The Normandy Club

by Bill Walker

  Wiley blanched.

  “She was what!”

  “A Brigadeführer, Wiley. In SS lingo, that’s a freaking general. I was sleeping with an SS General and all the time she’s playing me for a sucker, telling me she’s the lowly secretary of some party hack. Christ!” He kicked at a freestanding lamp, sending it against the wall. He heard the bulb pop.

  “Shit,” Jack said, feeling foolish. He turned and went to the window and stared out at the Toronto skyline. Denise looked at Wiley.

  “What is it?” Denise said. “You know something.”

  Wiley looked at Denise, his eyes like a scared rabbit caught in the headlights on an oncoming car.

  “It means they know,” he said.

  Jack turned from the window, annoyed. “Know what, for Christ’s sake!”

  “They know, Jack. Bock, Kruger, the Nine Old Men.”

  Jack’s anger dropped a notch, but he still looked confused. “What are you talking about?”

  It was Wiley’s turn to get angry. “What? Do I have to spell it out for you? They know that you know about what they did! Do you think it’s just a coincidence that you and Leslie were together in this timeline too? Shit! They put her on you to keep them informed. Somehow they knew you’d found out.”

  “How could they know?” Jack said.

  “Who the hell knows how? What difference does it make? The point is, she was probably waiting for orders to snuff you as soon as you exhibited any signs of remembering.”

  Jack dropped onto the bed, his face as white as the walls of the room. “Oh God,” he said. “Then that’s how she knew to follow us to Henry’s.”

  Wiley frowned. “What? Who’s Henry?”

  Denise told him about the Lambda meeting and the subsequent massacre. Wiley took the news of Curly’s death better than the knowledge of Leslie’s true allegiance.

  “At least those fuckers didn’t get him alive,” he said.

  “But why does any of that matter now?” Jack said. “We’re over the border, we’re free.”

  Wiley shook his head. “You may be free, but you’re not free of them. Tensions between Canada and Avalon have been heating up lately. Ottawa has just expelled all of the Avalonian diplomats, accusing them of running a spy network. Truth is, they were. There could be a war any time.”

  “They’d be stupid to open a two-front war. Look what happened the last time. Shit, if it weren’t for Bock, it would have gone down the crapper the way it should’ve. Why would they risk making the same stupid mistake here?”

  “Politics, ol’ buddy, politics.” He got up and went to the dresser where there was a bottle of Canadian Club and glasses wrapped in tissue paper. He poured three drinks, passed two to Jack and Denise, and continued. “You see, as long as there is a free country on their borders, they think it makes them look bad. Never mind ‘coexisting peacefully with their brother nations’ or any of that crap. They have to keep the population in a constant state of paranoia, or they lose control. And that’s the key: control. The problem is paranoia is catchy. They begin to believe their own propaganda. That’s why they watched you, Jack. You were a wild card, a thorn in their Nazi butts.”

  “Yeah, so what? I’m outta there. They can’t touch me. If there’s a war, we’ll move to the Republic of Alaska.”

  “You’re missing the point.”

  “Then get to it, Wiley. I’m getting tired of the rhetoric.”

  “Bock and the Nine Old Men aren’t going to sit still knowing you’re out there somewhere.”

  Jack suddenly caught the drift of Wiley’s speech.

  “Oh shit.”

  “You got it, partner. They’re going to send their ace hero in to take you out.”

  “Kruger,” Denise said.

  Wiley nodded.

  “All that means is we have to step up the training with Chessman,” she said.

  Wiley’s mood immediately changed. “How’d it go, Jack? How’d you test out?”

  Jack shook his head. “About as psychic as a rock. It’s Denise that sent his wave machine into conniptions.”

  “We’re both going,” Denise said.

  Wiley laughed, held up his hand. “I’m sorry. Don’t take it wrong, but the idea of Jack hitching a ride on your lap really amuses me.”

  “It’s not something I like, Wiley, but we have no choice, especially now.”

  “You got that right, Killer. If you don’t go, Kruger will find you and rip your head off, for sure. If you go back, you at least have a shot of nailing the bastard.”

  “He could kill us back there too.”

  “Maybe. But wouldn’t it be better to meet him on neutral ground, so to speak?” Wiley said.

  “Hell yes,” Jack said.

  Wiley turned to Denise. “When do you start?”

  “Tomorrow.”

  “Soon enough,” he said, getting to his feet. “Anyone for another snort?”

  “We’ve got to get something to eat or we’re going to pass out,” Jack said.

  “Say no more, ol’ buddy. I know a great place where the steaks are sizzlin’ and so are the waitresses.” He shook his head and turned to Denise. “Oh... sorry.”

  She grinned. “That’s okay, Wiley. I’m up for some jiggling waitress myself. Last one to pinch her butt pays the check. Come, sweetheart.”

  She hooked her arm through Jack’s, and they walked grandly out of the room, leaving Wiley with his mouth hung open like the proverbial barn door. In a moment, he smiled and shook his head, chuckling softly. He grabbed his wallet and followed them.

  “You sure know how to pick ’em, Jack,” he said, closing the door behind him.

  Chapter Fifteen

  Miami, Florida

  1 May 1994

  SS-Brigadeführer Leslie Parsons stood at the floor-to-ceiling window of her expansive corner office and gazed out at the spectacular view of downtown Miami, past the tall buildings, and out onto the azure blue of Biscayne Bay. She could see the puffy-white sails of myriad boats gliding across the smooth, flat water and wished she were out there. Anywhere but here.

  They’d gotten away.

  Jack and that lesbian bitch had slipped right through her fingers. It had taken the forensic pathologists two days of picking through the blackened bones and dental records of over forty corpses to determine that they’d escaped the conflagration. But Leslie knew it already. The reports from the officer in charge of the Lambda raid told of firing upon three fleeing suspects. One had been wounded fatally, while a man and woman escaped. After IDing the corpse of Curly Williams, she’d known all she’d needed to know. Unfortunately, she could not reveal why she knew this to be true. Bock would not allow it. To keep his ugly secret, she’d had to play dumb and let Jack and that woman get away.

  Damn.

  They were out there... somewhere. With a two-day head start, they’d slipped the gauntlet at the Georgia border and headed north. The biggest problem was in dealing with the rash of sightings called in by concerned, yet anonymous citizens. Leslie suspected they were Lambda agents. They’d wasted so much time chasing down the false alarms that Jack and Denise had crossed into Canada in the wake of a bloody shootout that left a dozen troopers dead, plus a high-ranking officer and customs agent leaking vital fluids from over twenty bullet wounds.

  But it didn’t matter where they’d gone, because she’d fucked up—big time. All she’d had to do, when he was lying helpless in Hoffman Memorial Hospital, was order him removed and taken to Andersonville or the new camp near Orlando. It was idiotically simple. So why hadn’t she done that?

  She sighed and fought back a tear. That was simple too. She had fallen in love with Jack Dunham. She’d committed the cardinal sin of an undercover operative: becoming emotionally entangled with her assignment. Normally, persons of her rank did not become involved in such operations, but this one had been special. Jack had been special.

  DAMN!

  Turning from the window, she sat at her desk and stared at the screen of her notebook
computer. The cursor flashed in the middle of a paragraph she’d been trying to finish for the last half hour. But she couldn’t. She couldn’t bring herself to admit failure, not yet.

  Ever since her first meeting with Armand Bock all those months ago, she’d felt herself a part of destiny, as if she herself were shaping events. Not that her own life lacked for anything. On the contrary, her rise in rank was not only spectacular, but highly unusual. Some colleagues, jealous of her success, whispered rumors about her fucking her way to the top. How else could a woman become a Brigadeführer? To hell with them. To hell with them all. She’d done it through sheer hard work, and a massive stroke of luck. Only to herself would she admit that her looks had helped. Though the party preached equal opportunity for all, it was still a man’s world, and long ago, Leslie had learned that beauty had its place. Used wisely, it had carried her far.

  In truth, she’d had only one affair with a superior, an older man who helped her because he’d loved her. Not because of some cheap and tawdry “arrangement.” When he’d died suddenly of a heart attack, she was surprised to find herself promoted from Standartenführer to fill his post, skipping one whole rank and making a score of enemies. That had been a year ago. Since then, she’d distinguished herself admirably, rooting out cells of ARM traitors all over South Florida. This latest raid would no doubt have earned her a citation signed by the Führer himself. Except...

  Feeling her anger rise, Leslie snapped off the computer and leaned back in her soft, leather chair and closed her eyes. They were waiting for her report up on the top floor. They could wait some more. The phone buzzed, a soft purring that always annoyed her. Her finger stabbed the speaker button.

  “Yes?” she said.

  “I am sorry to disturb you, Brigadeführer, there is a call for you on line five.”

  Leslie frowned. This was her private line.

  “Who is it?”

  “He wouldn’t say.”

  This made her angrier.

  “Tell whoever it is that if they want to speak with me, they’d damn well better identify themselves or we’ll trace the call and send them to Andersonville.”

  Leslie could hear the fear in her secretary’s voice. “Yes, ma’am.”

  A moment later the phone buzzed again.

  “Shit,” she said, pushing the speaker button. “What is it, Ruth?”

  “You shouldn’t threaten your friends,” the gravelly voice said.

  Leslie felt her blood run cold when she recognized the voice of Armand Bock. Taking a deep breath, she calmed herself and spoke.

  “Well, Herr Bock, my friends usually announce themselves and don’t play silly games.”

  “Quite so, my dear.”

  She fumed. She hated his oily, condescending tone.

  “What can I do for you?”

  “I am having a quiet dinner party tonight. I would be honored if you would come.”

  “Thank you, Herr Bock, but I have a report to finish and I—”

  “I would suggest you come,” he interrupted. “This concerns the package you lost.”

  Leslie’s throat went dry.

  “What have you heard?”

  “All in good time, my dear, all in good time. I will send a car for you at seven.”

  Before she could say anything, the phone disconnected.

  “Damn,” she said, hitting her palm on the desk.

  This was all she needed. Not only would she be reprimanded, but now Bock wanted to get his licks in. Why she’d ever let herself be sucked into this assignment, she’d never know. Thinking back, she recalled the day she’d walked into Obergruppenführer Freitag’s office and saw Bock sitting next to her superior, chatting like old friends. Everyone knew Bock’s reputation, a man who’d gotten rich making armaments and personally instrumental in winning the Great Struggle. To any loyal party member, the man was an icon.

  “Ah, Brigadeführer Parsons,” Freitag had said, getting to his feet. “May I present Herr Armand Bock.”

  The older man stood, bowed, and clicked his heels together. So old world. Such bullshit.

  “I’m very honored to meet you, Herr Bock,” she’d said.

  “The honor is all mine, my dear.”

  The Obergruppenführer, rubbing his hands together like some overeager matchmaker, signaled for them all to sit.

  “Herr Bock has come a long way—”

  Bock held up his hand, silencing the man. This impressed Leslie, since her superior was a man not easily dismissed.

  “We have an assignment for you,” Bock said.

  Leslie perked up. This was unusual.

  “Do you know a man named Jack Dunham?” Bock continued.

  “Should I?” she asked, curious.

  “Yes and no,” Bock said, not elaborating. “He works for the Ministry of Propaganda and we believe he is harboring certain information that may be detrimental to the security of the state.”

  Leslie shrugged. “Doesn’t every one of us, Herr Bock? All of us who work for the Party are privy to its secrets.”

  The older man shook his head, smiling indulgently. He looked like a regal bird of prey with his full head of white hair and his fierce, hooded eyes.

  “This information is something he does not remember.”

  “I’m sorry, but you’re not making much sense,” she said.

  “Forgive me,” he said, “but I cannot go into the details. Suffice it to say, when he does remember, the reaction will likely be violent. Both for him and for the state. We want you there when it happens. We want you to become his paramour.”

  This shocked her.

  “Wait a minute. I haven’t done covert operative work in years. I have a division to run, I can’t—”

  “You can and you will,” Bock said, his voice harsh.

  Leslie looked to Freitag, who studied his hands. The man looked like a frightened schoolboy. She took a deep breath, calming herself.

  “Let me get this straight,” she said after a moment. “You want me to meet him, seduce him, and hang around until he remembers some obscure fact—”

  “I can assure you, my dear, that what Jack Dunham knows is not obscure.

  “Fine. So he remembers this earth-shattering piece of information, then what?”

  “Kill him.”

  This shocked her as well, not for what he said, but for the way he said it—calmly and casually.

  “Don’t you want to know what he knows?” she said, incredulous.

  Bock smiled again, his expression like that of a sated lion warming itself in the sun.

  “We already know, my dear. We already know.”

  The long, stretch Mercedes limousine rolled sleekly through the streets of Coral Gables, through neighborhoods of large mansions owned by the Party elite of America. Many were winter homes for functionaries who worked in cities farther north. The houses stood on massive lots, set far back from the street and surrounded by high walls and gun- toting guards. They were a far cry from her townhouse condominium on Biscayne Boulevard. Her rank gave her privileges, but it was always money that made the world go round. And the people who’d gotten the money for these gaudy estates did so in ways that were less than aboveboard. Corruption was something she hated but tolerated. One had to go along to get along, especially in Avalon.

  “How much farther is it?” Leslie said to the driver.

  The man’s beady eyes flicked up to the rearview mirror and lingered on her ample breasts, which in the expensive, black evening gown were more accentuated than usual. Bock had insisted she dress for his little soirée, and she felt awkward and on display, like one of the prostitutes in the SS brothels. Leslie fought the urge to reprimand the man. Though he wore the uniform of a lowly SS-Scharführer, he was Bock’s personal chauffeur, and therefore, untouchable. He knew it too. The man leered and spoke, barely concealing his contempt.

  “Not too much further... Missy.”

  Fuming, she turned and looked out the window. She decided she would put the man on report
. Let Bock sort it out with his old pal Obergruppenführer Freitag. A moment later, the limo slowed and turned through a massive, wrought-iron gate that slid open silently and then closed behind them. In the distance, she could see an obscenely large mansion. It appeared that every light in the place was lit like a tacky Christmas ad.

  The limo swept down the drive and pulled in front of the massive portico. There, a liveried butler opened the door, bowed, and clicked his heels.

  “Please follow me, Brigadeführer,” he said, marching up the wide steps ahead of her. He held open the massive iron and crystal door and Leslie stepped into a world that could only be described as mythical. The entryway could have doubled as a ballroom. It had twenty-foot ceilings with walls and floor lined in black and white marble. There was an immense swastika of inlaid obsidian in the center of the floor, surrounded by a wide band of yellow metal that could only be gold. An oil portrait of Adolf Hitler hung on the wall, overlooking priceless tapestries and sculptures any museum would grovel for.

  “Come, madam,” the butler intoned. He began marching across the marble expanse, his heels clicking cadence. Leslie followed, awed. They walked through an extended hallway leading to several rooms whose doors remained closed. One set of double doors lay open, revealing an opulent dining room and table, the length of which could easily seat thirty. It looked ridiculous set for four.

  Passing that room, the butler reached another set of double doors. With great ceremony, he pushed them open and led her into the library. This room impressed her as much as anything she’d seen: fluted columns carved from solid mahogany and floor-to-ceiling shelves containing thousands of volumes. From what she could see of them, they all appeared to be first editions, and no doubt priceless.

  “Welcome, Brigadeführer Parsons, to my humble abode,” Bock said.

  He stood in front of a massive window, a glass of champagne in his hands.

  “Thank you, Herr Bock. I—”

  “Please, you must call me Armand.”

  Another shock.

  “Very well... Armand. Thank you for inviting me.”