“Who is it you’re meant to meet there?”
He glanced around in a precautionary manner. Evidently what he was about to reveal was more incriminating than all that preceded it.
“A week from now, or shortly after, eight agents will be delivered by U-boat, just as I was. Half at Long Island, the rest in Florida. They were trained at the German High Command for Operation Pastorius. For two years, they’re to sabotage waterways and canals, magnesium and aluminum plants. Anything to delay war production, but also to demoralize citizens. They’ll target train stations and Niagara Falls. And department stores too–though just the ones owned by Jews.”
Her thoughts stumbled, attempting to keep up. “Why?” she breathed.
“They want German Americans to be blamed. The Führer is convinced Roosevelt will turn on them, just like he did to the Japanese here in the States. Then those with German blood will retaliate, bringing more power to the Reich.”
The magnitude of the mission far surpassed Vivian’s comprehension. The details soaked into her with the power of acid. She strained to salvage a shred of reasoning.
A week, he had said. They still had a week.
“It’s not too late,” she assured him, and herself. “You have plenty of time to let authorities know what’s coming.”
“And I plan to,” he said, yet a stipulation resounded in his tone.
“However ... ?”
He moved a step closer. “First, I have to know my family is out of Germany. They need papers-exit visas, new identities-so they can cross the Swiss border. Which is why,” he added slowly, “I need your help, darling.”
“My help?”
“Through your father. With all of his connections, surely he can arrange this. There are only five of them. I brought a list of their names for you.”
As he delved into his pockets, Vivian mentally grasped his request. What followed was the impossibility of fulfilling it.
“He can’t,” she said. “That is-my father isn’t here.”
Isaak looked up, the folded paper in his hand. “Where, then? At the Capitol? Wherever he is, we could-”
“Isaak,” she said, “he never left London.”
The lines on his brow deepened. “I thought that by now, your father would have come . . .”
She shook her head.
Another ill twist of fate had befallen them. Isaak rubbed at his hair-his buzzed, military cut–as if to stimulate new ideas. “There has to be a way. I can’t turn myself in until they’re safe. I simply can’t.”
The repercussions were woven into his voice, his eyes: As relatives of a traitor, his family would never be granted the luxury of a formal interrogation. One knock at the door and they would vanish into dust.
“I’ll find someone,” she heard herself say.
He gawked at her, a series of wordless questions.
Her mind scraped for the answers. “Who knows, maybe my father can still help. He also has colleagues in DC, men I’ve known through the years.” Whether she could trust anyone in regard to Isaak, she would determine as she went. “I’ll just . . . tell them I’m friends with your family. Nothing about you for now. And that they’re in imminent danger and have to be saved.”
Isaak paused before nodding. Through a layer of dimming hope was the need to believe. All of his faith, the fate of his family, he would place with her.
He spoke softly as he came closer. “I despise dragging you into this. My God, I never should have left your side, darling. Never.”
When he lifted his hand to touch her cheek, it took all of her will to stop him. Innocent lives were at stake, both on the home front and abroad. For now, these would take priority over the sorting of her heart, and her feelings for Isaak Hemel.
PART THREE
Here, where the world is quiet;
Here, where all trouble seems
Dead winds’ and spent waves’ riot
In doubtful dreams of dreams
–from “The Garden of Proserpine”
by Algernon Charles Swinburne
33
Early June 2012
Portland, OR
The water feature in the corner, a huge sheet of glass atop smooth white stones, was surely meant to relax clients but only added to Audra’s frustration. She needed to be sharp and clearheaded, and the sounds of a gentle brook were causing her eyelids to droop. Though she was growing accustomed to fractured nights of sleep, the court summons from yesterday had left her tossing and turning until morning. Now, during waking hours, her body wanted to doze.
Go figure.
She kept herself awake by picking at a thread on the black leather couch. With checkered pillows and an amoeba-shaped table, the waiting area looked more like an LA nightclub than a legal firm in Portland.