David Healey - Winter Sniper

He pushed that thought from his mind. He was anxious to get back to England so that they could begin working out the details of the Allied invasion. Already, the names of French towns tumbled through his mind like stones rolling in the surf. Even Ike had to admit that planning a full-scale invasion was a daunting task as inclined to failure as success. They would have to coordinate air support with sea transport — always tricky — not to mention the whims of weather and tide. For they would need a very low tide to expose any beach defenses. That low tide would have to come early in the day, preferably at dawn, to give his troops the advantage of several hours of daylight in which to operate. And they would have to wait for spring weather, at least. That would give him time to plan. Besides, there was no point in mounting any operation on the wintry English Channel.

Ike hoped to create a hammer blow that would get his troops established on shore. But the slightest mistake would blunt the force of that hammer. Worse yet, if the Germans had warning of the attack, disaster might await them on the beaches of Normandy. Ike was a straightforward soldier who didn’t think much of spies and spying — he left that up to the likes of “Wild Bill” Donovan and the OSS. While he didn’t approve of their methods, even the general had to admit that misinformation had its uses. It would be almost impossible to keep the Germans from discovering that plans were being made for an invasion.

What if they were led to believe the Allied hammer blow was falling elsewhere? The obvious point of attack would be Pas de Calais, the stretch of German-occupied coastline closest to British ports. Ike took a thick, red pencil and sketched a wide arrow from the British coast to Pas de Calais. He jotted a few numbers in the margins, then smiled at his handiwork. Maybe the OSS could see that this was slipped into Hitler’s mailbag. That would make sure that the German defenses were thickest at that point while the Allied invasion force landed elsewhere. Maybe it wasn’t so hard being a spy, after all.

Ike gathered his papers and walked over to his desk in the second bedroom that he had taken over as an office. He dumped them in a heap, then retreated to the couch, tucked a pillow under his head, and then the general went to sleep.

Eva felt that her situation in Washington had spiraled out of control. One of her best contacts had been discovered by the OSS and hanged himself with his shoelaces to avoid giving her up. She had killed a man, shot him through the heart and dumped his body in a deserted alley. And she had fallen in love — just a little, she reminded herself — with Captain Ty Walker. That might not have been so bad if Ty had not been the enemy, and if she did not feel as if she were being unfaithful to her own dead husband, her beloved Kurt, killed in the invasion of Poland. She feared that Ty loved her back, which made the fact that she was using him even harder.

What kind of woman had she become?

None of this was what she had bargained for when she left Germany in 1939. Yet here she was. There was no going back. She was like the German army with its back to the Volga and thus no hope of retreat. The only way out was forward.

Which was why, less than twenty-four hours after she had shot and killed Carl Fleischmann in her attic, she was back in front of the radio. On the way to the radio table she passed the spot where Fleischmann had lain last night. Eva had scrubbed out the bloodstains herself, leaving the unfinished floorboards brighter where the wood had been scoured.

Last night, the glow from the radio dials had seemed warm, but now it struck her as a soulless light. Nonetheless, she put on her headphones and sat listening, hoping for some contact with one of the U-boats cruising the Atlantic coast of America.

Finally, after midnight, she made contact. The coded message spilled through the headphones and she hurried to copy it down. Then she deciphered the words using the light from her stub of candle.

Use your contact to gain entry to the Ironworker’s retreat. Gather any intelligence regarding invasion plans and then bring original assignment to conclusion. Finish Ironworker at all costs.

Eva frowned down at the message she had translated. That was Berlin for you, always talking in riddles. But she had little doubt this time about the meaning. They wanted her to kill General Eisenhower.

Eva used the candle flame to ignite the scrap of paper and burn it in an ashtray. The Walther pistol, carefully cleaned and reloaded, was back in its usual spot beside the radio. Eva did not put it back in its drawer but instead slipped it into a pocket of the housecoat she had worn into the cold attic. Then she covered the radio table with the quilt and started downstairs.

She found Petra in the kitchen.

“Are you all right, Frau Von Stahl?” the girl asked. “You look pale.”

You would be too, she thought, if you were now ordered to be an assassin. Eva forced a smile. “Nothing that summer can’t cure, Petra. I am tired of this cold.”

“Winter is a cruel time,” Petra said, then pursed her lips as if stopping herself from saying more. They had not discussed what they had done the night before. So long as it was not mentioned, it would be as if it never happened. Eva was convinced that Petra had gone along with disposing of the body out of simple shock and fear. Eva’s hands were shoved into her pockets, the gun gripped in her right hand. Could she count on Petra to keep quiet after what had happened with the warning note? Then again, she knew Petra had acted to protect them both in that case. She didn’t have much choice but to rely on the girl.

With an effort, Eva took her hand off the gun. “A trip might do us good,” she announced. “Pack our bags, Petra. Bring lots of warm clothes. We are taking the train to visit Captain Walker at White Sulphur Springs.”

“I will be gone in the morning,” Hess said, the sound of his voice startling in the cold stillness of the barn.

“I was almost asleep,” Zumwald muttered in German.

“Speak English,” Hess whispered harshly. “You never know who is listening.”

“What, that old farmer? He’s probably half deaf anyway.” Zumwald paused. It was no secret that Hess hadn’t come all this way to be a farm hand. And then there was the rifle, oiled and glistening, wrapped in a blanket and hidden away on a rafter. Yet Zumwald had hoped this moment might not come. “Where are you going?”

“Never mind that,” Hess said. “What matters is that it will not be safe for you to stay here. Maybe for a day or two. After that, it is hard to say.”

Zumwald heard a metallic click and their sleeping quarters lit up with the flame from Hess’s lighter as he lit a cigarette. “Give me one of those.” Hess handed him the cigarette he had just lit and put another one in his mouth. The lighter flared again. “The old man would have a fit if he found us smoking.” In fact, the farmer had expressly forbidden it. Surrounded by dry hay and old wood, a careless cigarette might send the barn up like a torch. They lay on their cots, the only light coming from the glow of their cigarettes.

Hess exhaled. “You have been a good comrade, Zumwald. I hope you get home someday.”

“What about you?”

Hess didn’t answer right away. “I did not come all this way to spend the rest of the war milking cows,” he said in German.

“Good luck, my friend. You’re going to need it.”

The lighter flared again as Hess lit another cigarette. Zumwald watched the shadows flicker across the wooden walls and dance across the rafters, then rolled over and closed his eyes. He worked so damn hard all day that he fell asleep almost instantly. When he woke up, the first pale light of dawn was already visible through the lone window in the bunkroom. He gazed with bleary eyes at the cot nearby.