by Bill Walker
“I do not know how you came by this power of yours, and I do not care. But I will do what I can to get you in to see Hitler. Beyond that, I can promise nothing.”
“That is all I ask, Herr Field Marshal.”
With the glow of the self-satisfied, Kruger watched von Bock walk to the phone and pick it up.
“Ja. This is Field Marshal Fedor von Bock. Please connect me with Parteigenosse Martin Bormann at the Chancellery... Ja, I will hold.”
Chapter Twenty-Seven
Berlin, Germany
17 May 1944
The cellar stank of rotting garbage and stagnant pools of brackish water, its walls half caved in. Through the few beams that crisscrossed the patch of sky above her, Denise could see the moon hanging just above the other buildings, a luminous ring around it. It would rain soon. She squinted in the murky light and tried to gain her bearings. Ahead, barely discernible, lay a rickety staircase that led to what was once the ground floor.
Without intimate knowledge of the city’s streets, she ended up in the cellar of a bombed-out building, a residence from the look of it. That was the one thing about transporting that made her nervous, the one aspect that held a random note, which frightened her. What if she had appeared in a crowded theatre among the startled patrons, or in the middle of a busy thoroughfare with a two-ton truck bearing down on her? Or what if she simply reintegrated inside a wall? She stumbled, her boot caught between two fallen beams.
“Shit,” she said, yanking out her foot. Avoiding a wide, standing pool of water, she edged around it and found herself in front of the staircase. It looked even less able to bear her weight than it had from a distance. Moving forward cautiously, she stepped on the first step and startled an angry rat, which scurried off.
“Take it easy, Malloy. It’s only a rat.”
She began to climb, aware of every creak and groan of the blasted wood as she crept slowly upwards. Five, four, three more to go.
CRACK!
The stairs lurched sideways, threatening to pitch her back into the hole and into a pile of debris with any number of sharp objects to impale her. Steeling herself, Denise tore up the remaining three steps, out the battered doorway, and staggered onto the sidewalk. Breathing heavily, more from adrenaline than from fright, she took a moment to scan her surroundings. The streetlights, dim and a sickly green in color, cast pale pools of light that did little to dispel the gloom. The air felt damp and smelled of diesel fuel. By the looks of it, she’d appeared in one of the working-class neighborhoods on the outskirts of Berlin. The block had a dreary, seedy feel that no doubt existed prior to the bombings; but now a veil of despair hung over it like a poisonous fog. It made her shiver.
She began to wander west, hoping to find a cab or a bus. The cab would be preferable since her uniform and station would draw attention on a public conveyance. Gestapo Headquarters would be a good distance away. Turning at the sound of an engine, Denise spotted a Wehrmacht truck as it lumbered by. One of the soldiers, a young one by the looks of his fresh face, called out to her.
“Hey, Fräulein, how about a night on the town? You me and a bottle of Schnapps?”
He paled when he saw her uniform and quickly ducked back inside the bed of the truck. It appeared she would have little chance of a friendly encounter.
Rounding a corner, she came upon a newsstand. Her eyes hungrily scanned the various papers for anything about Jack, but it was useless. How could she expect truth from a dictatorship?
Traffic was heavier on this street, and Denise spotted a cab. Stepping to the curb, she held up her hand and the cab pulled up immediately. The driver smiled nervously, eager to please an SS-Sturmbannführer.
“Where may I take you, Sturmbannführer?”
Denise climbed inside, slamming the door behind her. “Prinz Albrechtstrasse, schnell.”
She could see the man shudder as he put the cab in gear. He pulled out into traffic, lurching past a couple of elderly women who screeched at him angrily. He ignored them, pushing the throttle down and speeding through an intersection, past a bewildered Verkehrspolizei directing traffic. The driver flicked his eyes up to the rearview and saw his passenger meet his gaze.
“My son is with the Waffen-SS on the Eastern Front. He came home last month on leave, but I have not heard anything since then.”
The man was pathetic in his attempt to ingratiate himself. Not so much that he was doing it, but because he had nothing to fear. Yet with someone he thought held the power of the State behind her, the man turned to jelly. No doubt he would tell his cronies how he handled the “SS bitch.” Still, Denise felt sorry for the man.
“What is his name?” she asked.
The cabby brightened immediately. “Sturmmann Johann Brenner, Wiking Division under Obergruppenführer Gille. He has received both classes of the Iron Cross and the Wound Badge in gold!”
The man beamed with pride, and Denise saddened. At this point, the Germans were sustaining heavy losses on the Russian front. It was likely the man had heard nothing from his son because he was dead. Somehow the notification had gotten lost inside the dizzying bureaucracy.
“Your son is a brave soldier, Herr Brenner. The Reich could use more like him. I will see if I can find out anything.”
“You will have my undying gratitude, Sturmbannführer.”
The rest of the ride went on in silence. Brenner was lighthearted and carefree racing through traffic. She hoped the man wouldn’t get them killed. Twenty minutes after she got into the cab, it pulled up in front of the stone facade of Prinz Albrechtstrasse.
Denise reached into her briefcase for money, but Brenner waved her away. “No, no. It is my pleasure.”
“Nonsense. You work hard. It is my pleasure,” she said, and thrust a hundred-mark bill into his hand and walked away before he could hand it back.
The man looked at the money, gasped, and smiled. He leaned out his window and called after her.
“Danke schön, Fräulein, danke schön!”
Denise couldn’t help the grin that broke out on her face as she mounted the steps of Gestapo Headquarters. In a world gone to the devil, it still felt good to do something nice.
She passed the two guards dressed in the black uniform of the Leibstandarte-Adolf Hitler regiment: an elite bodyguard formation dedicated to protecting the Führer at all costs. Even in their state of immobility, Denise could detect their watchful eyes taking in her every move. Through the doors she entered a large lobby. The floor was marble inset with the lightning runes of the SS. On either side of the wide expanse, a staircase led up to a mezzanine level. Straight in front of her was a huge desk, behind which sat a harried receptionist, a young man with the rank of SS-Sturmscharführer. Behind him, on the wall, hung life-sized portraits of both Adolf Hitler and Heinrich Himmler, flanked by the swastika flag and the SS banner.
The receptionist argued with an insistent Wehrmacht officer.
“I am sorry, sir, but you need to make an appointment. We can’t have people dropping by unannounced.”
The officer, beet red from anger, began yelling.
“This is an insult! Heinrich Müller and I go back to Gymnasium together. Just tell him Heinie Berger is here. He’ll remember me. The Two Heinrichs. Mein Gott! How could he forget?”
To the receptionist’s credit, he remained cool and calm, his gaze level. “I will be glad to give you an appointment for next Tuesday at thirteen hundred.”
“Ach! Scheissekopfen! Bürokraten!”
The officer continued hurling invectives but turned and stalked out of the building. Denise, wearing a wry smile, took the officer’s place in front of the desk.
“Guten Morgen, Sturmscharführer,” she said, pulling out her papers and orders. “I am here to see the prisoner, Jack Dunham.”
The receptionist, obviously struck by Denise’s beauty, took the papers and the orders with a lecherous smile.
“Well, now. You are certainly much more agreeable than that verdammter idiot.”
&
nbsp; “I will need to see him immediately to determine whether I should remove him for further disposition.”
“Well, Sturmbannführer, there are procedures...”
Denise took great pleasure in popping the man’s bubble. His smile became an expression of alarm when he read the orders signed by Kaltenbrunner.
“Uhh, excuse me, Sturmbannführer,” he said, scrambling for the phone. “Get me Hauptsturmführer Streicher. Yes, interrupt him!”
The door to the cell burst open, catching Jack as he drifted in a kind of half sleep. The food they’d given him, stale black bread and potato soup, in no way resembled the mouth-watering meal Streicher had tempted his loyalties with. He’d eaten it gladly, his stomach growling as the first few bites touched his tongue. He ate with the air of one secure and satisfied. He’d beaten the bastards at their own game. Let them shoot him. Let them do whatever the hell they wanted; he’d steered them exactly in the wrong direction just as hundreds of agents and members of the Fortitude Deception had been doing for months, and it felt great.
Two guards pulled him roughly to his feet and dragged him down the long corridors, turning left, then right, then left again. He passed locked steel doors much like the one he’d been behind. He could hear the faint whimpers of other lost souls, crying for some measure of mercy. It made his blood boil. He decided he wouldn’t go so blithely to his death.
In a surprise move, he rammed his elbow into the stomach of the guard on his right, stunning him. Ripping the MP40 out of his hands, he whipped it around, catching the second guard across the face. He dropped like a stone, his helmet falling off. Jack silenced the second guard with a quick punch to the throat. The guard coughed once, turned blue, and collapsed. Jack spotted the keys to the cells on the second guard’s belt and tried one to open a nearby door. It worked. He dragged both bodies inside and closed the door. Next, he checked their pulses, and found the one he’d punched in the throat was dead. He was the right size. Stripping quickly, Jack donned the uniform, chafing at the rough, itchy fabric. The boots were slightly big but fit enough to get by. After tying up the unconscious guard with his own belt, Jack grabbed the MP40, extra magazines, and left the cell, locking it behind him. He retraced his steps through the labyrinthian maze that was Prinz Albrechtstrasse.
“I am not accustomed to being kept waiting,” Denise said, putting on a brave front. In reality, she was scared witless. It had been more than ten minutes since the receptionist made the call upstairs and still no one had come down to meet her.
“I am sorry, Sturmbannführer, Hauptsturmführer Streicher will be with you in just a moment.” The phone rang and the receptionist appeared relieved to answer it and get out from under her blistering stare.
“Ahh, Sturmbannführer Faust...”
Denise turned and saw a man approaching her. He was of medium height and build, and walked with a rolling gait, his mannerisms clipped and efficient. There was a burning intensity about him that his hatchet face made even more intense. Denise disliked him immediately.
“You are Hauptsturmführer Streicher?”
He bowed stiffly, taking her hand in his. His skin was dry and scaly, like a lizard’s.
“At your service.”
“Then you will release your prisoner to me immediately,” she said.
“That, I regret, I cannot do.”
“I have orders signed by Kaltenbrunner himself. I am to take him into custody.”
Streicher did not appear to be intimidated by Kaltenbrunner’s name, which made Denise even more nervous.
Jack began sweating when he realized he’d passed the same doorways moments before. He was lost. How did anyone find his way around down here? Taking another corridor, he spied another contingent of guards leading a prisoner. He fell in behind them. They approached a large steel door, a desk to one side of it. An officer checked the paperwork and passed them through. Jack breathed easier when the door clanged shut behind him. He continued following the guards and split off when he recognized the stairs leading to the ground floor. Taking them two at a time, he reached the landing and faced an SS-Brigadeführer making his way downstairs. Thinking quickly, Jack saluted. The SS general returned the salute and continued on his way. From his vantage point, Jack could see the front entrance of the building and began walking purposefully, but not too fast, lest he attract attention.
Streicher smiled, allowing a measure of feigned remorse to cross his features.
“I regret that you have arrived too late. The prisoner, Jack Dunham, has been executed as of a few moments ago.”
Denise felt her world collapse, but outwardly remained unaffected by the news except as that of an officer inconvenienced and insulted. She raised her finger, shaking with fury. “You will pay for this idiocy, Streicher! I will see to it you are sent to the Russian Front for this gross misconduct!”
Streicher’s eyes narrowed.
“Just because you outrank me, Sturmbannführer, do not think that I am without friends in high places. Perhaps we should call Kaltenbrunner’s office and see if he can clarify our positions in this matter?”
Denise watched with mounting horror when he went to the receptionist’s phone and picked it up. Perhaps Streicher knew the man.
“Ja. Please connect me with Department IV.”
He turned and gave Denise a smug smile that turned her fear into fury. But she had no time to waste; in moments her cover would be blown. Turning slowly, she looked around, her eyes snapping from place to place, trying to find an area she could run to. It would only take her seconds to transport. Then her eye fell on a SS guard as he walked into the lobby. He stared right at her, his expression one of mute surprise. Then it all clicked.
Jack!
Resisting the urge to fly into his arms, she saw him shake his head and then indicate the door leading to the street. He would meet her outside. She watched with growing apprehension when he walked to the door and disappeared through it. She turned and saw Streicher put down the phone, a look of triumph on his face.
“It would seem our dear friend Ernst has never heard of you. Is that not strange?” he asked, gripping her arm. His fingers dug into her bicep, making her wince. A second later a Luger appeared in his hands.
“You are under arrest in the name of the Führer.”
In that moment of blind panic, Denise’s terrorist training took over. With a movement too quick for the eye to follow, she disarmed Streicher and punched him in the temple, stunning him. The panicked receptionist reached for his own gun and got off a shot that went wild before Denise struck him in the throat with her fist. He gagged, turned blue, and collapsed behind the desk, his gun clattering to the floor at her feet.
Streicher began to recover, prompting Denise to pistol-whip him into unconsciousness. She gathered up the weapons and dragged the Haupsturmführer’s inert form behind the massive desk and laid him next to the unconscious receptionist.
She was angry about the gun going off. She’d wanted it clean and quiet. Luckily, no one had seen her dispatch the two men, but the shot had alerted others, who could be heard clattering down the hall to the lobby.
No time to run.
A moment later, a squad of guards led by a frantic Untersturmführer dashed into the lobby, their guns poised.
“A prisoner has escaped!” Denise screamed, pointing to the street.
“RAUS!” the Untersturmführer yelled and ran toward the door, followed by his men. Denise fell in behind them and pushed out into the street. The squad had taken off and was halfway down the block.
“Pssst. Denise.”
She whipped around and saw Jack standing in the shadows of the building, smiling broadly. With everything else forgotten, she flew into his arms and crushed her lips to his.
“Oh God, Jack!” she said between kisses. “That son of a bitch said you were dead!”
His arms held her firmly, his hands urgently exploring her taut body. He breathed in the wonderful aroma of her hair and allowed himself a moment to fe
el her next to him. He pulled away and looked into her eyes and saw both love and fear reflected in them.
“I guess you missed me, huh?”
“Oh, shut up, Dunham. You almost got me killed!” she said, hitting him about the head.”
“Me!”
“Yeah, you. Now, let’s get out of here before your friend Streicher regains consciousness.”
“Wait a minute. What did you do?”
She shrugged. “Just a love tap.”
“Yeah, right.”
He took her hand and they both took off at a leisurely jog. Turning the corner, they ducked down an alley and huddled against the wall. Moments later, more troops ran by, their officers screaming orders.
“Where are we going? Back to London?” Jack asked.
“Can’t. We’ve still got Kruger to deal with.”
Jack smiled. “Maybe not.”
He told her about the drug-assisted interrogation and what he “revealed” to Streicher. “So, you see, I’ve just reinforced everything Hitler already believes. Even his astrologer thinks the invasion’s coming at Calais. By now that information is on Hitler’s desk.”
Denise shook her head. “Streicher’s nothing but an opportunist who thinks he’s got high-placed friends. It won’t stop Kruger from getting in to see Hitler.”
“Maybe he won’t get in to see him. Bormann was no pushover. He insulated the bastard until he was so out of touch with his people and the war that it all came crashing down.”
“Do you really believe that?”
Jack felt the elation from his small victory over Streicher leeching from his body like air from a balloon.
“No,” he said, shaking his head. “I guess the pentothal went to my head in more ways than one.”
“It’s okay, Jack. You tried. And maybe it will make it just a little more difficult for the prick.”