Berg went quiet, as did Emma. He stared at the coin in his hand. Maria and Gottfried strained to see them in the sudden stillness, ready to go on the offensive if necessary.
Maybe this coin game isn’t over yet, Emma decided.
“I’d like it back, if you wouldn’t mind,” she told him, gently testing her limits as Nash had always advised. “My special friend wouldn’t appreciate your taking it from me. I only showed it to you as a means of introduction,” she added, her little lie gaining momentum.
A flash of concern crossed Berg’s face.
He stayed silent. He didn’t want to get himself in trouble by confiscating this magnificent coin. On the other hand, he’d just stumbled on an opportunity that he knew he’d never come across again.
The risk was worthwhile.
“I’m sorry, Emma. This coin is mine now. In return, I’ll give you not only your life but the lives of your friends as well.”
Emma watched him closely, weighing whether to push any further. A dry, white froth had formed at each corner of Berg’s mouth, bracketing his dark uneven teeth. The lines around his mouth and on his forehead seemed to have relaxed, his gestures more open and confident, leading her to believe that he was comfortable with his decision and would probably stick to it.
“Fine,” she said, raising her chin toward him. “But if it turns out that I need your help again, you have to provide it without hesitation. Also, everything else from this early-morning encounter will be erased from my memory and yours. If you agree with me on these two points, the coin is yours—and we’ll be on our way.”
The criminal director knew of the coin’s significance only because of a confidential conversation he’d overheard by chance at an event involving the führer’s most senior henchmen. Berg hadn’t expected ever to see or touch one of the coins himself, let alone possess one. To the best of his knowledge, no one other than the holders of these rarities knew why the führer had chosen to bestow them and their unique privileges upon a limited number of individuals.
Berg looked at Emma and nodded his consent to her terms, his chin folding up on itself several times as his big head moved up and down.
“Excellent, Herr Berg. Please repeat our agreement and swear to it in the führer’s name. I’d suggest quickly, because I can hear your partner shouting at my friends. His dog seems to be completely out of control.”
Berg looked sideways, grimacing. “Dunkle is just learning. He’s a nervous one.”
He reiterated their agreement and swore his oath. They shook hands, awkwardly and at Emma’s initiative, because Nash said that this ancient custom actually made it more likely that both sides would remember a simple deal and follow through on it.
As she and Berg returned to Maria’s car, Dunkle shouted at Berg. “I’ve already radioed for reinforcements, sir! They should be arriving shortly!” His gun was trained on Maria and Gottfried. “Kneel down or I’ll shoot both of you!” he screamed.
The Doberman was apoplectic.
Berg yelled at the young officer, “Put your gun away, Dunkle!” But Dunkle was shouting so loudly as his dog raged that he appeared not to have heard. The youngster had gone into some kind of trance, frozen by fear and uncertainty.
Gottfried raised his hand to show that he had no intention of fighting the boy, trying to calm him. The gesture had the reverse effect, causing Dunkle to panic. He pulled the trigger.
The bullet sped toward Gottfried’s head, missing only because the dog had pulled Dunkle sideways as he took aim. Maria dodged to the side, pulling the pistol stashed inside her coat. She fired back.
Dunkle was propelled backward by the force of her bullet.
Unrestrained, the dog hurled itself at Maria.
Gottfried’s fist hit it in the snout. The animal stopped midair, its jaw shattered. It dropped to the roadway, writhing and whimpering.
Gottfried moved closer, drew a gun from a hidden pocket in his jacket, and shot the dog.
Maria and Gottfried trained their guns on Berg, whose gun remained in his holster.
“Don’t move,” Maria told him.
Emma swore. “Maria, this wasn’t necessary. Berg and I had taken care of things.”
Berg glared at the trio before him, then at Dunkle on the ground, blood pouring from his chest. The criminal director had no idea who these people really were or why Maria and Gottfried handled their guns better than most of his own men, and certainly young Dunkle. He slowly removed his spectacles and cleaned them with the corner of his jacket, turning to Emma as he did so.
“Leave—before the guards summoned by Dunkle arrive. I will somehow explain this,” he said, motioning toward Dunkle, “and make sure no one hunts you down. My end of our bargain has been fully satisfied, perhaps earlier than either of us expected.”
The smell of blood rose in the air as dark-red pools formed around both Dunkle and his dog.
“Are you sure we can trust him?” Maria asked Emma, her gun aimed at Berg.
“We can, and we must,” Emma answered. “Let’s go.”
Their automobile peeled away as Berg checked Dunkle’s pulse, readying himself to confirm the time of death for his records.
—
Emma explained what had happened with Berg and the coin as Gottfried drove, keeping his eyes alert for any additional roadblocks just in case Berg reneged.
Neither Gottfried nor Maria had heard of the gold coins before.
“I’ve pried many secrets from senior authorities in the Third Reich,” Maria said, “and no one has ever mentioned any coins to me.”
Maria soon fell asleep, while Emma stayed up, staring out the window. She had arrived in Germany with an enormous set of challenges, and had already managed to take several steps backward.
She’d lost her valuable coin to Berg. She’d exposed Maria and Gottfried to Berg in a way that risked their lives and the secrecy of their underground activities if the officer failed to keep his word. Her arrival and the fact that she couldn’t shake her giant pursuer had led to a young officer’s death. She didn’t even know where she was supposed to meet Nash’s contact. In giving up the coin, she’d also lost her only means for credibly introducing herself to that contact if she managed to locate him.
Exhaustion finally overcame her and she, too, slept.
As the car entered Berlin, Gottfried pulled over abruptly, waking both of his passengers.
“What now?” Maria asked groggily.
Emma opened her eyes to find Gottfried looking at her.
“Sorry,” he said, without emotion.
She tried to avoid it by turning her body. But the shot hit her full on, slamming her against the car’s back seat.
Seconds later, she blacked out.
Chapter 22
Friday, September 29, 1944
3:00 p.m.—Berlin, Germany
Erhard Wolf strode to the corner of his office, reaching into a seldom used filing cabinet and pulling out a half-empty bottle of vodka that he’d been given as a gift years before by the then Russian ambassador to Germany.
Wolf didn’t drink much alcohol, but, when he did, vodka was always his favorite. After a brief and fruitless search for a clean glass, he decided that he didn’t need one now.
Bottle in hand, he fell into his worn leather chair, lifted his feet onto his messy desk, and swigged his first gulp. At other points in his career, he would have invited his colleagues to share a drink on such an occasion. But the nature of this particular celebration meant that no one else could know about it.
The phone call he had just finished came from his direct superior, Hans Kammler, apparently one of the few remaining Nazi leaders the beleaguered führer still entrusted with critical projects.
Kammler confirmed during their short conversation that Wolf’s presence would be required on Rügen Island, in the Baltic Sea, on the twelfth of
October. There was no need for Wolf to ask what would be occurring on such a remote area off Germany’s northern coast. He knew all too well.
He had been working toward a glorious opportunity like this one since his earliest exposure to science in high school—where Herr Hertz, his chemistry teacher, had never appreciated his desire to experiment with untested combinations of elements, compounds, and heat. Blowing up the science lab had been a mistake, but no one at his school understood that he was playing with ideas they couldn’t even begin to fathom. Reducing Herr Hertz’s car to a heap of white powder in the school parking lot had not been a mistake, especially since Wolf and his friends got to watch from a nearby window.
Despite several visits by his mother to see the principal, his formal ban from any form of science remained in place until he left high school.
Instead, Wolf had studied chemistry and physics at home with his brilliant grandfather, a self-taught reader, a gardener, and a pacifist. Sadly, Wolf’s Opa died just days before he learned that he’d been accepted into the prestigious Humboldt University, in Berlin, where he would go on to graduate as a gold medalist in science. He knew Opa would have been so proud. His father would never know of his accomplishments, either, since he was killed during the first war. His mother, however, was still alive.
Oh, I do miss you, Mama, he thought, gazing at her picture.
His eyes drifted to the other dozen framed yellowed photographs on his stark walls, settling on one of his wife and children.
He lamented never being able to reveal to his loved ones the true nature of his clandestine efforts for Hitler and Kammler, and the fact that his work was likely Germany’s best hope for ending a brutal, miscalculated war.
He’d received another piece of good news during the Kammler call: the Allies wouldn’t be testing their atom bomb for another six to nine months, which put them well behind Wolf’s timelime for completing Germany’s weapon—a stunning reversal.
What we’ve accomplished!
It was at a dinner party in early 1942 that Kammler had pushed him through a crowd of people to introduce him—and his idea—to the führer. Wolf, hands trembling at first, told Hitler that he thought Germany’s efforts to create a uranium bomb were “unfortunate.”
“Echt? Warum?” Hitler responded, motioning abruptly for Wolf to explain himself.
Wolf pointed out that, among other mistakes, some of the führer’s scientists were wasting time by converting uranium to gas and painstakingly isolating highly volatile isotopes through finer and finer filters. Instead, Wolf laid out a simpler approach, which might allow Germany to catch up to, and possibly overtake, the Allies—who were reportedly making strong progress on a bomb of their own.
The scientist had held up his glass of mixed ice and vodka. Hitler watched him with concern, perhaps thinking him mad. But as he swirled his drink faster and faster, and the heavy ice shifted from the middle to the outside of the glass, becoming stuck to its sides, the führer suddenly laughed.
“Genie!” the führer cried.
It wasn’t the first time Wolf had been called a genius, but it would be the only time it truly mattered. Hitler embraced him. His project was born.
That night, the Vodka Project became the code name for Wolf’s attempts to isolate the elusive uranium-235 isotope. He planned to use an accelerated centrifugal sorter, separating this rare form of uranium from other uranium isotopes through microscopic differences in their weight. He’d also construct an Uranmaschine to then split open the U-235 isotope and release its neutrons in a controlled way, one of which would be absorbed by the U-238 isotope, creating a U-239 isotope—which, if everything worked as Wolf envisioned, would ultimately turn into element 94, an entirely new element—weapons-grade, once enough of it had been harvested.
“This material, if used properly, can lie at the core of a weapon that is smaller and more powerful than anything your team has ever dreamed of,” a beaming Wolf assured Hitler, who looked to Wolf as if he’d just won the war. Kammler had seemed even happier than the führer.
Hitler promised to supply the uranium, and Wolf promised to play the role of alchemist, spinning the führer’s scarce uranium into something much more valuable than gold.
Now, Wolf reflected, almost three years after that exchange of promises, Hitler’s faith in him and Kammler—as the leader of this top-secret nuclear initiative—had paid off handsomely.
In just two weeks’ time, Wolf’s creation—the world’s first functioning atomic bomb—would be tested to see whether it was ready for launch.
—
A couple of hours after finishing off his bottle of vodka, Erhard Wolf tearfully kissed the photographs of his family on the wall and decided that it was time to go home. He didn’t like sleeping here at work, because his lungs became congested from the dampness and grittiness in the air, causing him to cough for days.
Wolf unbolted the door to his office, and as he did so a military figure in a grayish-green uniform on the other side shot to his feet, greeting him with a full salute.
Wolf nodded, limply lifting his hand in return and slowly making his way from his office, up some stairs, and along a cool rocky corridor, his young guard never far behind. After several minutes, the corridor took a sharp turn upward, its concrete floor turning to gravel and ending at a large, heavy metal door. The SS guard moved ahead of Wolf, unlocked the door, and swung it open for the scientist and him to exit outside, carefully locking the door behind them.
Wolf breathed in the fresh air as he shuffled along the dark dirt path, a twelve-foot-high metal fence running down either side, topped by rolls of barbed wire, none of which were detectable from overhead, especially among the trees.
In another hundred yards, he’d be home—a small, black single-story house with a cat and few other comforts, all surrounded by another barbed-wire perimeter.
When he’d negotiated with Hitler and Kammler over the details of his work—including the huge amounts of electricity and the large supporting team he’d require—Wolf had assumed that his personal needs would be well satisfied to keep him happy and productive. As it turned out, however, the Nazi leaders had taken a different approach. They clearly wanted nothing, including any family members, to distract one of their leading scientists from his urgent task.
Halfway down the path toward his home, Wolf turned, teetering briefly as he did so, and forcing his guard to stop abruptly.
Wolf gazed back at the soaring massive outline of the mountain he’d just exited, the moon shining brightly behind its craggy peak.
His superior had significant flaws. But Hans Kammler’s decision to embed their top-secret atomic project inside the base of a granite mountain hundreds of miles southeast of Berlin was, well, brilliant, the scientist reflected through his vodka haze. The inner workings of this mountain—and several other European peaks strung out across Nazi-controlled regions—represented the kind of strategic genius that won wars.
Chapter 23
Friday, September 29, 1944
8:15 p.m.—Berlin, Germany
Where the hell am I?
Emma pushed the wool blankets aside. Her mouth felt dry, her head heavy. She rose slowly to her feet, leaning against the bed for support, her eyes trying to adjust to the darkness. From the cool air rushing up her legs, she could tell that she was still in her short silk dress. She couldn’t see her rucksack anywhere.
She touched her chest lightly. It hurt, as if she’d been punched hard. She remembered being shot—with a tranquilizer gun, she surmised.
They don’t want me to know where I am.
She made her way toward the light under the door and stood against a damp wall, listening to the argument that had awakened her.
“I think she needs to leave immediately,” said a female voice.
“Why?” asked a man who sounded like Gottfried.
“Because she p
uts us all in danger,” the woman responded sharply.
“Really, Ursula?” Emma recognized Maria’s voice. “As though we’re not in enough danger already? If Hitler truly has this disintegration bomb and we can’t stop him, this war is over and we’ll all be dead anyway.”
Another man now intervened, his voice low but not as deep as Gottfried’s.
“Maria—Ursula and I don’t doubt the importance of this mission. What we’re arguing is that it’s too important for an amateur. One of us can meet Nash’s Red Hat instead of her. We don’t need your cousin’s help now. She’s told you everything she knows. Why risk having her here?”
“Because she knows more than you give her credit for,” Maria countered. “She also knows Nash—and has been training with him. And you can bet his contact here will test Emma to confirm her link to him when he doesn’t show up himself. I don’t think anyone other than Emma could pass that test by tomorrow morning. Do you?” she asked. There was silence.
Emma took her cue, feeling for the door, which she realized was actually a sliding wood panel. She pushed it aside on its runners and stood squinting into the light.
The smell of broth and fresh bread filled the moist air around her.
“I believe I heard my name,” Emma said, pushing a smile onto her creased face. She moved into the dimly lit room, trying not to be self-conscious of her rumpled appearance as the group surveyed her for the first time.
“Well, if it isn’t our Sleeping Beauty,” Gottfried boomed. He sat around a table with Maria and five others, who briefly nodded their greetings, most of them looking back down at their beers afterward.
“Emma,” Maria said, “you’ve been asleep for about fourteen hours.”
“Tranquilizer guns seem to have that effect on me,” Emma said.
She scanned her new surroundings, certain that she’d never before seen a space like this.
Maria’s gang had gathered for dinner in a large, dank concrete room with closed curtains, the only light coming from two table lamps in opposite corners and a shaded bulb hanging from the kitchen ceiling beyond. Rust from old nails seeped through the concrete at different points, discoloring its pocked, rough gray surface.
Weapons of Peace Page 20
