Emma saw that Nash’s personal belongings had been neatly piled in the corner. She noticed a single package of cigarettes among them, matches on top. She walked over, opened the package, and pulled out two cigarettes. She placed one in Nash’s hand, between his fingers, and lit the other, inhaling it, managing not to cough, exhaling.
“Do me a favor, and I’ll return it. Meet my interests, and I’ll satisfy yours. Share something personal, I’ll do the same. And, of course, give me a coin, and I’ll give you life. This is the power of your golden key—all based on reciprocity. We can use it to positively influence others. But if I consistently, clearly cooperate, giving you what you want, and you don’t reciprocate, or you lash out and try to hurt me, I may well choose to use the second edge of your key; I’ll give you a dose of your own medicine—applied creatively, sometimes firmly and in a measured manner, other times gently—always intending to collaborate again, but only once you show me that’s possible. You touched on this in our final lesson,” she said, smiling, inhaling.
She paused again, blowing smoke out, staring through the window at the springtime flowers, the water encircling the castle, and a farm in the distance well beyond the moat.
“You know, Everett, I suppose Mother Earth is no different—since she is very much a part of who we are, and how we survive. When we neglect or abuse her, or we overfarm without fallowing, she sometimes stops giving, or punishes us in order to restore the necessary balance: tit for tat.”
She moved back to him and sat on the edge of the bed.
“So, Mr. Nash, what did I do with this golden key, among the many keys to influence you’ve given me? Well, I used it everywhere, including my deal with Eva, justice for Dieter, even a set of handcuffs for Sicke,” she said. “But, most importantly perhaps, I sent Wolf to Russia along with some of von Braun’s team, while von Braun himself, his blueprints, and Kammler’s blueprints went to the U.S. nuclear group in Los Alamos, New Mexico.”
She stroked his head, her smoke drifting upward, filling the room with his favorite scent, the one that always allowed him to relax—and let go.
“You knew it, but you wanted me to own it: the only thing scarier than nuclear weapons is a lack of reciprocity in their development and potential use,” she said. “If any side feels it has a distinct advantage, the risk is that our ancient human instinct to win will kick in, even though as in dealmaking, it makes no sense to think about winning when everyone loses. With the Nazis out, and the Americans about to cross the nuclear finish line, only one other nation can possibly catch up in the years ahead. I’d like to trust that the Americans will respect the unbridled power they’ll have. But, one way or another, I’m betting on the Russians as a counterbalance.”
—
Emma sat with Nash all day.
The late-afternoon light was fading fast, and so was he.
Everett Nash’s body had been edging toward death, his pulse growing more faint.
She believed he knew everything was going to be all right, since she’d returned safely from completing his mission. She believed he understood everything she’d learned from her time in Germany. She believed he was preparing to leave, because his soul, once tormented by a self-defining mistake, could now rest in peace.
She put her hand just over his lips to feel his breath. It was there one moment and gone the next.
Emma kneeled down and said a prayer by his side. She took Nash’s hand and thanked him again for saving her life, for helping her get her son back, and for inspiring her to reclaim herself and become something she hadn’t been before.
She rose, kissed his forehead, and started toward the door so that she could tell the others he was gone.
The world’s greatest negotiator took one last deep breath, one last look at her mentor in the dimming room—and walked into the hallway beyond.
Winston Churchill
Monday, May 21, 1945
7:45 a.m.—10 Downing Street, London
“Good morning, Elizabeth.”
“Good morning, Prime Minister.”
Winston Churchill shuffled into his office and, in keeping with his daily routine, sat down on a small floral sofa in one corner, where his coffee and his mail, along with several newspapers, awaited him on a rosewood table.
He flipped through the newspapers, scanning headlines, most of which reinforced his sense of deep contentment at the war’s outcome.
His heart leaped suddenly, his eyes riveted by an article he’d almost missed.
The Daily Telegraph contained a piece about an Italian journalist, Luigi Romersa, who maintained that as an envoy for the deceased Mussolini he’d seen the Nazis test an atomic bomb in 1944 and couldn’t fathom why the Axis nations never launched it. Romersa described his experience, causing Churchill to shudder at the details of the devastation; the journalist had decided to tell his story to warn against the actual use of these bombs. U.K. experts quoted in the article derided Romersa’s claim, attacking him, pointing out that the losers in war often fabricated the best stories.
Churchill observed that the newspaper itself seemed to side with these skeptical experts, since it had printed the report on page 38, beside an ad for women’s wigs.
The prime minister knew differently.
Since he’d first learned from Buckley about Hitler’s imminent atom bomb, not a day had passed prior to the war’s end without his waiting to be told that such a bomb was on its way or, worse, had already arrived and wiped out a portion of England.
Yet there had been nothing more that he could do, as Buckley had made clear, except hope that the Allies developed their bomb, which, it now appeared, they had.
Churchill had prayed for his nation in his weaker moments and, upon reflection, it seemed likely that his prayers had been heard, he concluded. Because, like Romersa, he had no other remotely plausible explanation for why Hitler—a warmongering lunatic—hadn’t acted.
The prime minister placed his newspaper back on the table, shaking his head at the twists and turns of history and chance. He shifted his attention to the mail sorted by his secretary, who ensured that only the most important matters made it through to him.
“Mr. Churchill?” she said from the doorway, appearing on cue as always, the chimes from Big Ben ringing outside to signal the top of the hour.
“Yes, Elizabeth,” he said, looking up at his trusted secretary, a meticulous brunette whose hair, eyebrows, and lipstick were always as sharply put-together as her work.
“Sir, if you’re reading your mail now, there is one piece in today’s yield that is potentially of the highest concern,” the young woman said, pointing to a large white envelope. “I didn’t know whether to toss or keep it. I kept it, in the end, because the envelope was hand-delivered by a reliable source. You can judge for yourself whether this is a critical matter—or a hoax of the worst kind.”
Churchill thanked her. She disappeared, closing the wood panel between him and the adjoining room.
The prime minister reached for the envelope, marked highly confidential and to his attention only, and noted two things of interest: first, the return address was the residence of one of London’s most prestigious law firms; and, second, the hand-delivered envelope’s unnecessary but pristine stamp was 105 years old. He knew this, because it was Britain’s first stamp ever, the Penny Black, containing a simple white profile of Queen Victoria set against a black background.
Remarkable. I’ll keep that, he thought.
Inside the envelope, he found a brief cover letter attached to a thick packet of papers and photographs. His eyes darted to the signature at the bottom. It belonged to Nigel Thorne, one of the nation’s leading barristers.
Thorne’s note explained that he had a client named Fred Suggs, a professional stamp collector by trade, who in the fall of 1944 had given him a sealed envelope with clear instructions. If Suggs ever disappeared without
contacting Thorne for more than thirty days, the envelope was to be opened immediately under attorney-client confidentiality provisions and delivered to the prime minister’s office.
While Thorne indicated that he’d never expected to have to act on his client’s unique instructions, given the placid nature of Suggs’s stamp-collecting work, his client had indeed suddenly vanished. In fact, Suggs had not been heard from in almost a month and a half. When Thorne finally opened the envelope, he said he’d been stunned to see its contents and accusations, which appeared to be both credible and crippling to the status of the United Kingdom’s national security.
Churchill read through the sworn affidavit from Suggs and glanced at the accompanying photos and documents, several of which were written in German. The more he read, the more his shoulders slumped, his head moving back and forth as though he hoped it could sweep the vile truths in front of him into his garbage bin.
After half an hour, the prime minister came to the realization that he was going to lose the upcoming election in July, despite everything he’d accomplished for his nation on the battlefield. Whether it ever became public or not, this information from Thorne and Suggs provided proof of a scandal that would distract him and his senior team from mounting any serious reelection campaign in the months ahead.
If everything he’d just read were to be confirmed, as expected, Charles Buckley, his closest wartime adviser and confidant, was a traitor whose wide-ranging acts of treason were unparalleled in British history. Apparently, Buckley’s family name just two generations earlier had been Buchholtz—aristocrats from northern Germany who’d profited unscrupulously from weapons and wars for at least a century.
Just two days before, Buckley had departed London in haste on an “unexpected personal trip” to the Continent. Now he would have to be hunted down and silenced, or captured and put on public display, before being imprisoned or executed as a war criminal who’d stolen state secrets, undermined critical anti-Nazi initiatives, and arranged the killings of key Allied personnel, including the American negotiator Everett Nash.
“Elizabeth?” the prime minister called, furious at both his own gullibility and Buckley, hurt that someone he thought of as a friend could do this to him.
“Yes, sir,” his secretary said as she reappeared.
“I need the heads of our MI5 and MI6 units here as soon as possible for an urgent security meeting.”
“Absolutely, Prime Minister.”
“Elizabeth, I also need a scotch.”
“Your priority, sir?”
“The scotch, of course,” Churchill said, smiling gently at her dedication.
The prime minister fell back against his sofa, part of him looking forward to his new parliamentary role as leader of the opposition—no longer leader of the free world.
Someone else could do that for a while, he reflected.
Hans Kammler
Friday, June 15, 1945
4:30 p.m.—Mar del Plata, Argentina
Luxurious blue waves lapped at the hot golden sand, palm trees swaying in the light ocean breeze.
Hans Kammler lay semi-reclined, his tanned, fit body stretched out, the waves within yards of his beach chair. The former SS commander liked coming here late in the afternoon to enjoy the quiet, watch the sunset, and revel in life under the new identity he’d been given as Herr Frank Adler.
The beach had cleared out, with a few relaxed stragglers like him still in place, along with the men who ran a small nearby hut where Kammler had established an account for their services renting chairs and selling cold alcoholic refreshments.
Nestled into the green mountain slope, at most two hundred yards away, was Kammler’s modest white villa, which he’d purchased as soon as the money had come through on June 1st from his guardian angel—the blonde who’d given him a second chance. He regularly fantasized about the young beauty surprising him, joining him on this beach, since she was the only person in the world who had any idea where he was.
He’d done well by her, and she’d done well by him.
Quid pro quo.
He’d accomplished everything she asked regarding the von Brauns, Wolf, the blueprints, and her loser husband. And, in return, he got all this, he thought, scanning his surroundings. He watched as a server wearing a straw hat made his way toward him, laboring in the heat that would inevitably persist until sundown.
“Your strawberry daiquiri, sir,” the German speaker said, passing over the rum drink topped with a pink umbrella, before asking for a signature, which Kammler quickly scribbled at the bottom of a piece of paper.
Kammler took a long, satisfying sip right away, noting the hint of almond that made the drink even tastier. The server stood watching him carefully, too carefully for Kammler’s liking as he continued to quaff the drink, keeping one eye on his daiquiri and the other on the waiter.
“No tip this time. You can go now,” Kammler said abruptly.
“You might want me to stay,” the server said, smiling now, revealing a large gap in his teeth.
“And just why is that?” Kammler demanded. Months before, he could have put a server like this in a gas chamber for exhibiting such insolence.
“Are you finding it hard to breathe with the heat, Herr Adler?”
“What? Why would you say that?” Kammler responded, wiping his brow. The server was right. It did feel hotter suddenly, and he couldn’t understand why.
“I say that because you’ve just ingested a lethal drug that has become very popular of late among all your old Nazi pals,” Fred Suggs said, still smiling as he watched Kammler’s face contort in horror, his daiquiri falling over into the sand, creating a pool of red. “Soon, Herr Adler, your lungs are going to feel like they’re collapsing in on themselves. According to the medical expert who advises me, I’d estimate that you have at most five more minutes of consciousness,” Suggs said, consulting his watch.
Kammler grasped at his throat as it began to constrict, looking around for help as he leaned over to try and retrieve the gun in his beach bag, which was stashed under his chair. Suggs kicked the bag farther away and saw keys fall out of it—the keys to Kammler’s villa and car, he suspected.
How convenient, he thought.
“Oh, I wouldn’t worry about your gun. You need this too much,” Suggs said, holding up a pill. “The antidote. This could be yours, but first I need two things: the number of your bank account and your password.”
Kammler didn’t hesitate to provide this sensitive information, and Suggs didn’t even bother to write it down. He knew that the account number was right, and he assumed that the password Kammler had just given him, the same one he’d used to initiate his account, was accurate as well, since it was the first name of his former mistress Bella, one of a dozen potential passwords Emma Doyle had anticipated.
Suggs had everything he needed now—including a new last name he was about to adopt—just as they’d agreed on the rooftop in Munich.
“It was your guardian angel who insisted I give you this,” Suggs said, offering up the pill. Kammler managed to smile at this news, so weakened that he could barely reach forward, sweat pouring from his pores, gulping for air like a fish in a boat.
Kammler grabbed the pill and stuffed it down his throat. He sat back, his face relaxing, waiting for the antidote to take hold. But taking in air only seemed to be getting harder.
I still can’t breathe.
“Herr Kammler,” Suggs said, using the Nazi leader’s real name for the first time, “your guardian angel wanted me to tell you that she has fulfilled her part of your bargain in every way. She also wanted me to remind you at this point that ‘there is no single antidote for cyanide—just as there is no antidote for what you’ve done to millions of innocent people.’ And that’s a direct quote.”
“What pill did I just swallow, then?” Kammler gasped.
“More
cyanide, this time enough to kill you. I only put a little in your drink. Obviously I didn’t want you to die before I had the information I needed.”
“How could she do this to me?” Kammler stammered, trying to stand, swaying like a drunk, and tumbling over his beach chair. He started to convulse, his face turning sunburned pink, thick white foam oozing from the corners of his mouth.
“Is that a rhetorical question? Or are you expecting an answer?” Suggs asked, looking down at him. “I mean, she gave you all this, but she didn’t commit to not taking it back, did she? By the way, you might want to question your assumption about her being all-angel.”
“Please help me—I’ll give you anything you want,” Kammler croaked, sand sticking to his sweaty face and body, staring up at Suggs.
“Thanks, but you’ve already given me everything I could ever want,” Suggs said, holding up Kammler’s last will and testament, which he’d signed after receiving his drink, assuming that it was his bill.
The one-page document made it clear that if anything whatsoever happened to him, Herr Frank Adler wished to leave all his worldly possessions to his beloved brother—Fred Adler.
Emma Doyle
Wednesday, July 25th, 1945
7:00 p.m.—Near Maidstone
Emma stood on the newly painted porch of the country home she’d purchased, looking out at the remnants of their first birthday party together.
Melted ice cream on plates. A picture of a donkey pinned on their fence. An arrow embedded in a target they’d painted on one of the dozen sweeping oak trees that encircled the house; the late sun filtered through their leaves, creating a speckled mosaic on the grass surrounding their white-stuccoed, red-shuttered home. Gifts and wrappings strewn on the table, several chairs toppled over, their guests having gone just minutes before.
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