After the Nazis won the war and set about changing Washington, DC, to Neuberlin, Adolf Hitler originally wanted to demolish the White House and build a mansion to his liking. But once he toured the building, he became partial to its stately ceilings and fine wood floors. It will be a fine little home, Adolf had told his staff, who were tasked with burning all of the “filthy American artwork” and replacing it with pieces of fine art that hadn’t made it into the Führermuseum he had founded in Austria.
One step at a time, they ascended the stairs to the White House and entered the grand foyer side by side. Zara’s eyes widened at the stateliness of the space. High above their heads, a magnificent chandelier sparkled and shone, comprised of thousands of pieces of delicate glass. And down by her feet, her shoes were greeted by the finest white marble, polished to gleam like a mirror. She wondered how many cleaning girls had hunched over the cold stone to achieve such a shine. No doubt they had spent hours at the task only to receive a few meager coins for their work.
A waiter approached their group with a silver tray of champagne flutes in hand. Zara took a glass to be polite, but her lips didn’t touch the fizzing liquid. Instead, she fixed her attention on the enormous oil painting that hung on the right wall, depicting an elderly Adolf with his wife, Eva, and with their grandson, Anselm, Dieter’s father, sitting on his lap. The painter had treated his subjects very kindly — too kindly for Zara’s tastes — with apricot cheeks and wholesome white-toothed smiles. Doting grandparents with their cherubic grandchild.
A lovely family portrait, Zara thought, holding back a scowl. Adolf Hitler had overseen the deaths of millions under his reign and yet here he sat, the picture of quaintness.
Garrison leaned in. “Let’s walk to the hallway to our right. I need to head downstairs.”
They strolled through the corridor, feigning interest in the portraits of Nazi royalty on the walls until the sound of party chatter faded away. Now that their group was alone, Garrison snagged an empty hors d’oeuvre platter and headed for the very last door in the corridor. The words SERVICE ENTRANCE were painted across it.
“We have to be quick,” Garrison said, looking to Alene. It was time for him to head into the White House basement, where he would destroy the box that controlled the elevator to the safe room, preventing Dieter from escaping. He stepped back from the group, breaking away from the connection that kept him disguised. His crisp suit shimmered away to reveal a service uniform underneath, similar to the other workers. He hadn’t worn the battle gear that the rest of their group was wearing in order to blend in with the White House staff.
“If I don’t find you tonight, I’ll meet you at the safe house.” He touched each of them on the arm. “Good luck.”
Just then, a weary blond waitress emerged from the service entrance, and Garrison quickly held the door open for her. Her blue eyes searched over their group, and her lips curled at Garrison.
“Get downstairs. They’ve been looking for bussers,” she said to him.
“Many apologies, but the ambassador and his guests are lost. I was trying to show them the way back,” Garrison said smoothly.
“I’ll take care of them. Go on downstairs,” she snapped.
Garrison’s gaze flickered over her name tag before he bowed his head. “Yes, Frau Gottlieb.” Then he reached for the door, giving Alene one last glance before he disappeared.
The waitress straightened her blouse and gave Uncle Red a sparkling smile. “The Sieg Garten is this way, Ambassador. Please walk down this hallway and turn to your right.”
With polite nods, they followed the waitress to the Sieg Garten — long ago known as the Rose Garden — and stepped outside into the warm spring night. A hint of humidity hung in the air, a taste of the hot summer to come. Sweat gathered around Zara’s neck, thanks to the stiff vest that clung to her. Usually, she loved these types of evenings, but she couldn’t wait for this one to come to an end. Now that they had infiltrated the White House, she was even more eager to get it over with. She tried not to think about the soldiers surrounding them or the bullets in their guns, ready to tear through her bones.
What if one of us doesn’t make it out? she thought. What if Uncle Red got caught in a sniper’s crosshairs, like her mother? All of that blood … Zara’s heart hammered at the possibilities, but then she felt her uncle’s gaze upon her.
“I’m right here,” he mouthed to her. And Zara’s fear abated slightly.
“Let’s find our seats,” Alene said, tilting her head toward the rows of white folding chairs on the lawn. “The ceremony will be starting soon.”
Skirting around the garden, they passed a long buffet table topped with a lush spread of appetizers available before the formal dinner that would take place after the speeches. Many of the ambassadors and diplomats milled around the table, nibbling on roasted rabbit with fennel stuffing, sweet potato gnocchi as soft as pillows, and platters loaded with juicy berries and the biggest red grapes Zara had ever seen. Her belly growled at the sight of the spread, all of it free for her taking, but this was the Nazis’ food, the Führer’s food. She’d rather let her stomach groan than partake of their fare.
They walked past the ten-piece band that played a repertoire of traditional German tunes and found a trio of empty chairs. Zara studied the podium where the Führer would soon give his speech, and then she glanced toward the guards. Each of them wore a tailored black suit that helped them blend in with the other guests, but Zara noticed the earpieces tucked into their ears and the pistols bulging inside their jackets. A shiver spread over her arms. In a few minutes, those guns would be pointed at her and her uncle.
“Is that … ?” Uncle Red murmured.
Zara followed his eyes toward a cluster of Nazi officers. Most of them were gray haired and thick waisted, laughing and chewing on slices of sausage. She looked them over one by one, wondering if her uncle was being paranoid, but then her gaze skidded to a stop.
There he was, chatting with the other officers and sipping a glass of golden champagne.
Colonel Eckhart.
A shiver climbed down Zara’s spine, followed by a burst of anger. She was about to suggest they move seats until she remembered that they were disguised. There was no way the Colonel could recognize her or Uncle Red — as long as they stayed close to Alene — although a part of her wished that he could. The last time she had seen him, he had had her beaten and thrown into a locked room. She wouldn’t mind tackling him with his very own bolt of lightning.
“Do you know one of those men?” Alene said.
Uncle Red nodded. “The one on the left. Colonel Eckhart, the commander of Fort Goering.”
“He’s the one who uncovered Mission Metzger?” said Alene. One of her hands closed into a fist.
Zara shifted in her wooden seat, figuring it would be best not to mention that Colonel Eckhart was Bastian’s father, too. “We better stay focused. The mission comes first, right?”
Alene muttered a curse under her breath and nodded sullenly while Zara snuck one more glance at the Colonel. His own fort had been bombed yesterday and his only son had gone missing, but he had come to the gala anyway. Unbelievable.
“Ladies and gentlemen,” a woman’s voice said over the loudspeakers. “Please find your seats. The Führer’s speech will begin shortly.”
The White House ushers moved through the garden, gently prodding the guests to finish the last remnants of their champagne. Once everybody had found their seats, the band struck up a rousing rendition of the Nazi national anthem and the crowd rose to their feet, pressing their hands over their hearts as the song surged into a brassy crescendo.
“Your hand!” Alene elbowed Zara’s side.
Zara had been so busy trying to mouth the words that she had forgotten about her hand. She hurriedly slammed her palm against her chest, just in time for the band to draw its last note. Then the same voice blared over the loudspeakers again.
“Please remain standing for his eminence, Führer Die
ter Adolf Heinrich Hitler!”
Rousing applause burst through the garden, and Zara did her best to join in. Beside her, both her uncle and Alene clapped enthusiastically, and she tried to match them. Soon, the Führer’s entourage emerged from the White House. First, Reichsmarschall Baldur marched into the Sieg Garten, dressed in full Nazi regalia, and strode to the far end of the stage. Next, the Corps of Four walked onto the lawn with their chins held high: the Monster, the Mind Controller, the Medic, and finally the Protector — Sentinel Braun.
Bile scratched at the back of Zara’s throat. The last time she had seen Braun, the Sentinel had burned Mrs. Talley in a tower of flames. Zara’s nose wrinkled at the memory of that terrible smell, and she felt the air crackle around her fingers, nibbling at her skin. Braun was so close. A few bolts of lightning would easily do her in, but Zara pushed the temptation away. No matter how much she wanted to hurt Braun, she couldn’t jeopardize the mission. Although she wouldn’t be sorry if someone took out the Protector that night.
The trumpets blared an upbeat melody as the guest of honor finally arrived. At last, Führer Dieter — or his double, at least — stepped onto the stage to the loudest of clapping. He saluted the audience, and they all saluted in return. Zara peered at him, amazed at the likeness that he shared with Dieter: the same round cheeks, the same thin shoulders. He even possessed the absurd smear of a mustache that every Führer had long favored.
The applause ended, and the double gripped the sides of the podium. “Citizens of the Eastern American Territories! Ein Volk, ein Reich, ein Führer!”
“Ein Volk, ein Reich, ein Führer!” the crowd chanted back.
“Many decades ago, my great-grandfather Adolf Hitler conquered this land that I now stand on. He claimed this nation as his own and built it into what it is today: a beacon of Nazi strength. Today, we celebrate the decades of German rule, spreading from the shores of the Chesapeake to the plantations of the South and the banks of the great Mississippi!”
The double continued with his speech, praising the years of glorious Nazi rule, but Zara’s attention had slipped away. Her hands were sweaty and clammy to the touch. In only a few minutes, she would have to shoot a bolt of lightning toward the podium. The entire Alliance was counting on her, and she couldn’t fail them, even if she couldn’t shake the fear throttling inside her chest. A part of her wished Bastian were here. It would have been nice to have a medic with the group…. And it would have been nice just to have him next to her.
Uncle Red tapped Zara’s arm as if to say, It’s almost time.
Shoving aside her doubts, Zara concentrated on the space above the double’s head. She had one chance to make this shot. Maybe two at the most.
“In my years as Führer, I have tried fervently to further my great-grandfather’s dream. The Empire has prospered under my rule as I’ve further developed our military and expanded our treasury. In the footsteps of my great-grandfather, I intend to rule the Nazi Empire for many years to come.”
Zara’s eyes watered. She reached deep inside her, channeling every bit of power that she could gather.
Charge, she commanded.
Yes, she felt it there, the charges pulling and pushing, the heat climbing degree by degree.
Charge!
The double’s speech went on. “And so, on this night, I ask you to join me in celebrating our rule of the Eastern American Territories.” He smiled as the press corps snapped his photograph.
Zara’s gaze slid over her shoulder toward the fence. Where was the Alliance’s diversion?
“It’s seven-sixteen,” Alene whispered, frowning. “I’m sure they’ll be here soon. Hold on for a few more minutes.”
But Zara’s fingers cramped as she tried to stave off the lightning. Now that she had its attention, it begged for release, snapping its electric jaws at her hands.
Another minute passed before Zara noticed a few of the soldiers pressing their fingers against their earpieces. Their eyes skimmed over the electrified fence. Then she heard the shouts.
“Freedom, or death!” The cries multiplied by the second. There were hundreds of voices, hundreds of marching feet. Cameras flashed again, this time pointed at the fence. “Freedom, or death!”
Uncle Red touched his belt where the pistol was hidden before he squeezed Zara’s knee. “You ready?”
One by one, the guests swiveled in their seats, stretching their necks toward the lawn. Murmurs rumbled through the garden as the first rebels neared the fence. Three of them broke through their comrades, holding a backpack between them. A sniper shot fired from the White House rooftop and one of the rebels staggered. Four steps later, another bullet felled the second rebel. Zara watched, utterly frozen, as the third rebel ran to the fence.
Back on the podium, the Führer pounded a fist against the wood. “What is the meaning of this?” he said. Around him, the Corps of Four edged closer, flanking the dictator.
Dodging the gunfire, the third rebel reached the fence and screamed, “Freedom, or death!” He reached for something in his pocket, triggering the backpack of C4, and that was when everything changed.
Explosions erupted where the rebel had stood, splintering the fence open and sending a heat wave across Zara’s face. The guests screamed around her, toppling chairs over and scrambling for an exit.
Alene turned to Zara. “Now! Release it!”
Zara’s fingers curled into her fists. Charge! she shouted in her head once again.
The lightning flashed to life.
A zigzag of voltage cracked the podium and a fierce white light blanketed the stage. Zara’s eyes shut automatically and the lightning went wild, shooting its electric web over the first row of chairs. A man cried out, followed by a chorus of gasps. Zara pried her eyes open to find the double sprawled in front of the podium, his neck twisted at a sharp angle. The Corps of Four sprang into motion, hurrying toward the nearest doors to protect the real Führer from the attack.
“Another one!” Alene said.
Zara launched a flurry of lightning bolts toward the Corps of Four while her uncle started firing. One of Zara’s bolts smacked into the Monster’s thick neck, the largest member of the Corps of Four, but he merely shrugged it off due to his bulletproof skin and ran inside. But the next one hit the Mind Controller’s shoulder. His body spasmed, and he fell face-first into the lawn. Puffs of smoke rose from his tuxedo jacket.
Zara blinked. Was he dead?
She stared at his crumpled form, but he didn’t move. A few brave members of the press corps snapped photos or pointed their video cameras at the body, sending the footage out live.
“We have to go!” Alene yanked Zara by the wrist, snapping her out of her daze. “We can’t let them find Dieter!”
Chaos reigned in the garden as the guests clawed and pushed each other to find cover. A few rows up from Zara, a Japanese emissary tripped in the grass, screaming as the frantic horde trampled her. A soldier managed to hurl her over his shoulders, but a mask of blood had covered the woman’s face. Her body was limp.
“Stay calm!” the soldiers shouted, but they were shoved aside.
Zara caught a glimpse of Colonel Eckhart barking orders before the guards thrust him into the building. Seconds later, she lost him in the swarm of incoming rebels who were fighting their way across the White House lawn. Snipers on the roof fired a spread of shots at them, felling a rebel with each shot, but more of them flooded through the broken fence.
“This way!” Alene led Uncle Red and Zara inside into a yellow-walled solarium, perfumed with orange trees and decorated with portraits of the German countryside. Far ahead of them, three soldiers blocked the doorway that the Corps of Four had escaped through. Alene grasped Uncle Red’s elbow. “Can you take them out from here?”
“I can try, but they’re wearing vests like we are. I’d have to clip them each in the head and at this distance …” His lips pursed as he took in the soldiers. “I don’t know.”
“Fine, we’ll go with the o
ther plan we talked about. You ready? Make it convincing.”
Uncle Red obliged. With a pained wince, he clutched at his heart. Together, the three of them stumbled toward the soldiers.
“You can’t come this way!” one of the guards shouted. “Turn around!”
Alene’s voice turned frantic. “Please, mein Herr! The ambassador is having a heart attack.”
The guards wouldn’t budge. “Only authorized personnel past this point.”
“But the ambassador — please help!”
“I said turn around!” the Nazis barked. They stepped forward to push Alene in the other direction, but she was through with talking. She lunged forward, breaking the distance threshold that kept Zara and her uncle disguised. The guards cried out in surprise at the sight of them and reached for their guns, but Alene had already pounced.
Swinging her arm, she smashed her fist into one of their throats and wrestled the pistol out of his hand. Meanwhile, Zara shoved the other two guards onto the hard floor with a fierce gust of wind before Uncle Red finished off all three of them with shots to the forehead.
Zara stood over the bodies, her breaths labored, but there wasn’t time to rest.
“Take what you can!” Alene tossed another pistol to Uncle Red and they searched the guards’ belts for extra magazines. When they had plucked them dry of supplies, Alene took the lead again with Uncle Red and Zara only a few steps behind her.
They raced through a powder-blue sitting room and into another marble-paved hallway.
White columns flanked them on both sides, and a formal library opened up on their right, filled with hundreds of leather-bound volumes. At the very end of the corridor, Zara saw two members of the Corps of Four — the Monster and the Medic. They had nearly disappeared around the corner with a handful of soldiers when Alene and Uncle Red both fired a deafening string of bullets. One of the bullets struck the Monster’s neck, but it bounced off his skin like a penny hitting pavement. Another shot wedged into the Medic’s shoulder, causing him to stumble and cry out. He plummeted to the floor, but the soldiers dragged him to safety before Alene could reload.
The Only Thing to Fear Page 20