The Swiss Courier: A Novel (19 page)

“You got that right. Time to scoot out of here.” Emil motioned to Hans to help him secure the load once again.

Minutes later, they swung onto Karlsruherstrasse. Emil didn’t downshift when he pulled onto the shoulder, choosing to accelerate past the burning hulks and bloodied bodies. He barely glanced at the old soldier and his young companion as they passed, thankful he didn’t have to be the one who pulled the trigger.

In less than a minute, the sandstone buildings gave way to countryside, and they made good time toward Leimen. Their safe house was a half hour away on a farm tucked away from the main roads.

Emil drove in silence and reflected on their close call. He wondered who the man they carried was, and why this scientist was so important. But their part of the journey was almost over.

The next leg to Switzerland would be far more difficult, Emil judged, and soon the
how
or
why
or
who
would no longer matter. Tomorrow he’d be given another equally difficult task, and Joseph Engel would become someone else’s problem.

The message was actually easy to translate. This time, there weren’t any strange words like “radiation,” “isotopes,” or “uranium” in the communiqué.

Gabi peered at the original dispatch—in German Teletype— then at her legal pad, where she had written out a translation in preparation for typing. The memo’s contents floored her, but in the presence of the Bern courier—and the omnipresent Frau Schaffner—she retained a professional coolness.

Gabi regarded her handwriting one more time:

Rescued Joseph Engel from Gestapo. Working on a “wonder weapon” project with Dr. Heisenberg at University of Heidelberg. Gestapo uncovered birth information showing that Engel was born to Jewish parents, but parents both died in 1918 from flu epidemic just after his first birthday. Adopted by a Berlin family and raised Christian. Life presently in danger.

Believe Engel has information vital for war effort. Must fall into American hands. Being driven to Location 3 this morning. Await your instructions for Switzerland insertion—Gideon.

The English word for
Wunderwaffe
. . . the literal, word-for-word translation was “wonder weapon.” What did that mean? Did the Wunderwaffe reference have something to do with the “buzz bombs” slamming London neighborhoods?

The buzz bombs were the first set of futuristic “rockets,” as Gabi recalled reading in the German press, and they’d devastated entire civilian apartment blocks during the month of June and portended a new way that war would be waged in the future. Or, at least, that’s what Hitler’s propagandists were predicting.

Gabi also noted the possible symbolism between the contents of the message and the name choice that the author gave himself. She searched her memory and recalled one of her father’s sermons about Gideon—a man revered as one of the greatest judges in Israel. Since this Israelite warrior was a strong opponent of the Baal cult and conqueror of the Midianite oppressors, perhaps this modern-day “Gideon” viewed himself as someone standing up to National Socialism’s oppressive regime.

Gabi turned to the courier, an earnest young man about her age. “Do you want this translation typed out in duplicate?” she asked in Swiss-German.

“No. I was told by Frau Taylor in Bern that wouldn’t be necessary,” he replied.

Gabi nodded and poised her forefingers above the home keys of her black typewriter. In less than three minutes, she finished keystroking the last sentence of the two-paragraph message. She advanced the carriage several times until the single sheet of bond paper gingerly released in her hands. After properly folding the sheet into thirds, she slipped the paper into a U.S. Embassy envelope and handed it to the courier. He, in turn, reached into his leather valise for his inkpad and rubber stamp. Then as Gabi watched, the courier turned over the envelope and stamped one time where the pointed flap met the envelope.

“Thank you, Fräulein. I have a train to catch.”

“Any time.” She smiled, hoping he couldn’t see in her gaze any hint of the questions that filled her mind about the “wonder weapon.”

That didn’t take long.

Jean-Pierre had been catching up on the latest war news from the
Basler Nachrichten
while hanging around the kiosk vis-à-vis the OSS office. Allen Dulles had asked him to meet the courier kid at the Basel SBB train station and keep an eye on the young charge.

“She was cute,” the courier remarked to Jean-Pierre after exiting the OSS office. “Didn’t catch her name, though.”

“About 165 centimeters, straight blonde hair pulled back, apple-cheek complexion?” Jean-Pierre knew all the “girls” in the Basel OSS office—at least by sight—but this one . . . she was something special. “I imagine she caught your fancy?”

The gangly courier’s nod was quickly followed by a mischievous grin that creased his face.

“So you were in the company of Gabi Mueller. She turns a lot of heads. Some farmer is sweet on her, but from what I’ve seen, I’m not so sure she’s on board.”

“Maybe she’ll have a coffee with me the next time I have to make a trip.”

“Take a number, my friend.” Jean-Pierre looked at his watch. “Listen, if we get moving, you can make the 12:15 to Bern. No reason to wait around an extra half hour if we don’t have to.”

The Basel SBB train station was ten minutes away by foot, south on Schützengraben. Jean-Pierre deposited the courier into a second-class rail car, bid him off, and returned to the kiosk—just in time to catch Dieter Baumann leaving the OSS office building.
Perfect timing
. Allen Dulles had asked him to shadow the Swiss operative, and on this first day of surveillance, Baumann was already on the move. Since it was lunchtime, he was probably going out to eat like many Baslers enjoyed doing.

Jean-Pierre lost himself in the midst of hundreds filling the sidewalks during the noontime hour. Baumann, he noticed, never looked over his shoulder, never changed his cadence, and never stopped in front of window displays to glance sideways.
Sloppy fieldwork
. Jean-Pierre planned on noting these tendencies in his report to Bern.

He tracked Baumann to the elegant entrance of the Globus department store, where Jean-Pierre figured he was taking an elevator to the penthouse restaurant. That is, if he was having lunch.

“I would like the
Rösti
with onions,” Gabi informed the waitress. Anything on the menu with meat—like the flavorful
Speck
—was frightfully dear and beyond her modest salary. She hoped the pan-fried potatoes would be cooked in butter rather than greasy oleomargarine, but even better restaurants like the Globus café were forced to deal with wartime rationing.

“I’ll have the same,” Dieter ordered. “And if you could cook our
Röstis
in butter, please.”

The waitress finished scribbling the orders. “That will be an extra charge, sir.”

“I understand.” Dieter closed his menu and handed it to the waitress, who—in the same motion—set a checker-weave basket filled with chunks of
Pariserbrot
on the table. Dieter motioned for Gabi to take the first piece.

She opened the red-and-white-checked cloth hoping to find pats of butter along with the bread. Gabi sighed as she set a slice on a small serving plate.

“Disappointed?”

Gabi didn’t want to sound ungrateful, especially since Dieter had asked that their Röstis be cooked in butter instead of that awful margarine. “I was just hoping for a dab of butter with my bread.”

Dieter reached for a slice of Pariserbrot. “I’m fortunate that I like my bread natural. Unless, of course, I have a cream sauce or olive oil and pepper to dip it into. Maybe you should try that sometime. It’s not half bad.”

“You sound just like my father. And you’re both right . . . I know I have nothing to complain about.”

“Well, even if you do complain, perhaps the war won’t last much longer.” Dieter winked at her. “Things are looking better on a lot of fronts. From what the newspapers are saying, the tide has turned—the Allies are threatening to break out of the Normandy box any day. If that happens, the Germans might not be able to hold the Low Countries or even Paris. After that, who knows what could happen?”

Gabi chewed in silence, wondering if Dieter Baumann would continue to hold court. Instead, he posed a question.

“Have you thought about what will happen when the war is over? I don’t mean in a geopolitical sense, but what will the war’s end mean to you, Gabi Mueller? What will you do?”

Gabi wiped her mouth with her napkin, a reflex motion that gave her a few extra moments to collect her thoughts. “Actually, I’ve been thinking a great deal about the future. When the last shot has been fired, the world will be a different place, that’s for sure. I think I want to find out what the world has in store for me. Maybe even go to America.”

Dieter registered surprise.

“Maybe that didn’t come across right,” she said. “What I mean is that working for the OSS has opened my horizons. Given me more possibilities. Maybe I’ll go explore them.”

“You’d really move to America?”

Gabi sensed that Dieter was genuinely interested. “I’ve been to the States just once, when I was twelve. Dad was asked to speak at a couple of church conferences. It took us nearly two weeks to travel from Basel to Chicago, where Dad spoke, and then to Wisconsin, where we visited my cousins. They were so nice! Maybe if I were to go work in Washington or New York, I’d be able to see them again.”

“Well, that U.S. passport gives you options that many people don’t have, including me.”

“That’s what I was thinking. My dad always teases me that he won’t be able to keep me down on the farm after working for the Americans.”

“Like translating messages marked Top Secret. So, how did it go this morning?” Dieter cocked an eyebrow.

Gabi remembered the courier’s explicit instructions not to discuss the contents with anyone—including those in her office.

“Oh, fine,” she replied airily. “I can’t discuss what was in the message, though.”

“I wasn’t expecting you to, Fräulein Muell—Gabi. Nobody understands better than me that there are certain things we have to keep secret from others, even those we work with.” Dieter reached for a sip of Henniez water. “That’s why what I’m about to tell you must stay between us. Do you understand?”

Gabi hesitated. The directness in Dieter’s speech was a departure from their friendly colleague-to-colleague discussion. She opened her mouth to answer, and then closed it again, unsure of how to respond.

“Sorry—I didn’t mean to startle you.” Dieter smiled. “What I mean to say is that something has come up—an opportunity, you could say—that only Mr. Dulles and myself know about. In fact, he asked me to involve only you in this mission, should you choose to accept it. No one else in the office is to know a thing, which is why I asked you to meet me at this restaurant.”

Gabi leaned forward to listen.

“All I can tell you is that this assignment would be dangerous . . . it takes place in Germany.”

“Germany? In the middle of a war? We have no protection there!”

“I know. That complicates things if—how shall I say it?— the situation does not have a positive outcome. But don’t worry, we’ve taken steps to minimize the risk. You and I would leave Switzerland in the morning and return to homeland soil before dinnertime. The only other thing I can tell you is that the mission is of vital interest to the Allied war effort. Lives hang in the balance.”

Gabi reached for her Henniez and took a sip. Here was another chance—a bigger opportunity—to make a difference. Her chest warmed with the thought that Mr. Dulles thought she was up for the job—and Dieter did too. “So you’re saying that you can’t tell me exactly what’s involved until I say yes?”

Dieter beamed as he fiddled with his bread. “I always knew you were a fast learner. That’s why I like you so much.”

Gabi blushed. “Does it involve breaking into a safe?”

“Yes. That much I can tell you.”

“Then I’m your girl.”

Sturmbannführer Bruno Kassler, with Corporal Becker on his heels, walked past the nurse’s station without breaking his stride. His hobnail boots clacked on the linoleum floor in precise military measure.

“Make a left. He’s in Room 14.” Becker pointed toward the long hallway.

The hospital corridor smelled of lemon-scented disinfectant and a trace of urine. Kassler involuntarily wiped his nose with the back of his hand, then set his mind on weaving through the steady traffic of white-coated doctors and nurses coming his way. He narrowly missed brushing shoulders with a studious doctor reading a clipboard in his left hand.

Becker stopped him in his tracks. “This is his room, sir.”

Kassler rapped the white door with his knuckles, then entered without waiting for a reply. He did, however, remove his black cap and place it under his left arm—a sign of respect for a wounded soldier.

“Heil Hitler!” Kassler bellowed, his right arm slanted at the perfect, practiced angle.

Privat Grüniger lamely raised his bandaged right arm ninety degrees. The rest of his upper torso was swathed in gauze. “Heil Hitler,” he mumbled.

“I see you got into a bit of a scrape with the Yanks.” Kassler returned his cap to his head and crossed his arms over his chest. “The cowardly swine will pay, I can assure you. But first, a few questions about the air attack.” The Gestapo chief nodded toward Becker, a signal for his assistant to take notes. “Can you tell me what happened?”

The private didn’t hesitate. “Captain Hauptmann and I had been on routine patrol since 0700 in response to the red-alert security directive our commanding officer received during the night. We observed a farmer’s truck leave the main road just before the last security checkpoint in southern Heidelberg.”