“I’ll split off before the speeches start and head for the White House basement. During the building’s renovation a few years ago, an elevator was added that leads from a linen closet in the residential wing to a safe room, in case Neuberlin came under attack. My job will be to shut off the elevator by destroying its control box in the basement. That’ll trap Dieter in his room, where the rest of you will find him.”
“What about your shoulder?” said Uncle Red. “That’s going to slow you down.”
“We’ve got no other choice. About a year ago, Farragut tasked me to find out everything I could about the White House after the renovations. She thought we might have to tackle a mission like this one day, so I memorized the new schematics. I’m the only one who will know my way around down there.”
The rest of the plan was more straightforward. After Zara, Alene, and Uncle Red conquered the Corps of Four (which didn’t sound the least bit straightforward to Zara), they would locate the Führer in Baldur’s residential wing, a key piece of intelligence passed on from one of Garrison’s contacts. Finally, the three of them would coordinate the assassination of Dieter — the crowning moment of the mission — before escaping through any window or door they could find. Under Alene’s disguises, they would flee to an Alliance safe house.
By the time Garrison had finished laying out the plan, his voice had gone hoarse and his eyelids were heavy with exhaustion. Zara’s stomach was churning at everything he had told them. In about fifteen hours, she would be at the White House, the Führer in her sights — and the success of the mission would depend on her. On her lightning. On her wind. Alene could get them into the White House and her uncle was a great shot if Garrison managed to smuggle a gun to the ceremony, but her dual abilities had to carry them through it. Fear jackknifed through her. What if she failed? What if she couldn’t protect Uncle Red?
“Hey, look at me,” her uncle said to her. They were alone at the table now. Garrison had left to rebandage his wound while Alene went to greet a new batch of rebels who had arrived. “It’s going to be a long and tough night. The toughest we’ll ever go through, I’m sure.”
“I know,” she said. She wondered if he was going to talk her out of the mission. After all, it would be the least cautious thing that they had ever done.
“There’ll be gunfire and bombs. Every Nazi in that building is going to try to kill us. But you know what?”
He was only making her feel worse, so Zara only shrugged.
“We’ve already survived that yesterday. So now, we’ll do it again, and I’ll be with you every step of the way. We’re going to do this together.”
Overwhelmed, tears clung to Zara’s eyes as he pulled her into a hug. “I know you don’t want me to go.”
“No, I don’t — and I think I’m a little insane for even agreeing to this — but this could be our chance to take down the Nazis. And even I don’t think we can pass that up.” He released her but kept a hand on her shoulder. “Now we both better get some sleep. I don’t want you passing out during the Führer’s speech.”
She smiled as she wiped her eyes. “Uncle Red.”
While Uncle Red searched for a couple of cots for them to lie down on, Zara filled a clean bowl with stew and retraced her steps back to the makeshift infirmary. Fatigue had filled her from her head to her toes, but she couldn’t sleep until she checked on Bastian. When she reached the infirmary, she found him curled up on a cot in the corner, a blanket thrown over his shoulders, fast asleep. Not wanting to wake him, Zara left the bowl on the floor next to him.
“Zara?”
Zara glanced behind her, blinking in the dim lights of the factory. “Kristy?” she whispered. She hadn’t expected to see Kristy’s face again, especially not here in Neuberlin. “When did you get here?”
“My mom and I just arrived.” A layer of dirt and dried blood had seeped into Kristy’s clothes, and her face had taken on a ghostly pallor, but otherwise she didn’t look injured. “Some of the rebels drove us out of the fort, but our truck broke down ten miles outside of the city limits. We walked the rest of the way.”
“There’s food in the kitchen around the back.” Zara wasn’t sure what else to say. She was glad that Kristy had survived the attack, but that didn’t change their past. With a quick pat on Kristy’s shoulder, Zara was about to go look for her uncle, but Kristy kept talking.
“I — I owe you an apology. The way I treated you at school was …”
Zara looked back at her, surprised. She hadn’t expected this from Kristy. Not now. Probably not ever. She had dreamed about this moment for so long, but now that it was here she only wanted to sleep.
“I’m sorry,” Kristy finally said in a shaky voice. Zara waited for her to say more, but evidently this was the best that Kristy could do. It was far from enough, but Zara was too tired to argue.
“Get some sleep. I’m sure you and your mom are exhausted.”
Kristy wrapped her arms around herself, looking like a girl half her age. “What are we supposed to do now? We can’t go back to Greenfield.”
“Stay with the Alliance. Fight with us. I can’t tell you what to do, but I’m sure you’ll figure it out.” Her answer was cold, perhaps, but it was the best that Zara could do — and it would have to be enough. “Good luck.”
And she meant it.
* * *
As the assassination ticked closer, the hours blurred together. Zara managed to sneak in a few hours of sleep before Garrison roused her to train in an empty section of the factory. With Uncle Red’s help, she worked most of the day on harnessing her lightning, controlling its growth, and steering its release until her uncle was satisfied.
After an early dinner of onion soup and hard bread, Alene steered Zara to the women’s locker room to give her their mission uniform. The clothes and gear were laid out on a bench: a slim black shirt and cargo pants, combat boots and a bulletproof vest, and a handheld video camera to tape the assassination.
“Dominic found the gear for us,” said Alene, who had already changed. Her clothing was identical to Zara’s, except she had a pistol holstered on her belt. “Try it on.”
Zara’s brow furrowed. “I doubt we can get close to the White House dressed like this.”
A ghost of a smile trailed on Alene’s lips. She narrowed her eyes and, in only a second, her T-shirt and cargo pants transformed into a silky blue gown with glittering rhinestones dotting the straps. “How about like this? Think they’ll let us in now?”
Zara had seen Alene transform once before but witnessing it again made her head spin a little. “Can you really do that for all of us?”
“If we stay close.”
“You mean we have to touch one another?”
“No, not touching. Just standing close together, about three feet apart at the very max.” Her smile erased as quickly as it appeared. “That’s the key. We can’t drift too far away from one another until the rebels invade the White House and we can blend in with them. Otherwise our cover will get blown in seconds.”
Stay close to Alene, Zara repeated in her mind. It would be her mantra at the gala; she shuddered to think what would happen if she forgot it.
“What about the vest and your pistol?” said Zara. “Doesn’t the White House have metal detectors?”
“The vest has ceramic plates, so we’ll get through just fine. As for the pistol, it’s for your uncle and I’ve got it handled,” Alene said. “Now, quick, quick. We have to move out.”
Zara got dressed in the gear, grateful to change out of her sweaty hospital clothes, and she followed Alene out of the locker room for one last briefing with Garrison. But when they passed the infirmary, Bastian hurried toward them, calling out Zara’s name. Alene frowned at his intrusion, but she glanced at Zara and said, “Five minutes. Find us in the kitchen.”
“Are you leaving for the gala soon?” Bastian asked Zara when he reached her. Bags hung under his eyes, dark and hollow, as if he had been living in a war zone. In a way, h
e had. “I’ve been hoping to find you all day.”
He’s been looking for me? Zara thought. Despite the weariness in her bones, she brightened a little at his words. Ever since they had arrived at the factory, she had been overwhelmed with training and adrenaline and a chest-knotting fear that refused to go away, but hearing him say that made her heart a little less heavy.
“We leave in an hour,” she told him. “How are you holding up here?”
“It has been busy, much busier than Opa’s old clinic,” he admitted. He fought off a yawn. “But I’m fine, really. Dominic’s cousin Sofia relieved me for a couple hours so I could sleep.”
Zara figured he was putting on a brave face for her. This factory was a far stretch from what Bastian was used to: a comfortable home, his very own car, hired help to take care of every last worry. But in the last twenty-four hours, his life had transformed into something unrecognizable — and Zara could see it in the dazed look in his eyes, the slump of his shoulders.
“I’m much more worried about you,” Bastian went on. He stepped closer to her, and Zara could smell the antiseptic on his jacket. “The White House, this attack.”
“We’ll be fine,” Zara said, even though her hands wouldn’t stop shaking. She knew the chances were against her tonight — the odds of success must have been one in a million — but she wouldn’t back out of it now. Not with the Führer at her fingertips. Now it was her turn to put on a brave face for Bastian. “I’m a Dual Anomaly, remember?”
Despite her attempt to lighten the mood, the worry didn’t retreat from Bastian’s face. “I could go with you. With my training —”
“No, you have to stay at the infirmary. They need you here.” Zara knew that Bastian couldn’t go with them — Alene would never even consider it — but she warmed at the thought that he was willing to go with them anyway, especially after everything he had been through.
“Is Garrison sure that the Nazis will even go through with this gala? The raid on Fort Goering just happened.”
“They haven’t canceled it yet,” Zara said. Garrison had worried about this very same thing, but the Führer must have been more concerned about the Reds. If the gala was canceled, Premier Volkov could take that as a sign that the Nazis had a real rebellion on their hands. That the Nazis’ hold on the Territories was weakening. “And we can’t pass up this chance to kill the Führer.”
Bastian’s eyes drifted over Zara, sweeping from the top of her head to the combat boots on her feet. His face hovered above hers. For a split second she thought he was going to kiss her, but he cleared his throat instead. “You’re far braver than I am, Zara St. James.” Admiration glinted in his amber gaze.
Zara dipped her chin down so he wouldn’t see her reddening face. Had she wanted him to kiss her? The thumping of her heart answered that question for her, but it didn’t matter now. She was about to leave for the White House, for the assassination; she refused to think about an almost kiss. She needed her head in the mission, and only the mission.
“I better go,” she said, about to turn away, but Bastian caught her by the shoulders.
“Wait a second.”
Zara waited, even though she had to go. She felt Bastian’s fingers dig into her shoulder, ever so gently.
“Be careful tonight. Please, Zara,” he said.
“I will.”
“If anything happened to you …”
Zara stared up at him. He had never looked at her like this before, like he was memorizing the planes of her face. Did he … did he really care so much?
“I’ll be careful. I promise,” she said.
“I’ll hold you to it.” Then he pulled her into him, nestled in his arms. For a second, Zara was so startled that her arms hung limply at her sides, but then she pressed against him, giving into the flutters in her stomach. Closing her eyes, she breathed in deep, inhaling the scent of him that lingered underneath the antiseptic smell. He released her, his pale cheeks a bright red.
“I’ll see you when I get back,” she managed to get out.
Then it was time for her to go.
Despite Garrison’s warning to keep their heads down, Zara snuck in a few glances at the city anyway, letting her eyes feast upon the splendor of Neuberlin. She thought she would feel disgust at this brick-and-marble town, especially with the Third Reich flags flying on every building, but she couldn’t peel her gaze from the shining capital.
The city was — in one word — grand. Newly paved streets ran underneath Zara’s feet, smooth as fresh butter, and fifty-story buildings climbed to her left and right. As they ventured deeper into the capital, they passed department stores with names like Kaufhof and Alsterhaus that featured block-long window displays of silk ball gowns and sharp-cut suits. Cafés dotted the busy roads, too, offering delicacies like chai tea and powdered donuts with raspberry filling. The heavenly sweet scent drifted into her nose, making her taste buds clamor for one bite, even though she could never afford such extravagances.
And then there were the cars. Zara had never seen the likes of them before: red Mercedes convertibles alongside black Porsche SUVs with platinum rims. The vehicles were shined to a gloss, no dents or scratches to be seen.
So this is how the Neuberliners live, Zara thought. While she and her uncle labored on their farm, the Nazis sipped tiny cups of espresso and drove their newly washed cars.
Now the disgust rolled through her.
Soon, they entered the center of the capital. Gigantic German museums — once known as the Smithsonian — flanked Zara on both sides: the Museum of Industry, the Museum of Nazi Militaria, the Archives of the Territories. If she looked behind her, she could also see the shrine to Adolf Hitler that was built over the razed Capitol building and decorated with enormous Nazi flags waving across its entrance. Hopefully, it won’t be a shrine much longer, Zara thought fiercely.
“We can’t dawdle,” Uncle Red said to her. “Alene needs you to stay close.”
Zara hurried to catch up, murmuring an apology to Alene, whose brows were furrowed in concentration to keep them all disguised. Thanks to her ability, they had walked the last few miles looking like a wealthy entourage of Japanese emissaries strolling through the city. Whenever Zara caught her reflection in a store window, her eyes gaped to find herself five inches taller and her body clad in a floor-length velvet gown, the darkest of burgundies. A pair of satin heels adorned her feet as well, with a cluster of green jewels along its toe cap. The prettiest — and most impractical — shoes she had ever seen.
The rest of the group was similarly dressed: a violet silk dress for Alene, a navy suit for Garrison, and a black tuxedo for Uncle Red, who had taken on the appearance of the Japanese ambassador. Zara’s eyes darted up and down the boulevard, wondering if any of the Germans could see through their disguises, but she only received polite nods from the pedestrians who passed them by.
They turned onto Schicklgruber Avenue, named for Adolf Hitler’s paternal grandmother, and Zara’s stomach quickly tied into a knot. A few blocks ahead, she spotted the bright green lawn of the White House, along with the electrified fence that encircled the property. The fence had been installed after a failed assassination attempt in 1975, and as they drew close to it Zara made sure to keep her distance. Every time she strayed too near the fence, she could hear the hum of the voltage.
“All right,” Garrison said in a hushed tone, his lips hardly moving. “Remember, if we get separated, make your way back to Dominic’s factory. If that has been compromised, head to our headquarters in West Virginia. It’s ten miles south of Wardensville and built right underneath the Hotel Liberty, 150 Corona Road. Go to the lobby and tell them that ‘the birds chime at midnight.’ That’ll get you inside the bunker.”
Zara tucked away that bit of information inside her head before they shuffled toward the White House checkpoint, where a slew of armed guards scanned ID cards and ushered people through the metal detectors.
“What about our IDs?” Zara whispered.
“Alene and I have it covered,” Garrison whispered back. “Stay calm.”
Sweat beaded on her palms as they edged closer to the checkpoint. Chewing her lip, Zara watched the gray-haired woman in front of them — an Austrian diplomat, perhaps? — present her passport and walk through the metal detector.
Then it was their turn. Zara’s fingers clenched around her uncle’s arm, and she felt him suck in a deep breath.
“Identification, please,” one of the guards said in German.
“Here are our passports.” Alene smiled. Reaching into her pocket, she took out several tattered pieces of paper and handed them to the guard.
Zara’s heart went from doing somersaults to double flips. Old pieces of paper? That was their plan? The urge to flee climbed up her legs, but the guard only nodded at Uncle Red.
“Welcome, Ambassador Nakamura,” he said. “Please remove any belts or wallets or metal items from your person and place them in the bin.”
Zara waited for him to scrutinize their “passports” again, but he had moved on to the next guests in line. A bit stunned, she watched Alene and Garrison pass through the detectors without a problem. Then it was Uncle Red’s turn. He took off his belt, and Zara noticed that Alene had disguised his holstered pistol as a very large belt buckle. It was a risky move, but the guards merely ushered them through the detector and handed the belt back to Uncle Red. Against all odds, Alene’s plan had worked.
Zara released her pent-up breath, but she knew the dangers were far from over. Along the path, she saw a dozen uniformed soldiers standing at attention, ready to spring into action if anything went awry.
Looking up from the cobbled path, Zara almost stumbled at the sight of the White House, which loomed ahead, shining like a beacon in the evening light. The house itself was enormous — the recent renovation had doubled it in size — and equally stunning, from the handsome marble pillars to the lush flower boxes in the windows and finally to the circular fountain that stood on the front lawn. The tinkle of bubbling water flowed into Zara’s ears.
The Only Thing to Fear Page 19