October 15, 1946
Nuremberg, Germany
Archibald Morgan withdrew his hand from the prisoner’s clammy grasp and wiped it on the sleeve of his brown robe. “The deposit is complete,” he said.
The prisoner, a large man in a larger baggy uniform, licked his lips and spoke in a whisper. “Everything left was accepted? My gold and my papers?”
“All of it.” Morgan dipped his hand into his pocket and pulled out a flimsy sheet of paper. “Your depositary receipt.”
The prisoner took the paper and used his finger to caress the listed items. “Sleep well, my little darlings.” He handed the receipt back to Morgan. “Please destroy it. If the guards discovered it after they…” His voice trailed off.
“We would not want that to happen.” Morgan secreted the paper inside his robe. “Good luck, sir.”
“I believe my luck has, how do you Americans put it? Run out.” The man frowned. “Keep everything safe.” His voice rose in volume. “For soon I shall return and gaze upon my own marble monument in Berlin.”
The white-helmeted guard banged his stick on the door. The sound bounced off the stark walls. “Enough already with that monument crap. Keep your noise down, Nazi.”
The prisoner bowed his head to the guard, then glanced at Morgan. “Since the verdict two weeks ago, they have become unbearably rude,” he whispered.
As the guard let Morgan out of the cell, the prisoner called out, “I won’t forget this, Archibald Morgan. Upon my return, I shall find and reward you for your good work.”
The Soul Identity overseer shuddered at the thought. He shuffled as fast as he dared out of Nuremberg Prison’s Cellblock C and almost tripped on his robe. He climbed the two flights of stairs, nodded at the soldier behind the desk, and escaped into the brisk October evening.
As far as Morgan was concerned, Reichsmarschall Hermann Goering’s promises had fallen upon deaf ears. The Nazi general should rot in hell and never return.
He paused after he crossed the platz and stepped onto the sidewalk. Spotlights mounted on the Palais du Justice walls cast an array of sinister shadows in front of him. He had done his despicable duty. He alone had understood that the journey to a better world required distasteful compromises. Maybe someday Flora would also understand…
He shook his head. Enough. The journalists he had met in the Grand Hotel’s bar were giving four-to-one odds that the eleven condemned Nazis would hang before sunrise. He had finished the deposit just in time. His work was finally over—he could flee this war-torn country and return to his own battles in Sterling.