Step one in the dismantling of the massive press.
Another act in the emasculation of the Reich.
Running a hand over his close-cropped hair, Egon raised himself up and down on his tiptoes, shaking his head. Below in the crowd — among, yet distinctly apart from the American engineers — stood four representatives of the Soviet government, recognizable by their coarse woolen jackets and coarser Slavic features. All were grinning like schoolboys.
Untermenschen, Egon hissed.
Though American engineers were responsible for dismantling the press, the great machine was not destined for Pittsburgh, Detroit, or even Long Beach. Once disassembled, it would be placed on a train carrying it eastward to its new home, somewhere in the Union of Soviet Socialist Republics. The press that had made the Alfried Geschutz would soon be in the employ of Stalin and his greasy comrades.
Unable to bear watching, Egon ripped the glasses from his face and began vigorously cleaning the lenses. Only a year ago, Bach Industries had controlled major industrial facilities in twelve countries: tungsten mines in France; ore in Greece; shipbuilding in Holland; steelworks in the Ukraine. All listed on the books for their acquisition price: one Reichsmark. The rewards of a grateful nation. They were gone now, returned to their former owners. It was a pity, but he could not hold himself to blame for their loss. The rape of Bach Industries from under his very eyes, well, that was another matter altogether.
Sliding on his spectacles, Egon dialed the Heidelberg exchange for the final time. As the phone rang two hundred kilometers to the north, he ran a manicured finger over the buttons of his vest. Pick up, he muttered. Pick up. This was Seyss’s doing, he decided. The man was impossible to control. What could he have been thinking venturing onto the black market when his picture was plastered over every square inch of the American zone of occupation? Did the man think himself immortal? It had been a mistake using him after he’d killed Janks and Vlassov. Seyss was too much the loose cannon. Ruthlessly efficient, yes, but also completely unreliable; Egon’s best and worst bets rolled into one.
Ten. Eleven. Egon’s worry grew with each unanswered ring. God forbid, the Amis succeed in arresting Seyss and his men. Seyss wouldn’t say a word, but what about the others? One of them was bound to talk. The Americans would put two and two together: Seyss, the decorated Brandenburger, headed to Berlin dressed as a Russian on the eve of Terminal. An idiot could deduce what he’d planned.Pick up!
After twenty rings, Egon slammed the receiver into its cradle. One of the MPs shot him a concerned glance through the glass partition but Egon waved him off with a broad smile. The smile was a ruse. He was damn near apoplectic with worry. Where were the fools? He had fallbacks set up: another armory in Bremen; one in Hamburg. Friends to spirit Seyss to safety. He must warn them off the mission.
A second muffled explosion drew his attention back to the press. Another bolt had been blown. The crowd of engineers threw out a boastful hoorah. In a day, all that would remain of the press would be a few loose screws and a pool of grease.
Returning to his desk, Egon picked up the phone. To hell with Seyss and Bauer. There was no longer any time to waste. There existed only one man he might still call to avert a disaster. Egon dialed the number and placed the phone gingerly to his ear, preparing himself for the raw and untethered force on the far end of the line. When the party answered, he spoke rapidly, sure to temper his frustration with the proper respect. He could not reach his men, he said. He had no way to warn them. Other measures must be taken. If, that is, the listening party still desired to see the mission to its conclusion.
The man laughed, a resonant chuckle full of enough confidence and bravado to make even Egon relax for a moment. “Natürlich,” he said. “I’ll do what I can.”
And when Egon hung up, he breathed that much easier. His carefully conceived operation might still come off. Yet he could not deceive himself any longer. Seyss could not be trusted. He’d already put the mission in jeopardy once. If, by some miracle, he were to escape tonight, he would do it again. It was his nature. Egon decided then and there to keep an eye on Seyss himself. There remained one meeting that Seyss could not miss. One chance for Egon to intervene.
Just then, a shrill whistle ripped the air. Rushing to the window, Egon grimaced as a steam locomotive was shunted onto the loading track and lumbered across the factory floor, whining to a stop adjacent to the 15,000-ton press. Two flags drooped from atop the engineer’s cabin, both red with golden accents.
Egon saw them and shuddered.
The Hammer and Sickle.
Chapter 30
Ingrid Bach stood naked before the full-length mirror, carefully studying her body for clues to her ruinous behavior. Her eyes were clear, if pouchy from lack of sleep, her shoulders sunburned from her excursion to Inzell several days before. Her breasts were full and if no longer as firm as she would have liked, still round and high on her chest. Her legs were taut and slender and, except for a patchwork of bruises — medals from her campaign to keep Sonnenbrucke in working order — those of a woman in her prime.
But she saw none of this.
Staring at her reflection, she recognized only a succession of her failed selves. The teacher, the actress, the doctor, the painter she’d sworn to become and hadn’t. The jilted lover, the ungrateful daughter, the false wife, the inadequate mother — the possibilities stretched before her like an endless tapestry of her own weaving. She was an embarrassment. To herself, to her family, and — harking to the far-away cry present in every German’s soul — to her country.
Behind her, the sun continued its evening descent, its last rays burning the sky a fiery orange. In its wake, the shadows of Furka and Brunni, the hooded peaks that held Sonnenbrucke in their eternal purview, lengthened and grew obscure, menacing her in a way her own conscience never could.
Turning from the mirror, Ingrid crossed the bedroom.
An antique oil lamp rested on her dresser and next to it a box of matches. The basement was full of the lamps, leftovers from the days before electricity ventured so deep into the mountains. Sonnenbrucke had belonged to the Hapsburgs then. Franz Josef himself had built the lodge in 1880, his idea of a cozy family retreat. Foreseeing the need to gild his family’s flight into exile, he’d sold the property to Papa sometime during the Great War. An aphorism about one man’s misfortune being another’s luck came to Ingrid’s mind. She wondered whether Papa was a scavenger or a savior. She decided both, which given her current uncharitable mood, was worse than being either.
Removing the lamp’s glass veil, she struck a match, then fired the tattered wick. She waited for the flame to catch, then, lamp in hand, padded to her dressing room. Seated at her vanity, she was confronted once again by her own damning stare. How could she account for her recent behavior? Exposing herself to Ferdy Karlsberg in exchange for a few quarts of ice cream; dating the scoundrel Carswell as a prelude to requesting increased rations. And if he’d balked, she asked herself, if he’d whispered that he could only give these things to his mistress, then what? Would she have slept with him? Would she have compromised her body as she already had her spirit? “Never,” she declared vehemently. But part of her remained unconvinced.
After washing her face, Ingrid returned to the bedroom.