In the hotel, the previous afternoon, she had watched the television news pictures of the unnamed German tourist, who had been chased to the top of a delivery truck, and had been killed, having fallen into the path of a bus. The reports had said an Englishman, was helping the FBI with their enquiries. After seeing this, she had gone back to the salon to have her blond hair cut and dyed a deep brunette. She had also purchased some white plastic rimmed sunglasses to wear as a hip fashion item. As she swaggered through the departure area, she resembled a show business celebrity, turning many male heads, and had women whispering to each other, as to who she could be. She had a wait of an hour for her flight and desperate for a cigarette, walked over to the kiosk and stood in a small queue.
The man in front of her ordered his cigarettes from the vender and then turned, almost colliding with her. He looked down and smiled apologetically. ‘Please excuse me,’ said Alex Swan.
She peered over her glasses at the man. ‘That is alright,’ she said coyly, in her German English.
Holz held his gaze, widening her heavily made up eyes in surprise.
He walked past her and she turned her head, as he made his way towards the departures area for Trans-Atlantic flights. Just a few paces later, Swan halted abruptly, and turned on his heel. The woman was still standing in the same position, now thirty feet away, still staring at him.
He looked straight at her, and for a few seconds, they were locked in eye combat with each other. People walked past, temporarily cutting them off. Swan smiled at her again and gave an appreciative nod. Confused by this, Katrina Holz smiled back. Then crowds of people, blocked their view of each other, as they walked by with their luggage. When they had passed, Swan noticed that she was no longer there. He looked over at the signs for flights to South America. Nodding his head, a thought suddenly occurred to him. Of course, isn’t that where all the escaped Nazis went in the end? Swan shrugged, and then walked towards the gate, for his plane back to London.
After a ten-hour flight to Uruguay, which had been full of people talking about the Apollo 11 mission, the events of the last 24 hours, were still very much in Holz’s mind.
She had sat quietly in her seat with her tormented thoughts.
The next morning, outside the terminal of Carrasco International Airport, Montevideo, she saw a man with a tanned face and black moustache. He wore a beige jacket with black trousers and held a card with her first name on it. She went over to him and identified herself. He smiled, taking her bag, then escorted her a short distance to a light blue saloon car.
Twenty minutes later, after driving into the hills north of the Uruguayan capital city, the driver brought his passenger to a large white walled house, surrounded by a high concrete wall. He stopped the car and got out to open the black iron gates, situated at the front of the property. After driving inside, he walked around to the passenger door and opened it, smiling.
Holz climbed out of the car and thanking the man, they both walked around the house to the area at the rear. She looked across and saw a man dressed in a lightweight cotton shirt and slacks, wearing a Panama hat and sunglasses, raise himself from a chair situated under a gazebo, next to a swimming pool. He sped up his pace, and put out his arms, as he moved towards her. She put her arms out and embraced him. He kissed her forehead and cuddled her. ‘My dear Katrina. It is so good to see you, at long last,’ he said joyfully, then gasped with surprise. ‘Your beautiful blonde hair. What has happened?’
Holz ran her hand through her dyed locks ‘It is only a precaution, I will wash it out in a few days.’
The man ushered her inside the house, and they stepped into a large hallway. Holz put down her bag. ‘It is so good to see you too, dear uncle.’ Tears began to well in her eyes. They strolled side by side down the hall before she stopped to look at a photograph on the wall, of two Benedictine monks, behind a wooden wine press. Around the photograph, hung a black beaded rosary and beneath it, a pair of battered old rope sandals.
Noticing her gaze, her uncle stopped to explain. ‘My means of escape, my dear. The other man is also a German officer. He was assigned to see me to my death, but, after I had informed him of my escape plans from the war, he falsely recorded my supposed suicide, then having convinced that the Third Reich were finished, I took him with me. We disposed of our uniforms, then left Prague together on some bicycles. We travelled north, managing to avoid the Russian scouting patrols, roaming the area, then went as planned to the monastery. We stayed for over six weeks, posing as Benedictine monks, until we were collected for the transfer to the U643 to be brought here. We had just arrived on the shore, just east of Punte Del Este, when we were told that Donitz had signed the surrender.’
Holz smiled. ‘Your disguise was perfect, dear uncle,’ she commended, admiring the monks, again
‘Thank you, my dear. In fact, I still have a bottle of the wine, I helped to make. I will open it at dinner, in celebration of our wondrous reunion,’ replied, Klaus Kemmler.
‘Gunther is dead, uncle,’ Holz informed.
Kemmler placed a hand on her shoulder. ‘I know, my dear Katrina. The fool was far too ambitious. Operation Sternstruppe, was in place to prevent our technology, from being used by the Allies, and that is all. Unfortunately, Fleischer saw the work of the Onyx Cross, for a different cause, an impossible one, that could never work. The Cuban Missile Crisis saw evidence of that. And now, the Americans are on their way to the Moon. As for the Russians, thanks to our operative, they still struggle to get their own Moon rocket off the ground. They will persist, but the notion of knowing, they have been beaten into second place, will forever shadow their efforts, and so it will continue, perhaps for decades. The Americans and Russians will go on competing for each new achievement in man’s conquest of space. I believe they are both now looking towards stations in space, something I had proposed myself for the Reich.’
Kemmler looked down at his niece, staring into her eyes. ‘Gunther never knew of my escape, did he? So many would want me, even now, if they knew, I am still alive?’
‘No uncle, I did as you asked, and never told him. All the years we were together, I protected you, just carrying out your wish, by guiding him to do your work. He often spoke of you.
Kemmler patted her and smiled. ‘So, do you, have it?’ He asked excitedly.
She reached for the chain around her neck, pulled it over her head and handed it to him.
Smiling with relish, he took it from her and held it up in front of him. ‘You did well, my dear Katrina. Now I will get Carlos to show you to your room, and you can freshen up after your long journey from America, and perhaps have a swim before dinner. I will go to the wine cellar and look for that bottle.’ On a beckoning from his employer, Carlos walked into the house and escorted Holz upstairs, carrying her bag.
Kemmler waited a few moments, then walked into his study, removed an oil painting of the Alps from the wall, and opened a safe.
A few days later, Lars Brauer waved at the security guard, as he passed under the barrier at the entrance to the space centre. Ahead of him, was 22 miles of causeway road, which would take the German off the Cape and back onto the mainland towards Orlando. As he drove the white Ford rental car along the straight thoroughfare, he thought about his future. With the news that Gunther Fleischer was dead, Brauer had received a call from his true leader, a man in exile in Uruguay, who had now put him at the helm of the Onyx Cross. What would he do with this sudden, inherited power? He decided to allow himself time to think this over. Maybe by taking a well-earned holiday with his family.