This Fog of Peace (Moon Brothers WWII Adventure Series Book 4)

by William Peter Grasso

  She pivoted gracefully as she grabbed the vodka bottle from the counter behind her.

  As she poured, her reply sounded a touch fatalistic: “No, it’s a curse, sir.”

  Then she saw Yanov looking her way. He wasn’t smiling, just holding up his empty glass, tapping it with his finger.

  That frown on Yanov’s face must mean he’s jealous, she thought.

  “Ah, the colonel awaits,” she said.

  Sylvie knew the man could see her every move as she prepared the brandy. Wrapping her hand around the glass to conceal the thin layer of chloral hydrate solution at the bottom, she lifted it from its concealment beneath the bar and doled out the brandy.

  That hurdle crossed, she delivered the glass to Yanov.

  As she placed it in front of him, he asked, “Have you made a new friend, Sylvie?” He didn’t sound pleased at the prospect.

  “There’s a difference between having a friend and just being friendly, Colonel.”

  That seemed to placate him. He lifted the glass in a toast and said, “To friendship, sweet Sylvie.”

  He downed the brandy in one swallow.

  How strange. Usually, he just sips. But just like that, he gives himself the full dose.

  Excellent.

  Then, like a conspirator, he leaned toward her and asked, “Perhaps you will come to my room later?”

  She giggled and replied, “Perhaps I will.”

  “Then I must prepare myself,” Yanov said. “One more brandy, please.”

  “But Colonel, you’re breaking tradition by having another.”

  She was more alarmed than her words let on: The longer he stays, the better the chance he’ll pass out right here in the bar. That could complicate things greatly.

  “Tradition be damned,” he replied. “I’m in a festive mood, for this will be a glorious night.”

  She brought him another brandy. He downed it in one gulp, as well.

  Then he rose from the table—a bit unsteadily—and said, “Until later, my dear Sylvie.”

  Sylvie watched him walk to the elevator. Yanov still seemed wide awake as he stepped into the cage.

  She’d braced herself for complications, such as Yanov passing out in the elevator. Or in the third-floor hallway.

  But an hour had passed since he’d left the bar for his room, and there seemed nothing out of order in the Hotel Neuwieder. It was just another unremarkable night.

  Now it was midnight. Sylvie closed the bar and hauled the night’s trash to the incinerator. She made sure the vial was smashed beyond recognition before the sack was hurled into the flames. Then she hurried to her room and changed back into her chambermaid’s work dress. Her street clothes were rolled up and stuffed into a pillowcase she’d take with her.

  The switchblade knife was slid into the skirt pocket of her dress.

  Climbing the stairs to the third floor, she peered into the hallway and found it deserted. The only sound was the loud, sawmill-like snoring of sleeping officers seeping through those thin walls. Walking silently to the linen closet, she rolled the hamper into the hallway, cursing when one of the wheels began to squeak loudly.

  I should have thought of that! I could have fixed it with some soap. But there’s no time now. Just my luck that today’s hamper makes noise.

  With her master key, she unlocked the door to Yanov’s room and pushed it open just enough to look inside.

  He was passed out half on and half off the far side of the bed. He’d managed to remove his shoes, tunic, and trousers before slipping into unconsciousness. She pushed the squeaking hamper inside and quietly closed the door.

  She noticed a file folder on the dresser. It was like all the other folders for hotel staff members she’d found before.

  But this one had Mirka’s name on it.

  There was no time to think what significance—if any—the file’s appearance now might hold.

  Sylvie used his legs as levers to move him to the side of the bed nearest the door, silently rehearsing the story she’d recite if caught in Yanov’s room:

  He invited me. But he didn’t want anyone else to know of the tryst, so he told me to use my work gear as a deception.

  Why wouldn’t they believe that? It’s more plausible than being kidnapped by a lone female hotel worker, isn’t it?

  After making a cushion of sheets taken from the hamper, she rolled him off the bed to the floor. The cushioning helped, but his body still made a resounding thud on impact. Despite it all, Yanov didn’t stir.

  Sylvie tipped the hamper onto its side and, using his legs as levers once again, rolled him in. The broom handle she needed to flip it back upright was slid into place across the bottom of its frame.

  Bracing herself, she gave a mighty pull. The hamper began to rise easily at first.

  It was halfway upright when the broom handle snapped in half.

  She was sure the thud of the overloaded hamper slamming back to the floor could be heard well beyond the outskirts of Berlin.

  Shit! All this talk about superior German goods is just so much rubbish!

  Feet braced against the bed frame, she tried to push the hamper upright with just arm and leg strength but lacked the leverage. After a few inches of movement and considerable straining, all progress ceased and the hamper settled back onto its side.

  I need better tools.

  Slipping from the room, she made her way back to the linen closet. There was nothing in there which looked any stronger than the original broom handle.

  But maybe if I use several levers working together to share the load.

  Selecting another broom—and two mop handles—Sylvie stepped back into the hallway…

  And walked straight into one of the NKVD officers, a major named Petrenko. He looked surprised—and annoyed—to see her.

  Eyeing her dowdy work clothes suspiciously, he asked in crisp German, “Aren’t you the barmaid?”

  “Yes, Comrade Major. I perform both duties.”

  “But what duties does a maid have to perform in the middle of the night? And so noisily, at that?” His words had the tone of a police interrogation.

  “You’d be surprised, sir. There’s much cleaning to be done at all hours and—”

  “Duties, eh?” Petrenko sneered. “I’ve got a very important duty for you to perform, you little shlyukha.”

  She couldn’t translate that last word at first, a bit of Russian tagged on to his German. Then it came to her: slut.

  Grabbing her by the hair, he dragged her back inside the linen closet.

  “Wait, Major…please!” she begged.

  “I wait for nothing,” he replied. He’d already pinned her against the wall with one brawny hand against her throat.

  With the other hand, he was undoing the buttons of his trousers.

  Her voice a choked whisper, she pleaded, “But Major, wouldn’t it be better if we did this in the comfort of your room?”

  He spit in her face. Then he said, “I don’t want my bed fouled by any dirty German scum.”

  His pants undone, he thrust his other hand beneath the skirt of her dress and tore the knickers away.

  Her hand had drifted over the skirt pocket holding the switchblade, clutching the fabric, shielding the knife from being felt as he pressed his pelvis against hers.

  She knew that before he could realize what was happening, that blade could be rammed into his throat.

  But balanced precariously on this line between life and death, her thoughts were crystal clear:

  People rarely die quietly.

  They thrash about. They scream if they can…

  Calling for their mothers, making all sorts of noise…

  Attracting attention.

  If I use this knife now, this mission will fail…and fail unnecessarily.

  And it will probably be the last thing I ever do.

  She could see herself sitting in the office of Major Donleavy, her OSS superior, when she was first being considered for this job. He’d asked her i
f she’d be willing to engage in sexual relations with targeted subjects, as she’d done as a maquisard.

  Her reply: Only if absolutely necessary to fulfill the mission.

  Sylvie had no doubt that it was absolutely necessary now.

  She didn’t resist as Major Petrenko had his way with her.

  It was over in a matter of seconds.

  As Petrenko hitched up his pants, Sylvie slid to a squatting position, her back still against the wall—a defensive posture should the assault turn from sexual to mortal.

  Her hand was buried in the skirt pocket, cradling the switchblade.

  He stared down at her as if deciding whether the defilement was over or not.

  She didn’t look him in the eyes, watching his hands and feet instead. They were the threat now.

  Petrenko muttered something in Russian; she took it to mean filth. Then he strode out into the hallway, leaving the door open. His heavy footsteps stopped quickly.

  A door opened and then slammed shut.

  He’s gone into his room. He’ll be asleep in a few minutes, no doubt.

  She stood up, smoothed her clothing, and then tiptoed back to Yanov’s room with the broom and mops in hand.

  It was a relief to find that the heavy load in the hamper had caused it to lose its squeak. It made hardly any noise gliding across the worn carpet of the hallway. The service elevator was waiting for her; she’d made sure to immobilize it on this floor when she’d come up from the bar.

  Down in the back offices on the main floor now, Sylvie’s only worry was rolling the hamper past the switchboard room. Frau Bachmann was the operator on duty tonight, and the old busybody stuck her nose into everything. It would seem very odd to her for a chambermaid to be rolling dirty laundry around at this hour of the night.

  But for all her bluster, that old cow will run like a scared rabbit if I threaten her.

  And if she doesn’t run…well, it’ll be too bad for her.

  I’ve already been through too much tonight to let that cranky bitch slow me down.

  As Sylvie passed the door to the switchboard room, though, she could see there was no one manning the console. But there was a muffled moaning coming from within the room, so she peeked inside.

  Frau Bachmann was lying in a corner, squirming futilely, arms bound behind her back, ankles tied. A long piece of material—a torn bed sheet, perhaps—had been wrapped around her head several times forming both a gag and a blindfold. Only her nose protruded from the wraps of cloth. Sylvie wasn’t sure whether to be amused or concerned at the trussed-up woman’s plight.

  Then she heard a voice from the hallway, one she recognized instantly: “She’d have been nothing but trouble. And what took you so fucking long, Sylvie?”

  “Me? Where the hell have you been?”

  “Sorry,” Mirka replied. “Orders, you know. Some unfinished business. But it looks like you’ve done well. Come…we’re waiting.”

  A van was parked against the loading dock. It looked just like the regular laundry van, just without the markings on its sides. The driver glanced back from his seat as the women wheeled the hamper aboard. He was the same man from the morning pickups, wearing that same newsboy cap. They were rolling away from the hotel in seconds.

  Mirka pulled off the pile of sheets covering Yanov and took a good look at him. She asked, “How long has he been out?”

  “Four, perhaps five hours.”

  Producing a set of handcuffs, Mirka replied, “Just in case, let’s make sure he can’t slip away after all your hard work.”

  She snapped the cuffs around his wrists. Then she draped a chain that was bolted to the van floor into the hamper and secured it to the cuffs with a padlock.

  “That should get him to Tempelhof safe and sound,” Mirka said, satisfied with her work.

  Sylvie spilled her street clothes from the pillowcase. As she pulled off her work dress, a surprised Mirka blurted, “What happened to your knickers?”

  “Let’s just say they were in somebody’s way.”

  Mirka got her meaning immediately. Pointing doubtfully to the unconscious Yanov, she asked, “Him?”

  “No.”

  “Oh. So is that pig dead now?”

  “No,” Sylvie replied as she buttoned her blouse. “It would’ve complicated things too much.”

  Tenderly, Mirka kissed her on the top of her head. Then she said, “We’re going to both deserve a long holiday once this is done.”

  The van rolled to a stop in front of Herr Gestler’s house. When Mirka and Sylvie went to the door, they found him and his mother ready to go, along with enough luggage for a steamer cruise around the world.

  “I told you no baggage,” Sylvie said, the words unyielding.

  Gestler protested, “But Mother needs—”

  “I won’t say it again,” she replied. “No baggage. Take it or leave it.”

  They took it.

  Five minutes later, the van was across the Spree and into the American zone. Thirty minutes after that they were on a USAAF C-47 transport winging its way to Frankfurt. Surrounded by a squad of MPs and an Army intelligence officer, Yanov was still sound asleep.

  Sylvie tried to take a nap, too, but found sleep difficult. She had nearly dozed off when Gestler jostled her awake.

  “I have that information you asked for—the name of the dead American pilot the Russians were holding,” he said.

  She almost didn’t want to hear it. After the stress of the past weeks—and this calamitous night—she wasn’t sure she could stand a dose of heartbreak, too. But she told him, “Go ahead. What is it?”

  He handed her a piece of paper. She unfolded it and read the name: LIEUTENANT ROBERT LESCAULT, USAAF.

  Nobody in that aircraft knew that the tears she was sobbing were not of sorrow but relief.

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  Harry Truman put down the report and spun his Oval Office chair to look outside. Beyond those windows, a late summer morning was blossoming into another beautiful day.

  If only I could enjoy it, he thought.

  Without spinning the chair back to face his guests, he asked George Marshall, “What are the Russians saying, General?”

  “They’re claiming it wasn’t a defection at all, Mister President, but that we kidnapped him.”

  Truman laughed as he turned back to the room. “Well, they’re right about that,” he replied. “You can’t fool those damn Russians, can you? Have you issued the standard denial?”

  “Of course, Mister President. It’ll be all over the midday newspapers here in the States as well as the evening papers in Europe.”

  Secretary of State Byrnes added, “This is quite a feather in Donleavy’s cap, Mister President. Imagine, he’s taken a Soviet political officer—a high-value target—right out from under Stalin’s nose. This is exactly what the OSS needs to bump up their prestige, considering the impending revamp and upgrade of their service. We’ll need to get used to referring to them as the CIA very soon.”

  “I wouldn’t get too carried away,” Admiral King interjected. “I’m sure the Reds have plenty of tricks up their sleeves. They’ll be touting their own defectors before you know it. And they may be real ones, too, not just some fool who got himself kidnapped. Who wants to bet that the first one will be British?”

  Truman scowled, pushing King’s assertion aside. “Now that we’ve got this guy—this Colonel Yanov—is he doing us any good?”

  Marshall asked, “Do you mean has he provided any usable intelligence, Mister President?”

  “That’s exactly what I mean, General.”

  “Well, then, sir…the answer is no. But keep in mind he’s been in custody less than a day. These things often take time.”

  “And if he never tells us anything, General?”

  Marshall replied, “Even then, Mister President, we’ll still have the embarrassment factor.”

  Truman scowled again. “Yeah…until they get one up on us. And speaking of that, what’s the latest on t
hat pilot of ours the Russians have?”

  “I was just getting to that, Mister President,” Marshall said. “The OSS reports their operatives—the ones who snatched Yanov—have information that our pilot has died in Soviet custody.”

  “How credible do we consider that information, General?”

  “Not very, sir. Probably just more Soviet misinformation.”

  “Wait a damn minute,” Truman said. “Wouldn’t a live American pilot—even the myth of a live American pilot—be worth a lot more to the Soviets than a dead one?”

  “Perhaps, sir.”

  “Perhaps, my ass, General. There’s been no official communiqué on his death from the Russians, has there?”

  “No, Mister President.”

  “Then we’re going to trust this intelligence that says he’s dead for all it’s worth, General Marshall. Until we have concrete evidence to the contrary.”

  “Are you sure that’s a good idea, sir?” Byrnes asked. “We know the Soviets lie about everything.”

  “But this information might not be coming from the Soviets, Jimmy,” Truman replied. “I think we should put a little faith in our operatives, who just pulled off a major coup by kidnapping this Red colonel. Do we know who they are, anyway? I should be pinning medals on them.”

  “It’s rumored that they’re women, Mister President,” Byrnes said. “Two of them.”

  Truman seemed stunned. “Women? Are they Americans?”

  “Hardly, Mister President. One is a French national. The other is Polish.”

  Truman looked stunned. “Women, huh? Well, I’ll be damned.”

  “Maybe we should all be damned, sir,” Byrnes replied. “But as far as pinning medals on them…I’m afraid that’s not such a good idea. I’m sure they’d prefer to remain anonymous. They’ll probably live a little longer that way.”

  All Sylvie wanted to do was sleep. Having the mission debrief put off until tomorrow was a blessing. She’d like to be able to sit through it with a clear head. A little sleep would provide just that, she was sure.

  Yet she’d declined the offer of sleeping pills from the American Army doctor who’d examined her within an hour of arriving in Frankfurt. Pills might keep her head on the pillow, but they also might leave her dopey during the debrief. She needed to be razor sharp.