Echoes of Silence

by Patrick W O'Bryon

  Ellington had just revealed he had others coming by that morning. That odd breach of protocol weighed on Ryan’s mind as he descended to the street. Agents were never supposed to know the identity of fellow operatives unless vital to a mission. Nothing would prevent Ryan’s sticking around to catch a glimpse of other COI personnel had he so wished. Yes, he had left his new boss rattled. Not necessarily a good thing.

  A minute or so passed. Dash Ellington continued to stare out at the city but nothing held his interest. He had intended to demonstrate just who was now fully in charge. Instead, that damned Lemmon had managed to unsettle him with his accursed Midwestern morality. Without turning he became aware of Robertson standing at the threshold. “And?” he said.

  “Gone, sir.” His subordinate remained at the door, awaiting further orders. “How’d it go?”

  Ellington knew full well his assistant had overheard every word from the adjoining room. The fool probably had his ear glued to the connecting door, for God’s sake! What’s a man to do when surrounded by incompetence and insubordination?

  “This Lemmon is a disaster waiting to happen, Robertson.” Ellington returned to the desk. “My guess is he’ll step on his own prick and we’ll be rid of him soon enough, but in the meantime, I wouldn’t trust him to toe the line.”

  “As intractable as you anticipated, sir?”

  “The man’s a school teacher, not a spy. Has a touch of luck along the way and thinks he qualifies for the big leagues. But what else can one expect from such a type?” He retrieved Lemmon’s dossier from the briefcase and jotted down a few notes.”

  “Anything else, sir?”

  “Put someone reliable on his tail, then let Lemmon sit on his hands in Berlin for a few weeks. Given a bit of rope, this one may well hang himself out to dry.” He straightened the contents and closed the dossier, silently fuming over his own loss of composure. “And if he doesn’t compromise our operations before we’re rid of him, we’ll all be the better for it.”

  ❖

  Ed speared another chunk of his meat patty and dipped it in the dark, onion-flecked gravy. “Sounds like one unpleasant son-of-a-bitch, brother.” He corralled pan-roasted potatoes with his fork. “So, what comes next?”

  Ryan’s grin carried no trace of warmth. “Just let the bastard try to take me down.” He ignored his schnitzel, having only taken a few absent-minded bites. His beer glass sat empty. He had a thirst for payback no amount of brew could sate. “At a time and place of my choosing, I’ll make a fool of that pompous idiot. Then maybe I can bring you back into the works.”

  “Buck up, Ryan.” Ed drained his glass. “It’s not as if we didn’t know our arrangement was doomed. Covert and diplomatic never merge easily.” He held up his thumb and forefinger to signal the waiter for two fresh glasses of pilsner. “Always a matter of time before State kicked us out of the joint espionage business, so perhaps it’s for the best, right?”

  Ryan gave it a few moments thought. “Not necessarily, Ed. I’m wary of putting my COI career entirely in the hands of that man. What say we keep in close touch, but covertly?”

  “Risky,” said Ed, then added with his usual husky chuckle, “but I’m nothing if not game. What’s on your mind?”

  “Newspaper classifieds. You need to reach me—you hear anything at State I can use—just advertise a room to let in the Morgenpost. Berlin West. Have someone on the consular staff place it for you and use our old Lawrence telephone number. I’ll check daily. I spot your message, I contact you immediately by message left at their switchboard.”

  “Understood.”

  “Now, about your landlady. From what you’ve said she can be trusted?”

  “She can. Thoroughly vetted.”

  “In that case, should I need to reach you in a real hurry—an actual emergency—I’ll use her number, calling later in the evening when you’re likely to be in. Otherwise, we use only public callboxes, and, of course, all discretion.”

  “I’ll need your Berlin address. How are you going to get me that discretely?”

  Ryan took a moment to consider. He reached for a paper napkin and his fountain pen. “Once settled in, I’ll send a postcard to your apartment in Geneva, somehow working my new address into the text.” He began to sketch something.

  Ed nodded, chewing again as he used a bread crust on the last of the gravy.

  “So here’s the deal: for the name of the street I mention some fictional person I met, a ‘Herr Potsdamer” or a ‘Fräulein Thüringer.”

  “Got it.” Ed scanned for their waiter and signaled again for the beers. He turned his attention to the image Ryan was generating on the napkin.

  “On the face of the card I draw a simple Prussian landscape, something I claim to have admired. Let’s say a farmyard. The birds, pigs, chickens or cows mark positions on an imaginary clock.” He drew a rudimentary cow at the three o’clock position.”

  “Piece of cake: the number three.”

  “Correct.”

  “And the sequence for the numbers?”

  “The count of like animals in any grouping reveals the sequence. So three crows at two o’clock—” he added three m-shaped strokes to the sky of his sketch, “—mean the third number in the sequence will be a two.”

  “And the three-o’clock cow stands all alone, so she’s the number three and first in line. Clever, my brother.”

  Ryan shredded the napkin. “Push comes to shove, you’re my fallback. Ellington’s made clear he expects me to land on my ass, so I wouldn’t be surprised if I end up needing your help.”

  The waiter delivered the beer and Ed offered curt thanks, miffed at the delay. He pointed to untouched potatoes on Ryan’s plate. “You done with those?”

  Ryan pushed the plate across to his brother. “All yours.” He laid claim to one of the tall glasses and drained the beer by half, then poured some onto the napkin remnants and mashed them into a sodden ball.

  “Appears your thirst is alive and well.” Ed reached over to clink glasses.

  “Yeah, but this Ellington business stole my appetite.”

  “A rarity for you, brother.” His fork speared some untouched Rösti. “But as for your plan, count me in. Let’s show Ellington what Kansas boys can do.”

  CHAPTER THREE

  En Route to Frankfurt, Germany

  November 1941

  Wheels squealed on icy rails as his train rolled over the Rhine bridge. The Swiss authorities had just walked the train doing a perfunctory inspection of travelers’ documents, but the German gauntlet at Weil am Rhein was sure to be more thorough. Ryan wasn’t getting comfortable. Not yet. In a matter of minutes his train would enter Germany.

  Despite Ed’s hope for a relaxing break, Ryan was glad to be done with Basel. He’d made little attempt to hide his impatience at the delay, unable to mask his anger over the morning’s Ellington interview. After lunch the brothers wandered through the cobbled streets and down along the river. Scudding clouds hinted at a change in weather and a brisk wind from the north forced them to turn up coat collars and seat hats more tightly. The conversation became desultory, almost forced. Ed attempted to lighten the mood with reminiscences of boyhood pranks, but Ryan made clear that no amount of forced joviality could distract him. Over mid-afternoon cake and coffee Ed finally surrendered to the inevitable. He suggested Ryan catch the overnight rather than wait till morning. Ryan had leapt at the proposal. They found their way back to the Centralbahnhof where Ryan reserved a first-class sleeper compartment to himself. With what lay ahead, this was likely the last luxury he would experience in the foreseeable future. He intended to arrive in Berlin as refreshed as possible.

  Over dinner he’d surrendered for safekeeping the last personal items linking him to his true identity: his passport, the gold ring with hidden compartment that once concealed a suicide pill, and his leather-bound daily journal. Pressed between the pages lay the dried flower Leo had given him, a token remembrance of his young son, now in London with his adoptive p
arents. “Don’t worry: they’re in safe hands,” Ed assured him. His brother meant the personal items, of course, but Ryan thought only of the friends with whom he’d shared so much excitement and terror in the previous summer. At the station he’d waved good-bye to his brother, wondering under what circumstances they would next meet.

  The brisk weather of the waning day had yielded to a strong cold front pressing down from the north. The moon hid behind heavy clouds and brittle sleet descended with a fury. But once the express left central Basel, his spirits began to lift despite the weather. He yearned for a clean break from the trials that had plagued his loved ones over the past months.

  He was returning to the fray, to the Reich’s many dangers, but he was on his own at last. The risks were his alone, not shared with others. His forehead pressed to the window, he sensed more than heard the tick-tick-tick of ice crystals assaulting the pane. Such a relief to know von Kredow was no longer a threat. Despite a conscious effort to resist the memory, he relived the brutality of torture, the relentless pursuit, the nearness of imminent death. And then he was back in that same dark alley, crouching in wait before taking a man’s life. That act would once have seemed reprehensible, but now he felt more alive than ever in the face of such ruthless enemies. As long as he risked all on a daily basis, no one should care enough to worry about his fortunes.

  He consciously released the tension in his neck and focused on the darkness beyond the train window. Pinpoints of light pierced the shroud of snow and gradually coalesced into lamp fixtures. Ice crystals whipped around like so many desperate insects as trackside buildings and canopies slid into view. The express shuddered to a halt alongside armed troopers in winter coats lining the platform.

  He knew the customs inspectors would walk the length of the train searching the occasional bag, followed closely by border police examining travel documents and identity papers. But oddly, only border police officers entered the lead carriage. They moved along swiftly, ordering all passengers to gather up luggage, detrain immediately, and enter the customs shed. Something was amiss. Or someone special being sought.

  Ryan joined the growing queue of passengers on the platform, moving through the bitter cold like so many herded sheep. Fiercely-barked orders directed them toward the building entrance. Bundled in overcoats and mufflers, those without hand baggage flapped their arms to ward off the chill or warmed hands in armpits as the line moved forward. Every expelled breath glowed bluish under dim light. The corrugated iron of the building creaked under the onslaught of brittle cold as they entered. Inside, the customs inspectors, not immune to the discomfort, appeared resigned to their unusual assignment. They moved the new arrivals from post to post with only the occasional stumble or delay.

  An official invited Ryan to open his calfskin valise. Pushing aside clothing and toiletries, the inspector rooted around in the recesses. He fruitlessly sought to lift the bottom panel. With nothing found to further pique his interest, he waved Ryan on and shifted his attention to the next in line.

  Now a border policeman demanded his papers. Ryan had memorized his new cover story: a representative for Monarch Rubber Goods of Peoria, he traveled to Berlin to peddle synthetic rubber tires to both Wehrmacht and industrial concerns. “A nation at war is only as strong as the tread on its tires,” or so read the German-language brochures he carried. A newly-minted but suitably-weathered passport listed him as Lewis Graf, age thirty-five. His entry visa, ostensibly stamped by the German embassy in Bern, displayed the required photo. Ryan regretted the demotion from Special War Problems official to Midwestern sales rep. Ellington’s ploy in choosing this alias underscored Ryan’s precarious status within the COI. He returned the papers to his inside jacket pocket. The thought of the heated compartment waiting across the platform already warmed him.

  A man in leather overcoat and black fedora stepped into his path and raised a hand. “Those papers again, please.” Accustomed to the process, Ryan complied without hesitation. Remain calm; volunteer nothing; stay friendly. Nerve-testing, but endurable. The man perused Ryan’s documents and compared the photos to the traveler standing before him. “Remain here.” He gave a subtle nod to a Brownshirt standing barely a meter away. The Gestapo agent disappeared with Ryan’s papers into an office beyond the inspection counter. The SA man moved closer, one hand resting lightly on a holstered Mauser 9mm.

  A forger’s error? It happened, though rarely. An intentional move by Ellington? Could the new boss be that duplicitous, blatantly trying to undermine him fresh out of the chute? Equally unlikely. Don’t get paranoid, Ryan. He dug for his briar, filled the bowl and struck a match. The tobacco soothed his nerves and the curling smoke warmed his cheeks.

  Vexing minutes passed before the agent reappeared, now accompanied by a uniformed SS officer far removed in stature from Himmler’s ideal. Multiple chins overlapped the collar of his uniform, the silver runes competing for attention with the sagging folds of flesh. The man’s paramilitary rank was equivalent to that of a Wehrmacht major.

  “Here’s our boy,” the Gestapo agent said to the Sturmbannführer.

  The stout officer requested Ryan remove his hat and held a flyer up to Ryan’s face. He caught only a glimpse of the artist’s sketch, so there was no telling how closely the features matched his own. The travelers to his rear had come to a halt but no one complained, at least within earshot. The Brownshirt directed them to form a new queue ahead. All eyes forward; not a single glance back.

  “Is there a problem here, sir?” Ryan inquired, peppering his voice with righteous annoyance. “I’m an American pursuing legitimate business with the Reich.”

  The SS officer nodded, chins bobbing. “An American, you say, yet your German is flawless.” He grinned at the Gestapo man. “I’d say Prussian, wouldn’t you?” The secret policeman’s crease of a smile remained unchanged. The SS officer thumbed through the passport a second time. “And your surname is certainly German...Herr Graf.”

  “My grandparents came to Pennsylvania in ’87 with kids in tow. From Potsdam.” Ryan was well prepared to recount the cover story. “We spoke German at home to keep tradition alive.”

  “No doubt,” the SS officer said, dismissive, having clearly moved on from discussing Ryan’s heritage, “but we’ve been watching for someone who looks remarkably like you. Our man also speaks excellent German, and he recently robbed an important Berlin bank.”

  Ryan, all senses on alert, played the indignant innocent. “Do I look like a bank robber to you, sir?”

  “Indeed you do, mein Herr…” He compared Ryan’s face to the artist’s sketch one last time before folding the sheet. “Indeed you do. Please follow me and allow your fellow travelers to be on their way. We’ll have further questions for you and definitely need a closer look at these papers.”

  Ryan’s eyes swept the building. Another train had just arrived, a new cluster of cold, irritated passengers already clogging the entrance to the customs barn. The door at the far end was the only option. His identity somehow compromised during the Reichsbank incursion, there was no time to wonder how, only to seek escape.

  The officer spotted his hesitation. “Now, now, sir, do come along. Just a formality, you understand. If you’ve nothing to hide you’ll soon be on your way. Don’t worry about missing your train. They arrive with boring regularity.” The man waddled toward the office. The Gestapo agent had already turned his attention to some new suspect up the line. The SA trooper with the Mauser fell into place behind Ryan. There would be no running.

  At that moment a woman hurried toward them. “Major, a word please?” She threaded past the others, pushy, almost rude, her heeled boots clacking on the damp concrete. It was the same woman spotted in the aisle of the Basel-bound train, the one who’d brought to mind Marita. Close up, she was taller, more voluptuous, with shapely calves and full breasts barely constrained by her gray trench coat. Dimpled cheeks reddened by the cold, plaited blond hair beneath a green hat with feather, and deep blue eyes under l
ong lashes. Definitely his type, but then, he had many. Elsewhere he would have made an effort to introduce himself, but those eyes favored only the portly SS man. She placed a hand on the officer’s arm and gave it a light squeeze. “A moment of your time, sir?”

  The major couldn’t mask his pleasure at being her sole focus. He grew taller in his uniform, losing a chin in the process. Having momentarily forgotten his bank robber suspect, he stepped closer still with a slight bow of the head. “How may I be of service to you, gnädige Frau—” squinting in appreciation, “or is it perhaps Fräulein?”

  “Fräulein it is.” She showed him a flirtatious grin. “A private word, if we might?” With raised brows and a tilt of the head she gestured toward the privacy of his office.

  He found the invitation irresistible. “Of course, Miss.” He took her proffered arm. His voice turned gruff and authoritative as he tasked the trooper to “Hold him here!” The Brownshirt clicked his heels with a snappy salute and drew Ryan off to the side. The officer gallantly guided the woman away.

  The unexpected intrusion opened new options. The Gestapo man was off targeting newly-arrived travelers, and incapacitating a young Stormtrooper was well within Ryan’s training. A forceful blow between nose and upper lip or across the Adam’s apple would quickly put him down for the count. Then grab the pistol and make a run for the door. Others were already filing out the far end of the shed, their visit to this frozen purgatory over. His actions would raise an instant alarm, but he would be armed.

  Yet, where to flee once out in the cold? An empty freight car to hide in, or would the doors be locked or frozen shut? Seek refuge in a nearby building perhaps, or enter a Gasthaus from a service entrance out back? But how to find an inn on a night such as this? The thought of hunkering down in the frigid darkness awaiting the baying dogs held no appeal. A run remained ill-advised. He glanced around but no one met his gaze. In the other travelers’ minds he no longer existed. He was now property of the Reich.