Dangerous Allies (8 page)

21 November 1939, Wilhelmshaven
Kriegsmarine headquarters, 0630 hours

B
efore his anger turned into an uncontrollable fit of rage, Admiral Karl Doenitz needed to cool his temper. It was, after all, his duty to remain calm in front of his men. Walking would help, but at the moment he couldn’t find a decent patch of floor to pace across.

Feeling caged, he wove through the maze of humanity in his private quarters and went back into his office. Even here, members of his handpicked staff inspected every inch of the room.

They’d been searching for over an hour, but had found nothing missing, nothing out of the ordinary. Except, of course, the chair.

Breathing slowly, deliberately, he worked his hands at his sides, flexing, relaxing. Flexing, relaxing.

Someone would pay for this.

Blowing out a hard breath, he stalked back into his
bedroom and stared at the chair still sitting at its slightly awkward angle under the small window opposite his bed. Air wheezed out of his lungs, clogging his throat until he had to gulp for a breath.

Someone had actually infiltrated his private living quarters of the BdU, in spite of the increase in guards. In spite of the added precautions with the recent move.

The question was why? And why hadn’t anything been taken?

Doenitz detested espionage and the intrigue that came with it. Just two months into the fight against England and this war already had more than its share of both. Nevertheless, he would adapt.

BdU Admiral Karl Doenitz
always
adapted.

With clipped steps he returned to his office and picked his way to the window behind his desk. Looking beyond the fishing vessels riding at anchor, he focused on the mouth of the harbor. A sharp wind gusted off the North Sea, frothing the dark waters with ragged whitecaps.

Shifting his focus to the U-boat pens peppered along the entrance, a swell of pride overwhelmed the other emotions raging inside him. Military duty was his calling. But the sea was his home.

Karl Doenitz was the
Kriegsmarine.
His U-boats were the first line of offense in the Führer’s bid to seize power throughout Europe.

This break-in was an irritant that must be dealt with swiftly. He had to discover precisely what the intruder had been after. Only then would he turn his full attention back to the war with Great Britain.

Did one have to do with the other?

Nothing else made sense.

The British actually believed they could cope with the German U-boat threat. They were wrong, of course, and must continue in their misguided thinking. The strength of the U-boats and their advanced weaponry must remain secret.

Doenitz strode to the cabinet that held maps, plans, strategies and codes—all the weapons that would propel the Fatherland into the greatest power the world had ever seen. Stooping to study the lock, he ran his finger along the outer rim. The cold, smooth metal warmed under his touch.

As he continued to consider the lock, he caught a flicker of movement to his right. Rising, he turned to face Captain Emil Kurtz, his chief of staff. Even at this early hour the man glistened in the service suit required of all administrative officers. Doenitz took note of the immaculate blue uniform tailored to perfection and nodded in approval.

With perfect military precision, Kurtz saluted. “
Heil
Hitler.”

Doenitz returned the gesture. “
Heil
Hitler.”

“The search is complete, Herr Admiral. We’ve found nothing missing.”

Doenitz’s anger reared at the news. He coated steel over the emotion. “Any signs of tampering?”

Cool, composed, Kurtz’s eyes cut from the cabinet back to Doenitz. “None, except the misplaced chair.”

Doenitz nodded, his mouth firming into a determined line. The intruder had been careful, but not careful
enough. The chair proved that much. One mistake always led to another.

He and his staff were simply missing the obvious.

As though reading his mind, Kurtz asked, “Do you want us to continue searching?”

“Make another sweep. In the meantime, I want to review the individual reports of each man on watch last night.”

“Yes, Herr Admiral. I will get them to you right away.”

“I also want to speak with every guard, person ally.”

Kurtz nodded. “I will arrange it at once.” Eyes flat with concentration, he added, “We will find the intruder.”

Certainty swelled. “I have no doubt.”

Oh, yes. They would discover the identity of the guilty party. If not this morning, soon. Patience was the key.

Instincts honed in the heat of battle warned Doenitz that this was only the beginning.

The intruder would be back.

And Admiral Karl Doenitz would be waiting.

At exactly 0638 hours, Jack carefully checked for suspicious activity and, finding none, he bound up the front steps leading into the
Vier Jahreszeiten
hotel.

The historic building was a palace of old-world elegance. Never let it be said that Friedrich Reiter didn’t know how to travel in style.

Ignoring the luxury of the gold filigree and yards of brocade-covered furniture, Jack strode to the front desk and obtained his room key. After a friendly, albeit
brief, conversation with the sleepy-eyed clerk, he headed toward the staircase and to his suite on the third floor.

Jack had no doubt the clerk would make a note of his comings and goings. The report would further validate the charade of a man sneaking out for a clandestine meeting with his lover. He’d begun the act at the theater last night. Katarina Kerensky had added another layer to the ruse in Wilhelmshaven. Like it or not, Jack had to continue playing out his part.

With that loose end neatly tied up, Jack set his mind on blissful solitude, food and a hot shower, not necessarily in that order.

He took the steps two at a time, mentally reviewing the events of the last few hours.

For several obvious reasons, he would prefer not to continue his association with the famous actress. For one, now that Jack had the wax impression, he wasn’t sure he needed her on the mission anymore. Not to mention the fact that he didn’t trust aggressive females with fancy eyes and brave attitudes.

Who was he trying to convince?

Katarina made him remember the Godly man he’d once been. She made him want to search his mind for Scriptures he’d buried there as a child. Verses such as
The Lord is my strength,
and
We know that all things work together for good to them that love God.

For two years, Jack had thought little of God or His word. Tonight, the Lord had been in his head every step of the way. Long-forgotten Scriptures had come to mind, seemingly out of nowhere.

Was the Lord trying to tell him something?

Jack was too short on sleep to know for sure. He needed to focus on the mission right now.

He would think about God later.

Unlocking the door to his hotel room, he glanced at his watch—0640 hours.

He’d been in Germany less than twelve hours, but that didn’t mean his presence had gone unnoticed.

He began a systematic search of the suite, checking his subtle detection devices for signs of tampering. Starting on his right, he circled the perimeter in a counterclockwise direction. The single strands of hair, each placed over knobs of closed doors, were still intact, as were the invisible slices of tape over random drawers.

Patrolling past the sitting room, he moved into the bedroom, explored the adjourning bath, and then went out onto the balcony.

He’d found no signs of unwanted entry or tampering.

Relaxing his shoulders, he turned and looked out over the city. Fog, wet and gray, slithered over the buildings in a glossy haze. There was an eerie post-dawn quiet as the morning cold swept in off the water and slapped him in the face.

Restless now, Jack was unable to enjoy the beauty of Hamburg. He strode back into the sitting room, shutting the balcony door behind him. Sinking into a large, overstuffed chair, he let the tension from the evening’s events drain out of him.

It was only a matter of time before the SS contacted him. Friedrich Reiter was too important to Heinrich
Himmler’s personal agenda for his return to Hamburg to go unnoticed for long. Jack would be ready.

At the thought of facing Himmler again, he felt a familiar rush of emotion surge through his blood. Guilt, he wondered? Or conviction. He wasn’t sure anymore. He’d long since lost his moral compass.

He closed his eyes against the thoughts colliding into one another in his mind. Kerensky had slipped past his well-honed defenses, tapping into the man he’d once been. And now he couldn’t stop thinking about all he’d lost that long ago night when he’d first met the real Friedrich Reiter.

Jack let out a harsh breath.

He would never forget the exact moment he’d stared into the eyes of his assassin, a Nazi secret agent who had come to kill him and assume his identity. The physical similarity between Jack and Friedrich Reiter had been uncanny. No, terrifying.

When Reiter had pulled the knife, Jack had had little choice but to defend himself. The fight had been long and brutal. The ending nasty.

Murder, self-defense, whatever word was used to describe what had happened in that back alley, a man was dead because of Jack Anderson.

Absently, he shoved at his hair, as though the gesture would rid him of the dark memories sliding through his brain and tangling into a knot of regret. Would the guilt ever go away? Would he ever look at his hands and not see the blood?

What was a man capable of when he stopped feel
ing guilt? Jack feared he was close to finding out. He’d become that embedded in his life as a spy.

He hadn’t started out cold and unfeeling. When he’d decided to become Friedrich Reiter he had believed he’d been called to a higher good. He’d vowed to risk his life for innocent blood, as many other warriors had done in the Old Testament. He’d accepted the killing—not murder, killing—as part of the job. No different than a police officer.

MI6 had been more than willing to aid his quest. With special training, forged documents and the addition of a slight Austrian accent to his otherwise perfect German, Jack had literally turned into the man who had come to kill him.

The transformation had been so complete Heinrich Himmler himself believed Jack
was
Friedrich Reiter. Short of checking dental records, there was no possible way of telling Jack’s real identity.

The line between Friedrich Reiter and Jack Anderson had begun to disappear. Until tonight. While looking into Kerensky’s eyes, Jack had remembered the man he’d once been. And now, Scriptures learned long ago were coming to mind.

Trust in the Lord with all thine heart; and lean not unto thine own understanding. In all thy ways acknowledge Him, and He shall direct thy paths.

The Scripture was a powerful reminder of where Jack should put his faith.

Yet how could he acknowledge God in the travesty that had become his life?

Deception was a rotten business. He’d learned quickly
that he could trust no one. As a result, he’d become a hard man. Cynical. Faithless. All necessary to stay alive. The moment he became complacent, he became vulnerable.

Take tonight, for instance. He knew he should have never kissed Kerensky. Regardless of the need to present the impression of intimacy, the reflex to pull her into his arms had been too fast, too strong and entirely too powerful to deny.

What had been glorious one moment now haunted him.

Nothing personal. No emotion.
Who was he kidding?

He bolted out of the chair and started pacing through the room. Hovering on the brink of emotions too dangerous to explore, he turned his attention to less frustrating matters of reports and organization.

Taking action, he set a record on the phonograph. German walls had ears, Hamburg walls more than most. As soon as the poignant strains of a Wagner opera filled the air, Jack went in search of the radio components he’d camouflaged inside the actual construction of his suitcase.

As he crossed into the bedroom, he checked his watch again—0655 hours.

On a small table near the window, he spread out a power lead, adaptor, aerial wire, connection cables, dial and Morse key. Working quickly, efficiently, he connected cables and made a mental list of the information he would transmit to the British.

He draped the aerial wire over the dresser, connected
the Morse key and dial tuning it to the prearranged frequency.

Using his personal five-digit series of codes, he made initial contact with the Brits, waited for the go-ahead to continue.

As was true of all agents, Jack’s Morse style was as unique as his fingerprints. If the Germans happened to discover he wasn’t the real Friedrich Reiter they could very well try to force him to continue transmitting wrong information.

Their efforts would be to no avail, of course. Jack would simply pause an extra beat after every word that started with
T
or
O,
thereby alerting the British he’d been compromised.

A minute passed. And then another. Finally, Jack received the go-ahead from London.

With cool precision, he tapped out his message in the prescribed code that would be translated before landing on his superior’s desk then sent on to Churchill himself for review.

Per standard operating procedures, there would be no response until 1430 Hamburg time. Jack took apart the radio and returned the components to their original hiding places.

He peeled off his sweater, loosened the top button of
his shirt, and then pulled out the small cardboard box from his pants pocket. Flipping open the top, he studied the impression Kerensky had made of the cabinet key. Clear, precise. She’d done an excellent job.

But what if the plans weren’t in the cabinet anymore? After the mistake she’d made over the change in location of Doenitz’s headquarters, Jack couldn’t trust the woman’s intelligence.