The Swiss Courier: A Novel (31 page)

A distinctive trio of knocks rapped upon the door, and Kassler welcomed the diversion from contemplating his demise. Corporal Becker bounded into the office with a dozen manila folders tucked under his right arm.

“Rothmund and von Meiss say there’s nothing worth following up on, but here you go,” Becker announced, his young eyes hinting of disappointment. “These are the last reports we’ll see today. I’m told more will arrive tomorrow morning, however.”

Kassler rubbed his left temple. More than anything he wanted to take those files and hurl them across the room for the fix he was in. Instead, he motioned Becker to his desk with resignation. “Fine. Leave them here. File the ones I’ve read.”

Becker returned to his post, and Kassler halfheartedly reached for the first file on top of the new stack. A paper clip held a note with a single hand-written word:
Leimen
. Kassler immediately sat up straighter in his chair. Leimen was several kilometers south of the P-51 attack yesterday— an attack on a blockade checkpoint too well-timed for his taste. There could be something here.

The file contained a dozen handwritten pages from Otto Stampfli, captain of the Leimen Polizei. The precise cursive script typified Stampfli’s by-the-book investigations: paying attention to detail, keeping a checklist, sorting out leads, and reviewing his work for completeness and accuracy.

Kassler quickly shuffled through the papers inside the Leimen file—all comprised one- or two-page reports penned by Stampfli’s hand—before he returned to the first one. He pushed aside his pretzel, no longer interested in snacking.

Stampfli offered an introductory sentence, stating his reason for searching farmlands in his district, and then moved straight to a narration of the facts.

Kassler finished the one-pager and slipped it back inside the manila folder. While there wasn’t anything worth following up, he appreciated Stampfli’s thoroughness.

The second report proved more interesting.

At the Riezler homestead, one of Stampfli’s lieutenants ascended a ladder into a cramped attic stacked high with household goods and suitcases. His nose detected something—a rotten egg smell. He tapped on a wall, then pulled away three wooden boxes, which revealed a half door. Couched behind the wall were two disheveled men—Jewish brothers, as it turned out. They lived and slept there in exchange for working in the fields. Stampfli summarily arrested the Jewish men as well as the Riezler family; the Leimen Polizei was detaining all until a transfer to the Gestapo Regional Headquarters in Heidelberg could be effected.

That would be my place
, Kassler smirked.

In a better mood, he read a half-dozen more reports until he reached one that caused the hairs on the back of his neck to stiffen like a thousand needles:

Kassler stopped right there. Strings of x’s, y’s, and Greek letters? He closed his eyes and imagined the jumble of letters, numbers, and symbols he saw on Heisenberg’s blackboard. What was the esteemed professor’s name for it?
The S-matrix equation
.

Those were equations that Stampfli had seen in the notebook . . . the notebook found in a satchel.

What had Engel’s roommate, Hannes Jäger, said under questioning? That Engel had departed with a leather satchel containing research papers and his personal notebook, which undoubtedly contained similar strings of equations for his work in quantum physics!

Restraining his joy, Kassler allowed a slow smile to spread across his lips. “I’ve got him.”

He immediately buzzed Becker. A few seconds later, the young man hurried into his office.

“Sir?” Becker asked, winded from the effort.

Kassler waved the file in the air. “Call Stampfli immediately. I don’t care what it takes to find him. I must speak with him about the Ulrich visit.”

“Which visit again?” Becker’s brow furrowed.

“The Ulrich farm south of Leimen. Engel’s hiding out there—I know it. After that, organize a detail, no more than two cars. I don’t want a transport truck announcing our arrival from two kilometers away.”

“Yes, sir, of course.” Becker turned on his heels and practically sprinted out Kassler’s office door.

Kassler slumped back in his chair and closed his eyes in thought. He knew not to let his emotions get the better of him, but he might have just saved his career—and his neck.

The carpenter’s bench inside the Ulrich barn was a beehive of activity. Two men carried gooseneck flares, which resembled oversized watering cans with long-necked spouts, from a rear shed. Adalbert Ulrich inspected each one and made sure the main body contained paraffin with a wick placed in the spout. Once they were approved, Pastor Leo poured a half liter of kerosene into each gooseneck flare.

“How many do you think we need?” Ulrich asked his brother-in-law.

Pastor Leo stopped pouring, lest he lose a precious drop of flammable material. “At least one gooseneck flare for every fifty meters. I was told to prepare a landing strip five hundred meters long, so”—he performed the math in his head—“ten each side, times two, equals twenty flares. That should give the cowboy pilot enough of a target.”

“An American flyer is coming tonight?”

“Believe so. Don’t ask me how he’s getting here or from where, but the message from the Big Cheese said to expect a landing a couple of hours from now—sometime between midnight and three a.m. If the plane doesn’t arrive by three o’clock, we’re to move Engel. Only God in
Himmel
knows where we’d go, though.”

“How’s Engel bearing up?”

“I gave him the news a half hour ago. Didn’t tell him much, though. Just that he’s being picked up sometime tonight.” Pastor Leo set the empty kerosene bottle into a wooden crate and uncapped the next one. “I certainly didn’t mention anything about the shortwave transmitter hidden in this barn. Yesterday, Stampfli’s lieutenant must have been tired because he barely searched in here. Fortunate for us, although I don’t think he would have found the transmitter hidden behind the muck buckets. You’d have to get your hands dirty, if you know what I mean.”

Ulrich lifted another liter of kerosene. “Let me help you out, or we’ll never get done in time.”

“Be sure to top off each flare,” Pastor Leo said. “This American pilot is going to need all the help he can get to find this place.”

Gabi thought about closing her eyes to give her racing mind a rest, but the Citroën’s right headlight wasn’t properly aligned, which diminished coverage on the winding two-lane road leading into Dübendorf. On some of the bigger curves, Eric threatened to outdrive his headlight beams, which kept Gabi concentrating on the strip of pavement beyond the darkness.

“You’re going a little fast.” Her fists clenched in two balls.

“Sorry, but we have to get you there on time.” Eric gripped the wheel as the boxy vehicle plowed through another curve, then she saw him relax his grasp. “Just another five kilometers to Dübendorf.”

When the next road sign said “Dübendorf 2 km,” the knots in Gabi’s stomach twisted even tighter. On one level, she couldn’t believe she was actually going through with the operation, not because she wanted to back out, but because the experience seemed so surreal. Having Eric at her side, however, reassured her that she wasn’t alone. When Mr. Dulles had asked her and her father who could drive her to Dübendorf, she was pleased that her father suggested Eric for the task.

Eric looked her way as incoming headlights brightened the cab. “You don’t look so good. You feeling okay?” He reached over and patted her left knee.

Gabi stroked his hand and wished she could tell him how scared she was. Or share stories about how the Gestapo tortured spies within an inch of their lives to extract all the information they could before brutally executing them. But this was Eric, and she could tell him nothing. He had no ties to her work, and that’s how things would have to remain.

Instead, she forced a smile. “I’ve never flown in an airplane before, that’s all.” She glanced out the side window, staring into the dark night and hoping the emotion in her words didn’t betray her.

“I wish I could go in your place.” Eric’s voice caught. “I don’t want anything to happen to you. I don’t know exactly what you’re doing, but it has to be dangerous.”

She turned and scooted closer, then laid her head against his shoulder, letting the automobile’s motion lull her.

Gabi moved her head so she could look up to him, then began speaking hesitantly. “I’m wondering if this is the right time . . . to share how I feel . . . how much I care . . . it seems all my emotions are heightened right now.” She let her voice trail.

Eric kept looking straight ahead as a truck came from the other direction. “Go ahead. I’m willing to take that chance.”

She straightened up in her seat and glanced at him again, noticing his strong jaw and handsome face. He was of good stock, as they said in Switzerland, a godly, kind man, and suddenly she wondered why she’d allowed herself to be dazzled by Dieter at all. Especially when she had someone like Eric so close.

She pressed her cheek once more against his right shoulder and wished she could stay there, in the car. Feeling the warmth of Eric’s body. His soft breathing as he drove. Yet she knew she couldn’t pretend this was an ordinary drive on an ordinary evening, not tonight. The thought of arriving in Dübendorf shortly shifted her mind back to the present.

“Let’s talk about this when I get back. But do know that I find you to be a very special person, Eric Hofstadler.” Gabi straightened up in her seat and met his eyes to demonstrate her sincerity.

Eric grinned like a schoolkid. “Thank you. Yes, to be continued when we meet again. But are you sure you want to do this, Gabi?”

“Maybe, but there are things we must do for a greater good, and we just do it without thinking.” Her voice wasn’t more than a whisper. “It’s like when you dove into the Rhine to try to save that Jewish family. When it mattered most, you did the right thing.”

“Jumping off a bridge was different, Gabi. There was no one else who could help . . .”

The Citroën passed a sign announcing their arrival in Dübendorf, and Eric slowed to 25 kilometers an hour. He steered the French car into the tidy town center located to the west and north of the military airfield and passed a whitewashed Reformation-era church and steeple. A left-hand turn took them into Dübendorf’s commercial district, where darkened shops hid amongst vaulted arcades fronting a generous boulevard. Atop the covered shopping promenades were sandstone buildings that housed flats accentuated with decorative ironwork and flower boxes filled with flowing geraniums.

“I feel the same way about this mission,” she said. “Mr. Dulles said I was the right person at the right time, and I’m confident in God’s protection.” She squeezed his arm. “Besides, if you were in my position, you’d do the same. I know you would.”

Dear, sweet Eric. For the first time, she was thankful that he was a simple farmer who had nothing to hide—and would be waiting for her return.

Bill Palmer regarded his U.S. Army Air Corps chronometer watch. “We made good time,” he said as Ernie Mueller swung the Peugeot into the train station parking lot and extinguished the engine.

“Yeah, too bad you couldn’t sleep,” Ernie said. “I’m sure you could have used some rest.”