Stealing Trinity (7 page)

Braun stood tall. He stretched as he looked out across the ocean. He had prevailed. Just as he had over the steppes of central Russia. And the bastard captain of U-801. And Colonel Hans Gruber. He had survived them all, and here he stood, thrown onto the shore of America as if reborn. To hell with Russia, he thought. To hell with Gruber and his derelict Nazi partners. After five years, Brauns war was done. Finally done.

He walked slowly to the shoreline and stood at water's edge, his feet sinking into soft sand. He checked his watch only to find the hands stilled, beads of salt water rolling aimlessly under the crystal. Braun unlatched the useless thing from his wrist and dropped it into the surf at his feet. The rebirth was now complete.

Braun would never believe in God -- not after what he'd seen -- but he did believe in Providence. He had been delivered to this shore on a quest commissioned by three wretched Nazis. Men who would today be running for their own lives, assuming they'd even managed to escape Germany. Braun had been sent on a mission for the salvation of a Reich he cared nothing about, washed ashore without even a shirt on his back. They had given him a few scant pieces of information -- the time and place for a rendezvous, and the code names of an agent and a project. It was a mission he had never intended to complete, and now, with the principals of the fiasco certainly routed, Braun was free. But free to do what?

This was the thought that had stirred ever since he'd learned he was headed to America. Could he return to finish his work at Harvard, the study of European architecture? What was left but a continent in ruins? Yet something of his old life must remain. It had been good, nibbling at the edges of a social station he'd never before imagined. Evenings with his friends at their private clubs in Boston, summers at the ocean. Braun had hung to the coattails of a pleasured existence until his damned father had yanked him away.

And then the nightmare, five years of doing what was necessary to stay alive. Looking out across the ocean, he smiled. What did the Americans call it? The silver lining in the cloud. Five years ago Braun had seen the life he wanted, yet had no idea how to acquire it. Now, for all the suffering, the war had taught him much. He would take what he pleased, by any means necessary. And he knew precisely where to start.

At the water's edge he paused to look left and right. There was nothing but empty beach in either direction, two barren, opposing pathways that might lead anywhere. The immediate choice seemed natural. Just as in the Cauldron, Braun turned west and began to walk.

Forty minutes later he had taken up an observation position. Hidden in a dense outcropping of bushes, Braun watched sporadic traffic along a two-lane road. Across the street lay a diner, host to only two cars at the early afternoon lull. He found himself critiquing the structure -- it was probably no more than twenty years old, yet the wood frame had already begun to sag, and the shingled roof needed repair. The Americans built things quickly, but rarely to last.

Minutes earlier, a vagrant had trudged by, an old tramp with grey stubble across his face. The clothes were tattered, the gait unsteady. Easy prey, but hardly satisfactory. Braun needed three things -- clothing, money, and, if possible, transportation. The tramp would provide only one, and that marginal. As he waited, scents from the diner drifted across the road. Hunger pulled at Braun's stomach, but it was a well-ingrained task to force the urge aside. How many men had he seen die from such simple impatience?

The answer to his problems presented itself in a cloud of dust and black diesel smoke. A large delivery truck creaked to a stop on the near shoulder of the road in front of him. The driver, a chunky, middle-aged sort dressed in workman's clothes and a flat cap, climbed down from the cab and trundled across the street to the diner.

Braun studied him as he had come to study all men. Size, strength, carriage. The driver did not wear glasses. There was muscle in the mans shoulders, but also thickness around his belly. His hands were small and thick, the fingers like fat sausages. His gait was compact but even, nothing to indicate infirmity. He would be strong, but stiff and immobile. His hair was long enough -- it could be grabbed and held if necessary. And he wore suspenders. No man with experience would ever go into a fight wearing straps so close to the throat. But then it dawned on Braun -- for the first time in years, his adversary would not be expecting a fight.

The trucks engine was left to run, suggesting a short stop. A call of nature? Braun wondered. Or perhaps a cup of coffee? Either way, the opportunity was clear. Taking the truck directly was not an option. The driver would report it missing within minutes. Braun checked left and right along the road, making sure no other traffic was approaching to see a naked German spy crawl from the woods. He edged out of the weeds and climbed to the running board of the truck's passenger door. He saw two seats in the cab, but nowhere behind them to hide. The passenger door was unlocked, and he noted a tire iron on the floor between the two seats. His tactics evolved.

The driver emerged from the diner five minutes later. He carried a thermos in his hand and Braun adjusted his mental blueprint. He would have to deal with that first. It was heavy, and no doubt filled with some type of scalding liquid. He stayed low behind the passenger door as the driver's side opened, then slammed shut.

He counted to three before throwing the door open. Braun lunged into the passenger seat and spotted the thermos on the floor. He swatted it aside and scanned for any new threats. The pause was designed to give the driver a good look at the hostile, naked man who had just violated his coffee break. His reaction was as rash as it was predictable. He lunged for the tire iron, head low, right arm extended. At the bottom of this motion, Braun brought his right bicep up under the man's neck, pinning him helplessly and keeping the hand with the iron bar locked uselessly beneath. He then completed the constriction from behind with his left, and one vicious twist ended the affair in a crunching noise. The driver slumped toward Braun, his ear lying unnaturally against his shoulder, the eyes bulging in terminal surprise.

Braun shoved the man to the floor on the passenger side and removed his shirt, sliding it over his own shoulders. He would tidy up later, but for the moment he had to drive, before a waitress came trotting out with change, or some other complication. He assumed the driver s seat, donned the dead man s cap, and put the truck into gear.

Chapter 8.

When Thatcher entered the room, Number 68 was again sitting quietly, his manacled hands resting on the table. Today the guard was outside the door, yet another irregularity to fuel Thatchers curiosity. He took a seat opposite the prisoner and eyed him directly. Today s offer had already been set, Ainsley the architect, but with the approval of the Americans. Thatcher s job was to make it convincing. As he began in German, he wondered if Rasmussen and Jones understood the language. He suspected they did.

"Corporal Klein, this will be your last meeting with me. We are very busy, as you can imagine, and we can't waste time with someone such as yourself." He paused before his strike. "You were an aide to Colonel Hans Gruber in Abwehr Headquarters. Given this, you may have come across valuable information during the course of your work. Today you will dictate to me anything of possible value regarding matters of intelligence and war crimes. In exchange, I am authorized to make the following offer. You will stay in our custody for a period of two months. During this time we will verify the evidence you give. If it proves accurate and true, we will deliver you to your hometown of Wittenberge with the sum of one hundred British pounds in your pocket. From there you will be free to make your way in whatever existence you can find. This is a singular and immediate offer." Thatcher added a glare to make sure he was clear on the next point. "It will not be made again."

The lack of alternatives to the offer was quite intentional, and Thatcher watched the young man fidget, his fingers prying together. Yesterday's calmness and confidence were gone.

He continued, "If you wish, I will leave the room for five minutes while you decide."

More fidgeting, then Klein spoke. "What guarantees do I have that--"

"None" Thatcher interrupted, not allowing any east-west into the conversation. "You can agree to our terms -- or not."

The corporal's eyes glazed as he no doubt considered a million things. Home. Prison. The unknown. Predictably, he relented. "Yes. All right."

"Good. We will begin with what we have. You are Corporal Fritz Klein?"

"Yes."

"You were assigned to work for Colonel Hans Gruber?"

"Yes."

"Yesterday you mentioned something called the Manhattan Project. You obviously think it is important. Why?" Thatcher poised a pen over his notepad.

The prisoner arranged his thoughts. "Colonel Gruber held a meeting on his last morning in the office --"

"When?"

"April twentieth, or maybe the twenty-first."

"Who was present at this meeting?"

"Yes. This I remember. General Freiderich Rode and a Major Becker of the SS. They discussed a mission, I think, but I did not hear the details. The meeting was short, yet re-formed later that day, with the addition of a captain from the army. Immediately after this second gathering, I was ordered to destroy all the files in the office. But my first priority was to eliminate five folders -- the Colonel was very specific on this point. I think they related to the meeting."

"And this was when you came across the words -- Manhattan Project?"

"Yes. The first three files were personnel folders. I did not see the names. Of the last two, one involved this secret project. There is an agent -- in Mexico, I think. Code name Die Wespe."

Die Wespe, Thatcher thought. The Wasp. "This agent, is he American?"

Klein shrugged. "I remember nothing else. There were only moments to look."

"What about the final file? You looked at this one as well?"

"Yes, briefly. It was a personnel dossier on the army captain. He lived in America before the war -- this was circled -- and he attended university there."

"Which one?"

The prisoner frowned in concentration and Thatcher scribbled away, increasingly sure that the man was giving all he could. "Harburg. .. Harbor. Something like this."

"Harvard?"

"Harvard! Yes, that was it," Klein said.

"You're sure?"

"Yes."

Thatcher wrote down the name and circled it idly. Not that he would forget. Klein probably had no idea that Harvard was among America's most elite institutions of higher education. It was also, like Oxford and Cambridge, academic territory reserved for the children of the very wealthy and privileged. He thought it curious that a man from such a background might end up as an officer in the Wehrmacht.

"Give me a physical description of this man."

"Tall, strong build, blond hair. He wore a sniper's badge. And there was a scar -- here." Klein pointed to his temple. "I also remember his name."

He motioned for the pen and paper with his cuffed hands, and Thatcher slid them over. Klein wrote the name, then proudly turned it toward his interrogator. Alexander Braun.

"There is one other thing" the prisoner added. "I saw a strange classification, a note handwritten on the cover of the folder. We file by a single letter, then a number. This one said 'U-801:"

"Why do you find this strange?"

"Because the U file doesn't go that high. Maybe fifty is the highest. And Braun starts with a B."

"So perhaps Braun was not his true name?"

"It is possible."

Possible, Thatcher thought. So much was possible.

The interview lasted another twenty minutes. Convinced that Corporal Klein had given his all, he released the man to the custody of the guard. Thatcher quickly made his way out of The Stage, wondering if the Americans were still watching.

As he walked down the hall, the word Roger Ainsley had spoken yesterday suddenly came back. Demobilized. Thatcher wondered how long he had. Might this be his last case before heading back to university? Civil Law and Procedure. The Rules of Evidence. How trite it all seemed in the face of a world turned upside-down.

Of course, someday the world would right itself. Thatcher only hoped he could do the same.

Chapter 9.

The meeting reconvened in Ainsley s office an hour later, a round-table discussion of the slim facts. As earlier, Jones sequestered himself from the conversation, staring out the window with a brooding expression that mirrored the slate gray sky outside.

"Not much to go on, but he was very consistent," Ainsley said.

"Yes," Rasmussen agreed. He seemed to look to Jones for guidance. "It all sounds pretty sketchy. I'm not sure if it's worth pursuing."

"I found it compelling," Thatcher disagreed. "We should have another go tomorrow. I'd like to try to jog his memory on this Braun fellow. We know where he went to school before the war. If I called there and--"

"No!" Jones broke in. "No. We're done here." He moved to the coat rack. "Colonel Ainsley, there is no need to pursue this matter any further. Keep Klein in solitary until we approve his release."

"We told him he'd be released in two months," Thatcher countered. "And surely solitary can't be necessary."

"Keep him isolated until we tell you otherwise. It might be two months or two years."

"But we agreed--"

"Major" Jones cut in again, "that man is a Nazi!"

"He's a soldier"

"Soldier or not, he's locked down. And I will also require the two of you to maintain absolute silence about this."

Thatcher limped over to Jones and stood in his face. "You'll require us? What the bloody hell does that mean?"

Jones shrugged his baggy coat over his shoulders and said, "It means that by the end of the day you will have very specific, written orders relating to this matter. Drop it and zip your lips. That's it!"

The civilian strode out the door, Colonel Rasmussen tagging along behind.