

### DEAD RINGER

A Novel

by

WILLIAM CONE

Copyright © 2012 William Cone

All rights reserved.

Distributed by Smashwords

This ebook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This ebook may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this ebook with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each person you share it with. If you're reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then you should return to Smashwords.com and purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents, either are the product of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales, is entirely coincidental.

Ebook formatting by www.ebooklaunch.com

### Acknowledgements

### Risa, for her encouragement, excellent suggestions and support.

Table of Contents

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Chapter 14

Chapter 15

Chapter 16

Chapter 17

Chapter 18

Chapter 19

Chapter 20

Chapter 21

Chapter 22

Chapter 23

Chapter 24

Chapter 25

Chapter 26

Chapter 27

Chapter 28

Chapter 29

Chapter 30

Chapter 31

Chapter 32

Chapter 33

Chapter 34

Chapter 35

Chapter 36

Chapter 37

" _Cowards die many times before their deaths;_

The valiant never taste of death but once."

—— **William Shakespeare**

# Chapter 1

### OHRDRUF, GERMANY

April 1944

The grouse were still but alert, preening then listening, watchful for even the slightest movement near them that might indicate danger and their time to take flight and move to safety. This morning, however, there would be refuge for no beast or bird, no matter how cautious or quick. A world at war raged around this isolated spot deep inside Germany but had, as yet, not touched it. That was soon to change.

Werner Habst slipped unnoticed through the dense forest. He'd mastered the skill as a boy in Ulm. His father often took him hunting there after the heavy snow of winter started to lose its icy grip on the land. Patience was the key, his father had told him. As it was in life, patience paid dividends in the field, and with patience came reward. Werner's dark hunting clothes blended well with his surroundings. They were heavy enough to keep him warm but light enough to allow freedom of movement, and there were plenty of pockets for his water, dark bread, and shells. His dog, Panzer, a German shorthaired pointer, moved with him, muzzle in the air, sniffing for the telltale scent of their quarry.

Werner had to return to his antiaircraft battery near Stuttgart the next afternoon. His sixty-four years relegated him to the home defense, which consisted primarily of spotting enemy aircraft. He was particularly well suited to this duty, the doctor said, because his eyesight was as keen and sharp as a teenager's. His hearing was also acute, and he was normally the first to hear the steady drone of the American bombers. The duty was tedious, as the Americans and British seemed to be concentrating most of their airpower in Normandy, but the commander of the home guard constantly reminded his battery crews that the enemy was ready at any moment to bomb innocent civilians into oblivion.

Experience told him where the birds would be, and Panzer knew it as well. The wood grouse they were hunting was a large bird, over a hundred centimeters in length and weighing on average six or seven kilograms. They were difficult to bring down, and Habst needed a gun equal to the task. He carried a J. P. Sauer & Sohn Meisterwerkflinte double-barrel twelve-gauge shotgun over his right shoulder on a well-worn sling of leather. He'd had it since 1930 when, after sixteen years on a welder's pay, he'd saved enough to purchase it from a dealer in Munich. It was the finest shotgun ever produced for hunting. Perfectly balanced and furnished with exquisite wood and elaborate engraving, it was the ultimate in precision, fit, and accuracy. No bird gun in the world could compare to it, and besides Panzer, it was his most precious possession. He cleaned it every Saturday whether it needed it or not. This process was almost ritualistic—each part scrutinized with a loop, then brushed, wiped, and oiled in a specific order he'd developed over the years. He performed the task while listening to Bach, Beethoven or sometimes Wagner, depending on his mood. He favored Bach, who had lived in Ohrdruf as a boy. Good things, it seemed to him, always had connections to one another.

It was rumored that Ohrdruf was also the site of a death camp, where slaves worked in secret facilities, but this was a bad thing and had therefore no link to beautiful music, the quiet stillness of the morning, or him.

The sun's rays were just beginning to slant through the dense evergreens and warm the mist. Werner looked at his pocket watch: 5:35 a.m. He unslung the Sauer and thumbed over the lever, which released the barrels from the breech. From his jacket pocket he removed two shells and without looking, his eyes ahead to the killing ground, inserted them noiselessly into their chambers. Panzer watched him with anticipation, knowing the hunt was on.

Werner and Panzer were under cover near a small glade, perhaps six hundred meters deep and wide. The grouse would be here, ready for a morning meal of berries and seed. Once he released Panzer, they would lift up in a flurry of wings and squawking, airborne and flying fast away. Werner knew they would bank into a turn as they gained altitude and speed. The trick was to pick two birds, track their flight for a moment to gauge distance and direction, and then pull the triggers. His brain had to process angle, elevation, speed, and distance and send the proper calculations to his arms and fingers. Panzer waited on his haunches for the command, his every fiber, every sense on edge, eager to feel the game flapping and wiggling in his jaws as he returned with them to his master.

Werner held his gun at the ready, took a deep breath to calm himself, stood, and stepped out into the dark blue cast of first light. He gave the command, " _Jagd_ , _jagd!_ " ("Hunt, hunt!") Out of the corner of his eye he noticed a strange structure at the far end of the clearing, camouflaged by the background of the forest—a _tower of some kind._ It had not been there last spring. Panzer was low to the ground, picking up speed as his body rushed forward, waiting for the first rustle of wings. It came when he was about ten meters into the field. The grouse took flight at his approach, squawking and springing up from their cover, wings beating furiously, instinctively rising as one over a lingering layer of mist. Werner forgot about the odd tower. His brain was busy transmitting targeting data to his arms and hands. Two birds were outlined optimally, just ahead. They turned in perfect formation, heading south toward safety in the cover of the nearest trees. Werner's fingers squeezed the waiting triggers.

At the same moment, a switch was closed in a steel-and-concrete-reinforced bunker five kilometers away. Electrical current surged to a sphere of high explosives about the size of a soccer ball located at the top of the tower. Werner perceived the next few seconds as if they were several minutes—in the slow motion of a mind that recognizes certain death suddenly and unexpectedly at the doorstep. Doctors, to comfort families, have been trained to say the deceased felt nothing, that death was instantaneous, but for Werner this was not so. For him the pain and terror were tangible. At first, there was only a light, brighter than a million arc welders operating at the same time. Then he watched the birds turn to ash. Panzer, in the midst of a leap, was also turned into blackened char, disintegrating into molecular fragments that disappeared in an instant as if he'd never been there at all. The dazzling light moved past the lenses of his eyes and seared his retinas like tissue paper to flame.

He felt rather than saw the next sequence of his death. The exquisite walnut stock of his shotgun burst into flame at the same time his blood began to boil and then vaporize. Fingernails dissolved into molten pools, and his skin liquefied until the bones of his extremities and his skull were devoid of it entirely. Werner's brain, protected by the thick casement of his skull, was still processing this instant between life and oblivion. That too soon ended as the encephalon that had been Werner Habst cooked through like an egg in superheated water. Still something of Werner—he could not say what—witnessed the rest of the destruction.

Sturdy fir trees at the edges of the glade were bent in half and then uprooted as a great wind plucked them from the ground like weeds ripped from a garden. Then a fireball turned the glade into a crematorium. Rocks, bushes, animals in their burrows, and insects vaporized and were turned back into the primordial elements that had first formed them. The morning air itself was sucked into the fireball, suffocating those living things at the periphery of the glade and for several hundreds of meters beyond that had escaped the inferno.

The final frame of this film for Werner was a cloud of boiling debris, dust, vapor, and ash. It billowed up into the morning vault of gold and red as if some inky poison had been spilled on a beautiful canvas. The blackness then consumed whatever remained of Werner's consciousness.

In the bunker, technicians and scientists removed their darkened glass goggles and stood, transfixed. They'd seen nothing of the devastation Werner had seen, but they understood on some level that touched their souls what had just happened. There was no sound in the bunker, no conversation, no applause, no cheering—nothing but bewildered stares and mouths agape. Dr. Otto Fritsch dropped like a sack of flour into a chair near the structure's viewing portal. The goggles fell from his fingers and he sat not moving for a long moment. A hand on his shoulder startled him and he turned to see Colonel Manfred Veltheim.

"Herr, Doctor!" Veltheim's voice finally broke through the immensity of the spectacle he'd just witnessed.

Fritsch blinked two or three times before speaking. "Colonel, yes, yes, what is it?"

There was an acute sense of urgency in Veltheim's tone. "Herr, Doctor, the führer must be notified immediately. I'll have the courier ready the instant you complete your report."

"Yes, Colonel. I know. Give me a moment, please."

Veltheim turned away, walked to a telephone, picked up the receiver, and spoke in rapid German. "Send the driver now. I'll meet him at the main gate in fifteen minutes. If he is not there at precisely six forty-five I will have him and you shot at seven." He clicked off. The dozen or so technicians and scientists in the room met Veltheim's cold gaze for a moment. Then they turned quickly away, busying themselves with their duties. They knew his threat was not an idle one.

Fritsch was talking to a uniformed soldier who recorded his words on a typewriter. The message was short—two sentences only. Fritsch read them, scribbled a signature, and handed the message over. Veltheim scanned the dispatch and placed it in an envelope marked "Führer's Eyes Only." He sealed it with a tamper-proof wax swastika emblem.

Veltheim, followed by his bodyguard, strode through the bunker's steel doors and into a tunnel leading to the main gate. The door to the bunker clanged shut behind him and Fritsch heard the magnetic lock's heavy bolts slam home. It was a chilling sound and a grim reminder that he was a prisoner inside the most secret, highly secure, well-guarded facility in the world.

# Chapter 2

### BERLIN, GERMANY

Veltheim's car pulled to a stop at a side door to the Reich Chancellery only three hours after leaving the secret compound near Ohrdruf. The führer's personal Storch aircraft had been waiting at a secure airstrip, and the flight to Berlin was made at maximum speed. Two guards at the door saluted as he dismounted the armored Mercedes, walked quickly up the steps, and entered the building. The führer had been alerted to his pending arrival by a coded message from the Storch only after they were airborne. Hitler was not a man who one wished to keep waiting. Veltheim was very conscious of this as he rushed up the stairs and presented himself at Hitler's outer office.

"Colonel Veltheim. The führer is expecting me," he announced to the attendant in the outer office.

The man picked up a telephone, spoke into it briefly and hung up. "Yes, Colonel. The führer is attending to another matter at the moment. Please go through the door to my right." Veltheim gave a quick nod, removed his cap, and entered. Inside, four heavily armed soldiers and an officer who wore the rank of captain greeted him.

"Colonel, if you would be so good as to surrender your weapon." The soldiers watched as Veltheim removed a Luger from its holster and handed it grip-first to the captain, who removed the pistol's clip, checked the chamber, and placed everything on a nearby table.

"Thank you, Colonel. Now please, your valise." The captain removed the swastika-sealed envelope and placed the valise on the table with the gun. "Now, finally, sir, would you please be so kind as to enter the dressing room and remove all your clothing? Once you are finished, please step back outside and sit in the chair."

Veltheim had been through this procedure three times before in conferences with the führer, and he hated it but no exceptions were made. Everyone having a personal audience with Hitler was subjected to this indignity. He suspected it was why the highest-ranking officers, generals, and even field marshals loathed personal meetings with Hitler and avoided them whenever possible. However, three attempts on Hitler's life had been made over the past twenty months and precautions had to be taken. Paranoia, it seemed, was beginning to take hold in many places throughout the Reich—and nowhere more so than here in Berlin.

Veltheim undressed and came back into the room naked. One of the soldiers went into the dressing room and after a minute came back out and nodded to the captain.

"Thank you, Colonel. The führer asked me to apologize for this inconvenience, but I'm sure you understand. You may get dressed and then please wait here. The führer will be with you momentarily."

When he came back out from dressing, the room was empty. Veltheim sat, adjusting his tunic. He was anxious but excited about the coming meeting and its eventual repercussions.

He heard the bolt slide at yet a third door, the one to the führer's office. Hitler's personal valet entered and said, "Thank you for waiting, Colonel, the führer will see you now." Veltheim straightened his tunic one final time and entered the leader of the Third Reich's inner sanctum. The valet closed and locked the door behind him.

Veltheim never failed to be impressed with this space. Hitler's office was roughly twenty meters in length and just slightly less in width. A highly polished walnut desk sat at one end, with two comfortable meeting chairs in front. Hitler's chair was high-backed, soft brown leather. Twin ornate reading lamps, a telephone, some writing pads, and a pen set were the only items on the desk. At the other end of the room a fireplace was lit and the smell of woodsmoke gave the room a comfortable feel. Arranged around the fireplace were two wingback leather chairs and a three-cushioned leather sofa fronted by a black granite coffee table about six meters in length on which flowers were placed. The entire room was paneled in dark cherry wood. Bulletproof windows let in a muted light. The floor was highly polished blonde wood parquet, and several areas were covered with the finest Persian carpets. On the east wall, a mammoth brass eagle clutching a swastika in its talons looked down on the room's occupants.

The führer stood behind his desk, staring down at something. It looked like a map. He was dressed in a light brown tunic and matching tie. On his left arm was a red armband with a black swastika on a gold background. He wore a wide black military belt at his waist. Veltheim strode quickly to the front of the desk and saluted. "Heil Hitler!" Hitler turned toward him and Veltheim appraised the man as he always did without trying to be obvious about it. He was a curiosity. One and three-quarters meters tall, about eighty kilos in weight, pale blue eyes, dark black thin hair and mustache. These facial features were punctuation marks to a pasty complexion not unlike those of prisoners who never saw the light of day. Completely unremarkable in any physical way, Veltheim thought, but...this man was the führer, with the power of life and death over millions.

"Ah, Veltheim, please sit," Hitler said, motioning to one of the guest chairs.

"Thank you."

"So," Hitler began, settling himself behind his desk, "how was your journey? Would you like coffee, perhaps something to eat while we talk?"

"No thank you, mein Führer."

"How is your family, Colonel? Myrna, your wife, and your daughters...Lisan and Brendie?"

"They are well. It's kind of you to ask." Veltheim was always amazed at Hitler's power of recall for the smallest details, considering all that he had to deal with. He forgot nothing, it seemed, and was able to retrieve what other men would consider insignificant from the archives of his mind with little or no effort. Names were never a problem.

"Good, very good. I am pleased to hear it." Hitler leaned forward, rested his forearms on the desk, and interlaced his fingers. The desk lamps cast one-half of his face in a subdued, almost jaundiced yellow light and the other in shadow. Veltheim thought the duality was somehow eerily a picture of the real man. "Tell me about the test, Colonel. I've read Dr. Fritsch's report. I want now to hear from you."

Hitler's eyes hardened. Veltheim felt as if he was on the receiving end of a snake charmer's flute.

"Mein Führer, the test as Dr. Fritsch reported to you was apparently successful in all respects."

" _Apparently_ , Colonel?"

"The only aspect I do not yet know for certain is the effect it had on the prisoners. The weapon was detonated in strict accordance with your instructions that it take place in the early morning hours and only when the prevailing wind would carry the blast debris toward the prisoners' quarters and work areas. I've had no chance to personally see the effects of this. However, it is on my schedule to tour the camp immediately upon my return."

"Tell me, what you _did_ see, Colonel. In detail, in your own words."

Veltheim brought the lens of his memory into sharp focus. "After the weapon's arming switch was turned, Dr. Fritsch asked me for clearance to fire. I reviewed my checklist to ensure complete compliance with your instructions. I noted each item, including the lockdown of the facility and final radio reports from our roving security teams to make sure no unauthorized persons were in the test area. After completing these checks, I gave the authorization to proceed. At precisely zero-five-forty the firing trigger was activated."

Hitler leaned back and closed his eyes in anticipation. He wanted the forthcoming images to be pure and uncluttered.

"Mein Führer, at first there was a great light, like a thousand suns shining at once. Had the thick, darkened glass of our goggles not protected our eyes, I'm certain we would all now be blind. Even so, my eyelids shut convulsively against the light, which lasted only an instant. No sound reached my ears at that point, but in the seconds afterward, a noise like nothing else I've heard on this earth ripped through the bunker, carried on a blast wave that was at first warm and then hotter than a smelting furnace. Had we not been wearing ear protection, I'm certain we would now be completely deaf as well.

"In fact, two technicians who removed their ear protection for reasons I cannot understand were found lying on the floor of the bunker, blood running from every orifice in their head, completely unable to understand anything said to them. The doctor reported they were suffering from severe concussions. They had to be restrained in their agony despite the administration of a sedative."

Hitler opened his eyes, turned away from Veltheim and stared out the window, across Berlin, across Germany and from there seemingly across the universe, as if in a dream state.

"Go on," Colonel.

"Next I observed a large fireball shooting up from the test site straight into the darkness of the early morning. It was at least a kilometer in circumference, but what was most pronounced about it was that it seemed to be alive—churning and consuming itself as it went skyward, as if a piece of hell had been released from the underworld and Satan himself were within the flames."

Veltheim paused and glanced at the führer, who had walked to the window and continued to stare at some distant but compelling image in his head. Veltheim did not wait for another prompt.

"The fireball disappeared upwards into the darkness, turning the sky around it various colors of red, orange, and yellow. Then it was gone. Afterwards, there was only silence. It seemed as if the explosion and all that I have described took place in slow motion, but in reality it took only a few seconds.

Afterwards, no one spoke in the bunker for several minutes. Each person there who witnessed this explosion knew without question, that had we been any closer, we would likely have been incinerated. And, mein Führer, we were five kilometers away, on a hilltop, in a protected steel and concrete bunker with safety goggles, ear protection, and a full medical staff within reach!"

Hitler returned to his chair, his thoughts contained and body language silent. "What else, Colonel?"

"Immediately after the test, I had Dr. Fritsch write and sign his message to you. I then departed the complex and came straight here."

Hitler nodded slowly. "Yes, thank you, Veltheim. Your promptness is appreciated. Is there anything else you wish to add before you give me your full written report?"

"Only one other observation. I asked the pilot to fly two orbits of the test area at low altitude before coming to Berlin. Mein Führer, the forest around the tower for a kilometer and a half in every direction was denuded and blackened. For a kilometer from the test center, no tree, no animal, no bird, no life whatsoever remained. The destruction is beyond my powers to describe.

What is most remarkable as I think about it now is that the weapon contained the smallest amount of fissionable material possible—about fifty kilograms. Think of it: a warhead that weighs so little yet has the destructive power and more of tons of conventional high explosives! There has never been any weapon like it."

Veltheim fell silent, watching Hitler absorb this news. His face was expressionless, but it was a mask, Veltheim knew. Hitler was a master at hiding his true emotions. He could fly into a rage at the slightest provocation but it was like a fuse that burned out quickly. His true feelings he kept to himself, sharing with no one the torment or pleasure he experienced.

Hitler came from behind the desk. Veltheim jumped to attention. "Sit, please, Colonel." Hitler settled himself in the other guest chair. "Colonel, this project, as you well know, has the highest security level in the Reich. This is why the Ohrdruf complex is completely isolated, guarded by men with the special training who would give their lives without a moment's hesitation to maintain its security, and why no one is allowed to come or go from there without my personal authorization. Each of you who are involved in this undertaking will be rewarded handsomely when the war is concluded and the rest of the world has been subjugated to the will of the German people. This project will further those aims and ensure that the German nation brings peace and prosperity to the masses, who now have no proper guidance and are infested with unclean people who, like a plague, bring only misery and suffering. Do you understand?"

Veltheim straightened in his chair, tugged nervously at the hem of his tunic, and looked directly into Hitler's eyes. "Yes, mein Führer, I follow you completely."

"Good. I'm glad we understand one another on this matter. If word of this project were to leak out, I can give you no assurance whatsoever that the horrible consequences of such a breach would not touch many, many Germans and their families—your family, for example. It would be most regrettable." The air around Veltheim chilled.

"I say this only in passing," Hitler continued, "I know that you are aware of all these things. I am only providing a reminder of this important idea because I know you have so many duties to attend to. Yes, each of us must be reminded, from time to time, about the consequences of what we are doing. Outside the two of us and the staff of the complex, no one knows about this project, nor _shall_ anyone know of it until I am ready. Tell me you understand this as well."

"The matter is crystal clear to me, mein Führer."

Hitler stared at Veltheim a moment longer, matching the man's words with his eyes, his face, the breathing, heartbeat, and the perspiration. "Good, Colonel, very, very good." Hitler stood and Veltheim followed, at attention. "Then return to your duties. However, your priorities have changed. First, I want you to meet with Fritsch and come up with a timetable for me. When will another weapon be ready? And when I say another weapon, I mean the weapon and a delivery system capable of sending the warhead's destructive power at least one thousand kilometers with pinpoint accuracy. I know you have a division at the complex working on this particular aspect. It's time to accelerate that to the fastest possible track."

Hitler began pacing. "It is now April. I want the complete weapon system ready and tested by the end of the autumn. Make sure your timetable takes that constraint into account—earlier if possible, but I want you and your team to work to that deadline. I am not unmindful of the technical and logistics challenges you face in making this happen, but if the schedule lags by so much as an hour, it will cause me a great deal of concern." Hitler stopped in midstride and glanced at Veltheim to make sure the euphemism had registered. It had.

"Second, review the security procedures for the complex. Let no detail escape you. Now more than ever, it is vital that nothing of this matter be disclosed to other than those that I personally designate. Send me your review together with the timetable. I will let you know where security can be improved and what measures to take to do so. This includes making sure Dr. Fritsch and his colleagues do nothing to interfere with the project. Sabotage should and must be one of your highest concerns. I will see that you are protected from without. No Allied bomber or ground force will ever come within striking distance of Ordhurf, but only you can see to the protection from within.

Take nothing for granted, Colonel. Now that the test has been successfully completed, Fritsch and others fully realize the destructive power of this weapon. They may become reluctant to proceed based on some misguided sense of morality or compassion. Report to me at once if you even suspect an act of treason or sabotage, but understand that you must, as the commander, share in the consequences of any such act. Like commanders who fail in battle, these shames cannot be overlooked."

Hitler stood toe to toe with Veltheim. "Colonel, trust no one but me, and deal with no one but me—but never over the phone, never in writing, and never over the wireless. Each of those communication modes may be compromised. My field commanders must rely on them due to sheer time and distance issues, but you can place no reliance on them. You shall have your personal aircraft and escort wherever you need to go. If you have a question about whether or not I should be involved in a matter related to this project, resolve the question by asking me personally first. You will report to me at least once every seventy-two hours until the weapon system is complete."

Hitler returned to his desk and settled behind it. "The matters of the Reich are too complex and numerous for me to handle each and every one on my own. I must trust men who are hundreds, even thousands of kilometers from me to make decisions that bear on Germany's future. Sadly, in many cases, I have had to replace some of these men with others who may or may not live up to my expectations, and so it goes day in and day out. You can see that I have hundreds of plates spinning—if you will excuse the metaphor—at any one time, and I can't pay all of them the close attention they deserve. You, my dear Colonel, and this project are the single exception. Your plate I have isolated from the rest for special balance and attention." Hitler picked up a pen and began writing on a pad. "You are dismissed."

Hitler watched Veltheim leave, then went to a map table directly underneath the Nazi eagle and swastika emblem on the wall. Turning on a small lamp, he looked down at Europe and with a drafter's compass, scribed a circle one thousand kilometers in diameter around the city of Pennumnde on the Baltic Sea, his current base for V1 rocket attacks on England. Both London and Moscow fell inside the circle. That filthy Bolshevik trash Stalin and the fat slob Churchill would burn first, he thought to himself. Then that legless Jew Roosevelt would crawl to him begging for mercy. Hitler turned off the lamp, returned to his desk, and picked up the phone. It was answered immediately.

"Follow Veltheim everywhere. Never let him out of your sight or hearing. Contact me instantly if you see or hear anything of which I should be aware. Leave nothing to chance."

On the other end of the line, Gestapo Major Otto Gruber heard the line go dead. He placed the receiver back in its cradle and left the Reich Chancellery.

# Chapter 3

### NORMANDY, FRANCE

Three Sixty Second Fighter Group Lieutenant Harry McNeese shrugged and tightened the P-47D's shoulder harness then returned his attention to the cockpit instruments. He was cruising low over the English Channel on a southeasterly heading. According to the briefing he'd received before takeoff, German convoys were moving forward toward the Allied beachhead in a counteroffensive to the D-day invasion. These convoys must be stopped and destroyed before they reached the battle area, his flight commander had instructed.

"German reinforcements from the Second and Ninth Panzers are moving in to throw our forces back into the sea. We're making slow progress as it is, and if those reinforcements reach the areas near St. Lo and Caen, we could be in very serious trouble," Colonel Roger Terrene told the assembled pilots. "Your targets, gentlemen, are quite frankly anything that bloody moves on the roads near those towns." He sipped his coffee, took a drag off the Carlton he was smoking, and pointed at the map behind him.

"Our troops, tracked vehicles, and tanks are stuck, as it were, in these sectors." With a long, wooden pointer, he indicated areas near three major road junctions. "Obviously, identifying friendly forces will be a priority. We have fair intel on the movement and positions of our troops and armor, but be cautious: we can't know exactly where and when certain elements might break out. Gentlemen, anything that is moving forward of these lines toward the beaches are probably German. Verify before pressing that firing button, but once you've made a decision, act on it." Terrene paused and looked out over the ready room: youngsters, all of them, most in their early twenties, with fresh, eager faces, who only a few months earlier had been driving tractors, working in factories, or going to school. These boys were now defending Europe against the greatest threat to its peace and security since Rome's legions subjugated the continent.

McNeese moved the stick back to gain altitude as the French coast approached. He checked his watch: 1900 hours. His flight of two Thunderbolts had broken off from the original group of six. The visibility was excellent. A late afternoon sun shone bright through a clear blue sky, with only high cirrus clouds moving in from the west. It was an incredible counterpoint, he thought, to the carnage that was going on below him. He glanced at the picture taped to the instrument panel. His friend Walter, now off his starboard wing, had snapped the photo of McNeese and his wife two years ago on a picnic at Coney Island. It was the best of times, it was the worst of times. He shook off the thought and keyed his throat microphone.

"Bully two, this is Bully one," he said. "Walt, are you ready?"

"Bully one, this is Bully two. Affirmative. Let's go hunting." Walter's voice was tense. While the Luftwaffe had only a sparse presence in the skies over Normandy, the P-47s were, though heavily armored, susceptible to ground fire. Two of their pilots had been shot down in just this way last week, and although the steel plates beneath their seats protected them from small arms, if the engine or controls were hit, their parachutes were worthless at low strafing altitudes. The drill was to head for the water and ditch if their aircraft became disabled.

"You take the southeast sector and I'll take the southwest," Harry replied. "I have nineteen hundred. We'll rendezvous here at nineteen forty. Good luck." Harry looked over at Walter, who gave him a thumbs-up and a vigorous nod. The Thunderbolts crossed the French coast and headed inland at 250 miles per hour. Harry saw Walter break left toward the southeast. He moved the controls to take up a course southwest and dropped to an altitude of fifteen hundred feet.

The Pratt & Whitney Double Wasp engine ahead of him strained to unleash the full force of its nearly three thousand horsepower. He set the propeller for low pitch and the fifty-caliber wing guns' arming switch to fire. Winging southwestward, he passed over a patchwork of green and black fields. The roads were easily visible and lined with juniper trees. Out of the corner of his eye he saw a slight dust trail and turned toward it. Banking hard, he saw the markings of a German motorized convoy speeding toward the town of St. Lo—fifteen or twenty vehicles in all. He swung the ship around to come up from the convoy's rear. Tracers from the German guns were already arcing up, reaching for him.

He dropped the Bolt to two hundred feet and lined up his sights on the rearmost vehicle. When it was in the crosshairs, he thumbed the firing button. The aircraft shuddered as eight fifty-caliber machine guns, four on each wing, punched out six hundred rounds per minute each of armor-piercing, high-explosive steel. Every sixth shell was a yellow tracer, and Harry could see the lethal streams converge on the ground just behind the rearmost vehicle. Dirt and metal geysered up as the rounds slammed into the vehicles and surrounding road. Soldiers were jumping out of the trucks, seeking the relative safety of the trees and a shallow ditch lining the road. The P-47 roared low over the lead vehicle. Harry pulled back hard and left on the stick, gaining altitude in a climbing turn. Three thousand horses pulled him up and over, and when the horizon had again leveled, Harry began his second pass.

Many of the vehicles were burning now. Black smoke spiraled skyward and obscured Harry's view as the gun sight centered again, this time on the most forward vehicle, which was canted slightly off the road as if it were making a move for the ditch. The fifties roared again as Harry pressed the trigger. There was an explosion in front of him. Debris, heavy smoke, and a fireball appeared directly in his path. He had no chance to turn away. His vision was totally obscured, and his mind registered the thought that he had just flown through the gates of hell. He heard and felt rounds from below pinging off the steel under his ass. One of them passed through the sleeve of his flight suit, making a neat exit hole in the top of the canopy.

His left hand pushed the lever for full emergency war power to the engine. Nitrous oxide surged into the Wasp's double row of twelve cylinders, boosting their compression to the maximum tolerance. The Bolt screamed upward and out of the fireball into the clear blue. Harry continued to climb until he was sure he was at least out of small arms range. He then nosed over and leveled out, flashing at three hundred miles per hour over the French countryside. He pulled the plane into another bank and flew parallel to the convoy at a distance of about a mile. The entire area where the convoy had stopped was now a smoking inferno. Bodies littered the road.

Harry checked his weapons counter and saw he was down to less than one hundred rounds on each gun. There was no sense in returning to the convoy with only eight hundred rounds; they would be gone with a two- or three-second press of the trigger—and the convoy was smoldering twisted waste now anyway. Still he hated to return to base with firepower still in the wing canisters, and he searched for one final target. There was movement in his peripheral vision—another dust cloud just over a copse of trees about two miles ahead. Strange, however, that the dust cloud was indicating movement of the vehicle or whatever it was away from the battlefield, not towards it. Retreating German forces? Not likely, but let's take a look, he said to himself. Probably a farmer caught out in the open, hurrying to get to the marginal safety home provided.

As he came closer, Harry could make out the distinctive outlines of an open top car. One of its backseat occupants turned to look behind the vehicle, probably because he'd heard the Bolt closing in. Harry pulled in a breath. _Jesus! A German staff car—out in the open!_ Harry could clearly see the cap of the person who had turned around, and although the car had no other markings, it was flying command flags and the cap was German and an officer's. He was sure of it. Harry checked his fuel gauge. Going to war emergency power had exhausted most of his remaining gasoline. He had just enough to make the rendezvous and get back to base. There would be no time to stalk this prey—one pass, that was all he'd get. At least he didn't have to worry about ground fire on this run. With the possible exception of sidearms, these unlucky Nazis were, against his Thunderbolt, for all practical purposes unarmed and dead on arrival.

Harry banked sharply and climbed to one thousand feet. He would dive nearly straight down on the vehicle, sighting as he went, giving his guns maximum time to bear on the target. He watched as the car sped up trying to get away. It was hopeless. There was no cover, and as he dove, Harry had the car squarely in the crosshairs. He could see his quarry beginning to slow. No doubt they were going to stop and abandon the vehicle in hopes they could find some kind of refuge. What else was there to do? Harry would not give them that chance. He saw the car speed up again and start to weave. He bracketed the target, pressed the trigger, and watched the rounds impact. In the next instant the guns fell silent, their ammunition gone. Before he pulled out of the dive, Harry saw the car careen off the road in a cloud of dust and smoke. One of its occupants was slumped in the front seat; he could tell nothing about the others, but clearly the car would not be arriving at its destination anytime soon.

Pulling out of the dive, he banked hard to port and set the throttle off war emergency and onto maximum cruise power. He reached the rendezvous point twelve minutes later and flew lazy circles waiting for Walter. The gas gauges were now on the absolute minimum needed to cross the channel and get to dry land. He called to Walter. "Bully two, Bully two, come in. Come in!" He heard only static in his earphones. With a grim face, he turned the plane northwest and flew alone out over the cold, choppy water and a darkening sky.

# Chapter 4

### LE VISNET, FRANCE

It had been a short drive from Paris to Luftwaffe Hospital Twelve, where Dr. Kurt Hesse had arrived that morning from Stuttgart by overnight train. He announced the purpose of his visit to a nurse in a gleaming white uniform sitting at the entry desk with skeptical eyes and a look of irritation curling the corners of her lips. She checked his papers carefully.

"Herr Doctor," she said, "the field marshal is permitted no visitors at this time—except his family, of course." She folded her arms over a formidable bosom as if to add a note of finality to this statement.

Hesse peered out at her for a moment over the silver rims of his reading glasses.

"Nurse Gretanbach," he spoke slowly and worked carefully with the pronunciation of her name, "I have been a friend and _doctor_ "—he emphasized that word—"to the Rommel family for nearly thirty years. As his personal physician, I have made the four hundred-kilometer journey from Stuttgart to see him at the express request of his wife to find out how he is, what treatment is being accorded to him, and"—he paused, looking around the entry foyer as if making mental notes—"to assess the adequacy of this facility to his further care."

He removed a small notebook from the inside breast pocket of his wool tweed suit, placed it on the counter, and began writing. Nurse Gretanbach stood quickly, hoping to catch a glimpse, but Hesse snapped the notebook shut.

"I apologize, Herr Doctor," she said. "I am instructed to limit the field marshal's access only to his family. However, in this case, I am sure the administrator won't mind if I make this exception, since you are, after all, his personal physician and here at the request of Frau Rommel. If you would please sign the register, I will direct you to his room."

"Thank you, Nurse," he replied with a smile. He then added, "I understand hospital protocol very well, especially when so distinguished a patient as the field marshal is under your care. My notes will reflect your kindness as well as your strict attention to your duties."

"Thank you Doctor," she replied, now with deference in her voice. "Please, walk up the stairs to room three-forty. I should warn you, however, he will almost certainly be sleeping. The staff physician"—she searched for a name—"Dr. Olin, has ordered heavy sedation to prevent any movement. His injuries are extremely serious, and there is still a chance that he could succumb to them." She looked genuinely distressed at this last pronouncement. "He is one of our most courageous generals, and I pray for his speedy recovery. There are rumors Germany is threatened, and I think we will again need his strength."

Hesse's look softened. "Nurse Gretanbach, I assure you, the field marshal is a vigorous individual both mentally and physically. He will quickly return to his duties"—he paused to smile—"especially since he is now under your watchful eye." She blushed, the crimson almost reflecting in the collar of her crisp white uniform.

Room 340 was down the hall a short distance from the stairs. A young captain sat outside. Hesse spoke to him as he stood to attention. "I am Doctor Hesse, the field marshal's personal physician. How is he?"

"Sleeping now, Herr Doctor," the captain replied. "He had a bad night."

"I'll only be a few moments, Captain."

Hesse entered the room. On the bed was a figure wrapped like a mummy in white linen bandages, his face nearly covered except for slits that revealed one eye and his mouth. His left leg was elevated in a traction apparatus, and a drip bag was attached to his right wrist.

"Oh my dear Swabian," Hesse muttered, "what have they done to you, my friend?"

Hesse went to the foot of the bed and removed a chart hanging on a wire hook. He flipped the pages with a practiced hand and discerning eye.

"Carried from his burning command car," the front notes said, "by his aide, Capt. Helmuth, who was unhurt but badly shaken. Front seat guard died during the strafing attack. Driver died, despite massive transfusions, early the next day at a French aide station near Vimoutiers. Capt. Helmuth, after several hours at the aide station, finally commandeered a car and drove the field marshal, who was near death, to Le Visnet. Patient suffering from severe shock and blood loss upon arrival at Luftwaffe Twelve."

Hesse turned to the medical notes. "Quadruple skull fracture. Fractured left tibia and fibula. Multiple lacerations causing severe loss of blood. Shrapnel embedded in chest and lower abdomen, right thigh. Second degree burns on hands and wrists." Hesse replaced the chart, went to the side of the bed, and lifted Rommel's hand.

"We'll talk when you're better," he said softly.

### * * *

At that moment six hundred kilometers away, in the führer's conference room at his Wolf's Lair headquarters in East Prussia, General Wilhelm Keitinger, commander of the Twenty-First Panzer Division, and his chief of staff, Colonel Brandt, were standing at Hitler's right shoulder, watching as the führer pointed to a map resting on the heavy oak table in front of them.

"Why is this unit out of position?" Hitler screamed. "They're at least a kilometer east of where they should be. They're falling back!" Hitler pounded the table with his fist and the toe of his left boot tapped the floor impatiently. "Do you think we fell back at the front during World War One? No! No! We ran forward and stuck bayonets in the enemy's bellies and gutted them like the pigs they were." The führer picked up a brass marker with a tiny Nazi flag protruding from the top and banged it down on the map with a thump. "They should be here. Don't you see that, Keitinger? Advancing, killing the enemy!" Spittle came from the führer's lips as he turned with ice-cold fury in his eyes to face his division commander. The conference's other participants stood in hushed silence. Keitinger took a step backward, bumping into his aide.

Before he could utter a sound, Keitinger, his chief of staff, and Hitler were lifted off their feet and blown backward by an explosion that rocked the room. The heavy oak conference table disappeared in a shower of deadly splinters. Smoke and dust choked windpipes and then billowed out doorways and windows. Shards of razor-sharp glass rained down from the ceiling lights, shredding, like the claws of some enraged beast, clothing, faces, and throats.

From the next room, Hitler's valet, Martin Buehl, rushed through the conference room doorway. He could see nothing at first, but then spotted the führer lying on the floor, blood leaking from his ears. The valet hurried to Hitler's side just as several other officers reached him. Somewhere outside, the valet could hear dogs barking wildly and the rush of feet.

Buehl raised Hitler's head. "Mein Führer, mein Führer!" Hitler's face was smudged black and his eyes were stark white in contrast, like something out of a minstrel show. The führer was moaning and struggling to get up. Clearly dazed and unable to focus his vision, helping arms lifted Hitler to his feet. Cries of "Bring the medical team immediately!" could be heard in the outer rooms. The führer was placed in a chair, confused and unable to comprehend what had just happened. Slowly, however, clarity returned. Hitler knew it was an attack—but not by Allied forces.

No, this enemy was from within. A glass of water was pressed into his hand. "Please, mein Führer, please take a sip." Hitler turned to see his valet's imploring face. Behind Buehl, many other faces were staring at him through the smoke and dust.

The faces of conspirators—assassins! He would find them, and they and their families would pay dearly for this treachery.

"A phone!" Hitler sputtered. "Notify Berlin immediately. There's a nest of traitors in our midst, and I want them all, every one of them, and their wives and sons and daughters burning in hell by midnight! Do you hear me?"

Outside the complex, even the dogs, yelping and barking hysterically, fell silent—frozen with fear.

# Chapter 5

### OHRDRUF, GERMANY

Veltheim's Storch broke through a layer of clouds into an early evening shower. Rain pelted the canopy, and Veltheim could just make out the burning pots that outlined the secure facility's runway. The pilot lined up with the strip, and moments later the aircraft's outstretched wheels, feeling for the earth like a water bird landing on a lake, touched the wet grass. Veltheim had tried to collect his thoughts during the short flight from Berlin, making mental notes about the next steps needed to ensure the weapon was ready on the führer's timetable. It would be difficult since, as Fritsch was often quick to point out, fissionable material didn't simply materialize out of thin air. Also, airborne delivery of the weapon to targets throughout Europe and on the eastern front was problematic, but that was not something he needed to think about at the moment. Right now he needed to determine the weapon's effect on the prisoners. A staff car pulled close as the airplane's propeller came to a stop.

A guard standing at the car's open door saluted. "Is everything ready as I ordered?" Veltheim asked, returning the salute as if he'd been waving off a fly.

"Yes, Colonel, everything is ready." Veltheim pulled the collar of his black leather coat closer and climbed into the back of the car, followed by an aide. The guard sat in the front seat next to the driver and the car pulled away down a muddy road leading to the first of six checkpoints they would traverse on the way to the complex.

"Begin your report," Veltheim said when the car was underway.

"Colonel, we had survey crews at the blast site within hours of the detonation. Their detailed reports are waiting for you to review."

"A quick summary, Major." Veltheim looked absently through the rain-streaked window.

"Colonel, we sent prisoners to the blast site in six teams of three, each with an armed guard and a dog. The teams were equipped with two still cameras and one movie camera." The aide thumbed through a small notebook he'd pulled from inside his coat. "Each team surveyed a prearranged sector of the site, with orders to photograph everything and run the movie camera from the moment of their arrival until they returned to the pickup point. The still photos were developed immediately, and I have included samples in these." He pulled six envelopes from a valise on the seat next to him.

Each was lettered and had a map glued to the front showing the sector corresponding to the photos inside. Veltheim opened the first and examined its contents. The photos were dark and grainy, but the effects of the blast could be seen distinctly. The center of the site, where the tower had been, was barren. Nothing remained standing for what Veltheim guessed was half a kilometer. Not a tree or bush was evident—only blackened earth with a slightly glassy sheen.

The next photo had a small note scribbled in the margin. "Cattle and sheep pen area." Veltheim looked at the major, tapping the photo.

"Colonel, as you instructed, before the blast we penned six cattle and three sheep in this area about half a kilometer from the tower. This is a photo of that place. As you can see, nothing remains of the concrete pen or of the animals. No bones, no flesh—no trace at all."

Veltheim looked at the next photo. In the margin was scribbled, "One kilometer." The image showed hundreds, maybe thousands of blackened trees, devoid of foliage, flattened outward from the blast center like matchsticks.

He turned to the next photo. In the margin was the notation, "Two kilometers." Here the trees were denuded but not flattened. Their trunks were, however, broken or bent at severe angles away from the blast center. Veltheim tried to imagine the force it would take to snap a mature fir tree in half about midway up its trunk, where the diameter was probably an average thirty to forty centimeters. He'd seen battle tanks at full throttle stopped in their tracks by just such a tree. He shuffled through the rest of the photos and then placed them back in their envelopes.

"Tell me about the prisoners."

The major turned to another page in his notes. "Sir, there were four hundred prisoners at camp number six on the morning of the detonation." The aide glanced at his watch. "That was forty-eight hours ago. Our medical teams recorded the effects on them on both still and cinematic film. At the time of the blast and for three hours after, the prevailing wind was from three hundred degrees, which means the blast debris was carried directly over the prison. When our teams arrived there was still ash falling out of the sky and it stuck to everything in the camp, which was wet from the rain and mist. Sir, every prisoner is suffering to some degree from radiation poisoning, and some who were out in the open at the water trough on the hilltop near the blast site have severe burns."

Veltheim considered this. Camp Six was nearly six kilometers from the center of the blast. To have this effect on the prison population from that distance and at an hour of the day when most of them were sleeping in the barracks was astonishing. Every one of them was sick and probably dying from radiation poisoning. The führer would be pleased. He felt the staff car slowing. They were approaching the first of the heavily guarded checkpoints they would come across on the single road that led into and out of the complex.

"What else?"

"Sir, the doctors say that the weakest of the prisoners, the Jews and Czechs who have been digging the tunnels and underground bunkers, will be too sick to work and will probably die within a week. The military prisoners, most of them Russian, with perhaps sixty Americans and an equal number of British are faring better but are still sick and will succumb to the radiation within a month. We have isolated about a dozen of them in a holding facility so we can monitor their deaths closely and make a more complete report."

Veltheim pulled a pair of gloves from his coat pocket and put them on. "See that I have your complete report within the hour, and I want to see the movie film this evening after my meal." The car stopped and the major stepped out holding the door and saluting.

"Very good, Colonel, it will be as you order."

Veltheim walked alone to a hut near the perimeter fence and disappeared inside. Presently he exited and walked to another waiting car. Only he was allowed into the inner concentric rings of the compound, each about a kilometer in distance from the next. Personnel from one ring escorted him to the next checkpoint and then were dismissed so that no one knew the exact route, fortifications, or staffing of the inner rings. From each guard post a twenty-foot-high, electrified fence topped with razor wire ran the entire distance around the ring. Each fence had sufficient roving guard teams with dogs so that no section of it was left unmonitored for more than a few minutes at a time. The area for twelve meters in front and behind the fence line had been heavily mined so that even if someone managed to sneak into the area, their forward progress would be stopped dead, literally, unless, of course, the intruders could sprout wings and fly. The guards and dogs walked a precise path along the barrier and strayed from it at their peril. Several had already been lost to these minefields due to fatigue or inattention, usually while relieving themselves.

Veltheim negotiated the final checkpoint. The guards watched his car disappear into the mist. Otto Gruber pulled his cap low over his eyes. He sat behind the wheel of the car that would make the final journey to the complex.

### * * *

Images of prisoners retching and doubled over in pain flickered on the screen. Others, close-ups of the men lined up in the prison yard exercise area, showed sunken eyes and lips pulled back over blackened and rotting teeth. Veltheim had seen this before in Poland and East Prussia. Prisoners, particularly the Jewish refugees from France and Poland, were rarely given medical attention, and oral hygiene was nonexistent. Teeth and gums uncared for after months in the camps quickly rotted and died. This was the reason that small rations of watery cabbage or potato soup were their primary diet. Solid food, even if it were available, simply could not be eaten. The sunken eyes and drawn facial skin he had seen before in death camps too, but these men showed other symptoms—radiation poisoning symptoms.

Boils and open sores pockmarked their faces and torsos. Leprosy was the closest medical condition he could think of that was similar. The weakest of the prisoners were shown in their bunks. These sleeping spaces were hardly larger than a man's body, with wooden slats serving as mattresses. The men in them wore grotesque expressions. The doctor explained that radiation poisoning was unlike any other: the body's cells in essence exploded like popcorn as the radiation, like a hot poker, touched each cell in turn with increasing speed until it reached the brain. Slow cooking from the inside, is how the doctors had put it.

Veltheim switched off the projector. His small theater remained dark for a moment as he thought about the next phase. "Lights," he ordered. He blinked as the houselights came on. Dr. Fritsch, sitting next to him, seemed frozen in his chair.

A valet appeared next to the colonel with two glasses and a bottle of brandy on a silver tray and then hurried out.

"Doctor, have a drink. It will do you good, my friend." Fritsch took the offered glass and collapsed back in his seat. "Doctor, I've read your report on the detonation test. It was very complete, but now I have some questions that need to be addressed before my next meeting with the führer."

Fritsch closed his eyes and sipped the brandy. "Yes, Colonel, I was sure there would be other questions."

Veltheim stood and paced on the linoleum floor of the theater, his boots clicking against the tiles. "The führer wants three weapons of at least the explosive power of the test weapon ready by the end of autumn."

Fritsch looked up from his chair at Veltheim and sighed. "That's quite impossible, Colonel. And even if it were, the development and construction of the air vehicle to deliver the weapon has been delayed indefinitely due to raids on our plant at Schweinfurt. Allied bombers come day and night. Production of fuselages and wings have come to a standstill, and even if the tooling were removed to a facility outside Allied bomber range, turning out a prototype for flight testing would be well over nine months from today. Frankly, if we could get a weapon and air vehicle ready by February or March of next year, it would be a miracle."

Veltheim scratched his nearly bald palate. He might be able to get a month's extension, but December or after was out of the question. The führer would never stand for it. He and Fritsch would both be sent to the Russian front long before then.

"Let's begin with the weapon," Veltheim countered. "I know we've talked about this in the past, but explain to me again. Now that we've successfully detonated a prototype, why we can't simply put another one together—or two or three for that matter?"

Fritsch looked Veltheim over. Wispy, prematurely graying hair that framed a nonexpressive face, slender nose, brown eyes, and rather large ears that made him look like a rat. But underneath the exterior, Veltheim's mind ran like a jeweled timepiece. Fritsch knew he was quick to grasp details and rarely forgot anything. His real gift, however, was knowing what to do with all that information. Although forbidden to talk to other military staff unless accompanied by the colonel, Fritsch had nevertheless been able to find out about Veltheim from a sergeant whom he'd caught sneaking a drink after walking in on him in a toilet stall. The sergeant was ever so grateful to share, in exchange for Fritsch's silence, that he had served with Veltheim in Bergen-Belsen. He'd been a guard there while Veltheim was deputy commander of the camp.

Never a combat soldier, Veltheim was nonetheless an administrator of extraordinary talent. The camp at Bergen-Belsen was, according to the sergeant, run by Veltheim, as his commanding officer could usually be found in town indulging in one form of perversion or another. As the deputy commander, he ran the day-to-day operations with the efficiency and zeal of an officer who knew he could rise in the hierarchy if he kept his nose clean and his operation in smooth running order. Over the months while Veltheim was assigned there, Bergen had cut basic requirements for food, clothing, and petroleum to sixty percent of that needed by other camps of like size. That statistic caught the notice of Henrich Himmler, who loved graphs and other pictorial representations showing the details of extermination camp operations, right down to the weight of gold extracted from prisoners' teeth and the bushels of hair shaved from human heads before they went to the gas chambers.

Bergen's "Requirements & Productivity" chart showed a "quantity of supplies needed" line that trended downward and reached a low point at a time when other camps were screaming for supplies to handle the overload of prisoners. At the same time, it showed a productivity output that fairly shouted success compared to the other camps. Himmler went to Bergen personally to see the operation and chatted with Veltheim, who was soon sent to other camps as Himmler's personal liaison for efficiency and productivity. The Bergen camp commandant was sent to the eastern front, where he was killed within a few hours of arriving by a sniper's bullet through his left eye. Veltheim understood better than most of his combat-hardened peers that the war was not won simply on the battlefield but behind the scenes, moving and conserving supplies, material, and men.

When the development of the "A weapon," as it had been dubbed by Hitler, began, it was originally tasked to the Luftwaffe and floundered for months in a sea of Hermann Goering-generated bureaucratic red tape and the general malaise that had gripped all of German weapons production once the Allied air attacks had begun in earnest. The führer kept a personal eye on the project, however, and when he began to see ghosts of defeat on the eastern front during the late summer and fall of 1942, he called Himmler and asked him to recommend several of his best administrators for a special project. Veltheim's name was at the top of the list. Hitler interviewed the young major himself and immediately thereafter, the A weapon project was put under Veltheim's complete control.

He had a direct link to Hitler, and whatever he needed he received without delay. In six months, Veltheim had assembled the best team of engineers, scientists, and tradesmen anywhere in the world. Others with talents useful to the project who'd been shipped to death camps were also brought to work at Ohrdruf. Himmler knew nothing and would have cared nothing for the project had he known about it, but he fed Veltheim a constant stream of dossiers on prisoners he thought might fit the list of special occupations the führer indicated he should be on watch for. Veltheim spent hours going through the lists and personally visited camps and interviewed prisoners he thought might be useful. Those with families were especially grateful to leave those places of misery for the relative safety and comfort of Ohrdruf—and work tirelessly for the privilege.

Yes, Fritsch thought, Veltheim, perhaps of all the officers he'd met since the beginning of the war, used his God-given abilities to their best possible advantage.

Veltheim was staring at him.

"Yes, well, Colonel, the idea is best explained visually, I think. If you will permit me to use the blackboard, these small circles clustered together represent the nucleus of an atom. The atoms which make up every element on earth have a nucleus consisting of protons and neutrons..."

Veltheim settled back in his chair with a pen and notebook on his lap. He had no real need of these things, however; his eyes were taking snapshots of the drawings, and his prodigious mind was recording Fritsch's voice word for word.

In another part of the complex, Otto Gruber adjusted his earphones. He didn't possess Veltheim's powers of recall, but he had a tape recorder, and tiny microphones were planted nearly everywhere in the complex. The security team that regularly swept for such devices was under his direct supervision and reports to Veltheim about those sweeps routinely left out their presence. Gruber sipped at a cup of tea and turned up the volume. His master needed the most complete and accurate information he could provide.

# Chapter 6

### MELBOURNE, ENGLAND

"What the hell is this?" asked Major Elmore Davis to no one in particular. He was examining a series of high-altitude reconnaissance photos taken by an American P38 aircraft specially equipped with long-range fuel tanks and high-resolution cameras. Davis looked at a handwritten note on the envelope: "June 25—Ohrdruf, Germany." He adjusted the lamp on his desk and centered a magnifier over an area of the photo that stood out from the surrounding countryside. It had been taken in the early morning hours, and the sun coming up in the east made it difficult to determine if the contrast was way off in the development of the image or if shadows made the area look so unusual. It looked like a meterorite had slammed into the forest just northeast of the town of Ohrdruf. The impression it left was bowl-shaped, and inside the bowl trees were flattened to the ground in an almost perfect circular pattern about six kilometers across. The only other thing noteworthy about the photo was a building complex a few kilometers southwest of the depressed area—barracks, maybe, or some kind of processing plant, he thought.

"Bill, what do you have in your files about Ohrdruf?"

Lieutenant Bill Ross, Davis's researcher and archivist, turned to a metal file cabinet nearby and pulled out the drawer labeled "M thru O."

"Ohrdruf, Ohrdruf," Ross muttered to himself as his fingers walked down the neatly labeled hanging files. "OK, Ohrdruf, here it is," he said.

He flipped the file open. "Major, there's only a note in here. It says that any intel on Ohrdruf should be forwarded immediately to Department Ninety, special ops. There's nothing else here." He handed the note and file to Davis who began reading.

"Refer to special ops, Department Ninety." He'd sent only one recon scan to Department Ninety, whatever that was, before, and it related to certain photos he'd examined in the weeks leading up to the Normandy invasion. "Bill, do me a favor and get me a top-secret carrier, please."

Davis bent over the magnifier again and circled the area that had peaked his interest with a red grease pencil. After a few minutes of scribbling notes on a pad, he turned his creaking wooden swivel chair to a nearby typewriter and started punching the keys. Finished, he zipped the single sheet of paper from the platen and looked it over.

Photo recon mission #8232, June 25, 1944, 0600 hrs. Ohrdruf, Germany. Altitude 35,000 feet, high-resolution lens G345, film hi-res speed 600. Circled area appx. 16 km. NE from town of Ohrdruf. Area appears to have undergone significant damage-origin and cause unknown. Note circular pattern and apparent depression. Trees appear to have been completely stripped of foliage and flattened outward from the center. Barracks or processing building complex noted 6 km. SW appears intact. Analysis: damage related to significant HE (high explosive) detonation—perhaps arms cache or munitions factory? Date of occurrence unknown—best estimate within last 90 days. Refer to comparative photos 30 and 40 (high-explosive detonation/impact craters near Pernoit, France, June 8, 1944) enclosed. Referred to Dept. 90, Special Ops for further analysis/action per special order #316. E. Davis, Maj. Photo recon/Dept. 18, July 30, 1944.

Ross waited for Davis to finish reading and then handed over the special top-secret courier envelope he'd requested.

"Thanks, Bill."

He signed and then folded the typed page and placed it in the envelope along with the photos and comparatives, and then sealed it with tape designed to indicate any intrusion before the contents reached their ultimate destination. "OK, we've done all we can with this. Very bizarre." Davis took in a deep breath and exhaled with an audible sigh.

"I'm going to make some more coffee." He and Ross had been working together for six months, and during that time they practically lived on the hot oily brew and were in a constant state of caffeine-induced nervous movement.

"Take that over to Special Branch right away, Bill. Coffee will be done by the time you get back."

Ross headed down the hallway with the envelope. "Oh, and Lieutenant, be sure to get a receipt!" Davis called out. Ross waved the file over his head in acknowledgment and disappeared through a vault-like door at the end of the hallway. Elmore Davis rubbed his bloodshot eyes, lit a cigarette, and reached for the percolator.

# Chapter 7

### OHRDRUF, GERMANY

"...and that's the biggest problem." Fritsch looked at Veltheim to see if after two full hours, all he'd said, starting with the idea of a chain reaction, had registered.

Veltheim rocked his head first to one shoulder then the other, working out the kinks. "Yes, Doctor, I understand." He stood, rubbing his neck. "Let me see if I can summarize. In short, the heart of this weapon is an isotope of the element uranium, which can only be separated from the parent element by a laborious and time-consuming process that requires massive amounts of electrical energy. Given the Reich's current war footing, we don't have the time or resources to produce this isotope in quantities large enough to deploy even one additional weapon, much less several."

Fritsch nodded. "So far, so good, Colonel."

Veltheim ran his hand through a wisp of thinning hair. "The fissionable material in the prototype weapon came from Japan...sorry," he corrected himself immediately, "...from mountains in southern Manchuria, where the Japanese discovered, quite by chance, an isolated pocket of weapons-grade uranium, or U-two-thirty-five."

Fritsch said, "I might add this discovery has been kept under the greatest secrecy. The first ore was excavated by hand with shovels and sent here immediately. Since then we've had our Asian friends scouring the area for other pockets. They've found only two additional sources after weeks of constant searching. We don't know how much more U-two-thirty-five there is, but estimates are there's enough for two, perhaps three more weapons with yields like those of the prototype.

"Truly, Colonel, that anything like this was found at all at is astonishing. Deposits of uranium with concentrations of the U-two-thirty-five isotope large enough to support a chain reaction are, to put it mildly, freaks of nature. It would be like you finding a five-hundred-carat diamond in your vegetable garden!"

"Yes, Doctor, but a miracle that makes me believe all the more the Reich has a destiny and that destiny is to rule a world tainted for centuries by weak men and their obsequious followers, who are motivated only by their own pleasures. These people shall be taught, finally, that world order requires discipline, commitment, hard work, and a steel spine against the unclean and inferior.

"To make the most of this wonder, however," Veltheim continued, "the remaining isotope must be transported here and that, Doctor, is all that stands between us and a thousand years of Nazi rule."

"I agree, Colonel, but as you know shipping it here, as things stand now, is difficult at best and perhaps impossible given Germany's increased isolation on the eastern front and the Allied advances from the west. Their vessels and air patrols are constantly in and over the Mediterranean, the Baltic, and the North Atlantic. There was a time when our submarines and aircraft roamed at will, but that time, I'm afraid, has passed.

"A surface ship would almost certainly be discovered during a voyage from Japanese waters," Fritsch continued. "A plane might slip through, but it's highly unlikely, and the truth, a truth Hitler must understand, is that if this shipment is interdicted, the project is over."

Veltheim began pacing. "The führer will be very upset with any delay. However, I will impress upon him the need for a transport method that guarantees safe delivery."

Fritsch looked thoughtful. "Colonel, I believe the safest way to bring the isotope here must be by submarine. It can run under the sea for long periods, undetectable to the enemy."

Veltheim considered this while he poured himself another glass of brandy. "A submarine, yes, perhaps. I think this might be the best method too, but as you pointed out, even our subs don't have free reign anymore. Also, the transit time from Japanese waters to here must be at least a few months, perhaps more around Africa since the Suez canal is controlled now by the Allies. If the transport is by submarine, it will have to begin almost immediately to ensure arrival of the isotope in time. If only Rommel had been able to capture the canal we wouldn't have this problem."

Veltheim turned off the light on the table next to his chair. "I'm going to bed, Doctor. We can talk more about this tomorrow."

Fritsch looked at his watch. "I'm afraid it's already tomorrow, Colonel."

"Well, good morning then, Doctor."

Otto Gruber shut off the tape recorder, removed the reel, and placed it in a secure diplomatic pouch. At the first opportunity, he would take it to a dead drop in Berlin where it would be retrieved by a Russian courier.

# Chapter 8

### LONDON, ENGLAND

Major Tom Wilkerson held a lit a cigarette and removed his uniform cap, a prearranged signal for the two figures in a nondescript sedan parked in the alley. He knew they were armed and watching everything that moved near the back entrance to Selfridges department store. Seconds later, a cigarette lighter flame shown through the driver's-side window—the all-clear signal. Wilkerson flipped the butt away, unlocked the door, and descended a stairway lit by two bare bulbs hanging from the ceiling. At the bottom he inserted a key in the lock of a metal door, turned it, and entered. Inside, two military policemen came to attention and saluted. "Good evening, sir," said the taller of the two.

Wilkerson returned the salute and presented his credentials to the shorter man, who scanned the ID, looked at a list on his desk, and nodded. "Good evening, sir," he said. "Welcome back."

"Thanks, gentlemen. I can't say I'm thrilled, though. I was enjoying a wonderful fish and chips dinner at the hotel when the call came in." Both MPs nodded in understanding. Wilkerson replied with a palms-up _what can you do?_ gesture.

"Please go in sir," the taller one said.

Wilkerson moved around the two guards and punched in a code on the door behind them. There was a click as the locking mechanism released. "Have a pleasant evening, gentlemen." He walked through the door and closed it behind him.

The room beyond was cool and lit by overhead fluorescent lights. There was a humming electrical sound coming from the equipment, which was stacked in an _L_ shape almost to the top of an eight-foot ceiling along the back and sidewall of the room. The apparatus was covered with glowing dials and switches. Wilkerson could see the softly glowing orange light of vacuum tubes through the circular ventilation holes in some of the larger cabinets. There was one other man in the room who sat on a stool in front of what looked like two very sophisticated phonograph turntables. He turned as Wilkerson entered and said, "Hello, Major."

Wilkerson removed his cap and sailed it perfectly onto one hook of a nearby coat tree. "You're going to have to show me how you do that some time," the phonograph man said with a disbelieving shake of his head.

"Sammy, some would tell you that it just takes practice," Wilkerson replied, loosening his tie and walking to the coffee pot. "I'm here to tell you that it's a God-given talent, my friend, you either have it or you don't, like Ben Hogan holing out a chip shot at the Masters golf tournament. By the way, did you know they turned Augusta National where the Masters is played into a farm to help with food shortages?"

Wilkerson smiled at Sam Watson, the Bell Telephone Labs technician on duty that evening. Wilkerson liked him. He was a young, affable kid, slim with close-cropped blond hair, a great sense of humor, and a ready smile. His dossier said he was thirty years old, Columbia educated, bachelor's degree in electrical engineering, top of his class. Wilkerson knew he'd been working for Bell the last few years since graduation and had a part in the development of Sigsaly, the voice-encryption system for secret transatlantic telephone communications the fifty tons of equipment in this air-conditioned room made possible.

Wilkerson sipped his coffee and looked at the precision wall clock just above the turntables. It was exactly twelve minutes and thirty-three seconds before eleven o'clock in the evening local time. A duplicate clock at the White House, he knew, would be indicating precisely the same time less five hours. The clocks were synchronized every two hours by a radio transmission from the Greenwich Observatory. Wilkerson knew exact time coordination between the two telephones connected to this system—one in the prime minister's lavatory at the War Room beneath Whitehall and the other on Roosevelt's desk in the Oval Office—was essential.

Watson smiled, then turned serious. "Mr. Churchill will begin the transmission at eleven p.m., Major." He withdrew two phonograph disks covered in cloth jackets from a floor safe. He carefully removed the records from their static-free liners and placed each of them on one of the turntables.

Wilkerson came closer. "Sammy, remind me what the records are for."

Without looking up, Sammy turned a small vernier control so that each turntable rotated to a silver-colored mark scribed on the cabinet holding the drive mechanism.

"Think of them as cipher pads, Major, only more sophisticated. In simple terms, these discs contain one-time encryption keys for the sending and receiving stations. To keep classified radio traffic secret, the transmitter and the receiver have paper codebooks that both decipher and authenticate the transmission. That's too slow for our purposes. The turntable at the White House and this one are spinning at precisely the same rate at precisely the same time so the encryption and decryption take place instantly. So as far as the PM and the president are concerned, it sounds like a regular phone call."

Sammy glanced at the wall clock. Five minutes to go.

"My counterpart at the White House has a duplicate set of these discs and will spin the first one, on turntables like these, at exactly six p.m.," he continued. "The encryption key values on the two sets of discs are changed every day." Sammy got up from the stool, moved to another console, and flipped a switch energizing the link to the PM's telephone. "We can't hear their conversation, of course. All we know is when it begins and ends.

"I installed the terminal equipment at the prime minister's headquarters. The room containing his telephone looks from the outside like a WC." Sammy grinned. "An armed guard stands outside the entrance twenty-four hours a day. Only Churchill ever goes in and out of that room. Some of the staff have commented that they can understand a private WC for the PM, but having it guarded around the clock? It's caused some head-shaking."

Two minutes to go. "OK, Major, get ready," Sammy said.

Wilkerson's job during a "sigchat"—as a secret conversation using this equipment between the president and the PM was known—was simply to observe and monitor the procedure and report any problems to the head of Army Signals Intelligence. With Sammy at the controls, there was little possibility of a problem unless the equipment malfunctioned.

Wilkerson saw a green light come on next to the wall clock at 10:59:50. That meant Churchill had picked up the telephone. When the second hand reached eleven he would start speaking.

At exactly eleven o'clock, an electrical relay closed inside one of the cabinets and the first turntable began to spin.

### * * *

"Good afternoon, Franklin," Churchill said.

"And good evening to you, Winston." There was a slight delay as Franklin Roosevelt's voice traveled three thousand miles across the transatlantic cable, through a station on the northwest coast of England, and into the War Room.

Churchill sat in a cushioned wooden swivel chair with the telephone in his left hand. He was wearing a bathrobe over pajamas and the lined leather slippers his wife had given him last Christmas. A stub of a cigar protruded from the corner of his mouth. He picked up a sheet of paper from his desk.

"Franklin, I'm looking at a report that came up from Department Ninety just an hour ago. If the information in this report is accurate, we may be in grave danger." For a moment Churchill heard nothing but a slight hissing noise through the receiver.

"Yes, Winston, please go on."

"Two weeks ago, a high-altitude photo recon mission by one of your P-thirty-eights brought back pictures of an area near Ohrdruf, Germany. The mission was to confirm the existence of a prison camp near the town, but one of the photos showed something else, something compelling, my dear friend, and very frightening."

Roosevelt listened as Churchill continued in the slow and deliberate Victorian English brogue that had become so familiar to the people of England during his many radio addresses to the nation.

"The photos I'm referring to show an area of great devastation. The area is roughly circular, about two kilometers in diameter. Within that circle the trees, hundreds of them, are flattened and the ground is black like every chimney sweep in England had dumped a year's worth of work there."

"An explosion? Perhaps a weapons cache or munitions plant?" Roosevelt offered.

"Yes, clearly an explosion, but not from any conventional ordnance or other cause like a ruptured gas line. And, we are quite certain there are no munitions plants near Ohrdruf." Churchill paused and ran his finger across the page to a portion of the notes he'd underlined. "Franklin, my analysts calculate it would take fifteen to twenty kilotons of conventional TNT to cause this kind of damage. I had them review their findings—twice. These are bright people, Franklin, the very best."

Churchill placed the cigar stub in an ashtray and leaned forward in his chair. "It can mean only one thing." There was only silence from the U.S. end of the line. "Mr. President, are you still there?" Churchill looked to see if the yellow light had come on over the console behind his desk, indicating an interruption in the transmission. It was dark.

"Yes, Winston, I'm here," Roosevelt said with unmistakable concern in his voice. "Then we're talking about a fission weapon." It was not a question. "You're saying that you believe the Germans have an atomic bomb."

"Franklin, based on this report and the photos, I don't know how we could come to any other conclusion."

Roosevelt sighed, sat back in his chair, and turned to look out the Oval Office windows. The leaves on the oaks and maples dotting the south lawn of the White House were just beginning to turn shades of red and gold. Beyond them he could see the Washington Monument jutting up into a bright blue Indian summer afternoon.

"Winston," Roosevelt began, "why would they detonate a nuclear weapon out in the open and increase the chances of its discovery? Why not an underground test?"

"This area is remote. Deep inside the Reich," Churchill replied. "I think they believed the chances of discovery were minimal, and frankly, they were. It was only by luck that we happened to have a flight that made it into this part of Germany without Luftwaffe interference. Goering and his pilots must have been hungover from the night before. I think they wanted to evaluate the effects of the detonation in an open environment. There is a prison camp only a short distance from the center of the explosion. God knows what may have happened to those poor devils."

At Selfridges, Sammy Watson looked at the clock: 11:11:58. The encryption discs were good for only twelve minutes at a time. The relay clicked and the second turntable began to spin.

"Winston we must find a way to stop this and quickly. Right now there can be no higher priority. Do you agree?"

"Franklin, I do agree—the very highest priority, and the highest secrecy. If word of this gets out, who knows what it will do to morale? There would be panic here in the streets. You know what we went through during the Blitz. The British people are tough, they stood up to the onslaught with determination and extreme fortitude, but this..." his voice trailed off.

Roosevelt turned and scribbled a note on a pad. "Donovan" was all it said. "Winston, I want to send Bill Donovan over. He has contacts in Germany, and I'm going to need him there with you to coordinate a plan to kill this before it can go any further. I'll tell him to report to Whitehall as soon as possible."

"All right. I'll set it up with Admiral Hall to expect him and keep you advised."

"Thank you," Roosevelt replied. "And do me a favor, will you? Please tell..." he paused, opened his front desk drawer, and flipped open a notebook, "Major Wilkerson and Mr. Watson they are not to leave the equipment until further notice. Their superiors will confirm that order within a couple of hours."

"I shall call them right after we hang up. Good-bye, Franklin. I'm sorry it couldn't have been better news."

"Good-bye, Mr. Prime Minister. I don't know what else to say, except we must and we will get through this, with God's help."

In the basement of Selfridges, Major Wilkerson and Sammy watched the green light wink out.

The president picked up his office phone. "Please find out where Bill Donovan is and tell him I need to speak to him immediately, in private, here at the White House. Arrange transportation and tell him not to mention this to anyone. Also, please send for General Groves. He's probably at Oak Ridge."

"Yes, Mr. President. I'll see to it." Roosevelt's secretary flipped through her Rolodex, found the appropriate card, and dialed Donovan's personal number.

# Chapter 9

### LE VISNET, FRANCE

Dr. Hesse was startled to see a figure standing over the hospital bed with a straight razor at Rommel's throat.

"Please, sir, stay still," a feminine voice pleaded.

Hesse moved farther into the room and exhaled with relief. One of the floor nurses was trying her best to scrape a week's stubble from the face of a reluctant and impatient German field marshal.

"Stop fidgeting, Erwin. Let this young woman do her job and make you presentable, if that's possible."

Erwin Rommel turned to see the speaker. The nurse jumped back and straightened, shaking her head. Hesse watched the razor fall from her hand and clink into a metal bowl on the cart next to her. She took a towel from her shoulder and began to dry her hands.

"Sir, I can see"—she turned and gave Hesse an exasperated look—"there are far too many distractions this morning. I'll be back later to finish." She pushed the cart out of the room and Hesse watched her disappear down the hallway.

"Erwin, I think you are safe for the moment." Hesse smiled and extended a hand to his patient.

Rommel grasped Hesse's hand. "Doctor, you can be sure I plan to tell that bandy Goering his hospital is far more dangerous than the battlefield."

Hesse chuckled while placing his coat over the foot railing of Rommel's bed. He removed the chart hanging there and began reading. "Excellent blood pressure, pulse and, very good, a steady ninety-eight-point-six-degree body temperature over the last week." He replaced the chart and settled into a worn, mottled red-cushioned chair next to the bed. "You look much better than the first day I saw you here."

The field marshal was lying back on his bed in a white hospital gown. His leg was still elevated in the traction device, but all the bandages had been removed from his face. His left eyelid drooped and suture lines crisscrossed his skull where it had been fractured. He had the ragged and tired appearance of a man upon whom two world wars had taken their toll. It was true that those wars had made Rommel a legendary, almost mythical figure in the hearts and minds of most Germans, but it had come at a high price, and Hesse feared there was yet one final payment due.

Rommel turned and stared out the window at some far-off place. "You know, Doctor, when I started in this I was only a boy."

"Ah, yes, and so was Napoleon," Hesse replied.

"Napoleon and I have nothing in common, Doctor. Napoleon was a dictator with political ambitions and a grandiose sense of himself that led to his defeat and exile. If you ask me, I'd say Hannibal is a better comparison."

Hesse, a military historian, winced at this but said nothing. The irony was shocking. Hannibal had been forced by rivals to take poison in the end. He didn't know exactly what was in store for Rommel, but he feared the worst.

"I'm a soldier," Rommel continued. "I have no interest in politics or glory, and when this is over, I want only to go home to my Lucie and Manfred. Yes, Doctor, it's true, I relished the sting of battle once, but..." Rommel's voice trailed off. "Did you know that Lucie once won a tango competition?"

Hesse shook his head.

Rommel thought back to his cadet days at Danzig, when he'd met the slim and dark-haired beauty he married. He was enthralled the first time he'd seen her. She'd laughed uproariously when he called for her one afternoon in his uniform wearing a monocle in the traditional Prussian fashion. Monocles were forbidden, of course, but he hid it in a coat pocket whenever one of the school's instructors was nearby. Her easy laugh and grace enchanted him. They married shortly after he was commissioned a lieutenant over thirty years ago.

Rommel rummaged through the drawer in a cabinet next to his bed, produced a wallet, and pulled out a small photo. He offered it to Hesse, who smiled at the black and white image. Lucie, about nineteen, slender in a dress that reached to her midcalf, a smile radiated from her finely featured face. She was holding a trophy at her waist. Hesse had known Frau Rommel for many of those thirty years. She'd aged well since then, he thought. Lovely and still laughing easily without the patrician airs of many of the high-ranking officers' wives. Yet now, in these times, there was a more serious, subdued, and protective side to her character. Hesse handed the photo back.

"She's as lovely as ever, Erwin."

Rommel tucked the photo away. "She and Manfred are due here tomorrow. I'm eager to see them, but honestly, I'm worried about how they'll react." Rommel picked up a hand mirror and held it up to see his reflection. "God, I look like one of the trams in Munich ran over me."

Hesse's sighed and his face took on a stern expression. "You're lucky to be alive! The doctors who treated you at the aide station were sure you wouldn't live another day." Hesse wondered if this was a good time. He decided it was as good a time as any. "Erwin, have you heard the news?"

"What news? Do you mean from Normandy?"

"No, not from Normandy, although surely that is bad enough. Erwin, there was an attempt on Hitler's life three days ago at the Wolf's Lair."

"What!" Rommel looked startled. "Who...who would do such a thing?"

Hesse could see the field marshal's mind was racing.

"I can't believe it!" Rommel had a moment of clarity. "Wait a minute. You said an _attempt_. How is the führer? What's his condition?"

"The details are sketchy," Hesse said. "But the führer made an address on the radio yesterday reassuring the nation that he was alive and well. The Gestapo went to work immediately rounding up as many of the conspirators as could easily be identified. Many of them were in Paris, but—and these are rumors only—I've heard names like Stulpnagel, Stauffenberg, a Colonel Hofacker, and even Kluge mentioned as part of the plot. The dragnet is out. I've also heard rumors of several suicides in the officer corps since the attempt, and I have it on good authority that many of the conspirators have already been hanged or shot."

Rommel slumped in his bed, his head shaking from side to side. "Stulpnagel, Kluge," he muttered. "Impossible, utterly absurd. I know these men, Hesse. They would never, not even for a moment, become involved in a plot to assassinate the führer. Yes, like me, they may have disagreed, even disagreed strongly, with some of his ideas and notions about the conduct of the war, but every commander does that on occasion. After all we're on the front lines and the führer is in Berlin.

"Why, I myself have many times confronted Hitler about his conduct of the war, both personally and in writing. I tell you confidentially that I've even thought about how we might go to the Allies and join them in fighting the communists—forging an alliance, as it were, before things get too bad for us. But I knew when those thoughts rattled around in my head they had no legs.

"Eisenhower will accept nothing short of unconditional surrender, and I haven't the power or influence to make that decision. It rests in the hands of the führer. Don't you see? Field commanders entertaining fleeting thoughts about various options to conduct or conclude a war is not the same thing as acting on them!

"For God's sake, surely the führer must understand this. I am not now nor have I ever been a political animal. I'm a soldier, and my entire career I've been outspoken, yes, but always keeping in mind my mission, my duty to the German people and most of all my duty to my men."

Rommel turned to Hesse and with a tone of resignation said, "I admit I've been stubborn and pigheaded doing my duty over these last thirty years. I don't have any friends in the high command or in Berlin. Some of them are jealous and want to see me fail. Most of them are just plain stupid, but I have never, since the day I first met him and was in charge of his security detail, meant Hitler any ill.

"Yes, I admit it, and I would admit it to his face if he were here now. I disobeyed his orders to kill Allied commandos and Jewish POWs. In France, I disobeyed his orders to deport the Jewish populations of towns and cities along my axis of advance and in my sector after the French capitulated. I've written several letters to Himmler protesting the mistreatment of Jews. All of that and more I'd admit to the führer if he doesn't already know it. But these things were done because they were right, and I will go to my grave believing it." Rommel folded his arms across his chest.

Hesse tried to sound soothing. "I know, Erwin. I know all these things."

He knew even more. He knew the western press revered Rommel for his humane treatment of Allied POWs in North Africa, calling it the "war without hate." He also knew that the British commando, Major Keyes, who'd been sent to kill or capture Rommel in the desert, and had been killed in the botched attempt, was buried with full military honors on the field marshal's orders.

"Erwin, all I can say to you is that it's a time for extreme caution. You say you knew these men who were part of the plot. That means they know you—and for the sake of their lives, they may try to implicate you. Think about it. You said yourself you've burned many bridges with those in power. Out of jealousy or whatever darker motivation there may be, they may want to see you tried and executed as complicit in this."

Rommel shook his head in denial.

"Please, Erwin, as your friend, I urge you to at least consider the possibility."

"Doctor, the führer and I are on good terms. He would never believe such a thing. When I'm sufficiently well, I know he'll assign me a new command. Here, look at this." Rommel handed him a sheet of Hitler's personal stationary with a note signed by the führer himself wishing the field marshal a speedy and complete recovery.

Hesse looked at the note and returned it. He simply could not fathom Rommel's naïveté in this matter. Frau Rommel had warned him that when it came to Hitler, the field marshal could not see fault or disingenuousness, regardless of the truth.

Hesse made up his mind in that instant.

The nurse who'd attempted to give Rommel a shave earlier reappeared at the doorway. "Herr Doctor, is there anything wrong? I thought I heard the field marshal shouting." She looked at Rommel, who was again gazing out the window.

"No, nothing is wrong," Hesse reassured her. "The field marshal was simply recounting to me some of his exploits at Monte Mataiur during World War One."

She gave him a disapproving look. "Please, Doctor, try to keep him from becoming too excited." She turned on her heel and walked away.

Hesse got up from his chair and went to Rommel's bedside. Reaching in his pocket, he pulled out a dark pill. "Erwin, I have to go. I fear I have overstayed my welcome. Please take this, it will help you sleep. I'll come back tomorrow and we can talk again."

Rommel's head rested dejectedly on his chest. He ran his hand over his high forehead and through his thinning hair. "Thank you for coming, Doctor."

Hesse poured water from a carafe into a glass. Rommel placed the pill in his mouth and sipped through a straw. "All right, yes," he said. "I am tired, very tired." Rommel lay back, head against the pillow and fell asleep.

Hesse closed the door and sat quietly next to his patient. His mind wandered back to the incredible visit he'd made to Nepal nearly a decade before. It was there, in a remote village, he'd learned the mantra from a gentle Tibetan monk. Hesse was skeptical at first, but after witnessing a demonstration of the technique he'd become a believer. Over the course of a few days the old monk had taken his student through a series of steps, a combination of hypnosis and meditation that prepared him for the dream state he would enter. On the third day the student grasped a prayer shawl, a sort of talisman, and immediately fell into a state of unconsciousness so deathlike Hesse was unable, through any ordinary sense or test, to prove otherwise. Hesse came back the next day to find the student in the same state and the next day and the next. On the fifth day, the teacher whispered something into the student's ear and he came fully awake as if nothing at all had happened. Other than being very thirsty, the student seemed to have suffered no ill effects and remembered nothing whatsoever of the experience.

Hesse looked over at his sleeping friend. The Desert Fox was a national hero and even Hitler could not order his execution without serious public relations implications. That meant Rommel would have to be killed in a way that made it look like he died from natural causes, and the best way to do that was poison. Hitler had used this strategy before and Hesse felt certain he would use it again. The traitor was disposed of, the nation would continue to believe Rommel was a hero, and no one was any the wiser. Hesse also knew the poison of choice was cyanide, a fast acting toxin that attacked the central nervous system. Fortunately for his purposes, cyanide pills were hard shelled capsules and had to be bitten down on to release the poison. If he could use the pill as the talisman, and train Rommel's subconscious so that he would simply swallow the capsule when it was presented to him, the poison would pass harmlessly through his body. Afterwards, while his friend was in the dream state, he could switch the body, spirit him safely out of Germany and then revive him. After that, Erwin Rommel's fate was out of his hands.

Hesse sighed, stood and approached the bed. It was time. He leaned over his patient and began to whisper the ancient mantra in his ear.

# Chapter 10

### OHRDRUF, GERMANY

Veltheim's car passed through the third perimeter checkpoint. The guards watched as it roared away toward the compound, leaving a faint trail of blue exhaust vapor in the cool morning air.

He removed his cap and placed it beside him on the seat. The führer had not been pleased, but the exigencies of wartime transport of materials from Japan to Germany were at least understandable. Hitler had told him he would order his naval attaché to see to it that the shipment of the remaining U-235 got underway within the next forty-eight hours. With the Japanese sub running at top speed on the surface at night and at its submerged cruising speed of eight knots per hour during the day, the shipment should arrive at the submarine pens in Kiel at the end of February.

Hitler made it clear to the naval attaché, a Japanese commander, that speed and stealth were of the utmost importance. The commander assured him that the vessel would carry only its most experienced crew and that the captain selected for the mission was their best, a veteran of twenty-six long-range combat patrols, including Pearl Harbor. The meeting at the Reich Chancellery lasted all afternoon and into the evening. Veltheim had never before dined with the führer, but at dusk, a small rolling cart covered with bread, soup, and tea was wheeled into the office by his valet. They sat together eating and discussing the next phase of the operation.

"Mein Führer, Fritsch and I have discussed, with several of his engineers, possible options for delivery of the weapon." Veltheim dabbed at his lips with a napkin, put it aside, and picked up a notebook.

"Go on," Hitler said, sipping slowly at his soup.

"Since London is to be the first target..."

"I have not yet determined the first target, Colonel" Hitler interrupted. His voice was cool.

"Yes, of course, mein Führer, we have considered delivery options for all the potential targets on your list." Veltheim turned to another page of his notebook. "Stalingrad, London, Washington, and Moscow. If I may know which of these you would prefer to discuss first, I will, of course, start there."

Hitler placed the spoon next to his soup bowl and wiped his lips with a napkin tucked into his collar. "Tell me about two possibilities, Colonel," Hitler said. He removed the napkin, pushed back from the dining table, and walked to the fireplace. Picking up a poker, he absently pushed at the embers, raising a small shower of sparks. The only other light in the room was a lamp on Hitler's desk and a floor lamp next to the sitting area's dark leather sofa.

Veltheim moved to the fireplace. The flames cast dancing shadows on the eagle clutching its swastika. The effect was almost to give the bird of prey life, and for a moment he believed the eagle's eyes were looking directly at him.

"Please sit," Hitler was saying. He placed the poker with the other tools and motioned to a red leather wingback chair.

Hitler settled himself on the sofa, crossing his legs. He was dressed as usual in his tan shirt, swastika armband, and tie. The Jodhpur pants were covered to midcalf with black leather military boots. The fire's light and shadows played across the enigmatic expression on his face.

"Let's first discuss London."

"Yes, mein Führer. There are two possibilities. One is to airdrop the weapon by bomber. The other is to carry the weapon by mine-laying submarine to the mouth of the Thames, where it will be launched and guided remotely up the river to its detonation point near the English Parliament."

"Airdrop," Hitler repeated. "Well, Reichsmarshal Goering has no mastery of the skies over England at the moment. That will change, of course, as soon as we've pushed the Allies back across the channel and reestablished our forward airbases in Normandy. However, there is no telling at the moment when that will occur. Our forces are making good progress and we'll do better once I make some changes in the senior staff..." Hitler paused and remembered that Field Marshal Keitel had arrived and was probably at this moment disrobing in his outer office. "...but at present the Americans are putting all their resources into the area, and it may be a month, possibly two before we are successful in eradicating their presence in France.

"What testing have you done on the guided mine?" Hitler asked. He already had a report from Gruber that told him nearly all he needed to know.

"Mein Führer, we conducted tests with the U-two-thirty-four in the Baltic one week ago. Our engineers constructed two dummy weapons to the exact scale and weight of the real thing. The dummy weapons were built so they fit into and may be launched from the mine shafts of this submarine much like ordinary sea mines. The weapon is heavier than a standard mine, and our engineers spent a great deal of time figuring out how to maintain buoyancy and install the propulsion and guidance systems."

Hitler's fingers drummed the arm of the sofa.

"We tried two different designs. The first was successfully launched, but its flotation apparatus leaked. After several minutes seawater overcame the mine's ability to float or hover at the proper depth. It sank before we could engage the propulsion system, but it was tethered and we were able to bring it to the surface for examination."

Hitler's face was impassive. "And what of the second weapon?"

Veltheim leaned forward in his chair. "The second weapon performed flawlessly. After launch, it rose to the proper depth, exactly one meter below the surface. The drive mechanism was engaged by remote control. Currents off the estuary were strong, but the motor was powerful enough to overcome them, and the mine moved at a speed of two knots to the mouth of the river. Reaching the entry point took no longer than five minutes. From there an operator guided the mechanism downstream a distance of two miles to the detonation point. The elapsed time from launch to target area was a total of fifty minutes."

Hitler leaned forward. His arched eyebrows asked, _What happened?_

"Once the weapon was in position, the land operator engaged the firing trigger." Veltheim took a chance on pausing here for effect. "Fifty kilos of high explosive, exactly the weight of the critical mass for a real weapon, exploded, sending a geyser of water a hundred meters into the air. The sky was dark with birds of every description scattering for safety."

Neither Veltheim nor Hitler moved for the next few seconds, their eyes locked in a kind of shared prescience.

"Good, Veltheim. Yes, very good!" Hitler said, breaking the spell. "Now tell me about Washington."

"Mein Führer, once the first weapon has destroyed London, the U-two-thirty-four would continue to the Chesapeake Bay and proceed to the mouth of the Potomac River. The second weapon would be launched and our spotters on the bank would guide it to a point in the river"—Veltheim again paused for effect—"no more than two kilometers from the White House."

Hitler closed his eyes and imagined a tremendous fireball enveloping Washington. He saw the Washington Monument spinning through the air as the weapon's pressure wave swept it along like a blade of straw in a hurricane. In truth, he would rather not detonate the weapon at all, preferring to take the city intact so he could enter the Capitol Building and wait for Roosevelt to come scurrying through the gate in his pitiful wheelchair. Once London was reduced to ashes, that scenario seemed a distinct possibility.

"I approve use of the U-two-thirty-four, its officers, and crew for deployment of the weapon. Admiral Donitz will be informed within the hour," Hitler said. "As usual, no one except you, Fritsch, and myself will know of this. I'll simply tell Donitz I need his submarine for a few weeks."

"Yes, mein Führer." Veltheim was ecstatic and eager to return to the compound.

"Return to Ohrdruf and see to the construction of the weapon's casings. I want them ready so when the Japanese submarine arrives, the only remaining task will be to insert the uranium cores." Hitler stood. "Well done, Colonel."

Veltheim saluted. "Heil Hitler!" he said and left the room.

Hitler went to his desk and picked up the telephone. "Send Keitel in."

Field Marshal Wilhelm Kitel, the overall commander of the Wermacht, was tall, robust, and sturdy. To the extent Hitler trusted anyone, he trusted Keitel.

The field marshal walked to Hitler's desk and saluted. "Good evening, mein Führer."

Hitler studied Keitel. He looked a like a bulldog with an iron cross at his throat. A strong and determined face, Hitler thought, and an excellent commander. He had earned the respect of his subordinates—and Hitler's as well.

"Sit, please," Hitler said.

Keitel settled himself in a chair, filling it completely. A handsomely tooled leather case rested in his lap.

"Stulpnagel and his confederates?" Hitler asked without hesitation.

Keitel shifted in the chair. He felt uncomfortable and hoped the führer wouldn't notice. "Hanged last night," Keitel responded, trying to keep his voice matter-of-fact.

Hitler stared at him over the desk. Keitel knew what he was waiting for— "With piano wire, as you instructed."

"Where is the film?"

"Delivered to your projection room an hour ago."

Keitel had seen much of death and destruction over two world wars. Men whose bodies had been horribly mangled and death masks of agony were frozen in his mind. The thought of Hitler sitting alone watching as Stulpnagel and his coconspirators were led to the gallows, as the executioner placed the piano wire nooses around their necks, and then as the trap door banged open, with close-ups of their twisting bodies, kicking legs, and bulging eyes, blood everywhere from necks sliced nearly in half...Keitel tried but failed to push the image away, and a cold shiver ran down his spine.

"Very good," Hitler said. "Vermin, all of them. It could have been worse, you know. I should have let the rats eat them. Vermin eating their own kind, now that's poetic justice. What of Speidel and Rommel?"

"Mein führer, the Gestapo's interrogation of General Speidel was completed yesterday. The Army Court of Honor was convened today to review the evidence."

"Speidel," Hitler spat. "He's guilty, I am convinced of it."

"Gestapo Chief Kaltenbrunner..." Keitel paused, unzipped the case, removed several sheets of paper and reviewed them. "Gestapo Chief Kaltenbrunner informed the court that Speidel admitted during interrogation he was informed of the plot by Hofacker and that he, without delay, reported this to Field Marshal Rommel. His defense was, quite simply, that if Rommel kept the information to himself, it is not his fault. Kaltenbrunner said this excuse was not good enough and that Speidel should have reported Hofacker and any details he had concerning the plot to higher headquarters immediately.

"Mein Führer, as chief of the court, I pointed out that you were quite convinced that Speidel was guilty, if of nothing else, being an accessory to murder and conspiracy."

Hitler nodded and sat back, arms folded across his chest, apparently satisfied that Keitel had clearly expressed his own views on the matter to the court.

Keitel glanced at his notes again and continued, "General Kircheim pointed out that if Speidel _said_ he turned the information over to Rommel, it was up to the prosecution to prove otherwise. General Guderian concurred in this."

Keitel knew that Guderian had been given rough treatment by Rommel over the years and that Rommel had publicly dressed down Kircheim in North Africa. When Kaltenbrunner could not disprove Speidel's claim, both voted to acquit him, effectively convicting Rommel at the same time.

Hitler closed his eyes while he considered this news. After a moment he said, "Keitel, I will dictate a letter to Rommel. In it I'll give him two alternatives. I want Hofacker's testimony given to him. If after reading it he still claims his innocence, he must report to me. If he will not do that, I will tell him his arrest and trial are inevitable, and that as a field marshal of the Third Reich, he ought to avoid that by taking the appropriate action."

Hitler stopped and looked at Keitel to make sure he grasped the implication. Keitel nodded and Hitler continued, "If he will take the appropriate action, I will guarantee his family will not be harmed, that Frau Rommel will receive his pension, and that he will receive full military honors as a war hero. The truth of his treachery will never be known by the German public."

"Yes, mein Führer."

"Thank you, Keitel. Go and see to it."

Hitler walked to the window. Rain streaked the glass. Hitler was not angry with Rommel—disappointed, yes, but not angry—and for that reason alone, he would escape the noose.

# Chapter 11

### WASHINGTON DC

Brigadier General Leslie Groves both felt and heard the train slowing. The hum of its wheels over the long and uninterrupted stretches of steel rail during an overnight journey from Memphis gave way to a progressively slower _clack_ , _clack_ , _clack_ , like a metronome whose spring needed rewinding. He was dressing in the sleeping compartment's tiny lavatory when the porter knocked. Groves leaned out and slid the compartment door open. Outside, an enormous older black gentleman in a white waist-length coat and dark trousers was standing in the passageway, moving slightly from side to side in a practiced rhythm with the sway of the car. A porter's cap with a gold East Coast Limited emblem and shiny bill was pulled down on his broad forehead. The name badge over his breast pocket identified him as "Cleveland."

"Excuse me, General, but I thought you'd like to know we'll be arriving in about ten minutes." The man smiled, flashing a set of brilliant white teeth.

"Thank you very much," Groves replied. "And thank you, Mr. Cleveland, for your service during the trip." He pulled a silver dollar out of his uniform trousers pocket and pressed it into the porter's hand.

"Much obliged, sir." Cleveland placed the coin into a leather pouch attached to his belt by a gold chain. He seemed in no hurry to leave.

"My mamma named me Horatio—Horatio Cleveland, now that's quite a handle, isn't it?" The big man shook his head from side to side making a gentle "hmm, hmm, hmm" sound.

Groves was amused. "Mr. Cleveland, _my_ mamma named me Leslie. Leslie Groves." He pointed at his name badge and then stuck out a hand. Horatio grasped it with his own hand—the size and weight of an anvil. "I don't mind telling you, that's caused some confusion from time to time." Groves braced himself with arms extended to both sides of the doorway as the car lurched over a trestle spanning D and Vermont streets. "People who haven't met me and hear my name for the first time aren't quite sure. I'd guess at least half of them picture me wearing a dress, high heels, and long, white gloves!"

Horatio Cleveland ripped the cap off his head and banged it several times against his leg, roaring with laughter. "My! And I thought I had it bad."

Groves smiled. Passengers from other cabins were placing their luggage in the passageway. "Maybe I'll see you on the return trip, Mr. Cleveland."

"It would be my pleasure to have you back aboard, General. How long will you be in town?"

Something in Groves's mind sent a caution signal to his lips. "I'll be here a couple of days. Came in for my mother's birthday."

"Oh, how nice that you could take the time. Maybe you can ask her how she picked your name!" Horatio's eyes twinkled. "Can I help you with any luggage?"

"No thanks. I just have one suitcase. Like I said, only here for a birthday celebration."

"All right then, sir." Horatio paused and, with the somber look of people in wartime who never know when a good-bye might be their last, said, "God be with you, General." Groves watched the porter steady himself as he went down the passageway, stopping at each cabin to ask if he could be of any help.

Groves closed the door to his compartment and returned to the lavatory. He knotted the khaki tie, inserted the loose ends between the first and second buttons on his shirt and then studied his reflection in the mirror. A plain face from Albany, New York, he thought, and now that face and the energy behind it was in charge of the greatest weapons research undertaking in history—the Manhattan Project. He switched off the light, put on his uniform jacket with a silver star on each epaulet, and buttoned it up. Placing a topcoat over his forearm, he picked up a battered brown suitcase, and walked down the passageway, joining the queue of passengers at the stairwell. Outside, on the platform, he stood listening a moment to the _whoosh_ of air brakes releasing pressure, loudspeakers announcing arrivals and departures, and the voices of hundreds of people, both civilian and military, thronging Union Station.

Groves headed for the entrance, walked out of the station, and proceeded briskly toward a staff car waiting at the curb. A star insignia was emblazoned on both doors. A sergeant stood waiting.

After saluting he said, "General Groves, welcome to Washington. May I put your luggage in the trunk?"

"No thanks, Staff Sergeant. I'll just keep it with me." He tossed the suitcase on the backseat and got in.

"Shouldn't take long, sir," the sergeant said, putting the car into gear. "Traffic is light this time of day...maybe ten minutes." Groves saw the young man looking at him in the rearview mirror. He nodded in acknowledgement, removed his garrison cap, and folded it beside him on the seat.

Groves gazed out as the vehicle accelerated over a curving exit pathway and turned up Pennsylvania Avenue. The Capitol dome was still lit in the early morning predawn. The trees on the surrounding lawn were mostly bare, and up ahead he could see the statue of General Grant sitting astride his horse looking out across the reflecting pool and toward the complex of buildings that made up downtown Washington DC. Flanking Grant, Union troops wearing a patina of green struggled to help exhausted horses drawing heavy caissons into battle.

Groves was always sobered by the weary sadness etched on these men's faces. President Abraham Lincoln sat at his memorial, gazing back at the soldiers over the long expanse of the reflecting pool, past the Washington Monument and the National Mall, its grass now turned a brittle brown. Between Grant and Lincoln, slightly north of the Washington Monument and at the west end of Pennsylvania Avenue, sat the White House, where Franklin Roosevelt would probably be having his breakfast. Groves knew the president was an early riser even though he often stayed at his desk until well past midnight. He hoped the president had read his latest report, and if so, he wondered, what had been missing that would cause him to be summoned here, hundreds of miles from Oak Ridge by overnight train?

### * * *

The president was wearing a dark gray suit. His private study was a small space but comfortable, lined with shelves of books, and its walls adorned with family photos and paintings. He was enjoying an English muffin spread with butter and his favorite huckleberry jam. Between bites, he turned the pages of a thick binder propped next to him on a reading stand. There was a knock.

"Yes," he called out.

His personal secretary cracked opened the door. "Mr. President, General Groves is here to see you." Roosevelt dabbed at his lips with a napkin and placed it on a tray next to his reading stand.

"Thanks, Margret. Please send him in. Oh, and Margret, thirty minutes please, no interruptions."

"Yes sir," she replied.

Another knock. "Please come in," Roosevelt said. "Ah, hello and welcome, General." He propelled his wheelchair forward. "Yes, welcome indeed, I know you've had a long and probably tiresome journey. I never could sleep on a train, all that damn clattering and shaking, you know. Better to get a good night's rest in one's own bed, wouldn't you say?" The question was rhetorical. "In any case, thank you for coming so quickly and on such short notice."

Groves leaned over and shook Roosevelt's hand. The president looked him squarely in the eyes, his grip firm and steady.

"Mr. President, it was no trouble at all." Groves straightened and shifted the valise he was carrying back to his right hand.

"Please, come and sit with me—but before you do, would you be kind enough to pour coffee?" Roosevelt motioned to a tea cart. On it were white china cups and saucers with the presidential seal embossed in dark blue and silver. Next to them stood a pewter urn with an elegantly curved spout.

The president rolled to a spot near the fireplace and his bookstand. The fire crackled. "If you would, please, two lumps and a dollop of cream, General."

Groves slid a saucer under the president's cup, dropped in two cubes of sugar, what he hoped was a dollop of cream, and then poured in the steaming dark coffee. Groves was a creature of habit, and this sequence—sugar and cream first, then coffee—was one he'd developed years ago. As with nearly everything in Groves's life, there was a certain order to be maintained. He handed the coffee to the president. After pouring his own cup, he settled onto a white cushioned chair with high back and graceful legs.

The president stirred his coffee. "General, I know you're curious about why I asked you to come." Placing the spoon on the saucer, he sipped the mixture and gave a satisfied nod. "I've read your report; very thorough." Roosevelt reached over, closed the binder, and turned to Groves with a smile. "Now, I need to understand it. Science was never my best subject, fascinating as it is."

Groves took a breath and organized his thoughts. The Manhattan Project was massive in scope and dealt with absolutely new frontiers in chemistry and physics. His job as overall manager was to bring the theoretical and arcane science of nuclear energy together with a practical but vanguard manufacturing and engineering effort to build for America a weapon of unparalleled and unimaginable power. Since being named its director, Groves had seen the project expand exponentially to its present state. Three different sites were scattered across the country, each using different processes for uranium enrichment, none proven and all troublesome. There were currently seventy thousand civilian workers at these sites who needed housing, food, and other basic necessities. In New Mexico, where the weapons research and design work were done, he oversaw scientists and engineers from all over the world who routinely disagreed about methods—not to mention the basic science involved. And all of this was taking place behind a veil of the strictest secrecy. Groves likened his job to singlehandedly organizing thousands of loose marbles into straight lines on the deck of a storm-tossed ship.

Groves believed the best place to start was at the beginning, but he wanted to keep the explanation compact. If anyone in America was busier than he was, it was the man sitting across from him now.

"Mr. President, as you know, according to the leading scientists, Einstein among them, constructing a nuclear weapon is theoretically possible." Roosevelt nodded, while thinking that theory had now taken a backseat to a stark and terrible reality. "One of the biggest problems in constructing a device," Groves continued, "is to get enough nuclear fuel together in one place to power the weapon. The only known fuel capable of sustaining a chain reaction, which is what gives this weapon its tremendous power, is an isotope of the element uranium. While uranium is not in and of itself difficult to obtain, the required isotope, U-two-thirty-five has proven to be very, very difficult to separate from the base ore."

"Yes, I know this has been a tremendous challenge. It's the reason this project has the highest priority rating possible—any and all resources we can supply will be supplied, you have my word on that."

"Thank you Mr. President. I know you've done everything to see we have what we need. And believe me, sir, those resources are being leveraged to the greatest possible advantage so we can move forward and complete the weapon without delay." Groves turned somber. "Mr. President, you should know that I understand how many, many lives depend on this."

Roosevelt placed the coffee cup on a table next to his chair and leaned toward Groves, his fingers laced together and resting on the blanket that covered his lap. "Leslie..." The president was familiar in this way with only a handful of his generals and then only on occasions when he wished to let them know they were at liberty to fully confide in their commander in chief. "If I didn't understand that, and you may take this to the bank, we would not be sitting here now having this conversation." Roosevelt wore a warm smile, and the look in his eyes conveyed an overwhelming sense of human kindness.

"Thank you, Mr. President," Groves said. "The Oak Ridge facility is processing raw uranium into U-two-thirty-five using three technologies: electromagnetic separation, thermal diffusion, and gaseous diffusion. I don't pretend to understand the chemistry behind these processes, but our scientists have endorsed them as the most viable, and the Oakridge plant has been constructed and engineered to support them to the highest possible degree.

"The bad news, Mr. President, is that the enrichment process has yielded very little U-two-thirty-five, certainly not enough to sustain a chain reaction. We need at least fifty kilograms of eighty-five-percent pure U-two-thirty-five to obtain what is known as a 'critical mass'. We started feeding the output of the thermal and gaseous separation techniques into electromagnetic separators, and that has helped, but mechanical problems with the equipment often stop the entire line for days at a time."

Roosevelt was gazing into the fire. "How much U-two-thirty-five do you have now?" he asked.

Groves thought about looking at the material in his valise to delay the embarrassing answer, but decided against it. "Two ounces."

"At the present rate then," Roosevelt did a quick calculation, "we won't have enough to build even a test weapon for, what, at least a couple of years?"

Groves nodded. "Yes, sir, that's roughly correct. Of course, we're working constantly to improve the separation processes, but short of someone dropping in our laps a few hundred pounds of U-two-thirty-five, we would not have a workable prototype until at least November nineteen forty-six."

Roosevelt removed his gold wire-rim glasses and rubbed his forehead. If the Germans have a fission weapon, where did they get the U-two-thirty-five? Was it really possible that their processes for enrichment were so far advanced they'd beaten everybody else across the finish line by several years? Hell, most of their really good scientists and engineers are working for us!

Roosevelt had to be careful. If Groves even thought the Germans had a working nuclear bomb, it could severely damage morale. He had to conceal the possibility even from his most trusted advisors.

"General, you mentioned U-two-thirty-five being dropped in our lap. I know you were being facetious, but let me ask you, is there any possibility the isotope exists naturally somewhere and we simply haven't discovered yet where that somewhere is?"

Groves had asked this question himself, and the scientists assured him it was not possible. "I have it on no less authority than Doctors Silzard and Herveck, both tops in their field of geochemistry. U-two-thirty-five may have existed on the earth in its natural state hundreds of millions of years ago, long before even dinosaurs walked the planet, but, according to them, there is no possibility now, eons later, that such a deposit exists anywhere on the earth."

"Thank you for confirming that, General. I have one final question then."

"Yes, sir?"

"I know there is an element of your organization having surveillance responsibilities for German and Japanese nuclear development. What reports do you have from them?"

For this, Groves did need to refer to his notes. "Excuse me one minute, Mr. President." He rummaged briefly through his valise and extracted a folder. "Sir, the Alsos group, as it is known, has identified a heavy water facility at Pennumunde on the German Baltic coast. Heavy water, Mr. President, is a substance used in nuclear reactors to control the flow of neutrons. This is obviously part of a nuclear program, but our intelligence reports say the Germans have not been successful in using the output of this facility in any way that would help them enrich enough uranium to produce a working fission bomb. Heavy water is difficult to work with and presents its own particular problems in uranium enrichment. We abandoned the idea months ago if favor of the processes I talked about earlier."

Groves placed the papers back in the folder. "Apart from Pennumunde, we have little useful knowledge about the German program, but I think it's safe to assume, at least from an enrichment standpoint, they're running into the same problems we are. The Japanese, according to Alsos, have made no progress in this area. Honestly sir, we think they're consumed at the moment with simple survival."

"Thank you, General." Roosevelt hooked the glasses back over his ears and extended his hand.

Groves knew the meeting was over. He stood and shook the president's hand. "Mr. President, we are moving heaven and earth."

Roosevelt smiled. "I know, General. I have complete trust and absolute confidence that your teams will make a breakthrough. Oh, I'm going back to the Oval Office for another meeting, would you mind?"

Groves went to the door, opened it, and stood back as the president maneuvered through. Outside a waiting Secret Service agent grasped the chair's handlebars and turned it toward Groves. "Good-bye, General. Have a safe return trip." The agent pushed the president down a carpeted hallway lined with paintings and lit from above with beautiful cut-crystal chandeliers.

"Good-bye, Mr. President," Groves said to himself. He ducked back into the study, grabbed his coat, hat, and valise then walked with another agent to an exit on the south side of the building where his staff car was waiting.

Groves thought about the meeting. Like a tiny stone in a shoe, it niggled at his consciousness. The president specifically asked about German nuclear development advances, and he'd given Roosevelt all the information he had from agents who should know, at least as far as it was possible to know in wartime. And that business about U-235 existing naturally: it was probably a simple matter of the president asking a logical question. Still, was there something the president wasn't telling him? Something that meant the Germans or even the Japanese were close to having a fission weapon ready to drop on an unsuspecting world?

### * * *

The president returned to the Oval Office deep in thought. It was clear the Manhattan Project was, at this point at least, barely treading water. If Churchill's intelligence was right, the Germans had a working atomic bomb, and no matter how well things were going in Normandy, the tide of war could turn back in the Reich's favor very quickly. There was every reason to think England would go down within days if the bomb were dropped on London or anywhere on the island for that matter. Russia too, while making good progress on the eastern front, was likely to be the next target. He couldn't abide Stalin, but without him the war would drag on for many more months. Stalin was a necessary evil and Roosevelt had no doubt Hitler would use the new weapon against Russian targets, probably wiping Stalingrad off the map first. Hitler was obsessed with Stalingrad, and his ignominious defeat there would only strengthen this resolve. Once Russia and England were brought to their knees, Hitler would be master of Europe and from there the Reich would inexorably strangle the rest of the world.

Hitler. Had he made a bargain with the devil? Why, his own people tried to kill him just a few months ago and failed. Roosevelt couldn't help but think the man led a charmed life—such an insignificant little son of a bitch too! Vaulted onto the world stage by economic and political circumstances in Germany that persisted after World War I. Hitler had taken advantage of those circumstances, at first perhaps with a nationalistic view, but after that, he'd dropped his own perverse notion of "civilization" onto the scales and altered the course of the world forever. Hitler was an angry man and a calculating lunatic with a hypnotic effect on everyone who came within his sphere of influence, but one thing he was not was stupid, and Roosevelt knew it was a mistake to underestimate him.

There was only one thing to be done, and the clock was ticking. Once the bomb went off, the Allies would be in checkmate and life in America and the rest of the world would be on the edge of the abyss.

Roosevelt needed reliable intelligence, and he couldn't trust the established agencies. He knew Hitler had established an espionage effort in the United States, a so-called "Fifth Column," and he couldn't be sure information developed using normal channels wouldn't be leaked. If that happened, there would be a panic beyond his ability to control, and he was certain there would be immediate calls from Congress to make some kind of accord with Germany. He couldn't and wouldn't risk that. He'd have to go off the books to get what he needed.

The president's phone buzzed. "Mr. President, Mr. Donovan just arrived."

"Send him in."

The door to the Oval Office opened and William Donovan strode to the president's desk. "Good morning, Mr. President."

"Bill, thank you for coming. Please, have a seat. Would you like coffee...or something more lively, perhaps?"

Donovan shook his head and settled his six-foot frame into one of the chairs in front of Roosevelt's desk. "No thanks, Mr. President, I'm trying to cut back. Doctor's orders."

Roosevelt saw an impish smile curl the corner of Donovan's lips. This hard-bitten Irishman could drink Jesus under the table.

Donovan's silver-gray hair outlined a face weathered during his time riding against the infamous Pancho Villa and then again on the western front during the First World War. His exploits since then were not well known to the general public, but for Roosevelt, this man, who was entitled to wear the Medal of Honor, the Distinguished Service Cross, and the Croix de Guerre, was _the_ source for accurate information on German military activity. Since Pearl Harbor, Donovan had parachuted behind German lines no fewer than three times to set up his network of operatives and informants, while at the same time causing general havoc along the Wermacht's supply lines wherever and whenever he could.

"On the other hand, perhaps we _should_ have a toast, sir. I do have some news that may interest you, Mr. President."

"I'm all ears, Bill."

"Rommel is dead."

The president slumped back in his chair. Rommel. Dead. It was good news, of course. Rommel had been a formidable adversary in North Africa and would undoubtedly have given them a tremendous fight in Normandy had he been well. American and British troops who'd tangled with him at Kasserine Pass thought he was invincible. The myth had become so pervasive in North Africa that Eisenhower issued orders to all Allied commanders to call the men together and persuade them Rommel was a mere mortal before the rumor got out of hand. Many were not persuaded and morale continued to sink. After that, they tried more direct measures, sending commandos to kill Rommel and the myth. This had also failed.

On the other hand, Roosevelt thought, it was also not so good news. With Rommel dead, Hitler would now undoubtedly move up the timetable for using his fission weapon, knowing that in all likelihood the Allies would make advances not foreseen while Rommel was still in the picture.

"Mr. President?" Donovan said. "Is everything all right?"

Roosevelt looked grim, a reaction Donovan did not expect. "Bill," Roosevelt said, "I need some information and I need it quickly."

"Yes, of course, Mr. President." Donovan forgot about Rommel. "As always, you can count on me to do whatever I can."

# Chapter 12

### ULM, GERMANY

The scene outside the Rathaus in Ulm was restrained. German troops lined the streets and behind them hundreds of German citizens waited. Hitler had decreed a state funeral for Field Marshal Erwin Rommel in a message that expressed his personal grief, that of the Wermacht, and the whole of the German people. The day was dark and windy. Winter was at the city gates, but the crowds were oblivious and the mourners simply clutched their coats more tightly against the cold.

Inside the Rathaus, Rommel's body lay in state, guarded by officers of the Wermacht with drawn swords. Field Marshal von Rundstedt, Hitler's personal representative to the funeral, had laid the führer's wreath next to the bier bearing Rommel's coffin and was concluding his oration to the assembled dignitaries. Frau Rommel and Rommel's son, Manfred, listened with a feeling of contempt overpowering their own grief.

### * * *

"I have ten minutes," Rommel said. "And then I must leave with these men. They will give me a poison. It acts very quickly and in a quarter of an hour from the time I leave here, I will be dead."

Lucie could not believe her ears. Thirty years of marriage to this man, a patriot who had given everything in service to his country, was to end like this?

"Please, Erwin," she pleaded with tears streaming down her face. "Go to the führer, tell him you were not part of this, he will believe you! He trusts you, and I know he will take this horrible day from us."

Rommel wiped the tears from her cheek. "My dearest, I love you so very much. You've been my rock for so many years. Now you must trust me one last time. I do not fear the People's Court, I was never a part of the _attentat,_ and I know I can convince the führer of that."

Lucie looked hopeful.

"But, I have with openness and honesty expressed to others that I was determined to make my own move with the Allies for peace. This alone will be viewed as treason in the eyes of the führer and the high command and"—he sighed with the resignation of a man who knew his death was near—"they would be right."

Lucie collapsed in his arms. "Oh, God, Erwin, what will happen to us? Manfred and me?"

Rommel lifted her, held her tight, and placed her face on his shoulder. "Keitel has assured me you and Manfred will not be molested in any way. You will receive my full pension, and the state will see to your welfare and comfort. I believe this, Lucie, and if I go to the führer or the People's Court, this guarantee will be withdrawn. I cannot for the sake of you and Manfred do other than accept this fate. I am so sorry, my darling. And now my dearest, I have to go."

Rommel lifted her head and looked deeply into Lucie's eyes. "I will always love you, Lucie. Manfred will be your good companion now, and if God permits, I will myself look in on you from time to time. Sit Lucie, please, while I get dressed."

Lucie sat in the chair at her vanity and watched as her husband put on his _Afrika Korps_ tunic and black leather overcoat. Then she rose and walked to him, carrying his field marshal's baton and cap. He placed the cap on his head, adjusted it, and took the baton from her.

"Explain to Manfred what has happened after I leave, Lucie. I don't want him to get any heroic ideas just now."

Lucie nodded. "I will Erwin, I will."

"Walk with me, darling."

Rommel and Lucie descended the steps to the parlor. The generals who had come for him were waiting and saluted when he approached. Rommel was calm.

Manfred was also waiting. "Manfred, I'll be gone for a time," Rommel said. "Please take care of your mother while I'm away. Don't forget your lessons, and be honest with yourself in everything you do."

"Yes, of course, Papa, I will do as you say. But when will you return? Do you have a new assignment?"

Rommel looked at Lucie, then said, "Yes, my son, the führer has given me a new assignment, but I can't tell you when I'll be back. I love you, Manfred. Look after your mother." Rommel hugged his son and then turned toward Hitler's emissaries of death. "Let's go," he said.

Rommel and Manfred walked together down the short driveway to the gate fronting the road. A car was waiting. Rommel climbed in the backseat, followed by one of the generals. The other got in the passenger seat and motioned to the driver.

Rommel looked back at Lucie. She saw his lips form the words, "I love you." Then the car was gone.

As they moved away from his home, Rommel had no more thoughts of Lucie or of Manfred or of his life. He was neither a poet nor philosopher, but he found himself thinking about time. Time, he now understood with a clarity he'd never before had, was not a clock ticking off the seconds. It was instead a bright sun moving through an endless universe. In this universe, life and death were two sides of the same spinning coin. Life reflected off one side of the coin, flashing as it faced this sun. The side not facing that sun, the dark side, each instant in the shadow of that light, chased close behind, never far away. The coin never stopped spinning, but at some point the light of life and its warmth always drifted away to other parts of its endless universe. As the light moved on, it lit new coins and in its wake left the others spinning in a cold darkness. Perhaps the light would pass this way once more and light again the coins it had left behind. Perhaps not. The universe was vast, devoid of breadth or depth, limitless.

The car stopped and the engine was turned off. Rommel watched as the driver and front seat passenger left the car and walked up the lane. Soon they were out of sight.

He looked over to see General Burghdorf holding out his hand. In it was a dark pill. Burghdorf said nothing, his face an expressionless mask. Rommel removed his cap and placed it on the seat. Then his fingers closed around the pill and he turned to face the sun. The other hand gripped his field marshal's baton.

He raised his hand with the pill, stared at it for a moment, and placed it in his mouth. Then he heard a voice—not from Burghdorf. It was coming from somewhere else. He knew this voice but could not recall from where or when. It was soft and soothing. The words were at once indistinct and then clear, fading in and out like some radio transmission bouncing off the atmosphere from a distant station. He strained to hear.

"Rest now," the voice said. "You can see the darkness coming. Don't struggle, Erwin. There is nothing to fear within the darkness. Let it take you." Rommel saw a coin spinning. Only a tiny ray of light glinted from its edge. Somehow he could feel the coin spinning, but then, there was only darkness.

Rommel slumped forward. The baton slipped from his fingers and fell into the footwell. Burghdorf reached over and felt for a pulse. Nothing. Then he placed a small mirror close to Rommel's nostrils. No breath escaped to cloud it. Burghdorf slipped the mirror back into his coat pocket and sat looking at the figure bent over next to him. The Desert Fox was dead.

He opened the door and shouted, "Let's go!"

The driver and General Maisel returned to the car. Both of them glanced into the backseat at the lifeless figure of Erwin Rommel. The car's back tires spun in the gravel, and it disappeared down the road under a muted sun grown cold behind thickening storm clouds.

### * * *

The telephone rang. Lucie picked it up.

"Frau Rommel?" a voice said.

"Yes, this is Frau Rommel."

"Madam, my name is Dr. Letsen, I work at the _reservelazarett_ in Ulm." Lucie knew of the reserve hospital. She and her husband had been there several times to visit with wounded soldiers. The patients, most of them only boys, were always excited to see the great Field Marshal Rommel, and he always made it a point to sit and visit personally with each one of them.

The voice on the other end of the line hesitated. "I'm so sorry, Frau Rommel. Your husband appears to have suffered a heart attack. He was brought here just moments ago by car in the company of two officers."

Lucie said nothing. "Frau Rommel, I am so sorry to tell you that your husband is dead." She could hear the genuine grief and concern in the doctor's voice but hung up the receiver, unable to say anything further.

"What is it, Mamma?" Manfred asked.

"Come with me," she said with tears in her eyes. She took his hand and led her son down the hallway and into the parlor.

### * * *

The funeral procession made its way slowly from the Rathaus to the crematorium. Two companies of the German army with military band played a funeral dirge and then a third, mixed with detachments from the Luftwaffe, Kriegsmarine, and the Waffen SS accompanied the cart carrying Rommel's coffin. It was drawn by four great black horses jetting clouds from their nostrils into the chill, as if the animals were powered by unseen steam boilers. Troops saluted as the body passed. Men and women of the town and surrounding countryside wept openly as their native son and great warrior was carried toward his final resting place. Their hearts went out to Frau Rommel and Manfred, who walked behind the cart, shoulders square and heads erect.

In the crowd near the crematorium, Dr. Hesse waited and watched. There wouldn't be much time.

# Chapter 13

### MOSCOW, SOVIET RUSSIA

Winter arced in on Moscow and exploded like an artillery shell. Premier of the Soviet Union Joseph Stalin watched snowflakes drift like duck feathers out of a slate-gray sky. Near the ground, cold gusts whipped the flakes into whirlpools and sent them scurrying into the dark corners of the courtyard. Stalin smiled and pulled his fur cap more tightly over his ears and then bent forward into the wind. His walrus overboots crunched over the snow. Had he not needed to clear his head, he could have used one of the underground tunnels that led to the GRU offices located near his own in the Kremlin, but he liked to keep a good working relationship with his allies and the Russian winter was one of his greatest. Walking in the snow and wind gave him a feeling that he was close with the elements, and surely winter was worth more than twenty-five armored divisions, he thought. Never tiring, never hungry, always fighting: winter had devastated Napoleon's troops 130 years earlier and now it was killing Germans—corpses frozen at their guns like so many dead mackerel in an icehouse.

Two guards outlined in the dim yellow light of the building stood in the swirling snow at the bottom of the steps leading to GRU headquarters. They saluted as Stalin passed. They heard his boots mounting the stone steps. A heavy wooden door opened inward as Stalin reached the landing. He stood for a moment framed in the small rectangle of warm light, then walked inside.

Kurchov was waiting for him. "Comrade Stalin, how was your stroll?"

Stalin removed his greatcoat and shook the snow off his cap before handing both to a waiting valet. "Kurchov, I tell you truly, winter is Russia's finest season. It makes men out of our boys and turns Russia's enemies to stone."

"I could not disagree with you," Kurchov said—and then thought, nor would I. "And I might point out that at least in my opinion, winter makes the vodka taste better." Kurchov smiled at this and motioned to a table covered in white oilcloth set with shot glasses, a vodka bottle chilling in a deep silver bucket filled with snow, and a plate of smoked herring with dark rich bread on the side.

Stalin settled himself in a stout wooden chair, poured a glass of vodka, and drank it in a gulp. Then he forked one of the herring onto a piece of bread and ate it. "Yes, indeed it does, comrade. I don't know where the rumor started that I prefer Georgian wine to vodka, but it's pure poppycock, I assure you."

Kurchov refilled the premier's glass and looked across the table at the leader of the Soviet Union. Stalin's thick, black hair was brushed straight back from his forehead and temples. A bushy but well-trimmed mustache of the same color ended with an artistic curl just below the corners of his mouth. Between the hairline and the mustache, a hard set of coal black eyes set in an acne-scarred face stared back at him. The man looked like a gangster, Kurchov thought, but not just any gangster. This man looked like the truly malevolent and psychopathic gangster of a nightmare. One who could turn those coal black eyes to red at will and who believed to the core of his being that sheer terror, not the Russian winter, was his best ally.

Stalin pulled a pipe from the pocket of his brass-buttoned white tunic, tamped it with tobacco from a zippered pouch, and lit it with great care. A sweet aroma filled the air, and wisps of smoke curled around Stalin's head as he studied his host. Kurchov was thin. The gray wool suit coat he wore draped his body in a way that made him look like a boy in the attic who had put on his father's old army coat. Midthirties, blue eyes, and a crop of blond hair that looked as if it hadn't been combed in a week sat on top of a brain of formidable scientific intellect.

"I know that you have been working diligently on the uranium project, comrade," Stalin said. "It is quite technical as I know, and I leave to you those aspects, but speaking hypothetically, if we had a weapon made with this"—Stalin paused—"stuffing, what is your assessment of how it might change the course of the war?"

"Comrade Stalin," Kurchov began, "as I said in my letter to you eight months ago, when I recommended we move forward on atomic research, this weapon has enormous potential. If it can be developed..." He corrected himself. "Rather, _when_ it is developed, whoever first controls it will undoubtedly control the outcome of the war. Comrade, I am no politician, but I should think that whoever controls the end of this war may well control the postwar world for some considerable time."

Stalin's expression didn't change as he listened and puffed on his pipe. "And from what you have been able to gather from your colleagues here at Army Intelligence, where are the Americans, British, and Germans in their research?"

"The Americans and British have not published anything in the last year having to do with fissionable material or the possible development of a nuclear reactor. I believe this can only be explained by assuming they have classified their research and are working together on a prototype weapon. Of course, we'll have more information on the status of their nuclear program when our agents in the so-called Manhattan Project can deliver the drawings and formulae they have promised. Until then, assessing how close they are to constructing a successful prototype weapon would be conjecture."

Kurchov paused and lit a cigarette. "As for Germany, well, it's the same. Not one word in recent months on this topic in any of their scientific journals. This is most curious because their scientists are unquestionably the leaders in this field. Perhaps Herr Hitler has relegated development of such a weapon to a low priority given his requirements for men and material elsewhere. In any case, GRU has given me nothing to shed any light on the German's present situation, and therefore, I would again be speculating about how close or far away they might be from having a working weapon."

The embers in Stalin's pipe glowed brightly as he drew air past them. He was gazing at a painting on the opposite wall. The scene portrayed a single frozen moment in Napoleon's interminable and agonizing retreat from Moscow. Wrapped in a heavy winter greatcoat, the emperor sat astride a gaunt white horse under a darkening winter sky. A bicorne hat rested on his weary and dispirited head, bent forward against winds of defeat. Bedraggled and blanket-wrapped soldiers walked beside his horse, passing the snow-covered corpses of their comrades who had lain down to rest and from whom the cold had long since extracted the last drop of their body heat. The men wrapped in those blankets were little more than skeletons, delirious with hunger and lack of sleep. Most of these pitiable creatures who did survive the march by eating cold horseflesh or resorting to cannibalism would arrive home to families who did not recognize them for the amputations of frostbitten noses, ears, fingers, arms, feet, and legs.

Stalin stood, walked over to the painting, and pointed at Napoleon. "If he'd had this weapon, Kurchov, how different would our world be today?"

Kurchov stood, arms at his sides, facing one of the most powerful men in the world, and considered his response. He did what the premier asked him to do on this weapon because he was a patriot and the country needed every man, woman, child, and advantage it could muster to repel Hitler's invasion. He also did what Stalin asked because he was a scientist and he relished the challenge of uncovering the secrets of the atom, all the while in full awareness of its deadly potential. He tried not to think of what might happen if thugs and gangsters masquerading as world leaders controlled the weapon.

"Comrade Stalin, if Napoleon had possessed a fission weapon, I have little doubt that you and I and all of Europe would now be living under the French flag, eating croissants with every meal, and listing our addresses as but one of many far-flung arrondissements of the city of Paris." Kurchov shook his head in wonder at the thought and looked again at Stalin, "Yes, Comrade Stalin, surely Napoleon would have been master of the world."

Stalin only nodded at this. Then he walked to the door and pulled a cord next to it. A knock soon followed and the valet reappeared with his cap and greatcoat.

"Thank you for the delightful repast and conversation, Comrade Kurchov," Stalin said. The valet helped Stalin with his coat, handed him his cap, and waited. "Continue with your work and notify me immediately when you have anything new to report."

Kurchov took Stalin's offered hand and shook it. "Of course, Premier Stalin."

The valet opened the door with a bow and Stalin walked out into the cold night air. _Master of the world_ , he repeated in his mind as he headed across the snowy courtyard back to his office. He thought of the tape he had heard only an hour earlier, which was given to him by GRU chief of staff, Nikoli. A Japanese submarine, carrying the stuffing of a fission weapon was now en route to the Baltic, and Nikoli was now on his way to a gulag in Siberia. Except for his deep cover agent, Joseph Stalin was now the only man outside Germany who knew Hitler's secret—and he was the only man who ever would know until he had the weapon under his absolute and complete control.

Winter, a strong and loyal ally, he thought as he walked to his quarters in the Kremlin. "But now, I will have something even stronger than you," he said to himself, looking up at the sky. "Something stronger even...than me."

# Chapter 14

### LISBON, PORTUGAL

The president's secretary had booked his flight before he'd left the White House. Probably even before he'd arrived for his meeting with the president, if he knew Roosevelt as well as he thought he did.

"Wild Bill" Donovan got up to stretch his legs. There were twenty-seven other passengers on Pan Am's Clipper flight from New York City to Lisbon. Most of them were asleep. Donovan walked up the narrow aisle toward the flight deck. The gigantic craft, as much boat as airplane, was rock steady. Donovan peered out a window into the dark. The clipper glided over a blanket of moonlit clouds that covered the dark ocean nearly two miles below. Outside he could see flames licking out into the night from the engine's exhaust ports and he could hear the rhythmic drone of the engines as they pulled the crew and passengers ever closer to whatever awaited each of them on the war-torn continent of Europe. The engines sounded like a powerful single low note played continuously by a cello player. If they had gone silent for a few moments, he imagined the experience would be very much like sailing through the night on a magic carpet.

Donovan continued to the flight deck. Inside, he could see the subdued lights from the instruments in front of the pilot and copilot: some red, some green, and a few amber. Along the port bulkhead, behind the pilot, the flight engineer sat peering at dozens of gauges. Occasionally, he adjusted a dial or lever on the control panel in front of him. Along the starboard side the navigator was bending over a compact table lit by a gooseneck lamp scribbling on a pad. He straightened up and turned to the pilot.

"Captain, come right to a heading of one three five degrees," he said.

The plane banked slightly to the right and then leveled again.

The navigator looked up. Donovan stood near him, staring down at the navigation chart. A dark pencil line ran from New York City southeast to an X scribed in the middle of the Atlantic. Scattered on either side of the line were the tools of a navigator's trade. Various rulers, a navigator's compass with a sharp point on one leg and a pencil lead clamped to the other, a circular slide rule calculator of some sort, and what Donovan thought was probably a sextant.

"Wind correction?" Donovan asked.

"Yeah, we've had a slight tailwind most of the way, but it shifted over the last hour. If we don't correct now, we'll end up flying to Lisbon by way of Reykjavik." The navigator smiled and extended his hand.

"Name's Charlie. Charlie Lunn." He was a stocky kid of about thirty with rolled up shirtsleeves and a loosened tie. His blue Pan Am uniform coat with two gold stripes on each cuff hung on a nearby hook.

Donovan shook his hand. "Pete Johnson."

"Glad to have you aboard, Mr. Johnson."

"Thanks. I've flown this route a few times, and I have to tell you that I've always been fascinated by the idea that you can fly or sail over thousands of miles of open ocean and know where you are at any given moment with a little arithmetic and some stargazing."

Lunn laughed. "It's slightly more complicated than that, Mr. Johnson." Lunn lowered himself into the swivel navigator's chair bolted to the flight deck near his table. He poured steaming coffee from a thermos into a plastic cup and took a sip. "You know, early sailors crossing this ocean just had a crude compass near the tiller on the deck of a tossing ship. It wasn't uncommon for them, even with the calmest seas and best navigators, to wind up hundreds of miles from their intended destination. These days, of course, we have more accurate instruments, and that's good because with things as they are, it's always best to know one's location very precisely."

Lunn sighed and looked up at Donovan, who seemed puzzled. "Mr. Johnson, on this side of the Atlantic, antiaircraft battery commanders are always looking for opportunities to give their crews more practice."

Donovan nodded and smiled. "How much longer until we arrive?"

Lunn looked at his watch and then the chart. "If we can maintain our present speed, we'll be at our refueling station in a few minutes. Then another two hours to Lisbon. Say three hours total with the fuel stop— give or take five minutes. That would be ten thirty a.m. local time."

Donovan turned and peered out the cockpit windows. Dawn was breaking ahead and the clouds below were giving way to a clear sky. He could see whitecaps on the waves.

A second later, he blinked to make sure what he was seeing wasn't some kind of mirage. No, it was real—a dull brown mass began to form on the horizon directly over the copilot's left shoulder. Donovan pointed toward the mass and turned to Lunn.

"That," said Lunn, "is the island of Horta. Our refueling stop."

Donovan was impressed. Without a single landmark or beacon, save for a few stars, Charlie Lunn had brought them safely to this tiny island in the Azores, a speck of rock in the middle of thousands of square miles of open ocean.

Donovan shook his head. "That, my young navigator friend, is amazing."

"It would be more amazing if it _weren't_ there," Lunn replied without a trace of smugness in his voice.

Donovan smiled. He enjoyed the company of confident and competent men and had no time for the weak and indecisive.

"Great meeting you, Charlie."

"Same here, Mr. Johnson. We'll be landing soon."

Donovan gave Lunn a casual salute and returned to his seat. Most of the passengers were still sleeping but he could see stirring and hear yawns coming from beneath some of the dark blue blankets with gold Pan Am logos dotting the cabin.

### * * *

Donovan felt a hand at his shoulder shaking him gently.

"Sir, we'll be landing in Lisbon soon." A uniformed cabin steward stood looking down at him.

Donovan glanced at his Rolex Oyster Royal. It had been a birthday gift from Carol. He hadn't reset it from New York time. He added five hours, pulled out the stem, and set the hands at 10:20 a.m. Lunn had been accurate in his arrival time estimate almost to the minute. Donovan made a mental note to remember Charlie Lunn. All the many agents and operatives he had cultivated in Europe and the Orient had impressed him in some way or other, just like Charlie Lunn. After meeting them he would initiate an extensive background check and build a complete dossier. Then he categorized these contacts into areas of specialty. When he had need of particular skills, he pulled his card catalogue, reviewed the names and brief bios, then pulled the complete file of the man he thought best for the job. After that it was a matter of reacquainting himself with the contact and setting up the mission. He'd worked with most of the men in his files on at least a half-dozen occasions. No one had ever turned him down. They were proven, reliable, and trustworthy. More importantly, they were his exclusive network—totally unknown to any of the Allied intelligence agencies. Roosevelt used Donovan sparingly and only for the most sensitive missions and never questioned him about operatives or methods. The president's single concern was that the intelligence be timely, accurate, and complete. Donovan's network had never once failed in this respect, and the president came to rely on it more and more as the war dragged on.

Donovan watched the city of Lisbon appear outside his window. Perched on a hill that fell away to a protected bay, the city clung, as it had for centuries, to the farthest western shore of Europe. Lunn's predecessors, Prince Henry the Navigator, Ferdinand Magellan, and Vasco de Gama, had all set sail from this place to explore the world long before the cities of Paris and London were settled.

Lisbon, the capital of neutral Portugal, was one of the very few open ports on the Atlantic Ocean. A flood tide of refugees streamed into the city from all over Europe, using whatever mode of transport they could find, hoping to gain passage from there to North or South America. It was a perilous journey. Germany had not invaded Spain because Franco had a cozy relationship with Hitler. This meant that if a refugee could make it into Spain from the frontier, the passage from there to Portugal would at least not be through enemy-occupied territory. But the Gestapo had agents everywhere along the most traveled routes, so safe transit even for those who managed to make it into Spain was far from certain. After arriving in Lisbon, they could languish in the city for months trying to get a ship or plane out of the country.

The Gestapo also had dozens of agents in the city, and Donovan knew he would be under surveillance from the moment he left the Clipper. There were probably German agents among his fellow passengers. On this intelligence-gathering mission for Roosevelt, the greatest danger was in exposing the identity of his contacts. Once the Gestapo even suspected someone in Lisbon might be an Allied operative, that contact's usefulness ended.

Donovan felt the exact moment the Clipper ceased to be a creature of the air. The sound the huge flying boat made when its hull finally skimmed the water was like a load of sand being dumped on a tin roof. Rivulets of seawater streaked his window as the Clipper taxied to its mooring. Donovan retrieved his leather valise and single suitcase from the luggage storage bin and stepped out onto the gangway into the morning air.

"Welcome to Lisbon, sir," a steward said as Donovan reached the bottom of the gangway.

"Thank you. It's been a pleasant flight. Please tell Mr. Lunn, the captain, and the rest of the crew that I am grateful they know their business."

The steward smiled. "I'll let them know, sir, and we look forward to seeing you on the return flight."

Donovan made a loose knot with the straps of his trench coat, pulled the collar up, grabbed his bags, and walked toward the terminal building, a sun-faded yellow stucco structure with a sign on the roof that said simply, "Lisboa."

A bored-looking customs agent scanned his passport. "Mr. Johnson, what's the nature of your business here in Portugal?"

Donovan didn't answer immediately. He was looking over the terminal lounge area behind the customs counter. Among the bustling throng of people waiting to board the Clipper for its return journey, a man in a dark suit and gray felt hat with a black band was leaning casually against one of the building's interior support columns reading a newspaper. The small red and gold feather in the hatband was distinctive.

Donovan looked back at the customs officer. "Business? Yes, well, I'm here for a few days to visit with your local Catholic refugee relief organization."

The agent, who did not seem to be paying attention, thumbed through Donovan's passport, examining its many entry and departure stamps.

"I see you've been in Lisbon twice before in the last...ah, eighteen months. And Geneva, Stockholm, Madrid, London, and the Vatican several times as well in the last couple of years." The agent watched Donovan's expression change from impassive to slightly annoyed.

"Yes, well, the church, of course, has a great interest in the welfare of refugees all over Europe...and from the looks of it"—Donovan gestured to the terminal lounge, where children clung to their mothers' coats and husbands held babies in their arms—"I should think this will unfortunately continue to be the case for some time."

He glanced at his watch and then back at the agent with his best _will there be anything else?_ look.

The entry stamp hit Donovan's passport with a mechanical clacking noise. "I'm sure your work is of the utmost importance, Mr. Johnson," the immigration officer said, handing the passport over. "Have a pleasant stay."

"Thank you," Donovan said, placing the passport inside a breast pocket of his coat. He walked past the agent and into the terminal lobby. The man with the red and gold feather in his hat was looking directly at him now and speaking on a telephone.

Donovan blended into the crowd and made his way to the exit. Outside he spotted a taxi. The driver was leaning against the passenger's side front fender smoking a cigarette. As he approached, the man straightened, dropped the cigarette to the sidewalk, and crushed it with the toe of his shoe.

"Good morning, sir. May I take your luggage?" Donovan gave him the suitcase, which the driver placed in the trunk. He opened the back door of the taxi, threw his valise on the seat, and got in. The driver settled behind the wheel.

"St. Ignacio, please".

The driver nodded, dropped the flag on the meter, and steered out into the honking horns and hustle of Lisbon's morning traffic.

Donovan took a quick glance out the rear window. The red and gold feather was getting into the passenger's side of a black Renault. It pulled away from the curb and stayed behind the taxi about three cars back.

"Are you from around here?" Donovan asked the driver in rapid Portuguese.

The driver looked at him in the rearview mirror with a surprised expression and a smile. "Yes, I've lived here all my life," the driver replied in his native tongue.

"Great, then you know the city well. Do you see that black Renault three cars behind us?"

The driver glanced in the side mirror. Donovan saw him nodding. "Yes, sir, I see it."

"Take whatever route to the church you want, but I'll double your fare if you can lose that car along the way."

The driver spun the wheel to make a sharp left turn directly in front of an oncoming bus. Donovan could see the bus driver shaking his fist at them, and the bus's horn reverberated in his ears as they sped down a narrow cobbled street away from the main thoroughfare.

The taxi looped around bicycles and narrowly missed a couple of pedestrians, who also gestured their displeasure. Donovan thought he heard "Idiot!" as they went by. Then the taxi turned sharply to the right down an alley, which seemed to lead nowhere. They sped under an archway and into a small square lined with buildings. A fountain with three women carved in stone in long robes pouring water from jugs was located in the middle of the square. On the retaining wall of the fountain's pool, people sat enjoying the morning sun and eating from brown paper bags.

The taxi sped around the fountain, trailing a plume of blue exhaust, and then jogged onto yet another narrow cobblestone street. The taxi was only inches from the buildings as it hurtled forward. The driver shifted into a lower gear, slowed slightly, and stopped. Throwing the gear lever into reverse, he backed into a shaded portico and shut off the engine. Donovan heard ticking from under the hood as the motor cooled.

"This is my cousin's house."

Donovan nodded and waited. A bicycle passed in front of them, then an old woman in a tattered coat with a scarf covering her head carrying a bundle. In the distance Donovan could hear church bells. They waited for several more minutes.

"I think the driver of the Renault is not so good as myself."

"I think you're right. But just to be sure, if you can take me to the rectory entrance at the back of the church, I'd be very grateful."

The taxi pulled up to the curb on a deserted side street near the rectory. Donovan could see a couple of neighborhood cats licking their paws and sunning themselves, but nothing else.

He got out, retrieved his suitcase, and went around to the driver's window. Without even looking at the meter, he pulled three hundred escudos from his wallet and handed them over. It was easily what the driver would make with a week of ordinary fares.

"I hope that will cover it."

"Thank you, señor. It is more than enough." The driver stuffed the cash into his shirt pocket and retrieved a card at the same time. "Señor, if you have need of me in the future, please call. My number is on the card. My wife will take the message. She works at the Rialto hotel. Her signal to me that I have a special fare is to put a red rose in the vase in the hotel window. I cruise past every half hour or so just to see."

Donovan glanced at the card: "Javier Jesus Rinaldo-Taxi Company. Comfort and Speed. At Your Service."

"Thank you, Señor Rinaldo. You can be sure that I'll keep your number handy for whenever I am in Lisbon. Oh and please be careful. The man in the Renault may have taken your license number and will want to speak with you."

Rinaldo patted his breast pocket with the money, grinned, and put the taxi in gear. "As it happens, I am just now going off duty and on vacation for a week to see my girl in Sinata and"—he made a palms-up gesture—"I have so many fares these days, it's impossible to remember them all. Good day, señor." Donovan watched the taxi until it was out of sight.

The street was still deserted. He picked up his belongings and walked to a door in the wall behind church and pulled a leather cord near its black wrought iron handle. Somewhere inside he could hear a bell ring. Then there were footsteps. A peep window opened in the door and quickly closed. Seconds later, the door swung back on hinges that sounded like they'd not been oiled since the sixteenth century.

A figure in a priest's cassock covered with a white tomato-stained chef's apron stood on the other side regarding Donovan. A slow smile spread across the priest's face. "Damn, William, it's good to see you again." He embraced Donovan for a moment and then pulled back to look over his guest. "You don't look a lot worse for a long journey, my friend. Was the flight uneventful?"

The priest was Nathanial "Nate" Sarsfield, a Dartmouth-educated chemist whom Donovan had met in Geneva at a cocktail reception for the American ambassador. Like Charlie Lunn, Donovan tagged Sarsfield almost immediately for his network. Sarsfield had graduated from Dartmouth magna cum laude in chemistry and had gone on to do graduate work in the new field of nuclear chemistry at Stanford. Near the end of his studies, he'd "been called," as he put it, to God. He left California without so much as a note and traveled to Paris, where he enrolled in the Jesuit seminary. Now ordained, his primary work was to get as many refugees out of Lisbon as possible. He'd traveled to Germany and Poland on many occasions to organize clandestine caravans of Jews and other "undesirables" to make the journey out of Nazi-occupied territory.

Donovan smelled something that triggered his salivary glands. "Yes, uneventful but honestly, I'm more hungry than tired, Nate. They do a good job of feeding you on the Clipper, but I didn't have much of an appetite for anything until just now." Donovan put his nose in the air. "Is that your special homemade spaghetti sauce?"

Sarsfield laughed. "Come in. Come in. Yes, I thought you might be hungry for something after your trip. I've had this sauce on for the last six hours. It should be about ready."

Nate led Donovan along a brick path through a sun-dappled courtyard. Olive trees whose branches were laden with fruit soaked up a gentle ocean breeze. Donovan knew Nate brined the best olives outside of Italy.

"Welcome to my little world, William," Sarsfield said, opening a screen door to the rectory. Inside, a steaming pot stood on the stove. The aroma of tomato, basil, oregano, and olives filled the kitchen. "You can put your bags in the bedroom just down the hall on your right. While you freshen up, I'm going to put some pasta on. Toilet is just across the hall."

Donovan carried his battered suitcase down the hallway and turned into the bedroom. A single bed and a washstand stood at one end. The room was painted in a warm rust-red color. Sunlight shafted through a window near the bed, filtered by white gauzy curtains that moved slightly with the breeze. Donovan could hear nothing except the birds outside and the occasional barking of a dog. It was a welcome change from the drone of the Clipper's engines. Somehow, Donovan felt like he was still in motion on the flying boat. He knew it would take a night's sleep in a real bed to shake it.

He went to the washstand, poured water from a yellow ceramic jug into the companion bowl, and soaked a small hand cloth. He wiped his face and enjoyed the cool feel of the water on his neck. He washed and dried his hands, threw the towel over a wooden rack, and returned to the kitchen.

Sarsfield was lifting pasta out of the pot with a wire ladle. He blew on the strands, picked one out, and lowered it into his mouth.

"Perfect, not a second longer," Nate said, removing the pot from the stove with a pair of well-worn hot pads. He poured the contents through a waiting strainer and dumped the strainer out into a blue bowl. Donovan sat at the kitchen table, which was covered, like at an Italian restaurant, with a cotton tablecloth of large red and white squares.

Sarsfield forked some of the pasta on Donovan's plate, then covered it with the rich, steaming tomato sauce. He did the same with his own plate, then grated cheese onto both servings. A bottle of mineral water stood on the table. Sarsfield filled Donovan's glass, then his own and sat down.

"William if you don't mind, I'm going to say a word." Donovan nodded. "Lord, keep our families and friends safe in these troubled times. Look after and comfort those in peril and help William especially as he goes about his labors in your service."

Donovan looked up and saw Nate smiling. "Very nice, Nate, thank you," he said. He twirled a fork-full of spaghetti and carefully put it in his mouth. His eyes closed. The flavor was exquisite. "Nate, you haven't lost your touch. If you feel like you want to give this up someday," Donovan swept his hand around the room, "I will personally set you up in a restaurant in Washington that I guarantee will be full of as many customers as you can possibly handle."

"Thanks, Bill. I love it when I can share one of my very small talents. But you know, I think the sauce may need a little more salt."

Donovan smiled. Like every real cook, no dish was ever completely perfect. His wife had been that way. The sauce could be the best she'd ever made, but Carol always made a show of telling her guests how it needed something. He missed her greatly. Somehow, being here with Nate reminded him of that. He put down his fork and sipped at the water.

Sarsfield seemed to sense the change in Donovan's mood. "Carol was a great cook, Bill. I know how much you must miss her." Nate was there for the funeral. The cancer had riddled her body and she was racked with pain. It was a blessing when the end finally came.

"Thanks, Nate. She thought the world of you."

They finished their meal with small talk, then Nate cleared the dishes away and sat saying nothing for a time as he stirred his coffee. "Was there any contact at the dock?" he finally asked.

"Gestapo. They might as well wear signs around their necks. My driver lost them within three blocks—a guy named Rinaldo. I checked the street carefully before I rang the bell. No one followed me, Nate."

Nate chuckled. "Jesus Rinaldo. He comes to church here from time to time. He's quite a character, but a good man, and a hard worker." He paused and regarded Donovan a moment before continuing. "So, I read your telex. I'm not sure what we're talking about here exactly, but I did contact one of my people in Berlin. Another clergyman—I think you know him—Dietrich Bonhoffer."

Donovan knew Nate had used the man on another operation and that his intel had been spot-on. If Nate trusted him, the information was gold-plated.

"I've never met him, Nate, but I was impressed with his information on the gyroscopic guidance unit shipments."

Nate nodded and said, "I also got lucky myself. A Russian operative at their embassy in Stockholm sent me a partial transcript of a recording that came though on its way to Moscow by diplomatic pouch. She risked her life to do it, Bill. She uses a dead drop near the train station. The pickup was delayed, so I'm afraid it's at least two weeks old, and I'm not sure it has anything to do with your mission, but you should read it." He went into the kitchen and pulled a latch hidden behind some cookbooks. An entire cabinet swung out from the wall. Hidden behind it was a wall safe. Nate spun the combination lock and retrieved an envelope from inside.

Donovan opened the envelope and slid out a single sheet: " _A_ fuel will arrive via submarine _Nagamo_ from Kyoto to BS-nK March 1, 1944 [+/- one]. Rendezvous coordinates to follow by wireless when on station. Completed enclosures to coordinate from E complex to assembly point then to U234."

Donovan looked up from the paper. " _A_ fuel...what the hell is that?"

"I don't know Bill, but the initiator of this message is clearly a deep Russian agent, somewhere inside a program the Germans are trying to keep very quiet. Whatever it is, you can be sure it's got Stalin's attention, and that makes me very nervous. Also, I've looked at the recon photos you sent—absolutely incredible. I've never seen anything like it before, either manmade or in nature, except maybe for some volacanic activity. The only thing that could cause that kind of damage would be a bomb of tremendous power."

Donovan folded the paper and put it back in the envelope. "Nate, the president and Churchill are trying to figure out if the Germans have a nuclear weapon. Churchill's people also looked at those photos, and some of them are convinced Hitler does have such a weapon and that he means to use it at the earliest possible opportunity."

Sarsfield shrugged. "I'd have to agree with them. It's clear from the photos that whatever caused this damage isn't a conventional weapon or a munitions explosion accident. Bonhoffer tried to get some information on the area near the damage site but drew a blank—except that something is there and that something is heavily guarded and for all practical purposes the area is impenetrable."

"So," Donovan said, "what we have are photos of an explosion site unlike anything we've ever seen before, a report from Berlin that a heavily guarded facility is located near the blast site but we have no idea what's going on inside, and a cryptic message from a Russian agent about a Japanese sub carrying ' _A_ fuel' from Kyoto to an unknown destination, but probably somewhere in German waters. I'm not sure where that leaves us, and the president needs more than speculation."

Nate sipped his coffee. "Bill, there is something else. Something I think you need to see."

"OK, where and when?"

"No time like the present. It's only a short walk from here."

Nate took the envelope to the sink pulled out a box of matches and lit one. He knew Donovan had memorized its contents but looked over to him first. Donovan nodded. Nate struck the match and passed the flame near a corner of the envelope. When it caught fire he held it until it was almost completely in flames and then dropped it in the sink. A wisp of smoke curled up from the ashes. Nate washed them down the drain.

"Come on, Bill," Nate said, heading out the door.

They arrived after a walk of six blocks at a hospital marked by a red cross on the yellow limestone wall next to the entrance. They walked through to the reception station. A dark-eyed nurse looked up.

"Father Sarsfield!" she said with excitement in her voice. "We wondered if you would come by today. We've received three new patients and I knew you would want to speak with them."

Nate smiled. "This is my friend Mr. Johnson. He's come with me today to observe our refugee efforts here in Lisbon."

The nurse smiled at Donovan. "Welcome to Lisbon, Mr. Johnson. Have you known Father Sarsfield very long?"

Donovan took her extended hand and shook it. "Yes, Father Sarsfield and I met some time ago at a conference in Geneva. I've heard of his good work here and came to get a look for myself. Americans are very attuned to the plight of refugees from Europe, and we want to see that all possible aid we might render is available to you."

"Nurse Felicia," Nate said, "if I may, I'd like, before we see the new arrivals, to talk to Mr. Diamond. I know he's been very sick, but if we could possibly spend a few minutes with him..."

Felicia suddenly looked sad. Donovan glanced at Nate and then back at the nurse. She was crying. "Oh, Father, I'm afraid Mr. Diamond passed away this morning. The poor man was so very sick and those terrible sores...there was nothing we could do for him except try to make him comfortable in his last hours."

"Where is the body?" Nate asked. The nurse looked up in surprise. "It's important," Nate said.

"Mr. Diamond's body is downstairs, Father. The morgue is coming to pick it up this afternoon. He'll be cremated."

"May we see the body? I know it's slightly irregular, but Mr. Diamond asked me to say a few words in his native Hebrew over him if he passed."

"Of course, Father. Follow me."

They followed her down two flights of stairs and through a double doorway marked with a "Staff Only" sign. Inside, three gurneys with sheet-covered bodies stood waiting for the morgue ambulance to arrive. She went to the first and checked the tag, then the second, and finally at the third read the name "Diamond, Julius."

"Would you mind leaving us for just a few moments, please?" Nate asked.

"I'll be upstairs, Father. I'm so sorry about Mr. Diamond. He was a nice man, but so very sick. Perhaps this was a blessing." She turned and walked back through the double doors. There was an eerie silence in the room, which was lit by a few overhead lamps that cast Donovan and Sarsfield's shadows on the walls.

Nate slowly pulled the sheet down from Mr. Diamond's head all the way to his ankles. Donovan gasped in horror. He felt nauseous and gripped the rail of the gurney to steady himself. "Jesus," he said. "What the hell." He looked across the gurney to Nate.

Julius Diamond's body was covered from his eyebrows to his toes with open sores, oozing even now, yellow and black pus that reeked of some kind of gas Donovan couldn't identify. His skin was sallow and where oozing sores didn't cover it, the flesh was loose and nearly transparent. His cheeks and eyes were sunk deep into his skull. Except for the paper-thin tissue covering it, the face might well have been a skull. The body was devoid of hair, and the legs and arms were turned in grotesque ways that suggested a slow and agonizing death. Nate covered the body and then closed his eyes and began reciting, "Adonai is my shepherd..."

After finishing the prayer, he said, "Let's go."

Donovan wasn't going to argue. He quickly followed Nate out into the small foyer at the bottom of the stairwell.

He took a handkerchief from his back pocket, wiped his brow, and looked directly at his friend. "I've seen a lot of death in my time. Bodies I never thought I could get out of my mind. Wounded men and sick men who died from everything from scurvy to typhus. But this, this is beyond imagination—like something out of a Frankenstein movie. What could possibly have done this?"

"When I was at Stanford studying nuclear chemistry, we were shown photos of scientists who'd been experimenting with radioactive material," Nate said. "You have to remember these scientists were flying completely blind in an area of physics and chemistry about which very little was known. Radioactive material is the heart of a weapon that will sustain a chain reaction of incredible power and destructive force, and some of these scientists experimented with these materials not knowing the exposure was poisoning them in a way that was irreversible.

"Bill, I saw a few hospital photos of some of these early pioneers. They died horribly, with sores covering their bodies—just like Diamond."

He paused before continuing. "Julius Diamond was a Jewish refugee from Estonia. I talked with him for the last time just a few days ago. He was in misery but able to speak for a few minutes at a time after morphine injections. He told me he'd been with a caravan of other refugees hiding out in the forest just south of Ordhurf, Germany. He said he and his companions were awakened one morning by a loud boom and a bright light on the northern horizon. He said it was unlike any sound he'd ever heard before. Then there was a wind, one strong enough to bend the pines at their tops. In a few seconds it was over. Diamond said it was like a ghost army from hell had ridden at full gallop through their hiding place and then disappeared back into the forest. They didn't think anymore about the incident and continued on their way. By the time they reached the Spanish frontier many of them were sick. Some died and were buried as they continued along the way. All had symptoms of nausea, diarrhea, and open sores oozing pus. Out of the twelve persons in his group, only Mr. Diamond made it here to Lisbon alive."

"Did Diamond tell you when he saw this bright light and heard the sound?" Donovan asked.

"He wasn't certain, but he told me he and his party left Estonia in early April and that he'd counted the days since then by carving small notches in his walking stick. The group made a bet on how long it would take them to reach Lisbon, and Diamond was the official timekeeper. He told me he'd just carved the twelfth notch in his cane the night before the explosion. That means it occurred in the middle of April. Your recon photos were made two months later.

"Bill, I'm not a medical doctor, but I'm telling you, Mr. Diamond, although he lingered for several months, died from radiation poisoning. I'm certain of it. If you couple that fact with the recon photos, Bonhoffer's intel and Mr. Diamond's recollection of the blast, I'd have to say that we're in very big trouble. Hitler _has_ a nuclear weapon."

"Nate, what's your read on the Russian intercept?"

"Well, there's no way at this point to be sure there's any connection. But by extension, I'd say Japan is shipping radioactive material to Germany. Where this material came from I can't even hazard a guess. One thing I did take away from my time in this field is that creating fissionable material in sufficient quantities to sustain a chain reaction is extremely difficult due to the nature of the atoms. So, either the Japs have figured out a way to do it or the message relates to something else entirely. What we know for sure is Hitler's already tested a nuclear weapon. Whether he has enough fuel to make another one is the big question. I, for one, think you should operate on the assumption he's building another bomb and if he is, we're all in deep trouble."

"Nate, I have to go. I need to talk to Churchill and then catch a return flight to Washington as soon as possible. Do you happen to know when the next flight out to London is?"

"I don't Bill, but we can use the telephone in the office upstairs."

They took the stairs two at a time. While Donovan was calling Pan Am, Nate stepped outside. Two blocks down the street in a parked car, a man sat behind the wheel and watched Nate Sarsfield lighting a cigarette. On the seat next to him was a fedora with a gold and red feather in the hatband. He was thinking Javier Rinaldo had had a good day for himself—three hundred escudos from the American and another three hundred from him. Yes, indeed, a very good day. These Americans were so stupid. Did Johnson, or whatever his real name was, really think he had not been followed? Every cab driver in Lisbon worked for the Gestapo. After all, the cabbies had to live here.

If a fare didn't know he was being tailed, he would simply be driven to his destination. If the fare did know, and most seasoned agents did, he and his colleagues would allow the cabbie to get away. Dressing like a Gestapo agent and reading a newspaper at the Clipper port was the whole point. We want to be obvious. That way nine times out of ten you'll ask the cabbie to lose the tail. Once the obliging driver has "miraculously" done exactly that, you feel safer and your guard comes down, especially after doing something so very daring! These idiots fell for it every time.

Once this game had been played, surveillance was easier—and more importantly, the local contact was more likely to expose his associates and so on and so on. Father Sarsfield had been on a watch list for months. Now that he'd met with this Johnson fellow, he wouldn't simply be watched—next, he would be "interviewed."

# Chapter 15

### BERLIN, GERMANY

Hugo Klymer had been an actor all his life. Since he was a boy he'd been traveling and acting with his parents in shows from Prague to Paris. After his parents died, he moved home to Berlin and joined a local group that put on plays and skits two or three times a week at the Bundesperit House. It was a meager living, but it was what he loved—being someone else, if only for a few hours. Off the stage, he shunned other people and comforted himself by reading almost every day at the library. His appetite for history, biographies, and nonfiction of almost any kind was insatiable. He thought it made him a better actor—and that was all he wanted in life, to be the best of the best. In 1938 the führer presented him with the opportunity of a lifetime.

The idea was simple enough. Since being named chancellor, Hitler had always been interested in figuring out a way to be in two places at once. Klymer was the means to that end. His remarkable resemblance to Hitler had been hidden from view until that night in March at the back entrance to the playhouse. Hugo was coming out of the rear stage entrance at the same time Hitler was being hustled out of the theater onto the same street. Hitler took one look at him in the dim street light and immediately left his party. As the führer neared, Klymer could see why Hitler was staring at him. They could have been identical twins. Of course there were superficial cosmetic differences—hairstyle, facial hair, and dress—but otherwise they were dead ringers. Hitler offered his hand and introduced himself. Klymer had been too startled to do anything but stand stiffly and give a slight bow. He found his tongue and said, "Mein Führer, my name is Hugo Klymer."

"Ah, Mr. Klymer, I noticed your name in the program," Hitler said. "Tonight you were King Lear. Tell me, how does it feel to play a sovereign?"

"It's a marvelous experience to play any of Shakespeare's characters, but especially those of noble birth and spirit. Somehow they are imbued with all the qualities one would wish for himself."

"Well, I enjoyed your performance very much. Would you be so kind as to visit me at the Reich Chancellery, Herr Klymer? I'd very much like to discuss your acting career, if you wouldn't mind."

Klymer was flattered beyond words. "Of, course, mein Führer, at any time, of course."

That had been six years ago. Since then Klymer had but one acting assignment—playing Adolph Hitler. He'd done it to perfection on no less than fourteen occasions, some of them only a few minutes in length and some more than an hour. He'd begun by studying films of the führer's speeches. He practiced them himself until he was word perfect for nearly every public address Hitler had given since 1936. He'd studied the führer's mannerisms and intonations, his habits and temperament. Klymer believed he knew Hitler better than Hitler knew himself. He thought it curious that the führer would not let Himmler or some of his other close associates in on the secret, but he didn't question it. Hitler said it was enough that Klymer could interact with people like Goering and Himmler in a way that would not reveal to them the deception. That's what he was paid for, and now more than ever, that payment was critical.

One afternoon Hitler had come with drugs—heroin from an Andes coca that was even better than the best German pharmaceutical grades. He wanted Klymer to try it and tell him if the experience was something he himself might want to have. Klymer did not hesitate. He was always eager to increase his repertoire of feelings and sensations; it made him a better actor. The following day he injected himself again. His addiction was swift and complete, and the drug came only from the führer. He'd once displeased Hitler with some triviality and his daily injection was withheld. The consequences were worse than Klymer could have imagined. His body convulsed and he felt sick all over. He couldn't sleep or eat. Later that day, Hitler came to visit him. Klymer begged forgiveness for his indiscretion. Hitler thought the lesson had been learned. Klymer's craving was delivered and in sixty seconds his life returned to normal. He could breath again and his heart quit hammering. His limbs were still and his mind was right; he would never displease the führer again.

Klymer never went out in public except as the führer arranged. His small apartment in a distant wing of the Reich Chancellery was under constant guard by the SS. Necessities were left at the entrance. For Klymer this security was both comforting and understandable. Besides, he had never needed the outside world except for the theater, and now he was insulated from it in a profound way. After a time, he began to believe nothing outside his apartment was worth caring about anyway—except the drugs, of course. When he was called upon to perform, he did so on a stage that was always set for him and he played his part brilliantly.

Hitler's closest advisors couldn't detect any difference between them. On more than one occasion, he and the führer switched roles in the middle of a meeting, dinner, or event. The real Hitler would excuse himself to go to the lavatory. By secret passage from his apartment, Klymer would be waiting to take Hitler's place. No one noticed. Not even Eva Braun, Hitler's mistress.

There were other doubles, of course, body doubles mostly. They looked more or less like Hitler and were used when he was to be in an open caravan or on a parapet looking down on the people—always far enough away that any differences would be indiscernible. Hitler had a great fear of being murdered and that made Klymer's job even more compelling, he thought. He'd considered that if someone made an attempt on his life, it would be the ultimate accolade.

Klymer's telephone rang. There was only one person ever on the other end of the line. "Good morning, Herr Klymer," Hitler said. "I trust you are feeling well today?"

"Yes, mein Führer. I was just going over some film from your meeting yesterday with Herr Mussolini."

"El Duce. He is a fool. One day you shall have to meet him in person; however, this evening I have another guest I want you to meet."

"Yes, mein Führer?"

"Colonel Veltheim will be here at approximately six p.m. He's doing a special project for me, and I want you to listen to his planning outline for a phase of that project."

"Yes, of course. Where will this meeting be held?"

"In my office—familiar territory for you, Klymer. Mostly you will just be listening tonight. I want you to interact with him on a personal level only. The technical aspects of the plan he will present are simply to be acknowledged with a nod or perhaps an 'I will consider that and get back to you.' Do you understand?"

"Yes, mein Führer, I understand exactly what you want. It will be much like the conference last week with General Keitel and Reichsmarshal Goering. I will nod and take a few notes but be furtive as if distracted on another matter."

"Very much like that," Hitler replied. "Be in my office at five forty-five." The line went dead.

### * * *

He was sitting at the führer's desk when Veltheim strode through the usual entry door. "Heil Hitler."

Klymer waved him to a seat. "Sit down, Colonel. How was your journey?"

"Without incident, mein Führer. I brought the plans we discussed and am ready to go over them whenever you wish."

"Proceed, Colonel."

"Yes, mein Führer. First as to the submarine's progress." Veltheim stood, slipped a folded map from his valise, and spread it carefully on Hitler's desk. "The last reported position of the _Nagamo_ was here, off the southwestern coast of Africa. The captain just made his turn north and is proceeding as planned. At his present rate of advance, he will be here in early March. Communication with our ships to track his progress has gone very well. At predesignated points and times, always at night, the sub surfaces and waits for the coded light signal from our vessels. There are only six tracking ships along the entire twelve-thousand-mile route, so the possibility of detection is near zero."

Klymer nodded. "Go on, Colonel."

"This position report was made by the fourth tracking vessel. Once the sub sees the coded signal, it responds with its own return code. Then the sub submerges and continues on course. The second tracking vessel did not pick up the signal as arranged. They had to wait on station for an additional six hours. We believe the submarine may have been delayed by a chance meeting with an enemy vessel."

"Excellent—on course and on time. What news do you have of the weapon containers?" Hitler had told Klymer to ask this question.

"We will finish the casing for the final weapon in two weeks. The tolerances for the gun tubes and reaction chambers are precise and machining them to those tolerances has taken some time. Nevertheless, the final container will be completed well before the sub's arrival.

"One of the most critical things we have left to do to when the _Nagamo's_ cargo is offloaded at Kiel is forming the uranium cores into their final spherical shape. This will take approximately ten hours per weapon. Once again, the tolerances for this sphere are very exact; otherwise we won't obtain the desired explosive effect. And, of course, the sphere must fit precisely into its receptacle in the casing. There is no margin for error. We are taking every precaution to see that all the machining is exactly accurate. You may think of the problem in the same way as a tunnel dug from both sides under a mountain. Each separate boring must meet and align exactly, and accomplishing this requires the utmost in care and coordination."

"Yes, I understand," said Klymer. He looked at a notepad on the desk and asked, "Tell me about the security arrangements for the shipment of the casings and their loading on to the U-two-thirty-four."

"This aspect has been the most difficult part of the planning. We will need either a train or truck convoy to transport the core-making machinery and the finished casings to Kiel. We'll also need to transport technicians, six of them, two per weapon, to manage the final casting. Mein Führer, I recommend a truck movement since there is no way to know which rail lines may be targeted. If we move by rail and the tracks are destroyed, the shipment will be unacceptably delayed, and, of course, the machinery will be exposed to the enemy while the train is offloaded onto trucks."

Veltheim's voice had taken on a tone of caution. He knew Hitler was sensitive to the fact that Goering and his vaunted Luftwaffe no longer controlled the skies over Germany.

"Because the Allies are conducting day and night bombing, we must take care that the convoy moves only in the most careful way. The trucks will be heavily guarded, of course, but in a way that does not arouse suspicion or undue attention. Troops from the complex will ride under cover and be of sufficient numbers to repel any sort of ground attack, although we think that possibility is extremely remote. Air attack is our greatest concern."

"And how will we limit our exposure to such attacks?"

"First, by moving only at night. This should keep us safe from Allied ground attack fighter-bombers who operate only in the daytime. The journey from Ohrdruf to Kiel should take approximately eighteen hours. By dawn of the first day we will reach a bunkered area just north of Frankfurt. The next evening we'll begin moving at dusk and should arrive in Kiel an hour before dawn. There is a warehouse at the facility we'll use for casting the cores and final assembly of the weapons. It has sufficient power and is isolated enough from the rest of the port that our activities there should go largely unnoticed."

"Is there anything else, Colonel?"

Veltheim felt uneasy. He couldn't pinpoint exactly why, but something told him Hitler was distant, as if he were thinking about something else.

"Yes, mein Führer. "Once the convoy arrives, we can operate freely day or night to cast the cores and assemble the weapons. Our first task will be to install and power up the casting machinery. The technicians I've selected will be able to do this within twenty-four hours. Once that's been accomplished the next step will be to coordinate receiving the fuel from our Japanese friends."

Klymer sat forward, resting his forearms on the desk. Then he interlaced the fingers of both hands and began to abstractedly tap his thumbs together. Hitler often did this when he was impatient, as if his mind was three moves ahead of whoever was speaking to him. It was one of many mannerisms Klymer had perfected.

"Once the _Nagamo_ enters the Baltic, mein Führer, it will surface only once to report its position. This will, of course, be at a prearranged time and place. After that the sub will sail directly to the Konrad U-boat shelter, where we have equipment to move the ore."

Klymer closed his eyes in anticipation. It was almost time for his injection.

"When the fuel is delivered to the warehouse, we'll immediately begin the casting process. As I mentioned before, this takes approximately ten hours per core. The castings must then be milled to their precise final specifications. Once finished, the cores will be loaded into the weapons and sealed. Then it's simply a matter of taking the weapons to the U-two-thirty-four and loading them into the sub's mine shafts. We will then confirm the status and telephone you for orders to sail."

Hitler was staring at him. No, not at him, Veltheim thought; staring through him, almost as if the führer were watching in that moment the city of London turning to ash and its inhabitants into human torches.

"What about the U-two-thirty-four, Colonel? What's her condition?"

"She is being readied for this mission as we speak. Three of the mine shafts are being modified to accept the weapons. In addition, a snorkel is being fitted to the sub so it can run submerged for prolonged periods. We calculate that it will be in position off the shores of New York City twelve days after it leaves English waters and in the Chesapeake Bay for its attack on Washington three days after that.

A large mirror in an ornate golden frame hung on the wall at the rear of the führer's desk. Behind its one-way glass, Hitler sat, earphones on his head, watching and listening to the exchange. He picked up the telephone.

The ring startled Klymer. He listened for a moment and hung up without saying a word.

"Colonel, one final matter, then I must leave you for another meeting."

"Yes, of course, mein Führer. What is it?"

"As you know, I sent instructions to Admiral Donitz concerning the U-two-thirty-four. These instructions were simply that the U-two-thirty-four be readied for a special operation and that the captain would be advised by you as to mission specifics only after getting underway. All the captain needs to know is the time and the specific coordinates at which the mines are to be released. He and the rest of the crew need know nothing else. Are we perfectly clear on that point, Colonel?" Klymer delivered these lines exactly as Hitler had instructed him.

"Yes, mein Führer. It is perfectly understood."

"Very well, Colonel. There will be no deviation from this unless on my authorization. Now, you may return to your duties." Klymer turned in his chair and appeared to be looking into the mirror. The meeting was over.

Veltheim exited the Reich Chancellery through one of the building's rear entrances as he always did. A smile of satisfaction touched the corners of his mouth. In this day, he thought, his allegiance had been tested and found to be unshakeable. The führer had entrusted him with the most important military mission in German history. Everyone would know, when the world was at Germany's feet, that his confidence had not been misplaced.

# Chapter 16

### LONDON, ENGLAND

Bill Donovan was aware of his reputation but downplayed it at every opportunity. He didn't consider himself to be a swashbuckling hero or a cloak-and-dagger spy. America had been good to him and for this he had dedicated his life to returning the largesse of a country where the son of poor Irish immigrants could, with hard work and a little common sense, take advantage of the opportunities America set before each of its citizens. All one really had to do was recognize them for what they were, open the door, and walk through, head up and eyes open.

Yes, there was a certain amount of luck in every man's life shaping his destiny, but for Bill Donovan, luck was a less a turn of the card and more a matter of good timing, like finding a gold nugget on the edge of a stream. All you had to do was be there at the right time, pick it up, and put it in your pocket. Franklin Roosevelt was one of those nuggets. He and the president were law school classmates at Columbia and Donovan recognized then that Roosevelt, even without his obvious family connections, was destined for more than a career advising investment banks and corporations about arcane tax regulations or writing wills and trusts for wealthy Wall Street financiers.

Donovan loved the outdoors and spent much of his childhood fishing and hunting. He also loved sports and was the captain of his high school wrestling and baseball teams. Staying physically fit was second nature to him, and even now he tried to get some exercise every day. His mother and father disagreed with his decision to join the army, but a sense of adventure and his love of the outdoors made any other choice unthinkable. His superiors quickly noticed his stamina, sharpness of mind, instinct to pursue the enemy, and initiative. They noticed something else too. Donovan was a natural leader. He sowed and nurtured a level of trust from his men that maybe one in a thousand West Point graduates could duplicate.

Returning from the western front after WWI as America's most highly decorated soldier was only the first installment in his repayment plan. After law school, Donovan held several elected offices, then moved to New York City, where he established a lucrative and thriving career in international law. It was these overseas contacts and his military career, he thought, that brought him to the attention of Vincent Astor, President Roosevelt's Hudson Valley neighbor and distant cousin.

The president talked to Astor regularly while exercising his polio-ravaged legs in Astor's heated indoor pool, and it was Vincent Astor who suggested Roosevelt renew his acquaintanceship with Donovan.

Roosevelt loved secrets and had long wanted to establish his own spy network outside official channels. The Presidential War Emergency Fund, from which he alone wrote checks, allowed him to do just that. After Pearl Harbor, Roosevelt consigned the most sensitive missions entirely to Donovan and his network.

Before her death, Donovan's wife reluctantly accepted her husband's being out of the country so frequently. She suspected he was placing himself in extreme danger, but did not press him on these matters. Their children, two boys, were both in the military. William Jr. with the First Infantry Division in Europe and Thomas with the Third Marine Expeditionary Force somewhere in the South Pacific.

Donovan thought about his sons often. He instilled in them the same sense of unadorned patriotism he himself felt toward America. Donovan couldn't have cared less about medals and accolades. His mission now was to protect his sons and the millions of their comrades that were threatened by an insane German megalomaniac and a Japanese empire whose expansionist policies and militaristic fervor threatened the whole of the Far East and America.

He'd cabled ahead to the British Foreign Ministry and secured a seat on the Clipper making its return journey from Lisbon to New York through London. The plane was, of course, fully booked as it always was, usually weeks in advance, with correspondents, diplomats, and any refugees who managed to make the daunting journey to Lisbon with enough gold, diamonds, or valuable paintings to influence the right people and obtain a ticket.

Donovan's travel agent was the president of the United States, however, and that carried considerable sway with Pan Am. Although Donovan had not seen it, he knew some anxious passenger had protested bitterly when informed at the last minute his reservation was cancelled.

The early evening darkness, cold, and mist in London matched Donovan's mood as his chauffeured car made its way along Oxford Street toward Churchill's redoubt under the Treasury Building at Whitehall. A gnawing ball of fear and foreboding had been growing in his chest from the moment he'd seen Julius Diamond's body at the Red Cross hospital in Lisbon. He'd known little about nuclear energy before now, only what the president told him about the incredible power of such a weapon, but seeing Diamond's body cast a shadow over his soul that went far beyond an abstract discussion of kilotons of explosive force. To die like Julius Diamond was beyond grotesque. Clearly, if he understood what Nate explained to him about the practical effect of a nuclear explosion, it would not be hard to accept the notion that if one had a choice, it would be preferable to die in the fireball. The thought of thousands of innocent people lingering on the edge of death for days or months with unremitting pain even the most powerful drugs could not control was unthinkable.

Even in war-ravaged London, traffic was congested. Double-decked buses spewing clouds of exhaust, taxis, military vehicles, bicycles, and pedestrians jousted along Oxford Street seeking whatever perceived advantage in forward movement they could. Donovan slid back the plexiglass partition.

"Anything you can do to get us out of this mess will be greatly appreciated," Donovan said, extending a hand with a five-pound note. Donovan hoped the man could understand him. One of the great curiosities of travel in Europe was that most Americans had a difficult time with foreign languages on the continent and were relieved to finally get to the UK, thinking their language troubles were over. Alas, Mark Twain had it right. The British and Americans were one people separated by a common language.

"Thank you, sir, but that's not necessary." The driver inclined his head toward the money and then looked back at Donovan in the rearview mirror. "Mr. Churchill himself instructed me to bring you to him by the fastest route possible, and I can see that Oxford Street was a mistake. I prefer not to use this if I don't have to. Londoners have enough to put up with as it is but..." His voice trailed off as he brought a clear plastic bubble out from under the seat, placed it on the dashboard, and plugged the cord into the car's cigar lighter. Donovan saw a few cars ahead pull over to the curb, clearing a narrow path forward as the blue revolving light began to register its effect. If nothing else, Donovan thought, the British had a certain discipline to order and respect wired into their consciousness, probably inculcated by hundreds of years under the rule of various monarchs. This same tactic on Madison Avenue might at most buy you an extra five minutes.

The car pulled up in front of the Treasury building. Donovan thanked the driver, pulled his coat tight against the chill, and hurried through the front door. In the foyer, military police checked his credentials and waved him through their security barricade. On the other side a trim young woman in uniform was waiting. Her green eyes and smile lifted his spirits.

"Mr. Donovan, welcome. Please follow me. The prime minister is waiting for you."

Donovan fell into step as she led him down a corridor to a single elevator. She nodded to the guard at the door, who inserted a key. The elevator door opened. Donovan and his escort stepped inside. He could feel the car descending.

"Thank you for meeting me, Miss..."

"Ann Granger, Leftenant Ann Granger," she replied, extending her hand.

"I'm sorry for the delay in my arrival, Leftenant. Traffic here is worse than midtown Manhattan at Christmas."

"Yes, I know, sir," she replied. "During the blitz, it was a joke amongst locals that the German bombing raids had solved one problem—at least one could get from Mayfair to Piccadilly without fear of being run over by a speeding taxi."

Donovan smiled. His mood was tempered, however, because at the same time he had an image in his mind of Julius Diamond.

The elevator stopped. "This way, Mr. Donovan."

They arrived at another checkpoint. Granger waited while Donovan's credentials were again checked. The guard handed him a red visitor's badge wrapped in a clear plastic liner.

"Please wear this while you're here, sir." Donovan slipped the badge's lanyard over his head.

Another guard pulled a lever, which unlatched a metal door. Granger walked through, followed by Donovan. The door slammed shut behind them.

They stepped through pools of light from shaded overhead lamps down a concrete passageway. Granger's shoes clicked on the floor. Donovan's soft soles made no sound. At the end of the corridor, they came to yet another guarded steel door. The sentry examined both their badges and then turned and knocked. A small peephole opened briefly, then closed. Donovan heard a bolt sliding. The door opened and he and Granger stepped through.

Inside, Winston Churchill was sitting behind a mahogany desk. Another man dressed in a dark-blue business suit stood beside him. Cigar smoke drifted in the air and Donovan could see it making its way to a ventilator fan that hummed in the ceiling. Churchill stood. He was dressed in a red silk evening jacket and dark slacks. His eyes twinkled through circular glasses with a horn-rimmed frame.

"William, William, so good to see you again!" Churchill boomed. Donovan reached across the desk and shook the prime minister's hand. "Please sit." Donovan settled on an upholstered chair with brass pin insets along the edges of the fabric. "Thank you, Leftenant Granger," Churchill said.

Donovan turned in his chair and added his thanks. Granger left the room. The man with Churchill walked to the door, threw the bolt, and then sat in the companion chair next to Donovan's.

"William, I'd like you to meet an old friend of mine, Major Desmond Morton." The man in the blue suit extended his hand. Donovan shook it and studied the face: sharp and intelligent eyes for a man about Churchill's age. A scar ran from his right earlobe in a smooth, white arc up to his right temple.

"Retired," Morton said with a grin.

"Mr. Morton and I met on the western front," Churchill said. "Since then he's been periodically in the employ of the British government's intelligence service. What I mean by that is _my_ intelligence service. I asked him to come out of retirement and help me with a few projects. It's been a godsend for his wife, you know, getting him out of the house. He's been slowly driving her insane, I should think, judging from the delight on her face each time I come to call."

Donovan couldn't restrain a small smile. He missed Carol.

"Let's have a drink to ward off the chill," Churchill said. He spun around in his chair, pulled three crystal glasses and a bottle of Glenlivet from the shelf behind him. After filling them, he offered a toast.

"Gentlemen, to victory."

"To victory," his guests echoed.

"Now," said Churchill, setting his glass down, "William, first I want you to know, as I'm sure the president has reminded you, that this conversation and everything related to it is of the utmost secrecy. Beyond the people in this room, President Roosevelt and Father Sarsfield, perhaps...?"

"Mr. Churchill, I did discuss this matter with Father Sarsfield. I was discreet, revealing no more than was essential to confirm or deny what we think we know. Still, sir, Nate Sarsfield is an extremely intelligent individual, and although he did not say as much, I would be misrepresenting the facts if I told you I didn't think he's connected the dots and understands what we're facing."

Churchill nodded. "Yes, all right then. Except for President Roosevelt, Father Sarsfield, and us no one knows anything about this. We've worked very hard to keep the need to know down to a handful. I know the president has been doing this as well. The need for absolute secrecy is critical. Do we all agree?"

"Yes, Prime Minister, I agree," said Morton. "If so much as a single feather of this were to float down on Trafalgar, there would be panic and irreparable damage."

"Yes, sir, of course, I also agree," Donovan said.

"So, William, you've just come from Lisbon and a meeting with Father Sarsfield. What can you tell us?"

Donovan took another sip of his whisky, set the glass on a side table, and turned his chair slightly to deliver his message to both men. If Morton was important enough to be here, he deserved equal face time. He knew Churchill would respect that.

"Gentlemen," Donovan began, "in my opinion, Adolph Hitler has an atomic weapon, and this weapon has sufficient power to turn the tide of war back in his favor and possibly to defeat us."

Churchill was impassive, as if he'd been preparing himself for this news. Morton looked gloomy.

Donovan recounted to them his movements since leaving New York: the Gestapo agent at the airport, the cab ride, the meeting with Father Sarsfield, and his visit to see Julius Diamond. He left out nothing, and they did not interrupt him.

"The evidence is circumstantial, I know." This was the lawyer in Donovan speaking.

"Circumstantial, yes, but compelling," Churchill replied.

"Prime Minister, may I bother you for a piece of paper?" Donovan asked. Churchill opened his top desk drawer, removed a sheet, and handed it over.

Donovan took a Mont Blanc from an inside coat pocket and began writing. When he finished, he clicked the cap back on and slid the paper across the desk.

Churchill read it, then handed it to Morton. "Any idea what it means?" Churchill asked.

"Sir, I think I do, but before I tell you about that, I want to modify my statement about who is privy to this information." Churchill again looked like he knew what was coming.

"The message you just read is a verbatim transcription of a document Father Sarsfield showed me in Lisbon. After committing it to memory, I had Nate burn it. The message came from a Russian diplomatic pouch, intercepted by an agent in Stockholm. She transcribed as much as she could before the pouch was retrieved only a few minutes after it had been delivered. She left the transcription at a dead drop. Unfortunately, its transmission to Sarsfield was delayed by several weeks due to the courier's illness. In any case, I think Stalin has the entire message and therefore probably knows as much or more about all this than we do."

"Damn," Churchill said, puffing his cigar. "And of course, I've heard nothing from him about it, nor, do I suspect, has the president. Our dear comrade Stalin is keeping this to himself. I can tell you both that I don't need to guess why."

"Sir, to your point about the message. I'm convinced it means fuel for a fission weapon is being delivered to Germany by a Japanese submarine. God knows how they obtained it or how much more they may have. What's important is that once this fuel is delivered, it will be placed inside a weapon. The message implies the weapon's delivery system will be a German submarine, the U-two-thirty-four, and I've verified with Bletchley Park that 'BS-nK' has been used as the code identifier for the Kiel sub pens in previous message intercepts. I think that's where we'll find the U-two-thirty-four at the beginning of March."

Donovan hesitated before continuing. "Mr. Churchill, I think we may assume Hitler would consider England as an initial target."

Churchill crushed out his cigar and took another sip of whisky. "This is indeed grave news, William, but honestly, I must tell you that I feared this was the case from the moment I first saw those photographs."

There was silence in the room for the next minute, each man thinking his private thoughts.

"Well," Churchill continued, "please forgive me for stating the obvious, but we'll have to find a way to intercept that sub and get the fuel before Hitler or Stalin have a chance to use it themselves. There isn't a moment to lose, gentlemen. Is there any disagreement on this point?"

Morton and Donovan shook their heads.

"All right. Then we need a plan. William, have you given this any thought?"

"I have, Prime Minister." He knew Churchill would want him to get directly to the details. He'd thought how such an operation might be accomplished on the flight from Lisbon. "First, taking the sub by brute force doesn't work. Our scientists have been struggling for months to collect enough nuclear fuel to support a chain reaction, without much success, I might add. The production is increasing, but it might be another eighteen months, maybe more, before we have enough to even make a test. In short, destroying the sub is unthinkable. We must try to retrieve the fuel inside the weapon for our own use." Donovan finished the whisky. He felt parched.

"When you say 'sub,' Mr. Donovan, I assume you're talking about the U-two-thirty-four?"

"I'm sorry, Mr. Morton. I didn't mean to get ahead of myself. Yes, I mean the U-two-thirty-four. We want the fuel, of course, but if we can get a working weapon intact, so much the better. The U-two-thirty-four is a minelayer, so it's likely they've figured out how to launch and remotely detonate a nuclear-powered mine. It's a smart approach, nearly undetectable. The only other option, air delivery, has a high probability of failure."

"Please go on, William," the prime minister urged.

"Yes, sir. This means we'll have to mount a clandestine operation to reach the sub and the weapons they are almost certain to have aboard. There are several possible ways to get our people into the sub pen complex, but even if we succeed, taking the weapons off the sub will almost certainly cause a ruckus. That can end only one way, since the base is sure to be heavily guarded and we would have no reinforcements to call on.

"Sir, for this operation to succeed we need someone on our team who could pose as Hitler's onsite operational commander for deployment of the atomic weapons. The base commandant and the captain and crew of the sub would obey him because he would be absolutely believable and he would be absolutely believable because he is the genuine article. I'm not sure, once we were aboard and at sea, exactly how things would play out, but the general idea would be to have the sub proceed to a spot we would coordinate with you. Then the sub would surface and we'd have a boarding party waiting."

"How could you convince the captain to surface in the middle of a flotilla of enemy vessels?" Morton asked.

"Mr. Morton, I have a couple of ideas about that." Donovan outlined his plan. "Hopefully, we can get the captain to cooperate. If not, we'll have to take him out of the picture. Anyway, I can think of a person for every spot on the team but one. Besides myself, I would need one or two men for security, some sort of nuclear technician, I should think, who could oversee and care for the payload, and my own navigator. I wouldn't want to go steaming up to some German-occupied port and not realize it until it was too late."

Donovan sat back and folded his arms over his chest. "The one person I don't have, the most important man on the team, is a high-ranking German commander who is willing to cooperate with us. Which means I have no choice but to play this part myself."

Churchill and Morton traded glances.

The prime minister refilled his glass. While he was pouring he said, "William, I hope you will not take this the wrong way but, honestly, I doubt you could pull it off. It's not that you aren't very capable, it's just that in this case, unless the officer had an intimate working knowledge of the German military, a knowledge that could only come from being part of the machinery for many years, an impostor would inevitably get tripped up somewhere along the way. Without someone having very specialized knowledge playing this part, doing what you suggest is too risky. I'd rather take my chances bombing the hell out of the facility in hopes we could take out the weapons."

Donovan had to agree that this made sense. But Churchill continued. "However, before we abandon your plan entirely, I'd like you to meet someone."

Donovan looked puzzled. "Who, Mr. Prime Minister?"

"Well, I'd rather not say because I don't want to leave you with any preconceived ideas. I want you to form your own opinion."

Churchill picked up the telephone. Ann Granger answered on the first ring. "Yes, Prime Minister?"

"Leftenant, please have my car brought round. Major Morton and Mr. Donovan will be traveling to Mildenhall within the hour." Churchill replaced the receiver.

"The trip to Mildenhall will take about two hours, William. Would you like something to eat before you go?"

Donovan appeared not to have heard the PM. He was turning the idea over. Did Churchill have someone hidden away who could pull this off? Several German generals had been captured by the Allies over the course of the war, but as far as he knew, there was nothing particularly remarkable about any of them: field commanders mostly, who had been caught with their pants down or worse, had simply given up. No, none of the high-ranking officers he knew about, now cooling their heels in Allied POW camps, would have the balls and moxie he needed for this mission.

"William, would you like something to eat before you leave?" Churchill repeated.

Donovan came back from his absorption. "I'm sorry, Prime Minister. No, sir, I'm not hungry. But I am curious to know what this is all about."

Churchill smiled and stood. "And so you shall know, William. I'll have the kitchen prepare some sandwiches and coffee for your trip. Is there anything else then before you leave?"

"No, sir," Donovan replied.

"Once you've had a chance to meet our...guest, perhaps you will be good enough to return and let me know if he might be adequate to our purposes."

"Yes, of course, Prime Minister."

"Mr. Donovan, if you will please follow me." Morton stood and unbolted the door. Donovan shook Churchill's hand in parting, picked up his coat and valise, and then followed Morton down the passageway.

### * * *

They took the M4 west out of London. The prime minister's silver Bentley was comfortable. A partition separated the driver and passenger compartments. Donovan watched its headlights search ahead through the mist and gloom as the motorway wound its way toward RAF Mildenhall.

Morton opened a brown paper bag and extracted two sandwiches and a thermos of coffee. "Looks like ham and cheese, Mr. Donovan. Would you care for one?"

"Yes, thank you." The coffee smelled delicious. Donovan poured a steaming cup from the thermos and placed it on a small walnut tray that folded out from the seat in front of him.

Morton unwrapped his sandwich and took a bite. "Not exactly a gourmet meal, but surely better than blood pudding."

Donovan chuckled. Anything was better than that awful mixture Englishmen seemed so fond of. "I have to agree, Major. Blood pudding is what we think of in America when we want to lose weight. The very thought of it is an appetite killer if there ever was one."

Morton nodded. "Most Englishmen say they love it. Secretly they loathe the dish and only eat it to prove their manhood. It's a carryover from the days of knights, I should think. But I'm told the queen and her husband banned it from Buckingham Palace—on the QT, of course."

The small talk wasn't relaxing for Donovan. The fear he'd felt coming up from Lisbon had only increased in intensity after their meeting with the prime minister.

"Major, as you can imagine, my curiosity is off the scale right now."

"Yes, I can imagine how it would be. But as I said to you before, this...what's the correct word...this _discovery_ can't be explained until it is first witnessed and then absorbed. I still have trouble believing it myself. I can tell you this, however, the man you are about to meet came to the attention of our intelligence people only a week ago, and even after many hours of debriefing, I think most of them are still extremely skeptical about his identity. We've been working around the clock to verify his bona fides and to understand how and why he came to our attention."

Morton finished his sandwich, crumpled the wrapper, and placed it back in the bag.

"As you know, we've sent a few representatives of our own across the channel to misdirect the Jerries—most of them before the invasion. They spread the word that Patton was the commander of an entirely fictitious army in the months before we went ashore at Normandy. From all accounts, this deception was bought lock, stock, and barrel by the German High Command. Sure we took a lot of casualties on the beaches, but the One Hundred and Sixteenth and Second Panzer divisions were not sent forward to reinforce the German defenders for several weeks after D-day. We had the Wermacht convinced Normandy was only a diversion and that the main landing would happen at the Pas de Calais."

Morton was looking out the window. "This guy could be their counterpunch. Ready to feed us disinformation on German troop positions and strengths." He turned back to Donovan. "I have to say, the timing of his arrival here in England is very curious."

The Bentley took an exit off the motorway that was marked only as Route 451. Donovan could hear gravel under the tires now rather than the smooth hum of the motorway.

Ahead, the Bentley's headlights outlined a high fence topped with concertina wire. A guard shack stood next to the gate, with a red-and-white-striped pole lowered across the road. The driver killed the headlights and drove slowly until they came abreast of the guard shack. A military policeman looked through the lowered driver's-side window. Nearby several other soldiers stood with their weapons leveled at the car.

Morton handed his credential to the guard. "Major Morton and Mr. Donovan," he said. The guard took Donovan's credentials as well, scrutinized them closely, and looked back at the Bentley's rear-seat occupants.

"We were told to expect you, Major," the guard said, handing back the folders. "Please continue to the first building on your left." He motioned to a soldier standing by the barrier, who lifted it clear of the road.

"Thank you, Sergeant." Morton rolled up the window. The Bentley pulled forward and picked up speed. A few minutes later it pulled to a stop in front of a nondescript rectangular one-story structure with a sloping shingled roof. Two armed sentries flanked the front entrance. Donovan and Morton got out and walked to the doorway. The guards saluted, and one of them opened the door. "Our guests have been told of your arrival, Major. Please go in. I believe you'll find them in the study." Donovan smelled woodsmoke as they stepped through the doorway.

Once inside, Morton removed his coat and hung it on a coat tree in the corner of the entryway. Donovan did the same. From what Donovan could see, this building had been outfitted as a home and a comfortable one at that. There were paintings on the paneled walls of what appeared to be a living room, each one illuminated from below by the soft light of beautifully engraved glass sconces. The furniture was plush, a dark leather. A sofa and two high-back wing chairs sat on a large and delicately embroidered silk carpet. Donovan guessed it was from Egypt.

Donovan followed Morton down a hallway. At the end was a study. Its walls were lined with shelves containing books. The room was lit only with the dancing light of the flames in a crackling fireplace and a shaded floor lamp in one corner. Donovan could see two men. One of them was standing with his elbow resting on the fireplace mantle, smoking a cigarette. The fire lighted his face, but Donovan didn't recognize him. The other was seated in a nearby chair, his face in shadow.

"Colonel, do you mind if I give us a little more light?" Morton addressed the man at the mantle.

"Of course, Major," the man responded. "Please." He pointed to a nearby wall switch. Morton turned it. The seated man rose as the now illuminated overhead fixture washed away the darkness.

"Mr. Donovan," Morton said in German, "I'd like you to meet Field Marshal Erwin Rommel—The Desert Fox. Herr Field Marshal, this is Herr William Donovan."

Morton watched Donovan's face closely, and although he'd heard the simile before he'd never witnessed it himself. In that moment, however, he knew exactly what someone looked like who'd just seen a ghost.

# Chapter 17

### MILDENHALL RAF BASE, ENGLAND

"Rommel," Donovan muttered. He looked hard at the man in front of him. He'd seen dozens of photos of the field marshal in news articles, mostly German publications, but also in his own intelligence folders. His mind was trying to juxtapose those images with this face. Rommel was dressed in a loose-fitting white shirt and khaki trousers with suspenders. Donovan mentally placed a German officer's cap and tunic on the man, then a black leather great coat exposing an Iron Cross at the throat. Finally a pair of desert field goggles above the brim of the cap. Yes, the resemblance was undeniable, except for the drooping left eyelid. Still, how was it possible?

Donovan offered his hand. "Welcome to England, Herr Field Marshal." Donovan's gaze was intense. Rommel returned the look, his grasp on Donovan's hand firm and steady. There wasn't a hint of deception in those eyes, Donovan thought. Curiosity, perhaps, but no artifice. One of the gifts he'd received from his parents was the ability to sense genuine sincerity in other people. This gift had served him well in selecting agents for his networks. Never had he been betrayed or compromised by one of these men and women. Still, there was always a first time. Right now it was very possible that the shock of looking into a dead man's eyes and having that man look back was having an effect not unlike chaff on a radar screen—an obscuration of the true picture.

The man who'd been standing at the fireplace introduced himself. "Hello, Mr. Donovan, I'm Colonel Meyer, OSS attaché here at Mildenhall." Donovan shook his hand. "Mr. Donovan, perhaps you'd like to sit?" Meyer indicated a chair near the fire.

Donovan slipped into the upholstered armchair and moved his fingertips up and down the fabric of the armrests trying to get some sense of feeling and reality back. Morton pulled up a chair and sat beside him.

"I suspect you have many questions, William," Morton said and then paused for a moment as Meyer spoke quickly to Rommel. Donovan's German was passable, and he easily understood the translation.

"Since the field marshal speaks only a few words of English, would it be all right with you if from this point forward we spoke only German?" Morton asked. "I think it may save us some time and I know yours is good, but if you need clarification or enhancement, just ask Colonel Meyer. Among his many other duties, the colonel provides backup translation services to the prime minister when his official translator is indisposed. Sol speaks perfect German and is fluent in five other languages."

Meyer quickly finished the translation.

Donovan glanced over at Rommel. "Of course, yes, that's fine, although I must tell you Herr Field Marshal, my German is a bit rusty." Donovan missed the German word for _rusty_ and had instead said " _schimmelig_ ," or "moldy."

Rommel gave Donovan a smile and replied, "Danke, Herr Donovan."

Donovan suspected that for the last week or so British interrogators had probably asked Rommel every detail of his life from the moment he could first remember anything until now, trying to find inconsistencies in his recollections that would identify him as an agent. He could read their report and assessment later. Right now, Donovan wanted something else.

"Field Marshal, may I first say that I am extremely gratified to see you looking so well."

"Thank you, Mr. Donovan."

"We all believed you were dead—a heart attack or stroke, I think the papers reported, resulting from the wounds you received in Normandy after an attack by one of our fighters. We're glad to have you here among the living, as I'm sure your family is, but how?" Donovan's question hung in the air.

"I can tell you that being here is as mystifying to me as it is to you. I am supposed to be dead. I've seen the news articles and other reports, just as you have, but, here I am nevertheless." Rommel shrugged. He had not told the other interrogators and he would not tell these people that Dr. Hesse had been with him briefly in Trieste before returning to Germany. That information could all too easily find its way back to the Gestapo and endanger his friend.

"But you must remember something. Something that could help you and us understand how a man who was photographed in his casket looking for all intents and purposes as if he were dead—no, was in fact certified dead by doctors—and for whom a large state funeral was held, and whose body was cremated"—Donovan took a deep breath—"can be here in this room shaking my hand!"

The fire crackled and the wind moaned like a lonely animal outside the windows. "I wish I knew the answers to your question, Mr. Donovan. I wish it more than you do. I can only tell you what I've told the others, and I'm afraid you will find that recounting as unsatisfactory as they did.

"In any case, here's what I remember. Hitler sent two general officers, Burghdorf and Maisel, to my home in Herrlingen. General Burghdorf told me the führer believed I was complicit in the July twenty attempt on his life and showed me a written summary of the evidence against me. Most of this evidence consisted of confessions of other officers who had been arrested and interrogated by the Gestapo. Burghdorf told me the führer had given me two options to deal with the charges. I could contest the evidence in the People's Court or I could take poison and settle the matter honorably. He also told me that if I took the poison, Hitler would see to it that I was given a state funeral as a hero of the German nation, that my wife and son would not be molested in any way, and that my wife would receive my full field marshal's pension."

Rommel paused and looked into the flames. "If, on the other hand, I chose to fight my case in the People's Court, and if I was convicted of treason, I would be hanged and my wife and son would be left to deal with the horrible aftermath on their own, totally unprotected and alone against the Reich."

Except for the crackling fire, the room was silent.

Rommel returned his gaze to Donovan. "On that morning, Mr. Donovan, my house was surrounded by Gestapo agents. If I had tried to run, I would have been shot down and my guilt proved to a certainty. I could have gone to the führer—my wife pleaded with me to do that—or I could have taken my chances with the People's Court, but once committed to either of those paths, Hitler's offer of safety and security for Lucie and Manfred would have been withdrawn.

"I simply could not take the chance that Lucie and Manfred might be harmed. I could not." Rommel paused and looked out through the window at the darkness.

"Burghdorf told me he would meet me outside in ten minutes and left the room. I called Lucie in and told her what had happened. Of course, she was devastated, but she knew, as I did, that there was no other course of action open. I dressed and went downstairs. Burghdorf and Maisel were waiting for me. I gave Lucie a kiss and hug good-bye, told Manfred that I was going to Berlin to talk with the führer about a new assignment, shook his hand, and left the house.

"Burghdorf and I got in the back seat of a staff car. Maisel and the driver were in the front. We pulled out of the driveway and drove down the road about half a kilometer, then stopped. Maisel and the driver got out and walked away. Burghdorf reached in his coat pocket and pulled out a pill. He said it was very quick and that I would be dead within a few seconds. He put the pill in my hand..." Rommel looked back from the window to Donovan.

"From that moment until I woke up in the back bedroom of a house in Trieste, I remember nothing." Rommel paused, searching his mind. "I had a dream, I think, some images I can recall but nothing else." He shook his head. "I was sick, weak, and disoriented when I woke up, but I was alive."

"You said you had a dream. Can you remember anything about it?" Morton asked.

"As I said, images mostly, nothing more. I dreamt that I was floating in some great dark vastness and all around me were bright spinning lights going on and off, like a glass or mirror glinting in the sun. I watched them, transfixed, couldn't take my eyes off them as they blinked. Then there was nothing."

Donovan sat back in his chair, his fingers again stroking the fabric of the armrests. He managed a smile. "It's a remarkable story, I must say. Truly remarkable, Herr Field Marshal. Perhaps we can talk about it more later. For now, though, I'm more interested in your state of mind and your overall health. How has your treatment been since you arrived here in England?"

Rommel waved at his surroundings and shrugged. "Far better than I ever had in Africa, Mr. Donovan. When we were attempting to take Tobruk, I lived in my staff car for eleven straight days. The food here takes a little getting used to, but I have no complaints about my treatment."

Rommel smiled for the first time since the interview began, "Remember, Mr. Donovan, I'm supposed to be dead. If this is hell, I must tell you that I had very different expectations."

"How do you feel physically?"

Rommel shifted in his chair. "Do you mind if I get a glass of water?

"Anyone else want something?" Meyer asked. "The coffee is a couple hours old; should be just about right." He grinned at the joke.

"Thanks, Colonel, coffee would be marvelous," Donovan replied.

Morton nodded. "Thanks, I'll have some as well."

Meyer returned with the drinks. Rommel drained the glass, set it down next to him and continued. "I've been unusually thirsty, Mr. Donovan. I don't know why. Your doctors examined me quite thoroughly, I assure you, and although I haven't been privy to their findings, I told them as I am telling you now that I feel quite well. Better than I have in many months.

"After the attack on my staff car, I was in bad shape—skull fracture and other contusions and abrasions..." Rommel suddenly stopped speaking as if he'd thought of something important, something that would be forgotten if he didn't get it out right away.

"Did the pilot who shot up my car and killed my driver get a medal?" There was bittersweet tone to the question.

Donovan turned to Morton with raised eyebrows.

"I'm afraid there are competing claims regarding the attack, Herr Field Marshal," Morton said. "Of course, our RAF pilots are quite sure they are responsible for your incapacitation. The Americans are also taking credit, and I believe a Czech pilot who was operating that day out of a forward base near Calais is making a claim. As far as I know there has been no final disposition nor any award made, although I must say the man who could say he killed the Desert Fox would certainly have something to tell his grandchildren."

Rommel nodded. "Well gentlemen, far be it from me to interfere with the official investigatory processes and conclusions of the RAF and American air force, but for what it's worth, I happen to have an eyewitness account which may be useful in resolving the matter."

Everyone chuckled at this. Curious, thought Donovan, I was led to believe Rommel didn't have any sense of humor. This man was absolutely droll.

"The fighter that attacked my car," Rommel continued, "was an American P-forty-seven. Red-and-black-checkered tail and engine cowling. I had a chance to study it quite closely as I was emptying my pistol at it. I'm sorry to tell you, Major Morton, that I've been strafed on many occasions by your RAF in Africa. This was definitely not a Hurricane or Spitfire."

"Duly noted, Herr Field Marshal. I'll make sure your observation is taken into account. However, it may be some time before I can notify the authorities, since for now we're keeping your presence here under wraps."

Donovan changed the subject. "Herr Field Marshal, I must ask a question you may want to take some time with. I know you are a loyal soldier and not a traitor to your country, but you must know that things are not going well at the moment for the Reich. We are making significant forward progress in France and your eastern front is rapidly moving in the wrong direction—that is, back towards Berlin. The very fact that Wermacht officers made an attempt on Hitler's life last July, a conspiracy you may or may not have been part of, tells us even within your own military, there is dissension and distrust with Hitler's continuing prosecution of the war. Would you care to share your thoughts with us on that topic?"

Rommel's eyes closed as he searched his mind for an answer. He was in a difficult position—a loyal soldier but also a patriot. At first the führer's strength and determination had pulled Germany from the depths of a postwar national malaise. The economy strengthened and German citizens again had a sense of purpose and identity. But now, he was convinced Hitler was mentally incompetent to conduct the affairs of state. And, of course, there was the matter of Hitler's direct order to murder him and the implicit threat to his family.

Rommel said, "I no longer have any allegiance to Hitler. He tried to murder me and he threatened my family. My duty is to the German people, who are suffering as Hitler and his Nazi stooges carry on a war that cannot be won. If he's allowed to continue on this course, the German nation will fall to utter ruin. And he _will_ continue on, I assure you, Mr. Donovan, despite the protestations of his military officers. Most of them do not believe in their hearts the war is winnable. Still, they hold on, hoping their führer will pull a miracle rabbit out of his hat as he has so many times in the past."

Rommel shrugged and sighed. "However, this is all academic, Mr. Donovan, is it not, since I'm clearly no longer able to do anything about it."

Donovan stood and turned to Morton. "Major, I think we should go and let the field marshal get some sleep, something I need as well."

Morton nodded and left the room.

"Herr Field Marshal, we're going to leave and let you get some rest. I'm also tired— it's been a long day. Perhaps we can talk again tomorrow?"

Rommel smiled. "I'm afraid I don't have much choice in the matter, Mr. Donovan. I too have enjoyed our chat and if you wish to continue tomorrow that's fine with me."

"Thank you Herr Rommel, and goodnight." Donovan walked down the hallway to get his coat. Morton was waiting for him.

"Let's talk in the car," Donovan said.

Morton opened the door. The Bentley was idling in the driveway.

# Chapter 18

### LONDON, ENGLAND

Donovan, Morton, and Churchill were eating breakfast together in the prime minister's private dining room. Donovan had slept fitfully after his second meeting with Rommel and was on his fourth cup of coffee since arriving at Whitehall.

Churchill dropped two lumps of sugar into his tea and began stirring. "So, William, I'm very interested in hearing your impressions. What did you think of our guest?"

"In a word, Prime Minister, I was stunned. And after speaking to him, I must tell you my impression is he's the real thing or one of the most elaborately conceived and executed hoaxes ever."

The prime minister nodded. "Yes, I agree William. I have not met nor talked to him myself but I did look at the interrogation films and the level of detail this man has concerning Rommel's life and his various battles, particularly those in Africa, is uncanny. If he's not Rommel, he's spent a great deal of time studying the man because he has his part and his lines down so well he could easily function as Rommel's double. We're sure Rommel used one. Hitler too. It's interesting, though, because the man we believe is Hitler's double rarely talks; he's more of a body double, rides around in a car and walks here and there out in public."

"I gave William the files we've put together since Rommel came into our care," Morton said. "I know there's a great deal of material there, Bill, but did you find anything in them that gives you a feeling one way or the other about whether this man is the genuine article?"

Donovan put his coffee cup on a saucer. "I spent several hours going over those files and like you, Prime Minister, I watched a reel or two of the film before my eyes gave out and I went to bed. Sir, I know you have top men conducting these interviews, and I'm impressed, like you, by his level of detail, but more than that by the absolute conviction this man shows in his answers. The file I found most intriguing was the one by Doctors Helprin and Rule concerning how it might be possible Rommel could be alive."

"Yes, that is fascinating, William," the prime minister said. "Very intriguing the idea that the field marshal was placed in a state of...what was it called?"

"Suspended animation," Donovan replied.

"Yes, suspended animation," the PM continued. "A state where the body functions are scaled back to a point where even to a trained observer it would be almost impossible to tell that a man was alive. Respiration and heartbeat only once or twice every few minutes, nearly undetectable. Almost like a state of hibernation."

Morton reached into his valise and pulled out the folder they were referring to. He thumbed through the pages, then stopped and began reading. "Suspended animation or stasis, as it is also referred to, has been demonstrated on two or three recorded occasions by Tibetan priests. The documentation is not thorough and it's never been done in strictly controlled laboratory conditions, but several observers have witnessed the event.

"According to eyewitnesses, the subject was put to sleep with a mild sedative. The priest then whispers something, a mantra, if you will, in the sleeping man's ear. This process is repeated three times over three successive days. On the last day the process is identical to the first two, except before the subject goes to sleep, he is given a common object to hold in his hand, a coin or a small stone like a talisman or something akin to that. The witnesses have said that on the fourth day, the subject is handed only the object. There is no sedative administered. Within moments after the subject has the object in his hand, he goes into this state of suspended animation or stasis. The witnesses record that the subject is for all practical purposes dead to any outward appearance. No detectable pulse, no breath, and a lowered body temperature. Significantly, the subject remained in this state for as long as three days according to one account, and was brought out of it by the priest apparently with a simple whispered word to the subject." Morton closed the folder.

"We know from talking to Rommel that during his stay in the hospital after he was attacked in Normandy, he was visited on several occasions by his friend Dr. Kurt Hesse. We've done some research on Hesse and found that he worked on several Nazi programs to explore the paranormal, since Hitler is evidently a nut on the subject. Himmler was in charge of most of this stuff, and men like Hesse were sent all over the world to explore unexplained phenomena and legends. It's possible that Hesse learned the technique while he was on one of these missions and used it to save Rommel's life. They've been longtime friends and I've little doubt Hesse would have made the attempt if he believed Rommel was in danger."

Churchill was shaking his head in wonder.

Donovan sighed and said, "Or Rommel is dead and this man is a clever double sent here to give us false and misleading information."

"To what purpose?" Churchill asked. "Hitler's generals know the war in Europe is lost. We could dismiss this man as a plant and go on with our business and end the war on our terms, hopefully sooner rather than later, except we now have a pretty good idea Herr Hitler has an atomic weapon which could turn things around very quickly if he's allowed to use it. As William has pointed out, any plan to retrieve the weapon and use it for our own purposes depends in large measure on our ability to send a team to Kiel with a German officer of unquestioned authority and command presence. His job would be to convince the authorities the team is legitimate and has the prerogative to assume control. We might be able to destroy the weapon but we couldn't be certain, and I think we've all concluded the best option is to send this team in to recover it. Of course, what we don't know is whether Rommel would go along with it."

"Prime Minister, I agree," Donovan said. "As I see it, we should send in the team with Rommel as our figurehead commander. Frankly, sir, if we don't have Rommel, we don't have a viable plan. I believe he's genuine, and I believe he will help us. If he refuses, we may have to coerce him, but I would not favor that approach unless we have to. He would view that as a threat of harm to his family no less grievous than Hitler's. In any case, we don't have much time. I choose to think Rommel's presence here is a gift of providence and we should take the greatest possible advantage of it."

Churchill backed his chair from the table and stood. Morton and Donovan came to their feet as well, waiting for the PM's decision. "Gentlemen, go find out if the Desert Fox will help us."

"Yes, Prime Minister," Donovan and Morton said, almost as one voice.

### * * *

Rommel stood at the kitchen window of Building 451 rubbing his hands together and staring out at the rain. Morton and Donovan sat nearby at a round wooden breakfast table.

"Your plan will certainly fail without me, and it may well fail in any case," Rommel said. He turned from the window and looked at the visitors. "Getting into the sub base and aboard the vessel will be difficult. If what you say is true, everything will be heavily guarded and security will be ironclad. It would be simpler to find a vantage point to watch the base and when you're sure the fuel is there, call in an airstrike and obliterate everything."

Donovan sipped his coffee. "Herr Field Marshal, we could try that, of course, but we'd never be entirely certain of having destroyed the weapon.

"But there's a more important reason not to take that course. America is fighting a determined and extremely tough enemy in the Pacific. The Japanese will not surrender under any circumstances. Their training and samurai warrior ethos make it clear they will sacrifice themselves in battle to the last soldier and probably to the last civilian to defend their island. Invading Japan may cost a million American lives and the president, if given an option, will not permit that. A functioning atomic weapon gives the president an option."

Donovan met Rommel's gaze. "We need that fuel, Herr Field Marshal. Getting it off the sub and into our arsenal is worth the risk, and with or without you we will go ahead with this plan. As I see it, you have a chance to finally end the suffering of the German people and that of millions of others all over the world. A once-in-a-lifetime opportunity, sir, if ever there was one."

The irony of Donovan's statement was not lost on Erwin Rommel. He could not escape the feeling he'd been brought back to life for exactly this purpose. How would Germany remember him? As a hero and the man who helped stop the ultimate madness, or as a traitor? It was true he felt nothing any longer for Hitler. Hitler was insane. But what of the German people? What was his duty to them? "I'm going to need some time, Mr. Donovan. There is much to consider," Rommel said.

"I'm sorry, Herr Rommel, but there isn't any more time. The Japanese sub will be in the Baltic in a matter of weeks, and we'll need all of that to get the team in place. You must tell me now if you agree to help us."

Rommel glanced at Morton then returned his gaze to Donovan. A clock chimed softly in an outer room.

Rommel said, "We'll need to get to Admiral Canaris or someone on his senior staff, Herr Donovan. Without his help, we'll never get aboard the U-two-thirty-four."

# Chapter 19

### LONDON, ENGLAND

At Selfridges, Major Wilkerson and Sammy Watson had just changed the Sigsaly disc for the third time. In the prime minister's secure phone room, Bill Donovan was listening to the president.

"Bill, let me see if I have this straight. You want to put a German field marshal in charge of an operation that will determine if the free world is going to survive this war?" There was no mistaking the incredulous tone in President Roosevelt's voice even over three thousand miles of undersea cable.

"Mr. President, Rommel will not be in charge of the operation. I will lead the team. Rommel is simply a figurehead of command authority and respect the Germans will understand and obey. In my opinion, sir, Rommel gives the operation an edge it would never otherwise have. Also, Mr. President, I've discussed this matter in detail with the prime minister. He agrees with me that at least with Rommel we have a one in ten chance of pulling this off. Without him, our chances of success are nil."

Churchill was listening to the conversation on a separate receiver, "Yes, Franklin, I do agree with William. I think it's essential we include Rommel in our plan."

"Winston, he could be a plant and turn on the team at any time. If that happened we'd be in a fix and there would literally be hell to pay. Look, if he has you convinced he's Rommel when the rest of the world believes Rommel is dead, that's a problem, don't you see? What I mean is, if he looks like Rommel, won't the Germans recognize him? Then where is your command presence? No one will believe it. If I were the commander in Kiel and Erwin Rommel suddenly walked through my front door, I'd set off the alarm bells without even thinking about it."

"Mr. President," Donovan interjected, "we'll alter Rommel's appearance. No one will know it's him but us. The command presence is what we're after, not the man. Mr. Churchill's advisors have assured me that no one will recognize him. For all practical purposes, he will simply be a Luftwaffe general officer who's been assigned by Hitler to command the deployment mission."

"And when the base commander at Kiel asks Rommel for his orders, how will that be done?"

"Mr. President, Rommel will get legitimate orders issued from the Abwher countersigned by Hitler himself. The orders will be authentic. Admiral Canaris, the Abwher commander, is sympathetic to getting rid of Hitler. He can arrange the proper documents."

The President sounded skeptical. "That's going to be extremely difficult, Bill. Canaris is under house arrest at the moment."

"Yes, sir, we know that. I hope we can get to Canaris through Dietrich Bonhoffer. He's a friend of Nate Sarsfield and the only person allowed to visit the admiral. Also, sir, everyone on Canaris's staff is handpicked and sympathetic to the idea the führer must be overthrown. If Canaris gives them the word to work with us, we should have authentic documents within a few hours."

There was silence on the American end of the line. Donovan knew the president was turning this strange scenario over in his mind. Churchill had not told him before about Rommel while waiting for word from his staff that the man was authentic. The news had understandably come to the president as a shock. Donovan checked the control console. A glowing green light told him the line was still open and functioning properly.

"I don't know Bill." The president's voice finally came through the receiver. "Honestly, it sounds like a setup to me. I can't imagine why they would go to such lengths, but something about this just doesn't feel right."

"Sir, the Japanese sub is due on station at the end of February. We'll need to act quickly to see Canaris and get in position to board the U-two-thirty-four. Also, Mr. President, if this thing does go south, I'll transmit the signal for an airstrike. I have assurances from the Eighth Air Force and the RAF that nothing will remain of the Kiel boatyard but scrap iron and dust." Donovan released the transmit button and waited.

"Which means you may not have a chance to get clear, Bill. You and your team will very likely be part of that dust cloud."

"Yes, Mr. President," was all Donovan said in reply.

Donovan watched the second hand on Churchill's wall clock click the seconds away.

"Bill, you're on the ground there and I'm not going to second-guess you. If you and the prime minister believe this can be done, I believe it. Have you had a chance to talk to your family in the last couple of days?"

"Yes, sir. I spoke to my brother yesterday for a few minutes from the hotel. He says the boys are fine."

"Good. Please let me know if there is anything I can do for you or your family while you are away. And Bill, you better get on with it then. God speed, my friend, and good luck."

"Thank you Mr. President. There is one thing. Pan Am has a navigator on its European Clipper run, name's Charlie Lunn. I'd like him as part of my team, if you can possibly arrange it."

"Where shall he meet you?"

Donovan gave him the phone number for Leftenant Granger. "Ask him to call this number, Mr. President, I'll make all the arrangements on this end."

"Tell the leftenant to expect a phone call from him in the next couple of hours."

"Thank you, Mr. President. I'll contact you again when I'm able."

### * * *

The president replaced the receiver and began to massage his temples. The headaches were becoming more frequent now. Rolling his wheelchair away from the desk, he stopped in front of the window to the Oval Office, looking out to the White House's south lawn. Snow flurries obscured his view of the Washington Monument. His gaze, however, went far beyond that. He had just set in motion the most secret and dangerous mission in history, pinning his hopes and the hopes of the entire free world on a handful of trusted Americans and a possibly bogus German field marshal. He prayed silently for a moment, then rolled back to his desk and picked up the line to his secretary.

"Margaret, will you please get Mr. Trippe at Pan Am on the phone for me?"

# Chapter 20

### FRANKFURT, GERMANY

Otto Gruber rubbed his eyes and stared ahead through the windshield into the early morning gloom. Four motorcycles driven by heavily armed Wermacht soldiers flanked the staff car he was driving. Dawn was breaking over the eastern horizon and Gruber could make out the beginnings of a light industrial area on the south edge of Frankfurt. Nondescript warehouses and small manufacturing buildings mostly, interspersed with taverns and dingy restaurants that serviced the workers. The bombings had left this part of the city relatively unscathed. Allied aircraft, however, pummelled rail yards in the western part of the city almost daily.

In his rearview mirror, Gruber could see the first of eight large military trucks in their caravan. Four of the trucks contained a platoon each of soldiers. The others carried technicians, mine casings, and the machinery needed to form the atomic weapons' nuclear cores. The entire convoy had been running with masked headlights throughout the night, slowing their progress somewhat as they continued cautiously along the narrow two-lane roads selected for the journey. Gruber could also see his rear seat passengers, Dr. Otto Fritsch and Colonel Veltheim. Both men had been alert throughout most of the trip, but now the signs of fatigue were showing. Fritsch was leaning against the side window dozing, and Veltheim's head was resting against the rear cushion of the seat, hat off and his coat unbuttoned.

Gruber returned his attention to the road and the narrow strips of headlights pointing forward around the rear wheels of the first set of motorcycles. The trip had gone flawlessly so far, and the underground parking garage that would serve as their rest stop until evening was only a few kilometers ahead.

Gruber shifted in the driver's seat. His butt was sore and the money belt he wore containing the final set of wire reel recordings dug into his hip. Today, at least, he would be rid of that inconvenience. He'd need to move carefully to accomplish the drop, but his presence would not be missed for the few minutes he needed. After that, the recordings would be on their way by courier to Moscow.

These recordings were critical. When they were decoded Stalin would have the final coordinates for the unexpected surfacing the U-two-thirty-four would have to make on its way to England. Once the crippled sub was on the surface, with his help from the inside, it should be an easy matter for the waiting Russian commando boarding party to take over the sub and its cargo.

The escorts veered left off the main highway and down a narrow side street. Gruber followed and doused the headlights. The sky was getting noticeably lighter. Smoke from factories—or was it bombs—drifted over a city just now waking to another day of war. The motorcycles sped up. Gruber watched their taillights grow smaller and then he saw brake lights, first two then two more, blossom about a half kilometer ahead.

Gruber slid back the plexiglass dividing the staff car's driver and passenger compartments. "Colonel," he said, "we're approaching the rest area."

Behind him Gruber could see Veltheim's head jerk off the seat cushion. For a moment the colonel searched for a sense of place and time. He stared ahead, then reached through the partition and tapped Gruber on the shoulder. "Are we there?"

"Nearly, Colonel. It's just ahead, where you can see the taillights."

Veltheim foraged for his cap and found it on the seat next to him. He placed it on his head, buttoned his coat, and shook Fritsch. "Doctor, wake up, we're at the rest area."

Fritsch had been fast asleep, dreaming about a fishing expedition he'd been on as a young boy with his father. The stream was clear and he could see the fish swimming near a large rock where the water pooled. His line had a silver spinner lure with two red-jeweled eyes in it.

His father was smiling and motioning for him to cast his lure into the pool. Pant legs rolled to his knees, he waded carefully into the stream to get closer. He felt the cold water swirl around his legs as his toes searched for solid contact on the slippery rocks. Then he cast his line. He felt the fish strike almost at once. The line pulled taught as he set the hook. The rod bent and he reeled slowly at first then with increasing speed. He looked over at his father who had stopped smiling and was backing up, away from him.

He forgot about his father for a moment and continued to reel. His feet inched backward searching for the muddy bank. The fish was now splashing on the rocks in the shallows of the stream. Fritsch gave a final tug on the pole, then tripped and fell sprawling. The fish catapulted out of the water and landed near his head. Fritsch could hear it flopping beside him, a wet smacking sound. He turned to grab it. As his hand closed over the scaly body, Fritsch recoiled in horror. Staring back at him was the face of the führer. Hitler's head was on the fish's body. The face was sneering, then laughing. Its eyes bulged and grotesque black feelers whipped around its snout. The mouth opened and closed as the führer-fish wriggled closer to Fritsch's face. He tried to scream but no sound came.

"Fritsch, wake up, dammit."

The doctor gasped and came fully awake. His face was covered with perspiration, and he was shaking. "Where are we?" he whispered.

"We're at the rest area in Frankfurt, Doctor. Here, clean yourself up." Veltheim took a handkerchief from his coat pocket and handed it over. Fritsch mopped his brow and tried to slow his rapid breathing.

"Bad dream, Doctor?"

"A nightmare," Fritsch replied, handing back the handkerchief. Veltheim looked at it, his face curling in disgust.

"Keep it."

Gruber pulled into a large concrete structure through a main entrance that led to its lower levels. A sign above the entrance read "Westergaard Parkplatz." He followed the directions of a series of sentries who motioned him forward and down the incline to the bottom level. A final sentry waved him to a parking spot. Gruber pulled in and turned off the ignition. The sounds and smoke of diesel engines filled the space as the convoy pulled in behind him and parked. Soldiers jumped from their trucks and took up security positions near the entrance.

"Now what?" Fritsch asked.

"The Westergaard Manufacturing offices are across the street. Inside are toilets, a few showers, and sleeping cots. The entire facility is ours until we leave. I recommend you get a shower and some rest. I'm going to do the same. We pull out of here promptly at nineteen hundred."

Gruber had the car's trunk open. He set three small suitcases out and closed the lid.

"Gruber, see to the refueling of all the vehicles first. Then come next door, clean up, and get some rest."

He saluted the colonel and then walked away to see to the refueling. Each man in the convoy had a special orange patch on his right shoulder to identify him as a member of the convoy team. Anyone without a patch seen inside the structure or the office next door would be immediately arrested.

Veltheim and Fritsch picked up their suitcases and walked out of the Parkplatz and into the Westergaard offices. Gruber watched them go, then made a show of pulling up his trousers. The money belt was secure.

After the last of the vehicles had been refueled, he retrieved his own suitcase and headed across the street. Walking through the front door, he nodded to a sentry, who examined his patch and then motioned him in.

"Showers and sleeping rooms are on the second floor. There is hot soup in the hallway on a trolley," the sentry said.

Gruber nodded and headed up the stairwell. The office was lit only by early morning light coming through dirty windows, and it was eerily deserted except for the convoy crew officers he could hear in the shower room.

Gruber did not stop at the second floor but continued up the stairs to the third. He thought his best opportunity would be to make the drop while the exhausted Veltheim and Fritsch, together with the troop platoon leaders, were showering and longing for a little sleep. He turned left when he reached the landing and hurried down the corridor until he saw the office door marked "Herr Markensen, Manager of Material _._ " Gruber lifted his shirt, unstrapped the money belt, and then paused with it in his left hand. He reached out with his right and tried the doorknob. It was locked. Below the frosted glass with Markensen's name on it was a mail slot. Gruber tried to push the belt through. The slot was too narrow. He heard footsteps and muffled conversation from below. Looking above the door he noticed an open transom window. The belt would make a sound as it hit the floor on the other side, but he had no choice. He hefted the belt, tossed it through, and winced as it hit the floor with a clunk. He retraced his steps down the hall and the stairwell. As the Russian agent rounded the corner toward the sound of the showers, Veltheim stood in his path looking at him curiously.

"What the hell were you doing up there?"

"Sorry, Colonel, I was so tired from the drive that I just kept on going up the stairs without thinking. One foot in front of the other, you know."

Veltheim looked at Gruber with a mask of disapproval. "Wandering around can get you shot. Why is your shirttail out? You look like shit. Go get cleaned up."

"Yes, Colonel. Right away." Gruber saluted and began stuffing his shirttail back into his pants.

Veltheim watched him retreat down the hallway, then he glanced up the stairwell to the third floor. "Idiot," he murmured to himself as he went to find a telephone.

### * * *

The telephone next to Hitler's bed made a soft buzzing noise. "Colonel Veltheim on the line, mein Führer," said his personal valet.

"Put him through."

"Mein Führer, we arrived at the rest area. All is well." Veltheim's voice sounded distant and tired.

Hitler swept a shock of black hair back from his forehead. "Fine, Colonel. Let me know when you're ready to depart." He clicked off.

There was a knock at the door. "Enter," Hitler said.

The door opened and his valet came in carrying a silver tray with fresh flowers in a crystal vase, a pot of steaming coffee, and a plate piled high with Hitler's favorite dark bread.

"Good morning," he said, placing the tray on a table. Buehl moved to the window and pulled back the red satin drapes. Weak winter sunlight trickled into the room. Hitler, dressed in black pajamas and slippers, allowed the valet to settle him in a chair.

"Will there be anything else, mein Führer?"

"No. Nothing else at the moment."

Buehl placed a newspaper on the table beside the tray and left the room.

Hitler poured himself coffee and stirred in cream and a single lump of sugar. He sat back, leaving the bread and newspaper untouched. He'd slept very little during the night, and it showed on his face. He'd been struggling with a decision, and the coffee seemed to catalyze his thoughts.

"I'll go to Kiel myself and see to this. It's too important to leave in the hands of anyone else," he said to himself. "Yes, I'll go myself and make sure it's handled properly. There's no other way to be sure." He put the coffee cup down and walked to the phone.

"Ask Dr. Kalter to come in and bring me my vitamin shot." He sat on the bed, head on his chest, and waited. It was at least a relief to have finally made the decision to go to Kiel and see the atomic weapons project through himself. Thinking back on it now, he wondered why he had pondered about it so long.

There was a knock.

"Enter."

Dr. Hans Kalter came in and shut the door. Hitler looked up. Kalter was wearing his customary three-piece blue suit with dark tie and keychain at the waist. An immaculately trimmed salt-and-pepper beard counterbalanced his bald head. Gold wire-rim spectacles outlined alert blue eyes.

"Good morning, mein Führer. How are you feeling today?" Kalter placed a black physician's bag on the bed next to Hitler and opened it.

"I'm tired, Doctor, as usual. I'm wondering if my vitamin dose should be increased to compensate."

Kalter withdrew a syringe from the bag and began filling it from a small bottle. "Perhaps," he said, tapping the syringe. "Do you have anything special or out of the ordinary planned for the next few days?" He stood looking down at Hitler.

"Yes, I do have a special project I need to attend to very soon and I'll need my energy at a high level to take care of everything."

Kalter pushed the needle back through the bottle's rubber membrane. "In that case, I'm going to give you an additional two cc's." The shot consisted of a mix of real vitamins and a powerful amphetamine. Kalter had adjusted the mixture several times to keep up with the führer's increasing dependence on it for strength and energy. The problem was that once the effects wore off, the führer sank back even farther into fatigue and peevishness—like the proverbial sandhill where one took a step up but slid back two.

Kalter picked up Hitler's right arm, tapped a vein, and slipped the needle under the skin. In moments, Hitler's color improved from ashen to flush. His eyes flickered as he rolled his sleeve back down. "That feels much better, Doctor. Thank you."

"Of course," Kalter said. "But please, get as much rest as you can in the coming days. The vitamins only have a limited effect. Sleep, good food, and sex are the keys to vitality."

Hitler stood rubbing his arm. "The key to vitality, my dear doctor, is victory, and I'll rest when that is assured for the Reich. In the meantime, I'm counting on you."

Kalter placed the syringe and vitamin bottle in his case and snapped it shut. "Of course, mein Führer," he said with a slight bow.

Hitler watched Kalter leave and when the door closed, he picked up the telephone.

"Tell Himmler I want to see him tomorrow morning at ten a.m. Tell him to be prompt. I have a special travel arrangement I want him to coordinate." Hitler replaced the receiver and headed toward the bathroom. Right now he felt wonderful. A hot shower and shave would make it perfect.

# Chapter 21

### LONDON, ENGLAND

A moonless night and dense fog made navigation tricky, but the crew of US Navy airship Z-102, the _Shenandoah,_ were focused. They'd patrolled for German U-boats many times in this kind of weather. The airship was outfitted with electric motors and ran almost silently over the murky black water just twenty feet below the ship's gondola. Tonight, however, the crew was not hunting subs, it was delivering three special passengers across the English Channel to a landing area just offshore of the Pas de Calais.

### * * *

The _Shenandoah_ 's captain, copilot, and crew chief were standing at attention as the staff car approached the zeppelin's mooring mast. They turned and looked at one another with expressions of disbelief when three uniformed German officers climbed out of the backseat and walked toward them. The crew chief started for his sidearm but a voice called out.

"Easy gentlemen, easy." It was the car's front seat passenger, Major Morton. "I'm sorry we didn't warn you in advance about what to expect, but these men work for Mr. Churchill, and he asked that we keep their presence here under the tightest secrecy.

"I would introduce them," Morton continued, "but I'm afraid there's no time for pleasantries." Morton looked steadily at the _Shenandoah_ 's pilot, who stood, mouth open, still staring at the trio of German uniforms. "Leftenant, I was assured that you and your crew had been thoroughly briefed on this mission and the need for absolute secrecy."

Leftenant Alvin Brandt heard Morton, but his response circuitry was shorting out. The first guy, a Luftwaffe general officer—and a high-ranking one at that—looked a hell of a lot like Humphrey Bogart. The taller one, the colonel, looked like a silver-haired Gregory Peck just off the set of _High Noon_ , and the third guy, well, thought Brandt, I'll be damned if he doesn't look a little like Harry Houdini. The crew chief was tugging his elbow. "Al, come in, Al!"

Brandt's brain reengaged. "Yes, yes, of course, sir. Thoroughly briefed, sir. I'm sorry. I was just a bit startled."

Morton nodded. "Fine, Leftenant, carry on then, and please do not be offended if these men don't speak to you or the crew during the flight. PM's orders."

Brandt motioned to a set of small wooden stairs leading up to the gondola's entry hatch. "Gentlemen, if you'll please board and take seats in the rear of the cabin, we'll get underway."

Once everyone was aboard, a ground crew member pulled the release lever on the mooring mast and the zeppelin floated gently upward. Moments later, the engines hummed to life. Brandt turned the ship, the size of a whale, on a southeasterly heading. Morton watched until the _Shenandoah_ disappeared into the fog with its mysterious passengers.

### * * *

At 0330 hours, Brandt brought the _Shenandoah_ to a hover only a few feet above the water about a mile offshore of the Pas de Calais. If anything, the fog here was thicker than it had been when they departed, and there was no wind. The channel was having a rare moment of winter calm, Brandt thought, but that could change any minute. It was important to disembark these Krauts quickly.

Brandt nodded to the crew chief who quickly opened the hatch and lowered a heavy black vinyl object to the water with a rope. He watched as the raft inflated, activated by its saltwater triggering mechanism. He pulled the rope taut to keep it from drifting away and then threw out a short rope ladder. He looked at the zeppelin's passengers and motioned them forward. Donovan picked up a black duffle and stepped to the hatchway. He dropped the bag into the raft and climbed down, followed by Rommel and Charlie Lunn. Once they were seated, the crew chief lowered two paddles, pulled in the ladder and closed the hatch.

Water lapped softly at the sides of the raft. Donovan thought he could hear muffled explosions. The three of them looked up and watched the _Shenandoah_ slip silently away into the mist. Lunn turned the raft toward the sound of surf stroking the French coastline and began to paddle.

Several minutes later, Lunn swung his legs over the edge of the raft and stepped into shallow water just off the beach. He pulled the boat up on the sand. Donovan retrieved the duffle, threw it over his shoulder and stepped out. Rommel was close behind. Mist swirled around them. The wind was picking up.

Donovan put his face close to Rommel's. "Welcome back to France, Herr Field Marshal," he said in a whisper.

Rommel turned to the western horizon where he could see flashes of artillery. The action was close, and he was back in the middle of it in a role he would never have imagined in his wildest dreams. He adjusted his cap and pulled his greatcoat closed at the collar. It was cold.

"There may be patrols on this stretch of beach, with dogs. We don't want to be discovered out here. I recommend we move towards the airfield as quickly and quietly as possible, Colonel."

Donovan knew Rommel was right, and he appreciated the fact that the "general" was already addressing his "subordinates" properly. Rommel was in character, and he wanted him to stay that way. He pulled a compass from his coat pocket, studied the illuminated dial and closed it with a snap.

"This way, Herr General." Donovan headed inland with Rommel and Lunn close behind.

Donovan was alert but thoughtful as they began the three-mile trek to the Luftwaffe's forward operating base number 07. The Reich had used it as a launching area for its V1 "buzz bomb" weapons against London. Rommel thought there was a chance a small garrison might still be in place. If so, they could perhaps commandeer a car to begin their long journey to Berlin.

Rommel didn't look like himself anymore, but the changes were subtle. A trusted makeup artist at the London Theatre accomplished most of alterations. A simple eye patch to cover his still-drooping left eyelid, a waterproof cosmetic to cover the scars—more like paint, really—and a toupee that looked so natural, Donovan couldn't believe it wasn't real. What counted, however, was that Rommel was still the Desert Fox. He'd seemed listless and bored at Mildenhall, but once he'd agreed to undertake the mission, his entire demeanor changed. His contributions to the planning and operational contingencies of getting the team into Germany and onto the sub were bold. Rommel knew the assignment was dangerous, but he seemed to relish it.

It was no wonder Rommel had beaten the socks off the British and the Americans for months in North Africa despite being desperately short of supplies and equipment. Donovan was quite certain now that D-day would have turned out very differently if Rommel had been given complete operational authority in Normandy.

Charlie Lunn arrived in London the day after his telephone call from the president and agreed to participate without hesitation. The man had a sense of adventure and a determination to make his mark on the war beyond that of simply ferrying refugees out of neutral Portugal. Donovan cast him in the role of Rommel's driver. He didn't speak German, but Rommel assured him that drivers of command staff cars were rarely spoken to in any case. Still, Donovan would have to be careful Lunn wasn't left alone to fend for himself for any significant length of time. He told Charlie he'd translate everything for him in English when the situation permitted itself.

As for himself, being a Luftwaffe general's aide would put him beside Rommel every moment. No one would question the close working relationship, and as a colonel he could take care of himself in almost any situation. He'd been a soldier and he knew soldier protocol. It was the same in every army in the world.

Donovan pulled out the compass and rechecked it. Then he glanced at his new watch, a Swiss model favored by German officers, according to Rommel. A dim light was breaking in the east, and they'd covered most of the distance to the airbase. Ahead he could see a fence and two concrete bunkers.

"The main entrance is on the south side," Rommel said. "But there's an entrance to the underground assembly and maintenance area just ahead. It was positioned outside the fence to give perimeter sentries a chance to get undercover quickly if the base was attacked by aircraft."

Donovan nodded and scanned the complex with binoculars. There was no movement, no personnel, no dogs, nothing he could see or hear that would indicate the base was occupied. Rommel reached the sentries' mousehole and threw back the cover. Donovan beamed a flashlight inside. A concrete shaft about two meters deep with metal rungs along one side led down into the earth. Donovan could see the shadow of a corridor slanting off toward the complex at the bottom.

"Let's go see what that fat pig Reichsmarshal Goering has left us," Rommel said. He climbed down the metal steps and moved slightly into the passageway. Lunn and Donovan followed. At the bottom, Donovan lit the tunnel for a few meters ahead with his flashlight. Lunn and Rommel switched on their lamps, and the three of them began to move forward. The ceiling was low. Water seeped through cracks in the walls, creating puddles on the concrete floor. The lamp beams reflected the glint of a pair of red eyes in the darkness ahead, then several more. Rats! Big ones too, Donovan thought, judging from the sound of their claws scuttling on the concrete.

He could feel the touch of air across his cheeks and sensed they were coming to a larger room, one with a ventilation duct. In a few moments they all came out into an open area. Stacks of crates and dozens of fifty-gallon drums covered the floor. There was an open door on the other side of the room. Donovan moved toward it and found a light switch on the wall. He clicked it up and down several times.

"The generator is out," Rommel said. "These are spare parts and lubricants. Let's move on. The V-one assembly area, generators, and fueling pumps are just ahead."

Making their way through the door, the trio emerged into an even larger room. Their lamps outlined large tables and sawhorses on which partially assembled V1 weapons lay like model airplanes for a giant's child. Along the walls were tools, vertical drills, bending presses, and lathes. "It looks like this place was abandoned quite a while ago," Donovan said in English. Lunn nodded.

"The people who ran this station launched these weapons and never gave a thought to the terror they caused," Rommel said. "They were never afraid because they lived and worked in relative safety. Unlike men on the battlefield, who face danger every moment, the Luftwaffe has many of these cave dwellers who run when the bombing starts. Yes, the pilots are brave and understand the risk, but most of the Luftwaffe are soft and spoiled, like Goering. The garrison here ran when the bombs started falling and they heard the news the Allies had come ashore." Contempt clouded Rommel's face.

"We need to find a vehicle. Is there a garage or parking area someplace?" Donovan asked.

"Lets find a way back up," Rommel said. "If there are any vehicles, and I doubt it since most of these cowards probably used them to escape, they would be under camouflage netting up top."

Rommel headed down another passage. At its end, a stairway led to the surface. They opened a heavy metal door at the top and walked out into the cold dawn, switching off their lamps. Camouflage netting littered the ground. A bombed-out truck, two small utility vehicles, and a scorched motorcycle lay overturned on the roadway leading into the complex. Bomb craters pockmarked the surrounding area.

Lunn stood, listening. "The artillery is getting closer. We're going to have to move soon."

Churchill had asked Donovan if he'd considered the idea that in a German uniform he might well be shot by the Allies (or hung as a spy by the Germans). Once they landed in France, Churchill had said, they were completely friendless. Nothing and no one could guarantee their safety. They would survive only by luck and their own wits. All of them accepted the risk, and now it was time do exactly what Churchill had suggested: gather all the shrewdness they could muster.

"I think I hear engines," Lunn said. Donovan listened. Yes, they were engines. Diesel engines. Troop transports in all likelihood—but whose?

Rommel took off running toward the main road. "Come back," Donovan shouted. He and Lunn sprinted after him. Rommel reached the highway and was standing in the middle of it, listening and waiting. Lunn and Donovan had almost reached him when a German half-track crested a ridge to the west and began careening toward them. Three troop transport trucks and a vehicle that looked like an American jeep were tucked in right behind it. Dust and snow trailed the small convoy as it dashed for daybreak and Erwin Rommel.

Rommel held his ground and raised both his hands above his head. The lead vehicle was only a few dozen meters from him when it began skidding sideways, then straightened and skidded back the other way, kicking up dust and dirt as its tracks chewed up the road. It came to a halt no more than a handshake from Rommel. The vehicles behind slammed on their brakes and slid to the side of the road in a heap.

Rommel walked to the lead vehicle and called out. The rear hatch opened. A frightened and puzzled Wermacht sergeant emerged.

"Where are you going in such a hurry, Sergeant?" Rommel asked. The tone was paternal, as if he'd just caught a small boy behind the barn smoking a cigarette.

The sergeant saluted. "Herr General, I am..." He hesitated for moment. "...repositioning these men to a better advantage."

Rommel nodded. "Well, Sergeant, I would think that..." He looked at the patch on the sergeant's shoulder, Twenty-First Panzer, SS. "...Colonel Vaughn would be incredibly impressed by your ingenuity and resourcefulness. Colonel Vaughn is your battalion commander, is he not?"

"Why, yes, he is Herr General," the sergeant stammered.

Rommel nodded. "However, sergeant, before I discuss the matter of your quick thinking with him, perhaps you may want to reconsider the location of your...repositioning. I think in your haste you may have passed a very good hilltop back the way you came." Rommel pointed back to the crest of the ridge. "It may give you and your men a better advantage than down here in this valley. I want you to leave your vehicle here with me while you go back with the trucks to find exactly the right spot. Do you understand, Sergeant?"

"Yes, Herr General, yes, of course," the sergeant sputtered. He saluted and ran back toward the first truck. Rommel saw him climb onto the running board and have a conversation with the driver. Moments later the truck turned around and headed back up the hill. The sergeant ran along behind it and motioned the other trucks to follow. After they had all begun to backtrack up the hill, the sergeant reached up and was helped into the bed of the rearmost truck by his comrades. He turned and stared back at Rommel, who was still standing in the road next to the idling half-track.

Lunn and Donovan ran up to Rommel, who turned to them with a smile on his face. "Either of you know how to drive a Hanomag?" Rommel asked. Lunn and Donovan looked at each other, then back at Rommel, and shook their heads. "Then I shall have to do the honors. Please follow me." Rommel climbed into the back of the vehicle followed by an astonished Donovan and Lunn and closed the door. The sergeant, who had by this time reached the top of the hill, watched in amazement as the vehicle he'd been riding in just moments earlier roared off into a rising sun.

"How did you know that convoy would be German?" Donovan screamed at Rommel over the din of clanking tracks and roar of the diesel engine. "It might have been an American motorized regiment. If it had been, we would be in custody now or dead."

The half-track lurched on the rutted road. Donovan and Lunn held on. Rommel, seated in the driver's position, hands on the track's steering levers, did not turn his eyes from the road.

"I practically lived in one of these in North Africa. I remember the sound of this vehicle as well as I remember my wife's voice."

Donovan shook his head and could not contain a small smile. Rommel had passed his first test. That poor sergeant's face said everything. By whatever unlucky circumstance, he'd run into a German general who might have put him in front of a firing squad for running away.

"We're a target in this vehicle for Allied fighters," Rommel continued. "We need to get rid of it."

Overhead, Harry McNeese watched the half-track leaving the rest of the convoy. He'd see to the troop trucks first and then deal with the track. He switched a toggle on his panel, arming the two five-hundred-pound bombs he carried on each wing. Then he pushed the P-47 over into a steep dive. As the sighting reticle on his canopy lined up with the trucks, his finger pressed the trigger. The fighter's fifty-caliber guns swept the ridgeline. Below, troops dived for whatever cover they could find. Streams of lead sawed trees in half and pulverized the German vehicles.

He pulled the bomb-release lever just as the screaming fighter reached its perigee. The Thunderbolt shuddered and then accelerated as the bombs fell away. Pulling up into a climbing left turn, McNeese turned and watched the bombs impact. He could almost sense the concussive force of the TNT as it erupted into fireballs, sending shrapnel, rocks, dirt, and lethal wood splinters from the trees whistling through the air. Smoke and dust obscured the target as he moved in for a final pass, but he didn't press the firing button. Nothing was moving. Two of the trucks were on fire and the other two were tipped on their sides. It was time to find the escaping vehicle.

McNeese glanced at his ship's fuel gauges—nearly empty. He wouldn't have the luxury of climbing to altitude and diving on his quarry as he would have liked. He would have to stay low and hope he could make his remaining fifty-caliber rounds count with a rear shot. The P-47 shrieked up the road, making three hundred miles per hour at treetop level. Although Harry could not know it, cattle and sheep grazing nearby fell over dead from fright as the aircraft passed overhead.

Rommel, Donovan, and Lunn could hear nothing inside the half-track. The noise level was deafening and made conversation impossible. Rommel knew he and his colleagues were living on borrowed time every second he stayed on this open road. He had little in the way of options. The road would eventually lead them safely behind German lines—that is, if the Allies hadn't already pushed them back beyond the endurance of the track's remaining fuel.

Without warning, multiple shafts of dusty light began to appear through the rear entry hatch and then overhead through the steel roof. Lunn had the wild thought he was inside some little boy's insect specimen box, and the boy was punching air holes in it with an ice pick.

The engine instruments in front of Rommel exploded, and the control lever for the left track disappeared. Rommel looked at what remained of the lever's grip in his hand and pulled hard on the right control. The vehicle turned sharply, throwing Donovan and Lunn against the sides. Lunn's head hit an interior support post and blood began gushing from the wound. Rommel saw a dip ahead and slammed on the brakes. The smoking vehicle shuddered to a halt, teetering precariously over the edge of a concrete drain culvert. He switched off the engine.

Lunn was moaning. Donovan picked up a dirty rag from the floor of the vehicle and pressed it against his wound. "Charlie, are you OK?"

"I think so, but I have a headache worse than my worst hangover. Ever."

"Hold this against the wound," Donovan said, putting the rag in Lunn's hand.

Donovan turned back to Rommel, who was still holding the grip of the control lever in his hand. "Are you all right?" he asked.

Rommel dropped the severed grip. It fell with a metallic clank onto the floor. "Yes, I'm all right. But we have to get out. That plane may be coming back." Donovan heard muffled German voices outside the vehicle and the sound of the rear hatch being opened. He reached inside his coat and fingered the grip of his Luger. Rommel put his hand on Donovan's arm and shook his head from side to side, restraining Donovan's defensive impulse.

The hatch opened. Outside a handful of Wermacht soldiers stood alternately scanning the sky and peering into the vehicle's smoky interior. Rommel walked to the doorway and jumped out. Salutes followed as each of the men recognized the insignia of a Luftwaffe lieutenant general.

Rommel wasted no time. He looked directly at the most senior man and said, "I have a wounded man inside who needs medical attention. I want to get him to an aid station. Do you have a vehicle nearby?"

Two of the men lifted Lunn out of the track and placed him on a stretcher. Donovan joined Rommel as he spoke to the sergeant in charge.

"Yes, Herr General, we have two trucks parked at the other end of this culvert hidden in the trees."

"Water?" Rommel asked. Three canteens were simultaneously produced from the group. Rommel took one, screwed off the cap, took a long drink, and handed it to Donovan. Donovan drank and handed it back to the soldier with thanks.

Lunn was sitting with his back next to a tree. A soldier was talking to him and applying a dressing to the wound.

"He's just had the shit scared out of him," Donovan said to the medic. "I doubt he'll have any voice for a while."

The soldier nodded and finished his work. "Thank you, Corporal," Donovan said, pulling Lunn upright. "That should do nicely until we can get him to a doctor."

Rommel was still speaking to the sergeant, who was standing stiffly at attention. "I must get to Berlin tonight. I have urgent business with Reichsmarshal Goering. Would you know of any air transport in the area?"

"Herr General, there is a small field about ten kilometers from here. It isn't used much anymore. The enemy have bombed and strafed it regularly over the past week, but after dark we light the runway for a few moments to land aircraft carrying field commanders. Perhaps there you could catch a flight." He didn't add that the pilot would no doubt be extremely amenable to granting a Luftwaffe general officer's request to hitch a ride.

Rommel turned to Donovan. "We'll have to wait until dark. When the transport arrives, we'll get on to Berlin or at least as far in that direction as we can."

Donovan picked up his role and came to attention. "Yes, Herr General," he said, snapping off a salute.

### * * *

Donovan checked his watch. Dusk had come early to northern France, and in half an hour it would be completely dark. Crippled aircraft littered the small airfield, having been caught on the ground during Allied strafing attacks. He and Rommel huddled inside a wooden outbuilding that had once been used to store ammunition and fuel. The sergeant was busy issuing orders to his soldiers to light the smudge pots. One by one, points of smoky light appeared on either side of the runway.

"Charlie, how are you feeling?"

"Still have a headache, but I'm OK otherwise." Lunn knew to keep all his conversations with Donovan short and to the point. Donovan gave him a pat on the shoulder. "We should be airborne soon. Hang in there."

Donovan peered out into the darkness. He could just make out the tree line at the south end of the runway. A cold wind forced its way into the shack. He pulled on a pair of gloves and turned to Rommel, who was sitting, arms wrapped around knees drawn to his chest, cap pulled low on his head.

The field marshal had performed brilliantly over the last twelve hours. From his own military experience Donovan knew subordinates never questioned a general officer. This had certainly worked to their advantage since coming ashore that morning. But with Rommel it was much more than that. Something about him commanded respect beyond mere rank. What was it? Donovan thought the men they'd met knew instinctively this general really cared about _them_. Rommel cast an aura of trust and camaraderie that could not be denied and could not be learned. Either you had it or you didn't. Even so, he knew things would get trickier as they moved deeper into the Reich. There would come a time when even Erwin Rommel's bluff was called.

Rommel picked up his head. Donovan had also heard it: the sound of aircraft engines.

Rommel had been thinking about who the field commander they would shortly meet might be. Who had been in this sector before? Someone under General Klindingst's control, probably. Klindingst wouldn't be here himself, but would more than likely send his chief of staff. Rommel sighed and turned to Donovan. "Get ready," he said. "The pilot will not want to linger here."

Donovan helped Lunn to his feet. All of them watched as a twin-engine Dornier transport swooped in just over the tree line. The pilot throttled the engines back and the aircraft settled to the ground. It taxied to within a few meters of the shack. The pilot gunned the starboard engine, shifted the rudder, and turned the aircraft back into the wind for takeoff.

Rommel, Donovan, and Lunn walked quickly to the Dornier's rear entry door. A soldier put a small footstep on the ground and stood back. A figure stepped out, followed by two more. Rommel could just make out the lead man. It was General Kimmel, Klindingst's chief of staff. Rommel came out of the darkness and moved directly in front of Kimmel, whom he'd met on several previous occasions.

"Good evening, General," Rommel said. "Good to see you again." Kimmel had a puzzled expression on his face, but his military bearing took over and he saluted.

Rommel returned the salute. "Ulrich Kessler," he said. "We met briefly in Berlin about ten months ago at the high command meeting." Kimmel was obviously trying to place him. His face was a mask of confusion and embarrassment. Rommel ignored him and turned to Donovan. "Go and speak to the pilot, Colonel," he said.

"Yes, Herr General," Donovan replied. He mounted the small step and disappeared inside the plane.

"General Kessler, yes, of course, I remember you now," Kimmel lied. "You were with Reichsmarshal Goering and his mistress at the gathering afterwards. What's her name now, I can't think of it?"

Rommel didn't take the bait. "Fraulein Greta Suskind," he said. "And she isn't his mistress, General, she is his personal confidential secretary, and you would do well to remember that."

Kimmel stood stiffly. His face took on the look of a chastened teenager. "Yes, Herr General. Please forgive my error and extend my greetings to the reichmarshal when you next see him."

Donovan reappeared at the doorway. "The pilot is ready, Herr General." Rommel nodded and then turned to Lunn and the sergeant who had helped him that morning.

"Sergeant, please help the captain aboard."

"Yes, Herr General." The sergeant helped Lunn to the steps and then steadied him as he went through the hatchway.

Rommel turned to Kimmel. I'm sure your duties here are urgent, General," he said. "I wouldn't want to keep you from them." There was disdain in Rommel's voice that couldn't be mistaken.

"Yes, General Kessler," he replied adding a crisp salute. Rommel returned the salute and stood staring at Kimmel, who took his cue. "Let's go, gentlemen, we have work to do." Kimmel and the men with him hurried away toward the ammunition shack. Rommel watched them go.

Kimmel turned briefly and saw Rommel looking back. Shit, he thought to himself. I could be in trouble—but hopefully, Kessler will forget all about this. Dammit. He couldn't believe he'd been so indiscreet.

Rommel turned to the sergeant and shook his hand. "Thank you. I'll make sure your commander knows how well you're doing here." The sergeant wanted to smile but did not.

"Thank you, Herr General. I am glad to have met you, and I hope you have a safe journey."

Rommel thought if he ever came out of this alive and had the chance, he would find this man and buy him a beer. He mounted the boarding step and went inside the idling Dornier.

The sergeant closed the door and turned the locking handle, then removed the step and backed away. The pilot advanced the throttles. As the plane picked up speed the tail lifted. Moments later it was airborne. A crescent moon was sliding in and out of the clouds as the darkened transport cleared the tree line and began its climb to the east.

The pilot and copilot were both wearing earphones, and the noise in the plane's cabin was just short of deafening. Nevertheless, Rommel was careful to put his lips close to Donovan's ear before he spoke. "We'll be in Germany in a couple of hours. I hope you are ready...Colonel."

Donovan hoped so too. Getting to Canaris would be like getting on Alcatraz to see Capone without an invitation.

# Chapter 22

### MOSCOW, RUSSIA

Joseph Stalin reread the intelligence transcript he'd received that afternoon from Stockholm. Finishing it, he closed the folder, sat back, and closed his eyes. A cozy fire in his study lent warmth to the room in his dacha, where a phonograph was playing the haunting melody from Massenet's _Meditation._ Stalin enjoyed music, and this piece soothed him in a way that little else did. A knock interrupted his reverie. He sighed and walked over to turn off the machine.

"Come in gentlemen." Molotov and Cekovni were late. Returning to his desk, Stalin switched on a small shaded lamp. Apart from the fire, it was the only light in the room.

Vyacheslav Mikhailovic Molotov, director for the Committee for State Security, and Admiral Pavel Cekovni, his naval chief of staff, stood in front of him looking tired and disoriented. A clock on the mantle chimed two o'clock in the morning.

"Sit, comrades," Stalin said. Once they were settled, Stalin studied them. Molotov's narrow amphibian-like face showed concern, and Cekovni's heavy features were cheerless. No doubt, Stalin thought, he'd been in a warm bed when the summons for this meeting arrived at his doorstep. Stalin had a penchant for keeping his subordinates off guard with meetings at all hours. It contributed to the myth that he himself was tireless.

"Apologies, comrade, for our delay," Molotov began. "The snow is deep and the roads treacherous." Stalin gave a dismissive wave of his hand.

"Tell me, Admiral, what assets do you have presently in the Baltic?"

Next to Stalin's desk on a wooden stand stood a map of Northern Europe. Cekovni studied the Baltic Sea, trying to recall the patrol sectors for Russian vessels under his command. It covered thousands of square miles of open sea from Riga to Copenhagen.

"We have four cruisers in the Baltic together with two submarines and a two supply ships, comrade." Cekovni left his seat, moved to the map, and removed a wooden pointer hanging from a hook.

"Each cruiser's patrol sector is shaped like a rectangle and these rectangles are arranged on the ocean next to each other like dominos laying side by side rather than end to end. The ships alternate their positions on a specific time schedule so that maximum coverage is maintained while at the same time reducing the distance a single vessel must travel to intercept a target."

Cekovni outlined the patrol sectors with his pointer, and stuck brightly colored pins in the map. He alternately repositioned the pins to demonstrate how the scheme worked. "So when one of our cruisers is here at noon, its cousin in the adjacent sector is here." He regarded the premier to see if there was a question.

"What about submarines?"

"We have two subs constantly patrolling in this area." Cekovni indicated on the map. "From a line roughly here, Copenhagen to Koszalin as the sector's eastern border, to a line here, the western edge." Cekovni drew out a line south from Aarhus, Denmark, to Kiel, Germany.

Who gives a damn about any of that? Molotov thought. All this talk about a few cruisers and a leaky Russian sub or two in the Baltic was useless to the bigger picture. He tried but failed to keep the feeling of exasperation from reaching his face.

"You're thinking this discussion is of no importance, comrade?" Stalin asked.

"I think..." the startled state security director said, trying to choose his next words carefully, "there are more urgent issues at the moment than a few ships bobbing around on the Baltic, comrade." Molotov was nonplussed at his audacity. Fatigue had pruned his usually even temperament. Even for him this was dangerous territory. Throwing down the gauntlet with Stalin had earned many high-ranking men in and out of the Russian government an unmarked grave.

Cekovni replaced the pointer and sat down. He appeared to be examining his fingernails during this exchange, but became circumspect as the premier turned from Molotov and gazed across the desk at him.

"On the date indicated, Admiral, near midnight, a German submarine will surface at this latitude and longitude." Stalin handed a slip of paper across the desk. "I want that submarine, and I want her intact."

Cekovni looked at the note then the map. The coordinates were in the Denmark Straights perhaps a hundred miles off the German coast.

"To accomplish this," Stalin said, turning to Molotov with an icy look, "you, comrade, will need to prepare a team to board the sub, disarm the crew, and prepare it for towing to Riga."

Stalin returned his gaze to Cekovni. "And you, Admiral, will need to see that we have a ship at that location to disembark the boarding party and afterwards, when the sub is secure, tow it to port."

"Yes, comrade," Cekovni replied. "I'll see to it."

"Molotov?"

"Yes, of course," Molotov said, trying again to mask his bewilderment. How did Stalin know a German submarine was going to surface at that exact time and at those exact coordinates? Anyway, if it was true, why not just sink the damn thing? Well, how did Stalin know anything? Of course, there were contacts and sources he didn't reveal because he trusted no one. But beyond trust, the premier loved these little surprises because it made him appear omniscient.

Stalin stood. His guests followed. "Molotov, give me the details on your boarding team by noon today and say nothing of this to anyone. You may go. Admiral, stay behind for a moment, please."

Molotov looked at Stalin then at Cekovni. Why was he being dismissed? He decided he'd pushed his luck far enough for one evening. He turned and left the room, closing the door behind him.

Stalin sat in Molotov's vacated chair and motioned Cekovni back to his.

"Admiral, I want that submarine back in Russian waters within forty-eight hours after you hook on the tow cable." Stalin looked thoughtful and stroked his mustache.

Cekovni summoned his courage. "Excuse me, Comrade Stalin, but when the sub sees and hears our ships before it surfaces, will it not simply continue to run submerged and try to escape?"

"The submarine will surface and stay up long enough for our people to get aboard, I guarantee that." Stalin leaned in, fixing Cekovni's gaze with his own. "Tell the boarding party commander he must send an 'all's well' signal within ten minutes of the time they reach the sub. If after ten minutes you have not received that signal, send her and everyone aboard to the bottom."

Stalin didn't articulate his final thought: If I can't have that submarine, no one will have it.

Cekovni nodded. "Yes, Comrade Stalin. The submarine is to be captured or destroyed. I understand."

"Molotov will arrange the boarding party and their training. There isn't much time, so alert your vessels immediately but quietly. Tell the captain only what he needs to know and nothing more. There can be no error in this. To make certain of that, I want you there personally to oversee the operation."

Cekovni somehow knew this was coming, but he'd tried to push the idea out of his mind. Now, any failure would be on his shoulders alone.

Stalin stood, turned his back on Cekovni, and walked to the phonograph. "Keep me informed, Admiral."

Stalin listened for the door to close while he selected a new record. He slipped Tchaikovsky's _Elegia_ from its paper sleeve and placed it on the turntable. As the beautiful stringed notes filled the room, his mind drifted to a picture of himself looking down from a balcony at the Kremlin on a warm spring afternoon. Below, thousands upon thousands of excited Russian citizens had come to pay tribute to the absolute leader of the most powerful nation on earth.

# Chapter 23

### BERLIN, GERMANY

Hitler's meeting with Himmler lasted only a few minutes. The instructions had been as usual for every incognito visit the führer arranged outside Berlin over the last few years. An unmarked staff car would call for a civilian dressed in a felt cap with black band and a gray scarf around his neck just at dawn near a rear entrance to the Reich Chancellery normally used by staff workers. Hitler would play the civilian and be dressed in a topcoat over a business suit, clothes he rarely wore in public. The felt hat with brim pulled low covered most of his face and the scarf covered practically everything else down to the lapels of his coat. To all outward appearances his departure would look like that of a low-level attaché or other civil servant. Himmler asked no questions; he never did. He simply made the necessary arrangements and otherwise followed the führer's orders to the letter.

Once out of Berlin, Hitler would be driven to a safe house, one of six positioned at various locations outside the city, where he would change into his uniform and pick up another car and a motorcycle escort small enough not to attract undue attention, which would accompany him to the airfield. The car would drive to a remote corner of the field where a regular staff transport, instead of his personal plane, would be waiting. He would then fly to Kiel. Gestapo agents would meet the aircraft and drive him to the boatyard.

Back in Berlin, Hugo Klymer would pick up his role as the führer. Hitler's calendar had been cleared of official business for the time he would be away. There was one dinner party that could not be canceled, however, at which he was to make a personal appearance, a brief welcoming address, and greet a few distinguished guests. Eva Braun and Frau Himmler would play host to the group after he excused himself with appropriate apologies for rest due to a slight head cold he'd been fighting for the last few days. This script had worked often with minor variations, and Klymer had it down pat.

For his part, Hitler loved the intrigue, and the fact that he could be in two places at once was useful beyond measure. Added to that, putting one over on Heinrich Himmler, chief of the feared and vaunted Gestapo, fed his ego and pleased him immensely. Hitler knew he was smarter than any of them, and he was about to prove it again.

### * * *

"Enjoy the party, Herr Klymer," Hitler said. "But not too much. As usual, be discreet and carefully attend to your duties to the Reich."

Klymer, dressed in his bathrobe and slippers, took the box from Hitler and placed it carefully on a side table of the small study in his apartment. "Yes, mein Führer," Klymer responded. "May I know when you will return?"

"I'll be leaving in the morning and will be back when I can." Hitler saw Klymer looking at the box. "Don't worry, your...medication will be delivered to you as usual. When I get back, we'll chat about the evening and what you overheard and discussed. But remember, your appearance is to last no longer than thirty minutes. I've written out your remarks. No deviations." Hitler seemed almost jovial, like the cat that caught the proverbial canary, Klymer thought.

"You can count on me, mein Führer. As always, I am in your devoted service."

Hitler put his hand on the doorknob and turned back to his double. "You know, Klymer, I've given you the greatest acting role in the history of stage or screen. No other actor from the Greek theater until now has had such an opportunity. To play me, the führer, leader of the German people and the Third Reich, and soon the entire world—sometimes it must seem as a dream."

Hitler walked out without another word. Klymer closed the door, picked up the box, and went into his bedroom. He wrapped the elastic tubing around his upper arm and tapped the vein until it stood out. Removing the pre-loaded syringe, he slid it into the vein and pushed gently on the plunger. Immediately he was flooded with a feeling of warmth and contentment. Yes, playing Adolph Hitler was like a dream, he thought.

Hugo Klymer lay back on his pillow and drifted on a sea of clouds, having no idea how close he was to the curtain rising on another dream. The kind from which there is no awakening. The kind that brings misery, chaos, and desperation rushing toward the soul like a thundering locomotive stoked by minions from hell.

# Chapter 24

### BERLIN, GERMANY

Donovan recalled his meeting with Admiral Wilhelm Canaris in 1943. Canaris, head of the Abwher, the German military's secret police, had risked much to set up the clandestine conference during which he'd convinced Donovan he was sincere about his efforts to bring down the Reich and reach a separate peace with the Americans. He and Canaris had even agreed to such a plan, but Roosevelt flatly refused to honor it and insisted on the complete and unconditional surrender of the Nazi regime. It was one of the few times Donovan's relationship with the president was strained to the breaking point.

When Rommel had suggested Canaris held the keys to their successful entry into the Kiel complex, Donovan agreed. He knew the Abwher could easily and quickly construct the papers they would need. However, Canaris and most of his senior deputies had been arrested after the July attempt on Hitler's life. British intelligence reported that the admiral was closely guarded, in solitary confinement, and allowed only one irregular visitor, a Protestant cleric by the name of Bonhoffer.

Paranoia was rampant now throughout the Reich. Every personal relationship, no matter how close, was regularly reexamined and reevaluated for veracity. Therefore, without Canaris's personal assurance to his network concerning the legitimacy of Donovan's team, there was no hope of gaining their cooperation. That meant Donovan would have to rely on forged documents. As good as they were, they might not pass muster if security around the boatyard was as tight as he suspected it would be.

Donovan had met Canaris in Spain. Nate Sarsfield had been with him. During the meeting, Canaris mentioned in passing a man by the name of Dietrich Bonhoffer, a close friend and Protestant minister in Germany who was part of his network. Sarsfield told Donovan after the meeting that he'd met Bonhoffer shortly after his ordination during a multifaith religious conference at the Vatican in the midthirties. He and Bonhoffer became friends and kept up a regular correspondence over the years. Donovan thought nothing of it beyond the usual 'it's a small world' comment to Nate until he'd met Rommel and the Canaris connection resurfaced.

Before leaving London, Donovan asked Nate to contact his friend and tell him of their urgent need. Rommel believed a personal meeting with Canaris was still possible if he was allowed to go himself, but the risk was far too great. If Rommel were detained even for a few hours while attempting to see Canaris, their plan would very likely unravel. Working through Bonhoffer was a better option, and if that failed they would have to fall back on papers ginned up by Scotland Yard's experts.

### * * *

Dietrich Bonhoffer entered the Prinz Albechstrasse prison and was immediately searched. He produced a Bible and a small bread roll. The guard examined both and returned them to the priest. "Keep the roll hidden," the guard whispered. "The prisoner is not allowed to eat except what rations he is given."

Bonhoffer nodded and pocketed the roll. He'd struck up a friendship with this guard on previous visits, and knew he had served on the eastern front. Undoubtedly the man had experienced the exquisite and unrelenting ache of hunger on the long retreat back from Stalingrad and was willing to risk this small concession to a man of the cloth.

"Bless you, Felix," Bonhoffer said. "You are a good man and our Lord knows of your kindness."

Although Bonhoffer had visited his friend before, the dank starkness of the prison never failed to depress his spirits. The guard led him through a locked gate and into the bowels of hopelessness. Canaris's cell was in a remote part of the complex. They reached it after passing through two other checkpoints. As usual, the cell door was open and the light just outside in the passageway was lit. It was always on, giving Canaris no rest from the constant glare. Bonhoffer entered, and Canaris strained to see his visitor against the backlight.

There was nothing in the cell but a wooden bucket. Canaris's cruel restraints allowed just enough freedom of movement to reach it when the infrequent urge to defecate settled on him. No bed, no blankets, no water to clean himself, and no clothing. He sat naked on the cold stone, misery etched into his haggard and bearded face. No one except Bonhoffer would ever have recognized this skeleton as Admiral Wilhelm Canaris.

The guard checked his watch. "Five minutes" he said, then stepped away from the door and leaned against the passageway wall.

Bonhoffer sat on the floor, smoothed his friend's matted and filthy hair back from his eyes, and whispered, "I'm here with you, Wilhelm, and so is God."

Canaris's raspy voice whispered back. "Thank you for coming."

He held Canaris's head in his hands and began reciting the twenty-third Psalm. "Yea, though I walk through the valley of the shadow of death..." Canaris whispered the verse along with him. When it was over, Bonhoffer pulled the roll from his pocket. He carefully broke it in half, pulled a scrap of paper from the inside, and held it up.

Canaris blinked and strained to see. Finally, the three words on the paper came into focus: _Need your mark_. Canaris closed his eyes and nodded slightly. Bonhoffer swallowed the paper scrap and put half the roll in Canaris's mouth. The admiral chewed slowly, and as though the bread had given him a spark of energy, he lifted his right arm. The chain around his wrist clinked and a bony forefinger pointed at the side wall.

Bonhoffer looked closely but saw nothing. Reaching over, he ran his fingers along the seam where the wall met the floor. There was a small gap, and in a moment he touched something smooth. Plucking the object from the crevice, he placed it in his pocket and put the other piece of bread in Canaris's mouth.

"Time's up," the guard said. Bonhoffer kissed Canaris on the forehead and stood. "God is always with you Wilhelm, even here. I will come again when I can."

He didn't know it then, but he would never see Admiral Wilhelm Canaris again.

### * * *

The flight had taken several hours. Headwinds forced the pilot to refuel in Essen before traveling on to Berlin. Rommel, Donovan, and Lunn had used the time to sleep, lulled by the engines and the smooth air they encountered after crossing the Rhine. With apologies to General Kessler, the pilot told them during the refueling stop that the plane had been diverted to an obscure strip on the outskirts of Berlin to meet a relief crew that was taking the plane and a special passenger on to another destination. The pilot readily agreed to drop his passengers off in Berlin on his way back to the squadron barracks at the main Templehoff airport in the southwest part of the city. They landed just after sunrise.

Climbing down, Rommel, Donovan, and Lunn stretched their legs as they walked to the small brick terminal building with the pilot. Rommel noted the windsock on its roof was limp. He also noticed a car parked at a nearby hangar with the engine running. He couldn't see its occupants but supposed it was the special passenger their pilot had mentioned. He wondered who it might be.

Inside the car, Hitler watched the figures leave the plane and retreat into the terminal. He thought he recognized one of them but couldn't tell from a distance. A general officer and two subordinates. Why were they coming to Berlin through this out of the way field? He was curious, but he was in a hurry.

"When the plane has finished refueling and I'm aboard, go find out who those men are," he said to the front seat passenger, a Gestapo agent from the Berlin central office. "They shouldn't have landed here, and even if their travel is legitimate, I want to satisfy my curiosity. If something seems amiss after checking, inform your superiors. I'll want a report when I return."

"Yes, mein Führer," the agent replied.

A few minutes later, a uniformed steward approached the car and saluted. Hitler got out, walked quickly to the plane, and disappeared inside. The plane's engines turned over belching blue black exhaust smoke, then caught and settled to an idle. Moments later the plane sped down the runway, leaving a wake of swirling snow. Rommel watched scene through a window in the small terminal. The figures were too distant to make any positive identification, but he had an odd feeling as he watched the aircraft turn into a black speck and then disappeared completely.

### * * *

Donovan's team thanked the pilot and driver of the shuttle and stepped off it into the city of Berlin near the Konigsplatz, a large park now covered with snow. Cars and trams bustled around them, but it was cold and only a few pedestrians, their breath forming tiny clouds as they hurried along, could be seen on the sidewalks.

Donovan worried they might stand out, and he urged the group toward its destination, a residential street several blocks away containing the flat belonging to Dietrich Bonhoffer. A car followed them slowly at a discreet distance. Inside, Gestapo agent Hans Ostering turned the heat control to full, wiped moisture from the inside of the windshield with his gloved hand, and watched the trio round a corner.

Rommel shook his head in wonder as they made the journey. The city was in ruins. Bombed out buildings and rubble littered the sweep of his view. Smoke from still burning fires drifted on a chill morning breeze. The Allied bombers had done their work, coming night after night, sowing their seeds of terror on the civilian population.

They arrived at 38A Grosse Falterstrasse a few minutes later, mounted the short flight of steps, and rang the bell. There was no response. Across the street in the Zwei Hunde Coffee House, Bonhoffer watched them and the black car that pulled to the curb fifty meters down the block. He got up from his seat at the window, went to a telephone, and dialed. He spoke briefly into the receiver and hung up. Then he pulled a pad from his pocket, scribbled a note, and motioned to the waitress.

"Marlene, three German officers will be in shortly. Would you see that they get this?" He handed her the slip of paper and a twenty-mark note.

"Of course," she replied.

"Thanks," he said, putting on his coat. "See you tomorrow."

Donovan pressed the buzzer again—still no answer. Lunn was stamping his feet to ward off the cold when he noticed a small envelope tucked beneath the mat on the stoop. He picked it up and handed it to Donovan, who opened it and extracted a calling card for the Zwie Hunde Coffee House.

Puzzled, he began to look around. Across the street he saw what looked like a restaurant. A black sign with two golden dogs painted on it hung over the entrance. He motioned the group down the steps. They crossed the street and entered the shop.

Inside the strong smell of coffee, hot rolls, and cooking bacon teased their salivary glands. None of them had eaten since leaving France. Donovan selected a booth and they sat down. Two patrons at the counter turned and watched them, then quickly paid their bills and went out.

Rommel removed his coat and cap, hung them on a hook attached to a post at the side of the booth, and greeted the waitress with a warm smile. Perhaps seventeen, she had short gold curls and a white sweater with a blue skirt that reached her ankles.

"Three coffees, black bread, butter and sausages, please, _fraulein_ ," he said.

"Yes, sir," she answered, writing the order on a pad. "It will be just a few minutes." She left them and disappeared through a swinging double door. When it opened Rommel could hear the clink of pots and pans. He rubbed his eyes and forehead and then looked over at Donovan. "How long do we wait?"

"We'll stay until we're finished with breakfast, no longer." Lunn appeared to be examining a menu.

Marlene returned a few moments later with three steaming mugs of coffee on a tray heaped with black bread, butter, and six fat, sizzling sausages. She placed the mugs and food on the table and handed Rommel the bill. "Enjoy your breakfast, gentlemen." Donovan watched her walk behind the counter and begin clearing dishes in front of the recently vacated seats. They ate and waited, sipping their coffee. No one else came into restaurant. Donovan checked his watch. Forty minutes had passed. Rommel was looking at the bill. A folded scrap of paper was stapled to the back of it. He turned back the folds, read the note, and handed it to Donovan whose face turned ashen.

YOU WERE FOLLOWED. CENTRAL BAHNHOF—ONE HOUR. I WILL FIND YOU. B

Rommel left enough to cover the bill and a generous tip at the booth. His companions went outside. Rommel turned at the door. "Thank you, _fraulein_ ," he said. Marlene smiled and then returned to wiping the counter as if nothing at all had happened.

Donovan scanned the street. He could see nothing but an empty black car at the curb down the block. A policeman appeared to be writing the vehicle a parking ticket. There were no pedestrians and no other traffic. He started to pull a map from his inside coat pocket. Rommel stopped him and said, "Follow me."

They turned north on Falterstasse and left the café behind. Rommel turned to Donovan as they walked. "That black car at the curb down the block. I think it was the same one I saw at the airport when we arrived."

Donovan only nodded in reply and kept walking. He was exasperated at the revelation and was kicking himself for not being more vigilant. Rommel was not a spy; he was a soldier. It was up to _him_ to spot tails and he'd missed this one completely. He wondered where the car's occupants were. The trio walked briskly, making several turns during their trek to the train station. Donovan stopped them twice at shops, using the store windows to see if anyone was following. Now his senses were fully alert. He hoped it wasn't too late.

# Chapter 25

### BERLIN, GERMANY

Bonhoffer watched as the trio approached the entrance to the central train station. He was dressed in a worn checked woolen coat and matching winter cap with the earflaps pulled down. He stood over a small portable wood stove pushing long metal tongs against the glowing embers. There was a smell of smoke and roasting nuts.

"Delicious roasted nuts!" Bonhoffer called out, looking directly at Donovan, who ignored him and continued walking. "Imported from Portugal, gentlemen. Finest in the world." Donovan stopped in midstride, turned, and guided the group back to the stand.

Rommel and Lunn looked at one another, then at Donovan. "We'll have three bags," Donovan said. "Yes, they do smell delicious."

Bonhoffer used the tongs to pull nuts from the fire and dropped them into brown paper bags. When no one but the officers were near he whispered, "My truck's in back of the station. Get in the back and wait for me." He handed the bags out. Donovan paid him and left. Walking to the back of the train station took several minutes. When they arrived they saw a truck with a sign on the side that said " _Muttern (Nuts)_." Donovan looked around. There was no one about. He opened the rear doors and followed his companions inside. There were wooden benches along the sidewalls. Rommel and Lunn took seats opposite Donovan. Several minutes later, they heard the driver's door open and then slam shut. Bonhoffer's face appeared at a window between the compartments.

"Father Sarsfield is dead," Bonhoffer said with a hint of fire in his eyes. "And you, all of you, will be too if you are not more careful." He addressed his comments to Donovan. "I'm going to drive to a nearby warehouse. We can talk there." He turned away and the truck's engine came to life.

### * * *

The depressing warehouse was filled with rusty machinery and stacks of steel pipe. Cold light filtered through grimy windows that ran in a row just beneath the roofline. Bonhoffer was seated behind a long unused, and dusty wooden desk. Rommel, Donovan, and Lunn sat in metal chairs facing him.

"How is it possible? I knew I was being followed from the airport, but the taxi driver shook that tail, I know he did."

"Look, Mr. Donovan, just like here in Berlin, all the taxi drivers in Lisbon work for the Gestapo. They're paid to pass along information about fares they think might be of interest. That ride was a ruse to lull you into a false sense of security. Sarsfield knew the game, but I'm guessing he trusted you to keep him safe. Obviously that was a mistake." Bonhoffer's words cut deep.

"We didn't take a taxi here from the airport. We rode in a military shuttle with the pilot. The driver dropped us blocks from your flat. Even so, I was alert. I saw nothing," Donovan said, trying to keep his emotions under control.

"I don't know how or why, but apparently someone took an interest in you at the airfield. It could have been a chance encounter, maybe someone who was just curious, but you were followed by this man." Bonhoffer tossed a small bifold leather identification case to Donovan.

Donovan opened it and examined the picture. "How did you get this?" he said, refolding the wallet and sliding it back across the desk.

"I was watching the street when you arrived. I saw the car pull up. I had two of my men posing as police officers discreetly escort"—he glanced at the id folder—"Agent Ostering to a building across the street where an urgent phone call was waiting for him. Fortunately for us, he was dumb enough to fall for it. Otherwise we would have had to find another way to intercept him before he got any nosier."

"Where is he now?" Rommel asked.

Bonhoffer looked at Rommel, ignoring the question. "General, with all due respect, I'm afraid I don't know you. In fact, I don't know any of you. So, let me just say that Agent Ostering and his car are—how shall I put it—currently out of service.

"Look gentlemen," he continued, "the only reason I'm here is because Nate Sarsfield said you needed help. I've been watching for you ever since I got his message. He described only Mr. Donovan but said there would be two other men. He also said you would be needing documents, the best—authentic if possible. Nate told me to cooperate with you fully. He said it was important. Obviously that's true because he died keeping it a secret. I don't even want to think about what he must have gone through. The Lisbon police said his body was burned almost beyond recognition after his car caught fire. He was tortured and the Gestapo didn't want to leave any traces."

Bonhoffer leaned forward, placed his forearms on the desk, and clasped his hands. "Gentlemen, Nate was my friend and before we go any further, I want to know what the _hell_ you're doing here!"

Donovan removed his cap and turned to Rommel. "English, for a moment." Rommel nodded.

"Reverand Bonhoffer, first let me tell you that Nate Sarsfield was also my good friend. We've known each other for many years and I am saddened to hear of his death, more than I can tell you, but right now, I don't have time for a eulogy or an explanation. You will have to trust me when I tell you that we are on a mission of the utmost importance."

Donovan fixed him with a steady gaze, "When I say a mission of the utmost importance, I mean without any exaggeration or overstatement, a mission that will change the course of this war. If we are not successful, Hitler will very likely have Churchill and the British people on their knees before the end of the week, and the Russians and Americans by the end of the month."

Bonhoffer's face was granite. "Who are these men with you?"

"This is General Kessler and this is Captain Hillerman," Donovan said. "For your own protection and for the good of the mission, I can tell you no more. I'm sorry, but Mr. Churchill and President Roosevelt have insisted on this."

Bonhoffer said nothing, considering his options.

"We are traveling to Kiel. We need to enter the boatyard there, and I believe security will be much higher than normal. We are traveling with forged papers and will continue on with them if there is no other way, but I was told you have a connection with Admiral Canaris. As head of the Abwher, Canaris had access to documentation processing equipment for his agents. I am hoping to use that connection to support our mission with papers that will hold up under the tightest scrutiny. If it can't be done, please tell me now. We're running out of time."

Bonhoffer regarded the strange group for a few more moments and then stood as if he'd made up his mind and spoke to them in German. "Admiral Canaris is in prison and no longer has any control over the Abwher. His associates, however, might risk their lives to help you if they had the admiral's guarantee the risk was worth taking. Otherwise they will not. I believe I can deliver that guarantee. But before I do..." He hesitated, wanting to make sure he was not misunderstood. "Before I use up the last trump card the admiral has, I want to know what this is all about. Otherwise, you can go on your way and I will say Godspeed."

Donovan knew he'd be violating direct orders of the president and Churchill, but he also had to think about the consequences of failure if this detail was left to chance. He made up his mind in that instant and related the circumstances, leaving out only Rommel's participation in the scheme.

Bonhoffer listened without interrupting. When Donovan finished, the clergyman closed his eyes as if in silent prayer then said, "There is a shop not far from here. Lets go."

The four men left the warehouse, clambered back into the truck, and set off.

### * * *

Bonhoffer walked into the print shop and asked for Herr Tillotsen. In a few moments he appeared. The old man wore a green eyeshade and his fingers were dark with printer ink. Bonhoffer introduced himself and said, "Admiral Canaris sends his regards."

Adler Tillotsen and Canaris had been close friends as boys and had managed to stay in touch over the years, even though Canaris's duties distanced him from Tillotsen's everyday life as a printer and engraver in Berlin.

"How is Wilhelm?" Tillotsen asked.

Bonhoffer's face took on a somber look. "I'm afraid the admiral is not well, Herr Tillotsen. I visited him a few days ago and he asked me to ask you to do him one last favor."

Tillotsen looked up at Bonhoffer. There was caution and a hint of fear in his blue eyes.

"Favors these days are very dangerous, Herr Bonhoffer. I'm afraid I'm out of the favor business, especially since Wilhelm cannot call to quiet my mind."

"I understand, Herr Tillotsen," Bonhoffer said, nodding. "And so does the Admiral. He asked me to give you this personal token as a guarantee that he alone is requesting this final service and will be forever in your debt." Bonhoffer reached in his pocket, pulled out the object he'd retrieved from Canaris's cell, and handed it over.

The printer had seen the ring before. In fact, he'd engraved it; his mark was stamped next to the inscription: "Our Love Is Eternal—Wilhelm & Hilde." It was Canaris's wedding ring. Tillotsen recognized in an instant what it must have taken for Wilhelm to give up this last piece of his life. He must have cherished it above all else in his living hell.

"What do you require?" Tillotsen asked, handing back the ring.

"No, he wanted you to have this as a memento of your friendship and loyalty." Bonhoffer closed Tillotsen's fingers back around the ring. He thought he saw a tear in the old man's eyes.

"What have we come to? This madness, the killing and the destruction, will it ever stop?"

"Perhaps with your help it will. I need military identification papers for three German officers and anything else that you can think of that will allow them to pass through the tightest security. They are with me now, outside in the truck. I'm afraid time is of the essence. They must be in Kiel no later than tomorrow evening."

Tillotsen came out from behind the counter, went to the door, locked it, and turned over the sign announcing the shop was closed. "Bring them around to the back."

### * * *

Rommel, Donovan, and Lunn cleaned up in the printing shop's tiny lavatory. Flash bulbs popped as they sat for photos in their uniforms. They waited silently as Tillotsen disappeared into a darkroom to develop the film.

When he returned he motioned to Donovan. "Give me what you have now." Donovan collected all three sets of forged papers. Tillotsen sat on a stool behind his workbench, examined the forgeries, made a few notes, and then threw them in a nearby sink. "Burn those," he said.

While Bonhoffer was destroying the forged IDs, Tillotsen went to a floor safe and spun the combination lock. He returned to his bench with three official Luftwaffe identification folders and began pasting the photos onto them. While he worked, he said without looking up, "Your forgeries were good, but they missed two crucial details. The captain's was printed on the same folder as the two older men. Because of his age, his would have been produced several years later, when a new typeset was used. Also, the earlier folders had the eagle clutching a swastika emblem on the front and back at the bottom in gold relief. The newer folders do not. The Reich is trying to save a few marks, I suppose, and I'm sure the change was much to Goering's annoyance. Anyway, a close examination by the Gestapo would have turned up that discrepancy, and your young friend, and probably you as well, would have been detained for questioning."

Half an hour later, Tillotsen sat up and examined each of the folders, looking one at a time at each of his guests. "Good," he said, "Now sign them." Donovan, Rommel, and Lunn did so. Tillotsen looked at the signatures, blotted them, and handed them back. Donovan's folder identified him as Colonel Riker.

"Now your papers are in order, gentlemen. Anyone who disputes this is a liar and fishing. Remember that. Now, there is one other document I want to give you that may prove useful."

Tillotsen went to a photo of the führer on the wall, shook his head in disgust, and removed it. Behind the photo was a wall safe. He spun the dial with a practiced touch. Lunn thought he heard a click. Tillotsen pulled down on the locking handle and swung back the metal door. Reaching in, he grasped an envelope and returned to the group.

He pulled a sheet of paper from the envelope and handed it to Donovan. "Read it."

Donovan read it aloud in German. "From the Office of the Chancellor and Führer of Germany at the Reich Chancellery, Berlin. The bearer of this letter acts with my full authority. All personnel, civil or military, will assist in any way demanded, under penalty of death. Signed, Adolph Hitler."

"Only six of these were ever signed," Tillotsen said. "Goering has one, Himmler too, and I think Hitler's secretary, Martin Borman, not that they personally need them. I don't know where the other two are, but this one belonged to Admiral Canaris. The admiral kept it in his personal safe and was able to get it to me before he was arrested."

Donovan translated for Lunn.

"I don't know whether it will help or not," Tillotsen said, "but for what it's worth, use it as you will."

"Gentlemen, if you will return to the truck, I'll join you shortly," Bonhoffer said. They all thanked Tillotsen before leaving and shook his hand.

After they were gone, Bonhoffer said, "I'm very grateful to you, Adler, and I know the admiral will be as well. I'll speak to him of your kindness." He embraced the printer and left.

Bonhoffer climbed into the back of the truck and sat on the bench with Donovan. "I have a man who will accompany you to Kiel if you like—name's Gunner. He removed your Gestapo tail at the restaurant and is very good at taking care of"—he paused, searching for a phrase—"unexpected encounters."

Donovan knew from this point forward things would get dicey. Getting past it all was Rommel's job, but Bonhoffer was right: the three of them alone were ill equipped for a random confrontation. Having a trained bodyguard might well be to their advantage. "We'd welcome his company," Donovan said. "Now all we need is a way to get to Kiel, since I doubt we'll be lucky enough to snag another flight."

Bonhoffer smiled. "As it happens, the fact that you were followed from the airport turns out to be an unexpected benefit. I have a car for you. It was recently towed from Faltestrasse Street to a garage near here. And perhaps you will consent to another driver. May I suggest Herr Gunner, whose photo has now replaced the recently deceased Gestapo agent's in the identification wallet I showed you earlier, courtesy of Herr Tillotsen."

Donovan spoke quickly to Lunn, who gave him an approving nod. Rommel said, "We are fortunate to have you on our side."

"The car will check out if you are stopped, and there are very few guards who have the temerity to question a Gestapo agent driving around a Luftwaffe general officer and his aides," Bonhoffer said. "I can't really think of a better cover for your arrival at the boatyard. After that," Bonhoffer gestured to Rommel, "it's all up to General Kessler."

Donovan echoed Rommel's sentiment. "We are extremely grateful. And I think the general will be able to manage our affairs once we arrive." He checked his watch. "We should leave. I want to arrive in Kiel in the early morning, when security is likely to be compromised somewhat by fatigue."

Bonhoffer opened the truck's rear door. The day had darkened and it was snowing again.

"The garage is only a few kilometers from here. We'll be there in about fifteen minutes."

### * * *

Captain Moreda Hideko scanned the surface of the North Sea through the periscope. There was only blackness, although he could make out a few faint stars near the horizon. Surfacing for position fixes and reports on the long journey had been timed to coincide with a moonless sky. He folded the focusing handles with a snap against the scope's aluminum tube. "Lower the scope," he commanded. "Engines stop." The chief of the watch echoed his commands.

Hideko moved to the chart table. Around him the crew stood silently at their stations. Picking up a pencil, the captain marked the ship's position: twenty-six miles off the northwest coast of Denmark by his reckoning. Soon he would be in the Baltic and near the end of an arduous journey to Kiel from Japan. He'd been on extended combat patrols before, but this trip had brought him all the way to the other side of the world. He would be glad to get rid of whatever cargo they'd loaded in Kyoto so he could get back to sinking American ships in the Pacific. The manifest said it was high-grade ore of some sort. Why, in the name of the emperor, had his superiors sent him this far to deliver a load of rocks?

The watch officer moved next to him. "Sir, we're ready to surface."

Hideko looked at the chart and pointed with his pencil to a point off the coast.

"The Danish vessel should be on a bearing of forty degrees. Have the lookouts and signalman stand by."

The watch officer called out to a small knot of men in black oilcloth slickers near the submarine's main hatch. "Lookouts and signalman stand by to surface. Contact bearing is forty degrees."

"Surface the ship," Hideko barked. The watch officer repeated the command. A hiss filled the sub's interior as water was purged from ballast tanks. "Lookouts and signalman to the bridge."

Seawater splashed over the rungs of the ladder leading up to the bridge as the conning tower hatch was opened. The lookouts and signalman scrambled up followed by the captain. The crew breathed their first fresh air in almost a week.

Hideko uncased a sextant and began to fix their position using the stars as reference points. Several minutes later, he called his readings down to the control room. The navigator consulted a book filled with tables of numbers and dates, ran his fingers across to the appropriate readings, and called back up, "We are at the coordinates for our final reporting checkpoint, Captain. Time to signal is now one minute."

Hideko placed a pair of powerful binoculars to his eyes and turned them in the direction where the Danish fishing vessel should be waiting. Except for white-capped waves breaking against the submarine's smooth hull, there was no sound from inside or outside the ship. Sleet carried in the creases of a cold north wind raked the deck twenty feet below him. Hideko focused the binoculars. "There," he said to the signalman standing next to him. "Just off the starboard bow."

"Yes, Captain, I see it." The signalman turned to a signaling light attached to the bridge rail and tapped out an acknowledgment. The navigator's voice came up from below, "Twenty-five hours to destination, Captain."

"Very well," Hideko replied. He looked at the luminous dial of his watch and made a quick calculation. "Send an ETA of zero three hundred tomorrow." The shutters of the signal light clacked open and closed.

"Transmission complete, Captain," the signalmen said, switching off the lamp.

"All hands standby to submerge," Hideko said, taking a final glance around at the dark sea. The last lookout disappeared through the hatch. Hideko followed him.

The watch officer helped the captain remove his slicker when he was finally on the conning tower deck. "Submerge the ship, make your depth fifty meters." Hideko consulted the chart again. "Set course of zero five zero degrees. Engines ahead one third."

Hideko tapped the chart and nodded in satisfaction. He and his crew would be on dry land early tomorrow morning and after the cargo was finally unloaded, he'd get the hell out of this cold and back to the warm water of the South Pacific.

### * * *

Able seaman Hans Goerdinz watched the sub's signal light winking on and off in the distance. He was one of only three Danish members of the trawler's mostly German crew. The hours were long and the conditions were difficult, especially in the winter, but for him, all that was about to change.

All he had to do was report this incident when they got back to port and he would get an envelope with cash in payment—as much as he made in a whole season of fishing. He was wary at first, but when his cousin finally convinced him this job was going to assist in the country's fight against its Nazi occupiers, he was more than willing to help.

What he did not know, and probably would not have cared about, was that he and his cousin were the unwitting eyes and ears of Joseph Stalin, who would have the report of this encounter in his hands before the end of the day.

# Chapter 26

### KIEL, GERMANY

The day dawned cold and blustery as the convoy neared the outskirts of Kiel. The trucks had refueled once in Hamburg, but otherwise, their journey from Frankfurt had been uninterrupted. Veltheim and Fritsch alternately slept and stared out the window to pass the time, but few words passed between them. Veltheim was lost in thought, eager to get the convoy safely within the confines of the base and under cover. Fritsch fretted about the cores. Unless the uranium cores were shaped to within a human hair of the correct dimensions, the bomb would not detonate properly and he would soon be in front of a firing squad or mounting the steps to the gallows for incompetence. To meet the führer's timetable, his team would need to set up all the machinery when they arrived, and the chance for error due to stress and lack of rest was high. Neither Veltheim nor Fritsch would be getting any sleep until the weapons were completed and stowed safely aboard the U-234.

High fences topped with rolls of concertina wire marked the boatyard as they passed along its western perimeter. Veltheim could see the facility had been heavily bombed. Buildings lay in ruins, railroad tracks were mangled, and impact craters dotted the landscape both inside and outside the fence. The motorcycle escorts made a sharp right turn at the entrance and roared up to the front gate. Several guards, weapons at the ready, watched them approach. Behind the sentries, antiaircraft canons, their twin barrels like the stingers of some venomous insect, pointed skyward.

Gruber braked the staff car and pulled up to the heavy metal barrier pole that blocked the entrance. Veltheim buttoned his coat, arranged his cap squarely on his head, and rolled down his window. A guard with a submachine gun slung across his chest leaned close and examined the car's occupants.

"Identification please." Veltheim watched the guard thumb the submachine gun's safety off. Gruber, Veltheim, and Fritsch handed over their identification wallets.

"We're here on a special weapons assignment. Personal orders of the führer," Veltheim said. "Here are the orders. The base commander should have been briefed in advance concerning our arrival, Sergeant."

"Wait here a moment, sir," the guard said. He turned and walked back to a concrete bunker and picked up a telephone. Sentries with dogs walked the length of the convoy, peering inside trucks and lifting tarps covering the machinery and supplies.

The guard returned and handed back their credentials. "Sir, please follow the white van and continue to building three hundred, a warehouse directly across from the Konrad U-boat shelter. The base commander will meet you there." He saluted and returned to the guardhouse. Moments later the barrier lifted. Gruber put the car in gear and followed a piebald panel truck as it sped toward the interior of the complex. Veltheim knew this boatyard was the second largest in Germany. Many U-boats had been built here over the years. Now, because of the constant Allied bombing raids, the base was only used for refitting and repairs.

Building 300 was a two-story warehouse complex near the concrete-and-steel-reinforced bunker Konrad, a combination submarine dry dock and berthing facility. A navy commander waited in front of the large metal doors to the building, which were open and permitted a view of the interior. Veltheim thought it looked like an aircraft hangar, with a large, open floor space and overhead ceiling gantries to haul heavy objects from one place to another.

Veltheim and Fritcsch climbed out of the backseat and stood stretching their limbs. The base commander surveyed the convoy as the last vehicle pulled in front of the warehouse and stopped.

"Welcome, Colonel. I've been expecting you. I'm Commander Riccard Gutrig. This facility is under my control."

Veltheim regarded the commander, a heavyset man built like a weightlifter. "I'm glad to hear that. Because if this facility is truly under your control, you'll be able to help us to finish our tasks here in accordance with the führer's orders. His timetable calls for the U-two-thirty-four to be loaded and ready for sea in seventy-two hours. I strongly suggest we try to beat the deadline."

"Tell me what you need, Colonel, and if it is within my power, you shall have it."

Veltheim nodded and introduced Fritsch. "Dr. Fritsch will be supervising the final construction and loading of the submarine's cargo. He can explain what we'll need to get up and running. Perhaps there is an office where we can sit and go over the details?"

Within an hour, the trucks were nearly unloaded. Gutrig's men did most of the heavy lifting and placement of the machinery. When everything was inside, the doors to Building 300 were closed and sentries posted to all entrances. On the warehouse floor, Fritsch hurried from one piece of machinery to the next as technicians from the lab powered up the equipment and made initial systems tests.

"I know only that I am to give you my full cooperation, Colonel, and render any assistance needed as long as you are here," Gutrig said. "Beyond that, I know nothing of your mission, except that it has the führer's most abiding personal interest. So, as I said to you earlier, anything and everything I can do for you will be done."

Veltheim appreciated Gutrig's straight-to-the-point manner. "Tomorrow evening, a Japanese submarine will surface here," Veltheim said, tapping an X on the chart he'd pinned to a corkboard in the warehouse office. "That sub is carrying material which will allow us to finish construction of the devices we'll be assembling. How would you recommend we get the material from the sub to the warehouse?"

"The fastest way will be to bring the sub directly into a berth at the Konrad. Would you care to see what I'm suggesting?"

"Yes, indeed I would," Veltheim replied. He and Gutrig left the office and walked out onto the bustling warehouse floor. Fritsch was busy adjusting the wave pattern on an oscilloscope. Around him, technicians and workers moved in a kind of organized pandemonium, tightening bolts, attaching electrical leads, adjusting controls, and rolling the mine cases on dollies into the area where they would receive their uranium cores.

"Fritsch, we're going next door to look at the U-boat berths. Commander Gutrig thinks the fastest and safest way to offload the cargo will be to have the Japanese sub sail directly there."

"Excellent," Fritsch said. "That should save a lot of time."

The Konrad was heavily armored and large enough to hold four XB-class submarines. Veltheim noticed that the sloping outside walls were two meters thick at least, but the ceiling was massive, at least twice that thickness, which explained why it had survived several Allied air raids.

"The U-two-thirty-four is an XB-class boat. Built as a minelayer," Gutrig explained. He and Veltheim were standing on a platform looking across four sheltered berths, all now empty. Each was nearly twenty meters in width at the water line. Separating the berths were wooden docks that provided a walkway alongside the ship to facilitate loading and unloading. At the rear of the building, welder's torches sent brilliant showers of sparks down into the water, where they hissed and sputtered out.

"At ninety meters in length, these XB boats displace nearly three thousand tons fully loaded. They're the largest subs ever built by the German navy. We'll bring the Japanese boat right up alongside the U-two-thirty-four." Gutrig pointed at the first two berths. "Then we'll off-load the cargo, and roll it into the warehouse. Your people can carry out the modifications immediately. Then we'll bring the mines back here and load them."

Veltheim was impressed. The logistics of moving the heavy cores to and from the warehouse didn't now seem so daunting a task. Even better, the U-two-thirty-four, once inside the Konrad, was protected from aerial attack, and when loading was complete she could sail directly back into the Baltic. They might actually pull this off, provided the Japanese sub arrived on time. The final position-check signal from Denmark had been encouraging. She should be just off the coast in less than twenty hours.

"Very good, Commander," Veltheim said with the first smile that had crossed his lips in many weeks. "I think this will work out well. We'll need to inform the Japanese captain of our plans."

Gutrig nodded. "When he surfaces, I'll have a channel pilot board the sub and guide her in." He checked his watch. "That should be early tomorrow morning. Will your machinery be ready by then?"

"Everything will be ready by then, I assure you, Commander," Veltheim said.

### * * *

Captain Billy Givers and his wingman, Lieutenant Dominic Purcelli, were in a loose formation headed back to the coastline after an early morning escort mission of several hundred Allied bombers to Bremen. The long-range tanks of their P-51 Mustang fighters allowed them to accompany the bombers on these lengthy missions and still have enough fuel to return to their base near Norwich, England. Luftwaffe fighters had challenged the bomber group as they approached the target, but out here, on the return flight, enemy air coverage was virtually nonexistent, and they'd left the returning bombers to seek ground targets for the rest of their ordnance. Billy, like most of his buddies, hated to land with rounds still in his wing canons.

He looked over to see his wingman. "Percy," as he was known to his fellow pilots, was at the controls of a silver airplane with a yellow-and-black-check pattern on the tail. " _Miss Risa_ " was painted in large red script lettering on the engine cowling. Billy's own airplane had nose art consisting of a bathing-suit-clad blonde with the inscription " _Apple Pie_ " underneath. Below his canopy, six black and silver swastikas proclaimed his air-to-air combat kills.

They were tired and cramped but scanned the sky and the shadowy snow-covered terrain below for targets of opportunity. Purcelli was the first to catch a glimpse of the transport and its escort of two FW 190 fighters. "Billy, two o'clock low! About two miles and a thousand feet below us, running just over those scud clouds."

Billy pulled his ship under his wingman's tail, rubbed his tired eyes, and caught the glint of sun off a canopy. He could see a two-engine transport aircraft flanked by German fighters. The fighters were throttled back and had their flaps extended to match the transport's slower speed. "Well hells bells," Billy shouted into his microphone. "Who gets a goddamn fighter escort, Percy?"

"Dunno. Has to be somebody important though." Unconsciously both men toggled the arming switches to their wing cannons. "Could be Hitler himself, the little bastard. How's your fuel?"

Billy glanced at this fuel gauges. "Not much left—maybe one quick pass and then scoot for home. How about you?"

" _Miss Risa_ 's thirsty," Purcelli said. "One pass, I think. Let's concentrate on the transport, it'll take the fighters a second or two to come up to speed and by then we'll be on our way. Hey, look at that!" One of the German fighters broke off from the transport and was arcing up and away.

"He's going up top to take a look, Billy. He'll be a problem if he spots us before we make the run. No time to waste. Let's take them now." Percy turned in his seat to look at Billy, who gave him a thumbs-up.

"I'll go in first from his six o'clock. You follow me," Billy said. He knew that coming in from behind the transport would give him maximum time to bring his guns to bear. Once he'd made his pass, Purcelli would finish the job. Givers pushed the Mustang's throttle full forward and watched the manifold pressure jump to maximum power. In seconds, the transport grew large in his gunsight. Just before it filled the outer ring, he pressed the trigger.

As his tracer rounds converged, Billy could see pieces of the aircraft spinning back and away from the plane. Then there was a puff of smoke and the flicker of flames from the starboard engine. He flashed over the slow-moving transport just as his guns stopped and pulled into a steep climbing turn. Purcelli watched as Giver's plane screamed up and away from their quarry, which was now streaming thick, black smoke. The transport banked sharply to the left and went for the deck, trying to find refuge from its attackers. The German FW190 on its right wing retracted its flaps and pulled up in pursuit of Billy's plane.

Percy hit the left rudder pedal and nosed _Miss Risa_ over into a dive. He pressed the trigger and walked the stream of tracers over the transport's tail and left wing. Then his guns too fell silent. He pulled up just as Billy had. _Miss Risa_ 's huge four-bladed propeller clawed at the cold air for altitude. He would be a sitting duck down here on the deck. Out of ammo, their only hope now was to get to the coast and friendly air cover. He hoped whoever was in that plane was worth it.

Hitler was startled as the transport lurched over and headed for the ground. He screamed for help. There was no response from the pilot or copilot. He turned in his seat and looked back. Both Gestapo agents were dead; one had a hole in his chest the size of a dinner plate. Hitler stood and stumbled forward in the passageway toward the cockpit. Smoke was beginning to fill the cabin. He pushed through the opening to the flight deck and put a hand on the copilot's shoulder. The man was slumped sideways, his sightless eyes staring up. Blood and human tissue spattered the windscreen and instruments. The pilot was fighting for control. Hitler could see they were heading for a small pasture. The pilot caught a glimpse of him standing in the doorway.

"Go back to your seat and strap in!" the pilot screamed. "Hurry!"

Just before a shell from his pursuer ripped through _Apple Pie_ 's fuselage and severed his spine, Billy Givers watched the crippled transport's left wing impact the field, cartwheeling the entire airplane over onto its back in a cloud of dirt and shower of snow.

# Chapter 27

### HAMBURG, GERMANY

Donovan and Rommel sat in the back. Lunn was in the front passenger seat, and Fritz Gunner was behind the wheel of the confiscated Gestapo vehicle. The road was slick, coated with sleet. Their progress from Berlin had been slow, but Gunner figured this was no time to get into an accident. Donovan took a nervous glance at his watch. As they neared Kiel and their rendezvous with destiny, it seemed that time, more than any other factor, was working against them. Once they reached the boatyard, they'd have only a few hours to make their way through a tight net of security and onto the U-234. If anything went wrong, their strategy would be ruined and the sub might well put to sea without them.

Donovan looked through the latest report from London, which Bonhoffer had given him at the garage. It contained very little in the way of useful information, but did have a list of the U-234's officers and crew. Kapitänleutnant Johann Fahler was the commanding officer. A picture of him was clipped to the report. Rommel shook his head when Donovan showed him the photo; he'd never met the man. Fahler had been in the German navy since the beginning of the war. Most of that time he'd been an officer on the _Atlantis_ , a German cruiser that had sent at least twenty-two Allied ships to the bottom by disguising itself as a distressed merchant vessel. When unsuspecting ships approached to render aid, the _Atlantis_ would open fire as soon as its well-meaning rescuers came within range. Anyone who could participate in this kind of murder was clearly demented, Donovan thought.

Rommel shook his head in disgust. "There are many like Fahler in the German military," he said. "Men without honor, men without scruples, and men who think the end justifies the means. Hitler fostered this kind of thinking and cowardice in the officer corps by letting it be known the means and methods didn't concern him; only the results were important. This is why the most ruthless of his field commanders have advanced. It is also why Germany's real soldiers first tried to reason with him, then tried to kill him. I had people like Fahler in my own command in Africa. When I heard of any brutality toward civilians or POWs, I investigated personally. When the evidence was clear, I had them arrested and sent back to Rome or Berlin to face a court martial. I learned later none of these men actually stood trial, and they were eventually released to fill spaces in other units."

Donovan sighed and closed the folder. "Field Marshal, when we arrive at the boatyard, what do you expect?"

Rommel wiped his hand against the frosted glass of the sedan's back passenger window and stared through the small circular opening at the stark landscape. On the horizon, he could see a plume of black smoke. He stared at it for a few seconds before responding.

"When we arrive, we'll be asked to surrender our identification wallets. We'll also be asked to state our business. If the sentries don't have us on their list of pending arrivals, they'll call the camp commandant to confirm our authorization to enter. If the weapons caravan has already arrived, you can be sure security will be very tight and this will make our passage into the boatyard extremely difficult without some kind of plausible cover story. Even with a good story, I think we will be detained for some time while our bona fides are checked and rechecked. The camp commander no doubt has made it clear to his staff that under no circumstances are persons to be allowed into or off the base without his express permission. His life depends on everything going smoothly while the weapons team is on site, and you can bet he will do everything in his power to see there are no slipups."

"Will the camp commander come to the gate when the sentries tell him he has a high-ranking and impatient Luftwaffe general and his entourage demanding entry?" Donovan asked.

"I very much doubt it. I wouldn't keep a high-ranking officer waiting. I'd have him brought to my office under armed escort." Rommel was calm and matter-of-fact. "You see, Mr. Donovan, in the German military, orders are obeyed without question and without hesitation. It's part of our upbringing and, of course, the crux of all military training. German children learn at an early age to keep their mouths shut and their thoughts on the important things, such as keeping parents, school teachers, and other authority figures happy." Rommel thought back to his days as a cadet in Danzig.

"The logical progression of this for the army is that grumbling and griping by lower-ranking officers and enlisted men have severe and immediate consequences. Even the highest-ranking officers, especially now, must learn to bite their tongue because somewhere, someone may be making a note, mental or otherwise, of everything said, even if it's seemingly insignificant. Intemperate remarks will get you killed just as surely as a bullet to the heart—or perhaps even worse, put in a place where after an hour you'd wish you were dead."

Donovan knew entry into the boatyard was going to be a touch-and-go affair, but that's why they had Rommel. He was their ace in the hole, and without him, they had no chance. He'd thought about a number of possible scenarios to talk their way onto the base, get past the base commander, and onto the submarine. It was important they boarded the sub ahead of the weapons. He didn't want any more confrontations than necessary with people who might question their motives. Everything depended on Rommel and his ability to bluff them past the gate, the base commandant, and the sub's captain. It was a tall order even for the Desert Fox.

"Our plenary warrant from the führer may help us?"

"It may, and it may not," Rommel said with a shrug. "I cannot say because I don't know the mind of the base commander. If he is diligent, he will telephone Berlin and get confirmation. In that case we'll probably have to kill him and take our chances. If he is diligent but a bit insecure having been kicked around by the system due to a minor mistake here and there, the warrant may just be the edge we need."

Donovan fell silent and looked at Lunn dozing in the front seat. The navigator trusted him with his life. In a few hours they could all be dead in a shootout or behind bars waiting for a firing squad. Why had he brought Lunn to this turning point? Did he think he was such a hotshot that he could get anybody into and out of anything? Nate Sarsfield proved him wrong on that one and paid with his life. He wished to God he was really as smart and capable as the president thought he was. Was Charlie Lunn about to die because the president had stroked his ego so many times he'd begun to believe the bullshit himself? Maybe he should have advised Roosevelt to take out the sub with an air attack and hope for the best. Maybe his trust in Erwin Rommel was misplaced. Weren't the real odds a million to one against the success of this mission? Donovan dug deep to purge the self-doubt and negative voices in his mind. He was in it up to his eyeballs now, and there was no turning back.

"Herr Rommel," Donovan said. "This mission cannot fail, I know you understand that. The fate of your nation and mine hangs in the balance. Whatever misgivings you may have, I hope you will be able to put them aside for the next few hours, because I swear, if I sense something wrong, anything wrong, I will kill you first and take my chances with whatever comes next."

Rommel's face clouded with a mix of irritation and disappointment. "I will get us onto that sub and you will have your weapons. But before I do, I want you to assure me your president will use them in a way that will not bring harm to my family or my country. If you give me your word on that as a soldier, I will do what has to be done."

"I can't speak for President Roosevelt. You know that. But I'll do whatever I can, you have my word, Field Marshal," Donovan said, extending his hand.

Rommel took it with a firm grip. "Very well then," he said. "I suggest when we get to the gate you speak to the sentries. They'll become suspicious if I get involved. There's a certain protocol to all this, and if my deputy can't get me past a few gate sentries while I attend to paperwork here in the back seat, I'll need to have you replaced." Rommel smiled, and Donovan couldn't help but grin himself.

"Don't get out of the car and don't get upset, but be firm and insist on going directly to the commandant's office. Once we're on the base, let me do all the talking. Do you understand?"

Donovan nodded. "Yes, I've got it. And Herr Rommel, remember, we must get on the sub before the weapons are loaded. In fact, if it's possible, I don't even want us to be seen by anyone up close but the base commander and the sub's captain until we are underway. Once at sea, we'll just have to take things as they come, but we need to be away from the base as soon as possible, otherwise things may begin to unhinge. I doubt the U-two-thirty-four's captain knows anything about this mission. All he probably knows is he's going to lay mines in areas designated by the mission commander—you."

"The captain will do what I tell him to do," Rommel said matter-of-factly. "But as you said, timing is everything. I'll make sure things move along as rapidly as possible, but we have no control over the assembly and loading process. We'll just have to assume the team that's been sent here to do that will be...motivated—and if I know the führer, they will be. That's good for us."

Lunn was awake and studying a map. He turned and looked back at Donovan. "We're nearly there, sir. Just a few more minutes."

"Right, thanks, Charlie," Donovan said. "Get ready and follow my lead. Gentlemen," Donovan said in German, "it's time. Stay alert and keep your wits about you. Everything from now on depends on each of us playing our parts perfectly."

He slid his pistol from its holster, pulled the slide back, and checked the chamber. "If this starts to go south, defend yourself, but nobody shoots until I do. Is that understood?"

Gunner and Rommel nodded. Donovan translated for Lunn, who gave Donovan a thumbs-up without looking back.

"This should be the entrance," Lunn said.

The car's back wheels lost their grip on the slick pavement as Gunner made the turn. He steered them out of the skid and switched the headlights to high beam. A large sign ahead read:

"Attention. Krupp Germaniawerft. Authorized Personnel Only. All Others Will Be Shot Without Warning."

Donovan checked his watch; it was half past midnight on Thursday March 1, 1945, his oldest son's birthday.

### * * *

At first there was no sound. Then the transport's port wing fuel tank exploded. Farmers from the nearby village who doubled as firefighters rushed to the wreckage in an ancient truck with a hand-pumping mechanism sticking out of the top.

The truck's bell clanged of its own accord as the tired vehicle staggered over recently plowed furrows in the cabbage field. It stopped within a few meters of the flaming wreckage. Jumping off the running board, one man pulled the truck's single canvas hose loose from where it lay folded and moved carefully toward the plane. A second man screwed the other end of the hose into a brass fitting, then clambered on top to help with the pumping.

Other villagers who'd fired on the American planes with rifles and shotguns peddled furiously down a nearby path toward the confusion. Their bicycles fell over like wounded animals as the men jumped off and ran to the plane's rear door. Smoke rolled out from the cabin when the door was finally yanked open.

A lone figure staggered out, coughing and spluttering. At first he was unrecognizable. His face and clothes were covered with grime and soot. The only clean patches of skin were the circles around his eyes where he'd held them shut against the smoke. "Is there anyone else inside?" one of the firefighters shouted. The figure shook his head, then crumpled forward onto his hands and knees.

They helped him, one man under each arm, to a nearby stand of leafless elms, where he sat down with his back against the cold winter bark. One of the farmers' wives came out of the crowd. She had a hand towel and jug of water and began to wipe the man's face. After a moment, she dropped the towel and placed a hand in front of her mouth to stifle the cry of amazement. She looked up at her neighbors, who stood staring down at the seated figure with astonishment and surprise. No one said a word until Hitler said, "Good people, your führer thanks you for your help. I must get to a telephone at once."

The crowd broke into an excited frenzy. "It's Hitler." "It's the führer!"

"Quickly, Harold, go tell Uncle Albert to bring a cart," someone said. A boy sprinted away from the crowd and up the road.

The villagers ducked instinctively as the transport exploded in a ball of fire behind them. The firefighters, old men and a few boys, pulled the engine away from the inferno; its single hose and hand pump were barely adequate to put out a large bonfire, much less a burning airplane full of fuel. One of the plane's landing gear wheels, its rubber on fire, rolled away from the explosion for a distance into the cabbage field and fell over.

Hitler was loaded on a horse-drawn cart, covered with blankets, and then driven amidst a gaggle of chattering villagers and assorted barnyard animals to the town's only working telephone.

# Chapter 28

### KIEL, GERMANY

Kapitänleutnant Johann Fahler, commanding officer of the U-234, watched from the bridge as sailors made the bow and stern lines of his submarine fast against their mooring cleats. Four powerful spotlights in each corner of the Konrad U-boat shelter illuminated the scene.

Alongside his boat was the Japanese submarine I-71. Shorter than the U-234 by at least ten meters, she was painted a charcoal gray. A Rising Sun flag hung limply at her stern. Overhead, a ceiling gantry on rails lifted heavy barrel-shaped containers from a forward hatch. Men alongside the sub maneuvered the suspended cargo onto waiting dollies.

"Secure the diesels and put a charge on the batteries," Fahler said into the handset that connected the bridge to the control room five meters below him. The subtle but constant vibration of the sub's hull stopped as the engines fell silent. He turned to his crew chief.

"We'll be underway again in just a few hours, Heinie. See to the fueling and get all the stores below. Somebody's supposed to be here from Berlin to take care of arming and loading the mines. Unfortunately, they'll also be sailing with us. Shit, I hate having freeloaders on my boat, but I'm told these mines are exceptional and need special care. And so," Fahler sighed, "we do what we are told."

He pushed a battered and dirty captain's cap back on his forehead and rubbed the red stubble of his beard. "I'm going for a bath and shave, then to see Gutrig. Probably have to get that worthless prig out of bed. Give the crew a few hours to rest and clean up once the fueling's complete and all provisions are aboard. I'll relieve you when I get back." Fahler looked at his watch. It was three o'clock in the morning. "Give me a couple of hours."

"Aye, Captain," replied the chief.

### * * *

Commander Riccard Gutrig was not in bed. In fact, he was quite awake after being informed by the sentries there was a Luftwaffe lieutenant general, his aides, and a Gestapo agent at the front gate demanding to see him.

Dressing quickly, he wondered why a high-ranking general and his entourage would show up here at such an ungodly hour. His mind raced, trying to think of all the possibilities. It must have something to do with the special project taking place in the warehouse. But why wasn't he told to expect other visitors, either by Berlin or Veltheim? He finished dressing, looked at himself in the mirror, and hurried out of his quarters, taking the steps two at a time.

A car was parked outside the entrance to his office. Two motorcycles stood idling nearby. The dismounted riders were milling about in the snow smoking cigarettes. The taller of the two snapped to attention and saluted as Gutrig approached out of the shadows.

"Commander, the general and his aides are inside waiting for you," the sentry said.

"Did you check their credentials?"

"Yes, Commander, thoroughly."

"And what did they tell you about the nature of their business here?"

"We did ask, sir." Gutrig could see the man was nervous. "The general's aide, a colonel, did all the talking. He answered by asking me if it was standard procedure on this base for gate sentries to interrogate general officers about the details of their official business. Sir, he also said if that was the policy, I could consider it forthwith suspended and he guaranteed you would be out within the hour to personally inform each sentry everywhere on the base that this policy was no longer in effect."

"Shit," Gutrig said under his breath. Already this was playing out badly for him. "All right, go back to your post and notify me immediately if we have anymore, uh, visitors." He turned and hurried up the steps.

Gutrig was out of breath when he reached his office. Pausing at the door to collect himself, he started to repeat in his mind, "No mistakes, no mistakes." He turned the knob.

He first noticed a man, his back to him in a Luftwaffe general's uniform, examining photos of his former shipmates on the wall. In front of his desk sat a Wermacht colonel, and standing against the wall by a window were two others, a man in a civilian topcoat with a brimmed hat and another, younger officer, who was casually smoking a cigarette.

The colonel turned in his seat and fixed him with an impatient gaze. Gutrig snapped off a salute.

"Commander, please come in. There is urgent business to discuss and we have, unfortunately, already been delayed longer than necessary."

Gutrig quickly unbuttoned his coat, hung it on a hook near the door, and walked around his desk but remained standing. The general did not look at him, but instead continued to gaze at the photos. Gutrig worried about starting the encounter with questions, but knew he was perfectly within his rights to do so. His senses told him to err on the side of caution, however, until the circumstances of this bizarre scene became clearer.

"I apologize, General, for any delay at the gate," Gutrig said, addressing his remarks to Rommel, who had by then moved to a seat in front of his desk and settled himself.

Rommel looked at him for several seconds before responding. "Commander, I am General Kessler, this gentlemen is Colonel Riker. These other men's names are unimportant for your purposes. What is important for you to know is that for the next few hours, until I leave this base, you work for me." Rommel looked for a glimmer of understanding in Gutrig's eyes. He saw only confusion.

The base commander now had no choice but to step out on a limb. "Sir, with all due respect, I must say this is highly irregular. I have no knowledge of your purpose here, nor have I had even a hint from Berlin or from anyone else concerning your arrival. This facility is under the tightest security at the moment and your presence here is technically a breach of that security. I really must insist..." Gutrig stopped speaking as the Gestapo agent unbuttoned his coat and casually pulled it back, revealing a shoulder holster and pistol. He gave Gutrig a cold stare.

Rommel looked at Donovan, then back at Gunner, who, at some unspoken command from the general, let the coat fall back around him.

"Commander," Rommel said with a tired sigh, "your protocol and authority here has been temporarily superseded by the führer, who is acting through me."

Rommel removed his cap, placed it on the desk, and pulled the führer warrant from inside his black leather outercoat. He slid it across the desk to Gutrig, who lowered himself into his chair, unfolded the page and began reading.

He'd never seen such a document but its contents were unambiguous and he had no doubt whatsoever the signature was authentic. He refolded the paper, stood, and handed it back. "Sir, of course, this base and its garrison are at your disposal. In whatever way I can be of assistance, you need only ask."

Rommel knew Gutrig was hooked. He also knew it was time to release a little of the tension. "How long have you known Captain Manshenck, Commander?" Rommel gestured at one of the photos. Gutrig was surprised at the sudden change in atmosphere, but appreciative.

"We shipped out together on the _Atlantis_ , General. We were shipmates for two years."

Rommel nodded. "I met Manshenck many years ago in Danzig at the academy. He's a good fellow, and I hope he is well. Please give him my personal regards when you see him."

Gutrig beamed. "Yes, of course, General, I will certainly do that. I'm sure he will be glad to know you were thinking of him."

Donovan broke the spell. "Commander, I want Mr. Ostering to go to your communication office for the duration of the time we're here. All incoming and outgoing transmissions by wireless or phone are to be authorized first by the general or myself. Ostering will make sure this procedure is followed to the letter."

"Yes, of course, Colonel," Gutrig replied. "I'll have one of my men escort him to the communications shack."

"You are aware that certain weapons are being readied here for loading onto the U-two-thirty-four, are you not, Commander?" Donovan tried to keep the question general. He was fishing and hoped Gutrig would fill in some spaces for him.

"The weapons team headed by Colonel Veltheim and Dr. Fritsch arrived here yesterday from someplace in southern Germany," Gutrig gushed. "The contents of the I-seventy-one have been transferred to the warehouse. Once the weapons are ready they will be immediately loaded into the mine shafts of the U-two-thirty-four."

Donovan stole a quick glance at Rommel, who sat quietly with a small pad in his lap making notes, seemingly lost in his own thoughts.

"We'll be sailing with the U-two-thirty-four, Commander. The general, the captain, and myself," Donovan said. Gutrig's eyes widened at this revelation, but he tried hard not to show any surprise. "Has she arrived?"

"Yes, she moored about an hour ago, I believe," Gutrig said, checking his watch. "The captain should be refueling and reprovisioning as we speak. And, as I said, the weapons will be loaded as soon as possible after they are finally assembled."

Rommel closed his notebook, placed it in a pocket, and stood, replacing his cap and fastening the buttons on his coat. Donovan stood as well. Gutrig knew, without quite knowing how, that this general was not to be trifled with, but at the same time, he also gave off a strong aura of confidence as a comrade in arms. He wondered if it was the same feeling soldiers in the _Afrika Korps_ felt whenever the legendary Desert Fox walked among them in the field.

"I want to get aboard the U-two-thirty-four immediately, Commander," Rommel said. "Please inform the captain he will have three additional passengers."

"General, may I ask if you plan to review the operation at the warehouse?" Gutrig asked. "I feel certain Dr. Fritsch and Colonel Veltheim will want to meet you and understand more about your mission here."

"Commander, Colonel Veltheim and Dr. Fritsch are busy with a very important task. I wouldn't want to distract them even for a moment from their duties. There will be time enough once we're underway to talk. Nothing should be done to distract them from finishing the assembly of the weapons and loading them aboard the U-two-thirty-four, including informing them of our arrival." Rommel thought he saw a fragment of doubt in Gutrig's eyes. "Are we clear on that, Commander?"

"Yes, General, perfectly clear. I'll escort you to the U-two-thirty-four myself."

Rommel gestured to the door. Gutrig picked up his coat and thrust his arms into the sleeves as they descended the steps. Outside, in the pale light of a single shaded bulb near the building's entrance, a car was waiting. Rommel got in first followed by Donovan and Lunn. Gutrig settled himself behind the wheel. Gunner followed a guard toward the communications shack. A light wind stirred the snow. The car's taillights soon disappeared over a hill on the road leading to the Konrad U-boat shelter and the open water beyond.

# Chapter 29

### LUDENDORF, GERMANY

Dr. Willmot was aware of the legend of the führer and his seeming indestructibility. His narrow escape from the attack on his personal aircraft certainly seemed to give credence to it. Considering the eyewitness accounts he'd heard, Hitler was, once again, very lucky to be alive.

He finished bandaging Hitler's right hand. Earlier he'd put a pressure dressing on his left ankle for a severe sprain. It was all he could do. The führer insisted on leaving for Kiel within the hour. Willmot tried to lighten the mood by explaining to Hitler that in this community things probably moved a little slower than in Berlin at the Reich Chancellery. It hadn't worked.

"How much longer?" Hitler asked. Willmot glanced at the clock on the mantle of the fireplace in his study.

"I called the nearest garrison an hour ago, mein Führer. Frankly, they thought I was crazy until you got on the phone and persuaded them to send a car."

Hitler fumed. "I must get to Kiel immediately, Herr Doctor. It is of the utmost urgency and importance." He wanted to pace but could not without crutches, and he didn't want to use them. Crutches were a sign of weakness.

"I think I hear an engine," Willmot said, walking to the window. Pulling the drape aside, he watched a Wermacht ambulance with a red cross painted on the side race up the dirt road leading to his clinic.

Hitler scrambled up and limped to the window. "Yes, finally," he said. "Would you get my coat, Doctor?" Willmot retrieved the führer's coat and helped him into it.

"That leg will be sore for sometime," the doctor said, handing Hitler a small vial. "Here are some analgesics to help you on the ride. When you get to Kiel, perhaps the clinic there will be able give you something more substantial."

The ambulance skidded to a halt. Two men jumped out and rushed to the door. Hitler already had it open. "Thank you Herr Doctor, I won't forget your service and kindness."

Willmot watched from the doorway as men helped the führer into the back of the ambulance and closed the rear double doors. The driver switched on the siren when they were moving. Willmot heard its wail slowly fade as the ambulance sped north toward Kiel.

### * * *

Fahler was angry and indignant. It was bad enough he had a group of nursemaids to the weapons on his boat to take care of. But now, a Luftwaffe general officer and two other men! It was an outrage. He'd personally telephone the admiral and end this lunacy before it got started.

"Captain Fahler," Gutrig said, "if I were you, I'd keep my head down, grit my teeth, do what these people tell you to do, and get back here as soon as possible. Then they'll leave your boat and you'll be free of them for good."

"Don't you understand, Commander? I'll have to displace three or four more of my crew to make room for these pests. How can I jeopardize the crew and my boat by taking along more sightseers?"

Gutrig thought a moment. "Take the torpedo men off and the mechanic's two helpers, the fat kid and the little, whiny one. The U-two-thirty-four is a minelayer, not part of a wolf pack that must have torpedoes to hunt."

Fahler was pacing back and forth in front of Gutrig's desk. He stopped in midstride and turned to face the base commander. "This is bullshit, pure and simple," he said. "I understand this is an important mission, and because it's important, I need everyone at their stations, including the fat kid and his whiny friend. If I leave the torpedo men behind the entire ship is undefended. I don't have a deck gun, and we only have a few small arms."

Gutrig tried to be helpful. "All right, then put the cook's two helpers and two of the general maintenance people ashore. You can still defend yourself without a couple of potato peelers and two kids who don't know anything but how to run an oil can."

Fahler was still fuming. "Captain," Gutrig continued, "I suggest you get down to the dock and make your passengers as comfortable as you can. Veltheim said it would be another few hours before the mines are ready, and General Kessler said he wants to get underway the minute the mines are loaded."

"General Kessler said!" Fahler boomed. "I run this boat! I'm the captain, and if some pampered flyboy general thinks he can take over, well, I'll make sure he is advised otherwise!"

Gutrig jumped straight up out of his chair and came to attention as if a high-voltage charge had just passed through his body. He was staring at someone behind Fahler.

The U-234's captain whirled around to see Lieutenant General Kessler standing in the doorway with a bemused expression on his face. "Excellent, Captain, I like commanders with balls and you apparently have a very large pair. However, I should tell you that unless you're interested in having them handed to you today gift-wrapped in a box, it would be prudent to do as the commander suggests and get on with your duties." Rommel's gaze was a sharpened bayonet.

Fahler's mind was running at emergency speed. There was no mistaking the military prerogative of this man. His face and demeanor bespoke a battle-hardened confidence that could only have come from a long and successful upward grind through the ranks. "Herr General, I, I..." Fahler was sputtering but had the presence of mind to come to attention and salute.

"Delay will not be tolerated on this mission, Captain," Rommel said. "Once the mines are loaded, I want to get underway immediately. When we're at sea, I'll brief you and the crew on where we're going and what we'll be doing. Until then, your only concern is to get the sub ready. That preparation includes finding room for me and my men. It doesn't have to be fancy. It will be nice to see how the other half lives. I suspect accommodations on your boat will be like a luxury hotel next to some of the rat-and-flea-infested shit holes I've slept in during my career."

Fahler regained his voice and his senses. "Yes, Herr General. I'll see to it immediately." He picked up his coat and hat from the chair and hurried through the doorway.

"Oh, and Captain," Rommel's voice stopped Fahler in his tracks halfway down the corridor.

"Yes, Herr General?"

"I agree that leaving your torpedo men behind would have been a very bad idea. That's good judgment only a seasoned combat commander would have." Rommel was nodding. "I respect your concern for the safety of your crew. Hearing it saved your skin tonight."

"Yes, Herr General. Thank you, Herr General," Fahler replied.

As he fled down the steps and out into the street, he could not believe how close he'd come to disaster. Without question he owed Kessler his allegiance and very likely his life. The war was not going well and insubordination in these trying times could easily lead to a court martial. He climbed on the bicycle he used to move around the base and stood hard on the pedals.

# Chapter 30

### KIEL, GERMANY

Otto Gruber tried to appear casual as he studied diagrams for the U-234's air system. They were laid out on a drafting table in one corner of the warehouse so technicians could refer to them if necessary. Gruber had a good deal of practical experience with all things mechanical and had learned to read schematics at the Polytechnic Institute in Berlin when he'd arrived there as a young man after training as a sleeper agent by his Russian handlers in Minsk.

In another part of the warehouse, Fritsch and Veltheim were supervising the final assembly of the mines. The process had been agonizingly slow, but now the three nuclear cores, machined to exacting tolerances, were finally finished. Veltheim and Fritsch were ecstatic, and the atmosphere was almost jovial as they worked together.

Gruber's index finger traced the drawings. He knew the recently retrofitted snorkel device made it possible for the U-234 to operate submerged, virtually undetectable for extended periods. He also knew once they left Kiel, unless he could somehow disable the system, the boat would stay submerged until they reached their first target.

Gruber noted a junction of the air supply system with the intake manifold of the diesel engines, which would do nicely. Exploding a small charge at that spot would kill the air supply to the engines and force the captain to surface for repairs. The tricky part would be setting the explosion to occur at the time and near the coordinates he'd sent Stalin. Satisfied, he switched off the drafting table's overhead light and went to join the assembly team.

Veltheim watched a technician torque down the casing bolts on the last mine. "Finished, Colonel," the man said, stepping away from what was now one of the most powerful weapons on earth.

"Excellent," Veltheim replied with a sigh of relief. "Let's get them on the dollies and back over to the sub." He checked his watch. "I want them loaded before dawn. We should be underway soon after that."

There was a flurry of activity and the sound of chains rattling as Gutrig's men hoisted the mines carefully back on the dollies with portable block-and-tackle assemblies usually used to lift engines that had come in for repair.

"Fritsch, stay here and supervise getting the mines over to the U-two-thirty-four. I'm going to see the captain and let him know we're almost ready to sail." Veltheim pulled on his coat and a pair of black leather gloves.

Fritsch was near complete exhaustion. He'd been chain smoking and living on a combination of aspirin and cold coffee for hours. "All right, Colonel," was all he could manage.

Veltheim picked up his cap, adjusted it on his head, and walked with a spring in his step from the warehouse to the Konrad shelter. Inside, spotlights lit the U-234 as final stores were placed aboard. He could hear men shouting orders to one another, and near the gangway at the stern, he saw Gutrig talking to someone. He hoped it was the U-234's captain.

"Colonel Veltheim," Gutrig said. "How is your work coming along?"

Veltheim appeared not to have heard the question. "Are you Captain Fahler?" he asked. Fahler was wearing a heavy well-worn cable-knit sweater, dark pants, and boots. A red-and-black-checked shirt protruded from the sweater's collar and the captain's once-white, now-soiled cap was pushed back on his forehead.

"Yes, I'm Fahler."

Veltheim's face darkened. Fahler might be the captain of this boat, but he was still Veltheim's subordinate in rank and he'd made no move to salute or show any military courtesy whatsoever. Veltheim decided to make sure Fahler knew from the start who was in command of this mission.

"Kapitänleutnant Fahler," Veltheim began, "for this time only, I will ignore your gross insubordination and write it off to the fact that you and your crew are simply tired after having been at sea for the last week. This mission..." Veltheim's voice built in a carefully measured intensity, "...is the most important of the war, and its operational control is under my exclusive jurisdiction. You will sail when I tell you to sail, the U-two-thirty-four will go where I direct her to go, and you and the crew will come home when I say the mission is complete and not one hour before then." Veltheim turned to Gutrig. "Have I missed anything, Commander?"

Gutrig, according to his nature, was cautious. "Perhaps, Colonel, you will wish to check with General Kessler. He may have a slightly different concept concerning the operational aspects of this mission."

Veltheim ignored Gutrig. He was waiting for the response he should have been hearing from a contrite and embarrassed lieutenant commander who'd just had his ass handed to him by a superior officer.

Fahler's face betrayed no emotion. He'd dealt with dandies like Veltheim before. His voice was as smooth as custard. "Gentlemen, please excuse me. I have many things to do to get my boat ready to sail." He turned and looked directly at Veltheim. "We'll get underway when _I_ say we're ready. Unless, of course," Fahler said, oozing sarcasm, " _sir_ , you are qualified as a submarine captain, in which case, I will be glad to step aside." The captain turned without another word, went down the gangway, and strode to a hatch amidships where two crewmen were loading a torpedo.

Veltheim's face was apoplectic as he watched Fahler walk away. In that same instant, something in his brain finally registered what Gutrig had said. He whirled on base commander and sputtered, "What? What did you just say? General who?"

There was a noise at the east doors to the complex.

Gutrig turned and watched as the first of the dollies carrying the mines were wheeled into the shelter and down the ramp toward the waiting submarine. Fahler left the two men who'd finished loading the torpedoes and moved to the mine shaft doors in the forward part of the sub. He ordered them opened, and their giant steel hatches swung slowly up and outward, like flower petals warming to the sun. Gutrig turned back to Veltheim, whose face had turned a purplish black.

"General Kessler is aboard the U-two-thirty-four," Gutrig said. "Now that the mines are complete, you should go report to him."

"Who the hell is General Kessler?" Veltheim shouted. "I don't know any General Kessler! I'm in command of this mission, on direct orders of the führer!"

Gutrig shrugged. "I wouldn't delay, Colonel. I'm sure he'll want to speak with you now that the mines are being loaded. The general asked that you not be disturbed while you and Dr. Fritsch were busy at the warehouse."

Veltheim's mind was spinning. What was going on here? Something was terribly wrong. "Where is this General Kessler?" Veltheim demanded.

"Come with me," Gutrig replied, walking down the gangway.

Veltheim followed him across the deck, up the ladder to the conning tower, and back down another leading to the control room.

Inside the sub it was quiet. Crewmembers ignored the pair as they descended to the control room floor. An officer was bent over a table tracing a course out on a chart of the Baltic Sea. Gutrig approached him with Veltheim in tow. "Where is General Kessler, Lieutenant?"

The man stood erect, saluted, and said, "Sir, he's in the wardroom, I believe." Gutrig nodded and started forward through a steel bulkhead. Presently they stepped into the wardroom, which doubled as the officer's mess. Rommel was seated at a table with Donovan and Lunn.

Veltheim stared wide-eyed and disbelieving at the strange group. Gutrig spoke first. "Herr General, may I introduce Colonel Veltheim."

Veltheim had just enough presence of mind left to render a salute. Rommel casually returned the salute but remained seated. "Hello, Colonel," Rommel said coolly. "I trust the mines are now complete and that you and Dr. Fritsch are seeing to their loading."

Veltheim searched for words; none were coming.

Rommel motioned to a vacant chair. "Sit, Colonel, I suspect you have questions, and you may be sure I have answers."

Veltheim removed his cap and sat facing the three men whom he did not recognize—although the general was somehow vaguely familiar.

"General, I am Colonel Veltheim. I'm in command of this mission on direct orders of the führer. With all due respect, sir, I must ask what your business is here on board the U-two-thirty-four. I don't know you and was not advised by the führer, with whom I maintain constant contact, about you..." Veltheim looked curiously at Donovan and Lunn, "...nor any of these other gentlemen."

Gutrig stood at the doorway to the small space listening. Fahler joined him moments later.

"General," Fahler said, "the mines are being loaded as we speak, I think another half an hour at most."

Veltheim turned and looked at Fahler and then back at Rommel. He could not believe what he was hearing.

"Thank you, Captain," Rommel said.

Rommel turned back to Veltheim. "Colonel, your work has been exemplary; however, you are now released from your duties respecting this mission. You will return to Berlin with Dr. Fritsch and await further instructions. I am assuming command on new orders from the führer."

Gutrig and Fahler felt the tension in the room wind up like a spring on a catapult. Veltheim turned to the captain and base commander. His voice was frosty.

"I don't know who these men are but I can tell you categorically they are not here on the führer's orders. They're spies or saboteurs or both. Captain, arrest these men at once and detain them until I can get the führer on the phone. If you do not do so, I will see you court-martialed and hanged for dereliction of duty."

Veltheim made a move for his sidearm but Donovan already had his leveled at Veltheim's chest. Rommel nodded to Lunn, who slid out from the table, walked to the chair where Veltheim was sitting, and took his weapon. Gutrig and Fahler exchanged glances, not believing the extraordinary scene playing out before their eyes.

A crewman stuck his head in the room and stared with amazement at the sight of Donovan pointing a weapon at another man across the table. Fahler turned to him and spoke quickly, "What is it, Wentz?"

"Sir, there's a phone call from the front gate for Commander Gutrig. The guard says it's extremely urgent, Captain. I can put it through in here." The crewmen motioned to a handset in a cradle on the bulkhead.

"Do it," Fahler said. Wentz hurried away.

A moment later the phone warbled like a songbird. Fahler picked it up, listened for a moment, and handed it to Gutrig.

"What?" Gutrig said into the receiver. "Say that again." Gutrig listened and then his voice exploded. "Holy Mother of God! Get him down here to the Konrad _now_ , Sergeant! I'll meet you at the east doorway." Gutrig snapped the handset back in its cradle and turned to the group. His face was ashen and his hands were shaking.

"The führer is at the front gate! He'll be here in a few minutes!"

Veltheim rose slowly to his feet, glaring at Rommel and Donovan. "The führer! Yes, of course. He would come personally to make sure this mission went according to his plan. And now, gentlemen, and of course, _General_ , we will sort this out once and for all!" Veltheim's voice was gleeful and triumphant.

Fahler picked up the handset, set a switch on the control box, and spoke. His voice could be heard resounding throughout the sub.

"Attention. Attention, crew of the U-two-thirty-four. This is the captain. The führer is coming aboard. Make the ship ready to receive a distinguished visitor. That is all."

Excited chatter erupted all over the boat. Donovan turned and looked at Rommel, who appeared to be unperturbed. His right hand betrayed the coolness, however. It was resting on the grip of his pistol.

# Chapter 31

### KIEL, GERMANY

Donovan's mind clicked rapidly through a number of possible endings to this incredible and unforeseen turn of events. None of them was positive. He, Rommel, and Lunn would be arrested and shot as spies, probably before the day was out. How was it they had come so far only for the mission to end in disaster? Rommel had played his role brilliantly, and because of him they were now sitting inside the U-234, with the weapons aboard, only minutes away from sailing.

There was only one thing to do now. He'd have to try and take down the sub on his own—but how? Once discovered as impostors, they would be disarmed and shackled. Even if he was able to hold the crew at bay for a few minutes, there was no real hope. Maybe he could make his way back to the mine shafts and somehow detonate the bombs or at least disable them, but he didn't know the ship, and it would take too much time to figure it all out. The situation was far more than desperate. It was utterly hopeless.

Outside he could hear shouting and cheering. Goddamn! Hitler himself was here and...and then it occurred to him. At least, if they'd soon be dead, so would Adolph Hitler. When he was close enough, Donovan would kill him with a shot through the head. It might not solve the bigger problem of how to keep the Reich from dominating the world with nuclear weapons, but at least he could make sure whoever was controlling them wasn't the madman he'd soon meet face to face.

Fahler left and went forward to the control room. Veltheim stood next to the mess table, eyes blazing. His mouth curled into a sneer. He was clearly looking forward to the coming moment.

Donovan heard commotion and the sound of footsteps in the passageway and then, Adolph Hitler stepped through the hatchway. He looked like he'd been in an auto accident, but there was no mistaking his countenance. For a few moments there was nothing but stunned silence.

"Heil Hitler," Veltheim said with a raised arm salute. Fahler moved into the room and stood looking at the group over Hitler's right shoulder.

Donovan's hand went to his hip under the wardroom table. He unsnapped the leather holster strap. Rommel laid a finger on his arm and shook his head almost imperceptibly. Donovan got the message: stand down. He wasn't sure; there might not be another opportunity.

Rommel slid out from behind the mess table and stood face to face with Hitler. Veltheim's raspy cigarette-scorched voice pierced the congealed air.

"Mein Führer, these men say you sent them here to take over this mission. General Kessler..." Veltheim spat out the name, "...here claims to be in operational command of this submarine and its weapons on your authority!"

Hitler looked curiously at the Luftwaffe general. There was something familiar about him, but he couldn't place what it was. Something, though, something about his manner, something about his face. What was it?

Hitler glanced at Donovan and Lunn, who were also on their feet. He didn't recognize them at all, but this general was different, there was...yes, and then it came to him. He'd seen this man in Berlin at the airfield just a few days ago! What happened to the agent he'd sent to follow up on the man's identity, and how had he come to be aboard this submarine? Hitler smelled a plot. It was time to take care of yet another traitor.

Hitler's eyes never left Rommel's as he spoke. "This man is _not_ acting on my authority. I don't know any General Kessler and I don't know any of his companions. Captain, arrest these traitors and throw them in the brig. I'll personally see to their execution after the U-two-thirty-four is safely at sea."

Rommel held up a hand as the captain came forward. He had a hunch, and he had to play it now. He'd become the most feared adversary in Africa by trusting his instincts, and now, face to face with the man who'd threatened his family and tried to murder him, his instincts were screaming at him to act.

Rommel knew Hitler. He'd been with him since the beginning of the war, and their relationship was extremely close. The führer had a tiny gold fleck in the corner of his right eye, almost invisible unless one knew where to look. This man had a tiny gold fleck in the corner of his right eye. There was no doubt it was Hitler, and because it was, he had an idea.

Without warning, Rommel lifted his right hand and swung it hard, backhanding Hitler across his cheek. Before anyone could react, he repeated the move. His knuckles cracked against Hitler's jaw, spinning him backward against a bulkhead, sending him sprawling to the floor. Veltheim went for his pistol. The holster was empty.

" _This_ _man_ is the impostor!" Rommel roared. He was leaning over the figure, staring down; legs spread apart, his voice pure thunder.

Donovan and the rest of the group stood gaping at the scene in utter astonishment.

Hitler's mouth and cheeks were covered with blood and spittle. He cowered against the bulkhead and looked up with fear in his eyes. He tried to speak but could only stammer incomprehensibly.

"No, this _is_ the führer!" Veltheim screamed. "Captain, carry out the führer's orders. Arrest these men. Immediately!"

Rommel turned on Veltheim, shoved him back hard, and bellowed, "You're probably in on it with this...this, Bolshevik spy!"

Rommel was no longer acting a part. He'd crossed some strange boundary and he wasn't coming back anytime soon.

"Look at this whimpering dog with his tail between his legs!" Rommel slapped Hitler hard, then stood and turned to Fahler, who looked like he was in a trance.

"Captain Fahler!" Rommel shook the captain by his shoulders. "Do you really believe this sniveling jellyfish is the führer?'

Hitler tried again to speak. "I am the führer, I am your führer." His voice quavered and he'd shrunk further back against the bulkhead, hands protectively in front of his face.

"Get Berlin on the phone, Captain," Rommel demanded.

Fahler didn't react. Rommel picked up the handset and thrust it in front of the captain's face. "Call Berlin, Captain! Ask for the führer. Do you understand me?"

Fahler nodded, turned the ringing crank, and listened for the operator.

"Get me Berlin," he barked. "I need to speak to the führer." A second passed as he listened. "Do what I say, Sergeant. Ring Berlin now, the Reich Chancellery!"

Hitler's seemed to become fully alert. " _No_!" he cried. " _No_! Do not call Berlin!"

Rommel shook his head in disgust and made as if to slap Hitler yet again.

"Shut up!" Rommel thundered back at Hitler. "You are the one who shall be shot, you treacherous fucking scoundrel."

Fahler gave the handset to Rommel. "Your man wants to speak to you."

Rommel spoke to Gunner. "Put the call through." He gave the receiver back.

"This is Captain Fahler of the U-two-thirty-four in Kiel. I need to speak to the führer on a matter of the greatest urgency."

"Is there a loudspeaker, Captain?" Rommel asked.

Fahler nodded and turned a switch on the phone's control box.

An annoyed voice finally crackled over the speaker. "The führer cannot be interrupted now. This is Reichsmarshal Himmler's adjutant. Who the hell is this and what's so damn urgent that you are calling the führer at this hour?"

Fahler looked at Rommel, who opened his hands and shook them in a gesture that said, _Go ahead man_! _Get on with it_.

"Sir, this is Johann Fahler, captain of the U-234 in Kiel. There is a man on my submarine claiming to be the führer. I'm calling to confirm his identity."

For a few seconds the loudspeaker only cracked and popped. The air in the small wardroom was electrified.

"Captain, are you a fool or just drunk on your ass?" Himmler's disgruntled adjutant said. His voice became an urgent whisper. "The führer is here in Berlin with me and important guests at a dinner party. He's giving an address at the moment. Would you like to hear?" The führer's voice came clearly through the speaker as the phone was held out in a roomful of attentive party guests three hundred kilometers away.

The adjutant came back on the line. "If the führer were somewhere else, wouldn't I know about it? Captain, I will be speaking personally to the führer and Admiral Donitz about your incompetence." The line went dead.

Donovan was breathing hard. Fahler stared at the handset in disbelief, then replaced it and switched off the speaker.

Rommel gave rapid-fire orders. "Captain, tape this bastard's mouth shut and put him in restraint. I'll want to interrogate him later." Rommel looked around. A large crowd had gathered. "And clear this room!"

Fahler hesitated. "Captain! What are you waiting for! Get on with it!"

Fahler turned and spoke to the crew chief, who was standing with a cluster of sailors in the outside corridor trying to peer in. Two crewmen dragged Hitler to his feet and placed a band of strong, black electrical tape over his mouth and around his head. Hitler's eyes were wide with terror. The crewmen placed his hands behind his back, taped them with several winds of the roll, and did the same to his feet.

"Take him aft to the maintenance lockers for the time being," Fahler ordered.

Hitler was lifted headfirst through the hatchway. His muffled screams faded as they carried him to the makeshift holding cell.

Rommel turned his unbridled fury next on Veltheim. "If you had not been diligent in preparing the weapons, Colonel, I would have you shot. As it is, there's no time to deal with your other obvious inadequacies. Captain, take the colonel and his men ashore and lock them up in the warehouse until I can deal with them properly."

Fahler gave the order. Veltheim was seething, but his eyes were frightened as he was led away.

"Thank you, Captain," Rommel said, regaining some of his composure. "Get the ship ready to sail immediately. I want to be at sea and submerged within the hour."

"Yes, General."

Fahler turned again to his crew chief. "Heine, get the engines running and put the colonel's team ashore. Pass the word to the crew: we're leaving at once. I'll be in the control room in five minutes."

Fahler slowly lowered himself onto a seat at the wardroom table. He was staring in amazement at Rommel. "General, how in God's name did you know this man was an impostor? He looked and acted so real. I was absolutely convinced he was Hitler."

Rommel asked Lunn for a glass of water and immediately recognized his mistake.

"Perhaps something a little stronger, Herr General?" Fahler interjected. "I think I could also use a drink."

He walked to a nearby cabinet, unlocked it, and pulled out a bottle. When he returned, he filled two glasses. Donovan declined for himself and Lunn, then closed his eyes and said a prayer of thanks.

Rommel sipped at the whiskey. "The führer, Captain...the real führer's eyes are absolutely clear. I've had the opportunity to study them many times, I assure you. This man had a gold fleck in the corner of his right eye. That's how I knew." Rommel sat back and drained the rest of his drink. "A damn good one, but an impostor just the same."

Fahler shook his head in wonder. The general's audacity and quick action was something he would never forget. There was no telling what might have happened had the lie not been exposed before they got underway.

The phone warbled. "Very well, Chief. I'm on my way."

Fahler turned back to Rommel. "The boat is ready, Herr General," he said. "I'm going to see to our departure. Perhaps I should know where we're going?"

Donovan, who'd spent the last few minutes trying to stop his hands from shaking, broke in. "Put the ship on a course for England, Captain. Oh, and Captain, can I still contact the communications shack from here?"

"Yes, but the line will be broken as soon as we cast off, so whatever call you're making—do it quickly." Fahler put the bottle back, locked the cabinet, and disappeared through the hatch.

Donovan picked up the phone and spun the ringer. A voice answered immediately. "Put Agent Ostering on."

"This is Ostering."

"Take the car and return to Berlin immediately." Donovan hesitated, then added for the benefit of any eavesdroppers, "Tell the führer we're underway and will contact him at the prearranged time."

"Yes sir," said Gunner. Donovan clicked off.

Donovan, Rommel, and Lunn looked at each other in the quiet of the wardroom. Rommel spoke first. "I'm going to the bridge. I've always wanted to see how these U-boats work."

Lunn watched him go, then turned to Donovan and said very quietly the only words he'd spoken since arriving in Kiel. "Holeee shit!"

# Chapter 32

### THE BALTIC SEA

Gruber watched the U-234 slip out of its berth and disappear into the dark, leaving only a hazy trail of gray exhaust from the diesel engines to show it had ever been there at all. He'd used the commotion on the sub to return to the engine room, find the critical junction between the snorkel and the engines, and place the charge.

Later, when he was informed he was being put ashore, he used the excuse of going back to collect his things to activate the bomb's timer. He could only hope the setting he'd used would put the sub at or near the waiting Russian vessel. There was no way to make it any more precise without being aboard.

Veltheim struggled against the men restraining him. "Stop this madness," he shouted at Gutrig. "Can't you see? This is a plot against the Reich and the führer. Don't let them get away!"

"The führer is in Berlin at a dinner party, you idiot! You heard him as well as I did. Stop babbling, Colonel."

Fahler and Rommel watched the scene from the bridge. They couldn't hear what was being said but there could be no doubt from Veltheim's animated gestures the colonel was in a rage. Fahler shook his head and turned to Rommel.

"General, I'm going to submerge the boat now. Please get below." Rommel nodded, took one last look at the boatyard receding in the distance, and climbed down through the hatch.

Fahler gave the order. "Clear the bridge. Prepare to submerge. Engines ahead slow." After verifying with a quick scan that none of the crew was still topside, Fahler went below and sealed the hatch.

In the conning tower, directly below the bridge, the crew awaited the captain's order to dive. Fahler watched the six control panel lights, which indicated that all openings on the ship were sealed, turn from red to white.

"Diving officer, submerge the boat, make your depth fifty meters. Helm, come to course two seven zero." Fahler's voice was practiced and sure.

"Aye Captain," said Heine. He repeated Fahler's instructions to the conning tower crew, then turned the switch on the ship's diving alarm. The klaxon's loud and insistent clamor resounded throughout the ship.

Gutrig turned at the top of the ramp leading down to the sub berths. He watched as the U-234 slipped below the ebony surface of the Baltic. Only a little moonlight now reflected off the spot where the sub had been only seconds before. He was glad to have them gone. Now he would have to deal with the aftermath. A sick feeling in his stomach suggested the next few days might be worse than the outlandish events of the last few hours. But how was that possible? He turned with a sigh and followed the sound of Veltheim's fulminations as he was dragged away.

### * * *

In the officer's mess, the diving alarm interrupted Lunn and Donovan's quiet conversation. The deck tipped forward, and they braced their feet to compensate for the shift. The klaxon fell silent. Its nerve-jangling racket was replaced by a new sound, a background hum of powerful diesel engines turning the sub's heavy propellers.

Rommel appeared in the hatchway. He stepped in and removed his coat. "Gentlemen, we're underway. I'm going to try and get some rest. You might do the same."

Donovan was exhausted but a heavy shot of adrenaline was still coursing through his system. "Charlie, go with the general, find a bunk, and get some rest. I'll be along shortly," he whispered. Lunn followed Rommel back to the crew's sleeping quarters.

Donovan sat at the dining table, closed his eyes, and tried to think through the next few days. His mind was a jumble and organizing it was bringing on a headache. He had to fight back the pain and think clearly.

There were now two big problems to deal with. The first was detection. No one except Churchill and the president knew of this mission. That circumstance was a double-edged sword. It was good because it ensured absolute secrecy from the beginning. It was bad because Allied forces would shoot first and ask questions later if the U-234 were discovered. He would notify the president by a prearranged wireless signal the sub was now in friendly hands, but that could only be done from the surface—and surfacing meant exposure and danger. And if Berlin finally discovered what had happened, the Germans would be on the lookout for any signal from the sub, triangulate it, and try to sink the U-234 themselves.

The other issue was Fahler. If he became suspicious, or if their cover was blown by some other unforeseen event, the party would be over. The U-234's crew of nearly sixty men could easily overpower the three of them. Fahler had to continue to be ignorant of the mission's true purpose until the last possible moment. At that point, Donovan hoped, he would have worked out a way to deceive him into surrendering the ship. It would not be easy. Fahler was intelligent and dedicated.

Donovan looked up as Fahler entered. "Sir, where is General Kessler?"

"He and Captain Hillerman went to find a bunk and try to get some rest. I'm going to do the same unless you have something for me to attend to at this moment."

Fahler shook his head. "No, Colonel, nothing. Our sailing time to the grid reference you gave me at our best speed will be about a day and a half, maybe two days if we need to make deviations for any reason. I'll keep you informed of our position."

Donovan stood. "Thank you, Captain. I know the last few hours have been difficult for you and the crew, but they and you have performed magnificently."

Fahler dismissed the compliment with a wave. "We do our job the best we know how, Colonel. I want you to know frankly that I don't appreciate having guests on my boat, but now you're here and we'll try and make the best of it."

Donovan turned to leave. "There is one more thing, Colonel," Fahler said.

"Yes, Captain?"

"What do you want done with our Russian tourist? He's chained up now in one of the maintenance lockers at the stern of the ship. I have a crewman guarding him, but the man does have other duties."

"General Kessler wants to interrogate the prisoner. As soon as he's awake, I'll tell him you would like your crewman to return to his duties. I'm sure the general will let you know very shortly what he wants done with the miserable spy."

Fahler nodded. "Have a good rest, Colonel. I recommend a lower bunk if you can find one. The smell of the boat doesn't seem so bad there, and it's usually a few degrees cooler. I'll have the galley prepare something for you later."

Donovan thanked the captain and started up the passageway to locate his companions. When he found them, they were in a deep sleep. Lunn's snoring harmonized with the hum of the engines. Donovan found it strangely comforting.

### * * *

The insistent clanging of an alarm bell woke Donovan out of a troubled sleep. He'd been dreaming about Nate Sarsfield. In his dream, dark figures were breaking the priest's fingers, one at a time, as he sat naked, strapped to a metal chair. Nate was screaming. Donovan bolted upright. Perspiration soaked his undershirt and his heart was hammering.

Men turned out of their bunks in a single leap and started running to their stations. Fahler's voice came over a loudspeaker. "All hands to battle stations. All hands to battle stations. Damage control, I need a report!"

Donovan swung his legs out and put his feet on the deck. How long had he been asleep? Where were his shoes? He looked over at Rommel and Lunn, who both looked startled.

"Have we been attacked?" Rommel asked, trying to make himself heard over the din. Donovan gave him a palms-up _I don't know_ gesture in response. Not finding his shoes, he ran in his stocking feet toward the control room. Smoke was beginning to fill the passageway when he ducked through the hatch.

Fahler and Heine were standing near the chart table in the conning tower. Red light bathed the scene, creating an eerie, almost hypnotic effect. Donovan could hear the chief, whose face was smudged with grease and soot.

"Captain, there was an explosion in the engine room near the diesel intake manifold. The fire has been contained, but the snorkel fitting was damaged. We can no longer get air from the outside to the diesels."

"Engine room, this is the captain," Fahler shouted into a handset. "Shut down the diesels immediately. Switch to battery power and get the electric motors turning as fast as you can!"

Fahler turned to his diving officer. "Take us to periscope depth."

"Aye, Captain."

Donovan went to the chart table. "Captain, what happened? Were we attacked?"

"No. Not attacked. Sabotage is more likely," Fahler said. "The blast damaged the snorkel, which means we can't run submerged except on the electric motors."

"Thirty meters...twenty meters," Heine called out as he watched the depth gauge needle unwind toward zero. "Periscope depth, Captain."

"All engines stop."

Donovan felt the ship stop vibrating as the engines shut down. Rommel and Lunn entered the conning tower but kept back against the wall so as not to interfere with the work of the crew.

Fahler turned to Rommel. "General, I believe the ship has been sabotaged. The snorkel device, which provides air to the diesel engines, was damaged in the explosion. We can run submerged for a time on the electric motors but sooner or later, we'll have to surface to recharge the batteries."

"Can we repair the damage?"

"Maybe, I'll have to wait and see what the maintenance section has to say. They're back there now taking a look." The handset rang. Fahler listened and then threw it disgustedly on the chart table. "There was also damage to the ship's internal air system. We'll have to surface very soon and open the ship to outside air to breathe until we can make the repair."

"Something about this stinks, Captain," Donovan said. "It could be a trap."

"I agree, Colonel, but I have no choice. Unless we surface, we'll all suffocate."

"Hydrophone, what have you got?" Fahler asked.

A crewman wearing a set of headphones leaned out of his small space. He lifted one of the earpieces as he spoke. "No screws turning. Only a faint rumble, Captain. I can't make it out. It could be interference. Something from the explosion, maybe." The hydrophone operator held up his hand, replaced the earpiece, and listened. "Sir, it could also be an engine idling on the surface."

"Keep listening," Fahler ordered. "Tell me if you hear anything else. Up scope." The periscope extended upward with a whirring sound, then stopped.

Fahler snapped the focusing handles out and bent forward to the eyepiece. Everyone watched as he rotated it through a complete circle, first in one direction, then in the other.

"Hydrophone, what's the bearing to the engine sound?"

"One three zero degrees, Captain."

Fahler moved the scope until it lined up with a bearing 130 degrees from the bow of the ship and twisted the focusing handles. Above he could see water lapping against the scope's outer lens but nothing else.

He snapped the handles back into place and lowered the periscope. "Nothing," he said to no one in particular. "But let's be ready." He picked up the handset and rang the engine room. "Port engine half back." Fahler watched the navigation compass swing around until the lubber line indicated the ship's stern was pointed directly at the contact. "Engines stop," he commanded. "Torpedo room. Load both tubes, set depth at one meter—zero gyro angle, and be ready to fire the instant I give the command. After I give the order, reload both tubes and do it quickly."

"Aye, Captain. Loading tubes one and two, zero angle on the gyro. Running depth one meter."

Fahler put on a heavy slicker and storm cap. When he was ready, he turned to Donovan and Rommel.

"We'll surface and begin repairs immediately if there's not somebody up there waiting for us. But if there is trouble, I'll blow whoever it is out of the water before they can scratch their asses. Now, stand clear gentlemen, we may have to get back under quickly and I don't want to be tripping over you in here.

"Surface," Fahler commanded.

### * * *

Captain Havel Veliskey heard the hiss of air escaping from ballast tanks and the soft _whoosh_ of a submarine surfacing. He picked up a microphone and spoke into it.

"Swing the guns to bear on a target at three one zero degrees," he ordered.

The cruiser's Russian crew turned her two four-inch deck guns and stood by with their fingers poised over the firing triggers.

Fahler mounted the bridge and pulled a pair of binoculars to his eyes. At that moment, a bright spotlight cut through the blackness and swept the deck of the sub. It came to rest on the conning tower of the U-234.

A voice speaking German came over the water, amplified by a megaphone. "U-two-thirty-four, heave to and prepare to be boarded. Captain, if you leave the bridge, I will open fire and sink you. Use your signal light to tell me you understand."

Fahler's reaction was instantaneous. He picked up a handheld signaling light and tapped out a message. Then he gave the command, "Fire!"

In the torpedo room, a crewman slammed his hand down against the firing levers and listened to the rush of compressed air as two torpedoes weighing fifteen hundred kilograms each were catapulted from their launch tubes.

Fahler saw the bubbling wakes of the torpedoes unfurling from the sub's stern like silver ribbons as they raced toward the enemy ship. Then he slid back down the ladder, sealing the hatch to the bridge behind him.

"Dive! Dive!" he bellowed before his feet were even on the conning tower's mesh steel deck.

On the bridge of the cruiser, Veliskey's mind was busy translating the light signal message sent from the sub. "Pray," it said.

His intellectual brain could make no sense of the message, but somewhere deep inside its core, the synapses of his survival instinct became fully charged.

"Right full rudder! Engines ahead full!" he screamed. "Deck guns, open fire!" It was too late.

Before the gunners could pull the triggers, two deafening blasts rocked the ship and heaved it upward and out of the water like a toy.

Donovan, Rommel, and Lunn could hear muffled explosions. The U-234 tilted downward, racing for deeper water.

"Make your depth fifty meters!" Fahler shouted at the diving officer. "Helmsman, come to course two seven zero. Engine room, maximum revolutions!" The commands were echoed back by each station to confirm they had heard and understood them.

The sub leveled at fifty meters and struck out on a westerly course. Fahler confirmed with the hydrophone operator that no one was giving chase.

After a few minutes, Rommel moved close to the captain, who was wiping his face with an oil-streaked towel.

"It's a good thing you did not leave the torpedo men behind, Captain."

Fahler draped the towel around his neck, looked back at Rommel, and smiled. "General, as is usually the case in battle, it's better to have the firepower and not need it than to need it and not have it."

Rommel smiled back. He'd never heard it put exactly that way, but he certainly understood the sentiment.

### * * *

The lead B-17's bombardier lined up the crosshairs of his Norden bombsight on the Konrad complex. The president and Churchill agreed that if they hadn't heard from Donovan by midnight, they would blow Kiel and the sub pens back to the stone age, hoping to get the U-234 in the bargain.

Veltheim heard the roar as wave after wave of aircraft passed overhead. He was in the communications shack yelling into the phone, trying desperately to get Berlin back on the line. Then he heard the whistle of bombs. One of them, a thousand-pounder, plunged through the roof over his head. A message scrawled on the bomb in chalk read: _Greetings From Brooklyn!_ The communications shack disappeared in a cloud of smoke and flame.

A staff officer at the Reich Chancellery who'd finally been summoned to the phone listened for a moment and then replaced the receiver. Returning to his meal, he made a mental note to speak to someone about how bad the static had been on these lines lately.

# Chapter 33

### THE NORTH SEA

"Captain, we fixed the internal air, but we don't have the parts aboard to fix the snorkel out here. We'll have to put back into port for repairs," Heine said.

Rommel and Donovan exchanged glances. They were standing in the control room next to Fahler and the boat's crew chief. Fahler turned to Rommel with an expression of frustration.

"General, we're crippled. The diesels can't run without air and to give them that we'll need to run on the surface to make any kind of speed at all. And, as you have seen, whenever we come up, we're a target."

"I understand, Captain," Rommel said. "But turning back to make repairs is out of the question. We're on a strict timetable and as long as we can make progress toward our objective, we will continue to do that. You'll just have to take every precaution to see that we're not intercepted."

Fahler rubbed the red stubble of his beard and sighed. "All right General. We'll run submerged during the day and on the surface for a few hours each night to replenish the batteries, but I warn you, progress will be slow. We can only manage five or maybe six knots submerged. All of this depends on our destination, of course, but sooner or later the Allies will pick us up on radar while we're up for air. I can almost guarantee that."

"Captain, I need to send a message to Berlin to verify our first target hasn't changed," Donovan said. "Once we get the reply, I'll give you the coordinates. After that, as the general said, we'll leave it to you to get us there at the best possible speed."

"Heine, escort the colonel to the radio room, then get back here. We'll need to pop up for a few minutes to get the message out. Please make it brief, Colonel."

Donovan nodded and followed the crew chief to the radio room.

"Herr General, there is still the problem of what to do with our guest."

Rommel thought for a moment. "Captain, what do you do with the garbage on this ship while you're at sea?"

Fahler looked puzzled, then his eyes widened at the thought. "At sea, when we surface to recharge our batteries, the crew tosses it overboard in a canvas sack that is weighted so it sinks."

Fahler studied Rommel. The general's eyes were no longer focused on him. He seemed to be seeing something else. Something a very long distance away and in a different time.

"Herr General. Herr General!" Fahler repeated.

Rommel's eyes blinked as he turned back to the voice and his mind returned to the control room.

"I'm sorry, Captain," Rommel said. "Lost in thought. Can someone lead me to the prisoner? I want to talk with him before I decide what to do. He may have information about his confederates that are still loose in Germany. The Gestapo will want that information."

Fahler motioned to a nearby crew member. "Take the general to the aft maintenance locker, then return to your station."

"Aye, Captain." The crewman had a freckled face and looked to Rommel like he was about seventeen—if one shaded it on the high side. Rommel followed the boy out of the control room and down the central passageway.

It was tight inside a sub, Rommel thought as he walked along the narrow corridor, ducking every ten or so steps as they came to a bulkhead between compartments. Where did they find men who could live and work in these confined spaces for months at a time without seeing the light of day?

The boat had the stale smell of men who only showered once every ten days while on patrol, mixed with oil, hydraulic fluid, diesel fuel, cigarette smoke, and the pungent tang of thousands of tons of metal. The youngster stopped at a steel door marked "Maintenance Locker #4."

"Thank you..." Rommel examined the kid's name tag, which was sewn onto his dirty uniform, "...Seaman Metzger." The boy saluted and retraced his steps to the control room.

Rommel opened the locker and stepped in. He was immediately overcome with the smell of excrement and urine. He closed the door behind him.

Hitler was slumped on the floor, head on his chest and his back against a locker. A chain had been looped twice around his chest and then fastened through the steel mesh floor with a lock. His hands and feet were still bound with the strong tape that also covered his mouth.

Rommel shook his head. The führer—once mighty and feared in all Europe, if not the entire world, had been reduced to this—a filthy maggot.

Hitler looked up, uncomprehending at first. Then his eyes became wide with panic. Tremors racked his body as the muscles in his legs and arms spasmed in protest against the restraints. Rommel thought he saw moisture begin to collect around the corners of Hitler's bloodshot eyes.

"Somehow it seems altogether fitting and proper, Herr Hitler, that you should at last be lying helpless in your own shit. The people of Germany have been lying in it now for years."

Rommel pulled a stool from a corner of the locker, sat and gazed at Hitler. "Do you remember when you presented me with my field marshal's baton?" Hitler's eyes narrowed.

"It was September thirtieth, nineteen forty-two, at the Reich Chancellery. Everyone was there. Goebbels, Berndt, Keitel, Schmundt—everyone that is, but you." Rommel's voice became distant as he remembered the day, almost as if it had only just happened.

Hitler sat bolt upright and stared hard at the apparition beside him. Rommel? Alive? How was this possible? No one knew. No one! Klymer was perfect!

The Desert Fox wore an enigmatic expression.

"You recognize me now, don't you?" Rommel mocked. "Do you also recall the day you gave the order to have me killed? The commander of your personal security detail in those early days, and steadfast field general to the German nation to the last ounce of my strength at the last. You sent two ferrets to my home to threaten my family and murder me."

Hitler tried to speak but could only produce muffled grunts.

Rommel stood and looked down at the figure writhing in agony on the floor. "And now, Herr Hitler, you shall know how it feels to spend those precious final few minutes before you die— alone and utterly helpless, like so many of your victims. I can tell you from experience, it's not something you will enjoy."

Rommel put his hand on the cold metal handle of the locker door, opened it, and turned one last time to address his would-be killer. "If nothing else, Herr Hitler, you may tell Satan when you see him that your reservation to sit for eternity at his dinner table has been paid in full."

Rommel stepped out into the passageway and pulled the door shut with a clang behind him. Inside he could hear muffled screams and the scraping of bootheels on the floor. He walked away toward the control room, spitting out the stench that had coated his nostrils and mouth for so many years.

### * * *

Donovan wrote out the single word message and handed it to the radio operator. "Send this," he said. "Three times only."

The operator looked at the slip of paper. He'd sent many messages from the sub during his tour of duty that seemed to make no sense, but his job was simply to type the communication into the Enigma coding machine and get it out quickly.

"The frequency will be seven point two three zero megahertz."

The operator nodded and began typing. It was done in a few seconds. Donovan saw him turn the powerful transmitter's frequency knob to the proper setting, and watched the second hand on his watch tick down to the correct time. "Send it...now."

The operator began to tap the sending key with the Enigma coded letters. An operator in Europe with an identical Enigma would receive the signal, its mechanism set to the proper date and time for decryption.

The radioman switched the transmitter off. "The message has been sent, sir."

### * * *

Rommel, Lunn, and Fahler were in the control room bent over a chart of the North Atlantic when Donovan came back. Fahler removed a pencil wedged under his cap and marked their position.

"We're approximately here. I won't be able to fix our position exactly without taking a sight with the sextant." Lunn give a nod. He'd been tracking the ship's course surreptitiously from the time they'd left Kiel. The X showed them in the North Sea about one hundred miles off the east coast of England, tracking generally north toward the town of Aberdeen in Scotland.

"Excellent, Captain," Donovan said. "I sent the message to Berlin to confirm our initial target. We'll need to surface again tomorrow at exactly the same time to pick up their reply."

Fahler grasped a handset and turned the control knob. "Maximum speed," he said to his engine room chief.

"Aye, Captain," came the reply.

"Steady on this course for now," Fahler said, putting his hand on the helmsman's shoulder. Then he removed his cap, placed it on a hook, and ran his hands through a matted tangle of red hair. "All right, gentlemen. Tomorrow, I trust, we will know where we're going and frankly, I hope it's someplace close."

"The führer has given me three possible first targets, Captain, and only one of them is close, so please, don't get your hopes too high," Donovan said. "But yes, tomorrow we will know for certain."

Rommel looked at Fahler and said quietly, "Captain, I talked to our guest. He has no more useful information, I'm certain of that. And if he did decide to divulge the names of his confederates, we could not be sure that he's not lying to save his own skin. Right now, all he's doing is stinking up the ship." Rommel paused, then continued, "Tomorrow, when we surface to pick up that radio message, you should toss the garbage over the side—all of it."

Fahler thought it through. That filth or one of his men sabotaged his boat and had nearly gotten them captured. He couldn't be certain, but in those waters, the ship was almost certainly Russian. He hated the Russians, and this spy would get what was coming to him.

"Very well, General." Fahler said. His eyes revealed not a hint of indecision. They were as icy and cold as a gulag certainly would have been. "I'll see to it."

### * * *

At the Sigsaly terminal under the Selfridges department store, Sammy Watson sat in front of the soft amber glow coming from the panel of a sensitive radio receiver. He was twisting the frequency dial slowly back and forth, finally centering it on 7.230 megahertz. He turned the gain control to maximum and strained to pick out the faint signal. He adjusted the headphones more tightly to his ears, turned the beat frequency oscillator slightly to contrast the signal against the static, and began scribbling on a notepad. After a moment he switched off the receiver, ripped the message from the pad, and strode to a nearby table where a captured German Enigma machine and codebook stood ready.

Major Tom Wilkerson was incredulous. They'd been listening to this frequency at the same time each evening for a signal the prime minister said might be coming in. After four days they very much doubted it would ever come in at all.

Watson referred to the codebook, adjusted some cogged brass wheels on the Enigma to set the proper date and time, and began to type the message into its keyboard. When he was finished, he handed the message to his anxious companion. Wilkerson removed a small three-by-five card from his coat pocket, compared it with the Enigma decryption, and smiled. It was precisely the transmission the prime minister said might be coming: the single word _Eureka_. He clapped Watson on the back.

"Sammy, this is it!" he exclaimed. Wilkerson picked up the telephone. An operator at 10 Downing Street answered on the first ring. "Please tell the prime minister Major Wilkerson is calling."

After a short delay, Churchill's unmistakable voice boomed through the receiver. "Major, how good of you to call."

"Good evening, sir. I'm calling to tell you that the message you told us to expect came through just moments ago. I'm sending the courier over with the written decryption in a few minutes."

At the prime minister's residence, Churchill stood up from his comfortable armchair, took a large sip from a snifter of brandy, and lit a cigar. His wife looked up at him curiously. Her husband was smiling. It was something she'd not seen him do in many weeks.

"Prime minister, are you still there?"

"Yes, Major, I'm here. Get President Roosevelt on the phone for me, will you please? I'm having my car brought around straightaway. I'll be at my overseas line in about twenty minutes."

"Yes, of course, sir. Mr. Watson is here with me. We'll warm the equipment up now. It will be ready by the time you get to your phone."

"Convey my very sincere thanks to Mr. Watson, please, Major," Churchill replied. "Thank you both. This is a very great treat and I will tell the president how much I appreciate your help."

"Thank you, sir. We'll be standing by when you're ready to place your call." The line went dead.

Sammy was looking at Wilkerson with a grin on his face. "How did he react?"

"Sam," Wilkerson said, grinning back, "I think it's safe to say that Mr. Churchill will happily sign our paychecks this week. Is the Sigsaly ready for him to make a call?"

"This million-dollar baby is always ready," Sammy replied. "She uses enough juice just on standby to light up a whole neighborhood for a month. But the power company hasn't shut us off yet, so, I guess the Bank of England is still good for the bill."

"Glad to hear it," Wilkerson said, chuckling. "Let's wake up the president."

# Chapter 34

### THE NORTH SEA

The U-234 surfaced ten minutes before Donovan was scheduled to pick up the reply message from England. Lunn was on the bridge taking a sighting with the sextant. Two canvas sacks lay on the forward deck surrounded by a group of crewmen who had dragged them up from below.

Fahler looked at Lunn and then back at Rommel. "Your friend doesn't say much, does he, General?"

"He's a mute, Captain," Rommel said without skipping a beat. "Has been since he was born—some congenital defect, as I'm told. But he's one of the best navigators in Germany. I got him a medical waiver. He's my second cousin's nephew. He and his family wanted very much to serve the Fatherland."

Fahler chewed on that for a moment before replying. "I'm one of the best navigators in the navy, General. You could have told your man to stay ashore—that is, unless you don't trust me."

Rommel turned his gaze on Fahler and replied in a tone that was at once solicitous but carefully edged. "It's not a matter of trust, Captain. I'm sure you're a fine navigator and as we have seen, an excellent submarine captain, but if something should happen to you, I wanted an experienced man aboard to make sure we get where we need to go. As you have so eloquently pointed out, it's better to have resources and not need them than to need them and not have them."

Fahler laughed. "You are so right, General. Forgive my impertinence, I meant nothing by it."

Rommel seemed not to have heard. He was concentrating on the forward deck. One of the sacks began to move and even over the waves breaking against the sides of the sub he thought he could hear cries.

Fahler dialed up the radio room. "I'll give you until five minutes past the hour, Wentz. If you haven't received the transmission by then, we're going to dive and try again tomorrow."

"Aye, Captain," came the reply. "I believe we're receiving the message now."

"Let me know when you have it." There was no reply this time. Fahler knew the radio operator was probably busy setting up the Enigma to decode the message.

"It looks like someone put a couple of pigs in that sack," Fahler said.

"Only one pig, Captain. Russian swine," Rommel said with a wry smile.

"We have the message, Captain."

Fahler cupped his hands and shouted to his men. "Clear the deck. Get below." He and Rommel watched as they scurried one by one down a hatch in the forward part of the ship and disappeared.

"General," Fahler said with a hint of gaiety in his voice. "Shall we feed the fish?"

Rommel looked at Fahler and then at the sacks. Moonlight spilled over the deck and dappled the cold black water. The captain would never know he'd sent Adolph Hitler to hell. Fate had a way of touching some people in ways they would never know. Life was strange, he thought, but somehow beautiful as it carried each human to a different destiny. There was no way to understand why some suffered and others did not, why some were selected for greatness, some for mediocrity, and others for bondage. Rommel believed deeply, however, in this moment, that life—or perhaps it was death—ultimately squared all outstanding accounts with a certain incontestable justice. This was one of those times.

Rommel descended the ladder from the bridge into the submarine. Fahler watched him go. A strange man, he thought. Different. Driven by something that could not be put into words. "Prepare the ship to dive." He replaced the handset, clambered down the ladder, and pulled the hatch closed behind him.

A few moments later the sub slipped beneath the waves, heading for safety in the darkness below. The sacks bobbed briefly on the surface and then began to sink.

Hitler felt cold water pouring into his dark space. His mind was screaming, trying to understand what was happening, but it simply could not cope. All but a small portion of his brain shut down completely with terror and shock. Then the water began to fill his nostrils. It was only moments later that he thought he heard footsteps. He opened his eyes.

Dark figures, their faces hidden by cloaks, were carrying him steadily forward toward a light. He tried to speak and then scream, but no sound came from his lips. As the light grew closer, he felt a warmth that soon became painful in its intensity. The figures stood him upright. It took a moment for his mind to comprehend what he'd seen from a distance. Now it was clear. He was at the door to a gigantic furnace. The sides glowed red like a foundry crucible. Tongues of flame and embers sparked out from a huge chimney, lighting the smoky gray sky with an eerie orange glow. The figures lifted him up and moved his body back and forth, feet first toward the blistering maw. _Please no!_ Hitler pleaded. The tears on his cheeks bubbled for an instant and then turned to steam. _Nooooo!_ His body flew through the door and vanished. A skeletal hand threw the door shut with a crash and slowly turned the glowing red handle to lock it tight.

### * * *

When Fahler stepped into the wardroom, he immediately felt a vague sense of unease. Rommel and Donovan were seated at the table talking in low tones. Their conversation stopped when he entered. A chart was spread out on the table. Fahler closed the curtain to the room behind him.

"Captain, please have a seat," Donovan said, motioning to a chair. Fahler sat, removed his cap, and tossed it on the table. He stared back at his strange passengers. Something in their eyes told him that yet another bizarre twist to this voyage was about to unfold.

Donovan turned the chart so Fahler could see it. A course was marked out that ended a few hundred miles off the coast of Newfoundland. Fahler sighed, sat back in his chair, and folded his arms across his chest.

"The message ordered the U-two-thirty-four to these coordinates," Donovan said, tapping the chart with his forefinger. "We need to proceed to this point at the best possible speed."

Fahler could no longer contain himself. This entire mission had so far been the strangest of his career, and it was not getting any less so.

"Gentlemen, first of all, getting to that spot will take at least a week if we want to avoid detection—maybe longer if there are heavy seas. Secondly, that's in the middle of nowhere. I was under the impression we were taking this sub to a target. There's nothing out there..." Fahler gestured to the chart, "...that has any possible military significance I'm aware of."

Fahler stared hard at Rommel and spoke directly to him. "Sir, something doesn't feel right about this. With all due respect, General, there's something you're not telling me. What is it?"

Rommel leaned forward, placed clasped hands on the table, and studied the U-234's captain. It was time, finally, to see if Fahler could be convinced or if they would have to take measures he would prefer not to. He'd watched the captain carefully since they'd left Kiel. He was a good combat commander and a loyal and dedicated officer. Rommel respected that. But was he also a pragmatist? Or was he one of those German commanders who, like many Rommel had seen over the years, went blindly forward, believing the war was still winnable because of some misplaced faith in a führer who seemed to be able to pull rabbits out of a hat whenever the need arose?

"Captain, like you, I have been a combat commander. In the First World War and now this conflict." Rommel unbuttoned his coat. At his throat was the stunning blue and gold medal he'd been awarded in 1917. "Do you know what this is, Captain?"

"It is the Pour Le Merite medal for valour, Herr General, perhaps better known as The Blue Max," Fahler said with a deferential tone. "Few are entitled to wear it. I've only seen pictures. Field Marshal Rommel was one of them."

Donovan cast a sideways glance at Rommel. The field marshal's eyes were locked on Fahler's.

"Then you know that my words are not hollow. Captain, I think you understand in your gut as my colleagues and I do that Germany will soon be swallowed up by the Allies. The Americans and the British have liberated Paris and are moving fast to the Rhine. The Russians are on the Oder in the east and will soon cross over into Germany. Berlin will become besieged in a matter of weeks."

Rommel stopped to gauge Fahler's reaction. "Captain, do you have a comment you wish to make?"

Fahler was nervous. This could be a test, or it could just be a high-ranking general who'd seen the light and whom providence had placed on his boat at the right moment. But which was it? He knew the war was lost, of course. They all knew it, but they were waiting, holding back from outright defection. Everyone had sworn an oath of allegiance to the führer, and after all, an oath was an oath, but the insanity of continuing the struggle could no longer be ignored. Was this a way out? There was only one course to take.

"Herr General," Fahler began. "My duty as captain of this vessel is to follow the orders of my superiors and do my best to see that those orders are carried out. You have told me my orders are to take this submarine to a grid reference in the North Atlantic. It is my intention to do exactly that. I do not question orders, I simply obey and move on. I am not a politician, and I do not have an opinion that I wish to express openly on the course of the war."

Fahler was smart, Donovan thought. He was doing what they'd hoped he would do as an intelligent and savvy officer who'd spent plenty of time thinking about what was happening to the Third Reich. Lunn slipped through the curtain and stood behind the captain. He had a syringe concealed in his hand full of a powerful sedative that would render Fahler unconscious in a matter of seconds. Donovan moved his fingertips across the table in a motion that told Lunn not to act.

"Captain, when we reach these coordinates, you will bring the U-two-thirty-four up and follow my directions regardless of what you may see or hear on the surface. Those are your orders. Do you understand them?"

Fahler glanced back at Lunn and then returned his gaze to Rommel. "Yes, Herr General. I understand them completely."

"Good, Captain. While we're underway to our destination, one of us will be with you at all times to make sure there is no deviation. It's not that we don't trust you, Captain, be assured of that. It's simply that this is too important for us to take chances, and sometimes men have second thoughts. We can't take that risk with you."

Fahler got up from the table and saluted. "Herr General, I have duties to attend to, and with your permission, I'll go and make sure we're on course and the ship is proceeding at maximum speed."

Rommel stood and returned the salute. "Very well, Captain. I think we have an understanding then, and I want you to know your actions are in the best interests of yourself, the crew, and the people of Germany. Of that there is no doubt."

Fahler picked up his cap and settled it on his head. "I'll keep you advised of our progress, Herr General." He turned and left the room. Donovan and Lunn followed him. Rommel sank back in his seat and closed his eyes. There was nothing to do now but wait.

# Chapter 35

### ONE HUNDRED MILES OFF THE

### COAST OF NEWFOUNDLAND

Fahler could see several ships on the surface—a US Navy destroyer and two smaller vessels. The morning was clear and the sea calm. He turned from the periscope and looked at Rommel and Donovan.

"Herr General," he said, offering Rommel a look. Rommel put his eyes to the lenses and twisted the focusing knobs. A moment later he turned the scope over to Donovan.

"Lower the scope and surface the ship," Fahler ordered. Heine repeated his command. Crewmen pulled on long levers, sending compressed air to the ballast tanks.

The captain of the _USS Sutton_ watched through binoculars as the U-two-thirty-four broke the surface a quarter of a mile from his ship. He spoke to his executive officer without lowering the glasses. "Send the boarding team." One of the smaller vessels with an armed crew on deck moved off.

Fahler, Donovan, and Rommel climbed to the bridge and watched the boarding party close on the sub.

"What will happen to us now, Herr General?"

"You and the crew will be turned over to the authorities in Portsmouth. I guarantee you will be well treated and when the war is over repatriated to your families in Germany. You have done your duty to your country and there is nothing you or your crew need to be ashamed of."

Fahler turned a switch on the sub's intercom system and spoke into the handset. "Crew of the U-two-thirty-four, this is the captain. We are being boarded. I repeat, we are being boarded. In a few moments, personnel from Allied vessels will be coming below. I want no confusion or acts of belligerence. Simply do what these men tell you to do and make no move to resist. You will not be harmed. I repeat, you will not be harmed. I'll be coming below momentarily to make sure all of you are well. This is the captain." Fahler replaced the handset.

"I'm going below. The responsibility for this submarine, the crew, and their treatment is now in your hands."

Rommel returned the captain's salute, watched Fahler descend into the ship, and turned to face Donovan.

"Mr. Donovan, I hope you will see to it that the crew and captain are well treated as you promised. I ask nothing more and expect nothing less."

"You have my word on it, Herr Field Marshal."

Rommel placed his hands on the rail surrounding the bridge and looked out to sea. At home Lucie and Manfred were going about their day in a Germany that would soon, like this submarine, be under Allied control. He closed his eyes and sent them a silent prayer.

### * * *

Hundreds of spectators lined the fence at the Portsmouth Naval Yard when the U-234 slipped into her berth and tied up. Charlie Gray, a reporter from local radio station WGBH, watched as the scruffy crew and several bedraggled German officers were led down the gangway and up a ramp to waiting buses. The navy had forbidden interviews, but Charlie snapped pictures so he could refer to them and give listeners a visual idea of the scene during his afternoon broadcast.

Rommel, Donovan, and Lunn walked slowly in front of the crew. They could hear shouts of derision and whoops of laughter from the crowd. An egg sailed out of the crowd and splattered on Rommel's tunic. At the top of the ramp men guided the officers into waiting cars. Donovan and Lunn were escorted to one, Rommel and Fahler to another.

The man in the front passenger's seat turned and flashed a set of FBI credentials. "I'm Special Agent Mason. And you are Mr. Donovan, are you not?"

"Yes, I'm Donovan. And this is Mr. Charles Lunn."

"Welcome home, gentlemen. On orders from President Truman, Director Hoover sent us to collect you and get you back to Washington as soon as possible."

"I'm glad to hear it," Donovan said. "Wait a second. Did you say President Truman?"

Mason looked puzzled. "Yes sir, President Truman. I'm sorry, you may not have heard. I forgot you've been out of touch awhile. President Roosevelt died two days ago in Warm Springs, Georgia."

Donovan was stunned. President Roosevelt—dead. He was the only one in the entire country who knew about this operation. What did Truman know, if anything? He must have been alerted somehow, otherwise why would he ask the director of the FBI to send agents to pick him up? Whatever the case, he had to make sure they knew how important the cargo was.

"Agent Mason," Donovan said, trying not to let exasperation cloud his voice, "the cargo aboard the U-two-thirty-four is of the highest priority. It must be handled carefully and placed in the hands of people who understand what it is without delay."

"The cargo is being offloaded by a team of experts right now, Mr. Donovan. The president gave specific instructions regarding it. I believe someone by the name of Dr. Teller is in charge. I assure you it's being given the highest priority."

Donovan sat back and watched the countryside roll by. He knew Roosevelt's penchant for secrecy, and he was relieved to know the president had the foresight to leave a message behind.

He turned to Lunn, who was also gazing out the window, and tapped him good-naturedly on the shoulder. "Well, Charlie, are you ready to go home?"

Lunn smiled. "Yes sir, I'm ready, but you know what I want first?" Donovan shook his head. "When we get to Washington, I want a cold beer."

Donovan laughed. "I'll bet we can rustle up a couple, Charlie—on me. And if we could get Jo Stafford on the radio while we're at it, well, that'd be a great welcome back."

The government sedan turned up a washboard road and jolted its way into a field where an airplane was waiting. The car skidded to a halt. Mason spoke quickly to the pilot and returned to Donovan and Lunn.

"Sir, these flyboys will take you the rest of the way." He extended his hand. Donovan and Lunn shook it in turn.

"Thanks, Agent Mason," Donovan said. "We appreciate the lift." They walked to the plane and climbed in. A crew member threw the small passenger step inside, hauled himself up through the opening after it, and secured the door.

Mason watched the transport's engines rumble to life. Moments later the ship lifted into the air and quickly disappeared from view.

### * * *

When Hitler did not return to Berlin, Hugo Klymer was forced to adapt. His protestations that he was not the true Fuhrer were ignored as the ravings of a drug addled and overexhausted mind. He performed his role during the final weeks of the war under threat of removal of his heroin by the Nazi hierarchy who by then did not care if he was the real Fuhrer or not. His final public appearance consisted of greeting a group of boys who were pressed into service as home guards when the Wermacht failed to materialize to save the city. By then the drugs were no longer coming and his hands shook uncontrollably when he walked down the line of young faces. Nonetheless, he wore his best paternal face for the film crews recording the event.

Later in the Fuherer bunker, with the sounds of Russian guns only a few hundred meters away, he loaded the Walther PPK. Eva Braun, his bride of only a few hours, was slumped in a chair next to him. The cyanide had taken her quickly and with only a whimper of protest. A bullet in the head will be a relief, Klymer thought. Anything was better than the racking agony of no longer having the drugs to salve his jangled nerves. As his finger tightened on the trigger, Hugo Klymer managed a tiny smile. Although no one would ever know it, he'd played to absolute perfection and to an audience of thousands, the most difficult role ever attempted by any actor in history. There would never be another like him.

# Chapter 36

### THE WHITE HOUSE

Harry Truman removed his steel-rim spectacles, placed them on the folder, and rubbed the bridge of his nose. It had taken Donovan weeks after arriving in Portsmouth to finally arrange this meeting but as he sat here now, he thought the president looked almost like a cartoon character. Yellow bow tie with black polka dots, red suspenders over a crisp white shirt, and a wisp of graying hair. If Truman hadn't been sitting behind the president's desk in the Oval Office, he would have taken the man for a shoe store clerk or a vacuum cleaner salesman.

Truman replaced the glasses and regarded his guest. "Are you trying to tell me a German field marshal..." the president paused and tapped the folder with his fingertips, "...and not just any old German field marshal, mind you, but Erwin Rommel himself, for God's sake, is the reason a Nazi flag isn't flying over Whitehall and this building in which you and I are now sitting?"

Donovan straightened in his chair. "Sir, the fuel for the nuclear weapon your Manhattan Project team recently tested in the desert came from the U-two-thirty-four. I know how it sounds, Mr. President, but yes, without Rommel this mission would never have succeeded, and America would not now be in exclusive possession of the atom bomb."

Truman sighed, rose, and walked to the window, lost in thought. No wonder Stalin was so nonchalant when I told him at Potsdam we had a new weapon. Hell, the bastard already knew about it! If the Russians hadn't botched their mission to steal the U-234, Comrade Stalin could easily have been telling Harry Truman the Kremlin controlled an atomic bomb. The enormity of that scenario playing out gave him cold shivers.

"Sir, may I ask where the field marshal is now?"

The president settled into a chair next to Donovan. "The field marshal is comfortable at a location known only to Mr. Hoover. I've directed the FBI to make sure his whereabouts—and, Mr. Donovan, not only his whereabouts but also his entire existence—are kept under wraps."

Donovan struggled to keep his emotions under control. "Mr. President, the world owes Erwin Rommel a great debt. He made it possible for us to end the war in Europe on our terms, and I daresay he may well make it possible for us to end the war in the Pacific without losing thousands more American lives in an invasion of the Japanese homeland. With all due respect sir, to keep him 'under wraps,' as you put it, hardly seems appropriate. He risked his life to make this possible and sir, he does have a family. I think he's earned the right to go home to them."

Truman's face turned stony. "First of all, Erwin Rommel is in the 'risking his life' business. But more than that, the American people are my first concern. This nation has lost enough on account of a war started by a German madman to whom misery meant nothing. Countless wives and mothers all across this country received condolence telegrams from the War Department. They believe, and I believe, we won the war because of the sacrifices their husbands and sons made in hard-fought battles all over the world. So, let me be clear on this, Mr. Donovan, I have no intention of dishonoring their cherished memories by arranging a ticker tape parade for Erwin Rommel down Madison Avenue."

Truman reached over, picked up the file from his desk, and handed it to his guest. "This operation was important, of that there is no doubt. The nation owes every member of your team a debt, which can never be repaid. The atomic fuel from the U-two-thirty-four will be used in a weapon against the Japanese and as the president, I tell you on behalf of the American people, for that, we are a grateful nation. But make no mistake; I want that file buried so deep it will never see the light of day again after this morning. You and Mr. Lunn and the knowledge you have are subject to the Official Secrets Act, meaning there will be no disclosure, ever, concerning the truth about the U-two-thirty-four. I want to make sure we understand each other on this point."

Donovan nodded slowly. "I understand, Mr. President."

"And by the way, in case you were wondering, I've spoken privately with Mr. Churchill about this, and we are in complete agreement on the matter."

The telephone rang. Truman listened then said, "All right, thank you, I'll be out in a moment."

Donovan accepted the president's extended hand. "Thank you for coming, Mr. Donovan. Now go home to your family and enjoy the fruits of your success. Erwin Rommel will be well looked after, I give you my word."

"Thank you, Mr. President. I'm grateful for that."

As he left the White House, Donovan's thoughts returned to Rommel.

# Chapter 37

### SONOMA COUNTY, CALIFORNIA

May 1964

Special Agent Alan Simms retrieved an FBI Ford Crown Vic from the basement of the San Francisco Federal Building and headed north over the Golden Gate Bridge in the early morning sunlight. He'd made this trip the third Sunday of each month for the past two years, and the nature of it always intrigued him. His assignment was to check on the well being of an elderly gentleman the bureau had at a safe house in the wine country of Sonoma County. He wasn't sure how long the man had been there, but as far as he could figure out, he was Henry Kessler's only visitor.

Once he'd made sure the old man was comfortable and physically OK, he drove back to the city and filed a verbal report with the special agent in charge. Simms was certain Kessler's name was contrived, but the SAC had never given him a clue about who the man really was. Probably he didn't know himself. Simms was naturally curious but had never tried on his own to uncover any other details.

He turned off Highway 101 just north of Santa Rosa onto River Road and headed into the Russian River wine country. Acres of vineyards, green with spring leaves, stretched as far as he could see. Simms was a beer drinker himself, but his wife was a dedicated chardonnay buff and claimed the very best of that variety came from this valley. For her, good wine _was_ food.

Coastal fog refracting the sunlight flowed like a jeweled stream through the pine-covered hills. It was a beautiful place, and Simms enjoyed making the trip. Not the least of its pleasure was talking to the old man, who had a pronounced German accent. On the seat beside him lay the Sunday edition of the _San Francisco Chronicle_ and a stack of magazines. Henry loved the _Chronicle_ 's Sunday crossword puzzles.

They'd become close over the last two years, and their conversations covered a wide range of subjects. Henry kept up with politics and could recite all the American presidents in chronological (or reverse) order. The first time he'd done it, Simms laughed until his stomach hurt. Henry had a television, too. His favorite program was a new game show called _Jeopardy!_ He'd watched the old man beat the best of the contestants more than once. Henry had a keen mind and good humor, but sometimes Simms found him distant and pensive, as if he were lost somewhere along the space-time continuum.

Henry was very low key. He liked common corduroy slacks in black and tan colors, simple blue or white collared shirts, and comfortable walking shoes. Simms stocked the refrigerator with the basics: milk, eggs, butter, bread, cheese, some canned goods, and red meat. Henry liked to cook and his small house had a gas stove, so he could do that whenever he wished. On one trip, Simms experimented with TV dinners. They were easy to heat in the oven and required no preparation, but Henry had thrown the lot in the garbage after tasting a Salisbury steak, mashed potatoes, and green bean selection. Alan Simms had to agree. They were pretty awful.

He turned off River Road and entered the grounds of a winery. At the entrance was a wooden booth. Inside, a man dressed in civilian clothes greeted guests, but Alan knew he was a US Navy shore patrol officer detailed up from Alameda. Simms flashed his credentials and was admitted to the grounds. The guard guided regular visitors up the road leading to the tasting rooms, but Simms's path was a steep, winding asphalt single lane track to the top of a hill overlooking the Russian River valley. A high chain-link fence surrounded the six-acre tract. It was marked with a sign: "US Government Property. Authorized Entry Only." Simms stopped, unlocked the gate, and swung it wide enough to get the Crown Vic through.

A few minutes later, he crunched to a halt in the gravel driveway. The two-bedroom house was made of local timber and was painted a faint yellow orange with sky blue trim. Floor-to-ceiling windows ran along the side facing the valley so Henry could enjoy the magnificent view from nearly anywhere inside. A comfortable rocking chair stood near the entrance on a deck that ran most of the way around the house.

Simms switched off the car, got out, and collected two sacks of groceries from the trunk. With one under each arm, he went to the front door. His knock was unanswered. Simms peered through the windows, shading the glare with one hand. No Henry—nothing but an empty living room.

He tried the door. It wasn't locked. Simms nudged it open and stepped in. No TV. No radio. No movement. His senses were on alert. Henry always greeted him.

"Hello? Henry?" There was no answer. He walked to the kitchen and placed the grocery sacks on the counter. A kettle of water was boiling on the stove. Simms turned off the burner and walked into the bedroom.

Henry was lying on his bed. A thick comforter covered him up to the waist and his hands were folded neatly on his chest. It looked for all the world like Henry had fallen back asleep after turning the gas on under the kettle. Simms moved to the bedside and shook Henry's shoulder. Nothing. Heart pounding, he put his fingertips to Henry's neck and after a moment stepped back. His friend was dead.

On the cover next to his body lay a framed photo and what looked like a military medal. He picked up the frame and examined the picture. It showed a woman and a young boy, both smiling, together on the terrace of a home. The photo was black and white, not the new color film favored by almost everyone now—and judging from the woman's appearance; Simms guessed it had been taken in the early forties. It reminded him of pictures showing his parents together while his father had been home on leave during WWII.

Simms placed the frame carefully on the bedside table and picked up the medal. It was a Maltese Cross enameled in a dazzling electric blue with gold trim. A black and silver ribbon trailed from the top of the cross. It was clearly meant to be worn around the neck. He lifted Henry's head, looped the ribbon over it, and returned him gently to the pillow. He arranged the medal so it was resting on Henry's chest just below his throat. Simms stepped back and wiped away a tear.

Alan Simms understood, without quite knowing how, that whoever Henry really was, he'd died with his family in his heart and the certain knowledge he'd made a difference—the kind of difference for which history laurels its greatest heroes.

### Author's Biography

William Cone is a retired U.S. Army officer residing in San Francisco, CA. Send comments and feedback to: deadringer_wc@hotmail.com

