In Satan's Shadow

by Miller, John Anthony

  Amanda staggered to her feet, disheveled, and looked towards York.

  Richter watched her, sneering. “He can’t help you, Amanda. We have other plans for him. Come along.”

  “What about my mother and the children?” Erika asked, her voice shaking, fear framing her face.

  “We have no need for the sick or subhuman. It’s not worth the effort to exterminate them.” He motioned to Inga, the teenager. “Take them down the lane. I’m sure the Swiss will find something to do with them.”

  The teenager hesitated, looking at Erika, weeping.

  “Go ahead,” Erika said, trying to sound calm, fighting not to cry. “You’ll be safe there. Go to the nearest house and ask for help.” She went to her mother and hugged her, holding on tightly, knowing she might never see her again.

  The children walked down the road, led by a feeble Millie and apprehensive Inga. They kept looking back, sobbing.

  “Into the car,” Richter said sternly. “And I mean it.”

  Amanda and Erika stared at him defiantly, but knew resistance was futile.

  York locked eyes with Amanda, showing his love and strength and devotion. He tried to imply, from the look alone, that he would never desert her. The battle wasn’t over; the war wasn’t won. He would come for her, save her, and they would have all in life they wanted, dreams they only imagined.

  She nodded, wiping tears from her eyes, her left hand covering her womb, subconsciously protecting their child.

  Kaiser led them away at gun point. They were forced in the back seat, their bags in the trunk, while Kaiser got in front. Richter spoke quietly to Max, and then got in the driver’s seat. The engine started and the car pulled away, moving down the lane and into the village beyond.

  York stood in the road, his bag at his feet. Max was in front of him, Klein beside him. They both held pistols aimed at his torso.

  “So what am I to do with you, old boy?” Max asked quietly.

  “I have a suggestion,” Klein said. “Let me kill him.”

  Max turned to face Klein. “We should be able to find some use for him.”

  York took advantage of the distraction. He unlatched the safety for the pistol in the cane’s handle, aimed it at Max, and fired.

  The bullet hit his chest, just under the heart. His eyes grew wide, shocked and confused, staring at York and then the cane. His body twisted, contorted with pain, and collapsed.

  York rotated the handle, exposing the knife, and rushed Klein, tackling him as he fired. York buried the blade under his ribcage.

  Klein gasped, coughing, and then spit blood. He tried to fight, his strength waning, kicking and crawling, moving slower, weaker, until he no longer moved at all.

  A loud, hissing sound came from the sedan. Klein’s errant bullet had found the radiator, blowing a hole in it, coolant escaping.

  York turned to Max, lying on the ground, pale, in agony. His gun was beside him, just out of reach. He clutched his torso, blood trickling between his fingers.

  “Michael,” Max uttered, choking. “Michael, come here.”

  York looked at his former friend, sprawled on the ground, dying, a pool of blood beside him.

  “Don’t be stupid,” Max gasped. “Listen to me.”

  York stood over him, consumed with hatred. How many lives had been lost because Max was a double agent? How many secrets had been stolen and given to the Nazis?

  “You’re five steps from freedom,” Max said, choking. “It’s your only chance. Forget the girl and take it. Don’t underestimate Richter. He would enjoy killing you.”

  CHAPTER 75

  Far down the road, a few hundred meters into Switzerland, York could see Millie and Inga and the children at a farmhouse, tucked away on a slight hill overlooking the road. An older couple was leading them inside, where they would be safe and warm until authorities arrived. He didn’t have to worry.

  York ran to the sedan, water pouring from the radiator where the errant bullet had struck, spilling onto the moss. The keys weren’t in the ignition. He checked the floor, under the mat, but found nothing.

  He went back to Klein, blood oozing from the knife in his torso, the stain on his jacket spreading. His face was gray, his eyes closed, his chest moving. He was dying.

  York withdrew the knife, grimacing as he pulled it from Klein’s body. He wiped it on his jacket, cleaning off the blood, and reassembled his cane. Then he rummaged through Klein’s pockets, finding the keys.

  Max was lying in the road, his face ashen, his eyes open, staring vacantly at the approaching dawn. If not already dead, he was close. York wondered if Covington Blair, wealthy socialite, was ever really Max of British Intelligence. Maybe he was always Max, the traitor. Did he betray his country during the last war, when he met Klein? Or after, when England slept and Germany awakened.

  York paused at the edge of the lane, searching through the vegetation until he found Erika’s chisel. He put it in his pocket, intending to return it.

  He climbed in the sedan and started the engine, driving out of the trees and onto the dirt road, past Klein’s body. Sixty meters down the lane the sedan jerked in protest, the coolant leaking, the engine fighting to function. He nudged it forward, to the intersection, and turned left.

  The vehicle made it forty meters more before steam billowed from the radiator and the engine stalled. He started it again, the vehicle moving a few more meters. Then it died.

  York got out of the car and ran back to the ambulance, hobbling on his bad leg, stumbling and falling as he moved through the furrowed field. He retrieved the fuel can and siphon and again started running, gasping for air, his leg throbbing, the cane bending under the strain he placed upon it.

  When he reached the sedan, he opened the fuel tank, inserted the rubber hose, and started to siphon. After he had captured a few liters, enough to get the ambulance started, he stopped, put the cap on, and started hobbling back. He struggled with his leg, carrying the ten-liter can, his muscles aching and cramping.

  Sweat dotted his forehead, dripping from his hair, even though the rising sun had done little to warm the chilly morning. It took almost fifteen minutes to get to the ambulance, gasping, his muscles burning. He poured the fuel into the tank and put the can in the back.

  He jumped in the driver’s seat, started the ambulance, and pulled it from behind the haystack. A wagon passed on the crossroad behind him, the back filled with hay. The driver glanced curiously in his direction, paused, but then continued. The hamlet of Gottmadingen was waking, lights visible in a soft glow, muted by an eerie mist that drifted from the melting morning’s dew.

  When he reached the sedan he pulled beside it, aligning the fuel tanks, and started siphoning gas. He wondered what route Richter was taking to Berlin. Would it be the same he had used to reach the border? Probably not, they had nothing to hide. He did.

  He finished siphoning, climbed back in the driver’s seat and started the engine. The petrol gauge showed a half tank, nowhere near enough to get to Berlin. But it was enough to get to a train station. He turned the ambulance around, planning to take the road that looped around the village. He reached the intersection, turned right, and looked in the mirror.

  A German staff car, the Nazi flags on the bumpers hanging limply in a light breeze, was exiting the village, driving towards the bodies of Max and Klein. The vehicle halted just as York turned, and a soldier got out, watching the ambulance. He then moved to the bodies of Max and Klein, joined by his partner.

  York knew he could never explain why an ambulance was on the Swiss border. He also knew if either Max or Klein were alive, they were telling the Gestapo what had happened. Either way, he had to hide the ambulance.

  He sped down the dirt road, spotting a barn in a distant farm field, close to the village. He checked his mirror, saw no pursuer, and turned, the tires of the ambulance bouncing on the ruts of the plowed field. He knew most residents were awake, but the barn hid the farmer’s house and the village that sprawled beyond it.
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  He parked beside the building, facing the road, engine idling, and glanced in all directions, making sure he wasn’t seen. He then climbed out and peeked around the barn.

  A man dressed in a plaid winter jacket had his back to him, twenty meters away. He was studying the broken handle on a stone well, a wooden bucket on the ground beside him. A moment later he picked up the bucket, water sloshing over the edge, and walked towards a chicken coop nestled in a grove of trees.

  The barn door was open, suspended on a metal rail, most of the contents pushed against the walls. After the man was out of sight, York returned to the vehicle and drove into the barn, moving forward until the bumper reached the far wall. It fit, but barely.

  The building was large, plows and other farm equipment stored around the perimeter; rusted from years of neglect. A loft above had hay slipping through the slots of the floor, a vertical ladder by the side wall leading to it. York searched the building, but there was nothing he could use, not even a bicycle. He grabbed his bag and left, leaning on his cane, and slid the barn door closed.

  He walked through the trees, using evergreens and shrubs to hide him from both the house and road. When vegetation was sparse, he moved as quickly as he could, risking discovery, knowing there was nothing else he could do.

  The village lay before him, the farmer’s house sitting on the last street. York emerged from the foliage and walked down the road, away from the residence, and quickly turned a corner, avoiding the road he had traveled on.

  He walked for another block, searching for a vehicle, when he passed two teenage girls carrying schoolbooks. They nodded, but looked at him strangely. He turned after they passed. They had stopped, and were watching him curiously. He was a stranger in a town where everyone knew each other. He had to get away, and quickly.

  A small motorcycle turned the corner, a teenage boy sitting on it. He went in the same direction as the girls, also casting an odd glance at York. When he traveled fifty meters more he slowed and circled, looking back at York before continuing on his way.

  York followed them, even though he knew they would probably contact the authorities, but he realized they were on their way to school. If he could steal the motorcycle, even though it was small, he could elude the Germans and get to a train station.

  A block later he saw a framed building of alpine construction, a half dozen children walking towards it. By the time he reached the school yard it was empty; classes had started. He studied the building, wary of the windows, moving close to the wall, and found the motorcycle parked by the side door.

  He crept up to the bike, crossed the starter wires, and the engine sputtered to life. After a quick look around to make sure no one was watching, he stowed his bag and cane on a rack in the back, climbed on, and drove away.

  There were no people visible. Maybe they were working the fields, or repairing equipment to be ready for spring. York kept the throttle idling for the first block, so he didn’t attract attention, but sped down the next block, and crossed another. When he reached the last street in town, he turned right, finding the road that bypassed the village. He gunned the engine, increasing his speed.

  A gunshot startled him, echoing in the quiet morning. He looked over his shoulder, swerving as he did so. The German staff car was in close pursuit, barely sixty meters behind him. A soldier leaned out the passenger’s window, his pistol pointed at York.

  York opened the throttle, forcing the cycle forward as fast as it would go, but the Germans were still gaining. He knew he couldn’t outrun them; he had to elude them.

  A second shot was fired, the bullet ricocheting off the handlebar. York veered sharply to the left, hurdling the drainage gully beside the road, almost falling. It was hard to control the bike, the frame vibrating, tires bouncing. He continued through a farm field, the rows remaining from fall plowing, trying to stay in furrows whenever possible.

  The staff car stopped where he had left the road. A soldier got out, studied the gully, and realized the sedan couldn’t pass over it. He abandoned his pistol and raised a rifle, took aim, and fired.

  York crunched over the handlebars, offering the smallest profile possible. He heard the shot, cringed, but felt no impact. He swerved back and forth, presenting an elusive target should another shot be fired.

  As he continued across the field, the soldier got back in the car and the Germans drove down the road, turning left at a distant crossroad. They were trying to stay parallel, knowing at some point York had to return to the road. But they were too far away to try another shot.

  York sped forward, but veered farther from the road. He crossed one farmer’s field, and then two more, before coming to a main highway. He halted, studied the few passing vehicles, and withdrew the map he had taken from the ambulance.

  He was on a major route, about one hundred kilometers from Stuttgart. The staff car would intersect the road just around the next curve. But his path across the farm fields had been far shorter. If he hurried, he could escape. And if he had enough petrol to get to Stuttgart, he could catch a train to Berlin when he got there. He opened the cap on the fuel tank. It was almost full. He could make it.

  He returned the map to his pocket, and drove the motorcycle as fast as he could. He was cold, not dressed for the wind, and his hands were frozen, more numb with each kilometer traveled. Once he was sure he had lost the Germans, he stopped to get warm, finding a grove of evergreen trees along the road that hid him while he rested. But he was afraid to stop for long.

  He wondered where Amanda and Erika were. They were closer to Berlin than he was, he knew that. But if they were driving, and he took the train, he might arrive before them. He started to develop a plan, how to rescue them, and what to do with Manfred Richter.

  CHAPTER 76

  Two hours later York reached the outskirts of Stuttgart, a major rail center, home to Daimler and Porsche automotive factories, and several military bases. Since it was a valuable industrial production region, it was also a prime target for Allied bombers.

  As York entered the southern suburbs, he saw how widespread the devastation was. He drove through residential areas heavily damaged, some blocks nothing but rubble, and industrial areas where factories were destroyed, brick shells with collapsed roofs. Still others, charred and crumbling, continued their contribution to the war effort, their smokestacks belching, their workforce producing.

  The train station was located in the center of the city, a dominant building of limestone and brick, supported by pillars and marked by a large rectangular tower. It too had been severely damaged, with parts of the façade lying in piles of debris, walls toppled, windows shattered. But it still functioned, trains coming and going, carrying troops and material, travelers and weapons.

  York guided the motorcycle to a street adjacent to the terminal, little more than fumes left in the fuel tank. He parked the bike beside a street light, collected his cane and bag, and hobbled into the station.

  He studied arrivals and departures, finding a train that left for Berlin forty minutes later, and went to the counter and purchased a ticket. A nearby café had tables inside the terminal, and he got a cup of coffee and a kreppel, as well as a newspaper.

  He sipped his coffee and ate his donut and pretended to read the newspaper, but he was really thinking about Amanda and Erika. What would Richter do with them? He couldn’t imagine them returning to their normal lives, dominating the concert stage, as if nothing had happened. Or would they have to? Was the grand illusion that important to the German people, Hitler’s favorite musician, the Scot, Amanda Hamilton?

  They might be sent to prison, or a concentration camp, where the Nazis literally worked people to death. Far more likely was a staged accidental death, followed by public mourning for the violinists of the Berlin String Quartet, the nation grieving the loss of their musical masters. That was more typical of Richter, sneaky and sinister, the deception visible for all to see, yet for no one to doubt. York got anxious, his last thought overwhelmin
g, time far more critical.

  He tapped his foot on the floor, impatient, and looked at his watch. He didn’t see the two men in green police uniforms approach. They motioned for an elderly couple at a nearby table to quietly move out of the way. Then they walked up, standing just behind him, and withdrew their pistols.

  “Don’t move,” one of the policemen said.

  York froze. The voice was commanding, authoritative. He remained motionless, hands on the table, and considered the possibilities. The Gestapo would be worst, a local policeman least likely to determine who he really was.

  He watched from the corner of his eye as a man came into view. It was a policeman, walking in front of him, the green uniform easily identifiable.

  “Raise your hands,” the policeman said.

  “There is still a gun in your back,” said a second voice behind him.

  “Now stand up,” the first policeman ordered.

  A crowd started to gather, standing on the perimeter of the café: a few soldiers, an old man with a newspaper under his arm, a teenage girl. They watched curiously, wondering why two policemen were arresting an army sergeant.

  York did as he was told. He stood, pasting a surprised look on his face, chewing the remnants of the kreppel still in his mouth.

  “What is wrong?” he asked innocently.

  “Step away from the table.”

  “May I get my cane?” York asked. He nodded towards his leg. “A war wound in North Africa.”

  The policeman hadn’t expected that information. It didn’t fit the description of the man he had been told to arrest. He didn’t answer him, but exchanged a wary glance with his companion.

  “Are you armed?” the policeman asked.

  “Yes,” York replied. “I have a pistol. Military issue.”

  The second policeman moved closer behind him, putting the barrel of his gun in York’s back. “Put the pistol on the table.”