She hurried off to check with her superior, knowing she would find a mirror no matter the physician’s response.
The previous weeks had passed in splendid drug intoxication, a morphine drip in his arm to still occasional bouts of escalating pain. He had drifted in and out of consciousness, using any opportunity when clear-minded to plan what he would tell Heydrich about the disastrous turn of events. A Gestapo subordinate had already briefed Horst in general terms. The Jew-bitch had managed to escape Water Police custody, and his Gestapo spies across the Rhine had reported a woman of Erika’s description with a large, limping German and a small boy at the Strasbourg train station.
The nurse reappeared with a hand mirror and Horst regarded his face, evaluating the damage from every angle. Reassuring the patient was standard nursing practice. “It will get better, sir.”
The right side of his face was untouched, strong, and perfect. The left half was still purplish and swollen after two surgeries to correct the damage, but he was proud to be a wonder of German reconstructive surgery. Small screws held a stainless steel prosthesis in place, a slim glistening structure which replicated his strong original jawline. He opened his mouth to admire the handiwork. The surgeons had also artificially reconstructed his cheekbone. He used his tongue to explore for the thousandth time the smooth surface of the metalwork and the gap left by missing molars. He would only chew on his right side, but externally, once the swelling was gone, his face would be stunning in its impact.
The fine dueling scar that had shaped his adult life remained in all its pallid glory. He stroked its length with his fingertip, amazed to touch it once again without fear of wrenching pain. Remarkably, as the level of morphine in his veins had diminished he learned that the neuralgia that had caused his decade-long tic douloureux was gone. The bullet somehow tore away the disturbed nerve damaged by René Gesslinger’s blade in the academic duel. With it went the debilitating attacks which had left him convulsed in pain and unable to maintain self-control without medication.
He would never smile again—too much damage to facial musculature—but he had relegated the smile long ago to the realm of weakness. Consider Ryan Lemmon, who bared his teeth mindlessly at the drop of a hat.
“Splendid, just splendid,” Horst handed the nurse the mirror, his new face the perfect mix of cruelty and beauty, a mask hiding nothing. He grabbed her ass as she turned to leave. Hard.
In the week following the incident on the Rhine, when Horst had still been deep in the morphine drip, Reinhard Heydrich had sent flowers to the hospital room along with a handwritten card. A young SS lieutenant had come down from Berlin to deliver both in person.
My dear Horst,
It is with great sadness that we learn of your unfortunate accident. Come see us again as soon as you are able. The Reich needs its best men.
Sincerest wishes for a full and speedy recovery from
Your Reinhard
He could picture his mentor seated at that grand desk in his formal office, surrounded by rich red carpet and flanked by scarlet flags. Heydrich, head of Reich internal security and intelligence services, Horst’s protector, who had brought him close to the highest echelon of power, to Himmler and ultimately the Führer himself.
Horst’s story would have to be solid. The card made no mention of Erika and Leo, so Horst assumed Heydrich might not know the true course of events. If he handled this well, his future in the Gestapo could still be secured. His first thought had been to pull some attractive Jewish woman and a small boy from one of the detention camps, stage an auto accident, and then claim his family had perished on a weekend getaway. He thought to blame his own injury on that same crash which he somehow miraculously survived. Though powerful enough within the Gestapo hierarchy and intimidating enough to quash the truth, he knew that a report of his gunshot wound had already reached Berlin. Knowing Heydrich, Horst suspected people in the clinic were keeping an eye on him without his knowledge—he was privy to too many secrets to be unattended while under the influence of anesthesia or drugs. A ludicrous thought, considering that his established dependence on morphine was no secret to Heydrich.
His story would be airtight. Without his “dagger” Klaus Pabst to investigate what was already known at Berlin Gestapo headquarters, he had to rely on less reliable sources, so he called Peter Brenner down from Kassel to visit him in the private clinic room. Brenner had been the third leg of his Marburg triumvirate alongside his first lieutenant Pabst, always ready to do what was necessary for the good of the Nazi cause. And for Horst’s future.
Peter greeted Horst with a firm handshake after carefully securing the door and moving a chair bedside.
Horst skipped any platitudes and launched right in with instructions. “First off, find out exactly what was reported or even rumored.” Horst absent-mindedly ran his tongue along the slick inside surface of the jaw prosthesis, his tongue not yet accustomed to that slippery metallic bit. “Berlin is one big gossip mill, and many would discredit me given half a chance, so preemptive action is a must.”
“Consider it done, Horst.” Peter had registered shock at the damage to his friend’s face, but realized immediately that the shooting had done nothing to affect his leader’s critical facilities and temperament.
“Let’s use a propaganda technique our Dr. Goebbels applies so well—“If you tell a lie big enough and keep repeating it, people will eventually come to believe it.” Our story is as follows: my beloved Erika and dear little boy were kidnapped by the Alsatian brute René Gesslinger and died by his hands.”
“In Kehl?”
“No, kidnapped in Berlin, and then killed near Kehl, clear? And not a word about the American, right?” Horst forced himself to show patience. He longed for Klaus Pabst’s instant grasp of any situation. “Now pay close attention, Peter—‘Monsieur’ Gesslinger, furious at our disruption of his network of Bolshevik spies and saboteurs, brutally snatched my family from my home and brought them under threat of death to Kehl. My son’s governess never saw who hit her, so there won’t be any questions from that end.”
Peter nodded in agreement as he confirmed the fictional account. “First off, this story will back up any official reports already posted which mentioned three fugitives, so I can easily discredit any rumor of an American being involved. We have only the one criminal, this “Frenchman” Gesslinger who stole your warrant badge when he kidnapped your wife and child, and he alone caused the mayhem on the Koblenz train.”
The report to Berlin would make sense coming from Brenner, since Kreisler and Fischer had the agents out of Kassel he had assigned to pursuing the fugitives. They had given their all to the task. “My second agent Fischer died from his injuries, as well, you know.”
Horst shrugged and moved on without responding. “In fact, include that Gesslinger used my prescribed morphine to subdue both my wife and child.”
“Nice touch, Horst.”
“Now let’s get to his motivation: he took Erika and Leo as leverage to get the Gestapo off his back. We tracked them down to the docks where his gunmen attacked with overwhelming force. The bastard fled into the fog and night, only to drown my family in the Rhine before slipping into France.”
“And your injury?”
“Klaus and I pursued the fugitive onto the river, shots were fired from both sides, Klaus was lost to the river and I took a bullet meant for him.” Horst touched his scarred cheek, marveling again at the lack of sensation after years of neuralgia. “As simple as that.”
“What of the Water Protection Police? They will have filed a report.”
“All copies now destroyed, and sadly, the gunboat captain and his two men also met later with an unfortunate accident, gunned down on the police docks. We assume a retaliatory action by Gesslinger’s dangerous crew of misfits.”
“Understood, Horst. Any other loose ends?”
“Here’s what we’ve got: it appears that someone bashed in the head of the duty sergeant at the station that night, and a you
ng policeman was left unconscious. The corporal’s injuries were insignificant, but sadly someone gave him the wrong medication and he lapsed into a coma. No further brain activity. Obviously we hold our “Frenchman” responsible on all counts.”
“Nicely handled, Horst. I’ll see that Berlin finally has the full story of the day’s events.”
“One more thing, Peter. Minor but important.”
“Yes?”
“Since you couldn’t leave your Kassel duties immediately I had to rely on a local man to handle what couldn’t wait. I’m afraid we now must tie up that loose end, as well.” Horst scribbled a name and location on a pad and handed it to Brenner.
“Zu Befehl, Horst. Consider it done. Now you get some rest and know I’m there for you, as always.” Peter returned the chair to its place on the wall and shook his friend’s hand. “And Horst, will I join you in Berlin, now that we’ve lost Klaus?”
“Trouble at home, Peter?”
“No, sir, all’s fine, and Hedy and the boys are doing well. I’m just anxious to be of greater service. After all, it’s been a while, and you lead a much more interesting life than I’ll ever see in Kassel.”
“Count on it, Peter, count on it. Once back on my feet and with Heydrich satisfied, I’ll call for you.”
Peter Brenner left with a smile, but once outside the room, he hesitated, the door handle still in his grip. Seeing Horst again had been a blow, the changes to his friend’s face unsettling. The handsome Germanic features which had made him a Teutonic ideal as they won adherents to the Nazi cause in Marburg in the early days were now a distant memory.
As always, Peter accepted unflinchingly the tasks assigned to him. Any true soldier obeys his leader without question in honor of the greater good. The severity of the actions he would undertake next caused him little concern, even though the targets were not Bolsheviks or Jews or faggots but rather fellow police officers. The Reich had few men as great as Horst. It made no sense allowing a few lesser men to threaten such a leader’s survival. And by fulfilling his duties as a true soldier now, Peter knew he would finally assume the role he had always envisioned, a place beside their leader that Horst had first given to Pabst.
An attractive nurse waited in the hallway, distracted, some unknown concern reflected in her eyes as she waited for permission to enter Horst’s room. She might not even realize what an honor it was to serve and care for such an important and powerful man of the Reich.
Don’t you worry, lovely Fräulein, your patient’s doing just fine. Our leader is back.
At Gestapo headquarters on Prinz Albrechtstrasse the high window in Reinhard Heydrich’s back office stood ajar. The draft of frigid air fought a losing battle with the clanging radiator beneath the sill. Berlin lay under the pall of an early January storm. Sheets of icy sleet and occasional rain forced vehicles to a crawl, and pedestrians bent to the wind with their hat brims down and collars up, umbrellas straining to the breaking point. Inside, the muffled rumble of traffic penetrated the stuffy office.
Von Kredow’s superior, overseer of the secret police services of the Reich, rose from behind the immaculate desk to shake hands. “You’re looking your old self again, Horst.” Heydrich’s closely-spaced, pale-blue eyes scanned every new scar and facial distortion, missing nothing.
Heydrich lies with grace, thought Horst. He could read revulsion on the tall Gestapo leader’s face, the look of someone unable to fully appreciate how well this new mask would serve his purposes. “Thank you, sir. It’s taken a while, but I’m fit again and ready for duty.”
“My deepest condolences on the loss of your wife and son. No man should bear such a burden.”
“A horror beyond words, Reinhard.” Horst accepted Heydrich’s offer to sit, his demeanor suitably subdued under his great loss. “But we all must suffer for the cause, and this tragedy has given me new focus.”
“Forgive my indiscretion, Horst, but the bodies of your loved ones? Were they found? An appropriate ceremony and interment to honor their sacrifice would be fitting.”
Horst remained momentarily silent, his eyes downcast. He had caught the hint of suspicion in his leader’s look. “Sadly, no. I’m told they likely washed ashore on the French side, but too much time had passed to know for sure.” He pressed a hand to his forehead, shielding his eyes.
“This murderer, this Gesslinger—you know his whereabouts?”
“Most likely Alsace—his family ties are there—though I’ve no recent updates.”
“I can only assume you wish to be free of duties here in Berlin to pursue this matter to the end?”
Horst despised that high-pitched voice, so disconcerting in a leader of Heydrich’s stature. “Thank you for your understanding, sir. I am committed to avenging the suffering my family endured.”
He could hear the dismissal in Heydrich’s words, the desire to move things along.
“Understood, Horst. We’ve seen some preliminaries from various stations. I ask only that you—once sufficiently strong to handle it, of course—prepare a thorough report of this action for the record. For the moment, your man has filled us in. Brenner, is it not, head of Kassel station?”
“Yes, sir. Brenner’s a good man, known and trusted since university.”
“Then consider yourself on provisional attachment to our Baden station, subject of course to my recall to Berlin at a future time. You’ll have free rein until you’ve wrapped up the case down there.”
“But, Reinhard…our plans for the Jews, my protocol…”
“Sorry, Horst, but I need you free of all distractions. You’re of lesser use to me with this crime and tragic loss clouding your mind. The proposals for the Jewish question need time, so your efforts are better utilized elsewhere.”
Horst sensed how the wind now blew. He had neared the summit. His protocol for elimination of European Jewry would have established his name—his dedication and insight—in the minds of Himmler and the Führer. Did Heydrich perhaps fear him? His brilliance? But all that was now lost, at least for now. He would have to prove himself anew, but first he would find the Jew-whore of a wife who had cost him his well-earned rise to the top, and she would pay a steep price for her treason.
Heydrich swiveled toward the window, then rose to stand over the overworked radiator, allowing Horst time to collect himself. Horst sensed his mentor was uncomfortable looking directly at the static mask of his subordinate. Observing the foot traffic on the street below, Heydrich continued: “Report only to me, as always. Make arrangements for any visas and identification papers needed. You’ll find a decent network of our people across the border, and our Reich-friendly French colleagues will be glad to help you run this treacherous criminal to ground.” He turned back to face Horst. “However, I will certainly call upon you in the future. Your work has always been exemplary, and I’m sure we’ll work side-by-side again soon.”
“Thank you, Reinhard. I deeply appreciate it. And if I might, I’d like Brenner to join me. My right-hand man—you’ll recall Klaus Pabst—fell to this bastard Gesslinger, as well. Brenner and I’ll track down this criminal and make him pay for my loss.”
“For our loss, Horst…for our loss. Your Erika was indeed a beautiful angel, and I’m sure your son would have made the Reich proud.” Horst remembered Heydrich ogling his Jew-wife’s long legs at Party functions, and knew any thoughts of her remained less than angelic.
“Thank you, Reinhard.”
“And Horst?”
“Yes, sir?”
“Might I suggest using your time in Alsace and France to connect with our friends over there. Alsace and Lorraine will certainly find their rightful place in the Reich soon enough. Any groundwork you lay, any connections you establish with our fascist allies across the Rhine will be useful as we move westward. The Reich needs room to grow, and that growth must come soon.”
“Consider it done, once I’ve buried this Gesslinger.”
“I trust your judgment.” Heydrich extended his hand. “And now,
if you’ll excuse me, Horst, other matters demand attention.”
“Of course, sir. Thank you for your time and your support.”
“Just know you have my heartfelt condolences on your tragic loss.” He lowered his eyes in sympathy. “We must be ever vigilant in rooting out these enemies of the state.”
Horst saluted and withdrew as an aide waiting in the antechamber shut the door behind him. He went upstairs to the office he hadn’t seen in over a month, ever since that fateful day when Klaus Pabst had revealed Erika to be a Jewess and a traitor. Whether Heydrich knew more of the matter than he had revealed was of little importance. Horst was on his own, a man with a mission and carte blanche to use the Gestapo to accomplish his goals. He would destroy Gesslinger. And the Jew-bitch. And have that bastard Lemmon licking the shit from his boots.
CHAPTER THREE
Paris, Occupied France
14 June 1940
Artillery to the north and the distant crump of explosions on the outskirts of the city alarmed her many times during the long night. Memories of finding her way home through the crowded streets made sleep difficult. Everyone knew the Boches would reach the city center by morning light and that the war was lost. “They’re coming! They’re coming!” had echoed for hours.
Ever since the rapid fall of Belgium just weeks before, the government had assured them the German army was starving and ill-equipped, that it would take little to bring down the Huns. A valiant military response would put the enemy on the run. But the rumors of a counter-offensive and the incessant propaganda boasting of imminent victory had all proved a sham. Now greasy, roiling clouds on the horizon announced the enemy’s arrival as fuel storage tanks north of Paris burned out of control and the frightening sirens of the Stuka dive bombers whined through the filthy clouds. A pall hung over the awakening city. Marita drew aside the blackout drapes and stepped cautiously out onto her balcony.
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