Weapons of Peace

by Johnston, Peter D. ;

  Emma had established the tone of their conversation, rapidly assessing that Kammler would sit and listen because she had what he needed and his options were limited. She’d chosen to come here after returning from the mountain and sleeping for a few hours in the jeep. If she didn’t preempt Kammler, he’d lead the hunt for her. She would become the state’s No. 1 enemy. That would slow her down and threaten her reunion with Axel.

  With Kammler’s weapon and lion cubs taken care of, she now sat face-to-face with a weakened king, as desired and planned. And she noticed that the king looked a touch out of sorts—his dark mane poorly combed, his face white, his uniform disheveled—all possibly linked to the fact that he smelled like a vat of wine. At least he wasn’t slurring or drooling, she thought. She needed this man to be alert enough to hear what she had to say, to understand his stark choices, and to make a critical decision.

  “Your top-secret rocketry and bomb projects are dead,” Emma said matter-of-factly. “As if the Russian advance wasn’t enough, I have it on good authority that your life is now in danger from within the Nazi ranks—because you simply haven’t come through as promised.” She spoke in a balanced manner, not overstating anything, not wanting to give him an opening to dispute her facts or question her credibility.

  That he was still in the room listening to her told her that she’d probably guessed correctly about his interests. Magnus had been right about him.

  She laid out the deal succinctly: “You will escape to Switzerland with a new identity and an Argentinean passport, which I will deliver to you in the days ahead. Once in Zurich, you’ll be able to access a security box, where you’ll find the equivalent of fifty thousand Reichsmarks and a plane ticket to Buenos Aires.”

  “But how can—?”

  “I’m not done, Dr. Kammler,” Emma said firmly. “Anytime after June 1st, if and only if your part of this deal has been completed, you’ll be able to walk into the main branch of Argentina’s national bank with your passport and lay claim to a new bank account containing sufficient funds for your future.” She chose not to mention the three million Reichsmarks she’d already set aside for him.

  “How much money will I get?” he asked.

  “Enough to live beyond your current means for the rest of your life. That should do it, don’t you think?”

  “I want to know how much you think is enough.”

  “And do you intend to haggle with me over that amount?” she asked with a smile. She knew he’d be better off not haggling—it was a flawed, simplistic approach from ancient bazaars that was often misapplied to more complex modern dealings. Nash had said that negotiators performed best when talking about interests, options, and standards—not positions, insults, and threats. But if Kammler wanted a traditional haggle she could play that game, too.

  “Of course, my response will depend on how much you’re offering me.”

  “Does it really?” she asked, pausing. “To be clear, Dr. Kammler, the crux of what I’m offering you is not money. It’s your freedom. It’s getting out of Germany alive, changing your identity, and starting anew. But it so happens I’ve also gone to great lengths to ensure that you’ll have more than enough money to thrive.”

  “I want five million Reichsmarks sitting in my account on June 1st,” Kammler said. “Or there is no deal—and I will call my guards.”

  “You’re ambitious. I was thinking one million,” she replied, ignoring his threat.

  “You’re not as bright as you first appeared to be—that wouldn’t even pay for my wine,” he said, shaking his head. “Four million is the least I’d take.”

  “Two million is the most you’ll get,” she countered, tempted to believe what he’d said about his wine requirements.

  “Would you settle on three million as a compromise?” Kammler hoped she’d say yes, making him wealthy beyond all expectation.

  “Would you?” she asked. She would not commit before he did.

  “Yes, I’d agree to three million,” he said finally, his tone remarkably more affable than it had been a minute ago. His chin was raised, his shoulders up, his arms extended in a grand gesture. He’d relaxed, she noted, no doubt sure that he had a deal.

  “I did say two million was the most you’d get,” she said, watching his lip curl downward, “but I’ll do my best to get you two and a half million. And that’s my final offer.”

  The SS commander smiled across his desk, proud at how he’d manipulated her into paying so much more than her starting offer and completely unaware that he’d fallen into Emma’s trap. He was about to leave half a million on the table or, more accurately, in the Swiss bank account set up for her by Manfred.

  “Fine, then two and a half million Reichsmarks it is,” Kammler said. “What do you want from me?”

  She knew exactly what she wanted. And now that they had tentatively committed to a financial arrangement that met his interests exceptionally well, given the circumstances, she knew that he was far more likely to give her what she wanted—which would be sizable.

  Emma leaned back, steepling her fingertips. “Dr. Kammler, most of what I care about relates to building on your incredible rocketry and bombs.” He nodded at this acknowledgment. “Given that Germany will not be able to benefit from your advancements, and obviously I’ve played some role in that, I’m going to take all necessary steps to ensure that the fruits of your brilliance continue to be applied and recognized worldwide. And I want to do this in a way that promotes a stable peace so we won’t have to fight another war like this one.”

  He again nodded at her words, not really knowing what they meant, but appreciating them. Kammler was still mourning the fact that Germany itself wasn’t going to wipe out its adversaries with his flying bombs. At the same time, he was a pragmatist. He had to adjust his expectations quickly and take care of himself now, not his country. He listened as Emma continued to speak.

  “First,” she said, “Hitler and Himmler will want the von Brauns dead so they can’t pass their expertise along to other nations. To be clear, you will now be responsible for the safety of both brothers. You can pretend you want them dead to cover yourself, but if anything happens to Magnus or Wernher our deal is off. The von Brauns and their closest associates are to surrender to the Americans in the south. The rest of their team is to be shepherded toward the Russians to the east. Understood?”

  “Yes,” he answered. “But why the bloody Americans in one case and the ruthless Russians in the other? That makes no sense to me.”

  “I have my reasons,” Emma said quietly. “Second, you are to reunite Erhard Wolf with his family and have your guards escort them toward the east so that Wolf can surrender to the Russians. If anything happens to Wolf, once again our deal is off: no passport, no papers, no money. Wolf’s team members, however, are to surrender to the Americans.”

  He raised his eyebrows, again perplexed at her division of talent.

  “Third,” she said, “I will tell you at a later point where to leave the blueprints for all the work that has been done for you, including Sicke’s new long-range rocket, bomb device, and remote-control midair detonation system.”

  “Should I find a pen to write all this down?” Kammler said with a snort. “Mein Gott! You think I’d ever do all this for you?”

  “I do, and I’m not finished.”

  His shoulders slumped, his hands fidgeted. “If I agree to this, I’ll have to stay in Germany until the Allies are parading in our streets. Otherwise, if I move too soon with the scientists, Hitler and Himmler will suspect a game is afoot and have me terminated,” he said, his voice a pitch higher. “I’d be risking my life for my scientists.”

  “Exactly. And that’s why you’ll be getting such an attractive package in return.” She hesitated. “Dr. Kammler, I know you took a gold coin from Wernher von Braun when you had him freed from jail, but you never received one from the führer—did
you?”

  “Of course not. The bloody führer doesn’t even know…” He stopped himself, no longer surprised at what she knew. “But what if I say no to your offer?” He rose to his feet, turning away from her. He wondered if he’d made a mistake entering into this conversation.

  “Then I’ll get what I want from someone else,” Emma said, “though I’d certainly prefer to reach this deal with you, because you’re so well positioned to act.”

  He stood wringing his hands, pacing the red-and-black carpet with the Nazi eagle emblem staring up; one of the bird’s eyes was worn shut from years of being trampled. He gazed around his office at the photos of him with the Nazi regime’s senior leaders, including him and Hitler drinking champagne years earlier—a reminder that those good times would never return.

  “Very well, you have a deal,” he conceded. He grabbed a nearby crystal pitcher—another gift given to him by a foreign dignitary, this one from America’s ambassador, William Dodd—and poured himself a tall glass of water, his hand shaking.

  “Actually, that’s not all I need from you, Dr. Kammler.” He flinched. “To complete our deal, two last pieces are required, neither of which should prove difficult for you.”

  “And what might those be?” he said, squinting, lips pursed, arms crossed.

  “Once I walk out of here,” she said, “no one follows me or learns about our agreement. I’ll expect you to put an end to any rumors about a female SS officer being involved in the accident in the Ore Mountains. You can tell people the blonde was misidentified and was in fact just one of Sicke’s employees.”

  “Fine—but don’t you think your employee explanation might be too far-fetched?”

  Emma smiled. “I’ll leave those details to you,” she said. Before speaking again, she considered everything she would say to conclude their meeting, weighing her words in advance. “Now, Dr. Kammler, the final piece of our deal is more important to me than any of the others, so please listen carefully.”

  Chapter 47

  Monday, March 26, 1945

  11:00 a.m.—Berlin

  Two young boys, their cheeks black, sat atop a pile of rubble in the middle of a street where traffic once flowed, playing with dented toy trucks and singing “Horst-Wessel-Lied”—one of Germany’s two national anthems. They ignored Emma as she made her way past them.

  She’d dumped the jeep blocks away and walked, carrying her rucksack full of the belongings she’d taken to Sicke’s home.

  The street lay in ruins, many of its buildings down, cement and wood strewn about, the odd storefront still operating despite regular attacks from overhead. Smoke from burning embers filled the air.

  Emma barely recognized the street or the front of the secondhand shop run by Ursula’s great-uncle. She’d been here just weeks before, when it was intact, untouched by any bomb. Now the store was boarded up, its windows blown out, likely by the same bomb that had leveled the building two doors down.

  She pushed hard at the scarred door, expecting it to be locked. It opened easily.

  It was dark in the front customer area, but there was light coming from the back storage room. She hit the front-desk bell and waited. When no one came, she opened the gate and pushed through the curtains into the adjoining room, her lip curling at the sharp smell of feces.

  “What do you want?” he growled, his white hair splayed every which way, his spectacles slightly awry.

  He sat in a rocking chair, facing her, a rifle pointed at her head.

  “Uncle Lukas, it’s me,” Emma said, alarmed to see him in this state. He didn’t respond.

  She looked down at herself, realizing that her SS uniform wasn’t going to garner a warm reception here. She removed her cap and jacket. He slowly lowered the gun, placing it back across his knees, then raised his arms to beckon her forward. She leaned over to hug him, holding her breath to block out his foul scent, feeling the bones in his back as her chin nestled into his wild hair, which she guessed hadn’t been combed since she last saw him.

  She pulled back and saw tears running down his vacant, wrinkled face.

  “Emma, they’re not here.”

  “Where did they go?”

  “Gone or dead.”

  She gasped.

  “Some only gone days. I don’t know where. My sweet Ursula . . . ” He began sobbing.

  “Where is she, Uncle Lukas?”

  “Killed by Hitler’s thieves,” he said. “The Nazis have stolen the last of my family from me. Beautiful Ursula . . .”

  Emma stroked his cheek, saying she’d be back. She disappeared into the changing room, pulled the brass hook, and descended under the city, traveling two blocks to the resisters’ hidden headquarters to try and piece together what had happened.

  —

  She sat on the floor in the circular room, her arms hugging her knees.

  The wall was almost full now—just four spaces remained of the original sixteen.

  Three more friendly faces gazed back at her, eyes glowing from the light cast by her flashlight. The overhead light was no longer working.

  If Grandt and Berg are responsible for this, I will hunt them down and follow through on my pledge to take out Grandt’s family in Altena.

  She’d cried remembering each of her lost comrades, praying for them, questioning how they could have lived so long and somehow died in the short time she’d been away. She had last seen Ursula and Peter just two weeks earlier, when she received her SS uniform and identification from them.

  She wondered who had painted Peter, because the style seemed similar to all the others—unless he’d done a self-portrait before dying? His eyes stared out so intensely at her, she expected him to speak to her at any moment.

  Emma didn’t dwell on it, but she knew that Peter’s death posed a practical problem for her. She had just promised Kammler a new identity. While Peter knew of the plan for sending the SS commander to Argentina with the funds from the art auction, she’d told him not to proceed with the papers and the passport until she returned with a deal in hand. His expertise would be difficult, maybe impossible, to replace.

  Beside Peter’s likeness, Ursula smiled shrewdly, her scar visible just inside the hairline on her right side, her youthful, radiant cheeks and lively brown eyes making it hard for Emma to believe that she could ever die. At least she would be with her son, Michael.

  To Ursula’s right sat Gunter, who’d welcomed her into his family of fighters once his concerns about her had been allayed, even encouraging her to visit after she’d left for Sicke’s so the resisters could continue to support her efforts.

  They were with God. She looked up, turning to take in all the faces, including Gottfried and the eight resisters she’d never met. She addressed the silent room with a simple request: “All of you now have a much better view from where you are. I’m going to need your guidance.”

  She’d scanned their headquarters, finding no one, before coming to this unlocked room, which previously had always been locked. There were signs that a few people had recently lived in the hideout—unmade beds, dirty dishes, food gone bad, but nothing more. It was as though those remaining had been spirited away by some unknown force, leaving behind the pungent smell of rot and defeat.

  The longer Emma waited without anyone’s returning, the more she despaired. Had Maria, Manfred, and Kurt also been killed but no one had been able to paint them since the group’s only artist was already up on the wall?

  Focus on what you can influence, not on things beyond your control.

  She’d have to check in with Uncle Lukas again to learn more about the whereabouts of her cousin and her two colleagues, and to get him cleaned up. She also needed to retrieve additional clothes from him to get her through the week ahead.

  She looked at her watch. Damn it!

  Emma had lost track of time. She was supposed to see Eva in half an
hour. Their meeting had been arranged through note exchanges a month earlier. So much had happened since then. Emma looked forward to updating her contact—her friend—during what would most likely be their final meeting.

  She rushed to change out of her uniform into civilian clothes so that she wouldn’t draw attention to herself in case Kammler sent people to track her down—despite their agreement.

  Defense first.

  —

  As Emma approached the lion statue through a haze of smoke, Eva leaped up from the bench.

  They embraced, and only then, as Eva’s long fingers dug into her back, did Emma begin to realize the impact of her late arrival, remembering how concerned she’d felt when Eva had been late the last time they met. Still, she was surprised at the intensity of her liaison’s emotions as Eva held her face, saying how worried she’d been.

  “I’m so sorry, Eva! I was running late, but then I noticed I was being followed by someone. I took a much longer route so I could lose them.”

  As Eva listened, she seemed to relax a little, eventually releasing her hold on Emma.

  It was midafternoon; the weather was warm, not hot, the sun managing to filter through the smoke. The women sat down to talk. Both wore sunglasses and light long coats, the two looking and smelling similar as Berlin continued to burn, its shell-shocked inhabitants absorbing the fog of war. For this rendezvous, Emma observed, Eva hadn’t bothered with a scarf or dense makeup, exposing her skin’s gray pallor and the dark rings under her eyes.

  “I was with the führer when he learned that Sicke’s facility had been destroyed,” Eva said. She hesitated, about to say something else, but thinking better of it. Emma desperately wanted to know how Hitler had reacted. But Eva only added, “I appreciate what you’ve accomplished.”