In Satan's Shadow (2 page)

CHAPTER 2

Basel, Switzerland

March 26, 1943

Frost clung stubbornly to the windowpane, the sun’s rays struggling to break its tenacious hold. The last of winter snows powdered cobblestone streets, white and pure and reluctant to succumb to the change of season. Along the eaves of the fourth and final floor of the quaint hotel, a jagged icicle dangled precariously, waiting patiently for the warmth to release its tender hold so it could plunge to the innocent earth below.

Michael York stared pensively through the window at the ancient city of Basel and briefly marveled at the durability of its buildings. They stood proud and defiant, daring both man and nature to destroy them as days became weeks and seasons became centuries. And as these monoliths of wood and stone passively guarded generations of inhabitants, the world revolved around them in a timeless kaleidoscope of catastrophes.

He glanced at his watch, mindful of the time, grabbed his coat and left. Two blocks away, near the river, sat a quiet tavern, frequented by a devoted clientele that knew not to ask questions when visitors arrived. York paused at the door, glanced up and down the street, and entered.

A man sat in a darkened corner with a half-empty beer stein, his back against a wainscoted wall. He had blond hair feathered with gray and blue eyes, the perfect Aryan image of the German master race. Except he was British.

For reasons unknown, he was estranged from a wealthy family. Educated at Oxford, he studied European history and was captain of the cricket team. As president of the Philosophical Society he developed an affinity for Nietzsche, which is why he understood the enemy so well. Fluent in French, German, and Italian, desirable skills during global conflicts, he joined British Intelligence during the Great War. He had been stationed in exotic cities around the globe ever since, always accepting the most dangerous assignments, comfortable mingling with the enemy. His real name was Covington Blair. His codename was Max.

His face was barely visible, masked by shadows. “Sorry I haven’t seen you since your escape from France, old boy,” he said as York sat down. “I’ve been busy with new networks in Germany.”

“All part of the business,” York said with a faint smile, glad to see a familiar face.

“How did you ever get out alive?”

York sighed, the memory still painful. “The Resistance. After I was shot, a young couple dragged me to the Swiss border. We hid there most of the night. When the Germans looked elsewhere, we went to a nearby safe house.”

“That was close. I didn’t think you would make it.”

“Neither did I,” York said, knowing his life had been changed forever. “I still don’t know who betrayed me.”

“It’s too late to worry about that now. How’s your recovery?”

York sipped his beer, pensive. “My shoulder is fine, but my leg might never be the same. It’s stronger, but still stiff.”

“I saw the limp when you came in. It’s quite pronounced.”

York shrugged. “I manage.” He paused, studying Max, knowing he controlled his fate. “I want to come back.”

Max’s face showed satisfaction. It seemed to be what he wanted. Maybe the mission ahead was too difficult for anyone else. “How’s your German?” he asked.

“
Einwandfreie
,” York said. “Flawless.”

“That’s good,” Max said, rubbing his chin, studying one of his best agents. “Because you’re going to Berlin.”

York wasn’t expecting the destination. He assumed he would return to France, maybe Paris instead of Lyon. Berlin would be different, more challenging.

“And my mission?”

“Your predecessor, Maxwell Kent, was offered valuable information from a musician in a Berlin string quartet.”

“Do you know who it was?

“I don’t know for sure,” he said. “But it may have been a former British citizen named Amanda Hamilton. She’s been married to an influential German for nine or ten years. Hitler adores her. She moves in the right social circles, has access to the Nazi elite. More importantly, they trust her.”

“Then why would she betray them?”

“She caught her husband with another woman about six months ago. There was some sort of public display – a hysterical argument. It was even in the papers, which is unusual given the current political climate. Of course, he denied it. But as I recall, she almost had a breakdown. I think she was even hospitalized. Outside the city, of course, in a country retreat.”

“You think Kent may have approached her because of that?” York asked.

Max shrugged. “I don’t know. But she’s a good possibility. I’m sure she was bitter and hurt. And she knows there’s nothing she can do about it. It’s not like she can walk out of Berlin and go back to Scotland.”

“So she’s either very vulnerable, or she forgave him.”

“It’s the latter,” Max said. “They’ve since reconciled, and now she’s pregnant. They give every indication that they’re happily married.”

York was quiet, assessing the unknowns, determining the dangers. It would be easy to make the wrong assumptions. Maybe that’s what Kent did.

Max put an envelope on the table. “I have pictures of the four musicians, with some background information and addresses.”

York opened the envelope and withdrew a photograph of a woman with wavy dark hair.

“That’s Amanda Hamilton,” Max said. “Born in Edinburgh, Scotland, she’s the first violinist for the Berlin String Quartet, although she’s also a renowned amateur photographer. Her husband is Manfred Richter, highly placed in the Nazi party, official role unknown. Consider him extremely dangerous.”

York studied her photograph. “Maybe we can turn her, even if she wasn’t the original contact. Especially given the infidelity. Does she have any loyalties to Britain?”

He shrugged. “I have no idea. And neither does anyone else.”

York imagined himself in her situation. Would he stay loyal to his country of birth? It depended on the strength of the marriage − she had just reconciled with her husband − and her relationship with her Scottish relatives, if she even had any.

“That leaves three others that may have made contact,” Max continued, withdrawing the remaining photographs. He pointed to a picture of a handsome man, dark hair, a patch over his left eye. “This is Gerhard Faber, the viola player. He’s a bit flamboyant, arrogant. The patch over his left eye is from a childhood accident. He works for the Ministry of Armaments when he’s not performing.”

“He would have access to military information,” York said. “Although we don’t know what his motivation might be.”

Max moved to the next photograph. “The cello player, Albert Kaiser, will be easy to remember. He has a shock of white hair, is a bit portly, and constantly smiles. He owns several properties that provide financial support. The string quartet seems more of a hobby. His brother is a general, a potential source of information, and his wife’s brother is a government official.”

“So far, he seems the least likely,” York said. “I can’t imagine a motive.”

“Agreed,” Max said. “The second violinist is Erika Jaeger. She’s blond, slender and attractive, a pleasant personality. She works in the logistics division at the War Ministry and does odd jobs, but always seems in need of money. She’s a widow. Her husband was killed on the Russian Front.”

“She has access and motive,” York said. “And might be bitter about losing her husband. The need for money is curious.”

“It’s an interesting puzzle,” Max said, eyeing a buxom waitress that brought them more beer.

York waited until she left before speaking. “How did they communicate?”

“Through a drop at the Friedhof Heerstrasse Cemetery in the Charlottenburg section of Berlin, just below Olympiastadion. There’s a map in the envelope. Enter from Trakehnerallee, not the main entrance, the smaller one, and go to the third row on the right. The twelfth grave on the right has an ornate iron railing. Coded notes are placed in a pineapple-shaped cap on the corner post closest to the entrance. Drops are made on Wednesday or Saturday, but only when needed. So every Sunday and Thursday the drop should be checked.”

“What’s the code?”

“In your envelope you’ll find page three of a German novel,
A Fatalist at War
, by Rudolph. Binding. The number on the message corresponds to the letter on the page. Number fifty would equal the fiftieth letter.”

“Isn’t the drop too public?” York asked with skepticism.

“Kent liked it. There’s a lot of trees and foliage, some benches tucked among shrubs.”

“But it’s still a cemetery. And a cemetery has visitors. Especially now.”

Max shrugged. “Kent thought it effective to hide in plain sight.”

York considered the alternatives. There weren’t many. “Are you familiar with their addresses?” he asked. “I should try to stay in a central location.”

“Three of the four live in Charlottenburg, east of the cemetery. Kaiser is close to there, near Pottsdamer Platz in Tiergarten. You’ll be surprised by Berlin. The war is just starting to impact the city, as absurd as that sounds. The Germans have plundered the occupied countries to keep their citizens satisfied. They have ration cards but ample supplies of everything except coffee, which has a chicory substitute like France. There’s been little Allied bombing, although that can certainly change, especially with the tide starting to turn.”

York was pensive for a moment. “It’s a dangerous mission, but an interesting one.”

“Agreed,” Max said. “There’s just one problem.”

“What is that?”

“Although we knew Kent made contact with one of the quartet, we’ve since learned he may have approached all four.”

“And what happened to him?”

“He was killed by the Gestapo. One of the four betrayed him.” He looked up from his mug, a sly smile on his face. “You just need to figure out which one.”

York sighed and sipped his beer. It would be difficult enough to survive in Berlin. Solving a mystery that might cost him his life only added to the danger. For someone who had been a history teacher only a few years before, the risk was unfathomable. But he was strong, cunning and determined, and he didn’t intend to fail.

“Here are your papers,” Max said, handing another packet to York. “You’re a disabled veteran, decorated in the Polish campaign, wounded in North Africa, no longer on active duty. Your recent injuries, especially to your leg and the noticeable limp it produces, will be part of your cover.”

York studied the documents, looking for errors sometimes so apparent in forgeries. The stamp was correct, an eagle over a swastika, as were the paper texture and content. He wasn’t sure about the unit.

“The quality is good,” he said. “But how do I know the information is accurate.”

“Because it’s real. We got them from a German captured in North Africa, Michael Becker. His family immigrated to Argentina a few years ago. That makes it hard for authorities to verify details.”

“How easily can I move about Berlin?”

“Normally you couldn’t,” Max said gravely. “It’s difficult enough to get into Germany, let alone Berlin. And if you do get in, you can’t get out. Once there, every resident of the city will be watching you. It’s almost impossible to survive.”

York smiled. Max was always very dramatic. But in this case, it might be warranted. “So how do I survive?”

“We built an excellent cover for you, which your limp plays into nicely. Michael Becker is a Wehrmacht sergeant on convalescent leave, seriously wounded in North Africa. I’ll deliver a uniform to your hotel room tomorrow. You can wear it occasionally, which will lend credibility to your cover.”

“Wouldn’t I be assigned to some staff position?

“Yes, I’ve already made the arrangements. The real Michael Becker is fluent in English, which has been verified both through interrogations at his POW camp and via his military records. Given that ability, which isn’t as common in Germany as you might think, you will report a few days a week to a nondescript building where you will translate the personal ads in the
London
Times
from English to German.”

York was skeptical. “That doesn’t seem too credible.”

“The Nazis know newspapers are used to relay messages. Several others on convalescent leave will be there also, masters of other languages. It’s a good cover. It’s not too taxing, you’ll only work a few hours each week, and it gives you the ability to move about Berlin. Your papers are impeccable. You should be safe.”

“What If I’m reassigned to active duty?” York asked, assessing the possibilities. He couldn’t run, and could barely walk, but he could drive an ambulance, or cook for men on the front lines, or do a dozen other tasks if the Wehrmacht wanted him to.

“You won’t be,” Max said with a confident grin. “Your commanding officer is a double agent. German captain, British spy. He’ll make sure you stay as an interpreter.”

York was impressed. Max had penetrated far deeper into Germany than he would have imagined, a task that was almost impossible. “How long will I be in Berlin?”

“It depends on the information you get. It could be months; it could be years.”