by Bill Walker
The guard then checked “Heinrich Abelard” against a list of names on a nearby clipboard. Suddenly the man straightened up, his eyes filled with newfound respect.
Mueller leaned toward the guard. “Act normal, you fool,” he whispered.
The guard stiffened, glanced around him quickly to be sure that no one else had heard, and then began shouting. “Why can’t you get a job in your own country, you shirker! Go on and go before I turn you over to Stasi!”
Barely suppressing a smile, Mueller walked through the gate and marched across the no-man’s-land to the American side of the checkpoint. He showed the MP his papers and was waved through. He walked straight down the street until he was out of sight of the checkpoint, then turned into a small side street. The black BMW was waiting, its engine idling. He climbed into the back and the driver turned to face him. “Any trouble?” he asked.
Mueller shrugged. “Nothing I couldn’t handle.”
The driver laughed, put the car in gear and swung away from the curb. A moment later it was lost in the crush of the late afternoon traffic.
They were being followed.
He was sure of it. Ever since leaving the convalescent home in East Grinstead, Michael had not been able to shake the feeling that someone was watching them. It made his skin tingle, as if touched by a small charge of electricity. The maddening thing was that he couldn’t be sure what car it was. He’d caught site of a silver-gray Jaguar several times, but unlike other cars it didn’t maintain a consistent distance. It would loom in the background, sometimes easing forward, other times it would be lost in the maelstrom of traffic.
Forced to concede the possibility that he might be imagining it, he nevertheless kept swiveling his eyes to the rearview mirror every other moment. Even Erika noticed it. He gave her a lame sounding excuse about being a nervous driver, but he didn’t think she believed him. The real question was why he didn’t give voice to his suspicions. Could it be that he didn’t really trust her? That was absurd, of course, because he not only had no choice, he wanted to trust her. Perhaps that was silly, but there it was.
They reached London at 2:45 and the traffic became thickly snarled the closer their goal became. Up ahead, he saw Nelson’s Column and Trafalgar Square and knew he was only moments away. Somehow, that made the last few minutes crawl by even slower. Gritting his teeth, they drove the last quarter mile and were fortunate to find a parking space, sliding into it just as a Rolls vacated it. Switching off the motor, Michael turned to Erika. “I don’t mean to alarm you, but I believe we’ve been followed.”
“I know. Silver-Gray Jag. Five cars back.”
“You knew?”
She smiled in spite of his surprised expression and the import of what he’d said. “Ja. They were clumsy.”
“Clumsy?”
“They kept trying to appear, how you say, nonchalant. But I spotted them right away.”
“Why didn’t you tell me?”
“I didn’t want to upset you. You seemed...nervous.”
Michael laughed. “I suppose I was. Are they gone?”
Erika leaned forward to get a better perspective in the side view mirror. She studied the reflected landscape for a few minutes, her lovely brow knitted in concentration.
“Yes, I think they are.”
Michael let out a sigh. “Good. Come on, we’d better be going.
The interior of the Trafalgar Square branch of Barclay’s Bank, like so many old banks in England, was a study in stuffy elegance. Marble floors stretched across a wide entranceway that led into the main lobby carpeted in a deep blue pile. Teller’s cages in carved mahogany and brass bars stood arrayed against the back wall and the floor was dotted with islands where customers could fill out their transaction paperwork. The room gave off the illusion of stability and strength. Here, one’s money was safe from the vicissitudes of daily life.
Michael and Erika crossed the room and headed directly to a section off to the side of the regular teller’s cages. A sign hung above it that read: Deposit Boxes, and behind the window, Michael saw the open door of the vault. His pulse quickened.
In a moment, he would know the truth.
The Safe Deposit Teller looked up and spotted them approaching, his bulbous nose wrinkling in distaste. It was clear the man was counting the minutes to closing and now he would have to work.
Reaching the window, Michael pulled out the key and shoved it through the window.
“Good afternoon, I’ve come about my box.”
The Teller got up from behind his desk. “Your name?”
“Oh, sorry. Thorley. Michael Thorley, Jr.”
The teller picked up the key and frowned. “That’s an old one. Hold on a minute.”
With growing anxiety, Michael watched the teller waddle over to a file cabinet, pull open a drawer, and slowly flip through the hundreds of signature cards. It was agony.
“Is this going to take long?” Michael asked, not really wanting to hear the worst.
The teller shook his head, jowls wobbling. “Can’t say. These old files have never been properly indexed. Could take a while. You sure you don’t want to come in the morning?” The hint was painfully obvious, but Michael wasn’t giving any quarter.
“No, I can’t, I’m sorry.”
The teller grunted and returned to his task. Frustrated at this last-minute delay, Michael turned to Erika. She stood beside him; her eyes riveted on the door. He followed her gaze, a feeling of dread stealing over him. Two men stood at one of the islands. From their studied nonchalance and furtive glances at him and Erika, it was obvious they were not there to make a deposit, or anything else related to bank business.
“Do you know them?” he asked from the side of his mouth.
Erika shook her head. “No. But I know their type. Ever since my father died, men like them have been shadowing me.”
Michael saw she was trembling and turned to the teller. “You know, maybe we’ll come back—”
“Got it!” the teller cried, holding up a yellowing card and hurrying back to the window. “Since there is no signature provision, it says here that the bearer of the key must give the password.”
“You must be joking.” He turned to Erika, suddenly angry. “That’s not what that old man said.” He turned back to the teller. “Doesn’t it say the box is owned by a Michael Thorley, Jr.”
“I’m not at liberty to say, sir. Not until the password’s given.”
Michael saw a gleam in the man’s eye. Probably thought this was all some silly game. Probably made his bloody day. But what was the password?
He felt Erika’s breath on his ear as she whispered to him. Shrugging, he leaned toward the teller. “The Eagle Flies.”
The teller’s eyebrows shot up. “Quite right. Mr. Thorley, I presume.”
“Yes.”
“Right. Walk this way, sir.”
The teller unlatched a door leading into the vault area and both he and Erika went through. A quick look over his shoulder revealed that the two men still stood at the island pretending to fill out forms. He was wondering what they would do when they came out, when the teller handed him back his key and led the way into the vault carrying his ring of master keys.
The box proved to be lighter and smaller than he’d imagined. Grasping it in his arms, he carried it to one of the viewing rooms and waited until Erika closed the door behind them before opening the box. He hesitated a moment, or rather his hands did. They hovered over the latch, finger flexing, reaching, yet refusing to do their owner’s bidding.
“What?” Erika asked.
“Just had a silly thought,” Michael said, his throat tight with anxiety. “That after all we’ve been through, there’ll be nothing in there. That I’ll lose my Dad all over again. Stupid, huh?”
Erika hugged him, the scent of her silky hair filling his nostrils. “It’s all right to be afraid, Michael,” she said, whispering into his ear. “As long as you never let it paralyze you. The men behind all this have ever
y reason to be afraid, because whatever is in that box...will set us free....”
He pulled away from her, a look of newfound purpose in his eyes, as if some invisible line had been crossed. Letting out a breath, Michael lifted the latch and threw open the lid. Inside, were two envelopes. One was a large manila type with a tie-string. The other was business sized. And there was something unusual about them. It took a moment for his brain to interpret what it was seeing, but it came together like the snap of a rubber band. Both envelopes were engraved with the national symbol of Nazi Germany: an eagle clutching a wreathed swastika in its talons, its wings spread wide. Underneath was the legend: Oberkommando des Heeres. The Army High Command.
Intrigued, Michael picked up the smaller of the two envelopes and carefully unsealed it, mindful of its age. He pulled out a sheaf of papers, made of the same heavy cream vellum matching that of the envelope. The first sheet had a list of six names:
1) Friedrich Rainer
2) Werner Reinholt
3) Wilhelm-Franz von Schliefen
4) Baldar von Arnwolf
5) Ludwig Jarmann
6) Manfred Valdemarr
The rest of the sheets held a lengthy typed message:
“My Dear Comrade: Now that you have seen the Russo-Finnish tragedy for yourself, I now entrust you with our lives.... The list you hold in your hands contains the names of those of us who have, for years, opposed Der Führer’s expansionist policies, knowing as you do, that they could only result in catastrophe.
“We have met secretly for these many years in order to establish ties with the West, and work within this tyrannical system in order to bring about its demise. Alas, the Gestapo is far too vigilant. It is wholly ironic that because of this madness our Führer calls “The Great Struggle,” the opportunity for us to act has arisen.
“The attack on Russia in these past weeks has produced massive victories that have lulled the populace into a temporary state of euphoria that we know cannot last. For Herr Hitler has forgotten the hard lessons Napoleon learned over one hundred years ago, lessons that are even now being learned at a terrible price in human currency. I pray that your government will listen, and realize that with Hitler out of the way, Stalin is our real enemy. For if we fail, the world will suffer under the yoke of Communism as it has never suffered before.
“I pray that fate will be kind to both our countries and that after this conflict has ended that you and I can reunite in friendship. If anything should happen, tell the world. They must know that we tried to save it from two madmen. With the evidence I have given you, I trust action will be taken. Godspeed, my friend. Hauptmann Friedrich Rainer, OKH.”
* * *
Stunned, Michael handed Rainer’s letter to Erika. He watched her face while she read it, registering every nuance of her reaction. He waited until she’d finished, then reached for the larger envelope, untying the ties with hands that trembled with suppressed fear and excitement.
He then upended the envelope and watched as a sheaf of photographs spilled out onto the table. Under the glare of the fluorescent lighting, the stark black and white images seemed to pulse with a sort of hyper-reality. There were only a dozen prints, each carefully mounted on a board and captioned in German on the piece of paper glued to the back. There were shots of the overall scene: bodies piled on top of each other—the cliché of cordwood came to his mind, closeups of eyeless faces and arms and legs twisted in horrific postures impossible during life. One picture brought him up short, a photo of his father wearing a German Army uniform standing next to another German officer, their faces grim and haunted. It had to be Rainer, Michael thought. Aside from the oddity of seeing his father in a German uniform, it was doubly strange to see him in any other context than the one picture he’d known his entire life. The smile was missing, and that changed the whole complexion of the man, made him seem vulnerable, less godlike.
Suddenly weary of it all, Michael picked up the envelope to replace the photos. It was then the last item fell out, sliding onto the table with a metallic clatter. It was a cap badge, its silver luster now tarnished nearly black. He brought it up for a closer look and felt the world drop out from under him. The letters fairly screamed at him: Royal South Wessex Inf. Reg.
“Oh, my God,” he said in a strangled whisper.
“What is it, Michael?”
He handed her the badge and began scooping up the photos.
“I don’t understand. What does it mean?”
“It means this is bigger than we thought. Come on, we’ve got to get out of here.”
Michael rose and opened the door to the cubicle. Erika grabbed his arm. “Wait. Let’s see if there’s a back way.”
They returned to the front of the vault and caught the eye of the teller.
“Is there another way out of here,” Michael asked him.
The teller barely registered any surprise. “I’ll take you through the lunchroom. Follow me.”
After walking through a minor labyrinth of corridors and storerooms, they found themselves back out on the street around the corner from their Toyota. Moments later, they were safely away. For the next few minutes, Michael drove around in circles, taking left and right turns at the last possible moment, all in an effort to ascertain whether they were being followed. He saw at least two silver-gray Jaguars, but neither one was the same model as the one that had tailed them from East Grinstead.
Erika, who had remained silent since they left the bank, finally spoke, her voice tight with fear.
“Tell me what we have, Michael. What was that badge?”
“It’s from a regiment my government says never existed. Except it did...once. Those photos were all that was left of them. Your father and the people he worked for, invited my father to come and see for himself, and to report back to his government.”
Erika shook her head in confusion. “But it doesn’t make sense. You’re telling me that my countrymen invited their enemy into captured territory during wartime in order to view this massacre? Why?”
“Because they wanted the world to know they didn’t kill those men.”
“Then who did?”
Michael ignored the question, his eyes scanning the rearview for any suspicious vehicles. Everything looked normal.
“You ever hear of Der Weisse Adler?” he asked.
Erika shrugged. “The White Eagle? No.”
“I remember reading about them in school. They were a cabal of Wehrmacht officers dedicated to Hitler’s overthrow; officers determined to have a democratic Germany join with Britain to defeat the Russians. It was a pipe dream, of course, but you had to admire them for what they risked. Except for a few sacrificial lambs, the group’s core somehow survived all the purges, even the one after the failed attempt on Hitler’s life in July 1944.... Your father was a member.”
Erika’s eyes widened.
“The people behind the massacre don’t want any loose ends,” Michael continued. “That’s why your father died.... Mine, as well.”
“But who killed them?”
He turned to her, fixing her with a level gaze. “The Russians.”
“My God, if that’s true—”
“Then they will go to any lengths to keep us quiet, including killing us. What I don’t understand is why that regiment was there in the first place. The British weren’t involved in the Russo-Finnish War. There was no bloody reason for it!” He slammed his hands against the steering wheel repeatedly, his anger boiling over. “Damn them! Damn them all to hell!”
“Michael, please!” Erika shouted, grabbing the wheel when the car began to swerve.
He pushed her back and pulled the Toyota over to the side of the road, then turned to face her, eyes blazing. “Never do that again! You want to kill us?”
“Maybe you should ask yourself that question,” she said, opening the door and stalking away from the car.
Michael sighed and shook his head. “Bloody idiot you are, Thorley.” He threw open the door and went after he
r, catching up to her outside an Italian restaurant. He reached out for her arm and she wrenched away from him. “Erika, wait.... Please.”
She stopped and turned, her eyes tearing and her mouth a delicious pout. “I’m sorry,” he said. “I shouldn’t have yelled at you. But you can’t imagine what this all means to me.”
“Yes, I can.... I lost a father, too.”
Michael nodded, feeling even more foolish. “Of course, you did, and you know I’m sorry for that. But at least you knew him.” He paused, searching for the right words. “I didn’t tell you this.... There was evidence that my father’s death was self-inflicted. Neither my mother nor I believed he could do that, but nothing existed to prove otherwise...until Dad’s letter.”
“Then that is what your mother meant by ‘disgrace.’”
Michael stared at the ground and nodded.
“Christ,” Erika said.
“My God, Erika, did that letter sound like the letter of a man about to blow his brains out?”
“No, it didn’t.”
“Then you can see why I have to pursue this, why I have to find the truth, no matter what it means?”
Erika reached across the gulf between them and squeezed his arm affectionately. “We’ll find it together.”
They started walking back to the car, and Michael’s determined mood intensified, his gestures becoming more and more animated as he spoke. “I think our salvation lies with one of the remaining four men on that list. There’s nothing in what your father gave to mine to indicate it, but I’m certain there has to be one more piece to the puzzle, otherwise I think we’d be dead by now.
“We have to go to Germany, Erika, as soon as possible—tonight.” They reached the Toyota and he locked eyes with her. “I know you want to help, and I’m so very glad you’re here. I hope you know that. But we have to get to those men on the list before the Russians do...or we’re doomed.”
Chapter Twenty-Seven
The sight that greeted Michael and Erika when they entered his mews flat, stopped them cold. Everything that could be moved had been turned upside-down and scattered to the four winds. All his books had been ripped to pieces, his records pulled from their sleeves and cast about, one so hard it stuck partway into the wallboard. Furniture had been reduced to kindling and the leather sofa he’d owned and loved since his university days had been slashed, the horsehair stuffing yanked out in ragged tufts that spilled onto the floor.
