by Bill Walker
“God! I look awful,” she laughed.
“You are now SS-Sturmbannführer Greta Faust of the Sicherheitsdienst. As you can see, your total ‘history’ is in that book. Do not lose it.”
At first, she did not understand what he meant by history until she began turning the pages. She marveled at the dozens of overlapping imprints of various-sized rubber stamps in a rainbow of colors. From the time of her “entry” into the SS in 1940, until now, it had her traveling all over Germany in her duties as a professional “interrogator.” Mutt and Jeff had done a masterful job of aging the stamps. The closer to the beginning, the older and more faded they looked. There was even a coffee stain covering half of one page.
“This is amazing!” she said.
“Our boys are the best,” Churchill said, his voice filled with pride. “How soon will you go?”
Denise was taken back by the question but realized that Churchill was anxious that she complete her mission.
“No time like the present.”
Churchill nodded and reached into his jacket again. Out came a stack of Reichsmarks and another envelope. The latter bore the official RSHA/SD letterhead.
“These are your orders to question the prisoner, Jack Dunham, after which you are to take charge of him for ‘final disposition.’ If I know our boys’ work, everything should hold up under scrutiny.”
Denise opened the envelope and pulled out the orders. As horrible as it was to grow up in a world run by the Nazis, she thanked whatever god watched over her. The Nazi-run schools had thoroughly indoctrinated the young to the new mother tongue: German. No amount of skillful forgery or well-tailored uniforms would hide awkward phrasing or a faulty accent. Her eyebrows rose when she caught sight of the expertly forged signature of Ernst Kaltenbrunner, head of the RSHA, Gestapo, SD, and the Abwehr, successor to the assassinated Reinhard Heydrich, and a name both feared and hated by many.
“Looks like I have friends in high places,” she said.
“Kaltenbrunner is a nasty sort and not one any subordinate is likely to question.”
Denise picked up the stack of money and Churchill answered her unspoken question.
“That’s about ten thousand Reichsmarks. Equal to about five thousand American dollars. It should tide you over.”
“Quite,” Denise said, poking gentle fun at Churchill’s stuffy accent. He smiled and an awkward moment passed as she realized nothing else held her back. Though she desperately wanted to rescue Jack, a part of her wanted to remain here, safe with this remarkable man. Perhaps sensing her mood, Churchill bowed slightly.
“I’ll leave you alone to change.”
When he walked out of the room, Denise felt all the old doubts come flooding back. They came on so strong, she nearly cried out. This time she wouldn’t let herself fall prey to them.
“Can it, Denise. Time to get your butt in gear,” she said.
Five minutes later she heard Churchill knock softly.
“Are you decent?”
“For you, never,” Denise said, fastening the last two buttons on her tunic. “Come on in.”
The one concession to vanity in the small cubbyhole of an office was the mirror hanging on the far wall. Studying her reflection, she had to admit the damned Nazi creeps knew how to design uniforms. She noted the crisp lines of the field-gray tunic, and the distinctive, diamond-shaped, black and silver SD patch on the left sleeve just above the cuff band. In her Feldgrau, Denise looked and felt invincible. Churchill appeared behind her, nodding his approval.
“You are quite the Hun, my dear,” he said, smiling indulgently.
She turned and clicked her boots together and raised her hand in a Hitler salute.
“Heil Hitler!”
“Perfect,” he said.
Denise noticed a small leather box in his hands.
“What’s that? You giving me a medal?”
Churchill smiled, but there was no humor in it.
“I’m afraid it is something decidedly less pleasant.” He opened the box and handed it to her. On the red satin lining lay what looked like a Derringer.
“Nice... what is it?”
“That is something the boys in MI6 came up with. I am told it is quite sophisticated and took thousands of pounds to develop. It fires a small, poisoned pellet by compressed air, and is powerful enough to pierce clothing. The poison acts instantaneously. Use it wisely.”
Denise picked it up and hefted it in her hand. It felt comfortably weighty.
“How many shots?” she said, placing it in the inside pocket of her tunic.
“Just one.”
Churchill came to her and took her hands in his. “I know you shall succeed,” he said, his warm voice filled with emotions. “Know that here and now, the hopes and dreams of a million hearts go with you.”
Denise smiled, trying to hide her anxiety.
“You really know how to make a girl nervous, don’t you?”
He scowled at her mockingly. “You? Never.”
They both laughed.
“Godspeed, and may you find what you seek,” he said, kissing her on the forehead.
“I’ll miss you, you old coot.”
He chuckled softly. “Lucky for you that I am an ‘old coot,’ or Mrs. Churchill would have your hide.”
Before she could begin to cry, Denise hugged him and then backed off, closing her eyes. She began to chant, and a moment later the room filled with that awesome blue light. Churchill watched as she faded from view, his eyes moist with emotion.
“Good luck, my dear.”
Werner Kruger breathed in the fragrant air, his nose wrinkling at the faint order of smoke in the air. A stray bomb from an air raid the night before had hit one of the expensive homes in the neighborhood and flattened it. A moment later, the odor was gone, replaced by the aroma of blooming flowers. Trees hung over the road from both sides, creating a sun-dappled canopy whose shadows flitted across the swiftly moving Mercedes.
“How much further?” Kruger asked.
The field marshal’s driver flicked his eyes to the rearview mirror. “About a kilometer, sir.”
Kruger nodded and picked a piece of lint from his clothes. After leaving Gestapo Headquarters, he had visited an expensive men’s haberdashery and bought himself a new suit in dark blue worsted wool. He had the clerk place the SS uniform into a suit bag, which now lay inside the car’s trunk. He would need it for later, when he was meeting with Hitler. For now, he needed to make a good impression on Field Marshal Fedor von Bock. Known as a hard taskmaster and a tough soldier, it was also well known that von Bock despised the SS with a passion. It was part of the reason Hitler had fired the old soldier, besides the debacle the Russian campaign had become. But von Bock still enjoyed some favor, as evidenced by the expensive Mercedes limousine and his lavish home in the exclusive Dahlem district of Berlin, still largely untouched by Allied bombing.
The car slowed, prompting Kruger to return his attention to the road. They turned into a driveway that reminded Kruger of the entrance to The Normandy Club. Indeed, the house itself, as it came into view, looked much the same, except for the European styling. Dark and imposing, the house no doubt reflected the personality of its owner. For the first time since the mission started, Kruger wondered if he would succeed. The phone call to von Bock had been brief and to the point. At the mention of Armand’s name, the older man had told him—no, ordered was more like it—to come over the following day.
The car halted in front of the wide porch, and the driver hopped out and ran around to open the door.
“Danke schön,” Kruger said.
The driver clicked his heels and bowed stiffly. Kruger marched up the steps and pulled the bell. He could hear the chimes pealing deep within the house. He waited, hearing the clacking of heels approaching. The front door swung open, revealing a sour-faced butler.
“Yes?” the man said, the disdain dripping from his voice.
“I am Werner Kruger. I am expected.”
&n
bsp; “Follow me, sir.”
No change of expression, no sign of deference. Kruger wished he could wrap his hands around his desiccated neck. Though the house had large windows on all sides, the interior remained gloomy and foreboding, made more so by the hundreds of hunting trophies sprouting from every surface. The man obviously loved to hunt, both in war and peace. Kruger smiled. This was a man to whom he could relate.
The butler halted in front of a pair of sliding doors and pushed them open into an expansive library. More trophies, some full-body mounts, lay strewn about. Von Bock, dressed in a dove-grey, double-breasted suit of exquisite cut, stood ramrod straight staring at Kruger as he walked across the luxurious Persian rug covering the floor. The man’s hawk-like gaze never wavered, as if somehow he could, by sight alone, drill into the dark recesses of a man’s heart.
“So, you are Armand’s friend?” he asked, the voice as dark and grave as the man’s surroundings. “How is my nephew?”
Kruger sensed a trap. “He is well, Herr Field Marshal, though he finds the Yugoslavian climate much too damp for his liking.”
Kruger saw the hint of a smile on the man’s face. “The boy needs some toughening up. Always too frail, that one. Would you like a brandy?”
“Please.”
Von Bock turned to the butler who hovered in the doorway. “Two brandies, Hans. Make it the Louis XIII. This is a special occasion.”
“Very good, sir,” he said, and bowed out of the room.
“Please, sit.” Von Bock pointed to a comfortable stuffed chair. Kruger nodded and sat. Von Bock took the matching chair across from him.
Hans appeared moments later bearing a silver tray laden with two large snifters half-filled with brandy. He served the drinks then left the room, closing the double doors behind him.
“Now,” said von Bock, his eyes narrowing, “what has my idiot nephew done this time?”
Kruger maintained his composure, his spirits plummeting. It looked like an uphill battle after all. He took a sip of brandy to hide his annoyance then pulled out the letter. Von Bock took it, opened it up, and squinted. He patted the pocket of his suit jacket and scowled.
“Ach, I never have my spectacles when I need them.”
He got up and looked around the room. Kruger watched him with growing impatience. Finally, the old goat found them on a small tea table, stuck inside a book on Teutonic knighthood. Putting them on, he scanned the letter where he stood, grunting every now and then as he read something that either annoyed or pleased him, Kruger could not tell which.
“It says here you have vital news concerning the war and that I am to accord you whatever help I can.”
Kruger nodded.
“It is just like Armand to assume I will do whatever he asks. The boy is a pompous ass.”
Kruger smiled in spite of the situation. Von Bock had his nephew nailed dead to rights. But it was time to put his cards on the table.
“Your nephew may be a pompous ass, but in this case, he is a loyal citizen of the Reich. I have just come back from England and have news of the invasion. I must gain an audience with the Führer. It is vital.”
Von Bock looked at him, a look of incredulity on his face that transformed itself into one of mirth. His loud, grating laughter echoed through the large room.
“My nephew seems to have forgotten that the Führer relieved me of my command. I have a less than favorable reputation with the man. And even less influence. What makes him think I can do anything?”
Kruger’s patience was at an end. Leaping to his feet, he crossed the room and put himself nose to nose with the old field marshal, his eyes burning with fury. “Because, my dear Field Marshal, in less than three weeks the largest armada in recorded history will put ashore on the coast of France, and I know precisely where and when that will be! Because if the Fifteenth Army is not moved from its present location, the war will be lost! Do you understand?”
The old man stood rigid with anger at the impertinence of this young upstart. But something held him in check.
“How do you know this?” he asked, his voice even and controlled.
Kruger had dreaded the question, but now realized that answering it was the only way he could convince the man.
“Because I come from a future time, a time where all of this is dusty history. The war will be lost within a year, and the thousand-year Reich will be swept away, Germany divided between the Allies. Russia will take half our country and turn it into one of their puppet states. Your precious Silesia will be in those barbaric hands. Berlin will have a wall cutting it in half. It has to be stopped!”
The old man’s anger boiled over. “How dare you come here and perpetrate this garbage! I should have known better where Armand was concerned. He was always playing his practical jokes. Well, you can tell him for me that he is no longer welcome here. Now leave this house before I call the Gestapo!”
Before von Bock could back away, Kruger grabbed his hand, his grip like a vise.
“What are you doing! What is the meaning of this?” von Bock blustered. But his voice soon dissolved into a frightened whimper as the air around them turned bright blue and the world snapped white.
The old field marshal looked ill when they appeared inside a large men’s lavatory. He staggered over to one of the sinks, grasping the porcelain and gulping huge breaths of air.
“How... what... what happened? Where are we?”
“Are you all right, sir?” Kruger asked.
“Yes, I think so.”
Von Bock trembled, bent over the sink, turned on the tap, and threw cold water onto his face. Kruger handed him a towel. The door to the lavatory swung open and an American sergeant stuck his head inside.
“You people better get a move on; the sentences are coming down.” The door swished shut. Von Bock looked aghast.
“An American! What did he mean? Where are we?”
Without a word, Kruger grabbed von Bock by the arm, shoved him out of the lavatory and into a hallway choked with dozens of people, all chattering excitedly. Everywhere he looked, Kruger saw officers and enlisted men from the British, American, and Russian armies. White-helmeted MPs, carrying M1 carbines and .45 semi-automatic pistols, stood in strategic places, scrutinizing the crowd with steel-eyed suspicion.
The mob jostled and pushed them forward. Kruger eyed von Bock, noting the older man’s frightened expression. Like a timid schoolboy, his wide, anxious eyes darted about, taking in the all-too-familiar uniforms of his bitter enemies.
Up ahead, the massive walnut-stained doors of room 600 stood open. Part of the crowd poured into the room, while others peeled off and took a staircase to the visitors’ gallery. Kruger directed von Bock toward the staircase. The old man halted in his tracks and turned to Kruger. The schoolboy had fled, replaced by the haughty arrogance of the Prussian officer class.
“I demand to know where you are taking me!” he said, glaring at Kruger.
Kruger found the pressure point on the old man’s shoulder and jabbed his thumb into it. Von Bock winced but kept his composure. Kruger felt a twinge of admiration for the old bastard.
“Be quiet! You are in no position to demand anything. Move.”
Kruger yanked him forward, causing von Bock to stumble. He grabbed the railing, scowled at Kruger, then stoically marched up the steps, his face a hardened mask. A moment later, they were in the small gallery overlooking the room. The seats had been taken from a local cinema and helped give the whole atmosphere a theatrical air. Kruger smiled, for that was exactly what it was. Most of the 150 seats were filled with military men, secretaries, and reporters spilled over from the press gallery downstairs. Kruger and von Bock took two of the remaining seats in the back row.
Von Bock stared at the room, a sign of recognition in his eyes.
“I know this place,” he said. “This is the Palace of Justice in Nuremburg... This is where that fiend, Roland Freisler, holds court. But why are all these Americans and Russians here? I do not understand.”
Kruger’s only reply was a sly smile.
Toward the front of the room stood a dais with nine empty chairs. The docket, which sat directly across from the dais, also stood empty. Reporters on the floor jabbered among themselves, the atmosphere electric.
A door opened up near the dais and nine judges, representing the Allies, walked in and took their seats with a studied solemnity. The buzz in the room dwindled to an excited hush.
When the last whispers died away, the president of the court nodded to one of the white-helmeted MPs, who slid open a door behind the dock, revealing the first prisoner. The man’s sky-blue uniform held razor-sharp creases yet hung on what was once a much larger frame. Defiant to the last, Hermann Göring held his head high in icy disdain.
The effect on von Bock was immediate. “Mein Gott! Göring! What is going on here?”
Kruger relished the moment. “My dear Field Marshal. As you so cleverly surmised, this is indeed the Palace of Justice in Nuremberg. It is October first, nineteen forty-six. and this is the War Crimes Tribunal. The war has been over for more than a year. Look well, Field Marshal... for this is the legacy of failure.”
Von Bock paled as he watched the proceedings.
One by one the surviving leaders of the Third Reich stood in the dock, their faces ashen as they learned their fates:
Göring... Death.
Kaltenbrunner... Death.
Keitel... Death.
Speer... Life imprisonment.
Frank... Death.
Frick... Death.
von Ribbentrop... Death.
On and on the names were read, their fates intoned in a sepulchral voice that rolled through the room like an invisible juggernaut. The sentences appeared to weigh on von Bock like lead. He slumped into his seat, a look of utter despair on his haggard face. He turned to Kruger.
“And what of Hitler?”
“Dead, by his own hand.”
“Take me back. I cannot stomach any more of this.”
The two men fought their way through the pressing crowds and reentered the lavatory. Moments later they appeared back within the walls of von Bock’s library. Staggering like a man in a daze, the field marshal went straight for the brandy, pouring himself a generous measure of the fiery liquid. He gulped it down and turned to Kruger, his eyes burning with a new light.