An arm abruptly encircled his neck as the Gestapo agent sought to surface using Ryan as his buoy. The added weight forced him below the surface, and he fought panic as he worked to free himself. He sensed no aggression in his smothering burden, just terror at the immediacy of drowning and a single-minded intent to climb ever higher. Ryan repeatedly forced his own head above the surface to fight for air while trying to loosen the choking hold at his neck.
The target of light retreated into the dense fog, and gradually Ryan yielded to the inevitable. He kicked his cramping legs forcefully one last time to reach the surface, his movements directed now by instinct rather than conscious thought. As he inhaled both air and water, a new and expanding circle of light emerged from the darkness. It grew quickly to engulf him, and he realized that this was the end of his life, a corridor of light to draw him in and spirit him away.
Aboard the Dutch river transport eight bells had already struck, and Hindrik Kranz hoped the captain would take pity and send the mate early to relieve him, but he knew it would never happen. His eyes watered from the strain of staring into the deep fog. Other than occasional marker lights warning of bridge footings and hazards, all he saw before him was the turbulent flow and the shifting banks of mist. Most traffic had put in for the night, but Hindrik’s captain, running ballast back to Rotterdam, counted the lost income and was determined to keep on schedule. Hindrik looked forward to the Middle Rhine some hours ahead. Far less monotonous, and at least by then it would be daylight and the fog partially lifted.
Hindrik had been nervous when they put in at Strasbourg just past midnight. The talk among the river men was of synagogue burnings and Jew-baiting in Germany, which had found an echo in the streets of Strasbourg. Hindrik was himself a Jew. He chose not to join the captain and the mate for a beer break on shore, begging a cup of coffee instead from the captain’s wife in the warmth of the cabin.
But now the boatman’s apprentice sat at the very prow of the Rotterdam transport, his back to the railing, a coil of rope insulating him from the cold decking. A bottle of Grolsch from the captain’s store now kept him company. The boat’s engine rumbled faintly from astern, turning at low speed to keep the craft under control in the current, but allowing the flow of the Rhine to do the heavy work.
The searchlight, normally devoted to nighttime transfer of cargo, was Hindrik’s sole responsibility as the long vessel found its way downstream. He swung its beam through the dense fog, picking out a wallowing tree branch or a floating crate. Running lights from other vessels passed from time to time as muted spots of brightness, and another Rhine boat passed them heading south as they slipped beneath the Kehl railroad bridge. Hindrik had already spent two hours on watch by the time they left Strasbourg, and he faced another stint of equal length before he would be relieved by the mate. He yawned and forced his tired eyes to squint into the murkiness ahead.
At first he thought of some animal—a stag, perhaps?—struggling for the opposite bank. He directed the beam on the creature and blinked to clear his vision, but the animal was already gone from sight. Then the view cleared once more, and Hindrik saw in amazement a creature with two heads. At last—too late to react—he knew the boat was bearing down on two men, locked in a violent embrace in an effort to stay above the roiling waters. No time to signal the captain, no way to change course on such short notice. The struggling men were directly in the boat’s path. Hindrik raced aft along the slippery deck.
As the radiant circle engulfed him, Ryan’s dulled senses abruptly came alert. A river vessel approached relentlessly, its massive bulk now filling his horizon. He made a final futile effort to break the chokehold of the man on his back, for it was act now or never again. Drawing a great breath, and with what little strength remained, Ryan dove.
The churning waters tossed him from side to side and he tumbled, losing sense of direction in the turbulence. He felt a jolt at his neck and was finally free of the choking grasp. He kicked and kicked again, hoping he was moving down and away from the massive keel and pounding engine above him. The throb grew in intensity as the long vessel passed overhead, and he was briefly aware of striking something on the river bottom. But then—his lungs threatening to burst but his will to survive reawakened—he knew he had to surface.
There were no memories of those final moments in the water, only of the warm glow of the lantern, the rough wool blanket around his shoulders, and the acne-scarred young boatman—the one who had thrown him the life-saving ring—repeatedly asking in Dutch: “Are you sure you’re all right?”
He was not. He had lost Erika and he had lost his son. And his promise to her had proved nothing but empty words.
chapter eight
Intense depression plagued his waking hours, and nightmares woke him often through the long nights of recovery.
Once he dreamed of embracing Erika, the sleeping child between them, when something amorphous and terrifying tore them both from his reach. Another time he swam endlessly through a watery world of floating corpses, each lifeless body pushed aside to reveal the next. Again and again he struggled with an unseen man who forced Ryan’s head from a train window to face a rapidly advancing column of steel.
He would awaken drenched in sweat and wracked with sorrow at his failure to save his friends. The physical and mental exhaustion slipped away, gradually and barely noticed, but the sorrow remained.
The Dutch boat captain had put in at the next port and seen him fed and lodged at a local inn. He had refused Ryan’s offer of water-logged German currency and wished the American well. Ryan had insisted that some reward go to the boatman’s apprentice, and the captain had resignedly accepted cash on the youth’s behalf. A local doctor fussily dressed the brutalized nose, covered the burns with sulfa powder and gauze, and gave Ryan a sedative. The physician also refused compensation for his troubles. Ryan had then slipped into a deep and troubled sleep.
He never learned who had purchased a train ticket to Paris and placed it and five hundred francs in the pocket of his trousers, probably the same person who had dried and pressed them, laundered his shirt, and left a wool jacket hanging in his room at the inn. All of his other personal possessions were laid out on a dresser in his room. When he awoke Ryan went first to the tobacco pouch. Its secret was safe.
His mind beset with grief, he remembered very little of the trip to the French capital. But by the afternoon of the first full day in Paris he was sufficiently recovered to see a physician, who repositioned the broken nose cartilage and applied ungainly bandages to both face and arm. He then made his way to the American embassy to meet with the cultural attaché designated his contact in the French capital. Once the story of his escape was told in detail, Ryan asked permission to reenter Germany to complete his mission. Several hours passed, cables exchanged with Washington, and he was informed that State had rejected his proposed return to the field. He was to be in D.C. at the first opportunity, once his health permitted.
The attaché reminded him that his cover was compromised by the attempt to bring out his friends, and State was concerned that a return would jeopardize the work he had done prior to the recent episode. After all, there was certainly a border watch at all German entry points for anyone matching Ryan’s physical description and credentials, especially now with the obvious damage to his face.
He borrowed the use of a typewriter to write a brief explanation of the film’s provenance, typing with one finger, his damaged left arm and wrist rebelling, then sealed letter and cartridge in a manila envelope addressed to his brother at the Department of State, highest priority. With great reluctance but recognizing the urgency, Ryan entrusted the envelope to the diplomatic pouch destined to leave that evening for the States.
The fate of Erika and Leo was never far from his mind and self-recrimination became his constant companion. Paris was gray and dismal to match his mood, and he holed up in his hotel room for most of the first week. He buried his beloved Berlin briar—now waterlogged and soured—beneat
h a tree in the Luxembourg gardens, as if burying his past. He drank Irish whiskey and smoked a new pipe. Occasionally he passed a restless hour in a café along St-Germain-des-Prés, combing the papers for any news from inside Germany. He visited Marita in the hope that her smile would cheer him up, but her valiant attempts at gaiety only depressed him further. He requested she write him immediately should she hear anything at all from his German friends, and she assured him she would.
Two weeks later he boarded the SS Normandie, departing Le Havre for New York. The embassy had made the booking and was sending him home first class to aid his recovery. All that meant nothing to him. He passed the stormy trans-Atlantic crossing alone in his cabin, or wrapped in a blanket on a deck chair, staring out to sea and speaking to no one.
chapter nine
Washington reveled in holiday finery, and the wreaths on lampposts and garlands strung across the avenues helped spread the festive mood. Recent snow had turned to slush, but no one seemed to mind the inconvenience. Streets bustled with yellow cabs and busy shoppers, and come evening, well-dressed party-goers avoided puddles to race up the steps and join friends at elegant gatherings over punch bowls and champagne.
It was a world apart from the somber mood Ryan had left in Europe, where the specter of imminent war loomed in every headline and fervent radio broadcast. He felt uncomfortable amidst all the cheer. It was difficult to return smiles and Christmas greetings from well-meaning strangers as he and Edward made their way up the stone steps in the State Department building.
Ryan felt self-conscious with the small bandage across his nose. His face had swollen grossly in the first days in Paris, and as the swelling subsided he was left with a cast of deep purplish green. Now, several weeks later, his eyes still suggested a severe hang-over. Polite inquiries elicited a vague reference to surgical correction of a deviated septum. Scar tissue was rapidly replacing the scabs hidden beneath his jacket, and he exercised daily to keep the healing tissue from tethering and loosing elasticity.
Edward and Grace, their pregnancy now well advanced, had met the Normandie dockside in Manhattan and brought Ryan home to Falls Church for his first night. Edward hid his shock at seeing the unexpected changes in his brother. Joie de vivre had surrendered to a haunted look and cautious manner, and Ryan seemed uneasy in public, more nervously attentive to his surroundings and the actions of strangers than to his companions’ words and questions. A melancholic bitterness crept into every response to inquiries about his travels, and he adamantly refused to speak in detail of the tragic events which had brought him home prematurely, always requesting more time to sort things out.
After dinner the brothers sat before the hearth in the sitting room of the townhome. Grace excused herself, mentioning the trials of pregnancy. Ryan took a dutiful sip of the warmed brandy before setting down the snifter to stare morosely into the flames. Edward had held his peace for as long as he could, and felt he deserved some answers. After all, it was his reputation in German Affairs that had suffered from Ryan’s actions, and he had never been one to mince words.
“I have to ask, Ryan—what in God’s name were you thinking? Abandoning your assignment to meddle in the personal lives of a Nazi bigwig and his family? It appeared sheer lunacy from our end!”
“I had no choice; he would have had them killed. It was act and act immediately.”
“One always has choices, Ryan. You were there to observe, record, report. Your assignment was clear: covertly establish a network.” He lit a cigarette. “Instead, you risked an international incident.”
“These were loving, beautiful people, not statistics. I can’t expect you to understand, but they needed my help.” He stared at the flames.
“There are groups putting their minds to solving this problem of the European Jews, and it goes beyond a few individuals, as you well know. The situation is too big and too troubling to be solved on a case-by-case basis. But your efforts put my work here at risk—I did vouch for you, Ryan—and your imprudent actions brought our assignment to an untimely close.” He paused. “And in spite of all that, it all came to nothing.”
Edward saw his brother cringe and wished he had not uttered that truth, but the words were out, and there was nothing more to be said. At least the work they had done before the unfortunate Berlin events had provided useful intelligence. His office was attempting to put the best face on this personal fiasco for The Group and ultimately for his father-in-law.
“And the photographic evidence, it’s worth nothing at all? Have you yourself even looked at what we…at what I brought back?”
“The film went immediately to Kohl. Now it’s up to the Secretary to decide how to best use it. He did express gratitude for that, and for the networks you managed to identify. In fact, few of the other operatives managed to do as well, but that’s why your loss to the project hurt us all so much.”
Edward then suggested they drop the whole matter until the detailed story could be properly recorded at State, so he spent a tense quarter hour making small talk about family and old friends.
Ryan appeared barely present, his unlit pipe in hand, the brandy long forgotten. When neither had more to say, Ryan rose from the wingback chair, excusing his exhaustion after the long days of travel, and retreated to his room. The next day Ed rescheduled the debriefing at State, giving his brother another week to recover.
Now that week had passed and Ryan sat in a closed conference room, his eyes often flitting to the wall clock as it trudged through the hours. One of his trainers from the farm camp was there, two newly-met functionaries from State, and Edward to help tie down loose ends in the rambling narrative. Large charts displayed linkages and contact data for the networks. If and when hostilities with Nazi Germany became a reality, and America or her allies needed the help, these would be resources to help wage a covert war. Edward referred to memos taken from Ryan’s earlier dispatches and filled in the blanks whenever his brother’s recollections became disjointed and his mood darkened.
Two secretaries took shorthand notes of Lemmon’s rambling account of his months in France and Germany. His brother took silent note of Ryan’s hazy mental focus. The sharp insight and dazzling memory which had been his trademarks had been sapped by recent events, and Edward hoped that time and distance would heal the wounds and restore his brother’s strengths. He had the potential to be a valuable asset again someday if he just kept his wits about him and learned to follow directives rather than whims.
Ryan’s depressed mood did not lift during the narrative and questioning, and soured noticeably late in the day when his account reached the now-compromised “Lone Ranger” network. It was difficult to know how much of the old friend’s cadre was still untouched, ready to be activated when needed. Ryan was convinced that his failures had effectively destroyed that enterprise along with any surviving Gesslingers.
He knew in his heart the explosion witnessed by Erika had taken his friend. Letters had gone unanswered, one sent before boarding the Normandie and another upon arrival in New York. Both home and business numbers for René were now disconnected. The SS and Gestapo would not have ignored the Gesslinger role in Ryan’s failed rescue attempt, and he was saddened to think that René’s mother Jeanne had also paid for Ryan’s personal shortcomings. And Erika and Leo’s fate in Gestapo hands was already written large in the spilled blood of her parents.
Only the final hour of the debriefing focused on that frantic run from Berlin to Kehl. It was obvious to Ed—and quickly to the others present—that the emotional wounds were still too raw to allow a more detailed investigation into what had gone wrong. Ryan’s normally resonant voice became brittle. His hands trembled. After an overview of the twenty-four hour odyssey and a few probing questions about security issues of possible value to future covert operations, Ed proposed calling it a day.
“What about the film, the proof of Hitler’s plans for Eastern Europe? My friends died for that, and we’re not even going to discuss it?” Ryan’s knuckles t
urned white as he gripped the arms of his chair.
Ed looked up quickly from filing his notes into a portfolio. “Secretary Kohl wishes to personally express his thanks for all you’ve done.” He consulted the wall clock. “I believe he can see you now.”
Ed excused the others and they gathered up notepads and folders. Looking forward to the weekend, they hurried out with briefcases in hand, exchanging wishes for enjoyable holiday fun. The secretaries removed the charts from the walls and received instructions to get them to Edward in typed format first thing Monday morning.
After a brief call to Kohl’s office, Edward assured Ryan that Deputy Assistant Secretary was waiting for him. He gave his brother an encouraging pat on the back before leaving for his own office. “Let’s grab a drink afterwards before we catch the train.”
Ryan found Kohl’s receptionist behind a cleared desk and with time on her hands, obviously awaiting his arrival. She took his topcoat and hat and hung them on the rack before escorting him into the office. Nothing appeared changed since his last visit.
Kohl removed his reading glasses and rose from the chair to greet Ryan cordially, coming around to shake his hand, grasping it firmly in both of his. “Congratulations on a challenging job well done, Dr. Lemmon. You lived up to the promise we saw in you, and then some. Coffee?”
“Thank you, sir, but no coffee, I’ve had more than my share today.” Ryan acknowledged the offer of a chair and sat down.
“No offense intended, but you’re still looking a bit under the weather. Ed tells me things got a bit rough toward the end?”
Corridor of Darkness Page 33
