“Can we talk about this later?” John said.
“Yes, perhaps that would be a better time. I’ll leave you men to talk.”
Donovan waited until John’s father was gone to begin. “Firstly, I just wanted to thank you for your service.”
“Thank you.”
“Do you know who I am, John?” Donovan’s tone left John in no doubt that he was military, yet he was wearing civilian clothes.
“I’m not sure, sir. I don’t want to make any presumptions. My father seemed eager for us to meet.”
“There’s a reason for that, son. I’m an old friend of your father’s. We served in the last war together, when you were a baby.”
“Why haven’t we met before, sir?”
“Your father and I lost touch for a while. We hadn’t seen each other in years, until we met at a dinner like this just before Christmas last year.” Donovan reached into his pocket for a cigarette case and offered one to John. When he declined, Donovan put them back in his pocket without lighting one for himself. “Your father told me about you, and your incredible exploits in service of our country. He told me you’re a true patriot.”
“That I am, sir.”
“You speak German too, don’t you, from your time over there?”
“We lived in Berlin for a few years back in the twenties, before things got too crazy. My father set up some factories over there.”
“How is your German now?”
“I might be a little rusty, but I’m fluent. I was my family’s translator for the first couple of years there. Pearl and Norman are older than me. They stayed in boarding school over here and came for the summers.”
“So why the Pacific when you’ve so many connections with Europe?”
“I just wanted to serve, sir. I knew that someone with my background would most likely be expected to join the officer elite. I knew that, but I wanted to—”
“You wanted to prove that you could get down and dirty, that you could serve with the other grunts.”
“I suppose you could put it that way, sir.”
“Have you heard of the Office of Strategic Services, the OSS?”
“I heard some things,” John said, now understanding the real reason he’d been summoned home. “I heard whispers about an agency set up for spies.”
“It’s more than that, but spying is a part of what we do. I set up the OSS last year to coalesce the various intelligence departments of the army, the navy, and the air force. Our job is to coordinate espionage activities behind enemy lines for all branches of the armed forces. We have more than ten thousand men and women working for us now.”
“What was in place before the OSS?”
“A few old ladies who looked after some filing cabinets at the War Department.”
John knew more than he’d revealed. He’d heard about “Wild Bill” and his pet project. It had just taken him a while to realize that was who he was talking to. The OSS was a place where the well connected could play at war. Donovan used his connections in the old-boy network to staff the agency, with the personnel recruited from Ivy League schools, prestigious law firms, and big banks. It appeared to be a club for a privileged caste John was trying to escape.
“We’re neck-deep in both conflicts right now. We have agents in the Pacific and behind enemy lines in Europe. These men and women volunteer to walk among the predators, with no reception committees, and often no safe houses or friends in the most hostile territory imaginable. These are the bravest, finest men and women in the armed forces, providing us with vital intelligence on a daily basis.”
A gray-haired woman in a black dress tapped Donovan on the shoulder, and he greeted her with a kiss on the cheek. Donovan told her he’d see her in a few minutes, waiting until she’d gone to continue speaking. “This is a new type of war. The old days of arranging a fight in a field are long gone. This war is going to be won by the side who knows more about what the other guy is thinking, and who knows what he’s going to do before he does it.”
“Why are you telling me all these things, sir?”
“I’ve spoken to your father a lot over these last few months. His eyes light up with pride when he mentions your name. He told me he wanted to leave the reins of the family business to you, but you wanted something else. He also told me how you and your brother have fought since he took over.”
John wondered how much this man knew about him. There could be only one reason why Donovan was so curious.
“My father told you I didn’t approve of what my brother was doing with his business?”
“Among other things. We spoke about you at length. He said you weren’t as comfortable as your brother in this world.” Donovan gestured around the room. “I know you joined the marines because, deep down, you wanted to prove you could make it on your own. I know because I see myself in you. I was a lawyer before the last war, but I wanted more. I wanted to serve, but not just my country. I wanted to prove something to myself.”
The man’s magnetism was undeniable. He was soft spoken but carried an unquestionable authority.
“Do you think joining the OSS would be something you’d be interested in?”
“What kind of men are you looking for, sir?”
“I’m looking for a cat burglar with a conscience. I need a man who can work with his intelligence before his heart. I need someone who’s honest yet devious, inconspicuous yet audacious. I need someone who’s hot-blooded and cool, all at the same time.
“With your skillset and the manner in which you’ve already proven yourself in the field, I know you’d be an ideal fit for our organization.”
“I assume you’ve already been through my service records?”
“We’re meticulous, John. We have to be. Our role in this war is too important to be left to chance.”
John turned around. His father was forty feet away standing at the bar, drink in hand. Donovan was right—he did look proud.
The letter from Penelope came three months later when John was entrenched in OSS training in a park in rural Virginia masquerading as the Reich. The instructors were teaching him, and the other recruits, how to survive behind enemy lines. Without a training facility, the fledgling organization had taken over segments of Prince William Forest Park, turning former summer camps into secret training grounds. John was coming back from several nights with little sleep in the field. A hot shower and a bed seemed like luxury beyond measure. Mail call came, and he was handed a letter. The postmark on the envelope was from two weeks before. John sat on his bunk as he opened it. He hadn’t seen her in almost six weeks, had barely felt the lack of her. He knew what was coming before he opened it. He would have done the same in her position. He read the first two words of the letter and almost laughed. It was the ultimate cliché of war, and it was happening to him.
Dear John,
I met a man. A captain in the air force. I want to marry him. I’m asking you for a divorce as the last act of love between us. I don’t love you anymore. You’re not the man I married. I love someone else. Please help me leave you. Please do this for the love that we once shared. I know we’ll always care for one another. A love as strong as the one we shared never truly dies. But our time is done. You have another life now, separate from mine. Our souls are no longer joined, are no longer indivisible from another as they once were.
I’m sorry. Please forgive me, and grant me the divorce I need to leave you with my soul intact.
Sincerely,
Penelope
It had been years since he cried. He didn’t even know he was still capable of it. His emotions felt alien in a place like this, and he looked around to make sure no one was watching. The letter was still firmly in his grip. He couldn’t let it go. He had no idea he still loved her. He knew that he had stowed his feelings for her until it was convenient to revisit them. Perhaps once the war was over—maybe then there would have been time to love her again. But now it was too late. He reached for the pencil he kept beside his bed and
scrawled down a few words on a piece of paper. He could never hate her, not when it had been his fault. He read and reread the letter and then wrote her back—You can have your divorce—and mailed it to her the next day.
December 1943, over southwest Germany
The rumble of engines rendered almost any other noise irrelevant. John could feel every vibration through his body. He was taut as wire, his heart galloping. He thought of the words of his superior officer, who’d spoken with unvarnished honesty about the fact that they weren’t sure of the strength of the false documents he carried, nor of the cover story they’d concocted for him. They had little precedent to judge the current circumstances. The OSS had never parachuted an agent into Germany before, let alone one unaided and alone. He knew the risks. He was a volunteer and had beaten out many more agents for the honor of fulfilling this mission.
The crewman cupped his hands around his mouth and spoke up over the engines: “We’re coming up to the target. We should be there in thirty minutes.”
John nodded, and the crewman disappeared back inside the cockpit. John moved to the window, a few feet from where he had been sitting. The clouds swirled by in the dark night, and only a few lights dotted the vast quilt of black on the ground below. He ran his hands over the Luftwaffe uniform he was wearing and went over his cover in his head for what seemed like the millionth time. He felt as if Werner Graf had taken hold of his soul now, that he truly was him. It felt like John Lynch was a cover, or at best, a memory of a life he’d once known. There seemed no point in being John Lynch anymore. Reminiscing could jeopardize the mission, could cost him his life. He would return to himself one day, when Werner Graf had served his purpose.
The plane jigged as it hit turbulence, and he was thrown forward, but his seat belt locked him in place. One of his instructors had warned him that the Gestapo would check for strap bruises across his chest and thighs. He dismissed those thoughts as soon as they came. No use in worrying. No use at all.
A rumble came over the din of the engines. John raised his head up. Another rumbling sound came, and then another. John knew they were over Germany now. He’d never reckoned that flak would take down the plane before he reached his drop zone. He’d thought through almost every other scenario. He’d gone over every conceivable question he might be asked, practiced his accent and his cover story more times than he could remember, but he hadn’t negotiated for being shot down. The crew chief stuck his head out of the cockpit again to tell him they were taking flak on both sides. John gave him the thumbs-up, and the chief disappeared back inside. He was just closing the cockpit door again when a loud explosion ripped through the air. The force of the blast opened up a gash in the side of the plane a few yards from where John was sitting, and cold air rushed in. John gripped his pack, his knuckles white. The wing was torn like paper. The engine poured smoke, hacking like an old man clearing his throat. John felt for his parachute, knew that the drop zone was probably a hundred miles away. The plane shuddered and fell as more flak exploded on each side. The explosions came louder and louder, and the plane shook with each concussion, tossing John back and forth in his seat. Another jolt rocked the plane, this time on the other side, but it limped on. The flak continued.
The crew chief opened the door again, surveying the damage as the aircraft continued to drop. The flak was beginning to level off, the explosions sporadic now. John looked out the window again. The engine was billowing thick black smoke. It sputtered to a halt. The man stuck his head back into the cockpit, and John could just about make out the shouting. The chief made his way over to him.
“We’re never going to make it to the dropping point!” he shouted, but John already knew that. “We’re crippled. The starboard engine’s gone. We’ll never make it back. We’re going to have to turn around and try to get to Switzerland. If you want to jump, it’s going to have to be now.”
John nodded and unbuckled his safety belt. Were they high enough? The plane seemed to be losing altitude by the second. They were miles from the target, but he could make it there if he got to the ground in one piece. If he stayed on board the plane, the best he could hope for was to report back that he’d failed—if they made it that far at all. The flak had stopped, for now. They’d passed whatever city the flak had been defending, and now a tapestry of darkness lay below him.
The crew chief shook John’s hand. His good wishes were lost in the roar of the wind as the jump hole opened. John moved to the jump hole, felt the surge of the airstream. The dispatcher checked the static line on his parachute and gave him the thumbs-up. The green light flicked on as the plane bumped and jerked. He forced himself to concentrate on the task at hand, remembering to jump straight, legs together, and tuck his chin into his chest. He felt the plane slowing, and the dispatcher pounded his shoulder. He jumped. The cold air crashed into him, as if water from a waterfall. He felt a tug at his thighs and armpits as the chute opened. The plane disappeared into the black. The night was still, and he was alone. The roar of the engines dissipated, leaving only the sounds of his own breathing and the rushing air. The parachute flapped as he hurtled toward the deep-black ground below. There was no way to know where he was landing, but the dark told him he was somewhere remote, somewhere unpeopled, and that might give him a chance. He realized he was too low, but there was nothing to be done. He thought to pray, but his numb lips fumbled the words as the ground rushed toward him like an unseen, soundless express train. He felt the agony in his legs as his body collided with the snow-covered ground. He opened his eyes, the spread of snow all around him, and felt his body go slack as everything faded to nothing.
Chapter 10
Franka sat frozen to the chair. The fire had gone out in the living room, and the temperature in the cabin was noticeably lower. He was motionless before her, helpless. She knew the truth now. She felt vindicated. She wasn’t going insane. Her suspicions were correct. This man in her father’s cabin, whom she had rescued from the snow, was an American. A spy. She’d known he was American or English, had been sure of the fact for days now, but to hear him say it was still a revelation. She thought of Daniel and the Gestapo. There would be no leniency this time. Sheltering a spy meant the guillotine, but only after tortures that would make death seem like a mercy. Yet somehow she felt free. For the first time since she’d delivered those leaflets, seen the enthusiasm and pride in Hans’s eyes, she felt like she was living again. Truly living. Not just eating and sleeping and breathing. Not just killing time—living a consequential life.
“I must tend to the fire,” she said, and left him there.
Thoughts bounced around inside her mind and collided. She knew everything now, everything except why. Why was he here? What was his mission? What was this help he’d asked her for? The logs crackled as she tossed them onto the glowing embers in the fireplace. She stood for a few seconds, warming her hands before going to the kitchen. She was hungry. Little food remained. Stretching her rations for two people was hard and would only be more difficult now that the reserve of canned food they’d had was gone. She thought of going to town tomorrow. No need to go all the way to Freiburg. She stopped and rested against the kitchen table, her arms folded across her chest. She closed her eyes, then walked back toward the bedroom.
“So now you know everything,” he said.
His accent was unchanged, but she could see the cracks in it now. She wondered how he would hold up under questioning—wondered if those trained to weed out such details would notice more quickly than she.
“Your German is excellent, not rusty at all.”
“It was a little before my training. It came back quickly. That was the easy part.”
“What was the hard part?”
“Learning to resist interrogation techniques. The simulated torture.”
“I was interrogated by the Gestapo.”
“Of course.”
“They didn’t need to torture me. They knew everything already.” She paused for a few seconds and went to the
window. “Do you still think of your family, of your home in America?”
“I’ve tried not to. I tried to be Werner Graf, but John Lynch kept rearing his ugly head.”
“You were thoroughly convincing.”
“How did you suspect?”
“I heard you talking in your sleep when I found you. You were delirious, calling out in English.”
“I had no idea I could ever meet someone like you. I didn’t know someone like you existed.”
Franka had heard how earnest Americans could be. It was a different experience.
“I do have a question for you—why did you hold taking over your father’s business against your brother, when you didn’t want it?”
“I didn’t like what he was doing. He’s going to run it into the ground. My father’s life’s work is in jeopardy.”
“If that was so important to you, why didn’t you take over yourself? You gave up the right to criticize Norman’s decisions when you turned your father down.”
“You don’t miss a beat, do you?”
“You haven’t answered my question.”
“I didn’t want to pursue a path that led only to making money. I wanted something more. Who knows what would have happened if it weren’t for this war? I’d probably be home right now, working with Norman.”
“Instead of fighting with him.”
“I was trying to help.”
Franka felt she’d pushed it enough. “You must be hungry. You haven’t eaten all day.”
“I’m famished.”
“Food is getting low. I’ll need to go to town tomorrow.”
She went to the kitchen and heated the last of the stew and tore off a hunk of the bread she’d made to go with it. It took him less than two minutes to eat it all. She waited until he’d finished to ask the question.
“Why are you here?”
John took the napkin she’d laid on the edge of the tray and wiped the corners of his mouth.
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