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THE ROPES BIT INTO my wrists as I struggled against them. A dark figure loomed in the corner, sniggering at my hopeless exertion. The red tip of the cigarette burned bright as he sucked in the tobacco, and smoke slithered out his nose like an escaping soul. He stepped into the circle of light emanating from the old oil lantern and leaned toward me. Captain Müller’s breath brushed my cheek.
“Now it is your turn, fräulein,” he sneered, then pulled the cigarette from his mouth and pressed it against my flesh.
I screamed and screamed, pushing at the figure.
“Lily, wake up! It is okay, you’re safe. You are safe.”
I drew out of the depths of the nightmare to find strong hands at my shoulders and a dark figure above me.
“Ch-Charlie? Is that you?”
Warm arms wrapped around me and my face buried into a familiar chest. The lingering nightmare’s aroma of cigarettes dissipated as his musky scent enveloped me.
My fingers gripped his biceps with relief. “Charlie, oh, thank God, it is you. I was back in that filthy room, tied to that chair,” I babbled.
I’d spent the last week working hard, staying up late, and falling into bed exhausted, which had probably kept the nightmares at bay.
“Shh, it’s okay. You are safe. I’ve got you. I’ll keep you safe.” He rocked me and mumbled the soothing inanities. “They will never touch you again.”
Even as he spoke the comforting words, I realized the reason for the nightmare likely stemmed from my upcoming mission. A mission that Charlie was not privy to. Jake had been told that my plans were changed and I wouldn’t be catching a ride with him in the morning. Feinberg, sworn to secrecy, was spending his last night bunked with the RAF pilot.
I’d lied to Charlie in the past, and it had caused a gulf between us, which had yet to be fully repaired. He had treated me with cordial respect since I found the St. Christopher medal, and a few times I’d caught him staring at me with an unfathomable look, but he’d been called up to regimental HQ and we’d not gotten time alone again. Our conversation remained unfinished. If we were to get back on track, I simply could not hide the truth from him again.
“Charlie, there is something I must tell you.”
“Sh, I’m sure whatever it is will keep until morning.”
“No.” I pushed him away. “It won’t. I’m leaving at oh-six-hundred on another mission.”
He ran a finger through my colored locks. “I wondered what inspired the new style.”
“I didn’t want to leave without saying goodbye.”
“Where are they sending you?”
I chewed my lip. “I don’t want to lie to you anymore.”
“You are going back in?” He frowned.
I sighed.
“Jesus. You know we are moving closer every day. Why are they putting your life at risk? If they catch you...” He pulled me to his chest so tight I could hardly breathe.
“Charlie ... Charlie.” I tapped a shoulder and his arms relaxed from its smothering hold. “I can’t tell you more. But know it is important.” At least it’s important to the King of England. “And it shouldn’t take but a few days.”
“I don’t want you to go.” He ran a gentle finger down my cheek and across my chin. “Must you?”
His tender plea brought the sting of tears to my eyes. “Truly, the mission is not so dangerous.”
“I’m sorry. I know I shouldn’t have asked. I just...”
“Oh, Charlie—”
His lips came down hard upon mine, and I stroked the supple skin on his naked back, wishing I could stay cloaked by his warm body forever.
Charlie didn’t leave my bed that night. Our lovemaking wasn’t Paris’s languorous and tender coupling. It was desperate and unforgiving, between two people who had no more nights left. The desperation fueled our passion and he drove into me almost frantically, like he wanted to climb inside my soul. Little did he know ... he’d already done so.
♠♠♠♠
THE MEMORIES OF OUR joining taunted me as the train swayed, its repetitive motion mind-numbing enough to relax me into a false sense of security.
It turned out to be a good thing that we’d chosen a paratrooper, because we ended up having to make a jump. It was the easiest and quickest way to get us to Thonon les Bains, once a bustling tourist town on the edge of the Lac Léman, known on the Swiss side as Lake Geneva. Transporting into Switzerland by boat, crossing the frigid waters under cover of darkness cut out having to obtain or create another set of false papers to get into Switzerland. It would give the illusion we’d originated in country and hopefully keep us off the German intelligence radar. Switzerland housed a hotbed of spies from all sides, and new entries were monitored closely.
We picked up the visas to get us into Germany in Bern, Switzerland. The SOE had an office in Bern, and Blaus arranged for a package to be left at a prearranged dead drop. The package contained paperwork, codes for meeting our contact in Germany, and for identifying our RAF pilot. It was also in Bern where we caught the train to Zurich. From Zurich, we boarded a different train to take us north into German territory. Though Germany sent regular trains through Switzerland to provide supplies to their forces in Italy, few passenger trains traveled across the Swiss-German borders these days, and it was the reason our timeline had been so tight. We could not afford to miss the train going in, nor its return coming out.
It all sounded so easy when discussed in front of a roaring fire, sitting comfortably ensconced in a velvet chair. Now, in the relative luxury of a first-class cabin, watching the stark, snowy Swiss countryside streak past the window with the German border looming closer, I wondered if I’d been skillfully brainwashed back in France. How else could I justify agreeing to this cockamamie mission?
Feinberg tugged at his coat sleeves and shifted again. Normally, agents traveling on the same train didn’t sit together. My refusal to leave Feinberg, an untrained agent, on his own was part of the reason Blaus tied our cover stories together. If we’d been alone in the compartment, I would’ve provided words of reassurance. However, a gentleman in a natty brown coat and black fedora joined us during the Zurich stop, and our limited conversation, by nature, turned inconsequential. I pulled a copy of Neue Zürcher Zeitung, a Swiss newspaper, out of my large tote bag and offered it to my partner. He unfolded the paper without comment.
It wasn’t long before the landscape no longer soothed me, and I dived back into the bag to retrieve a copy of Buddenbrooks, by Thomas Mann, a novel I picked up at a shop near the train station. However, I soon found that I couldn’t concentrate on the bourgeois storyline, and my eyes scanned the pages without actually reading them.
A few differences stood out from the last time I was in country. First, I had the necessary papers for my return to Switzerland. I also carried the British pilot’s papers secreted within the lining of my bag. Second, a small white pill of cyanide nestled in a broach pinned to my dress. John had also been given one. Instead of keeping it in my handbag, I’d foolishly secreted the pill that I’d been given when I moved into the colonel’s home in the spine of a copy of Mein Kampf. Having no interest in repeating the mistakes of my last capture, I was confident I’d have the wherewithal to swallow the pill should it become necessary.
The drawback to our plan—the train didn’t stop immediately over the German border to release us close to our quarry. We couldn’t debark until Tuttlingen, overshooting our destination by eighty kilometers. We’d be forced to backtrack, and it put me far closer to Oberndorf than I would have preferred.
Barbed wire fencing flashed past the window. The train slowed and soon came to a halt. We had crossed the border. An SS Stormtrooper and dog stood outside our window. It only took a few minutes before the train began moving again, but I knew that didn’t mean we were safe. The stop allowed the German police to board. Officers would soon be visiting every car, checking IDs and visas and questioning passengers. Being in the forward cars of first class, it didn’t take long for the guard to get to our compartment.
The door slid open. “Ausweis und Fahrkarte, bitte.” Identification and tickets, please.
Brown suit handed his over and I retrieved mine from my handbag. Feinberg checked the interior pockets of his overcoat to no avail. He shot me a wide-eyed panicked look. I subtly patted my right hip before handing my papers to the waiting officer. The sergeant unbuttoned his overcoat and found the papers in his suit pocket. I could feel his breath against my cheek as he sighed in audible relief.
The officer asked what my business was, where I’d be staying, and when I’d be departing. The prearranged answers rolled off my tongue. My papers were stamped and returned, and I waited with bated breath as he turned to Feinberg. To my surprise, the sergeant’s hand didn’t quiver as he passed the documents over, and he answered all the questions in a flippantly bored tone without a single slipup. Satisfied with everyone’s answers, the guard remained no longer, allowing the compartment door to slam shut behind him as he left.
Feinberg didn’t make eye contact with me; instead he returned to his newspaper, snapping it up in front of his face in a businesslike manner, as though the entire incident was simply an annoying distraction to his day. He carried himself well, and though I wouldn’t have considered Feinberg handsome in the traditional sense, the suit gave him a confidence that made him attractive. You never would have guessed seventy-two hours ago this man looked like a ragged bum carrying a lethal weapon, and I had no doubt he could snap the policeman’s neck with one twist of his long fingers.
The train finally pulled in to the Tuttlingen station and we disembarked. A few passengers got off with us, and the platform quickly cleared of boarding travelers heading on to Stuttgart. The only people left were those exiting the train and a handful of SS Stormtroopers. One of them had a dog. Feinberg and I followed the tiny crowd, keeping our eyes straight ahead and walking with a swift gait. A guard patrolling the platform stopped the gray-haired woman in front of us and requested her papers. My stomach plummeted. Feinberg paused his steps, but I tucked my hand into the crook of his arm and, with a gentle pressure, got him moving forward. We ambled around the guard, to the end of the platform, and down the stairs unmolested. It would be bad news for us to be stopped and questioned here. Our tickets were paid through to Stuttgart, and we’d prepared reasons for getting off early, but it would be best not to interact at all.
The small crowd scattered as we reached the foot of the stairwell, but I paused until an older gentleman with a black hat and blue scarf made eye contact with me. Nonchalantly, I pulled a pair of green knit gloves from my pocket and put them on. Blue scarf lit a cigarette, then turned and walked down the street. We trotted behind at a distance while keeping him in our sights.
Footsteps dogged us and I loitered in front of a barbershop window to check for a tail. We waited for a dark-haired woman to pass us before continuing onward. The black hat turned right, and Feinberg increased his stride to catch up, but I tightened my grip to slow his gait. By the time we made the turn, blue scarf lingered halfway down the block. He glanced up, took one last drag, threw the cigarette down, and crushed the butt with the toe of his shoe. Again, we lost sight of him as he swiftly disappeared up a side alley.
I worked to keep my breaths even as we approached the flattened cigarette. This was one of the most dangerous moments in our mission. It was the moment when we determined whether or not the contact was still “our man” and not “theirs.” A beige Volkswagen Steyr sat silently on the road next to the butt. Feinberg reached for the door and held it open for me. I hesitated for a moment before climbing inside. The sergeant walked around the front of the vehicle and folded his long legs behind the wheel. One swift tug of the chrome handle on the glove box revealed the keys. I passed them to my partner and unfolded the map that had also been left in the box. His fingers shook so much he couldn’t get the key into the ignition.
I placed a hand upon his forearm. “Steady on, you are doing fine,” I whispered in German. English may have comforted him more; however, we’d agreed not to speak anything but German once we crossed into Switzerland. I wanted his mind and ear tuned to the language in hopes it would reduce the likelihood he’d make a mistake.
His inhalations were loud in the tiny vehicle. The engine roared to life, he shifted into gear, and we lumbered up the road. Due to strict fuel rationing, very few personal vehicles were on the roads. We passed Wehrmacht vehicles but only one other non-military car. As a matter of fact, I’d argued for the use of a horse and carriage instead of a car, but our time to fetch the injured pilot was severely limited by the train schedule, and I finally agreed a vehicle would be best. I prayed it wouldn’t be reported as stolen before we’d finished the mission.
An hour and a half later, we followed the road along the Albstausee, into the outskirts of Sankt Blasien, when the car began making a strange whining noise. The sergeant coaxed the vehicle to the promontory by the lake; however, a loud snap rent the air as the engine cut off.
“What do you want me to do first? Check on the engine or come with you?”
This mission required two people because we didn’t know how badly the pilot had been injured, if he was mobile, or if he’d need to be carried. “Stay here, check on the engine. I’ll meet up with the pilot and see what his condition is. If I need your help, I’ll come back. The signal is two whistles.”
My meeting place with the pilot was a little fudgy, represented only by a black splotch on the hiking trail. I’d been shown a photo and given a description of the British lord, but I had a feeling he wouldn’t be clean shaven and might look a bit worse for wear.
The snow dampened the sound of footfalls. A twig snapped and my eyes searched the gloomy forest, too reminiscent of my recent past. The hair on the back of my neck rose and I swung around, ready to meet danger head on. A blond man wearing a green Tyrolean fedora, black pants, and tan jacket with a red-banded swastika wrapped around his upper left arm stood a few meters away. It was a style of jacket oft seen worn by the Hitler youth, and though without the beard he looked young enough to possibly fit in with the university crowd, the strawberry-blond beard he’d acquired in the past weeks aged him a good five to ten years. A red-plaid scarf wrapped around his neck, and he leaned heavily on an ivory-headed cane.
“Guten Tag, ob es heute wohl regnet?” Good day, do you think it will rain today? I spoke the words with slow deliberation.
“Nein, es soll Schnee geben.” I think it will snow, he said with a cringe-worthy accent making the reply sound more like, “Nine, ist shole snee geebeen.”
Listening to the ridiculous words come out of the mouth of a man wearing such a uniform had me rolling my eyes. “Kommen, Sie mit.” Come with me.
He waved to our left, and I turned in time to see hunched shoulders and a woman’s dark coat retreating into the forest. I offered my elbow, but we limped along at such a painfully slow pace I ended up pulling his arm over my shoulder to take more weight off the injury. Finally, the car came into sight. My partner was not sitting in the front seat as I had hoped. The rear hatch was up.
I gave the agreed-upon bird whistle.
Nothing.
There were no other vehicles; however, there was a buzz of voices not far away. I whistled again, and to my relief, the hoot of an owl replied.
“Steig ins das Auto.” Get in the car. I helped the pilot climb into the back seat before going round to see what I could do to help the sergeant.
Feinberg had removed his overcoat, rolled up his sleeves, and was elbow deep in engine parts.
“Was ist los?” What is wrong?
“The belt is shot.” He held up a ragged strip of rubber.
“Can you repair it?”
“I tried. My own belt is too wide and the buckle won’t fit in the space. Are you wearing one?”
I shook my head. The clothes I’d been provided had no belts.
“We need something flexible that will fit around these two components.” He pointed to a set of round engine parts. “Or I’m afraid we’re stuck.”
“Wait here.” I hid behind a clump of brush to remove my stockings. Goose bumps rose as the cold wind bit into my bare legs. “Can you make do with this?”
His faced showed surprise, and I saw him momentarily glance down at my naked legs before retrieving the stockings. “As a matter of fact, I can.”
“I’ll be in the car.” I returned to the front seat to find our passenger had slouched down in the corner and stretched his injured leg along the back seat.
“What is the matter?” he whispered in English.
I shushed him and shook my head. A trio of chattering young bicyclists pedaled by as the back hatch shut with a clunk. Feinberg folded into the front seat, rubbing his hands on a filthy handkerchief, while we watched as the bicycles continued around the corner out of sight.
He didn’t say anything, and I think we both held our breath as he fired up the engine. A new squeaking noise had been added to our already loud vehicle, but the sergeant was able to engage the gears and pull out of the parking space. The “people’s car” could use a better muffler system.
Once we were toddling along the road from whence we’d come, I turned to our pilot and spoke in low tones. “Here are your papers. Memorize them. Keep them handy in one of your front pockets.”
“So, you do speak English! By gads, it’s good to see you. I’m Nigel—”
I cut him off. “No. Check your papers. Your name is Jean Degarmo. Learn it. Answer to it. The name Nigel will get you killed. My name is Gisele Sandmeier; this is Johann Kraus. If we get stopped, put on a blank face, and for goodness sakes, don’t open your mouth to say anything. Your German is atrocious.” Considering his utter lack of understanding and speaking the language, he’d been lucky I was the first one to find him wandering the hiking path. “Your file said you speak French, oui?”
“Oui.”
“Good. Speak nothing else. Johann is a Swiss banker and I am his assistant. He speaks only German; I speak both French and German. You are an intermediary for a steel company in Switzerland, your leg was injured in the recent bombing of Zurich. We are giving you a ride. Once we get back to the train station we will have to ditch the car and walk a bit. I hope you can manage.” I glanced at his leg. “Understand?”
“Oui.” He gave a boyish grin, but the car hit a pothole, jarring Nigel’s leg, and the smile disappeared to be replaced with a wince.
We passed another bicyclist before I continued in a muted voice. “There’s a package on the floor with new clothes befitting your cover. Change out of that kit immediately.”
Nigel wrestled into the new clothes with a liberal smattering of moans and groans. “What do you want me to do with the old clothes?” he panted.
“Stuff them under the seat for now,” I replied. “We’ll dump them in a bit.”
For the next half hour, we traveled in silence as John expertly drove us through the hilly region, pausing briefly for a herd of goats to cross the road and occasionally pulling around bicyclists or a farm cart. Nigel said no more. At one point, I glanced back to find his eyes closed and his head lolling against the window. I didn’t bother to wake him. The poor thing probably hadn’t slept well since his plane went down, and it was clear it took a lot of effort to walk any sort of distance. We were running ahead of schedule, and the idyllic vista of the snow-covered trees and hummocks had my shoulders relaxing. I turned to thoughts beyond the mission.
♠♠♠♠
I’D DRESSED IN THE dark as Charlie slept in my bed, his cheek pillowed in the palm of his hand and his face peaceful in the repose of sleep. I memorized the placid lines of his profile—patrician nose, black eyelashes brushing his cheek, the curve of his ear—before waking him with a kiss.
The brass compass, too recognizable, couldn’t go on the mission with me, and I folded his fingers around the talisman with a promise to retrieve it when I returned. He balked at my leaving the compass behind and recommended a variety of hiding places, going so far as to tuck it into my bra. In the end, I knew there was no place safe enough to hide the precious piece. It was an unusual pendant for a woman to wear, and a description of it might have passed around. Should I be caught with the item, there would be no talking myself out of the situation, and it would put my comrades in the line of fire as well.
Charlie offered to give the St. Christopher medal back, but I declined. My clothes and accoutrements were strictly chosen for this mission, and deviating from the plan just to carry a good luck charm would be foolhardy.
♠♠♠♠
“SCHEISSE.” The quiet expletive roused me from my daydreams and had our pilot echoing the sentiment in English.
John slowed the car, for ahead of us was a sight that had me tensing with unease. A camouflage-painted German Kübelwagen had rammed a carriage. The cart was on its side, a red spoke wheel rotated slowly on its axle. The limp form of a woman in a skirt lay in the center of the road, obviously thrown from the impact. Blood matted her hair and her legs sprawled at odd angles. The horse gave a whinnied scream as it tried to dislodge itself from the traces, but its front forelock was clearly injured, and he couldn’t push himself into a standing position.
We coasted to a stop before the accident, and I flinched as a Waffen SS trooper shot the horse, silencing its cries and putting it out of its misery. An officer stomped around the back of the Kübelwagen, yelling and waving his arms. He pointed at the wreck, then the lifeless form in the center of the road.
“What should I do? Offer to help?” Feinberg muttered.
“Nein, wait.” I laid a cautioning hand on his forearm.
The officer said something to the trooper that we couldn’t hear, then he turned to our vehicle. “Komm aus dem Auto raus. Hilf mit.” Get out of the car. Come help, he commanded, waving us over.
“Stay here.” John opened the door and stepped out.
The officer turned and continued to berate the trooper; it sounded like he was accusing his subordinate of being drunk. What happened next had fear sluicing through my veins like an electric current. The trooper raised his weapon and shot the officer at point-blank range.
“Reinkommen!” Get in, I screamed as the trooper again shot his superior, this time in the head, before turning his weapon on us.
Two shots rang out. One of them pierced the windshield just above my skull and had me slinking down below the glass as John dived back into the car.
Luckily, he’d left the engine running. Releasing the brake and jamming it into gear, he slung his arm across my seat and glared over his shoulder out the miniscule rear window.
“Get down,” he barked at our pilot and barreled down the hill in reverse. Shots twanged off the fender and front bonnet as we made our wild escape. Finally, Feinberg rounded a corner and whipped the car into a dizzying spin. He removed his arm from the back of the seat, rammed the gears, and we jerked forward.
“Are you okay?” I asked in German, peering over my seat to find Nigel crumpled onto the floorboards. When I didn’t get an answer, I repeated myself in English.
His head popped up. “Is he gone?”
“I certainly hope so.”
“What the devil was that?” He winced, climbing back onto the seat.
“Drunk, disgruntled employee, I suspect.” I returned my attention to John. “Excellent driving, sergeant.”
It was then that I realized he was driving with one hand. His right hand gripped his left arm so tightly the knuckles had turned white. He stared forward, unblinking, with a painful grimace marring his pointed features.