Tygo stared at it, his heart slamming in his chest. It was a flight order of some sort; Tygo could understand that much. Something to do with the geheime Flug he’d overheard General Müller mention. He looked at the bottom; the order was signed by Müller himself. There were two numbered sections. The first one read:
Der Führer und seine Begleitung verlässt dem Flugplatz
52–37 Nord 4–53 Ost
Um 00:00 Uhr 1/14/45—Endziel Barcelona
The second section appeared to be a passenger list:
Hierzu befinden sich in der Begleitung des Führers:
Reichsleiter Bormann
SS-Gruppenführer Müller
SS-Gruppenführer Stumpfegger
SS-Gruppenführer Fegelein
Frau E. Braun
Frau G. Fegelein
6-Mann Begleitkdo RSD
Oberst Krüger
There it was, in black and white, a flight at midnight the next day with the Führer listed as a passenger. Not only him, but Bormann too—Tygo had heard of him and knew he was very important. Krüger must have added his own name; it was handwritten.
He wondered where the coordinates could be. They must be close to Amsterdam if the flight was the next day—probably Schiphol, from where they had flown last night.
Tygo closed the file and tried to deal with the enormity of what he’d discovered. Slowly it began to sink in: the Führer was leaving the next day. He was going to fly to Barcelona from Amsterdam, and then escape from Europe—most probably, he realized, to Buenos Aires in Argentina, with the help of that rich woman Eva Duarte.
He scanned the rest of the file again, searching for more information. Another flight, he saw, was arriving at the same coordinates the next night: 52–37 Nord 4–53 Ost. But this plane’s cargo was listed as just two items: T-Waffe V6 and Ur 234 Spezielle Formul. So was the plane to Barcelona going to carry these as well? What were they?
Tygo stared at the words. Waffe meant “weapon,” he knew that, and Ur—that was some sort of element, wasn’t it? He remembered his periodic table from chemistry: Ur stood for uranium. It was radioactive; they had learned about it, and about Marie Curie, in school. And here, it had the words “special formula” after it.
Together they had to be some sort of secret weapon, like the sort that Propaganda Minister Goebbels talked about in his radio broadcast. A weapon that could win the war decisively. What could uranium do to cause such destruction?
Tygo checked through the rest of the papers. Behind that order was another one; it was stamped “Kriegsmarine” and had the signature of an admiral called Dönitz at the bottom. It listed a U-2511 submarine, and next to it a place, Cádiz, which Tygo knew was in Spain. There was a long list of personnel and equipment as part of the submarine manifest. There it was again: Ur 234 Spezielle Formul. He jotted it down. So the weapon was going to be taken from the Barcelona plane and transported onto the submarine at Cádiz—but where then? To Argentina, with the Führer? It all seemed so far-fetched.
Suddenly Tygo heard footsteps in the corridor. He closed the folder and put it back in the safe, his heart hammering. He got the safe shut and locked, then sprinted to the window. It was too late to get out by the door, and there was nowhere to hide; it would have to be the window.
He slipped behind the long blackout blind and got the window open, then clambered onto the windowsill and stepped out onto the ledge outside. He didn’t look down, but pressed himself against the side of the building, shrouded by the darkness. With his right hand he pushed the window closed as far as he could.
He heard Krüger’s door slam shut. The wind caught the window and swung it open, fluttering the blackout blind. Tygo heard footsteps and edged as far as he could toward the end of the window ledge. He looked down and saw Krüger’s arm reach out to pull the window shut, then heard him lock it.
So now he was stuck. He had planned on waiting for Krüger to leave his office and then climbing back inside. Instead he was standing on a twelve-inch stone ledge three floors above the ground in the dark. And it was beginning to snow.
He glanced down. A wave of dizziness rolled through him, and he pressed himself back against the brickwork again. He looked to his left. Krüger’s office was a corner one, and the end of the building was about three yards away. At the apex the gutters joined a heavy iron downpipe that ran all the way down the side of the building to the ground. It was a lifeline, perhaps—or more likely a death warrant. But then, what were his other options? Knock on the window and ask Krüger to let him back in, or leap thirty yards to the rock-hard ground below. No, it was the drainpipe or the final option—freeze to death on the ledge.
Slowly Tygo took off his belt and wrapped the buckle end around his right hand. If he reached the drainpipe he would try to loop the belt around the pipe, thereby giving himself some form of brake to control his slide down it. It meant he would have to leap out and spin in the air so he was facing the brickwork. Could a ferret do it? Probably not, but what choice did he have?
He took a few breaths, then realized he would be better off without his thick overcoat. He unbuttoned it and eased himself out of the sleeves, letting it fall. He took another few breaths, trying to visualize the maneuver he was about to attempt. Every nook, every cranny, every chimney he’d had to climb, every rooftop he’d scrambled over … they were nothing compared to what he had to pull off now.
Tygo took one long final breath, held it for a moment, then bent his knees and pushed off from the building with all his strength. He twisted as he fell, and then in an instant he had hit the drainpipe. He lashed the belt around the pipe with his hands and clamped his legs around it. He was sliding down it so fast, and he had to slow himself down. Letting go with his thighs, he pushed his shoulders back, jamming his boots into the wall and kicking at the brickwork to try to slow his descent. Gradually Tygo began to get control, and then his belt slammed into the drainpipe’s iron support bracket, the belt was whipped out of his left hand, and he was in free fall. He hit the ground hard, rolling to one side and banging the side of his head.
He lay there in the freezing snow, breathing heavily, and let the pain wash through him. His bullet wound was burning again; the bleeding had probably restarted. He moved his limbs one by one; nothing seemed to be broken. Gingerly he pulled himself to his feet and looked around for his overcoat. It was a couple of yards away. He picked it up and hobbled stiffly away from the building.
He prayed that the information about Hitler he had would buy him and Willa freedom from the Resistance. The other stuff about the weapon he didn’t properly understand. But he put it to the back of his mind for now.
First he had to worry about Krüger.
Always Krüger.
The little trio of musicians heralded his arrival back at Resistance headquarters with a spirited rendition of “All the Little Ducklings.” Tygo banged on the door to the printing works, feeling keyed-up and expectant. A plan had started to form in his mind as he had ridden there.
The panel in the door slid back, as it had before. “Fred.”
“It’s me, Tygo … is it ‘Crosby’?”
“No.”
“Please, for God’s sake—it’s me, you idiot!”
He heard a bolt slide back, and then the door was opened and the same man as before let him in.
“It’s ‘Ginger,’” the man said peevishly.
Tygo just pushed past him and ran on. He pelted up the stairs to the line of offices and barged into Pieter’s office. Pieter and his sister were alone, seated around his desk. Tygo glanced at them; his sister’s face was a little flushed. It looked a bit like she had been laughing, or crying; Tygo didn’t have time to find out which.
“I’ve got the information. Where’s Willa?” he said.
“Next door,” said Alisa, and went to fetch her.
“All right … well, it’s pretty incredible,” Tygo said to Pieter, when Alisa and Willa returned. “If I tell you, will you let me and Willa go?”
“Let’s hear it first.”
“No, you give me your word,” Tygo insisted.
Pieter rolled his tongue over his tobacco-stained teeth. “The word of a free Dutchman? Yes, you have my word.”
“It’s definitely happening—they’re going to fly the Führer out on a plane tomorrow night from here. Amsterdam. I saw the flight orders, signed by General Müller.”
Alisa and Pieter were staring at each other.
“Where are they flying from?”
Tygo hesitated for a moment; he had seen the map coordinates on the order but stupidly hadn’t written them down—there had been no time. Still, it must be the city airport.
“I don’t know, but it’s got to be around here—out at Schiphol?”
“Okay. We’ll make some inquiries, but if I find out this is all a flight of your imagination, you’ll regret it, sonny.”
“You won’t,” Tygo said firmly.
“Well then, you two, what are you waiting for? Off you go, and let us hope our paths never cross again.”
Tygo couldn’t quite believe it. “You’re letting us go?”
“Go on, before I change my mind.”
Tygo hugged his sister briefly. “Thank you for everything, Alisa.”
“Where are you going?” she asked.
Tygo suddenly felt defensive. “That’s none of your business … we had an agreement.”
“Perhaps so, but Willa has a right to know where you’re taking her.”
Alisa would always be his big sister, Tygo thought angrily. Protective but controlling. Tygo looked at Willa, then at Pieter, who nodded his agreement.
“Look, it’s complicated, all right?” He realized it sounded weak, hollow, childish even.
“Your sister is right. Willa is safe here with us. She has a right to know if you are putting her in danger,” Pieter chipped in.
Tygo stood there like a man in the dock with lawyers firing questions at him. They were right, though—what was he thinking? Willa knew nothing about the stone, she had told him so. What could they hope to achieve in the next few hours?
It was time for Tygo to face reality and hope that Krüger would somehow find it in his heart to show mercy. But he had to ask one last time.
“The Red Queen, Willa—do you really know nothing about it? I have to get it to Krüger by midnight.”
Willa looked at him, her eyes filled with sadness. “I’m so sorry, Tygo. My mother had it at the beginning of the war, but then I never saw it again, and she never spoke of it. It disappeared … perhaps she sold it.”
“But it’s here, I know it—it’s somewhere in this city.” Even Tygo was starting to be touched by the stone’s mystery.
“Oh, Tygo, what can I do? How can I help you?”
At that moment Tygo understood it was all over for him. Pieter might have given him his freedom for now, but finding that stone in all of Amsterdam, in the next five hours, was hopeless. He knew it, and there was nothing Willa could do either. All he could do was make sure she was safe, and there was only one way to achieve that.
“It’s okay, Willa, it’s going to be okay.” He looked at Alisa and Pieter, who were staring at him. “Willa must stay here with you—you must look after her.”
“No!” Willa cried.
Tygo’s voice was hoarse. “Trust me, Willa, everything will turn out all right.”
But she couldn’t meet his eye.
He turned and ran, through the building, out into the night. He ran and ran until he could run no farther, and then he sat down in the snow and wept.
Tygo waited until the last minute, just before midnight, when he knew he could not put off meeting Krüger any longer. He had thought about hiding out, trying to get away, running back to his sister, but he knew that with Krüger there was no escape. Perhaps he could lie his way out of it, buy himself a little more time? He was still useful to Krüger. Lie, yes, that was the answer. But deep down, he knew that if Krüger didn’t have that stone then he was dead—Müller had said so. And if he was dead so was Tygo.
He walked down the corridor to the office as though it were the plank on a pirate ship. The lights were on and the door was shut. Tygo knocked and waited.
“Herein,” came the reply, and Tygo walked in.
Krüger was behind his desk, but the typewriter had been replaced with his velvet pouch of diamonds. He had poured them out over the blotter, and there they sat, a tiny glittering mountain of plundered wealth.
Krüger was wearing a jeweler’s loupe in his right eye and examining one of the stones with metal tweezers under his desk lamp. “Four-carat, D color, flawless,” he said, placing the stone to one side and selecting another to examine. “What do you think that is worth, Frettchen?”
“I don’t know, sir.”
“No, I don’t suppose you do. Have you returned empty-handed for me?”
Tygo hung his head miserably. “I’m sorry, sir.”
“No girl, no Red Queen?” Krüger asked quietly, and Tygo shook his head. “Oh dear, what a shame.” A cold, distant tone had seeped into his voice. “No future.”
Tygo took a breath. He would go down fighting to the very end.
“The girl died before she could take me to it. She knew where it was.”
“What?” That took Krüger by surprise.
“Drowned, sir, in the Amstel canal. We were escaping the Resistance along the towpath, and she slipped on the ice in the dark and went over the side. The ice was thin there. She went under … I tried to reach her with a boat hook, but it was too late. I think she was leading me back to the villa.” Tygo stopped before he could overdo it.
Krüger stared at him. “The villa? The villa? Is that the best you can do?”
“I’m sorry, sir,” said Tygo, trying to sound as penitent as he could.
“You know, I’m sorry too. Everything was going so well—my future was very bright, exceptionally bright.” He held up one of the stones; it flashed like the lamp in a lighthouse. “Here, look …”
Tygo walked to the desk and stared at the pile of diamonds. A king’s ransom, but nothing to the Red Queen, he thought. One stone that could determine so many people’s destinies.
“One would be a fool, as head of the plunder squad, not to make some financial provision for the future. And I am not a fool, Tygo. Let us hope it is enough to provide me with a little house somewhere warm, if not the estate I was hoping for,” Krüger said, starting to scoop the diamonds back into the velvet pouch. He turned to the open safe and placed the pouch inside. “What were you hoping for, Frettchen? That I would be merciful?”
Tygo nodded.
“Under the circumstances, seeing that you are about to lose me my passage to Argentina and I must make other plans, I am afraid I am not inclined to clemency—despite the fact that, believe it or not, I have become quite fond of you.”
Which is a long-winded way of saying you’re going to kill me, thought Tygo. He dropped his head.
“We still have till tomorrow to find it, sir. Give me another chance.”
“I’m sorry, you’ve had that already.”
Tygo nodded, accepting his fate. It was then that he heard the sound of footsteps in the corridor, boots running toward the office. Krüger’s eyes widened in surprise and Tygo spun around.
“What is the meaning of this?” said Krüger.
“She insisted on seeing you, sir!” the young soldier blustered.
Willa was standing in the doorway, her cheeks pink from exertion. She was breathing hard. Tygo stared at her, slack-jawed.
“Drowned?” Krüger was looking at him.
“Sir, I … uh … she must have gotten out of the water …”
Krüger strode past him. “Dismissed, sergeant.” He took hold of Willa’s arm and led her into the room.
“She’s bone dry, you little liar. Is this some sort of joke, Frettchen?”
“A joke?” Tygo echoed weakly. Yes, he thought, it was in a way—an enormous cosmic joke that he couldn’t b
egin to get his head around.
“Yes, a joke, Herr Oberst. That’s it,” said Tygo.
“It would seem luck is with you once again, if only for a little while. For some reason she has come of her own accord.” He glanced at Tygo, and then at Willa, trying to figure out why. “No, surely not. What do we have here? Young love? Good grief, how touching.”
Willa came to Tygo’s side. Suddenly the phone on Krüger’s desk rang. Krüger crossed to it.
“Krüger.” He listened for a moment. “General Müller, I have been meaning to report …” He covered the mouthpiece. “Outside, wait for me outside!”
Tygo and Willa closed the door and sat down on the leather couch in the corridor.
“You came back, Willa …” Tygo began.
“Shut up and listen, Tygo. We haven’t got much time. I think I know where the stone is.”
“What?”
“After you left, I remembered something Mother did at Christmas the night before she died. Maybe she knew it was too late for her.” Willa slipped off the gold locket that hung around her neck on a piece of ribbon. “She gave me this.” She opened the locket. Inside there was a black-and-white photo of a baby.
“You?”
Willa nodded. “She made me promise never to lose it. She said it held the two most precious things she had in the world. At the time I didn’t really take any notice of that. But then tonight, when you asked about the stone, it made me think again.” She glanced up and down the corridor. “Look!”
She slipped her fingernail under the photo and eased it out. Beneath it was a piece of paper folded into a tight square. She quickly unfolded it for Tygo’s inspection.
“It’s a ticket receipt to a shop in the city. Look, it has a number on it, and the name and address. If you can find it, I believe you will find the stone.”
Tygo stared at her. If she was right, there was still a chance—more than a chance—but he had to go now. Right now. He took her hand.
“Come on.”
Willa shook her head. “No, if we both just disappear he’ll think we’ve gone on the run, send his men to find us—and when they do, they’ll take the stone.”
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