Thirst No. 5: The Sacred Veil

by Christopher Pike

  “I love him, such a natural baritone,” I reply in German, knowing the general enjoys my near-perfect accent. I distort it slightly in his presence so as not to appear a superwoman. “He was born to play Giovanni. The way he flirted with Donna Anna the moment they met. Such a scoundrel. Then he kills her father!”

  “That girl’s a rare soprano. I wonder if she’d enjoy singing in Berlin.”

  I poke the general in the chest. “Is singing all you would have her do in Berlin?” I ask.

  Straffer laughs and drains his wine. “Alys! Give me some credit. She can’t be sixteen years old.”

  I lean near so he can’t see my roaming eyes and fix his collar, all the while searching for Major Klein. I must keep track of him. I can’t let him sneak up on us. Yet . . . I’ve lost him in the crowd, and I chide myself. I don’t often lose people. He’s a squirrel, that bastard. I hope he has returned to his seat. The intermission is almost over.

  I yawn as I lean into Straffer.

  “Tired, Alys?” he asks.

  “A little. It was a grueling day.”

  He frowns. “Why do you work at that clinic? There are others who can do your job.”

  “I enjoy the work. It helps me to help people.” I put a hand to my mouth to stifle another yawn. “Oh, forgive me, I think I drank too much wine. I’d better sit down.”

  “If you’re exhausted, we don’t have to stay for the second half.”

  “No! I couldn’t do that to you. You’ve been looking forward to the opera all week.”

  He grips my hands and stares at me with great tenderness. “It’s you I’ve been looking forward to. Come, we both know how the story ends. We miss nothing by leaving now. And we’ll have more time to ourselves.”

  “Thank you, Hans,” I say as I kiss his cheek. I play it smooth, we head for the door. Good. I didn’t like the odds of accidentally running into Major Klein.

  However, I feel I’m being watched as we exit the foyer. As an ancient predator, I’m sensitive to being hunted. Yet it is still remarkable how clearly I feel this pair of eyes focused on the back of my head. I can’t put a name to the gaze. I only know that the mind behind it is black.

  General Straffer’s house used to belong to a famous jeweler—a shrewd but witty Jew named Arthur Gold, ha!—who had the good sense to flee to New York with a suitcase of diamonds before the Germans swept around the Maginot Line and conquered France. Straffer keeps only one maid, who doubles as a cook. His private life is relatively austere.

  Except when it comes to sex.

  We make love for an hour before he lights our cigars and pours two brandies. He likes that I can hold my liquor. He likes everything about me.

  General Straffer is a great admirer of General Patton. To prod Straffer to talk about the Allies—and consequently how the Germans plan to deal with the Allies—I usually only have to bring up Patton. Straffer goes on from there. Tonight is no different.

  “It’s silly that Eisenhower is trying to convince the press that Patton is not going to lead the invasion of the continent,” Straffer says as we lounge on his balcony in warm robes. He enjoys the fresh air but the sky is cloudy. A storm approaches—a storm that might delay the invasion.

  “He struck his own men,” I say. “The Allies take that seriously. Patton may have swept through Sicily but I’ve seen the American press. I read a copy of the New York Times that is only a week old. They are calling for Patton to be court-martialed.”

  Straffer snorts and waves his cigar. “He hit the cowards because they wouldn’t fight. If they had been my men I would have had them shot. No, Eisenhower has ordered Patton to hobnob around London to deceive us. To make it look like Patton is not preparing his army to invade. But the two are old friends. Eisenhower would not court-martial his most brilliant general just because Patton lost his temper. The idea is so ridiculous I don’t know why they expect us to fall for it.”

  Straffer is wrong, not about the impending invasion but about Patton’s role in it. Patton is not slated to lead any army. The American press has indeed been roasting Patton for striking two men who were cringing behind lines with the seriously wounded. I know because I spoke to Patton personally. He was fuming over the incident. He swore he had just been trying to help the men find their guts to fight. He could not believe that he had been demoted. It’s no wonder the Germans think it is all a scam.

  “The press does not speak for the ordinary American,” I say, acting like I agree with Straffer. “The public expects more great things from Patton.”

  Straffer nods sadly. “His victories will mean our defeat.” He stops to drink his brandy. “If only the Führer would listen to Rommel’s demand for the mines.”

  “But the last time we talked, you said fifty million mines were being placed behind the beaches.”

  Hitler does not believe for a second that the Allies will try to storm the beaches of Normandy. He is convinced the attack will come via a strong natural harbor. Pas de Calais—the spot Anton fed to the Gestapo under torture—is the closest harbor to England. On the surface it appears the logical place to strike but Eisenhower rejected it for that very reason.

  Reading Eisenhower’s mind, General Rommel rejected it as well. He is obsessed with fortifying the beaches of Normandy. But it sounds like he is getting a lot less help than I thought. This is important news.

  Straffer groans at my remark. “Fifty million? Rommel hasn’t been able to convince Hitler to place a fraction of that number. If the Americans and British take the beaches, there will be nothing to stop them from setting up a beachhead.”

  I chuckle. “My favorite general exaggerates. Rommel has an eye on Calais and Normandy. And he has control of the panzers. There’s no way the Americans will be able to rush tanks over the beaches in the first wave of the attacks. Rommel will chew them up.”

  Straffer eyes me critically. “You make it sound like you might welcome such an outcome. Don’t you want to be rescued from us bloodthirsty Nazis?”

  I smile and blow smoke in his face. “I’ve never lied to you about where my loyalty lies. I hope Patton kicks Rommel’s ass. I’m merely stating a fact. Hitler’s in Berlin, or else in his hideout in the Alps. Rommel is here and he’s in control. There’s no way the Americans can bring in their tanks until they establish a beachhead. Rommel’s not going to give them that chance.” I take a swallow of brandy. “I’m not worried. The Americans will just have to find another way to invade. Greece, perhaps.”

  Straffer is a long time answering. He stares out at the night. We are sheltered on the porch but a light drizzle has begun to fall. The general shivers but it does not appear to be from the cold.

  “Control of the panzers has been taken from Rommel,” he says.

  I chuckle. “You’re teasing. That’s worse than the Americans saying they’re going to court-martial their best general.”

  “It is true. Hitler no longer trusts Rommel. He’s losing his mind—he trusts no one. If an attack comes, Rommel won’t be able to make a move without Hitler’s consent.”

  “If an attack comes, Rommel will be given all the support he needs.”

  Straffer stares at me. “You know, I have been given an order to destroy this city if the Allies ever try to enter it. Level the Eiffel Tower, the Louvre—every important structure.”

  I gasp. I am honestly shocked. “You’ve never told me that.”

  “It’s true. The explosives can be placed in hours. Less.”

  “Would you do it?”

  “I have been ordered to do it.” He stops and turns back to the skyline. “But no, it would be madness. To me, Paris is the most beautiful city in the world. I’d never allow my name to go down in history as the one who ruined it.”

  I study Straffer. His mood is pensive, unusual after such good sex. “You’re upset. You’re trying to tell me something else. You’re saying . . . you know the Allies are going to win.”

  “Of course they are going to win! The die was cast the day Japan attacked Pearl
Harbor and dragged America into the war. What a fool’s errand that was. We could never match America’s industrial capacity. We make a hundred airplanes a day. They make two thousand. We’ve never stood a chance.”

  “We’ve had this argument before. Something else is upsetting you.”

  He shrugs. “It’s nothing.”

  “Tell me.”

  “Rommel’s gone. He’s gone home to see his wife.”

  “You’re joking. Now? He would never leave at a time like this,”

  “He has. Tonight at the opera I spoke to Speidel, his chief of staff. He told me Rommel’s already left.”

  “But why?”

  Straffer sighs. “Our finest meteorologists assure us that the English Channel will be impassable for the next few days. They say the Allies would be insane to launch an attack. Their ships would sink before they reached the French coast.”

  “Sounds reasonable,” I say. “Why so gloomy?”

  “Because it is reasonable! But Eisenhower is a gambler—he knows when to take a calculated risk. Every storm has its peaks and valleys. He will look for a lull in the weather. Then he will attack, I’m sure of it. And he will attack where we least expect. He will hit Normandy.”

  I nod. “He will do the last thing the Germans expect.”

  “Worse. He will do it when we least expect.” Straffer stares at the burning tip of his cigar as if it represents the forces under his command. He is definitely convinced of his beliefs. He expects everything he has worked for to go up in smoke.

  I, on the other hand, can hardly contain my excitement. If the Allies know Rommel is no longer in France, that essentially no one who can even argue with Hitler is in control, they will not postpone the attack no matter how bad the weather.

  I must get the information to my contact in the Allies. But I fear to use the Resistance to get it to them. Not because I don’t trust Anton. He would never betray his people. Unfortunately, the Resistance is not as tight as he believes. There are spies close to him. I know because Straffer often knows things he shouldn’t know. Although I’ve tried to warn Anton of the leaks, he sees my fears as paranoia, rooted in my lack of faith in the French. He’s very proud and doesn’t take criticism well.

  There’s no choice. I have to go to London tonight.

  But I can’t take a plane, even a small boat. Despite the fact that the Germans are not expecting an attack in the next week, the coast is too closely guarded.

  I’ll have to swim across the English Channel.

  Straffer has gotten his worst fears off his chest. Even if he suspects me of being a spy—which I think he sometimes does—he believes there is nothing I could do with the information he has supplied. For one thing, he knows no one would believe it.

  I stand and lead him back to bed. I kiss him as if I’m ready for a final round but he pats my naked bottom and wishes me sweet dreams. He’s asleep in minutes.

  I’m out of his house moments later.

  The best way to get to the coast is a question mark. Lieutenant Jakob Baum is Straffer’s personal assistant and often drives me home at night. The advantage of using Jakob is he’ll be able to get me through the many roadblocks that lie between Paris and Normandy. Hypnotizing him to obey me will not be a problem. But once he’s deep in a trance, he might have trouble driving, never mind answering questions from the soldiers who are going to want to know what we’re doing out so late.

  Yet I can see no other alternative.

  Jakob—I call him that when we’re alone—has a flat near Straffer’s house. I knock on his door and find him up, listening to music on the radio. He’s happy to see me; the odd hour does not surprise him. He assumes I’ve come for a ride. He invites me in and slips on his boots before I can say a word. It’s while he’s sitting that I take the opportunity to gaze deep into his eyes.

  Even though Jakob has a threatening demeanor, he’s a child at heart, which makes him susceptible to the wild fire in my eyes and silky softness of my voice. We’re on the road shortly, and if I have to occasionally grab the steering wheel to keep us from ending up in a ditch, it’s all right with me.

  We go through a half dozen roadblocks with no difficulty. I make sure that Jakob keeps his answers short and brisk. And, after all, Jakob is an officer and German soldiers hate to question authority. I’m hopeful I’ll be able to send him home without incident.

  I do not get my wish. Two hundred yards from Omaha Beach, so close to the sea that the noise of the crashing waves sounds like thunder, we encounter a roadblock staffed with a dozen soldiers. One of who happens to be a captain checking up on his men. It’s this captain that has to give the final okay to let us pass. He sticks his head in the driver’s window while another soldier shines a flashlight over his shoulder. The light is blinding, although Jakob stares into it without blinking—not the least suspicious move on his part. It’s not his fault. I have him so dazed he could stare at the sun for an hour straight.

  “What business do you have out here?” the captain demands. He’s as young as Jakob’s twenty-two years but hard as a rocket shell. Jakob gives his standard answer.

  “My name is Lieutenant Jakob Baum, General Straffer’s chief aide. We are on an important mission for the general. Please let us pass.”

  “What is your important mission?” the captain demands.

  “It is top secret and time sensitive. You must let us pass.”

  “Who is this woman you have with you? She looks like a girl.”

  “I am Alys Perne,” I speak sharply in rough German. I cannot pass myself off as German, because the papers I carry say I’m French. “I am no girl. Check the lieutenant’s papers. You have no reason to stop him.”

  “I’m more interested in you than him. Get out of the car.”

  “Why?”

  “I said get out of the car!”

  I lean over and whisper in Jakob’s ear. “If I don’t return, drive to your flat and forget all about tonight. You never saw me tonight. Repeat.”

  “I never saw you tonight,” he mumbles.

  I get out of the car and stroll around it to confront the captain. I’d hypnotize him as well but he’s surrounded by too many of his men. A few are suspicious. They stand with their rifles held ready. The captain, he has the cruel face of a street punk, demands to see my papers. I hand them over and he studies them in the lightly falling rain, obviously not caring that he’s ruining what he must assume is my sole form of identification.

  This one I don’t like.

  This one I would like to kill.

  “What is a French bitch like you doing here?” he asks.

  I shrug. “Lieutenant Baum told you. I’m here on behalf of General Hans Straffer. I’m sure you know the general. He’s a personal friend of mine, and I doubt he’ll be happy to hear how you’ve treated me.” I pause. “Bastard.”

  The men laugh and the captain flashes a cold smile. “You are not here on top-secret business. The Third Reich doesn’t use French bitches except for one thing. Now, tell me what you are up to or I’ll shoot you where you stand.”

  A half dozen men point their rifles at my head and heart.

  I catch the captain’s eyes. The fire in my gaze is like a volcano about to erupt. He winces as I speak. “I’ll tell you what you want to know but we must speak in private,” I say softly.

  “God!” he gasps. He raises his hand as if I’ve shone a bright light in his eyes. I know he feels head pressure. I can only hope he will obey. He waves me toward a well-lit shack—it appears to be a hastily constructed office—twenty yards off the road.

  The captain’s men act uneasy but he stops them with a sharp retort when one questions what he’s doing. “I’ll speak to her in private,” he says.

  Unfortunately, there are three men in the office, all lieutenants. They sit around a table drinking coffee and studying maps of the local area. The maps show where thousands of mines have been set, as well as mark where every machine gun and mortar nest, plus heavy gun placements, is h
idden. The Americans would die to hold such charts.

  The captain orders me to take a seat.

  “No,” I say. “I have to go.”

  He is amused. “And where do you think you’re going?”

  “London,” I say as I leap up and smash the overhead light with my fist. Simultaneously I kick the captain in the face, sending the whole of his nasal cavity into his brain, and with the other foot I kick the nearest seated lieutenant in the back of his head, breaking his upper neck. Landing on top of the table, I kill the final two men with my feet. The entire operation takes less than a second and I make little noise. Outside, the soldiers by the road notice nothing amiss. After collecting the maps into a tight roll, I find a perfectly sized waterproof container to put them in.

  I exit out the back door and run to the Omaha Beach cliffs. Straffer might feel the beaches are not well protected but I’m not so sure. There are a half dozen pillboxes—concrete structures, all lined with narrow windows that peer toward the restless water. The machine-gun barrels are not visible but it will take only minutes to mount and load them. The Americans who land at this beach will face an inferno of bullets.

  They will face something else if they’re not careful. The tide is out, and I see that large, jagged mines have been placed all along the edge of the water. In other words, if the American transport vessels come in at high tide—which I assume they will so the men will have less beach to cover before they attack the machine-gun nests—the ships will strike the mines before they can even deposit their men on the sand.

  There are countless mines. They can be avoided if visible, but it will be a suicide run if they’re not. Just another detail I have to get to the Allies.

  I pin my hair back in a ponytail, kick off my boots, and hide my black leather coat in the sand. The tube holding the maps I pin to my back beneath my belt. The night is black as ink and I doubt any snipers will see me. Still, I sprint over the sand as fast as I can before diving into the crashing waves.