He had spent the previous night with Mr. Churchill on the radio, finally hearing the words the country had been waiting years for— "The German war is over. God save the King!" He had been tempted to go down to the Cock and Thistle for a pint — the place must have been riotous. But he'd been tired. Very tired.
That's what war does to you,Thatcher had reasoned before falling asleep in his best chair.
This morning things seemed strangely unchanged. There was no brilliant sunrise — an early morning drizzle tapped against the windows — and the same stack of cases would still be scattered over his desk, oblivious to the formal surrender. Thatcher was pouring his morning tea when the telephone rang. Roger Ainsley sounded weary.
"Michael, I need you here right away."
Thatcher was taken aback. Roger worked hard, but never found his way to the office before daybreak. "Can I ask what this is about?"
"It has to do with Number 68.1 can t say anything more."
"I see. I'll be right in."
Thatcher turned off the stove and donned his uniform, wondering what had happened. Roger sounded in a state. Had Klein done himself in? It had happened once before, an SS major who'd certainly been up against the gallows. But Klein was a nobody, a corporal. He might have useful information, but the man hardly seemed a war criminal. Thatcher remembered the results of his questioning — Manhattan Project. More than ever, he wondered what the devil it meant.
Thatcher stepped into Ainsley's office twenty-five minutes later, his boots muddied and his uniform peppered with moisture from the early morning drizzle. He saw Ainsley flanked by a pair of serious men. One was tall with angular features, and wore the uniform of a U. S. Army colonel. He stood rigidly for the introduction. The other looked a civilian, a slight man with close-cut reddish hair that receded on top to reveal a freckled scalp. He swam in a tweed jacket, and held a casual stance. A cigarette dangled loosely from two fingers.
"Major Thatcher," Ainsley said in an uncharacteristically formal tone. "These gentlemen would like a word with you. This is Colonel Rasmussen of the U. S. Army Intelligence Corps."
Thatcher exchanged pleasantries with the officer.
"And Mr. Jones is a representative of the United States War Department."
The civilian offered a soft handshake, then retreated to the side and leaned against a bookcase. Thatcher decided that the man was trying to imply, by his aloofness, that he effectively outranked the colonel.
"Gentlemen," Ainsley began, "Major Thatcher here is an interrogator. Hes also our tracker — when we find reliable evidence of important Nazis on the run, we send Thatcher to hunt them down. He's quite good at it."
"I see," Rasmussen said. "Yesterday, Major, you interviewed Number Sixty-eight?"
"I did."
"And what were the results?"
"Well, the only thing I got was this phrase — Manhattan Project. The prisoner clearly thought it would mean something to me. It didn't, so I asked around a bit."
"Who did you discuss this with?" Rasmussen asked.
"A couple of the officers here. I also made a call to a friend in intelligence at SHAEF," Thatcher said, referring to the Supreme Allied Headquarters.
"A Major Quinn?" Rasmussen suggested.
"Yes, that's right. He's an old acquaintance, and always knowledgeable."
"Why did you feel the need to ask someone in our intelligence services about this?"
Thatcher thought it was obvious enough. "The name of course. Manhattan Project."
The American officer clasped his hands behind his back. "I see. And was anyone able to shed light on this name?"
"No. Not yet. Is it something important?"
"Nothing vital. A shipbuilding project in New York. But it is classified. We'd like to find out what else Number Sixty-eight knows."
Thatcher's voice was edged in skepticism, "This project is nothing vital, but you've rushed over straightaway in the middle of the night — just in case there's something more?"
Rasmussen frowned and Ainsley stepped in. "We'd like you to interview Sixty-eight again. Really press in and see if he has anything else. We've confirmed his identity." Ainsley tapped a folder on his desk. "Just as we thought — Corporal Fritz Klein."
Thatcher recognized the German Army personnel folder. "Where did you get that?"
"Berlin. We pulled it out of the Wehrmacht's records."
"Berlin? That usually takes three weeks. We got it overnight?"
The man called Jones finally entered the match, his tone impatient. "Major Thatcher, we're asking for a little help here. I know you're an investigator by nature, but let's remember who pulled Europe's ass out of this fire."
Thatcher bristled and was ready to lash back when Ainsley again turned referee. "Michael, this comes straight from Whitehall. Let's see that it's done. I've already arranged for Sixty-eight to be brought to The Stage."
Thatcher knew what that meant. The Stage was a unique interrogation room, the only one with a mirrored viewing area. Ainsley and the Americans would be watching. He was being steamrolled, but there wasn't much he could do about it. Thatcher locked eyes with Jones like a prizefighter staring down an opponent.
"All right then. Let's get on with it."
The brightness was incredible. Braun opened his eyes and squinted severely against the brilliance. The sound of the ocean remained, echoing in his ears, yet when his hands clawed there was no longer water. Something firmer, yet still liquid through his fingers. Sand.
He shielded his eyes for relief and slowly began to see, slowly began to remember. U-801. Swimming, gasping, breathing. Just barely breathing. And then sinking, falling slowly, helplessly until his feet finally hit something. Push! Push back up! At last another breath. Then fighting the waves until he could stand, crawling the last few meters. The cold had been next. Not like Stalingrad, but the same vital thoughts. Keep moving. Find protection, warmth.
Braun's vision focused more clearly. He registered dunes and outcroppings of long grass. He was in a recess dug into the side of an embankment — a bed of coarse sand and a blanket of strawlike grass to break the wind and absorb the rays of the sun. He tried to move, only then remembering that he was still naked. Rising, the sand and grass gave way, exposing his body to a steady breeze.
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.