by Ward Wagher
She laughed again, and he decided he liked the sound of her laughter. He never met anyone like her. Misty spotted the small café and grabbed the arm of his coat to direct him to the door. They stepped into warm, humid air and the smell of hot coffee. The place was crowded but they found a small table in the corner and retreated there.
“Now, is this better?” She asked.
“Thank you, ma’am. I believe this is what the doctor ordered.”
When the waiter came by, she ordered coffee for both of them. Lane studied her as the waiter made his way back to the counter to fill the order. She had a very direct way about her, he thought. And she had no trouble making decisions.
“What?” she asked.
He shrugged. “You seem to have no trouble making yourself understood in this country.”
“I’ve been immersed in the culture here for a couple of years. I decided that I was starting to master the language when I began dreaming in German.”
“Seriously?” he laughed. “You really dream in German?”
“Believe it or not I dreamed that a waiter was yelling at me because I ordered iced tea. They apparently have never heard of that in this country. I asked for it one time and got some funny looks.”
“I don’t believe you can be civilized and not have iced tea.”
“You’d better not let any of the Germans hear you say anything like that; or the English either, for that matter. They already think everybody on the other side of the Atlantic are barbarians.”
“I thought that they believed us all to be Cowboys.”
She giggled. “That too.”
“Does that get in the way of having to deal with the Germans?” He asked seriously.
She smiled as she gazed into the distance. “Actually no. It has had the effect of setting their expectations so low that they excuse our behavior any time that they believe we’re being gauche. It allows them to underestimate me, which is not a bad thing.”
“It appears to have worked well for you,” he commented. “You seem to have the Germans wrapped around your little finger.”
“Some of them, anyway.”
The waiter brought two mugs of coffee and a small plate of pastries. The coffee was hot and very strong. Lane picked up the cup and blew across the surface of the coffee several times and then took a sip. He nodded in appreciation is a set the cup down.
“That is very good.”
She broke off a corner of one of the pastries and nibbled on it.
“If I ate everything they set before me,” she said, “I would probably turn into a giant balloon. The food is not so very different from what we ate when we visited Indianapolis.”
“What about the food in New York?” he asked.
“You can get practically any kind of food you want in New York City,” she stated. “But, my summers in Indianapolis probably spoiled me. I really don’t enjoy the fancy dishes the New Yorkers love to prepare. In the city, there is a delicatessen on just about every corner. To me, there is nothing better than to visit one of the delis and get a roast beef with mustard on Rye.”
He chuckled. “Now you’re making me hungry.”
“Always food on your mind,” she teased.
“I have to fuel this powerful physique.”
“Is this the same guy who was whining about how cold it was out there?”
“I wasn’t whining,” he explained carefully. “I was merely commenting on the weather.”
She raised an eyebrow. “Yeah. Right.”
“While I am thinking about it,” he said, changing the subject, “tomorrow is February 14. I imagine the Germans do not celebrate Valentine’s Day. I was wondering if you would like to have dinner with me? We can show these Germans how the American ex-pats celebrate the holiday.”
She immediately frowned. “I am so sorry. I have already made plans.” She laid her hand on his. “But I do appreciate the invitation. That was very sweet.”
Lane now looked uncomfortable. He twirled the coffee cup on its saucer and tried to think of a way to change the subject once again.
“I suppose we need to think about getting back,” he said, clearing his throat.
“Is there anything that you really have to be back for?” she asked. “We have all afternoon.”
He blushed slightly. “Well, I wouldn’t mind spending a little more time here warming up. It really is cold out there.”
CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX
February 15, 1943; 9 AM
Reich Chancellor’s Office
Reich Chancellery
Berlin, Germany
Heinrich Schloss sat in his office as the early morning light filtered through the windows. He had removed the first document from the stack on his desk and wondered how the stack of paper had grown so over the weekend. He held the handle of the coffee mug in his left hand as he used the pencil in his right to help him keep his place as he plowed through the document. The pencil was useful as without it, he often would find himself rereading a paragraph three or four times without realizing it. Most of the German bureaucratese was turgid, and difficult to wade through.
He reached the last page and laid his pencil down and spun around on his chair. A thermos of coffee sat on a tray on the credenza. He refilled his cup and spun back around. He flipped the document back to the first page and initialed it. He looked at the desk calendar to remind himself of the date and stopped.
“Kirche!” he yelled.
Willem quickly stepped into the room. “Yes, Herr Reich Chancellor?”
“What is today’s date? I think you turned to the wrong page in my calendar.”
“Today is February 15, Herr Reich Chancellor.” He walked closer to the desk. “You frightened me there for a moment, Herr Reich Chancellor. I thought I had put the wrong date on by mistake. It is the fifteenth.”
Schloss stared at the calendar for a few moments and then shook his head. He scribbled the date beneath his initials on the document and tossed it into the outbox.
“Very well, Willem. I guess I just got confused. I was thinking it was the eighth.”
“Yes, Herr Reich Chancellor,” Kirche said. He picked up the document in the outbox and retreated from the room.
Schloss stared at the calendar again. He grabbed his pencil and scratched his head with the eraser end and picked up the next document off the stack. Shaking his head, he opened the document and began reading. I must be losing my mind, he thought. I was sure it was February 8. Where did the week go?
This document was a long report from the Reich Defense Ministry. Someone had put a lot of effort into detailing the readiness states of the German Panzer armies. He felt obligated to do more than just scan it. As he read on, he scribbled questions in the margins as well as comments. When he finished reading, he slapped it back over to the first page and scribbled the word questions and then initialed and dated it.
He tapped his pencil on the first page as he considered what he had read. It seemed that the German army was rapidly getting back into shape. He hoped that the officers were being honest with Guderian and Goering. He was very much afraid that the German Armed Forces would be tested as never before. With a groan he tossed the report into the outbox and then looked up. Gisela was sitting quietly across from his desk with her hands folded.
“I did not hear you come in, Schatzi,” he said. “What can I help you with?”
“Did you really think it was February 8, Darling?” she asked.
He shook his head and grinned sheepishly. “I seem to have lost an entire week somewhere. Perhaps you can tell me where to find it.”
“Do you honestly not remember the past week, Hennie?” She asked, her eyes welling up with tears.
He moved around the desk quickly and kneeled next to her so he could put his arm around her.
“Hey… hey,” he said softly. “Whatever is the matter, Precious?”
“You were ill, Hennie,” she said. “The whole week you just ate and slept. Frau Marsden had to take care of you
. I was so frightened.”
He looked at her in confusion. “You say I was ill? I do not remember any of this.”
He bit his lower lip as he tried to puzzle out her meaning. He searched his memory, trying to recall anything like what she talked about, but things seemed fuzzy. Had he been ill? It did seem strange that he had awakened this morning feeling better rested that he had in years. He had a cheerful breakfast with Gisela and the children before coming to the office. But, as he reflected, he really could not remember going to bed Saturday night or Sunday night. What was happening?
She looked up over his shoulder suddenly, and he turned to see Frau Marsden coming into the office. He swore that the floor shuddered as the old woman walked through. Other times she could move like a cat.
He stood up. “What do you want?”
She looked at Gisela. “Perhaps you should leave now, Frau Schloss.”
Gisela quietly stood up and left the office. Frau Marsden stepped closer to where she was facing Schloss, who was now standing. He viewed her, once again, as a scary old bag.
“You will not remember the events of the past week, Herr Schloss. You were not really ill; however, you had allowed yourself to become exhausted. You were able to take the rest you required. In the future, I would suggest you listen to the advice your friends and take some time off. Your job is vital; however, you cannot carry the weight of the world on your shoulders. No one can.”
Schloss grew angry. “So just like that, you steal a week out of my life? What business is it of yours? Let’s agree, for the moment, that God or somebody put you here to help me. But I also think you are very dangerous. You are involving yourself in things that are no business of yours.”
She stepped in closer and her eyes were flashing. She tapped her finger on his chest. “And you do not realize that you were on the edge of a complete breakdown. If I had not intervened, you would have likely been into the hospital. And I know that neither you nor I would want you to be attended to by the psychiatrists here in Germany.”
He shuddered. “No, I would not. But to take away my memory…”
“It was the only way to quickly and completely cure you., Herr Schloss. You cannot deny that you were almost completely exhausted. Between that and the risks presented by Herr Stalin, you slipped into a downward spiral. Be thankful we caught you in time.”
“But what about Gisela?” he asked.
“Frau Schloss was very frightened,” the old woman said. “You will need to give her every consideration for a while. She was sure she had lost you. She was afraid for herself, but most especially for the children.”
Schloss tried to speak and halted a couple of times. “I… I did not realize. How could I realize since I do not remember?”
“That is why I am telling you these things?” she said, tapping her finger on his chest again. You not only have responsibilities to the Fatherland, but also to your wife and to your children.”
“Okay, you have told me. Now, will you quit doing that? It hurts!”
“I was only trying to get your attention, Herr Schloss. You do not listen sometimes.”
She frowned still, but there was a wicked twinkle in her eye as she turned and marched out of the office. This time the floor seemed to quiver.
Schloss watched as she left the room, the door swinging shut behind her on its own accord. Muttering imprecations under his breath, he walked back around to the chair and sat down. He looked at his empty cup and he spun around to pick up the thermos. It was empty.
“Kirche!” He bawled. “More coffee.”
§ § §
February 17, 1943, 10 AM
Chartwell
Westerham, Kent
United Kingdom
Winston Churchill looked out the doors of his study across the English meadow. The recent snowfall had almost melted away, and hints of green peered through the prevailing brown of winter-kill. It was a bit early for spring; however, Churchill was glad to see a break in the cold. He rarely got to see seasonal changes as he wasn’t in any one place long enough. He wondered if he would see another fall and winter in this place; his finances were beginning to pinch.
He still maintained his ample contacts within the government. He thought that he might be nearly as up-to-date as the Prime Minister. Unfortunately, he was not positioned to pull the levers of power as he had before. This was the time to move in the shadows and use his pawns to influence events. Funny that, he thought, it was so easy to call his willing minions’ pawns. Yet that was exactly what they were. He felt a certain contempt for men who would hide facts from their own government yet would willingly treat with him. He could not function without them. He chuckled as he remembered Tom O’Bedlam’s Knight of Ghosts and Shadows. Yes, he must needs remain in the shadows.
Above all, Churchill was a realist. The massive failure of his plans in Lisbon had greatly circumscribed his ability to act. Although, it was not a complete loss. Truman was much friendlier to the United Kingdom then Wallace. There was nothing anyone could do about America’s rapprochement with Germany; however, it did allow a shift of focus to the Far East. Churchill supposed that the Americans and the British would together deal with Japan, and then perhaps he could divert everyone’s attention back to the European continent.
It was time, and he heard his expected visitor arrive. He raised his eyebrows in surprise as he saw that Desmond Morton was once again accompanied by Kim Philby. This was unexpected, but not necessarily a bad thing.
“Well Desmond, how was your visit to the continent?” Churchill asked.
“I was amazed at how many things the Germans allowed me to look at,” Morton replied. “It appears that Schloss is rapidly pulling Germany together. The commerce in the streets of Berlin was evident. I also noticed that they seemed to be training their army a lot. I actually met with Guderian, and he told me they were making an effort to keep the Wehrmacht tuned to a fine pitch. He hinted to me that they are suspicious of Stalin’s activities.”
“Is that so?” Churchill asked. “Are they, pray tell, expecting an attack from Russia?”
“I believe that is exactly what they are saying,” Morton replied.
Churchill turned to Philby. “What is Six hearing about this, Mister Philby?”
“We are not hearing anything, Sir. It is very quiet in Moscow.”
“Does Six have any effective agents in Moscow?”
“Prime Minister, that is compartmentalized information,” Philby replied. “I have nibbled around the edges and have been rather firmly told to mind my own business.”
“And what is your business now, Mister Philby?” Churchill asked.
“I am tasked with the Balkan desk, plus I have managed to develop some sources in Judaea.”
“That is very interesting,” Churchill replied. “At some point, I should like to hear more about that. But perhaps we should turn to the purpose of today’s meeting.”
Morton cleared his throat. “Yes. Well, one hears that the Queen is frustrated at the slow pace of the investigation into the Lisbon event. She and Truman agreed to announce that they had nothing further beyond the team that was captured there. They seem intent on sweeping things under the rug.”
“That makes a lot of sense,” Churchill said as he leaned forward and opened his cigar box. “When some of your people assassinate a friendly head of state, things become slightly uncomfortable. Is the Queen dropping the investigation entirely, then?”
Morton shook his head. “I do not think so. She and Attlee have gotten little cooperation downstream in Six. One hears that she is blindingly angry about it.”
Churchill turned to Philby. “What is your perspective on this, Mister Philby?”
“There is no question that the operational people in Six are stonewalling the investigation. I suspect someone high up in operations put this mission together, and everyone is trying to cover for him. The only downside to that is the people on the sharp end of the stick are getting hung out to dry.”
Churchill nodded somberly in agreement. “It always seems that the little people end up receiving the blame for something like this. It is unfortunate.”
Churchill carefully clipped the end of his cigar and puffed it alight. “You will pardon me for not offering you a smoke or drink, gentlemen. My finances are rather tight at the moment.”
“Is there anything I can do to help you realize some income, Sir?” Morton immediately asked.
“Desmond, that means much to me. I appreciate that. I believe, however, that my fortunes will recover somewhat in the near future. Now, pray, make a note to yourselves to dig further into this Soviet angle. We need to confirm whether Stalin is actually plotting against the Germans.”
“I shall certainly attempt to find such information,” Morton replied. “It is rather strange that we are not hearing things.”
“Very well, then, gentlemen,” Churchill said. “Thank you for your visit today. I know it requires great sacrifice on the part of both of you. Please understand that I consider you to be serving your country.”
After showing his guests to the door, Churchill walked back into his study and across to the doors that looked out over the meadow. The clearing skies sent shafts of sunshine down across the landscape. He puffed energetically on his cigar as he considered the matters before him.
CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN
February 17, 1943; 10 AM
Prime Minister’s office
Tokyo, Japan
Isoruku Yamamoto struggled with the details of his new position. He could confidently manage a fleet or even the Navy, but managing the day-to-day operation of an entire government was almost beyond his comprehension. Yet, the Emperor had appointed him to the position, and he had no choice but to do his best.
One immediate change he had made was to arrange for the presence of an entire platoon of naval shore patrol officers to act as his bodyguards. Assassination, usually by sword, was a favored way to make a political statement in Japan. Yamamoto was determined to stay alive, and if that required some limitations on his freedom of movement and privacy, he was prepared to accept that.