Weapons of Peace

by Johnston, Peter D. ;

  —

  The smell of Gottfried’s overcooked cabbage hung in the air.

  A bright lamp sat in the middle of the dining table in their headquarters, the dinner dishes having finally been cleared up after another long meal. Around the table stood Gunter and his team, looking down at a triangle drawn by Emma on the map. The top point was Rügen Island, the bottom two points well south of Berlin, one to the west, the other to the east—creating a triangle with the capital roughly in the middle.

  “This lower left point is a place called Kohnstein,” Manfred said. “Wolf told us that nearby is a massive underground facility where von Braun’s rockets are made. Hours to the east from Kohnstein is where Wolf’s own facility lies buried in the Ore Mountains, close to a town called Joachimsthal, once part of Czechoslovakia. This is where the Nazis mine their uranium and Wolf converts it into element 94. He then sends this weapons-grade material a short distance by train to Sicke—thirty miles away at another underground plant—for bomb assembly.”

  Emma traced her finger along the lines. “This shows you how efficient the Nazis have been in using the corner areas of this triangle to mine and produce atomic material, assemble a bomb, test it, and make rockets for delivery—all within hours of Berlin,” she said.

  “It’s amazing,” Gunter observed, “that all this underground work is being done where the Allies can’t get at them. I’d never have imagined it was possible on this scale. But here’s what I still don’t understand—with all their able men off fighting, where do the Nazis find the skilled labor to build these vast facilities and operate them?”

  No one had an answer. Emma returned her gaze to the map, gesturing toward the lower right side of the triangle, the target of their next outing. “This is where the bridge is,” she pointed out. “It’s only a couple of years old and made of dense wood from the surrounding area because steel is being prioritized for weapons, rockets, and tanks. Even without steel, though, the bridge’s structure should be undeniably sturdy.” Her observation was met with nods all around.

  “According to Wolf,” Emma said, “if this bridge could be rendered unusable, there is no good alternative for getting the finished atomic material to Sicke. Wolf indicated that the only other way out would be a couple of mountains away, and it involves a road too precarious and exposed to handle moving the containers that hold his precious cargo—especially with volatile radioactive materials on board and the threat of Allied bombings. The Nazis would be forced to rebuild this bridge if it was brought down.”

  “Then we’re only delaying things, not stopping them, right?” Ursula asked as she knotted her long, dark mane back into a bun to keep it off the map.

  “Unfortunately, that’s the best we can do right now,” said Manfred, his jaw tightening into a grimace. “But Wolf thinks if we do this right we can delay their final production and launch plans by two to four months.”

  “And that buys us time to get to the other scientists, maybe even Kammler, so we can put an end to this bomb,” Emma added. “Or at least further delay things until the Allies have invaded Germany and reached Berlin—or come up with their own bomb.”

  Gunter unrolled another large piece of paper and placed it beside the map, showing them what a typical Nazi trestle bridge looked like and where they would need to place explosives to undermine such a structure.

  “It’s tricky, kind of like their bomb,” Gottfried added, “because if the plastic explosives I’m putting together go off at different times, the trestle won’t be as badly damaged. Fortunately, though, Emma has brought us a brilliant gift from the weapons team at Leeds Castle, which should improve our timing, if not perfect it.”

  He pulled six detonators from a small canvas bag, each fuse the size of a pencil.

  “Good job, Emma,” Kurt said with a smile. She nodded as Gottfried described her gift.

  “Breaking the top of this pencil releases cupric chloride,” Gottfried said. “With some similar detonators, precise timing is an issue, but not with these. In exactly thirty minutes, the chloride will dissolve the wire that holds back a spring-loaded striker. So, you’ll have thirty minutes to run. Any more time and the bomb could malfunction in these cold conditions or be sabotaged. Less time and you might not get away safely.”

  “Don’t forget that at this altitude, above sixty-five hundred feet, it will be well below freezing and there will likely be snow,” Gunter added.

  “I’ll find some warm clothes for everyone going,” Ursula promised.

  “And I’ll steal you the best flasks, filled with the best schnapps,” Kurt said, grinning.

  “Kurt, you’ll be drinking some of that schnapps—because you’re coming,” Emma said. “We need your speed. Gottfried, Ursula, and I will also be going. Gunter and Gottfried have estimated that each of us will need to carry twenty-five pounds of explosives. We’ll travel by an army-issued jeep borrowed from our Nazi friends.”

  “Fantastic,” Kurt said, his freckled face lighting up. “When do we go?”

  “Sicke has only a limited amount of atomic material left,” Manfred answered. “He needs more from Wolf for assembling the next version of their bomb. Wolf said he’ll delay until the first of November. That’s the best he can do, and that’s our deadline—four days from now.”

  Maria remained silent, the only one who hadn’t spoken.

  “Anything wrong, Maria?” Gunter asked.

  “Just that it all seems too easy,” she said. “What if we’re being set up?”

  —

  Criminal Assistant Grandt sat inside his car, a half-eaten sauerkraut sandwich in his lap, the smell of it filling the vehicle as he watched the art gallery across the street. Its lights were all out. It had been closed for more than three hours.

  Berg wanted him to record all comings and goings and anything suspicious. His superior knew the blonde, Emma, was connected to the Perfekt Gallery through her sister Maria, who, according to Gestapo records, was indeed married to the owner, as she’d claimed. Berg told Grandt that he didn’t want Emma to know he was looking for her or that she was even under suspicion. So Grandt had to sit and watch.

  So far, he’d seen nothing out of the ordinary during this first assignment following his return to work. It had been just over a week since Berg found him wandering listlessly in the streets of Wilmersdorf after nightfall, the same day he’d been removed from the train there. For seventy-two hours afterward, Grandt couldn’t be sure of his name, who he was, or whether Berg was truly someone he worked for.

  The pain medication hadn’t helped. The back of his head continued to hurt, as though someone had taken a hammer to the base of his skull. He still suffered from memory lapses and horrific nightmares. He remembered only two things from the train trip: the fact he had left his favorite magazine on one of the seats—and the nurse’s big blue eyes.

  If those unmistakable eyes belonged to this Emma at the gallery, she’d quickly regret it. Given what she’d done to him, neither he nor Berg would hesitate to kill her. After all, she wasn’t Ingrid Bergman—she only looked like her.

  —

  Emma studied her small black book, where she kept notes from her conversations with Nash, adding to these notes whenever she learned something new—or had any thoughts about his puzzle regarding the final key that she’d need to unlock all the doors in her realm of influence. She could still hear his weakened voice describing that mysterious golden key, the words burned into her memory:

  Its impact can be greater than the power produced by Einstein’s formula—or the power of love itself. While often golden, it is also invisible or blinding at times. You come across it daily in its various forms. Used wisely, it is magical. Used poorly, it will haunt you. If it is not used, life itself can be at risk.

  What the hell was he trying to tell me? she asked herself, as she’d done repeatedly since their last visit together. Emma felt no closer
to solving Nash’s puzzle now than when she’d first heard it, even though he’d made it clear that this golden key was vital to keeping the world safe.

  She had also begun to keep notes in this same black book about her interactions with Paula so that she could retain and learn from everything she’d heard or observed during their interactions, tracking any patterns or inconsistencies over time. Nash had encouraged her to be meticulous in recording anything and everything about all her dealings.

  Before tucking herself into bed, she did her exercises on the cork floor, including push-ups and sit-ups, which she’d started doing every night since joining the resisters in their hidden lair. She needed to be in fighting shape, mentally and physically, as she had been during her military training, because she knew that the battles to come would test her in ways she couldn’t even imagine.

  She also knew that she was getting closer to Hitler—and to her son.

  She pulled out Axel’s yellowed photograph and kissed it, her mind flying back to the moment when Alina had taken the picture: Emma holding him tightly, his arms spread out across her in celebration, his smile stretching from ear to ear as she kissed his cheek—her matching blond hair short, her face so young, her spirit intact, lost in the bliss of motherhood. Ambitiously, she’d given Axel a red bicycle for his third birthday, and five days later, on the day this image had been captured, to her astonishment her persistent little boy had managed to ride his gift on his own.

  Before placing the photograph back in the Bible that Kurt had found for her, Emma promised her son that, wherever he was, she’d soon be with him—and she’d never let go of him again.

  Chapter 32

  Tuesday, October 31, 1944

  9:35 p.m.—Ore Mountain Range, Near Joachimsthal

  They reached the top of the ridge and looked down across the frosted valley, the sound of fast-moving water filling their ears.

  “And there she is,” Ursula said, her lips blueish even though she’d outfitted herself and the rest of the team with dense woolen jackets, winter hats, gloves, and thick boots.

  The others followed her eyes to take in the trestle bridge, some one hundred feet high, stretching across the narrow river and its strong current.

  On each side of the water sat two large angled columns that converged as they rose and merged to support the rail line. From these columns and the side of the mountain sprang a web of hundreds of interwoven wooden beams.

  A thin coat of fresh snow, illuminated by the full moon, covered the top of the bridge as well as the rocky sides of the valley, making the trestle by contrast even darker, larger, and more foreboding.

  “That thing looks like a bloody fort,” Kurt said, shivering as he shook the snow off his boots. “Are you certain we have enough explosives to bring her down?”

  “The bigger they come, the harder they fall.” Gottfried grinned, the insides of his nostrils burning with each intake of the frigid air.

  “Everyone knows what to do,” Emma said. “Wolf made it clear that if any patrols were to come through this area it would be around midnight at the earliest. To be safe, we need to be out of here well before then. Let’s say eleven-thirty.”

  —

  Emma, Kurt, and Ursula finished their climb up the valley’s north side, pulling themselves onto the top of the bridge, where the rail exited one mountain and ran across the river to the southern side. It had taken them twenty minutes to get to this point from the ridge where they’d first entered the small but steep valley.

  They crouched down and began to run over the path of long wooden railway ties that had been placed in parallel, several inches apart, to support the track.

  Emma stopped at the midway point of the trestle and looked around to ensure that she’d have a decent view of any approaching threats from all directions.

  Kurt and Ursula kept running, rucksacks swaying, minding their footing on the slippery, snowy surface.

  Emma was the most accurate shot, and wasn’t as experienced with explosives, so she had agreed to keep guard from up high. She pulled out her revolver and looked to her left. Kurt and Ursula had already reached the other side. She saw them jump off the bridge and disappear into the trees. From there, she caught only glimpses of them as they ran down toward the water to plant their explosives, one set on each of the two southern columns.

  Emma swung her head back to the right, leaning over the bridge to catch sight of Gottfried. She took out her binoculars, shaking her head at just how clearly she could make out what he was doing under the full moon. The light was helpful for seeing her team, but it also made them more vulnerable.

  As Emma looked over Gottfried’s broad shoulders, she saw him molding putty onto his first column, his rucksack beside him, along with the one she’d carried.

  Something caught her eye to her left, near the top of the southern ridge on Kurt and Ursula’s side. She tensed and scanned the area, swearing, defogging her binoculars with the tip of her glove. She looked through the high-powered lenses again.

  There was definitely movement.

  Emma knew that Ursula and Kurt had reached the base of the bridge, so it wasn’t them.

  As she peered through the binoculars, she jumped. A deer bounded from behind a tree, releasing a small avalanche of snow. The snow gathered momentum, racing down the side of the valley and spraying itself into the river. She laughed to herself.

  Don’t be a nervous Nellie. Stay focused. Vigilant—not paranoid.

  Emma stretched out flat on her stomach, hooking her feet over the closest rail as a precaution as she leaned farther over the edge of the railway ties. She glanced at Gottfried again, his white breath rising in the air as he performed his tasks effortlessly, reflecting his extensive experience. Moments later, perhaps sensing that her eyes were on him, he turned and smiled, giving her a thumbs-up, which indicated that he was about to disappear under the bridge, where he’d rig his second column.

  Once that was done, he’d attach a wire between his two detonators that, when pulled, would break each pencil simultaneously, beginning their thirty-minute count.

  But, as agreed, he’d do this only after Emma had given her signal, coordinating between him and Kurt on the other side of the river, given the distance between them. Like Gottfried, Kurt had just a single wire to pull, linking his column’s explosives with Ursula’s—giving Ursula, who would be slower than Kurt, a head start up the south side of the valley so that the pair would arrive back at Emma’s position around the same time.

  Emma checked her watch: 10:30 p.m.

  We’re on schedule.

  —

  She frowned. Her feet were shaking.

  And it wasn’t from the cold.

  Bloody hell.

  Emma’s feet were still hooked around the track, and it was trembling. Something was coming by rail, to her right above where Gottfried was working.

  She knew that Gottfried was ready to go, but they’d been waiting for Kurt. She slid forward to look left again.

  Excellent.

  For the first time, Kurt was fully visible. He waved, wire in hand. She looked back at Gottfried, who held up his wire. She knew that neither of them, so far below, would know about the approaching threat.

  Her thoughts swirled. Should she give the command to trigger the detonators now? Or wait until the train had passed?

  The rumbling beneath her stomach was getting stronger.

  Once the pencils were broken, they had thirty minutes to get away. But what if the oncoming train somehow delayed them and they were trapped with the bridge set to blow? On the other hand, if she didn’t signal now, they might miss their chance altogether.

  She had made her decision. Emma raised her hand in the air, her two colleagues waiting expectantly. She brought her hand down.

  They pulled their wires.

  Thirty minutes.

  A l
ight reflected toward her from the stony curved tunnel. Her next choice became an easy one. She could jump into the freezing river and die—or try something else.

  Emma whipped off her thick navy-blue wool coat, placing one of its long sleeves at the edge of a railway tie jutting out over the water and impaling the end of the sleeve into the tie’s wood with a sharp knife she’d stashed away inside her pant leg. She took the end of the other sleeve and yanked as hard as she could. The knife held and the jacket didn’t rip, a good sign.

  But would it support her weight in free fall?

  She saw the light coming at her, clenched just above the cuff of the free sleeve with both hands, held her breath, and launched herself off the bridge, dropping toward the river. As the five-foot-long woolen rope she’d created became fully extended, it held, and she began moving in an arc, swinging under the bridge and into the dark, raising her legs in front of her to protect herself from the unseen. She knew that she had to let go in order to take advantage of her inward momentum, or she’d swing back over the water again. She released her hands, flying through the blackness of the bridge’s underbelly, eyes wide, focused on suppressing a scream to avoid being heard.

  One foot landed on a beam, the other hit more air. Her body slammed against some kind of post, winding her. Wheezing, she could hear the water raging below as she started to fall backward toward it. She struggled to find her footing, reaching upward simultaneously, still seeing nothing, teetering, her hand finding another part of a beam, her hand slipping, then desperately regripping the same beam, her life dependent on it, this time securing her grip, her other hand joining it.

  She hung, feet flailing, arms aching, her foot furiously trying to hook itself around a beam, succeeding, pulling her in, the other foot planting itself on the same beam. She stood shakily, balance somewhat secured, deciding to release her hands one at a time, finding another, closer beam for them, her eyes beginning to adjust to her new surroundings.