Gunter couldn’t disagree with that. “What’s your second interest?”
“Money. I’ve learned that Kammler might be bought off, which would help us ensure that Hitler’s bomb won’t be used by others if we do assassinate him.” She let this sink in. “I know our funds are dwindling, Gunter. I also know that if we want to make it hard for Kammler to say no to an all-expenses-paid lifetime trip to a hot beach in South America we’ll probably need three million Reichsmarks, wouldn’t you think?”
“That sounds about right,” he said after a moment. “But are you sure Kammler would sell out the Nazis by fleeing?”
“No, I’m not. In fact, if we made Kammler that offer today I have no doubt that he’d have us killed. But we’d only put the offer on the table once the alternative of staying here looked much less attractive when compared to being on that beach.”
Gunter put up his palm, his nose upturned. “Emma, while my morals are sometimes flexible, I’m struggling with allowing a mass murderer to escape to a life of leisure,” he said. “Why not just have him killed so he can’t do more damage?”
“Believe me, I’ve thought about that, but there is a tougher decision here, and we have to reframe our choice: do we let Kammler go and save millions of people who are still alive today—or do we punish Kammler for the millions he’s already killed? And let’s assume we can’t have both. I do think Kammler will have to be on our side right up to the end here in Germany to get what we need on all fronts. And, unfortunately, he won’t give us what we need to keep millions of people safe unless we guarantee that he gets what he needs. Magnus von Braun thinks that’s going to involve a free pass somewhere.”
They sat in silence, Gunter thinking, removing his gold-rimmed glasses, pinching the top of his nose as he wrestled with Emma’s stark choices. “All right, I understand what you’re saying. I just don’t like it—at all,” he said, stroking his goatee. His fingers shook as they moved through the coarse gray hair. “Back to this auction idea of yours. Just how would we assassinate Adolf Hitler while raising three million Reichsmarks for the Kammler Beach Project?”
—
After half an hour of failed attempts, Maria finally managed to get through to Leeds Castle. She pushed a large microphone in front of Emma.
The two of them sat at the back of the secondhand clothing store, with Ursula’s great-uncle standing guard at the counter out front. As Emma placed the headset over her ears, she smiled, finding it hard to believe that all of their time spent in childhood playing with radio devices was now being applied to thwart a very real enemy.
Seconds later, she heard, “Hello, hello, hello.” It was Lady Baillie.
Emma’s face broke into a big grin. “Hello, Lady Baillie! I’m so cheered to hear your voice!”
Maria had encoded the channel frequency they were using, but Emma made it clear to the heiress that their communication could last only a few minutes to avoid their signal’s being located and broken into. Static hissed between them as they spoke.
Emma heard Lady Baillie say the word “miracle,” and her heart leaped.
“Everett is alive, improving mentally and physically . . . yet still unable to speak,” Lady Baillie said. “He returned to us . . . to continue his recovery . . . monitored every moment by Nurse Fraser and Nurse Seymour.”
Emma smiled, knowing who was looking after him, and took comfort in his being where he was. However, the staccato exchange with Lady Baillie made it difficult for her to fathom why Nash wouldn’t have remained at Oxford’s brain center to complete his recovery.
But Emma had no time to waste. She forged ahead, explaining that Lady Baillie needed to contact the most senior American Defense official she could reach. She told the heiress what to say and what to ask, and requested that Lady Baillie let her know whether the answer to her overriding question was a simple “Yes” or “No.”
“Remember, we know the mole who turned on Nash is British, not American. None of this information should be shared with the British. Senior members of Congress, even the President, won’t be ideal decision-makers regarding the von Brauns. The best hope for a positive answer lies in the Defense Department.”
“Right, my dear. I understand.”
“Before I go, Lady Baillie, tell me, what were you able to learn about Charles Buckley?”
“He’s not our mole, Emma. One of my acquaintances knows who he is. Buckley isn’t involved in any capacity inside government. It seems that he and Churchill had a falling-out before the war and don’t speak anymore. I’m looking into other possibilities.”
Maria signaled that the time was up. Emma thanked Lady Baillie, reluctantly saying goodbye, disappointed to hear that they were no closer to knowing who had turned on Nash. She removed her headset and collapsed into her cousin’s arms in tears. “He’s alive, Maria, and growing stronger!”
Across the English Channel, on the second floor of her ancient home, Lady Baillie put down the headset of her own radio receiver, recently installed in the Gloriette. She looked at her eldest daughter, who frowned at her, arms crossed.
“Oh my, what have I done wrong now, Pauline?”
“Mother, why would you lie like that?” Pauline demanded. “You know very well that Mr. Nash remains completely unresponsive, intravenous lines running amok about him. His body is shriveling by the day. He’s only here because Oxford didn’t know what else to do with him.”
Lady Baillie gave a fleeting smile. “I planned to tell her, dear, but when the moment arrived I just couldn’t. Emma is over there fighting for all of us, and I couldn’t . . . she loves him. I could hear it in her voice. She would be devastated.”
“Mother, you used the word ‘miracle.’ ”
“No, Pauline, I said ‘somewhat’ of a miracle. And that’s different. After all, he is still alive, isn’t he?”
—
When the group gathered at their table, the only one missing was Ursula. She’d reported back that she was now at Wolf’s home north of Berlin, where she planned to live in secret for a month to watch over the scientist’s family just in case the Nazi authorities somehow managed to link him to the explosion. She planned to leave his wife and children with a number of devices and means for protecting themselves once she’d departed.
Maria had learned through her Nazi confidants that word of the destroyed bridge had rippled through party ranks, even though officially senior officers continued to deny that an explosion had occurred. No one knew exactly what the implications of the lost bridge were, but some already suspected that it was linked to Germany’s one remaining hope: a rumored secret weapon.
“They’re guessing it will take four months to rebuild the bridge,” Maria said.
“If that’s true,” Emma said, “we’ve slowed their momentum significantly—and Sicke and Kammler’s testing until March.”
“This is most welcome news,” Gunter said. “Now, let’s discuss our next undertaking.” He went on to describe how Emma had suggested using scarcity as an ally to achieve their goals—through an art auction. Once the rationale for the event had been fully explained, everyone seemed excited, quickly agreeing that it was the best way to move forward. As they conversed about how everything might unfold, all eyes began to turn toward Peter, who toyed with his eye patch in anticipation of the inevitable question.
“Peter, you’re the most important voice here in determining our timing,” Gunter said. “How long do you need to create superb forgeries of five known paintings that are either lost or hidden away in private collections—and one never-before-seen original by a German master whose work can’t easily be verified?”
“Does the paint need to be dry?” Peter asked, prompting laughter.
“Ideally, yes, Herr Da Vinci,” Gunter responded.
Emma noted that Gunter looked decidedly better. A renewed sense of purpose can do wonders, she thought.
“Emma and I
have touched on this,” Peter answered. “If I start tonight, I’ll need roughly seven weeks—one week for each of the five forgeries and two weeks to come up with an original by a German master.”
Peter’s seven weeks would take them to the days leading up to Christmas.
“I think that’s ideal timing,” Manfred pointed out. “Bombings do tend to ease during the holiday, and the Nazis will welcome the distraction from the grim mood that’s gripped the city. The smell of death in our streets would be unbearable if it weren’t for this cold weather.”
They decided to target the Friday evening before December 25th.
The timeline was tight, but the resisters were unanimous in believing that they shouldn’t wait until the new year. They suspected that the bombings would only intensify then, and, at some point soon, no one would dare venture outside to attend any public event.
As the owner of the Perfekt Gallery, Gunter volunteered to be the auctioneer.
Maria offered to find a suitable, high-end location for an elegant, refined affair and to oversee décor and catering, while supporting Gunter as his wife.
Manfred said that he could handle the auction’s cash-only payments, ensuring that they remained secure. He’d also exchange the illiquid Reichsmarks for other currencies on advantageous terms through one of his finance contacts who owed him a favor.
The group agreed that, to make the event appear credible and secure, there would have to be weapons checks for all—including them—with metal detectors at every potential entry point. “That suits me fine,” Gunter said. “We won’t need guns anyway.”
“Exactly,” Kurt confirmed, “because guns have a lower probability of success against Hitler and his SS guards. Explosives have achieved the best results for other attempts. Gunter, I’ll work with you on figuring out the details for the explosives—and a remote detonator.”
“Very good,” Gunter said. “And Ursula can serve drinks and hors d’oeuvres, while tending to our costuming and clothing needs once she returns from her visit with the Wolfs.”
Emma had watched with satisfaction as the different roles for the auction were claimed.
She was the only one who had nothing to do.
They turned to her.
She didn’t hesitate. “I’ll help Peter design a new, irresistible German masterpiece. It will attract the night’s largest payment.” Emma paused. “As this event is my idea, I owe it to you to be the last of us in the room—the one who triggers the detonator. And if by chance he survives the initial blast and needs medical help, I’ll be there to make sure he’s taken care of.”
She offered the hint of a smile.
The clapping was slow and deliberate. It came from Kurt’s hands to start, but one by one the rest of the resisters joined in. Only later would Emma fully appreciate the gesture. They were applauding her courage, her willingness to sacrifice herself, as well as her devious plan—which they would now spend the following seven weeks finalizing, right down to the table arrangements.
Chapter 35
Monday, November 6, 1944
4:00 p.m.—Berlin
“Emma, I can’t stay very long but I wanted to see you because I have wonderful news,” Paula said, as she and Emma sat down together at the lion statue on an overcast afternoon, a light layer of snow on the ground beneath their boots.
“What is it?” Emma said calmly.
Her contact looked tired, employing more makeup than usual to disguise her weariness. Paula wore a tall fur hat—fox, Emma surmised, but the red in it looked too red to be natural. The rest of her was covered up as always: a head scarf; a thick black coat with large gold buttons; and sunglasses, with smaller lenses, Emma noticed, revealing for the first time her entire nose and cheeks. Whatever her age, she looked older by five years compared with when they’d first met, but Emma now saw that Paula would have been quite attractive when younger.
“You’ll have to be patient, because I don’t have many details, but an operative whom I trust thinks that he may have tracked down your gorgeous little boy. I’m still awaiting confirmation. In the meantime, I’ve requested a report, including an address, which will be sent to me as soon as possible.”
“What city is he living in?” Emma asked breathlessly. She’d grabbed Paula’s hands and gripped them tightly.
“My contact is excellent, but he doesn’t work for free. That information will cost me something, and the precise amount and form of payment have yet to be negotiated. Not to worry, though, I will take care of it.”
Emma tried to calm her breathing. “Thank you so much, Paula. Do you happen to know if Axel looked well and happy?”
“Yes, I believe so,” Paula said. “In fact, he was observed skipping one day on his way home from school.”
“How did your contact locate him?” If her fellow Resistance members couldn’t locate Axel years before, whoever had managed to find him had gone to great lengths and knew things that even Ursula didn’t know.
“It wasn’t easy. Dieter von Schroeter is no longer,” Paula said.
“How did he die? Who is looking after Axel?” Emma asked, desperate to know more.
“Fortunately or not, your husband is still alive and very much a part of your son’s life. But he has changed his last name. I had no idea it was possible to change one’s name like this in Germany, but Dieter apparently had some good reasons for moving away from Berlin and adopting a new identity.”
“What were his reasons?”
“We should find out more when my report arrives, including his new name.”
So much good news in one day. Nash’s recovery, and her little boy, still alive, skipping!
“I honestly don’t know how to thank you, Paula.”
“You don’t need to thank me. A woman would do anything for a friend’s child.” Paula’s face turned troubled. “My only regret is that I have to leave Berlin immediately. My travel cannot be avoided, and I’ll be gone for some time. I depart tonight.”
“When will you be back?” Emma asked, a little too quickly and urgently. She hated to lose her contact’s insights and guidance, but, more important, she’d have to wait until Paula’s return to learn Axel’s whereabouts. In some ways, she wished Paula had said nothing until she could tell her everything, because waiting, unable to do anything without more information, was going to be excruciating.
“I don’t know the exact dates yet, but I’ll be back by Christmas at the latest. He will expect me to be here for the opening of gifts.”
“Christmas?” Emma clarified, passing up the temptation to ask who ‘he’ was.
Paula’s face brightened. “Yes, Christmas, and I do apologize for that. But, Emma, perhaps we could meet here on Christmas Day? Sometime in the afternoon, say 3:00 p.m.? That would give me something to look forward to! I’d bring the report for you then.”
“I don’t suppose there is any way you could get me a copy of the report in the meantime?”
“I’m sorry, Emma. We’d both be at risk if I involved anyone else as a liaison.”
“I understand,” Emma said with a sigh of resignation. “Christmas at 3:00 p.m. it is. The greatest gift you can give me will be that report, and I’ll have something for you, of course.”
The two women rose from the bench and walked together, passing through an enclave of snowy trees, before embracing and forking off in different directions.
—
“Gestapo. Good afternoon, Herr Hildebrand.”
The voice came from behind him in his gallery’s office, catching Gunter off guard and sending a shiver through his shoulders. He swiveled in his chair, stood, and saluted. “Heil Hitler!”
Gunter didn’t recognize the heavyset Gestapo representative who’d addressed him, nor did he recognize his tall, younger attaché. They both stank of onions and bratwurst, so that Gunter nearly gagged. He chastised himself fo
r not being more alert. He’d been totally immersed in his work and hadn’t even heard anyone enter the gallery. The sound of the big bell on the door normally caught his attention.
“I’m Criminal Director Rolf Berg, and this is my assistant, Horst Grandt. We’ve just been taking a look around your gallery.”
“Excellent, Herr Berg,” Gunter said, moving forward to greet his visitors, who still wore their black leather coats and gloves. “And is there a particular piece that has caught your eye?”
“Oh, we weren’t looking at your artwork,” said Berg. “We’re only interested in what the eye can’t see.”
Nazi officers came into his gallery on a regular basis, many much more senior than Berg, and most gobbled up the rare art with their eyes if not their wallets. None of his visitors were antagonistic like this bulky, spectacled man.
“And what can’t your eyes see, Herr Berg?” Gunter asked, pretending to be intrigued.
“Well, for one thing, customers, Herr Hildebrand,” Berg responded, a deep guttural laugh escaping his throat as he gestured toward the large, vacant room adorned with paintings from across Europe.
“It’s obviously a slow day,” Gunter said. “I’ve just been doing some paperwork, because there hasn’t been a soul in here this afternoon.”
“That’s funny,” Berg commented, casually opening his long coat and loosening his belt buckle to make more room for his late lunch. “Because Criminal Assistant Grandt here has been watching your gallery for two weeks now. He says it’s been almost vacant every day—that is, on the days you’re actually open. Isn’t that right, Grandt?”
Berg’s good-looking assistant nodded affirmatively as Gunter’s mind raced to make sense of why these men had decided to target him and his gallery on this day.
“Yes, well,” Gunter said, “I’m told there is a war going on, which is never helpful.”
Berg ignored his sarcasm. “You know, Herr Hildebrand, there is another thing I can’t see in the gallery today—where is your pretty wife, Maria?”
It now dawned on Gunter whom he was talking to. This had to be the rotund Gestapo officer he’d heard about—the blustery, predatory man who’d stopped Gottfried and Maria on their way back to Berlin after Emma arrived in Leer. The one who’d taken her coin.
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