It took another four hours to work his way through the wall of ice and snow and climb out into the open.
Outside, the sun was already setting.
There was nowhere for him to go today. He climbed back into the tunnel and returned to his aircraft. There he retrieved two large carry bags. They were designed to help keep them all alive if they had achieved their mission.
It seemed like a waste at the time, but now he became curious. What had those in the SS Intelligence department thought to provide him that might just save his life?
He unzipped the first bag.
There was enough food for three persons to survive a month. Rationing it well, by himself he could survive several months — well into the spring, and even summer. He exhaled slowly and smiled. It removed the immediate rush to free himself from the confines of the mountain. There wasn’t a lot of water, but he could always melt the snow. It would take time, but he could do it.
He ate a small meal of cold, dried food rations as he studied the topographical map. He used a pencil to circle the three potential low-lying mountains that were within their range. None of them was close to the target. It took a while, but by the time he was ready to go to sleep, he felt fairly confident he’d located the rough area of their crash site.
He was silently thankful for the difficult terrain. If it was hard for him to get out, it would be harder for someone to come in and locate his wrecked aircraft by accident. Perhaps he could still develop a plan to retrieve the bomb when the ice thawed in the summer? It might take a long time, but so long as he was still alive, there was still hope that he could complete the mission.
Gutwein opened the second backpack. He had already guessed what was inside. Now that he knew his immediate survival was no longer in jeopardy, the contents of the second bag would be more important to him.
There were three passports.
He selected the one that he was supposed to take. The name was William Goodson. He studied the American passport German Intelligence had provided him.
Would it still work?
So long as he didn’t try to cross any borders, would anyone care to check?
If they did, would he be shot as a spy?
His eyes then turned to the counterfeit money. It was in the local currency. Abwehr, the German military intelligence service, had provided it. They had stockpiled a number of fake currencies throughout the war for spies. Of course, Gutwein’s mission was the last to have any real consequence, so they’d simply stuffed a duffle bag with the American hundred-dollar notes. There was enough money there to allow him to live as a very rich man. So long as no one found the Condor, no one would ever believe that a German had flown across the Atlantic to start a new life.
He examined the first bundle. Would they suffice, or would they, too, be discovered as fakes and seal his fate as a German spy ending in his execution?
He shook these thoughts from his mind. They weren’t his responsibility. Someone else had made the decisions which would ultimately determine whether he lived or died. He would need the identification papers and the money if he were to survive. His German officers in intelligence had either done their part well or not.
He loaded a backpack with survival rations, cash, and what had become his most treasured possession — a small, leather bound journal, in which he had documented the entire event.
He glanced at the strange bomb sitting in its purpose-built cradle. Studying it, he carefully ran his hands along the edge of it. The entire device appeared sound and intact. It had fared far better than the Condor or his men.
The big question remained, would it still work?
It would take time, but so long as he lived, he might still have a chance to complete his mission. It would just take a lot longer than he’d originally hoped.
His family, his friends, and his country had all been taken from him. He felt a terrible stab of shame, as he realized that he was thankful that his life had been spared. But perhaps he needn’t feel guilty. Perhaps this was meant to be.
Luck. Fortune. Fate. Was there a reason he had been spared?
Gutwein’s lips curled into a Machiavellian smile of purpose. God had given him the means and opportunity to finish his mission. Now, he had all the time in the world to take revenge on those who had taken everything from him.
Chapter One
Alex Goodson had always known he was different.
He had been an awkward kid. As a young adult, he fell short of being attractive, and a long way off being liked by anyone. He had blond hair, which he carefully combed with the precision that bordered on the wrong side of obsessive compulsion. He had a moderately pleasing face, with light blue eyes, a prominent nose and a strong jawline. His teeth were white and evenly spaced. His face bore the remnants of an acne-filled teenage-hood with a series of small pockmarks. The rest of his skin was an unnatural and sickly pale color — the result of inadequate exposure to sunlight rather than disease.
He spent most of his time in front of computers, where he didn’t have to interact with other people. Despite his apparent lifestyle of inactivity, he had the sort of wiry physique that never really filled out to match his clothes. As a consequence, his suit today appeared conspicuously big for him.
The weather was pleasantly warm for early spring, approaching 75 degrees Fahrenheit. Speckled sun filtered through the new foliage of the red oak trees that lined the southern pathway. The unique fragrance of blossoming magnolias filled the air. Alex couldn’t quite place the smell. To him, it smelled like tropical fruit — something between mango and papaya.
Breathing in deeply through his nostrils, he grimaced as he stood waiting through the funeral service. The overly sweet fragrance seemed unnaturally strong this morning.
The priest droned on. The people in the crowd had their eyes down in prayer.
Alex didn’t listen. Instead, his eyes rolled along the row of juniper trees that lined the south path as it meandered down the undulating hills of the cemetery. Somewhere in the vicinity of six hundred thousand graves filled those mounds. Alex smiled as he imagined the colorful lives of those who were buried. Some struggled to succeed in life, others were rich, some talented, others were merely unlucky — all were now dead.
Something about the concept amused his morbid curiosity. It brought home the simple concept that whatever we achieve on earth, we all end in nothing. His mind wandered aimlessly. He recalled that the hill was once the very spot where the Battle of Long Island was fought in August 27, 1776. The first major encounter of the American Revolutionary War to take place after the United States declared its independence on July 4, 1776. It was a victory for the British Army and the beginning of a successful campaign that gave them control of the strategically important city of New York. In terms of troop deployment and fighting, it was the largest battle of the entire war.
The background murmur stopped. The Catholic service had finished.
Alex closed his eyes for a moment and tried to remember what he was supposed to be doing. These things came easily to others, but this sort of thing was foreign to him — he had to put on his act and give the performance that was expected of him. He felt confident he could do it. It just took a little more effort than it did for everyone else, that was all.
The dull thud of soil falling on wood made him open his eyes. Alex watched as the first pile of soil was being shoveled onto the lowered casket. His face was impassive, unemotional, and unreadable.