David Healey - Winter Sniper

Eva ran a hand through her hair, hoping it wasn’t too disheveled. She let the sheet slip down to reveal her milk-white shoulders. With a final consideration for Mr. Keller, she patted out the indentation Hess’s head had left on the other pillow and smoothed out the rumpled coverlet on that side of the bed.

Mr. Keller entered with hat in hand, the smell of fresh winter air clinging to his coat. “Petra! Take Mr. Keller’s things, for goodness’ sake!”

“No, no. Please. There’s no time for that. I have to get back to the office or else someone might be suspicious,” he said. He seemed to realize for the first time that Eva was still in bed because his eyes grew round as saucers. “What’s the matter? Are you ill?”

“ Nein. Just lazy. Every once in a while it does one good to spend the day in bed.” Eva laughed. “Would you please put another piece of wood on the fire, Mr. Keller? Petra, bring us coffee!”

Once Petra had gone, Eva patted the bed next to her. “Come, Mr. Keller, sit. You have time. Tell me what is so important that you skipped lunch to come here.”

He eyed the bed, then approached it like a man nearing the gallows. Amused, Eva saw his Adam’s apple actually pump up and down before he could bring himself to sit. It was the sort of expression that would have served an actor well on film. Unfortunately, in Keller’s case there was no acting involved at all.

“There’s going to be an invasion.”

Eva sat up in bed. “What are you talking about?”

“Paperwork doesn’t lie, Mrs. Von Stahl. This morning there was a blizzard of paperwork on my desk. Mostly requisition forms for ammunition, but a few for gasoline as well. It’s only the beginning, I can promise you.”

“But an invasion? Where?”

“The supplies are all going to England.”

Eva was no general, but she knew enough about geography and military strategy to understand that stockpiling supplies in England could only mean that the allies would move against France. “How soon?”

Keller chuckled. “The military does not move quickly. In fact, I would say that the army moves the opposite of quickly. We’re probably talking months here.”

Good , thought Eva. There is still time . “Can you learn more? Perhaps track the kinds of munitions? I need numbers, Mr. Keller. And I need to know where in England these supplies are going.”

“Do you know what you’re asking?” Keller gave her an odd look. He had never allowed himself to consider why Eva Von Stahl was so interested in his work at the quartermaster’s office. Now he finally understood. He was being asked to spy. For Germany. Keller wavered as the enormity of what he was doing sank in. Then he looked into Eva Von Stahl’s eyes. They were so blue. A movie star’s eyes. His movie star.

“My brave Mr. Keller,” she said. “Won’t you help me?”

“I only see a tiny part of what’s going on,” he said weakly.

“Have you ever done a jigsaw puzzle, Mr. Keller?”

“What?”

“You see, sometimes a few pieces of the puzzle will help you guess what the whole picture looks like.”

“If I’m caught —”

“You won’t be caught, Mr. Keller.” Eva reached out and brushed his cheek. “You are too clever. My clever, brave man.”

Petra came in with the coffee things. At her arrival, Keller popped up from the bed like a jack-in-the-box. “I must get back to work,” he stammered. He muttered a good-bye and turned to go. Petra quickly followed to show him out.

Eva got out of bed and stood for a moment in front of the fireplace, naked, enjoying the feel of the heat from the fireplace on her front side while the chill in the room gave her backside gooseflesh. For some reason, it made her feel like a little girl all over again. The bedroom door stood open and Petra walked in, clearly startled at the sight of her mistress standing naked before the fire. Eva Von Stahl still possessed the striking good looks and perfect figure that had made her a movie star and the sight of her statuesque body was enough to give anyone pause, man or woman. Eva laughed out loud at the look on poor Petra’s face, happy in the thought that she was indeed playing the greatest role of her life. She grabbed her robe from the back of a chair. Tonight, she would finally have some worthwhile news for Berlin.

On December 31, Hess went looking for a garage not far from where he had rented his room overlooking Pennsylvania Avenue. He found what he was looking for a few blocks away. It was a garage that had seen better days, but the cars looked tidy enough. Two gas pumps stood outside, and a teenager in an oil-stained Esso uniform was busy pumping gas into a Chevrolet sedan. As Hess watched, the boy opened the hood and checked the oil.

“You have cars for rent?” Hess asked. His accent sounded thick even to his own ears — you haff — but he was discovering that most people did not pay much attention to that. Washington was a city of accents. Certainly, no one suspected that he was a German assassin. The thought made Hess smile.

The boy looked up, smiled back. “Yeah, but you’ll have to ask my boss inside.”

The owner wore an Esso uniform like the boy’s, only more stained. He smoked a cigarette as he listened to Hess explain what he needed.

“Let me get this straight,” the man said. “You want a car Friday? That’s short notice. There’s a war on, you know. Officers are always wanting cars to take their girls out. Husbands want them to take the family for a drive on the weekend. Lots of demand.”

Hess looked pointedly at the three cars sitting in the garage. “I can see you are very busy,” he said.

“These are reserved.”

“How much?” Hess said. “I can pay extra.”

“I suppose I could make an exception for you, Dutchy,” the garage owner said.

Hess spoke English well enough that he sensed the garage owner was patronizing him. Dutchy . But if the garage owner thought he was Dutch, Hess was not going to correct him. He picked out what looked to be the fastest of the cars, a 1938 Dodge, and paid the owner in advance. “Make sure the tank is full. I will come early for the car, before dawn.”

“No problem, Dutchy. I live in back. Knock loud if you don’t see me in the office.”

The garage owner watched Hess walk away, then called to the kid working the gas pumps. “Hey, Jimmy! C’mere a minute.”

“Yeah, boss?”

“That guy who just left is going to take the Dodge first thing Friday. I want you to fill the tank half-full, okay? Just like we talked about.”

“Whatever you say.”

“Good boy. Now get back to work. And when you wash people’s windows, don’t just wipe at them with a dirty rag.”

The garage owner lit another cigarette and watched the kid gas up a car that had just pulled in. Gas rationing because of the war had really cut into business, but there were ways to get around it and still make a buck or two. He had found that he could monkey with the gas gauges on the cars he let so that they showed the tank was full. If anybody complained that they hadn’t gotten far on a tank, he told them they were driving too fast. “Lay off the pedal, buddy.” Ol’ Dutchy was gettin’ a deal, all right.

Hess spent the next few hours settling into the rooming house on Pennsylvania Avenue. It was New Year’s Eve, but the city was relatively quiet. The war made for a subdued celebration of the arrival of 1944.

He had spent the previous night in Eva Von Stahl’s bed, but she had scarcely stirred in her sleep when he slipped from under the covers at first light. Hess had always been an early riser — he had been a hunter before he was a soldier.