North Reich (12 page)

      
He didn't have to add that a lot of people felt that way.
 
It was beginning to look like the Germans were in Canada to stay. Hitler had proclaimed a Thousand Year Reich and no one was arguing the point.
 
The ugly truth was that people were going to make accommodations in order to survive.

      
"I don't give a shit," Bradford snapped and ordered another drink.
 
"Did you talk to him, and what did he say?"

      
Lambert was drinking beer, Labatt's, and was clearly uncomfortable.
 
"What if I said that Mary committed suicide?"

      
"I'd say it’s fucking bullshit.
 
She was healthy and happy. She had a new job at the American Consulate and she had just met a guy.
 
He was short and chubby and quiet, just like her, and they were very happy.
 
No, she didn't commit suicide."

      
"Mike, what will you do with what I tell you?"

      
Bradford trembled and a tear spilled over.
 
Sam turned away while his friend got control of his emotions.
 
The bartender glanced over and also turned away.
 
A lot of cops drank there and he was used to seeing raw emotion displayed on the part of Toronto's finest.
 

"Sam, they say the truth will set you free.
 
Well, I want to know the truth.
 
What will I do with it?
 
I don't know.
 
I suppose it depends on what the truth is, doesn't it?"

      
Lambert took a deep breath and looked around.
 
Nobody was close enough to hear.
 
"Mike, she might have committed suicide.
 
There was a terrible gash on her wrist that might have been self-inflicted.
 
She could easily have bled to death from it."

      
"God damn," Mike sobbed.

      
"It gets worse.
 
She'd been dead several hours before the truck hit her.
 
The two guys with her threw her down and let the truck run her over.
 
There was some evidence of earlier bruising and the coroner said she'd probably been raped.
 
I think whoever did it thinks we're totally stupid provincial cops who'd never figure it out."

      
Mike Bradford's voice was an agonized rasp.
 
"Why?"

      
"Think about it.
 
She just got a job at the U.S. Consulate. Now, just who do you think might be interested in the comings and goings on of the United States government?"

      
"Aw, Christ.
 
Germany, of course, and we've got Gestapo walking around, along with the fucking Canadian Legion.
 
What's being done about this?"

      
"Nothing, Mike, at least not right now.
 
Our limp dick government up in Ottawa is worried about pissing off the Nazis.
 
After all, they've got a lot of troops here, and a lot of our boys are either in their prison camps or stuck in England.
 
Besides, we've got suspicions, not proof."

      
"What if I get proof?
 
What if I break into that fucking Gestapo headquarters they have outside of town.
 
The krauts are meticulous bastards; I'll bet they have really good records."

      
"I will concede that point, but you're not breaking into anything.
 
You're too old and fat and, oh yeah, out of fucking shape.
 
However, I do know a guy who is real good at things like that and, of course, he owes me a number of favors.
 
But if you find out that the Germans did kill Mary, what are you going to do about it?"
 
      
Mike Bradford rose and paid what the bill.
 
"Then I'm going to raise hell and people might just get hurt."

Tinker Skillings was a small thin man in his late thirties who'd been in and out of jail on a number of occasions.
 
After the last time, he'd had an epiphany.
 
Jail, he realized wasn't good for him.
 
After a number of beatings and sexual assaults, he'd decided to go straight.
 
Well, almost.
 
He now hired himself out to various people who desired information on others, and that included several police agencies who wanted to get around some stifling rules.
 
Since he never stole anything, and made sure that his unauthorized presence wasn't noticed, nobody complained. People had suspicions, but nothing that could be proven with certainty.
 
Even more important, he found that he made a lot more money procuring information than he ever did as a criminal.
 
He also owed Toronto Detective Sam Lambert a number of favors, so he was more than willing to do this little job at a bargain rate.

      
Tinker's great skill was breaking and entering without the occupants being aware that they'd been violated.
 
The key to his success was meticulous preparation.
 
The location of the German’s farm was well known; however, it was in the country and surrounded by what Tinker thought was a lot of nothing, which meant sneaking up on it would be difficult.
 
Tinker relished the challenge.

      
Tinker spent two full days on his belly in the dirt observing the farm with his high powered binoculars.
 
They were German, of course.
 
He observed from a number of spots around the place, checked the barbed wire fencing, the guards who patrolled, and looked out for dogs or the possibility that the fence was electrified.
 
He saw no dogs and determined that the fence was clean by throwing dead birds against it and not getting any reaction.
 
Watchtowers were still under construction which meant they were useless.

      
The security personnel were Black Shirts from the Canadian Legion, which meant they weren't very smart and were very confident, a deadly combination.
 
It apparently never occurred to the Germans and their friends that anyone might want to get into what was clearly a prison, rather than get out.

      
At two AM of the third night, Tinker slithered to the fence and crawled inside the compound.
 
He was dressed in dark clothing and dirt was smeared on his face and hands.
 
As his entry point, he used a depression in the ground he'd improved on the night before.
 
It was well away from the gate house so the guards there didn't notice him, and he timed his entrance so that the roving guard was at the other end of his patrol.
 
Tinker thought the guy was a little drunk anyhow.

      
Tinker crouched and ducked to the side door of the farm house that he'd easily concluded was their headquarters.
 
Two barns housed either equipment or prisoners or both.
 
He shuddered.
 
He did not want to get caught.
 
He'd heard rumors that people who went into the farm didn't come out.
 
He had a gun, again courtesy of Lambert, and would use it if he had to despite being told how important secrecy was.

      
The side door to the farmhouse was in the shadows and he was able to pick the lock by feel.
 
Once inside, he moved silently, hoping that the floors didn't creak.
 
They did, but not enough to wake up the people sleeping and snoring upstairs.
 
He'd watched the day crew drink themselves silly after being relieved, and he didn't think anything short of an explosion would awaken the small group of men lying upstairs.

      
Finding the office was easy.
 
It was the only room that was locked.
 
Again, he picked it, entered, and looked around.
 
A three drawer file cabinet was against the wall.
 
He smiled and covered the single window with dark paper he’d brought.
 
The office door was solid with no window, so no problem there.
 
Another lock was picked and he cautiously pulled out the top drawer.
 
He put the tiny flashlight in his mouth and began to rummage through.
 
The labels were in German but were clearly not names, so he pulled out the second.

      
Bingo.

      
There were about thirty file folders and Mary Bradford's was the third one in and contained a dozen sheets of paper, some of which were in German while others were in English.

      
He scanned one of them and became furious and sickened.
 
It told of Mary's rape and torture and did so in exquisite detail.
 
Tinker swore and took the tiny camera, also German, and began to take pictures.
 
Every flash made him wince, but he knew he was invisible.
 
When he was done, he replaced the folder, although he did take pictures of the folder labels on all three drawers.
 
Maybe they'd be useful.
 
Maybe he'd be coming back.

      
He took down the paper from the window and exited the office.
 
Reassuring snores still emanated from above.
 
He had an idea.
 
He found the stairs to the basement and quickly located what he believed was the room in which Mary had been tortured.
 
There were no windows so he took more pictures, paying particular attention to the strange chair bolted to the floor and what looked like blood stains beneath it.
 

Tinker went back upstairs and to the outside door where he saw the guard walking away.
 
He dropped to his knees and crawled smoothly towards the fence, under it, and out into the bushes next to the farm.

      
Driving back to Toronto, he was happy that he'd told Lambert to meet him at a bar.
 
He definitely needed a drink.
 
What the hell was his world coming to?

      
He also decided he wouldn't charge Lambert for this night’s work.

The B24 named the
Vampire
sped along at less than a hundred feet above the ground, racing towards its unsuspecting target.
 
Terry Romano lined up the sub in his sights, paused and opened fire just as the searchlight went on.
 
A stream of 37mm shells streaked towards the sub and ripped through the conning tower.

"One dead kraut," yelled his co-pilot who was actually flying the plane.
 

Terry was the gunner.
 
Trial and error had shown that he was the best shooter in the crew and he reveled in the opportunity to shoot while his co-pilot flew the plane.

Seconds later, the bombardier dropped the depth charges and they bracketed the crippled German sub.
 
More cheers.
 
It was a hell of a good run.

      
Unfortunately, it was all practice.
 
The submarine was a wooden mock-up situated in the middle of a field in Maryland and the depth charges were barrels of water.
 
The 37mm ammo, however, had been real.
 
Still, it was better than nothing.
 
The radar had spotted the "sub" and the searchlight had illuminated it just seconds before the
Vampire
had swept down on it.
 
Had it been a real sub and a real attack, Tony was confident that he'd have killed it.
 
Nobody talked about the fact that German subs had anti-aircraft guns and might just fight back.
 

      
That the training was getting more extensive and deadly serious underscored the fact that the United States and Germany were more and more likely to get into war.
 
At least this time we'll be ready, Tony thought.
 
Not like Pearl Harbor.
 
No, nothing would ever again be like Pearl Harbor.
 
Still, there was the nagging feeling that the Germans would attack first and that American blood would be spilled.
 
Wouldn't it be nice, he thought, if we could be the ones who fired first?
 
Nah, that would be un-American.
 
It would also be smart and save a lot of guys’ lives, but no, we had to be the ones who get hit first.
 
Then we get up from the canvas and kick the other guy's ass.

General Marshall noticed that FDR's hand quivered and he had a hard time picking up the stamp with his tweezers.
 
No surprise.
 
The president's physical condition was getting worse as the strain of fighting a war against the Japanese and preparing his unwilling nation for a war with Germany took its toll.
 
Working with his beloved stamp collection was supposed to relax him, but now it looked like it was frustrating him.