Hammer of Angels: A Novel of Shadowstorm (15 page)

Next morning, Friday, February 20, 1981, 6:21
A.M.
CET

Calais, Province of France, GG

It's finally morning. A chilled gray light seeps through the windows and bleaches away last night's starry bubble of interdepartmental romance.

Marie comes upstairs. I tell her what we saw from the roof.

She stops in midstride and frowns. “A man?”

“His car is gone now. We spotted him at about six o'clock last night. He stayed out there until ten-fifteen.”

She asks, “Did he see you?”

“Probably, yeah.”

Patrick sleepily shuffles into the room, plops down on the foot of my bed, and finishes my answer. “We didn't want to tangle with him while you had guests.”

Marie resumes walking toward her desk. Her brow remains furrowed. “Ten-fifteen. That was only a few minutes before the Müllers left.”

My partner yawns. “Maybe he was a friend of your guests.”

“I doubt it.” Marie settles into her office chair. “A friend would ring the bell.”

Patrick's early-morning German is missing some subtlety, so I say, “I think my partner meant to ask if the man might have been following Herr or Frau Müller with some ill intent.”

Marie stretches her arms up toward the ceiling and tilts her head back and forth. “It's possible but not likely, given how dull they are.” She laughs at her joke and says, “All right, little birds, we will figure out who is this mystery man, but empty stomachs make for empty heads. What do you say to some
Frühstück
?”

Twenty-five minutes later, Marie lugs in a big tray crammed with heavy breakfast food for all of us. Patrick and I picnic on my bed while Marie sets herself up at her desk.

Marie's husband calls up the stairs on his way out.
“Auf weidersehn, schatzi.”

She shouts the German equivalent of “Bye, sweetheart!”

My partner and I eat quickly, as usual. Marie has barely gotten her toast covered with butter and jam by the time I'm done with my sausage. I gobble down my soft-boiled egg and wash it all down with a big swig of coffee. Patrick chats with Marie while I get up to use the bathroom. On my way back, I peek out the window at the street.

The car is back. The man is inside, watching the house again. At that instant, Marie's desk phone rings like hell's bells and scares the crap out of me.

Marie picks up the receiver and says, “Allo, Marie Van Daan.” She listens for a few moments, then says to the caller, “How long has it been there?” She covers the mouthpiece and says to us, “It's my sister, Betti. There's a strange car outside her house.”

Uh oh.

I turn to Brando and wave at him to come over. He puts his plate down on the bed, zips over to the window, and looks outside. “Damn, it's that same guy again.”

Marie says, “Betti, hang on a second,” and puts the phone down on the desk. She crosses to the window and glares down at the street. Her eyes narrow, and her mouth compresses into a thin line. Marie returns to her chair and picks up the phone. “I'm back. There's a car here, too. No, it's not a police car here, either. I think it's the Purity League again. Yes … okay, I'll call you in an hour.”

She hangs up, takes a long sip of coffee, and quietly regards us over the top of her cup. We both stare our questions at her. Our hostess says, “Well my young friends, it seems like Garbo could use your help.”

Marie tells us about the work she and her sister do for the Circle. We already knew some of it, but Marie gives us a much more complete picture. The Van Daan sisters and their husbands are part of what is known as the Floating Railroad. This is an underground network that smuggles Jewish slaves from Europe to the Americas. The Floating Railroad has a measure of popular support because there are a lot of Germans who don't agree with slavery.

Then there's the Purity League. It's not that they love slavery itself, but they really hate Jewish people. The Purity League was formed from the Nazi Party's ashes and has proved impossible to extinguish. Their membership fluctuates in inverse relation to the strength of the economy. During boom times, the league's vitriolic hatred attracts derision more than anything else. When the economy slumps, however, more people pay attention to the anti-Semitic diatribes in
Der Pure
, the group's self-published newsletter.

Many Purity League members also belong to the Staatszeiger, so the league has some muscle to go with its lack of brains. Both of these groups are notoriously anti-Semitic, but the SZ is ostensibly limited to enforcing order in the slave camps and catching escaped slaves. The Purity League has no oversight, and since it's listed as a social club, they avoid the kind of scrutiny an official political party would be subjected to.

Their charter states that the Purity League is dedicated to preserving pure German culture from subversive influences. Everyone in Europe knows in neo-Nazi-speak “pure” means Aryan and “subversive” means Jewish. Their racist agenda attracts extremists from all over Greater Germany. A typical to-do list might read:

I say to Brando, “Well, I've heard enough. When do I stomp these pricks?”

Marie answers. “You can start tomorrow night. We're all going to a party.”

CORE MIS-DATA-DAVID-231

Operation DATA-DAVID

Now in its tenth year, DATA-DAVID continues to deliver quality intelligence about Greater Germany at a bargain-basement price. Our contacts from the Circle of Zion maintain a steady flow of data in exchange for our assistance with their clandestine missions to extract escaped Jewish slaves from Europe. The most ambitious of these undertakings is a lengthy network of safe houses, secret routes, and black-market shipping known as the Floating Railroad.

DATA-DAVID routinely violates German sovereignty and so runs counter to U.S. official policy. In the event of exposure, the diplomatic damage with Germany would be significant but not irreconcilable. Domestically, the widely held belief in slavery's unethical nature ensures our agents will be shielded from all but token legal repercussions.

The activists in Europe, however, will be on their own.

Next evening, Saturday, February 21, 1981, 8:31
P.M.
CET

Chateau de Cocove, near Calais, Province of France, GG

“How's your Champagne?” Brando asks me.

I tilt my glass of Veuve Clicquot up at the frescoed ceiling, drain its contents into my mouth, and hold the empty out to my partner.

“More,” I say.

He studies my face for a moment, then takes my wineglass and glides away across the crowded ballroom toward the bar, weaving through the schmoozing horde of Greater German glitterati and their attendant flacks and sycophants. Brando looks quite dashing in the charcoal two-piece suit he borrowed from one of Garbo's friends.

As he waits at the bar, Brando catches Garbo's eye across the room. She's smoothly inserted herself into the cozy flock of females surrounding a tall and very handsome patrician gentleman. The man is entirely composed and charming, but something about the perfection of his teeth reminds me of a shark among goldfish. Maybe it's the way his smile's stunning whiteness is echoed by his lush and equally white hair. Anybody that attractive must be up to something really evil.

My partner returns with a fresh drink for me. He's got a funny expression on his face. He hands me the glass while his eyes drift down to my shoes.

Despite my predictions, my feet have not rebelled against being snuggled into a strappy pair of black pumps instead of their normal canvas sneakers or combat boots. My sinewy calves and thighs curve like marble wings from my ankles to the hem of my sleeveless dress. It's a little black number Garbo lent me. The dress hugs my waist and presents what little cleavage I have to heaven's cruel scrutiny. I feel naked, and not only from the dearth of material covering me. This dress is so tight, I can't wear my sidearm or even my fighting knife. Plus I'm freezing, my bandages itch like crazy, and—

“You look fantastic, Alix,” Patrick comms.

My lips curl into a smile, and a wave of warmth washes from my neck down to my legs. I lower my eyelids and comm, “Thanks, Brando.” I move my wineglass to the side and briefly pose like a fashion model for my one-man fan club. Patrick catches himself staring, clears his throat, and forces his eyes back to the boozy roomful of elegantly-attired power brokers.

I swig my drink and nearly cough it right back up again. “Oh, my God, this Champagne is awful!”

“It's ginger ale.”

I scowl at my partner, who has resumed studying the room, but before I can unleash my cascade of colorful complaints, he says, “We're on a job, Scarlet. We can't have you getting all … tipsy.”

“What? I don't get tipsy! Little old ladies get tipsy. Real women get tanked.”

“Fine, whatever,” Brando replies. “Stay sharp. I think Garbo has found our target.”

Our target is Johannes Kruppe, the former SZ officer from our person of interest list. Before Victor left Calais, he told Marie that Kruppe was likely to attend this glitzy fund-raiser. She initially resisted our idea to come along, but then we received orders from ExOps to “observe and investigate Herr Johannes Kruppe.”

Marie insisted we get all tarted up. “Scarlet, you cannot go to Chateau de Cocove dressed like a farmhand. Here.” She pulled something out of her closet and handed it to me. “I'm too old for this dress, and you have a very nice figure.”

Fortunately, I've been trained for this sort of thing. Most of the classes at Camp A-Go-Go were gender-neutral, but there were a couple of girls-only classes. One showed us how to kill would-be rapists, and another taught us how to work jobs in a skirt and high heels. I'll pick the skirts and shoes class any day, but running in heels still took some getting used to.

My partner and I discreetly watch Garbo ply her feminine and journalistic wiles. She wheedles her way deeper into the gaggle of groupies that no doubt forms around this handsome devil wherever he goes. The man says something to her, and Garbo holds her glass like a microphone and pretends to interview him. The group cackles as the glass moves back and forth from her mouth to his.

That's the signal. It's Kruppe.

One of the waiters eases into the group around Herr Kruppe and whispers in his ear. Kruppe nods and apologizes to the ladies while he extricates himself from their fawning affection. He walks out of the ballroom and into the kitchen.

Brando comms, “Follow him.”

I hand him my glass and stroll into the kitchen. I catch a glimpse of Kruppe's back as he ducks out another door. My infrared vision shows me he's going downstairs. I sneak through the door and follow him down a wooden stairway to a rock-walled cellar.

Tall wine racks form a low corridor and stretch back under the ballroom. Small alcoves interrupt long rows of bottles. I creep into a little side passage and turn my hearing all the way up. Kruppe walks halfway down the corridor and stops. A whiff of his spicy-sweet aftershave drifts past my nose. The door upstairs opens, and footsteps creak down the stairs.

I press my back against a tall stack of wooden wine crates and hold my breath. The steps crunch past my alcove to where Kruppe stands waiting.

“What news?” I recognize Kruppe's voice from upstairs.

“Madness,” says the newcomer. “The Gestapo in England is in tatters, and the SZ here in Europe is overwhelmed by rebel slaves and the damned abolitionists.”

“My organization is ready to step in and save the fatherland,” Kruppe says.

“Save? From who?”

“The Jewish traitors, of course.”

The second man inhales deeply, then says, “Johannes, those ‘traitors' have nearly as many well-placed friends as you do.”

“My Purity League can take care of those Jew-lovers.”

“We shall see, Herr Kruppe.” The second man rustles something. A piece of paper? “Meet my courier at this time and place. He will give you a mission. If you succeed, I will decide what other Gestapo duties your league of brutes can perform.”

After a moment, Kruppe says, “Very well.”

One of the men passes through the corridor and goes back upstairs. I hear the remaining person breathing. After a minute he begins to walk toward the stairs.

Then he stops right outside my hiding place. Savory-smelling aftershave wafts into my nostrils. His feet step toward the alcove. If I were an Infiltrator, I might be able to hide in place with a cloaking Mod, but all I've got to disappear into is my skimpy dress. The man takes another step and leans his head into my gloomy side chamber. It's Kruppe. His silvery head turns my way.

I zing my hand into one of the wooden boxes and whip out a wine bottle. Before Kruppe fully faces me, I swing the heavy bottle and bash his head with a shuddering
thonk
. He exhales sharply and collapses like rag doll.

I rub my fingerprints off the bottle and put it back. I turn my unconscious victim over and find the slip of paper he got from his contact. It reads, “7 March, 2300. Thiepval, 11A.” I put the note back in Kruppe's pocket, step over him, and then skedaddle upstairs and out through the kitchen.

I march straight across the ballroom. “Darwin, time to go.”

“Roger that,” he comms back. “I'll get Garbo and meet you outside. Everything okay?”

“Yes, fine.” I rapidly stride into the front foyer. “Hurry up.”

I fetch my coat and step outside to the mansion's driveway, lined tonight with limousines. My breath steams past my teeth into the brisk night air. My legs are almost fully exposed, but for some reason I'm not nearly as cold as I was a little while ago.

CORE MIS-ANGEL-3277