“Let’s talk about the party,” he said, changing the topic. “Do you like to go to them?”
“Yes, normally I do. There’s good food and entertainment. It’s always fun. But I’m a little apprehensive this time.”
“Don’t do anything different. Act like you always do, socialize with who you normally would. Be attentive to what you overhear, and eavesdrop on conversations with military or political content. Anything that might be related to the war. But don’t take any chances.”
She nodded, her expression tentative. “That sounds easy enough. Although I told you, the important discussions are normally behind closed doors.”
He shrugged. “If you don’t hear anything valuable, it doesn’t matter. It’s just an opportunity. There will be others. Are you bringing your camera?”
“No, not this time. But I will have my violin. I’m performing. Just a few pieces. Maybe thirty minutes. There are other performers as well.”
He looked at her, so talented, so impressive. She was like a diamond with a dozen different facets, altered each time the light changed. If it were another time or another place he would see her with different eyes. But he couldn’t afford to do that now.
“I have something for you.”
“And what is that?”
She handed him the photograph. “I did the best I could with it.”
He looked at the image, his heart consumed with contrasting emotions, joy and sorrow. “Thank you. You did a fabulous job.” He smiled through the sadness in his eyes. “I just love her so much.”
Amanda hugged him. She held him tightly for a few minutes, longer than she probably should, and then released him slowly, almost as if she didn’t want to. “I’ll be back Monday afternoon. I want to hear all about Elizabeth.”
CHAPTER 31
York had nothing to do on Saturday so he took the U-bahn to Potzdamer Platz, which was close to the apartment of Albert Kaiser. He got off the underground, climbed the steps to the surface, and found a circular intersection busy with streetcars, taxis, bicycles and pedestrians, all merging, avoiding traffic, and then going in different directions. The circle was surrounded by buildings five or six stories high, the architecture grand and ornate and built in the last century. The ground floors housed shops, restaurants, and outdoor cafes; apartments occupied the upper elevations. Clogged with pedestrians, some hurrying down the boulevard intent on their destination, others casually looking in store windows, Potzdamer Platz formed the intersection of the many neighborhoods that defined Berlin.
On the southwest corner stood a majestic building constructed of brownstone, six stories high with turrets at the corners and decorated with patterned fascia and cherub cornices. A restaurant, a book store, a butcher, and a dress shop occupied the first floor, apartments the remainder. A building of similar design but smaller in scale sat beside it, like a little brother, and it was there that Albert Kaiser lived.
Facing Potzdamer Platz from the northeast, directly across from the apartment buildings, was a small café tucked into an angled corner of a building. A dozen tables sat outside on the pavement, half-filled with patrons, eating and drinking and reading newspapers. York took a table against the café wall, ordered a coffee and kreppels, and watched Kaiser’s building entrance across the street, stealing glances at the pedestrians who passed: foreign factory workers, women with strollers, children, older couples, a few soldiers, and a policeman or two.
Forty minutes and two kreppels later, a man with a shock of white hair emerged from the building entrance, a leash in his hand, leading a black and gray dog, a small schnauzer. York exited the café, hurriedly crossed the street, and followed him.
The man walked down the street towards the Brandenburg Gate, leading the dog to a small park, the grassy area sprinkled with trees, shrubs, and benches. York hurried to catch him, walking past him hurriedly and then stopping abruptly, a feigned look of surprise on his face.
“Are you Albert Kaiser?” he asked, his face lit with admiration. “The cellist?”
Kaiser was surprised; he had few admirers. He smiled. “Yes, I am.”
“Mr. Kaiser, it is an honor to meet you, sir. I am Michael Becker, a man who can appreciate one of Europe’s greatest musicians.”
Kaiser was flattered. “Are you a critic, Mr. Becker?”
“No, not a critic. But I suppose you can say I’m an aficionado.”
“A fellow cellist?”
“No, I’m afraid not,” York said with a slight frown. “A pianist, actually. Although a rank amateur compared to you. But a lover of the classics, just the same.” He winced, grasping his thigh. “Could we sit down a moment?” he asked, pointing to his leg. “War wound. It can be quite painful at times.”
“Of course,” Kaiser said, moving to a bench. “I have a few minutes. No concert this evening. Our first violin had a party to go to.”
“I attended one of your performances last month and truly enjoyed it, “York said as he leaned over to pet the dog. “What’s the dog’s name? He’s a friendly fellow, isn’t he?”
“Yes, he is,” Kaiser chuckled. “His name is Rudolph; he’s my constant companion.”
York fussed over the animal, who loved the attention. He rubbed his head and, when Rudolph rolled on to his back, he scratched his stomach.
“What did you like most about the concert?” Kaiser asked.
York leaned back on the bench, leaving Rudolph lying in the grass. “Probably the Beethoven piece in A minor. Number fifteen, I think. The start of the second movement is so powerful, when you play an octave below the others, but in unison.”
Kaiser was surprised. “Mr. Becker, you really do know your music, don’t you?”
“I think the entire quartet is fabulous,” York continued. “But you are the true virtuoso. How long have you played together?”
Kaiser sighed, running the calendar through his mind. “I have been with the quartet about fifteen years. Amanda Hamilton joined soon after she settled in Berlin. She is absolutely amazing. What talent. And so young.”
“I did find her solo exceptional.”
“It moves me every time I hear it. I just feel so sorry for her, given her recent loss.”
York appeared confused, but then showed recollection. “I do remember reading something in the newspaper. A train wreck, I think. She was badly injured.”
“She lost the baby she was carrying. After nine or ten years trying to conceive. She was devastated.” He slowly shook his head and sighed. “She’s like a daughter to me. I try to protect her. But I couldn’t shield her from that.”
“It’s amazing she still performs with such passion.”
“She enters another plane of existence when she picks up the violin. I love her dearly and want only the best for her.” He looked away, seeming a bit sad.
York realized that Kaiser liked to talk. He also realized he was a harmless old man. But he offered a fabulous opportunity. He had a wealth of information.
“I suppose it’s been hard for her,” York said. He then leaned closer, as if speaking confidentially. “I mean being Scottish. It must be hard to live in Berlin.”
“I’m sure it is,” Kaiser said. He glanced around and lowered his voice, now that they were being honest. “And her husband is no angel, I can tell you that. He wanders a bit, if you know what I mean. She caught him with another woman last winter. That was a nasty scene. She’s tougher than you think. But they’ve since reconciled. Do you know her husband?”
“No, I don’t. Isn’t he highly placed in the Party?”
“Yes,” Kaiser said. “Although no one knows quite what he does. I’m sure it’s no good.”
York was surprised Kaiser spoke so freely. He wasn’t sure why. He wondered if he spoke that casually, and unguarded, with everyone. “He certainly has a fascinating wife, regardless of what his role in the Party is.”
“Yes, he does.”
“How about the others? Are their lives as interesting?”
“N
o, not really,” Kaiser said, rubbing his chin, thoughtful for a moment. “Erika Jaeger works harder than anyone. She’s been with us about three years. A very nice lady. Somewhat shy. I don’t know much about her personal life. I know she has financial issues. She cares for an elderly mother. I assume that’s it.”
“How about the other gentleman, the viola player?”
“Gerhard Faber. He’s our newest member, been with us for a year or so. He’s also the weakest musician. He wouldn’t be with us if the war wasn’t going on, I’m sure of it. Erika might not be, either, given the many talented musicians who now serve our country. But Amanda helps her with technique and she seems to improves daily”
“Faber seems conscientious enough.”
“He is. He tries hard. I think he has three or four children. And rumor has it, a wealthy mistress. But I’ve met his wife and she’s an absolute sweetheart.”
“Who does Albert Kaiser, the great cellist, feel closest to?”
“Amanda, undoubtedly. And I’m also friends with our liaison, Captain Klein. He thinks he’s our manager but he’s more like a mother hen, very protective of his little chicks.” He looked at his watch and then tugged on the dog’s leash. “I had best be going. My wife will wonder what’s kept me. It was nice to meet you, Mr. Becker. I enjoyed our chat.”
CHAPTER 32
Gerhard Faber went to the cemetery drop on Saturday afternoon. He was short of money and with no concert scheduled because of Goebbels’ party, he had no prospects for getting any until his next paycheck. He was anxious to see what the British spy had left in exchange for the artillery shell diagrams. Hopefully, it was a lot. He needed it to satisfy Astrid Braun’s expensive tastes.
He walked towards the tomb, anxiously looking behind him, studying the lane in front of him, and examining the trees and shrubs intermingled among the tombstones. When he reached the wrought iron fence he moved to the corner post and, after shielding it with his body, removed the finial. He found a roll of Reichsmarks and a note tied with a string. When he saw the thickness of the wad he got excited, expecting a large payout. But he was disappointed to find bills in small denominations, barely worth two weeks’ expenses given his current spending rate.
Faber put the money and note in his pocket and replaced the finial. He moved to a nearby bench and read the message, which instructed him to leave the plans in a new drop location behind the Berlin Theater.
He brooded for a moment. He felt like he was being used. And he wasn’t going to stand for it, especially given the risk he was taking. Now he had more information, something better. The new rocket design could change the war; the British would realize that. He decided to be firm, to tell him what he expected. And he would dictate the drop location, no one else. Then he was struck with a sudden realization and a broad grin crossed his face. He could also sell the same plans to the Russians.
He glanced at his watch. It was getting late. He barely had time to go to the new drop and make it to the Braun’s house on time. He returned to the tomb, folded the first four pages of drawings, and placed them in the finial. Then he hurried to the taxi waiting at the cemetery entrance.
“The Berlin Theater on Kantstrasse,” he said to the driver.
As the taxi pulled away from the curb, Faber withdrew a pen and piece of paper from his pocket and scribbled the coded note he would leave at the new drop location.
HALF OF DRAWINGS PROVIDED FOR PAYMENT RECEIVED. YOU NEED TO PAY MORE. ADVANCED ROCKET DESIGN NEXT, PRODUCTION STARTS SOON. LEAVE MONEY AT CEMETERY DROP, NOT AT THEATER. THAT’S WHERE THE PLANS ARE.
Fifteen minutes later, the taxi came to a stop in front of the Berlin Theater. Faber told the driver to wait while he walked behind the building. A bakery sat beside the theater, and he could smell the bread being baked in their ovens. As he rounded the corner he saw the lot was almost empty; only five cars were parked there.
A large linden tree abutted a garden wall that defined the edge of the lot. It was about a meter high, made of stone, and probably predated the buildings around it. Faber strolled towards it, making sure all the vehicles were empty, and studied the windows of nearby buildings. He didn’t see anyone watching, not that he looked that carefully.
He glanced anxiously at the entrance and exit, and made his way to the wall behind the tree. He heard a door open, but ignored it. A woman was talking, but he couldn’t tell where she was. But it didn’t matter anyway. He was in a hurry; he had to get to Astrid’s house.
There was little room between the tree trunk and the wall, but Faber squeezed between them and found the capstone that was loose, glanced around to make sure no one was watching, and lifted it. He put the note in the cavity, restored the cap, and walked briskly back to the taxi, quite satisfied. He would give the orders from now on, not take them.
*
Astrid Braun and her mother lived in a mid-nineteenth century mansion on Von-der-Heydt-Strasse, south of Tiergarten, on a broad avenue shaded by mature linden trees and accented with a rainbow of flowers. The properties were all distinctive: brick, granite, and sandstone with decorative cornices, balconies, sculptured gardens and wrought iron fences. Faber got out of the taxi and walked the last few blocks, past the Spanish embassy on Regenenstrasse and the embassy for Imperial China, both housed in residential mansions from a time now past.
As he approached the Braun three-story villa, he saw that the spacious gardens were a bit overgrown. The trees and shrubs had to be pruned, flower beds weeded, and walkways repaired. The paint on the shutters was chipped, a brick or two on the entrance steps was loose, the mortar crumbling, the ornate railing a bit rusted and wobbly. The property needed attention, unlike its neighbors.
Astrid’s father had died of cancer a few years before. Her two brothers were soldiers, stationed in Italy and Greece. Faber suspected the family fortune was long gone, and the pay earned by the family fell far short of what was needed to maintain the property. Astrid and her mother both held clerical positions, earning enough income to sustain them but not much more.
He rang the doorbell, but no one answered. After standing there a few minutes, he realized it wasn’t working. One more item for the list of needed repairs. He knocked on the door, admiring the carvings in the wooden panels as he waited.
Astrid answered a moment later wearing a stylish green dress, a pearl necklace, and a broad smile. “Gerhard, how nice to see you.” She leaned forward and kissed him on the lips. “Please, come in.”
He handed her the bottle of wine he had brought, along with a bouquet of flowers. “For you,” he said, as he entered.
She smiled. “You’re too kind. Let me get these in some water. Come into the parlor.”
He walked in and sat on a Victorian couch, the upholstery a bit worn, and studied the room. The crown molding was as beautiful as the day it was installed, the wallpaper it defined starting to fade. The hardwood floors contained an intricate pattern of oak and mahogany that offered accents and contrasts, its original luster still present. But Faber saw that the drapes were a bit dated, and the Persian rug on the parlor floor was worn at the edges, exposing threads and the base mat.
Astrid returned a moment later with her mother.
He stood when the women entered the room. “Mrs. Braun,” Gerhard said with a slight bow. He retrieved a small box of chocolates from his pocket, handing them to her.
“Mr. Faber, you are too kind,” she said, beaming.
The mother was slender, like the daughter, still attractive, the wrinkles and graying hair offering an air of distinction and sophistication. Faber imagined that Astrid would look just like her in thirty years. It was not an unpleasing image.
They sat in the parlor, enjoying a glass of wine, while Astrid went back and forth to the kitchen, checking on dinner. Faber enjoyed the charade; the Brauns pretended to be wealthy and so did he. But neither was. He also pretended to be available. But he wasn’t.
Mrs. Braun had issued the invitation, arranging for her daughter to have dinner a
t their home. Even though the romance hadn’t progressed too far, she already suspected Faber may not be what he claimed. But it didn’t really matter. If Gerhard Faber wanted to pretend he was wealthy, she would give him the opportunity to prove it. She was a good judge of character, and she had contacts of her own. She would check on him. The family may have lost their wealth, but they hadn’t lost their influence.
“What intriguing project are you working on now, Mr. Faber?” Mrs. Braun asked.
“Mother, please,” Astrid urged. “I’m sure Gerhard doesn’t want to discuss business. He came here to relax and enjoy a nice dinner.”
“No, it’s fine,” Faber said. “I don’t mind at all.” He sighed, glanced around the room as if someone could be listening and, when convinced there was not, he continued. “I have just started manufacturing an advanced rocket. The Fuhrer thinks that once employed it will force Britain to surrender. Then the Reich can focus on the war in the East and crush the Russians.”
“That’s certainly an important assignment,” Astrid said, impressed.
“I should say so,” Mrs. Braun agreed. Then she decided to pry. “Is such an endeavor lucrative?”
“By all means,” he said. “Beyond your imagination.”
“I had better check on dinner, “Astrid said. She would leave the questions to her mother.
“I think it’s fascinating that you’re so successful,” Mrs. Braun said. Then she leaned forward, acting as if she didn’t want Astrid to hear. “There was a time when the Brauns were also. Astrid has no idea, but the family finances have taken a turn for the worst. Much was lost during the global Depression. Even the house needs attention: the rugs are worn, the paint peeling, the garden, once the most beautiful on the street, is nothing but overgrown weeds. If only I could find the money somehow.”
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