any? And if I did, what makes you think I would share it with you?”

“You have a wealth of information,” he said. “You just don’t realize it.”

“I don’t know why you think so. I’m a musician and a photographer. I have access to no state secrets. If you think I’m privy to what my husband does, you’re mistaken.”

“It’s much simpler,” he explained. “Information can be the people you know, the parties you attend, conversations you overhear. All of that can be summed, glued together like the pieces of a puzzle. Thousands of lives could be saved as a result.”

“I am a German citizen. Why would I do that?”

“Because your heart and soul are Scottish.”

“I would never betray my husband.”

York wondered if she meant it, especially after the latest infidelity. But he decided not to challenge her. “You can set your own boundaries. Tell me as much or as little as you want.”

She studied him closely for a moment, calculating, assessing his offer. “I don’t need any complications in my life,” she said, a saddened glaze consuming her eyes. “I’m vulnerable right now, very fragile. You don’t understand.”

“Yes, I do. I understand perfectly.” He paused, wanting to continue but not knowing if he should. He decided to reveal some of what he knew, but not to mention her husband. He touched her arm lightly. “I’m so sorry about the baby.”

Her face showed shock, wondering how he knew. But then she remembered. The newspapers described the accident and the extent of her injuries. She searched his eyes for sincerity, as if she wanted desperately to be understood and appreciated, to feel the sympathy of another human being.

“Thank you,” she said softly.

He saw a green uniform approach through the trees, walking slowly down the cobblestone lane. It was the Ordnungspolizei, or Orpo, the Berlin police. His eyes widened, knowing the danger, and shifted towards Amanda.

She saw his expression and turned, just as the policeman rounded the corner and came towards them. She studied him a moment, watching as he approached, and turned to York.

He looked at her, pleading, as her eyes met his. He knew how easy it would be. All she had to do was stop the policeman. She could tell him anything, fact or fiction. And York would be as good as dead. He knew that. So did she.

The policeman walked slowly, strolling, whistling softly, studying the leaves on the trees and flowers in their beds, birds that sang, butterflies that fluttered across his path. He nodded to an elderly lady carrying a bag with fresh bread peeking from the top, chatted a moment, then continued towards them.

York watched Amanda eyeing him sternly, and realized she controlled his destiny. He was helpless. He waited, his eyes trained on hers, the seconds passing with agonizing slowness.

“Good morning,” the policeman said when he reached them. “What a beautiful day. I love this weather.”

Amanda kept her eyes locked on York’s. “I do, too,” she said. “Especially after the winter we had.”

“Summer is already here,” the policeman said, slowly moving away from them. “In a few more weeks, we won’t even remember winter.”

Amanda continued staring at York. When the policeman was out of earshot, she whispered: “See how easy it would be to destroy you. That’s what you need to think about.”

He knew she was right. But she didn’t betray him. Her actions, or lack thereof, spoke volumes. “Thank you,” he said.

She nodded. “A favor to a fellow musician. Don’t expect any more.”

He took a deep breath, knowing not to press her. She needed time to think. But while she did, he was totally exposed. Max might be right. She could be the Gestapo informant, even if she did let the policeman pass without saying anything. And if she wasn’t, she could still become one, as she just hinted.

“Why don’t you think about it for a few days? Meet me at the café on Monday. We can talk then.”

“And what if I choose not to? Is my life in danger?”

“No, of course not,” he said with disbelief. “Don’t be ridiculous. If you choose not to, we can still be friends. We just limit our conversations to music.”

She laughed lightly, blushing. “I’m not sure my husband would like that.”

“Then maybe we shouldn’t invite him,” York said, feigning indignation.

She shook her head slowly, a faint twinkle in her eye. “You are persistent,” she said, surrendering just a bit. “I will grant you that. I’m flattered. I really am. But I don’t think a friendship would be a very good idea.”

He ignored her, his mind wandering. “Are you really a good photographer?”

She shrugged, not expecting the question. “Some people think so. Above average, I suppose. I absolutely love it.”

He fingered the faded photograph in his pocket, reminiscing. “I have a favor to ask you. It’s about photography.”

Her interest was piqued. “What is it?”

He grinned. “I’ll tell you on Monday. That will give you some incentive to come.”

She watched him closely, fighting the urge to let her lips curl into a smile. “And what if I don’t come?”

“You’ll wonder for the rest of your life if we have the same interest in photography that we have in music.”

He turned and abruptly walked away, beads of sweat on the back of his neck.