“A little more discreet, don’t you think?” the bishop said to Krüger. “We don’t want any prying eyes to report your arrival, do we?”
“British?”
“British, American, French, Russian, they’re all here. The place is crawling with spies.”
The chauffeur opened the door and they climbed out.
Tygo had been in quite a few fancy hotel rooms in his time. His father was sometimes called out—before the war, of course—when a rich guest lost the key to their strongbox or couldn’t remember the combination to their safe. But Tygo had never seen such a hotel room as the one they were ushered into now by the chauffeur. It wasn’t a room at all, but a series of rooms: lounges filled with exquisite furnishings, huge crystal chandeliers, and thick, rich carpet. It was like being inside a royal palace.
The bishop had left them both standing in the first room and disappeared through one of the interconnecting doors. Tygo was still looking around in amazement when another door on the opposite side opened and a woman in a dazzling gown appeared.
She looked around forty and held a cigarette in a long ebony holder. Her blond hair was tied back, and for some reason she was wearing dark glasses, even though it was the middle of the night. Tygo noticed the four strands of diamonds around her neck. Perhaps that was the reason for the dark glasses, to shield her from the dazzle when the stones hit the light. Tygo felt drawn to her presence; she exuded some sort of power, like a film star. Yes, that was what she was like.
Krüger clicked his heels and bowed formally. The woman offered him her hand, and he leaned down and kissed the top of it.
“A great honor,” he said in Spanish. “General Müller sends his compliments; he would have wished to be here personally if he could, Señorita Perón.”
“Duarte, I am Eva Duarte,” she laughed back at him, a throaty laugh from cigarettes and singing. Wine too. “But I think soon my beloved general will make an honest woman of me, before he is president.” She laughed again; it seemed to come easily to her. “And if all of this goes well, then that will be very soon.”
She looked at Tygo now, and the steel box he was holding.
“Have you brought me something nice, young man?” Krüger was amused to see Tygo blush. She used her index finger to draw him closer. “Come into my boudoir and we shall see.”
They followed her from the first reception room to a second one, which seemed even larger, talking in Spanish as they went. Tygo might understand something of what was going on—but Krüger didn’t want him knowing everything.
“Open the case,” he said to the boy in German, then handed the señorita a letter. She indicated that they should sit together on a large velvet sofa.
Tygo unlatched the metal box and took out the attaché case, placing it on the glass-topped table in front of the woman. She put the letter down, then leaned forward and unlatched the case. Reaching in, she pulled out the thick bundle of paper from within, fanning the sheets in her hands.
“United States treasury bearer bonds, each one for ten thousand dollars,” said Krüger.
“Are they real?” The same laugh.
Krüger was offended, but covered it with a laugh of his own. “Not only real, but good in any country in the world. Better than cash itself.”
The señorita put down the bundle and picked up the letter again. “Excellent—then I will write a receipt!” She stood and crossed to a writing table. “Please assure General Müller that all arrangements have been made for the Führer and his party as agreed. After I have visited His Holiness, I will be returning to Buenos Aires by the sixteenth and I will be there with General Perón, ready and waiting.”
She finished writing a short note and folded it into an envelope.
“There remains only one matter outstanding.”
“The Red Queen?” Krüger preempted.
The woman slipped the dark glasses down her nose for the first time, exposing hard, black eyes.
“When General Müller first approached us many months ago,” she said, “he asked me in private what the Führer could give me as a token for all our help and support. ‘Give me the Red Queen,’ I said, and the good general just nodded and smiled, and then he said, ‘The day the Führer greets you in Argentina he will place the Red Queen around your neck. I give you my word.’”
Krüger couldn’t resist using this moment as an opportunity to ingratiate himself with the woman; after all, her future husband would be running Argentina in a couple of months. “I hope you will not think I am being boastful, but I am the officer whom the general entrusted to find the stone.”
“You?” Eva Duarte looked at Krüger with something approaching real interest now.
“Yes, in Amsterdam.”
“And you have it?”
“Yes,” he lied.
She clapped her hands together in excitement. “Is it as beautiful as they say?”
“More—it is like yourself, flawless.”
“You are a charming young man, Oberst.”
Krüger smiled his most charming smile. “Please, I have my own little token for you.”
He took out the small metal tin and handed it to the woman. She opened the lid and stared at the diamonds inside. After a moment or two she looked back at Krüger with fresh appreciation.
“Charming and generous, it would seem. I wonder perhaps if there is anything you would like in return.”
“Just the opportunity to serve you and the general in any way I can.”
“Is that so? Well, I’m sure we can arrange that. Will you be traveling with the others?”
Krüger nodded; come hell or high water, he was getting on that plane.
“Excellent—then let us toast before you go.” Eva walked across and poured some spirit into two small glasses. “To the future,” she said.
“Zukunft,” Krüger replied, repeating the word in German. They downed their drinks in one and he kissed her hand again.
A most successful evening for all concerned, he thought.
The crew of the bomber was already back on board and the engines were idling by the time the limousine raced across the airfield and slewed to a halt. It was still dark, around four o’clock in the morning, with a crisp breeze blowing off the sea. Krüger and Tygo climbed back up into the belly of the plane and closed off the hatch.
Krüger picked up the microphone to the internal intercom. “We’re ready to depart, Oberstleutnant Baumbach.”
The Liberator’s four engines gradually rose in pitch and the big bomber rolled forward, taxiing for takeoff. Tygo and Krüger struggled back into their flying uniforms and the heavy jackets, helmets, goggles, parachutes, and the rest. By the time they had sat down in their seats the plane was racing down the runway, and then it was into the air.
Tygo craned his neck to see the city falling away to the left as the bomber swung north toward the French coast. He thought about the strange meeting he’d witnessed, and wished he spoke Spanish. He’d been surprised by Krüger’s fluency in the language. But he understood something very clearly: They were toasting the future—he knew the German word—and it was obvious that Krüger had somehow secured a very bright one for himself as a result of this meeting.
He settled back in his seat and snapped on his oxygen like an old pro. He was so tired that almost immediately the rocking of the plane and the drone of the engines were pulling him under like the finest mesmerist. He knew he ought to be thinking, working out what to do when he got back.
What to do. What to do.
A searing pain ripped Tygo awake. It felt like someone had placed a red-hot poker over his forearm. For a moment he didn’t know where he was—it was pitch-black, there was a terrible banging noise, and he was being pushed and pulled in his seat by some unseen force. Almost immediately he realized what was happening: The plane was under attack and he had been shot.
He looked at his left arm, where the pain was. His thick leather flying jacket had been sliced through like a hot knife through butt
er. Beneath it was a neat crimson line across his forearm where the muscle had been sliced open, not quite down to the bone. Blood was pouring out. Beside him, a hole had been punched through the metal fuselage, and as Tygo looked, he saw a fresh series of them blossom down the side like exclamation points.
“Night fighters! Frettchen, man that gun!” Krüger was yelling at him, and Tygo came fully awake.
The plane was rolling and pitching, and there was the sound of multiple machine guns being fired from the other gun positions in the plane. It was like being on a ship under attack in a wild storm. Repel all boarders!
Tygo undid his belt and pulled himself up. He staggered forward and managed to get the Perspex window latched open. Then he swung the heavy machine gun around and shoved the barrel out into the night air. A belt of ammunition was already fed into the gun’s breech and the cocking lever pulled back. The noise from the engines and the guns was simply deafening, and Tygo hung on to the machine gun’s handles for dear life as the slipstream threatened to suck him clean out of the plane. He glanced over at Krüger, whose gun was chattering out into the darkness, blobs of tracer arcing out.
“I’ve been shot!” Tygo yelled, but his reply went unheard. Krüger continued firing wildly out into the night.
The plane suddenly banked steeply and Tygo almost fell to one side, just managing to brace himself against the machine gun to stay on his feet. He stared out the window, and suddenly a great black shape shot past, less than fifty yards away. He pressed the trigger and bullets spewed out, white tracers pulsing their way toward the shape. It was gone. He stopped firing. He stared out into the sky again, desperate to find the attacking plane. Their own plane was slewing across the sky now, Baumbach obviously trying to make it less of a sitting duck.
Tygo looked out into the darkness toward the tail fins of the bomber. There! Just below him, a shape was coming up very fast. Suddenly white sparkles lit up in a row: Its nose cannons were firing. Tygo swung the compensator gun sight around and lined up on those white flames.
He pressed the trigger and the gun erupted. Empty brass and chain link waterfalled down, making a hot smoking pile of metal around his feet. The plane kept coming straight toward him, and he was certain its propeller would slice him to ribbons. But he kept firing; it felt like his finger was welded to the fire control button. Then there was a massive orange fireball where the plane had been, and it was gone. The force blew Tygo back into the plane. He grabbed his chair.
“I got it!” he yelled. His heart was thumping so fast.
“Stay there!” barked Krüger. “There may be others.”
Tygo nodded, glancing at his arm. The bleeding seemed to have stopped during the action, and so had the pain. But now it returned, a burning fire. He stood clinging on to the gun, staring out at the sky, and tried to ignore it. He stood there, watching the sky as the darkness turned to dawn. Stood there until he was chilled to the bone and his eyes were aching and his face blue with cold.
Only when the plane started to sink down and the coastline came into view below the clouds did Krüger order him to stand down and return to his seat.
As the bomber thumped down onto the runway Tygo felt a wave of relief, promptly followed by a wave of nausea. As soon as he was out of the hatch, he fell to his knees and was violently sick on the ground. He wiped his mouth and slowly got back up. The rest of the crew were climbing out. The plane itself was riddled with bullet holes. Tygo noticed the tail gunner’s turret was shot to pieces and the gunner was no longer lying inside.
Krüger walked across to him. “Come on, Frettchen, pull yourself together.” He took hold of Tygo’s arm and examined the wound. “It’s not so bad—missed the vein. We’ll get it dressed at Headquarters.”
Tygo nodded. He saw that Krüger’s car was already there waiting to take them into the city and stumbled toward it while Krüger spoke to Baumbach.
“Oberstleutnant, I will tell General Müller you have performed exceptional service for the Führer today.”
The two men saluted each other, then Tygo and Krüger climbed into Krüger’s waiting Opel Admiral. Tygo cradled his injured arm; it felt like it was on fire. Krüger glanced at him as the car set off across the runway apron.
“Get that wound attended to and some food inside you as soon as we get back,” he said. “It is now almost eight in the morning, and you have till midnight to find me that girl. She is the key to finding that stone, of that I am sure.”
Tygo nodded. “Yes, Oberst Krüger. I will do my best.”
“There is no best here, Frettchen, there is only success and failure. Understand?”
With that, Krüger tilted his cap down over his eyes and leaned his head against the window of the car.
Tygo sat there, the pain and the fear preventing him from sleeping. After a few minutes, Krüger began to snore softly. Tygo looked over at him, then, with a surge of excitement and fear, noticed Krüger’s leather key case sticking halfway out of his trouser pocket.
He put his hand in his own pocket. The lump of potter’s clay was still there.
Slowly he slid closer across the backseat. He started to knead the clay and, as he was doing so, reached very slowly out with his other hand and slid the key case out of Krüger’s pocket. In seconds he had the safe key out and pressed deep into the lump of clay, taking an impression. Carefully he removed the key from the clay, and eased it and the case back into the Oberst’s pocket.
Krüger suddenly shifted in his seat and Tygo shot back to his side of the car. The clay was safely back in his pocket. He didn’t know when he might get the chance to investigate the contents of Krüger’s safe, but it was at least a chance.
Tygo, his arm freshly dressed and his stomach full of hot porridge, made it back to his father’s shop by ten o’clock. For a change the sun was actually shining and the skies were a tepid January blue. He entered through the back door.
“Willa, it’s me, Tygo,” he called out softly.
But there was only silence.
Tygo hurried upstairs and searched the bedrooms, but there was no sign of her. He came back down and walked across to the hearth. Someone had lit a small fire in the grate in front of the shop’s counter, the ash still warm. He looked around.
Then he saw it on the counter: a piece of folded paper with a blank key resting on top of it, keeping it secure. He unfolded it and read the short message.
“Ursula.” Tygo spat the name out. Of course it was she, together with those boys, who had taken Willa. They must have still been watching the shop after all, just in case he ever returned. Well, Tygo thought, they wouldn’t win. He’d get her back. But first he had one task to complete.
He retrieved the clay from his pocket and hurried into the rear workshop at the back of the shop. It was very small, and the workbench was still covered with all the different paraphernalia needed for locksmithing. Tygo selected a small crucible and placed a small quantity of Wood’s metal into it. There was no gas for the Bunsen burner, but this particular alloy—a mixture of bismuth, lead, tin, and cadmium—melted at 158 degrees Fahrenheit, so the little paraffin stove would do the job.
Tygo got it going and watched as the alloy slowly dissolved into a small pool of quivering silver, then he picked it up with some tongs and, very slowly and carefully, poured it into the impression he had made in the clay. Wood’s metal was also very quick to cool, and after a few minutes Tygo was able to cut through the lump of clay and split it into two. There, inside one half, was a perfect metal copy of Krüger’s safe key. Tygo stashed it safely in his trouser pocket. He could feel it, still warm, against his leg.
Now all he needed was to find Willa. And the diamond. Ideally in that order.
He left the shop through the front door, leaving it unlocked. There was no point in trying to stay hidden, after all; the sooner Ursula showed her face the better. He cut across to Damrak and walked away from the station until he reached Dam Square and the Royal Palace. He decided to hang around there for a litt
le while. Before the war the square had been filled with people every day, enjoying the myriad cafés and restaurants, feeding the pigeons. Now it was almost deserted, and certainly the pigeons were not taking any chances: They would make a delicious meal.
After about ten minutes, he noticed a group of three young boys staring at him. They were dressed in filthy cast-offs, and two of them had makeshift drums hanging from their necks, made from empty cookie tins with holes punched in the sides for the twine used as a strap. Instead of drumsticks they had pieces of kindling. The lead boy had a tin whistle. Whenever Tygo looked at them, they glanced away or pretended to gaze into the empty shop windows. Typical lookouts, he thought—the drums and whistle were to signal danger.
He strode across to them. “You boys!” he barked, in his best imitation of Krüger. He reached into his pocket and took out the Gestapo warrant disk. “I want to speak to you.”
The boys turned and fled.
“If she wants me, I’m here!” Tygo yelled after them. He turned and went to stand out of the wind by the Gothic New Church. The bell tolled eleven. Time was ticking.
He didn’t have to wait long. Presently Ursula cycled into the square and made a couple of circuits, looking for Tygo. After her second pass he stepped out and made himself visible to her. A line for the soup kitchen was beginning to form on the other side of the church.
Ursula dismounted as she got closer and walked the last few feet to Tygo. She had the most self-satisfied smile on her face, and Tygo felt a terrible red mist descending. He took a couple of steps toward her.
“You lay a finger on me, I swear you’ll never see that girl again,” she said.
Tygo stopped and took a deep breath. The bandage over Ursula’s nose looked fresh. Where would she get such a thing in this city? Tygo suddenly wondered.
“You’ve handed her to the Resistance, haven’t you?”
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