Faber could not resist the urge to impress. He had a fistful of money in his pocket and he would soon have more. He would sell the rest of the artillery shell plans and then the rocket design. Not only to the British, but probably to the Russians as well.
“Mrs. Braun,” he said. “I would be honored if you allowed me to take care of the gardens. Just as a token of our friendship and how kind you and your daughter have been to me. I can have workmen here in three or four days. And if you prefer, Astrid need never know.”
“Oh, Mr. Faber,” said Mrs. Braun, her hand over her heart, her face a look of surprise. “How kind of you. I would be so appreciative.”
When Astrid called them into dinner, Mrs. Braun could barely conceal her glee. Although she suspected he was a fake, she really didn’t care who Gerhard Faber was or where he got his money. She realized that as long as she kept her daughter almost obtainable, but not quite, she could control Faber just as she had been able to control other men throughout her life. She smiled. She had conned the con artist.
CHAPTER 33
The black Mercedes drove slowly down the street before stopping in front of the Richter townhouse, Nazi flags perched on its bumpers waving gently in the breeze. Manfred and Amanda left their residence a moment later, her violin case held protectively under her arm, sheltered from the evils of the world. Neighbors and passersby watched as he led her down the steps, his arm wrapped around her, looking immaculate in a dark suit and tie, a fedora covering his black hair. Amanda wore a lavender evening gown, her hair bobbed and close to her head, mimicking one of the latest styles. Everyone knew they were celebrities, the highly-placed Party official and the famous violinist, and they watched in awe as the driver held the door for them.`
Goebbels’s mansion was eight kilometers to the southwest, on Schwanenwerder Island, in Berlin’s most exclusive area. The property had a hundred meters of frontage on Wannsee Lake and was beautifully landscaped, dotted with tall oaks and pines mingled with shrubs and beds of flowers. Amanda thought it was one of the most peaceful places she had ever seen, and had once tried to convince Manfred to move there. Many Nazi elite lived in the area, some of the properties confiscated from Jewish owners. Hitler's architect, Albert Speer, and his personal doctor, Theodor Morell, had residences near the Goebbels, and the Fuhrer was supposedly considering moving there as well.
They drove through the city, Amanda not saying a word to Manfred, reaching the stone walls that defined the Goebbels’ estate about twenty minutes later. An iron gate marked the entrance, the metal twisted into a floral pattern matching the flowers that grew beside it. It was opened by two soldiers, both fully armed, who checked their credentials before nodding them onward. The mansion appeared, sitting on the edge of the lake, as they traveled down a winding lane. A rambling three-story building hinting of both Greco-Roman and Aryan design, it was square, with diagonal window grills that lent a Bavarian influence, while columns and statues decorating the lawn and gardens seemed more Mediterranean.
A soldier opened the door, an older man, ramrod straight. He led them to a banquet hall, rectangular in shape, gilded wallpaper accented by white chair railing. Large windows overlooked the lake; paintings by the Impressionists dressed the walls. Bronze busts of Beethoven, Mozart, Bach, and Brahms sat on marble pedestals in each corner, and a signed portrait of Hitler dominated the far wall. Long narrow tables circled the room, draped in red cloth adorned with the Swastika, and covered with appetizers, entrees, pastries, and salads. Several rooms branched from the main, one of which opened to a small stage with a dance floor before it. A piano was perched in the center, where a man in a white suit jacket played softly, his fingers roaming the ivory to create soothing melodies.
Amanda put her violin case behind the stage and then studied the room. She knew most of the attendees, having seen them through the years at prior events. The Fuhrer stood at the far end flanked by Martin Bormann and Joseph Goebbels, the hulking frame of Hermann Göring in front of them. Göring’s second wife Emmy stood beside him, while Gerda Bormann and Magda Goebbels stood to one side, talking to the architect Albert Speer. Several generals were grouped in one corner, Jodl and Keitel, as well as a few that Amanda recognized but whose names she couldn’t remember. The remaining guests were party officials and leaders of industry, the men that kept the appetite of the massive war machine sated.
“Mingle, darling,” Manfred said after their wine glasses had been filled. “I have business to conduct.”
She cast him an annoyed look, somehow finding she could hate him more as each day passed, and walked away. She felt uncomfortable, glancing around the room for a conversation to join, conscious of the commitment she had made to obtain information. Hitler and the group surrounding him had retired to a study off the dining hall, and she could see them through the glass doors, sitting on plush leather sofas engaged in an animated discussion.
She moved towards the generals, pretending to be interested in a nearby tray of apple sausage appetizers. As she grabbed a plate and utensils, she strained her ears, trying to capture tidbits of information, wondering if anything being said could be useful to the Allies.
“I was as surprised as you,” said General Wilhelm Keitel, Hitler’s War Minister. “Why would the Fuhrer halt the offensive at Kursk to redeploy troops to Italy? We could have sent reinforcements from the Balkans.”
“He thinks the Allied landings in Italy are a diversion. And that the real offensive will be in the Balkans. There are …”
She walked away, her heart racing, knowing she had heard something important, but not wanting to get caught eavesdropping. It was an arena in which she had never performed, and she could feel her breath, short and shallow. Her wine glass rattled in one hand, the plate with two sausages shook in the other. She took a deep breath and sipped more wine, gathering her courage, and went to the stage where she pretended to listen to the piano player.
He was very good, and she gradually relaxed as she watched his hands glide across the keys. Listening to the music made her think of Michael, and she wondered how well he played. She knew he liked classical music, but wondered what else. Had he studied music, or was he self-taught? Did he play daily when in London, or just occasionally? All were questions she wanted to ask, among others, but there had really been little time to learn about each other. Not that they should, given their current roles.
She had to admit that he was an interesting man. Logical but creative, and sensitive yet strong, he was a former teacher who loved architecture and music and many of the things that she did. It was a unique combination. Her heart had broken when he told her about his wife leaving with his daughter, Elizabeth.
Sorrow gradually consumed her as she relived their conversation. He had chosen the same name she had for her child, although not the Anglo spelling. Elisabeth was the German version. And she loved the name. It sounded like a song, rolling off the lips and tongue, the letters linked, syllables complimenting each other.
“Are you enjoying the party?”
Amanda was startled, lost in her own world. She turned to find Col. Klemp, a short, chubby man with round spectacles and a balding head. She didn’t know him that well, only that he was the dean of a military school.
“Yes, I am,” she said. “It’s very nice.”
“Will you be playing for us this evening?”
She nodded and glanced at her watch. “In a few minutes, actually. I’m waiting for the piano player to finish.”
“I’m sure your performance will be exceptional, as always.”
She smiled. “Thank you. You’re too kind.”
“You must be so proud of Kurt,” he continued.
She was confused. “Of course, I am. He’s a wonderful child.”
“Child?” Beck asked jokingly.
She laughed. “Yes, but I suppose he’ll soon be a man.”
“He’ll do well at the academy,” Beck continued. “Manfred insisted that he start officer training as soon as possible. Then h
e’ll advance quickly when he joins the military.”
Amanda felt her heart sink as a wave of nausea consumed her. Manfred was sending Kurt away and he hadn’t even told her. She tried to maintain her composure. She didn’t want Klemp to know how upset she was.
“Where exactly is the school located?” she asked, feigning forgetfulness. “I know Manfred told me. But I just can’t remember.”
“In Saxony-Anhalt. About 180 kilometers southwest of Berlin. The official name is the National Political Institutes of Education. We are thrilled to have Manfred’s son attending.”
“And we are excited to have Kurt trained by some of the brightest minds in Germany.” She cast a smile she didn’t feel. “If you’ll excuse me, Colonel, I have to get ready to perform.”
It was difficult to practice; she had trouble concentrating. She was close to Kurt and she couldn’t bear to lose him, even though she knew she already had. His father and the Nazi Party were destroying him. Day by day he was changing, polluted by the Hitler Youth. Now he would become a trained killer.
And then she was on stage. Her mind entered a different world once her fingers traveled the violin’s neck. Her melodies were so moving, so dynamic, that those attending the party stopped their mindless chatter and, within minutes, they all gathered to listen. The doors opened to the side office and Hitler emerged, moving to the stage. His eyes, alive with passion and evil and insanity, watched her intently, awestruck at the talent, overwhelmed by the emotion. When she completed her first selection, he immediately started clapping, and the rest followed, mimicking their master.
She played for forty minutes. Few in the audience took their eyes from her. Hitler stood, arms folded across his chest, totally mesmerized. When she finished her final piece and bowed, the room was consumed with applause, emphatically led by the Fuhrer. As she stepped from the stage he approached, acknowledging her with a nod of his head and an outstretched hand.
“True talent, Mrs. Richter,” Hitler said loudly, nudging Bormann who stood beside him. “A magnificent performance. I have never been so moved.”
She smiled and bowed gracefully, knowing all eyes were upon her. “I’m honored, mein Fuhrer.”
The clapping gradually subsided and the audience broke into groups, sampling the wine and food and talking among themselves. The pianist returned to the stage, playing a tender melody that brought a few couples to the dance floor.
Amanda put her violin in the case. She was exhausted, as she was at the end of every concert. She used every ounce of strength, with each cell of her body contributing, to create the passion and muster the emotion that defined her performances. She sat on a chair behind the stage, recovering.
Ten minutes later she re-joined the party, accepting a glass of wine from the waiter. Still upset about Kurt, she decided to confront Manfred. She found him with a group of business leaders. As she approached, his back to her, she heard an intense discussion.
“With a separate route to each destination,” he was saying. “We need banking and an industrial presence in each location. South America will be the primary focus, with Buenos Aires as the hub. And then the Middle East, mainly Syria and Egypt, the operation run from Cairo. Spain will be the European center. All have governments sympathetic to our cause, and people who believe in us.” He then paused dramatically, eyeing each man in turn, all of whom listened intently. “These locations will launch the Fourth Reich, should the situation demand it.” He paused again, and then spoke quietly. “In the event the Third Reich does not survive.”
Amanda slowly moved away, unnoticed. She had no idea what Manfred was talking about. And she doubted that Adolph Hitler did either.
CHAPTER 34
“Captain Rufus Klein,” Max said with disgust. “This is the second war I’ve fought against him. I’m surprised the old goat is still alive.”
York had just described his encounter with Kaiser. Given Max’s reaction, it seemed they may have identified the informant. Maybe it wasn’t a member of the string quartet. It could be the man who was watching them.
“What happened in the Great War?” York asked.
“I was behind enemy lines, posing as a Belgian farmer. The local headquarters for German military intelligence was just down the road. I got a little too aggressive, if you know what I mean, and attracted Klein’s attention.”
“And he captured you?”
Max nodded. “Me and a few others, although he had no proof. Not that he needed any. Klein kept us chained in a barn for seven months. He was convinced we knew a lot more than we really did. But I don’t think he ever got anything useful.”
“Then what happened. Did you escape?”
“No, actually, the war ended.”
York listened closely, never having heard the story before. He wondered why Klein would keep Max in a barn for seven months. Why not send him to a prisoner of war camp? He was about to ask, when Max continued.
“Kaiser and the others may think Klein is their liaison, or manager, or whatever they want to call him. But the Klein I know would never settle for a role like that. Although he is older now, probably past sixty, I’m sure he contributes to the war effort somehow. I can’t imagine him babysitting a group of spoiled musicians.”
“Do you think he suspects one of them is selling information?”
“What do you think?” Max asked, his eyebrows arched in a question. “I’m sure he does. They travel to entertain the troops. They give concerts. They’re exposed to the public. They’re certainly accessible. And Klein knows that.”
“Maybe Klein spotted you watching Kaiser’s apartment,” York said. “And he remembered you. He notified the Gestapo, and that’s where the wanted posters came from.”
Max shrugged. “I suppose it’s possible, but not very likely. We haven’t seen each other in twenty-five years. I wouldn’t recognize him if I saw him today; I doubt he would recognize me, either.”
“Then who do you think it is?”
“I don’t know, maybe someone I bought information from.”
York didn’t find the explanation plausible. “Then it should be easy to find them.”
Max shrugged. “I don’t think we need to. The posters have vanished anyway. An informant told me the Gestapo arrested someone that resembles me; that probably explains why. Hopefully they let the poor bloke go after questioning.”
York cringed. He didn’t want to think about an innocent man suffering at the hands of the Gestapo, even if it did save Max. But the Gestapo would know fairly quickly that they had the wrong man, and then increase their efforts to find the right one.
“There’s something missing,” York said. “There has to be a reason for the posters, and there has to be someone behind it. Regardless of who was arrested, the person that betrayed you is still in Berlin. And they can betray you again.”
“I agree,” Max said, although he didn’t seem to care. “But it could be anyone. It doesn’t have to be Kaiser or Klein or someone who gave me information. It could be the remains of whatever mess Kent, your predecessor, got himself into.”
York shrugged, confused and bewildered. They had nothing specific, just unanswered questions.
“I’m beginning to wonder about Kaiser, after what you told me,” Max said. “He seems to know a lot about everyone.”
“I wouldn’t worry about him.” York said. “He likes to gossip. He was only friendly because I complimented him and he thought I was a fellow musician.”
“But didn’t he say Klein was his neighbor? He must know he’s Gestapo or some sort of military intelligence.”
“Why would he care? I’m sure he has friends who are Gestapo, or policemen, or party officials.”
Max glanced at his watch. “What else do you want to talk about? I only have a few more minutes.”
“I’m meeting Amanda this afternoon to discuss whatever information she got at the party, and I meet with Erika Jaeger on Thursday.”
“Are you sure she isn’t the Gestapo informant?�
�
“Yes, I’m certain,” York said with no hesitation. “She has too much to lose.”
Max was quiet, pensive. “I suppose that alone would make her cooperate.”
“I do think she has access to valuable information, so it’ll be worthwhile. But she’ll want to know if we can get her friends out of the country. Have you given that any more thought?”
“Some,” Max replied. “As I said before, anything is possible. We need a safe route, which takes a little research. But it can be done. It’ll be much harder than France, though. We can expect little or no help from the locals here. Too loyal to the Austrian painter, if you know what I mean.”
York smiled at his reference to Hitler, but knew he was right. “I’ll tell her we’re working on it. That will give her some hope. Maybe she knows people, Germans that aren’t loyal to the Nazis.”
“Wait until you have her hooked before you offer too much,” Max said, again glancing at his watch, and then starting for the door. “I have to go. I don’t want to be late.”
“What if Kaiser and Klein have something going on, the two of them?” York asked. “Something they’re afraid we’ll find?”
“What do you mean?”
“They see you watching them, and the wanted posters appear. Now you’ll stay away from their apartment building. Suppose they notice me hanging around, and wonder what I’m up to. They send Kaiser down for a friendly chat so I’m convinced he’s above suspicion and I won’t bother him anymore.”
“That theory assumes they know us and what we’re here for.”
“Exactly.”
“It doesn’t make sense,” Max said. “They would just have us arrested.”
“Unless we’re pawns in their chess game, not ready to be taken.”
CHAPTER 35
Amanda arrived near noon, carrying an umbrella and a small box of photographs. She cast a weak smile as she entered, seemed a bit preoccupied, but sat at the table by the window, nervously glancing outside. When satisfied no one was lurking on the street, she sat back in the chair and looked at York.
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