Winter Sniper: A World War II Novel

Chapter 9

The morning of December 30 was a busy one for Hess. As was his habit, he woke before the winter sun rose, leaving Eva asleep in bed. He could smell coffee downstairs. Petra was in the kitchen cooking breakfast. She mumbled a greeting but barely looked up as Hess came in and helped himself to coffee and toast slathered with real butter. Petra soon found something else to do that took her far from the kitchen.

While she was gone, Hess hid the suitcase containing his rifle in the broom closet, putting it behind the mops and a box of rags. He knew that Petra would be afraid to touch it and that Eva Von Stahl was unlikely to rummage through the broom closet anytime soon.

Petra returned to find him eyeing the tray of muffins she had taken from the oven to cool.

“Don’t touch!” Her sharp voice snapped. “Those are for Frau Von Stahl’s breakfast.”

Hess just shrugged and sipped his coffee. When she left the kitchen again, Hess took two muffins and a mug of coffee and went out the back door. He gulped down the hot coffee as he traversed the alley that led to the street, then flung the mug away to shatter against a garage wall. Seeing the shattered pieces tumble to the ground felt curiously satisfying.

Hess spent the morning getting familiar with the city. He knew from the maps he had studied in preparation for the mission that Washington was on the Potomac River, surrounded by Maryland countryside. To the west lay the state of Virginia — once home to the rebellion that had taken place during the American Civil War. He knew enough American history to understand that Americans had a particular capacity for war and could be ruthless in their own way.

He also knew that the city had been laid out in 1791 by a Frenchman named Pierre Charles L’Enfant. Major L’Enfant had envisioned a city structured in a grid pattern with long and stately avenues that befitted a republic. He also had possessed a practical eye for defense. L’Enfant had overlaid the street grid with diagonal avenues that radiated from a central hub like spokes from the center of a wheel. The theory was that artillery placed in the hub could easily defend the city by having a clear line of fire against an enemy invading Washington. The soldier in Hess appreciated Major L’Enfant’s ingenious plan, even if it hadn’t done the Americans much good. During America’s second war with the British, Redcoats had marched into Washington and burned the city.

The diagonal avenues bore the names of states Virginia, New York, Connecticut, New Hampshire, Georgia and Pennsylvania. This last avenue was the one Hess sought, and when he reached it after several minutes of walking he paused to admire the Capitol dome in the distance.

He walked another five blocks down Pennsylvania Avenue and came to the White House. It gave him pause to stand outside the home of the United States president. He stared through the tall iron fence at the presidential mansion, somewhat disappointed by its modest size. It was certainly no European palace. Guards with rifles slung over their shoulders stood at the gate at Pennsylvania Avenue and at several points along the fence. Hess must have lingered too long, because one of the guards seemed to notice him standing there. He turned to go.

“Excuse me, sir.”

A tall man in a dark overcoat moved toward him. Hess groped in his pocket for the Luger, ready to fight or flee. But this was not Germany; the man was not from the Gestapo. He was holding out a boxy camera.

“Yes?”

“Would you mind taking our picture?” the man asked.

“It would be my pleasure,” Hess said.

“You must be Dutch,” the man said. “My grandfather was too, you know. Had an accent just like that.”

“Yah. I am from Amsterdam. That was many years ago, of course, but you never really lose the accent.”

The man smiled and motioned at a woman and a small boy nearby, who joined him in front of the gate. Hess looked through the window of the Kodak and framed the family against the White House, then pressed the button. The shutter clicked. As the man came forward to thank him and reclaim the camera, Hess noticed that the guard had lost all interest in him.

Hess walked on, then turned off Pennsylvania Avenue. A couple of blocks down he found a shop sign that read “Abe Cohen’s Exchange — Kodaks” selling boxy cameras identical to the model he had just used and bought one, along with three rolls of film. He put the film in his pocket and hung the camera around his neck.

Hess returned to Pennsylvania Avenue and walked several more blocks toward the Capitol. Soldiers filled the streets. Everywhere Hess looked, he saw khaki uniforms. Mixed in were blue Navy uniforms. At first, whenever Hess passed a soldier on the street, he tried not to meet the other man’s eyes. But with the camera around his neck, Hess grew more relaxed. He didn’t go out of his way to make eye contact, but if it happened, a nod and smile would do the trick. For the most part, however, no one paid any attention to him. He was just another tourist.

If only they knew the truth. As he walked, Hess studied his surroundings with the sharp eye of a sniper. Washington was a city, but it was not in the European sense. It was no Berlin; it was not even a Stalingrad. The city was too neatly laid out and yet, at the same time, Washington had a sprawling look about it, more like a Roman idea of a city than Stalingrad’s tightly packed squalor. Trees grew along Pennsylvania Avenue, though they were too small to offer cover to a sniper, especially now that they were barren skeletons in winter. In Stalingrad, there had not been a stick of a tree anywhere; Russians and Germans alike had cut them down to build fires so that they wouldn’t freeze to death. Shops sold everything imaginable — books, magazines, records, clothes. Wartime shortages had forced most German shops to close. He passed a diner with a large sign advertising “Navy Bean Soup 5¢” and another sign, “Soup & Sandwich 10¢.” The place was crowded with soldiers and office girls. The people of Washington, with their clean clothes, plentiful food and trees untouched by scavengers were innocent babes compared to the war-hardened citizens of Stalingrad — or Berlin, for that matter.

Hess had just two pieces of information about General Dwight Eisenhower’s visit to Washington. The first was that Eisenhower would fly in from Europe and arrive in the city in two days, late on New Year’s Day. The second bit of intelligence was that Eisenhower and his immediate staff would make use of the best accommodations in the city, at the Metropolitan Hotel, located on Pennsylvania Avenue roughly midway between the White House and the United States Capitol.

Hess stood now on the street in front of the doors leading to the hotel lobby. He glanced at the liveried doorman and the well-dressed Washingtonians coming and going. Hess started toward the doors, then hesitated. His clothes were certainly fine and he looked presentable enough, but the truth was that he would rather walk through a field of machine gun fire than those lobby doors. The thought of being discovered was horrifying. He had a nightmare vision of being surrounded indoors as people pointed fingers and shouted, “He’s the one, he’s the assassin!” Hess reminded himself that he was as anonymous as the next man and marched briskly through the doors.

Hess had still half-expected shouts to go up, but no one paid any attention to his arrival. The lobby was busy with the usual comings and goings on a busy morning. He blinked until his eyes adjusted to the indoor lighting and the reflections from the gleaming marble floors and pillars. Uniformed men were everywhere. Bellhops rushed past under the weight of suitcases, trailing in the wake of well-dressed women whose furs whispered in the winter breeze coming through the doors. To Hess, these rich women looked like the wolves he had hunted as a boy.

Every good hotel had a bar, and Hess soon found the Metropolitan’s. The air was already thick with cigar smoke at this early hour and a few drinkers huddled on bar stools. A black man stood behind the bar, polishing glasses between serving drinks. He let his eyes float over Hess in the curious way the German had noticed black people on the street looking at whites here, taking their measure without the whites even knowing they were looking. Perhaps one had to be an outsider to pick up on that. Hess left before the bartender noticed him.

The hotel lobby would be of no use to him. Too crowded. Even if he rushed the general with a pistol or a knife, he might never get close enough.

He emerged back out on the street, stopping to light a cigarette and get his bearings. He felt relieved to be back outside. Taxis came and went at the curb. Hess studied the buildings across the street and considered his options.

No, Washington was not what he expected, but Hess’s experience in street fighting would serve him well nonetheless. Hess paused to look at the buildings lining the avenue. Most appeared to have been built in the previous century, and though substantial, they had not benefited much from Washington’s wartime boom. He saw no structures more than four or five stories tall, but from their upper windows they commanded an excellent view of the street below. The multitude of windows and buildings standing shoulder to shoulder was good in another way, too, in that it offered camouflage to a sniper. From the street, it would be nearly impossible to tell from which window the shot had been fired.

That brought Hess to another question, the matter of escape. He had seen more than one sniper trapped inside a building. Once a tank or even a heavy caliber machine gun was brought to bear on the sniper’s nest, without a way out, the building was as good as a death trap. To Hess’s mind, planning an avenue of escape was just as important as setting up a field of fire. When the Russians killed a sniper, it was a triumph for them. When a sniper slipped away, there was always the fear that he would soon be on the hunt again. Fear could be as useful as a bullet on the battlefield.

These Americans would not have tanks or machine guns at hand, but they did have plenty of men and the freedom to comb the city. There were no lines for him to retreat behind. Hess wanted to be gone before a real search for him began. Whichever building he chose needed to have a way out. He knew that Himmler might have considered this to be a suicide mission, but Hess intended to disappoint the reichsfuhrer.

Several of the buildings had metal fire escapes crisscrossing their facades, but that would not do him much good. At the end of the block, he turned the corner and walked to the alley behind the row of buildings fronting on Pennsylvania Avenue. He found tacked-on additions and garages, old cars, rows of garbage cans topped by sooty snow. He couldn’t have hoped for anything better.

Hess crossed Pennsylvania Avenue to walk the block opposite the Metropolitan. He passed several more businesses on the street level Sterling Optical, Dewey’s Wines, Miller’s Restaurant. However, Hess had his eye out for something other than spectacles and wine. The next block down was more residential, and it was here that he found what he was seeking. Throughout the city he had noticed numerous “Rooms” signs and this street had its share. Some notices were hand-lettered on cardboard and placed in a window, while others advertising “Men’s Rooming House” or “Women’s Rooming House” were neatly painted on more substantial wooden signs.

He paused to press a buzzer. Down the street he could still see the sidewalk in front of the Metropolitan, though the view was partially obscured by the trees lining Pennsylvania Avenue. He was now at the outer range for a moving shot, nearly three hundred meters, and if no one answered the door he would try to find something closer.

“May I help you?”

“Hello,” Hess said, taking off his hat. “I came to ask about the room.”

“Well. I see.” Or, she was trying to, Hess thought. The woman was middle-aged and snowy haired, with thick eyeglasses that looked as if they pinched her nose. But the eyes behind the lenses were shrewd enough. She observed Hess’s suit and coat, as well as the fact that his shoes were shined. “I do have a room available. Please come in out of that cold! I’m Mrs. Gilpatrick.”

“Rob Brinker,” he said.

The front door opened directly into the living room. Hess had an immediate impression of neatness and comfort. He saw a sofa and two armchairs. A copy of that morning’s Washington Star was open on a side table next to a cup of tea. He must have interrupted Mrs. Gilpatrick while she was catching up on the war news.

“Very nice,” he said, looking around the empty room with satisfaction because the last thing he wanted was a boarding house full of nosy spinsters. Mrs. Gilpatrick appeared to have the place to herself this morning. “I have not read the newspapers this morning. What is new?”

“We’re pushing the Krauts back out of Italy, for one thing,” Mrs. Gilpatrick said happily.

“Ah.”

“I’ve got a daughter in the WAVES and a son in the Marines,” she added. “I keep up on the war news.”

“Your son, where is he stationed now?”

“Somewhere in the Pacific,” she said primly. “I can’t say where. He’s not allowed to tell me where he is when he writes. Loose lips sink ships and all that.”

“You must be proud,” he said.

“I am.” He saw that Mrs. Gilpatrick actually drew herself a bit taller. “So, Mr. Brinker, is it?”

He nodded pleasantly.

“Where are you from, Mr. Brinker? If you don’t mind me asking. That’s quite an accent you have.”

“I am Dutch,” he said, still smiling. “Well, it has been many years since I have been in this country. I recently was hired at Sterling Optical down the street. Do you know it? I am a lens grinder by profession.”

“Oh,” Mrs. Gilpatrick said with a satisfied note, as if he had just answered all her questions. “Well. I suppose now I should show you the room.”

“Do you have many other boarders here?” Hess asked.

“Just Mr. Hargrave right now, who works in the procurement office. He’s hardly ever home. He just sleeps here, to tell the truth.” She added pointedly, “Boarders don’t generally loaf around the house.”

They climbed four flights of stairs and Mrs. Gilpatrick showed him a space with a low ceiling, tucked under the roof. A bit cramped, but freshly painted a blinding shade of white and spotlessly clean. It was also so cold that Hess could see his breath.

“There’s no heat, I’m afraid,” Mrs. Gilpatrick said. “I’ve kept it closed off but if you leave the door open it warms up soon enough.”

“I like the cold,” he said.

Hess looked out the windows. Two old double-hung windows in the back wall overlooked the alley below. He could see the rooftop of a kitchen addition just below. Out front was a view of Pennsylvania Avenue. They were well above the treetops. Cars crawled along the street below, and people walked quickly down the sidewalk, hurried along by the winter wind. Down the street, he could plainly see people getting in and out of taxicabs in front of the Metropolitan Hotel.

Hess smiled.

Mrs. Gilpatrick joined him at the window to admire the view, and she looked at his face, awaiting his reaction. She knew the view from the fourth floor was quite good, and in the past some boarders had overlooked the lack of heat — or the stifling overabundance of it in summer — on account of the stunning vantage point offered of the street. But the look in Mr. Brinker’s eyes was neither admiring nor dreamy. He seemed to be lost in calculation, like a batter who steps up to the plate and judges the distance to the back fence. She found his glance unsettling as he turned to her and said, “I will take the room.”

The man hurrying down the street had more giving wings to his feet than the winter wind. He shoved his thin fists deeper into the pockets of his wool overcoat and tried to walk faster. Once or twice he looked over his shoulder. He was on his lunch break and he didn’t want to be gone more than an hour. An absence of an hour might raise a few eyebrows, because Bill Keller was famous for his fifteen-minute lunches that consisted of a cup of coffee and a hamburger at a nearby diner. He was at his desk by 8 a.m. sharp and wasn’t one to put on his coat and hat promptly at 5 p.m. No, sir. Not Bill Keller. When other clerks showed up late — even hung over — or took too long for lunch, the supervisor invariably said, “Why can’t you be more like Bill Keller?”

It was just the sort of comment that made him hated by his co-workers. He thought they would be amazed to know that he was on his way to see a movie star.

At forty-eight, Keller was old to be a clerk in the War Department, doing nothing more than shuffling papers and reviewing forms. He had worked there for twenty years. He had hoped that the war might offer an opportunity for advancement and change, but the trouble was that Keller was a civilian. Every wet-nosed kid who came along with sergeant’s stripes or even those pushy young WACs thought they could boss around the short, bespectacled man who rarely looked up from the stack of papers on his battered wooden desk. Keller wasn’t even at the new Pentagon building across the river in Virginia, which had quickly become the center of military activity. He still labored in the temporary Munitions Building on the National Mall — then again, that was where General Marshall still chose to make his headquarters. Marshall claimed that he and his staff didn’t have time to move.

Keller was too old to enlist. Nobody wanted a middle-aged man with glasses and a slight build. And the truth was that Keller wasn’t so enthusiastic about the war. He could understand fighting the Japanese — sneaking yellow bastards that they were, attacking Pearl Harbor like that. But the Germans were different. They represented order and common sense in Keller’s mind. Why, Keller’s own grandfather had been German. Very briefly, a few years before the war, Keller had joined a group called the German-American Bund, led by a charismatic German immigrant named Fritz Kuhn. Kuhn and his Bund members were sympathetic to the new order arising in Germany. To Americans like Keller, sick of the poverty of the Depression and the way that the average man was kept down, Adolf Hitler seemed like a prophet. His message rang true. Rise up! Take pride! It’s not your fault — it’s the Jews! In the Bund, Keller found the sort of camaraderie he had longed for all his life.

The Bund denounced President Roosevelt as a pawn of the international Jewish conspiracy. Keller had quit when the Bund started handing out uniforms and making the Nazi salute. That was just asking for trouble. And Keller wanted to keep his job with the Department of the Army. So he had gone back to his desk and his quiet ways, watching the rapid promotion of others. In 1940, he had followed the news about Fritz Kuhn being imprisoned for embezzlement and forgery. Keller wasn’t all that surprised. He doubted that the charges were even true. But the government had wanted Kuhn locked up. It was a lesson that wasn’t lost on Keller and other former Bund members. They kept their heads down and their mouths shut.

Keller had met Eva Von Stahl one day several months before when she sat on the stool next to him at the diner where he was eating his hurried noontime sandwich. He had recognized her instantly — the glamorous German movie star! One of his passions, which he never discussed with his co-workers, was going to the movies. Eva caught him staring, and they struck up a conversation. He had even made her laugh, which pleased Keller more than anything, because deep down he knew that he possessed the sort of dry wit that went unappreciated. The actress was sophisticated enough to understand him.

Not that Keller’s interest in Eva Von Stahl was purely intellectual. He would have to be a dead man not to notice a figure that seemed to have been poured into her dress. Her hair was a pale blond, almost platinum, and Eva’s eyes were the deep blue of a fall sky. She had a way of looking at him with those eyes as if whatever he said was the most interesting thing she had ever heard. Half the time, looking into those eyes, he forgot what he was saying halfway through a sentence. After all these long, lonely years, Keller finally felt that he was appreciated.

She also seemed interested in his work. “Don’t believe everything you read in the newspapers,” Keller told her. “If you really want to know where the army is going next, you just have to follow the paperwork. Food, munitions, gasoline — those are the things that keep an army going. When you see where those supplies are headed you know where the next campaign is going to be.”

“Darling, what if I told you that information might be very valuable to me,” Eva said. “I would reward the man who brought it to me. I would reward him very well.”

The way she said it, with that glimmer in her mesmerizing eyes, left Keller with little doubt as to what that reward might be. Which was why he was hurrying to Eva’s house instead of stopping at his usual diner for a lunchtime hamburger. A blizzard of forms and paperwork had arrived on his desk in the last few days. Keller had no doubt about what that meant. An Allied invasion of Europe. It had been talked about for some time, but the proof was in the paperwork. Eva would want to know. Her words echoed in his ears: I would reward the man who brought it to me. I would reward him very well.

Keller looked back over his shoulder, just to make sure he wasn’t being followed by one of his nosy co-workers. Whatever was going on now was very hush, hush. It wouldn’t do at all to make anyone suspicious.

Thinking about how pleased Eva would be, Keller smiled and quickened his pace.

When Eva woke that morning she was relieved to find that she was alone in bed. The sheets felt cold; Hess must have slipped out of bed hours ago. His pillow, however, still bore the indentation of his head. There was a faint, acrid smell that Hess had left behind. Something about it was familiar and Eva tried to place the smell … Kurt had smelled like that after coming home from hunting or else from military duty. It came to Eva at once. Gun oil.

She stretched lazily. Eva never had been a morning person. She preferred to go to bed after midnight and sleep past ten. Perfect hours for a movie star… or a spy, she thought.

“Petra!” When there was no answer, she called again impatiently. “Petra!”

The Polish girl hurried into the room, carrying a tray with coffee, buttered toast and the morning newspaper. As Eva propped herself up in bed, she found that she ached pleasantly all over. Hess was rougher than her usual lovers, such as that fusty old General Caulfield, who made a couple of thrusts and then rolled off her, spent and panting. Then again, the old general seemed to enjoy his pillow talk as much as the sex, sharing all sorts of departmental gossip. Hess had rolled over and gone to sleep, much to her disappointment.

Petra went to the heavy drapes covering the bedroom windows and opened them. The sunshine was better than a jolt of coffee. There was no warmth in the winter light; Eva was naked under the sheets and she was getting goose bumps on her bare shoulders. She pulled the coverlet up to her chin. The heat turned down to save money. Eva wondered what it would be like to live in a place where there was always sunshine and where it was warm. She sometimes tried to imagine what her life would be like if she had answered Hollywood’s call instead of Hitler’s. Just as quickly, she put the thought out of mind. She would never survive this dangerous game she was playing if she started daydreaming about California. Perhaps someday, after the war…

“Start a fire,” she ordered Petra in German. “There is such a chill this morning. I might not get out of bed until dinnertime. Or cocktail hour, at least.”

“Yes, Frau Von Stahl.”

“Is that man Hess still lurking about?”

“No, he left first thing this morning. He walked right out with one of your coffee mugs!”

Eva laughed. “If that is the worst that happens with Herr Hess in the house, Petra, we should count ourselves lucky.”

“I don’t like him, Frau Von Stahl. He frightens me. What is he doing here, anyhow?”

“That is none of your business, Petra. Stay out of his way. He will be gone soon enough. And be sure to tell no one that he was ever here, especially not one of your dirty-minded grocery boys.”

“Frau Von Stahl!”

“Come now, Petra. Do you think I am blind? You are a good-looking girl. You deserve a few admirers. Just let me give you a word of advice about men. When you invite them to dinner, set the table with your best linen, give them a few appetizers to nibble, but make them wait a long time before you get around to dessert.”

Blushing, Petra left the room. Eva laughed. She had to admit that she had a certain fondness for the girl. It was said that Polish girls were hard workers and good housekeepers, if a bit dull and stupid. Eva had to agree. And as long as Petra kept their household secrets to herself, they would get along just fine.

She sipped her coffee — black, no sugar — and took a ravenous bite of toast. She had half a mind to ask Petra to cook up eggs and bacon for breakfast. Her night with Hess had left her unusually hungry.

Eva skimmed the war news in the Washington Star. As usual, the headlines on the front page trumpeted the good news and the setbacks were relegated to one-column stories inside with headlines set in small type. For all their talk about freedom of speech, Eva had observed that the editors and publishers of the Washington papers were firmly in the government’s back pocket when it came to reporting the war.

The fire was warming the room nicely. In a few minutes she would get out of bed and dress for the day. Later, she was expecting General Caulfield again. She hoped the randy old goat would have something useful for her. Her radio broadcasts from the attic had been devoid of any real information lately. She suspected that Berlin hungered for more than news about the latest extramarital affair at the United States War Department. The drought of substantial news from any of her sources made Eva worry that something big was taking place. Everyone was being careful about what they said these days.

Eva hoped that when Ty Walker arrived in Washington that he might have something for her. As part of General Eisenhower’s staff, he would be aware of the Allies’ latest plans. She knew better than to expect Ty to share secret military information, but sometimes a stray nugget was more valuable than anyone knew. Reluctantly, Eva also admitted to herself that she enjoyed Ty’s company. He reminded her of Kurt.

Like her late husband, Ty Walker was earnest in his beliefs and possessed with a strong sense of duty. Like Kurt, Ty was kind — even tender — but not afraid to fight when required. In Kurt’s case, his family’s noble blood had flowed down the centuries from the knights of old. Ty did not come from nobility — though his family was respectable enough — but was simply possessed of that peculiar American need to do some good in the world. Ty had never come out and said it, but Eva knew he believed there wasn’t anyone more fair-minded or right than an American. It was a concept that Europeans like Eva found amusing, even naive. That naiveté led to a belief on Ty’s part that all people were basically good. She planned to take advantage of that trusting attitude once his guard was down. Then she would take Ty Walker into her bed and milk him dry in more ways than one.

Eva had just put aside the newspaper when Petra came back into the room.

“There is someone here to see you, Frau Von Stahl,” she said. “That strange little man.”

There was just one person Petra could have meant. “You must mean Mr. Keller,” Eva said. “Send him in.”

Petra glanced at her mistress in surprise. “But you are not even dressed!”

“You let me worry about what is proper,” Eva said, more sharply than she intended. “Now, go get Mr. Keller.”

Eva ran a hand through her hair, hoping it wasn’t too disheveled. She let the sheet slip down to reveal her milk-white shoulders. With a final consideration for Mr. Keller, she patted out the indentation Hess’s head had left on the other pillow and smoothed out the rumpled coverlet on that side of the bed.

Mr. Keller entered with hat in hand, the smell of fresh winter air clinging to his coat. “Petra! Take Mr. Keller’s things, for goodness’ sake!”

“No, no. Please. There’s no time for that. I have to get back to the office or else someone might be suspicious,” he said. He seemed to realize for the first time that Eva was still in bed because his eyes grew round as saucers. “What’s the matter? Are you ill?”

“Nein. Just lazy. Every once in a while it does one good to spend the day in bed.” Eva laughed. “Would you please put another piece of wood on the fire, Mr. Keller? Petra, bring us coffee!”

Once Petra had gone, Eva patted the bed next to her. “Come, Mr. Keller, sit. You have time. Tell me what is so important that you skipped lunch to come here.”

He eyed the bed, then approached it like a man nearing the gallows. Amused, Eva saw his Adam’s apple actually pump up and down before he could bring himself to sit. It was the sort of expression that would have served an actor well on film. Unfortunately, in Keller’s case there was no acting involved at all.

“There’s going to be an invasion.”

Eva sat up in bed. “What are you talking about?”

“Paperwork doesn’t lie, Mrs. Von Stahl. This morning there was a blizzard of paperwork on my desk. Mostly requisition forms for ammunition, but a few for gasoline as well. It’s only the beginning, I can promise you.”

“But an invasion? Where?”

“The supplies are all going to England.”

Eva was no general, but she knew enough about geography and military strategy to understand that stockpiling supplies in England could only mean that the allies would move against France. “How soon?”

Keller chuckled. “The military does not move quickly. In fact, I would say that the army moves the opposite of quickly. We’re probably talking months here.”

Good, thought Eva. There is still time. “Can you learn more? Perhaps track the kinds of munitions? I need numbers, Mr. Keller. And I need to know where in England these supplies are going.”

“Do you know what you’re asking?” Keller gave her an odd look. He had never allowed himself to consider why Eva Von Stahl was so interested in his work at the quartermaster’s office. Now he finally understood. He was being asked to spy. For Germany. Keller wavered as the enormity of what he was doing sank in. Then he looked into Eva Von Stahl’s eyes. They were so blue. A movie star’s eyes. His movie star.

“My brave Mr. Keller,” she said. “Won’t you help me?”

“I only see a tiny part of what’s going on,” he said weakly.

“Have you ever done a jigsaw puzzle, Mr. Keller?”

“What?”

“You see, sometimes a few pieces of the puzzle will help you guess what the whole picture looks like.”

“If I’m caught —”

“You won’t be caught, Mr. Keller.” Eva reached out and brushed his cheek. “You are too clever. My clever, brave man.”

Petra came in with the coffee things. At her arrival, Keller popped up from the bed like a jack-in-the-box. “I must get back to work,” he stammered. He muttered a good-bye and turned to go. Petra quickly followed to show him out.

Eva got out of bed and stood for a moment in front of the fireplace, naked, enjoying the feel of the heat from the fireplace on her front side while the chill in the room gave her backside gooseflesh. For some reason, it made her feel like a little girl all over again. The bedroom door stood open and Petra walked in, clearly startled at the sight of her mistress standing naked before the fire. Eva Von Stahl still possessed the striking good looks and perfect figure that had made her a movie star and the sight of her statuesque body was enough to give anyone pause, man or woman. Eva laughed out loud at the look on poor Petra’s face, happy in the thought that she was indeed playing the greatest role of her life. She grabbed her robe from the back of a chair. Tonight, she would finally have some worthwhile news for Berlin.