Echoes of Silence

by Patrick W O'Bryon

  The woman emerged from the office. She led the way, the fleshy officer tagging at her heels. Her eyes twinkled and a smile played on her lips, but now her full attention was directed at Ryan. Remarkably, the SS major’s demeanor had also changed. He appeared anxious to settle matters. Returning Ryan’s documents, he told him to grab his valise before directing the trooper to step aside. With a curt nod to the woman and a look of relief, he wished them both safe travels. She gave the officer a final commiserating smile before steering Ryan toward the exit and the platform.

  The cold wind was bracing. The express idled, steam hissing loudly from the Reichsbahn locomotive, its brake pump throbbing. As the two emerged from the shed, the trainman raised a whistle to his lips and waved his red paddle. The locomotive responded with a quick chirp and took up the slack of the cars with an ever diminishing clunk of metal on metal.

  Ryan assisted her up the steps and into the last railcar. “My God, Fräulein, what the devil happened back there?” He pulled the carriage door shut behind them. “How’d you pull that off?”

  “We’ll talk later.” Now she gave his arm a squeeze, her smile infectious. “Room in your compartment for one more?”

  Ryan laughed, exhilarated by his unexpected salvation. Who would deny that request? “Allow me,” he said, guiding her down the corridor. As they entered the cabin, she hung the small Nicht Stören placard outside and drew the privacy curtains closed. “Enough nuisance for one night, wouldn’t you agree? And the coach steward surely deserves some rest.”

  Ryan removed his hat and shook off the clinging sleet. “I have to agree—enough disturbances for one night.” He shoved his gloves into the pocket of his coat.

  Her face, now relaxed, was even more appealing—the smile warm, genuine. “First off, friendly greetings from our mutual friend in Berlin.” She extended her hand. “Please call me Klara.”

  Admiral Canaris, of course. “How on earth did you…did he…know I’d be here—that I’d run into trouble?”

  She held his hand a fraction longer before releasing it. “Ah, yes, that…” She hung up her coat and handbag, then removed the chic hat. “First we settle in, then we chat.”

  The heat of the compartment was a relief after the bitter cold. He hung his overcoat and scarf on the hook opposite hers. With a sigh of relief, he took a seat at the window, expecting her to sit opposite him. Instead she drew the window curtains closed and sat down beside him. The warmth of her hip was disconcerting. She leaned in, conspiracy in her husky voice. “You asked how we knew you might run into difficulties. That was simple enough—I’ve been following you and your brother since Geneva.” Her finger traced the line of his jaw before lightly tapping the tip of his nose. “And that wanted poster almost does you justice, but misses the strength of your chin.” She settled back against him. “You Americans really have to stay on your toes if you’re to play this game well.” Her perfume was subtle.

  He shook his head at his own stupidity. Switzerland had seemed so safe, so far removed from the intrigues of Greater Germany. He’d let down his guard and almost paid dearly for it. “So it’s Klara, is it?” Certainly a nom de guerre. “I’m Lewis—Lewis Graf.” He shook her hand again, as if meeting her for the first time.

  “Sure you are,” she said, eyes sparkling. “For the moment, at least.”

  His laugh easy now, tension waning in the company of an interesting woman. He leaned back and shut his eyes, the pressure of her thigh an increasing distraction. “So how did you convince them to release me?”

  “We keep track of the other security services, alert for weaknesses that might prove useful. Basel control is especially active, so gets special attention.” She pressed even closer against his leg and he felt himself rising to the occasion. “So many spies around, you know?” she whispered theatrically in his ear.

  He opened his eyes again and grinned at her. “Hard to trust anyone, right?”

  Harsh sleet tapped at the window panes beyond the curtains. She took a lipstick from the handbag, applying it before she spoke again. “In this case, our portly friend back there has some less than admirable tendencies.” His eyes remained riveted on her full lips, and he shifted a bit in his seat, relieving the pressure on his trousers. She blotted with a tissue before trading the lipstick for a silver flask. “Brandy? I find it soothes the nerves after such excitement.” Ryan gratefully accepted. The woman took a quick nip for herself and tightened the cap. “That fellow back there likes to shake down travelers for ‘contraband’ and occasionally overlooks ‘transgressions’ in exchange for—shall we say—favors?” She attempted a demure smile but couldn’t quite pull it off. She dropped down beside him again, set aside the flask and pulled off her boots.

  Ryan felt a silk-stockinged toe explore his ankle. “Disgusting behavior on his part, but good news for me, right?” He gave her knee a grateful squeeze. “I sincerely thank you, Klara, for keeping me out of his clutches!”

  “Happy to oblige. But to be honest, he’s more interested in clutching a woman like me.”

  “Well, at least he shows good taste.”

  She flashed those intriguing dimples. “So getting him into the office was easy. Once there, I made clear what might happen if he didn’t cooperate. The man’s wife is quite the socialite—some local von-this or zu-that—and her wealth enables his career in both SS and the local Party.” She drew closer and pressed a breast against him. “All the better for us, the dear woman holds a very low opinion of married men who fool around.” She smiled innocently, but the pressure against his thigh was anything but. “So tell me—what do you think of a man who would do such a thing, Herr…‘Graf,’ was it?”

  “Yes, Lewis Graf…” he replied, voice deeper than usual, “in the rubber business.”

  “Rubber, you say?” Her smile grew more mischievous. “So you’re an expert in Gummis?” The same double meaning in both German and English.

  Ryan flashed his broadest grin. “Quite well versed, Klara.”

  She took another sip from the flask before tossing it toward the far seat and rising to her feet. “Then I believe it’s time we celebrate your rescue.”

  She gave his obvious erection a squeeze, then found her balance with the rocking of the train and stepped out of her skirt. Her garter belt was black lace, the sheer panties confirming a natural blonde. Bracing a leg to either side of his, she bent forward and encouraged him to undo her blouse. He freed her breasts from the bra, then tasted the brandy on her lips as she worked his trouser buttons to set him free. “Now,” her voice becoming huskier still, “where is that Gummi of yours, or must I provide my own?”

  “A gentleman never makes a lady wait,” He fumbled in his vest pocket and tore open the white cellophane, setting things right. She giggled as she pulled aside the crotch of her panties and slowly eased him in.

  “Welcome back to the Reich.” Her voice was barely a whisper as she gave her ass a saucy shake.

  ❖

  Ellington stood as usual at the study window observing the flow of the Rhine, but his mood was particularly foul. Robertson watched intently for some signal that his boss was ready to hear the rest of his report. The gray river appeared more sluggish than just a day before. Damn, Ellington thought, what he wouldn’t give for a Scotch. His watch confirmed a long afternoon still before him. Running a major corporation was child’s play compared to whipping these COI operatives into shape. Washington was supposed to send him new agents, effective and highly-trained people, but so far the results had been mixed. His assignment was to expedite and improve the many operations already running across the border, but now he would have to report to Bruce in London that he’d lost track of the one spy he’d most like to forget. He surrendered to the inevitable and turned away from the frigid scene. “So where’d Harris lose him?”

  “At the border station, sir. They made everyone detrain.” Robertson reported. “Harris was only steps behind Lemmon in the same queue. The Gestapo nabbed our guy within minutes of ent
ering the customs shed.”

  “That arrogant fool! So sure of himself yet he can’t even make it to Berlin.”

  “No, sir.”

  “So then what?”

  “Harris couldn’t stick around without blowing his cover so had to move on. Lemmon was already being questioned by an SS major. A Gestapo agent had singled him out first, and an armed Brownshirt stood by, as well.” Robertson sounded pleased to be so well informed. “The SS man was waving around a police flyer. Looks like they nabbed him for that Reichsbank job; at least Harris is certain of it.”

  “In Gestapo grips by now.” Ellington shook his head in disgust. “That know-it-all won’t last more than an hour before he spills his guts.”

  “Hundred-percent right, sir.”

  Ellington despised sycophants, but Robertson was dutiful. Useful until someone better came along. “So we know they have him now, and we know he’ll fold when they bring out the blades and bludgeons. Luckily, Lemmon’s been out of the loop under that War Problems cover, mostly running some private show in France. He can’t compromise any of our current operations. And Himmler’s men will already know what I’m here for, so there’s little risk in Lemmon’s divulging that.”

  “Correct, sir.” Robertson appeared not to realize his boss was voicing considerations for his own clarity of thought, not to share them with a lackey.

  Ellington leaned forward, bracing his chin on his fist. “Well, serves Lemmon right. I told him he’d land on his face given half a chance. Nothing for it, so we leave him to their ministrations.” He picked up his chromed lighter and flicked the wheel, observing the tight flame. “And they’ll have his new identity to work with, so any communications we get from him, phone calls to the cut-outs, anything at all,” he lit a cigarette, “we ignore them all. Total blackout on our end, understood.”

  “Yes, sir, I’ll pass the word down the line.”

  “And make a call to the Geneva consul. I don’t want him trying a work-around with his brother. Nothing gets through to that fellow either. Word is he’s too involved in our business anyway. Understood?

  “Yes, sir. Clear as a bell.”

  “What of Harris?”

  “Passed through the unusual inspection without a hitch, caught a local north to Freiburg, then doubled back here without incident. Ready for his next assignment.”

  “Excellent. Just as it should be. Wish I had more of his ilk.”

  “Don’t we all, sir.” A statement, not a question.

  “As for Lemmon, no loss there. One loose cannon we won’t have to deal with now. That Canaris nonsense was going nowhere anyway. I’m convinced the old man of the Abwehr was playing us for fools.”

  “Indeed, sir.”

  Ellington pulled open a desk drawer and reached for a bottle of Dewar’s and two crystal glasses. He poured his own a double, a single for Robertson. “Now let’s lift one to dearly departed Ryan Lemmon.” He grimaced at an errant thought. “I’m no monster, you understand. I hope they finish him off quickly. Our cruel friends over there are true masters of intel extraction.”

  He toasted and drained his glass and Robertson dutifully followed suit.

  CHAPTER FOUR

  Frankfurt, Germany

  November 1941

  He jolted upright in the sleeper, his head brushing the compartment ceiling. That same recurrent dream, disorienting and dulling his senses: the Berlin alley draped in darkness, the snap of the neck felt rather than heard, the weight of the limp body as they both hit the cobbles. An unknown life snuffed out. Had he heard a cry? A woman shout? He looked around in confusion. There had been no witness.

  Ryan shook his head clear. He reached across the bunk to part the curtains. The sign out on the platform read Frankfurt am Main, the hands of the clock beneath the high arching roof approached four. Still nighttime in a nation at war, yet twilight reigning forever under the canopy of one of Europe’s busiest rail terminals. Travelers rushed past below his window: a middle-aged man eyeing his wristwatch, a mother pausing to quickly bundle a toddler, a family burdened by suitcases. An unwieldy baggage cart frustrated a sleep-deprived porter.

  He turned at a disturbance out in the corridor, luggage bumping against the wall, muted conversations, travelers detraining, but no one knocking at his door. Klara was gone. No green coat, no feathered hat. On his own again.

  He came down from the bunk and pulled a clean shirt from his valise. His trousers lay crumpled on the opposite seat with no regard for the creases. Once dressed, he raised the drop-bed. Only then did he spot her note: Thanks for making things interesting. Watch your back, and should you come this way again…? A smudge of red lipstick her only signature. He could still feel the softness of those lips. Their second round had been slower, more pure fun than unbridled passion. Laughing co-conspirators, they had lowered the cantilevered bed for room to play. She’d hopped up, guiding his head to that pale triangle of blond. God, what a night! They both dozed for a while, and at some point she’d climbed over him, full breasts swaying as she hovered above, laughing softly as he arched his neck to reach her. She pressed a nipple to his lips, then whispered: “Must go wash up,” before lowering herself to the floor. He moaned his disappointment. She gathered up her clothing and pulled on the boots. As the door closed behind her, he had yet to open his eyes again, still savoring the moment.

  So much carelessness on his part, allowing himself to be tailed across Switzerland. It had felt good to be on neutral ground, to not view every stranger with suspicion. He’d relaxed his guard—a potentially fatal error—but how well it had paid off, to be pulled from the fire by a blonde bombshell! In relief over dodging arrest and imminent death, he had surrendered all too willingly to her charms. It could easily have been another snare.

  But such laxity couldn’t happen again. Who else might be tailing him? “Lewis Graf” was obviously compromised, and Ryan felt uneasy. He couldn’t quite put a finger on it—perhaps just a gut feeling—but he wouldn’t be caught with his pants down again. The pun intended. Was her note more than a warning? He had to break the chain of expectations. Others might be anticipating, even dictating his next moves. If Canaris knew exactly where he was—where he was headed—perhaps others did, as well. The Gestapo? They couldn’t have been pleased that the major sent him on his way. And he even had concerns about Ellington. The man admitted he was waiting for Ryan to trip up. Could he be that duplicitous just to prove a point?

  With sudden resolve, he packed up his valise, pulled on his coat and grabbed his hat. Down the aisle the sleepy-eyed porter wrestled a bulky suitcase into a compartment. The corridor to the right was empty. How much time before departure? He wouldn’t wait to find out. He moved quickly toward the vestibule, passing two other compartments with the curtains still drawn. The WC beckoned, but his bladder would have to wait.

  A shrill whistle blew. Doors slammed the length of the train as it shuddered in preparation for departure. A Reichsbahn worker’s shout of “Vorsicht!” drove him back as the door closed in his face. Ryan waited until the last moment, the train already easing out from beneath the massive canopy. Lifting the handle, he leapt onto the platform.

  Only then did he spot the commotion on the opposing platform. Dour agents hustled Klara along in search of their prey. They must have snatched her as she left the terminal. In their haste to arrest Ryan, they were allowing her to lead them astray by targeting the wrong train. She was buying him time to escape. Klara looked quickly in his direction and gave the subtlest of nods. They both knew that any action he took would only further compromise her, and Canaris knew how to look after his own. Only the admiral could save her now.

  He still felt like shit.

  The massive locomotive showered him in cinders and steam as it backed from the terminal. He squatted in the cover of a waiting baggage cart, one more traveler taking inventory of his belongings. A suitcase would only slow him down. He stuffed his pockets with identity papers, cash, ration cards and pocket knife, then added his valise
to the pile on the cart. The disturbance on the opposing platform had drawn away other police controls and he joined without incident the now sparse crowd moving toward the exits.

  It wouldn’t take long for the Gestapo to know they’d been had and focus on his just-departed train. They’d likely target its next stop rather than search the station, but Ryan couldn’t trust in luck. He needed speed and a plan. He would somehow make his way to Berlin, avoiding police controls if possible, then telephone Ellington’s cut-out. Until he learned who or what had compromised the bank intrusion, he would take nothing for granted. Canaris’ own people may have been turned. He ran through his options. Without good papers, he risked arrest at any juncture. No way to simply buy a new ticket for Berlin. The Gestapo now had that artist’s rendition of his face and knew the clothes he wore. They might or might not already know his intended destination. He needed a disguise.

  He spotted a hallway off the concourse leading to double doors marked Eintritt Verboten. They would likely be unsecured, since solid Reich citizens would never enter a forbidden space. Glancing right and left, he tested the handle and met no resistance. He slipped into a baggage storage hall beyond. Should he encounter someone he would claim to be lost and count on a winning smile and embarrassed excuses, but be prepared to disable as needed. The vast space was unheated and beastly cold. Light fixtures ran the length of the ceiling with a burned-out wartime bulb scattered here and there. The room appeared momentarily unoccupied, but that could change in a flash so time was pressing.

  Crates, boxes, and suitcases rose from the concrete amidst a jumble of hand-trucks and wheeled carts. A broad bank of shelves along the far wall stored unclaimed property under a fine layer of dust. He pulled out his penknife and exposed the blade. Honed to razor sharpness, it was his weapon of last resort. Shoving aside bulky and leather-sided suitcases, he slit open a fabric valise and found only items of women’s wear. His next target, a bag bound by cracked belting, revealed a jacket befitting a clerk, a faded blue shirt, and a worker’s cap. These would work.