David Grace - The Accidental Magician

"Pretty girl." a voice screeched from the corner of the darkened room.

"Go back to sleep, Shantrell."

"Pretty girl!" she squawked, louder this time.

I grabbed a handful of sunflower seeds from a jar next to the TV and dropped them in Shantrell's dish. The African Blue parrot appraised me with a quizzical eye, then dipped her beak into the bowl. Idly, I brushed her wing with the backs of my fingers, then hurried for the door. My attackers had been waiting for me in the parking lot which meant somebody knew I was going out tonight. Somebody wanted me out of the way. It was a good bet that somebody didn't want me meeting Carolyn Simpson. Her stalker was a cop. He'd have access to a Taser.

Had the lawyer tipped him off? Had Simpson herself let something slip? Cell calls were pretty easy to capture and decoding them was a joke if you knew what you were doing, like maybe a cop would. Had Manchuko set up an intercept on her phone? If he was serious enough to do that and have a couple of his friends kidnap me, what the hell did he have planned for Carolyn Simpson?

I raced down the stairs.

Here is an excerpt from David Grace's novel:

The Forbidden List

April 18, 1945 – Southwestern Poland

When the elevator doors opened Colonel Claus Webber was confronted by a scene of frantic activity disintegrating into chaos. One of the pushcarts had overturned, spilling hundreds of documents across the tunnel's floor. Two of the Jews were struggling to right the cart while a third was on his knees stacking the pages into ragged piles. Two guards watched lazily from the side of the corridor.

"Don't just stand there!" Webber shouted. For a moment the guards hesitated. Manual labor was a job for the Jews but after a quick glance at Webber's face both SS men hurriedly grabbed the edge of the overturned cart. Four days before General Kammler's Chief of Staff, Obersturmbahnfurher Stark, had left the facility to report to the General in Munich, leaving Colonel Webber in charge. Shortly thereafter Kammler had ordered all the project files crated for transport.

Under Webber's watchful eye the guards and the three prisoners hurriedly reloaded the cart.

"Who was pushing the cart?" Webber asked the senior guard.

"They were," the Corporal said, pointing at two of the Jews.

Webber took out his sidearm, waved it back and forth three times between the two pale, gray men, then pulled the trigger, shattering the skull of the older slave.

"Get him out of here," Webber ordered then turned and walked back down the tunnel. Behind him he heard the cart's wheels squeaking as the remaining prisoners pushed it to the packaging room where the lab books and blueprints would be inventoried, crated and sealed for shipment.

Three days later a JU-290 swept low over the valley. The mid-April ground was soft and spotted with puddles. For the preceding two days the prisoners and the remaining lab technicians had been laying five centimeter thick planks over the bulldozed earth in a swath barely wide enough to accommodate the plane's landing gear. Webber bit his lip nervously as the pilot dropped the big ship the last few meters.

Called 'trucks', the four-engined JU 290, and its big brother the six-engined 390, were in desperately short supply. Rumor had it that Himmler himself had demanded one and that General Kammler had turned him down, instead sending the plane here to recover its precious cargo before the Russians reached the base. If the plane foundered, if the makeshift runway failed, Webber had no illusions about what would happen to him.

The wheels hit with a thump and the 290 bounded five meters into the air, planks scattering behind it like matchsticks. The wheels came back down and this time it bounced only a meter. On the third hop it stayed down leaving snapped boards in its wake. The big plane rolled on, finally stopping a bare two hundred meters from the end of the cleared earth.

Webber issued a piercing whistle and waved his arm in a circle. A line of crate-laden carts emerged from the cargo elevator. From the other end of the runway the remaining prisoners and lab technicians advanced into the field, hurriedly replacing the broken planks with the last of the fresh ones.

Kammler's orders were explicit. Webber was to load the plane and have it ready for takeoff by twenty hundred hours. The General would radio coded orders directly to the pilot. Once the plane departed the prisoners were to be killed and the facility flooded. That part would be easy. Originally a coal mine, it required constant pumping to keep it dry. From that point on, it was every man for himself. The Sudeten Mountains in Southwest Poland were hardly on the Russian's direct invasion route but sooner or later they would show up and Webber had no intention of being there when they did. He looked at his watch. It was 16:00. He had four hours to get the plane loaded and ready to fly.

April 21, 1945 – Bavaria

SS General Hans Kammler checked his watch and stepped into the small inn ten kilometers west of Oberammergau in southern Bavaria. It felt strange to be out of uniform. The coarse wool pants chafed his legs. Two men sat in the deserted lobby, one black haired, one brown. Kammler immediately noted their sun browned skin and ill fitting civilian clothes. Like himself these were soldiers who had recently left their uniforms behind.

"Mr. Adams and Mr. Jones, I believe?" Kammler said in University English.

"Herr Schmitt?" the taller man replied.

Kammler gave his head a quick nod and extended his hand. After a slight pause the man called Jones took it then waved Kammler to the empty seat at a small, scarred table.

"Do you have the material?" Adams demanded immediately.

"It's been a long day. Perhaps we can conclude our transaction in a civilized manner."

"What would you know about civilized behavior?" the dark haired man, Adams, demanded.

"Gentlemen, insults are a poor way to begin our association. Unless, of course, you don't want my materials."

"We're not your associates. We're just here to make a trade."

"My services are of at least as much value as the documents. Only I can explain what they mean. Only I can tell you what scientists will be of help to you in exploiting the material. Only I can tell you the sites where other materials can be found."

"We don't need you for that."

"You do if you want to beat your Russian friends to them." Kammler paused and looked up at a skeletal balding man, apparently the owner, who was carrying an opened bottle of Riesling and three glasses. Kammler nodded and the proprietor left the General to pour the wine. "Gentlemen, let us not 'get off on the wrong foot' as you Americans say. If I may, I would like to go over the details of our arrangement." Kammler paused for a moment and, receiving no objection, continued.

"I have all of the documents from Site A loaded on a plane and ready to be delivered to any designated location within twenty four hours. It will fly wherever I tell it. It's destination is up to you. In return," Kammler raised his hand and extended his index finger, "I will be given a new identity and American citizenship." A second finger went up. "For one year I will work for your government translating and explaining the materials for which I will be paid one thousand dollars per month." A third finger went up. "I will immediately tell you all of the other locations and the names of the scientists who worked on advanced programs under my direction. I will be guaranteed employment for at least five years at the agreed salary if I am unable to find private employment on my own. You will facilitate the transfer of assets of mine in various accounts to the United States, tax free. And lastly, of course, you will provide me with excellent references and documentation for any new employment I may wish to seek. Have I correctly stated our agreement?"