In Satan's Shadow Read online

  “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, especiall
y 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.”

  York touched the photograph he always kept in his pocket, caressing it, missing the person it depicted. He didn’t want to be in Berlin for years. But he knew that he had a duty to perform, a role in ending the war, and the future of mankind was more important than his happiness.

  Max sensed his apprehension. “I’ll be in Berlin, too. I have other agents besides you, larger networks. I don’t intend to abandon you.”

  “When are you arriving?”

  “I’ll meet you six weeks from today at 10 a.m. at Olivaer Platz in Charlottenburg. I’ll be on a bench on the north side of the park. Sit next to me, but not too close. You can also contact me in an emergency. Do you know what method to use?”

  York nodded. “Personal ad. Same as we used in Lyon.”

  “Yes, use Die Welt newspaper. The day after the ad appears, we’ll meet at the Kaiser Wilhelm Memorial Church at noon.”

  York nodded, envisioning the road ahead. He would have to immerse himself in the culture, become German, speak the language as perfectly as his Austrian mother had.

  “How do I get across the border?”

  “The Swiss have an agreement with the Germans,” Max explained. “Trains to and from Germany and Italy can pass through Switzerland without interference as long as the cars are sealed.”

  “How do I gain access?”

  “A train from Genoa to Freiburg will stop a kilometer northeast of the Basel terminal two weeks from today at midnight.”

  “I thought trains passed through, but didn’t stop,” York said.

  “That’s correct. But a herd of cattle crossing the tracks will force the train to stop. It will take exactly seven minutes for the cows to be moved.”

  “So I have seven minutes to board the train?”

  “Exactly seven minutes,” Max emphasized. “The last car of the train has a trap door in the floor, mid-length. The cargo area above has been packed with a space large enough for you to sit in, a small cave in a sea of crates.”

  “I get off the train in Freiburg?”

  “Yes, adopting the role of Michael Becker, wearing your sergeant’s uniform, boarding a passenger train to Berlin. The real Michael Becker has an aunt and uncle who own a farm twenty kilometers outside of the city. You’ve been convalescing there for six months. That’s how long Michael Becker has been in captivity.”

  York arched his eyebrows. “I’m impressed, Max. You’ve thought of everything.”

  “You better hope I did, old boy. If I didn’t, you’re a dead man.”

  CHAPTER 3

  April 15, 1943

  Amsterdam, Holland

  No one saw them remove the rail from the track that led to Berlin. Four men, sweating in the spring chill, took the long iron bars and went to the next section. They put the flat end just under the spike and, with the opposite end now elevated, they all leaned downward, prying the spike from the timber a centimeter at a time. Forty kilometers from Amsterdam, they had chosen a rural location, and a sloping curve, to sabotage the train.

  They were surprised when they heard voices, more light laughter than words, the sound coming closer as seconds passed. They grabbed their iron bars, scampered down a small embankment, and hid in the edge of the trees.

  The men looked at each other anxiously. Their work was not complete; they needed more time. And anyone could see that the tracks had been tampered with.

  The voices became clearer, a man and a woman, not yet visible.

  The leader looked at his watch. It was 5:05 p.m.

  A few minutes later they came into view, a German soldier and a young Dutch girl, smiling and holding hands as they strolled down the tracks, young lovers hiding from a world that wouldn’t approve.

  The men waited, watching anxiously. The pair blocked their escape path. If they saw the missing rail, they would tell the authorities. Then the Nazis would find them.

  “The train will still crash with only one rail missing,” a man whispered. “We should find a different way out.”

  The leader again glanced at his watch. “Just to be sure, we should remove two,” he said patiently. He considered their predicament and the risk they faced. What if there were others following the young couple? “We’ll wait ten minutes. No more.”

  “What if they see the rail missing?”

  The leader paused, watching the couple as they came closer. He was determined not to fail. “Then we have to kill them.”

  The German, no more than twenty, stopped abruptly. He turned to the girl and kissed her. She responded, wrapping her arms around his neck, her eyes closed.

  The leader frowned. “We have to make them leave or they could be here all night.” He thought for a moment, deciding what to do. “Come, follow my lead.”

  He strutted from the trees as if he hadn’t seen them, the others following, not knowing what to expect. They went to the track and looked in the distance, away from the couple.

  “I’m sure the stream is just across the tracks,” he said loudly. “And I swear to you, it’s the best fishing around. I will show you.”

  They walked down the embankment, talking loudly, scanning the trees on the other side, searching for a stream that didn’t exist.

  The soldier and girl pulled away
from each other, shocked at the intrusion, their privacy compromised. They turned, embarrassed, and started walking down the tracks in the opposite direction. They didn’t look back.

  The saboteurs continued searching noisily for the stream, watching warily as the couple faded from sight. They waited ten minutes more, ensuring they didn’t return. After scanning the area and finding no one else, they retrieved their tools.

  It took thirty minutes to remove the next section, grunting, leveraging the long iron bars. Once the rail was pried from the ties, they pushed it off the track, down a small embankment and onto the soggy soil. Now twenty meters of rail was missing. The train was doomed.

  They disappeared into a wooded area, emerging a kilometer away. A panel truck with the name of a grocer stenciled on the side was parked at the edge of the forest. The men climbed in and slowly drove away, careful not to arouse suspicion. It was 5:45 p.m.

  *

  The members of the Berlin String Quartet walked towards the Amsterdam railroad station, their military liaison, Captain Klein, leading them forward. A veteran of the Great War, now near sixty, he was slight and wiry, secretive and reserved, and always acted as if he managed massive responsibilities. He kept a constant eye on the group, greeting his role with enthusiasm, but treating them like children. Just not like his own children.

  A porter rolled a cart behind them, five suitcases resting upon it, along with the curved case that contained the cello. The violinists and the viola player carried their instruments, too protective to let anyone else handle them. They approached the station entrance, a sprawling building marked by two towers and three arched windows, and took one last glance back at the city, interlaced with canals, its architecture unique, its residents warm and friendly.

  Amanda Hamilton, almost five months pregnant, had a camera hanging from a strap around her neck. She stopped in front of the station, put her violin case on the ground, and raised the camera to her eye. She took a series of photographs in rapid succession: the terminal entrance and the people passing through it, an elegant arch bridge that crossed a canal, the ornate ironwork looking like lace, a bicyclist with a poodle parked on the handlebars, and a five-story townhouse, an iron beam sticking from the highest window, a bureau hanging from it by rope as it was raised to the third floor.