Weapons of Peace

by Johnston, Peter D. ;

  “I assume Hitler didn’t want to invite a counterattack with the Allies’ own nerve agents?”

  “Exactly. He fears retaliation. With any weapon, he wants a clear advantage. Hitler could put Tabun in a rocket today, but I doubt that he will. I’d guess he now thinks he has just two distinct advantages: our V-2 rockets and Sicke’s dirty bomb.”

  “In that case,” Emma said, “what if Sicke were quietly directed to launch such a bomb—could he and a small team do that on their own to lower the odds of anyone stopping them?”

  “In theory, yes,” Magnus said. “In practice, it’s very unlikely. First, he’d need one of our rockets, which we keep tightly guarded. Then, he’d somehow have to move his rocket close enough to an enemy city to be within range—which is almost impossible now with the Allies closing in on all sides. And, finally, since he’s not an expert in rocketry the chances of his bomb actually exploding on impact, and as targeted, are remote at best.”

  “Wait. Did you say ‘exploding on impact’?”

  “Yes.”

  “I don’t think that’s Sicke’s plan. I’ve heard him say on the phone that his bomb will explode above its target—before impact.”

  “Not feasible.”

  “But I’ve heard him refer to some kind of midair explosion several times now.”

  Magnus went quiet, slowly shaking his head. “Are you absolutely sure?”

  “One hundred percent.”

  He stared at her. “If that’s true, they’ve developed a new ability without telling us.” He bit his lip. “The warheads that Wernher and I use only explode on impact. What you’re talking about is a sensing rocket that detonates at a pre-set distance from its target, projecting its payload over a much larger area and causing exponentially more damage. Our own team at one point had been making progress on a sensing rocket along with a longer-range missile. But our leading expert on that project, Heinz Stark, was killed during a British bombing raid in Munich. Without his knowledge, we never had the resources to start over.”

  “What if Sicke did somehow replicate Stark’s work on the sensing rocket, what kind of damage would a dirty bomb on a rocket like that do?”

  “It’s never been done before, so I’d just be guessing.”

  “Stop being a scientist,” she said. “All I want is a rough estimate.”

  “Okay,” Magnus said, gazing across the sky at more plumes of smoke as he did the calculations in his head. He turned back to her. “A bomb like this, exploding over any city, might destroy a ten-by-ten-block section—while causing major damage to the same-sized area on all four sides of that decimated section. The radiation could render all these blocks unlivable for a generation—at least.”

  Emma stared at Magnus, adding her own basic math to his. “So, if I understand you correctly, even a poor imitation of a disintegration bomb could cripple an area totaling some five hundred square blocks? Likely killing hundreds of thousands from its explosive force or from the radiation afterward? With any survivors being forced away from their homes for a lifetime? Is that what you’re saying?”

  She was hoping, desperately hoping, that she’d misunderstood.

  He paused. “Maybe . . . possibly . . . but only if well executed,” he stuttered.

  “We have our answer, then,” she said. “We know exactly what Sicke plans to attempt. We just don’t know how, where . . . or when.”

  Chapter 40

  Saturday, March 24, 1945

  6:40 p.m.—Max Sicke’s Mansion, Berlin

  After dinner, Emma watched Sicke leave his large, somber dining room, heading no doubt for his customary evening walk around the neighborhood, nestled away in Berlin’s north end.

  She informed Frannie that she was feeling ill, and Frannie readily agreed to cover her for cleanup while she went upstairs to lie down. Before going upstairs, though, she nipped into the library, closing the door behind her. She ran behind Sicke’s desk, flicking a switch she’d installed on the back of his radio to power up the receiver and the transmitter she’d managed to fit inside the radio’s wooden exterior. Her equipment sat right beside the actual receiver that brought hours of news and music into the scientist’s life each day.

  In her bedroom one floor up, Emma took out the apparatus she’d borrowed from Maria. She plugged it into the wall and listened. Nothing. Surprising, since she hadn’t changed the frequency. She tried turning the dial, searching for the transmitter she’d just turned on in Sicke’s office. Nothing. She kept spinning the dial, faster and faster. What’s going on? There had been increasing static recently as she tuned in to Sicke’s calls, and now the transmitter wasn’t working at all for some reason. Probably a loose wire. Whatever had gone awry, the timing was lousy. She knew he had an important call that night.

  From her bag she pulled a screwdriver and a set of thin-nosed pliers, placing them in her apron pocket. She jammed the rest of her electronic equipment back into the bag and covered it with clothes, returning the bag to the back of her closet.

  Emma ran to the lead-paned window, looking out at the darkening surroundings. Sicke wasn’t anywhere to be seen. She knew that meant he hadn’t even begun to make his way back down the street toward his home, and calculated that she had seven to ten minutes to complete her maintenance task.

  She raced out of her room, down the hardwood stairs, along a hallway, and into his magohany-paneled library. To her left, the wall was covered with maps of Sicke’s Ore Mountain facility, while directly ahead lay his large desk, a long wing of the library branching off to its right.

  She once again closed the door behind her, moved to the radio, pulled it away from the wall, and began unscrewing its wooden encasement.

  She looked up, thinking that she might have heard Sicke’s voice down the hall.

  Impossible. He couldn’t be back this soon.

  She listened, not moving, heart pounding. She heard his voice again.

  He must have never left the house!

  His voice grew louder, barking orders at Frannie. He was almost at the door to his study.

  Emma pushed the radio back up against the wall, looked around, and ran.

  The door opened slowly, its hinges groaning. She heard his footsteps crossing the floor, disappearing into the fine silk Indian rug that his desk sat on. She winced, smelling the burning cigar in his hand.

  She stood, her back against the wall, in a small nook halfway down the row of bookshelves that lined the wing, barely out of his line of sight. She calmed her breathing so that he wouldn’t hear her—and so that she could think rationally about her next move.

  Defense first.

  She removed the screwdriver from her apron pocket and gripped it tightly by her side. As she’d often done when feeling nervous or exposed in Sicke’s home, she reached under her hair at the back of her neck and gently touched the area, soothing herself.

  She listened as he placed his call, the phone dial spinning with each turn of his finger.

  —

  Toward the end of Max Sicke’s hourlong phone conversation with his superior, Hans Kammler, Emma felt her heart racing again as it tried to keep pace with her brain.

  As tough-minded as she’d become in the previous six months, ready for anything, she hadn’t been prepared for the news she just heard.

  So be it. I’ll just have to do this on my own.

  Ten minutes after Sicke had finished his call, Emma heard him rise from his desk. She strained to listen for the sound of his steps leaving the rug and striking the black wooden floor on his way out the door. That sound didn’t come.

  What’s he up to?

  Sicke had been about to leave the library when he caught himself, stopping halfway to the door. He raised his nose.

  He’d finished his cigar midway through his conversation with Kammler. Without the fog of smoke clouding his senses, he’d picked up on anoth
er scent, one he surely recognized.

  Pure vanilla.

  But he couldn’t fathom why he could smell her from so far away. His mind had to be playing tricks on him—given his plans for her that night.

  He had already told Frannie to find another place in the house to sleep, swearing her to secrecy.

  Yes, that must be it, he reflected. I smell her because I’m anticipating what’s to come.

  He continued toward the door, his slight frame turning suddenly, a smile creeping across his lips. His sense of smell hadn’t foresaken him.

  She must be here in my office. But why?

  He walked back to his desk, pulled a small key from under the blotter, and opened the top drawer, retrieving his revolver. He walked purposely across the carpet and the wood floor. He switched off the light at the door and left the room—slipping back in at the last second before actually shutting the door.

  He crept toward where she was hiding, the scent of her drawing him closer.

  —

  Emma’s eyes flew open when she felt her arms being yanked and bent awkwardly over her head, sending bolts of pain down both sides of her body.

  She stared up at Sicke, who was handcuffing her to vertical steel rods at the head of the bed on which she lay exposed.

  She wanted to shout out, but her vocal cords weren’t responding. She spun her head around to scan her surroundings, the rapid movement causing a wave of nausea.

  The sparsely furnished, concrete room was dimly lit, its ceiling padded with some kind of white insulation, making it stuffy and hard to breathe. She could see simple amenities—a small lamp, an alarm clock, and an old photo of a couple she recognized as his parents.

  Most surprising to her were the images of Christ above her head and on the opposite wall, and the Bible on the bedside table. Nowhere else in the entire house were there any signs of religious belief.

  “I like handcuffs,” he said to her, smiling. “For pleasure, and for pain.”

  She wanted to call him a freak and scream, but she still couldn’t speak, her throat parched, aching, and rendered inactive. She felt trapped inside her own body.

  She needed to think. The sharp scent of dried urine rose from the mattress, and her upper lip curled in revulsion. Her right temple hurt. Something had happened in Sicke’s library, but she couldn’t remember what, exactly. He’d obviously hit her and strangled her. She felt tears coursing down her face and tried to brush them off by pushing her outstretched biceps up against her cheek. Instead of tears, she saw blood on the sleeve of her black maid’s dress.

  “Don’t bother trying to yell, Emma,” Sicke said softly. He’d always spoken to her politely, and continued to do so even in these circumstances, she noted.

  “This chamber is soundproof,” he continued. “And, even if someone could hear you, they know not to bother me down here. They certainly never interrupted my time with Ania—rest her soul.” Emma recoiled. “Oh, so sorry Emma. I’d forgotten that you and Ania got to know each other a little. She seemed so resilient, didn’t she? Who would have thought she couldn’t survive the radiation blast from my baby’s second test? After all, she was a mile away.” He laughed.

  Emma had suspected that Ania was dead. She’d known his former maid more than just a little. They had actually become quite close.

  Now I know what this crazy asshole did to her.

  Sicke’s laugh kept escalating, sparking Emma’s memory as she tried to gather her jumbled thoughts. She remembered beginning to make her way in the dark toward the door in the library, thinking he had left the room, when she bumped into something and screamed.

  He’d laughed the same way then, high-pitched and cackling, just before hitting her. His hands gripped her neck as she lay on the carpet, where she soon lost consciousness.

  Now she was strapped to his bed. She’d sworn never to be unprepared again after Dieter’s assault the night she lost Axel. And here she was. She looked down at herself, taking in her disheveled uniform and her ripped stockings. He’d removed her shoes. Her mind went to Nash and his lessons—searching.

  Sicke had taken a pair of scissors out. Her eyes grew wide, his more so.

  He moved to her side and started cutting.

  He began with the material at the bottom of her dress, slicing up past her hip, meticulously avoiding any cuts to her skin, all the way up to her shoulder and neck. He yanked sharply at the material and pulled it away, her undergarments still in place. His eyes bulged. She’d chosen not to resist. She knew that she could fight mightily with her legs as needed, targeting his groin and hopefully disabling him in one move, but for now she wanted to try a different approach. She would target his interests instead.

  “So, what were you doing in my library? Spying on me?” he asked as he sat at the edge of the bed, removing one of his own shoes.

  “Spying? No!” Emma answered hoarsely, finally managing to work her sore vocal cords. “I am so sorry. I thought you’d gone for your walk. I was looking for a book.”

  “Which book, and why?” he asked, intrigued by her answer.

  “Nothing in particular. There are so many beautiful books in your collection.”

  “Thank you,” he said.

  “I suppose any book with words and pictures, you know, that might help me learn to read better,” she said, the pace of her speech accelerating, her brain recovering from the blow to her head. “Then you arrived and I panicked, thinking you might be mad—so I hid. Now I have a bad headache, I can’t feel any part of my body, and I’m exhausted. I need to sleep. What time is it?”

  “It’s past 2:00 a.m.” Sicke had waited until the last of his servants was in bed, long after midnight, before dragging her out of the library, through the hallway, and down the stairs into the basement.

  “Why don’t you stop taking off your clothes and come and kiss me,” she said with a smile.

  “Really? You want to kiss me?” he asked, smirking.

  “Why wouldn’t I?” she answered softly. “You’re brilliant, handsome, and about to make history.” Her last words caught him off guard.

  “You heard everything, then?”

  “Well, I had nothing else to do and why wouldn’t I want to listen to such plans for our great nation? With your weapon, we Germans will rule the world. People will finally see everything you’ve achieved.”

  He grinned. “You’re right.”

  “Come and kiss me.”

  He moved toward her, his hands shaking, their lips meeting briefly. She pulled away.

  “Now, I want both of us to sleep. No playing right now,” she said. “You should be well rested for the launch today. Come and lie beside me and we’ll sleep together. Once you’ve delivered your bomb to its target, you can return to me. We can celebrate what you’ve accomplished for our country and our führer. All right?” She winked as she yawned.

  Defense first. Don’t rush. Focus. Stay calm. Stay patient. Weaken him. Strengthen yourself. Let him think he has the power. Pick the timing that favors you. Be collaborative, clear about your intentions—provocable—and forgiving.

  He tried to kiss her again, hard. She bit his lip, hard, while jutting her knee firmly into his lower stomach as he tried to mount her. He fell backward, swearing. He slapped her.

  She laughed. “I like it when a man gets rough, but it will be better tomorrow. I have to sleep. Believe me, you’ll prefer me well rested, without a headache, when I can play with you. Maybe we can even find some toys to make our playtime that much more enjoyable,” she cooed.

  Sicke had reveled in using the toys hidden in his library to get to know Ania better. Perhaps he could wait a little longer to claim his newest prize. She was fiestier than he’d expected, much more so than Ania, and reining her in would require the energy he needed for the morning. Handcuffed to the bed, she wouldn’t be going anywhere.

  Upon hi
s triumphant return, she and her vanilla scent would be his, like a shining trophy, a reward for his brilliant feat—one that no other scientist had ever achieved: using a single bomb to destroy the heart of an enemy city teeming with life.

  His bomb would turn the war back in Germany’s favor, less than half an hour after being launched. This first one wouldn’t be perfect, but it would be enough to slow the attacks, giving him time to achieve perfection in the weeks and months ahead—at which point, of course, this young creature lying beside him would no longer be alive.

  Ania had suffered for her impertinence. This blond plaything would be no different. After he’d had his fill of frolicking in bed, he’d kill her for resisting his first advances.

  Fifteen minutes later, Emma and Sicke lay together, her head up against the top of the bed, their legs overlapping. He was fast asleep, but her eyes were still open, her mind churning through her unfolding plan in spite of the pain pulsing through her arms from how he’d handcuffed her wrists to the bars just behind her head.

  With a little maneuvering, she managed to bend her wrists back toward her so that she could touch her fingers to the nape of her neck.

  Perfect.

  She smiled in the dark, debating whether to kill him now or later. She decided to stay patient and stick to her plan.

  Little did Sicke suspect that, when he left before the sun rose, she’d be right behind him.

  Chapter 41

  Sunday, March 25, 1945

  6:15 a.m.—Max Sicke’s Mansion, Berlin

  Emma listened carefully as the car that came to collect Sicke pulled away from the pebbled driveway outside his basement chamber.

  Only when there was absolute silence did she begin to move.

  In less than a minute, she had freed herself from his handcuffs and was ready to head upstairs to gather everything she’d need for her trip to Sicke’s warren, buried deep in the Ore Mountains.

  Thank you, Ania.

  —

  A few weeks after she’d begun to work for Max Sicke, Emma heard someone crying in his library.