between them. They could hear muffled sounds of someone working on a tank. Maybe it was a mechanic with a job to do, or maybe it was something else, something sinister. They walked farther and saw a man on the hull and crouching behind a turret.
“Watcha doin’ there, buddy,” Feeney said. He was supposed to say “halt” and “who goes there,” but that sounded dumb. After all, the guy wasn’t moving.
“Maintenance,” came the answer.
“Now?” said Gomez. “In the middle of the fucking night? Maybe you should come down here so we can see you.”
“Hey, don’t get your horses in an uproar.”
Feeney stared at Gomez. Horses in an uproar? Fuck. They pointed their rifles at the shape. “Get your ass down now!” Feeney snarled.
“Coming,” the man said, and then slipped and fell off the tank. He rolled and came to his feet, a pistol in his hand. He snapped off a couple of shots. Gomez screamed and grabbed his face. Blood was gushing over his hand and, just then, Feeney felt something smash into his leg.
The son of a bitch is going to kill me, Feeney realized. He swung his rifle and pulled the trigger again and again. The attacker stumbled backwards and fell to the ground just as waves of pain reached Feeney’s brain. As the world turned black, he wondered if he was dead.
He came to in a tent with Captain Morgan standing over him. “Welcome back, Feeney.”
“How’s Gomez?” Feeney asked. It was difficult to talk. His mouth felt fuzzy.
“Not good. He took a bullet in the face. He’ll probably live, but he lost part of his jaw and one eye.”
“Aw, Christ, Feeney said, then brightened. “Hey, it does mean he’ll go home, doesn’t it? Helluva price to pay, though. Jesus, he’ll be going home with half a face.”
“The man you shot is dead. No surprise, he was a German, complete with an SS tattoo. We found it a little above the inside of his left elbow. It also said gave us his blood type, which was useless information since he was already dead. I guess the rumors are true. They are trying to infiltrate English speaking people behind our lines. This guy’s job was to sabotage our tanks. He damaged a couple before you nailed him, but the tanks can all be repaired. And don’t worry about your leg. You took a ricochet and you’re just badly bruised.”
“Good to hear, sir. But how the hell is Gomez going to live with half a face? Who would want to look at him? And, yeah sir, I can’t help but think that it could have been me who got shot.”
Morgan had no real answer. “Couple of days’ rest and you’ll be as good as you ever were, which, some days, wasn’t much,” he teased and Feeney laughed. “Seriously, you did well, Feeney, I’ll tell Father Serra I’ve suspended the remainder of your sentence.”
Admiral Canaris sat nervously in front of Himmler. “Reichsfuhrer, Harry Truman is a complete nonentity. Our files on him are limited to nothing more than his age, sixty-one, and the fact that he is a farmer and a failed businessman from Missouri who somehow wound up as a United States senator and, even more improbably, as Vice President of the United States.”
“Incredible,” Himmler said, staring at a picture of a bespectacled Truman smiling vapidly at the camera. “Yet this is the man who will be succeeding Roosevelt if he dies.”
“When Roosevelt dies, Reichsfuhrer. We believe his death is imminent. A few more things about Truman. He is married to a frumpy woman named Bess and they have and equally frumpy daughter named Margaret. On the other hand, this Truman did serve in the First World War with some distinction as an artillery captain.”
“What type of business?”
“We think it was men’s clothing.”
Himmler laughed. “A two-paragraph resume. Well then, can you tell me what he will do as a war leader?”
Canaris shrugged. “So little is known about him that we have no idea how he will react under stressful circumstances. However, his rise in American politics indicates willingness to compromise and his experience in combat might show that he understands what it is like to send men out to die.”
Himmler shook his head. “In short, Admiral, you know absolutely nothing about the man.”
“Correct, Reichsfuhrer. It is as if the postmaster of Potsdam is about to suddenly become Fuhrer of Germany. The situation is incredible, preposterous.”
“Then he will be too inexperienced to be his own man. Will he be led by Churchill or someone in the American government, Marshall for instance? And what about his future relations with Stalin? We must know these things and much more.”
Canaris picked up his briefcase. “We are working on all of these matters. It is entirely possible that Stalin is as puzzled as we are. Churchill, however, must be salivating at the thought of dominating Truman.”
Canaris departed. Himmler sat behind his desk and rubbed his eyes. Only the Americans could make such a mess of their politics. They were almost as bad as the French. But what the devil did all this mean for the future of the Third Reich? How would this Harry Truman react when the Rhine ran red with the blood of American soldiers, and how would he react when Moscow was wiped off the face of the earth by Heisenberg’s bomb and the world realized that Germany had the power to destroy anyone and everything. A rational man would crumble at the prospect. But was Harry Truman rational?
And where would the Americans attack? Luftwaffe reconnaissance flights had not found any landing craft, nor had there been evidence of extraordinary troop buildups. Von Rundstedt had to know these things and Himmler shared that sense of urgency. And now they were confronted with the likelihood that a gray cipher named Harry Truman would shortly lead the armed forces of the mighty United States of America.
Himmler stared at the bad photo that showed a thin little man with a silly grin and cheap wire-rimmed glasses. The Postmaster from Potsdam indeed, Himmler thought and allowed himself a rare laugh. After all, hadn’t he been a chicken farmer?
Jessica was called to the scene of the outburst by the military police. By the time she got there, just a couple of miles from the Red Cross’s new offices, the violence had ceased, at least for a moment. An angry group of German women and old men confronted an equally old man and woman in terribly worn clothing who were clearly refugees. The couple stood bruised and bloodied, while the others glared at them.
Jessica found an American sergeant named Haney who appeared to be in charge. A pair of German policemen glared sullenly at the battered couple. “What’s happened and why was I called here?”
“What we have, ma’am, is a property dispute. Do you speak German?”
“Only a little.”
“Okay, I do and here’s what’s going on as much as I can tell. These two people said they lived in this house and that the house was theirs up until just before the war started. This other group represents a kraut family that says they bought the house from the German government; therefore, they say it belongs to them and they have a deed for it.”
Jessica understood the house’s current desirability. It was almost undamaged. A couple of bullet holes in the outer wall were all that showed that a war had passed it by.
The sergeant laughed and gestured towards a belligerent couple in the crowd of Germans. “They say they’ve been paying taxes to Hitler on it for years so we can’t take it from them. Maybe they can apply for a refund.”
With the sergeant translating what she couldn’t pick up, Jessica was able to ascertain that the German government had forced the couple, Jews named Strauss, to sell at a very low price and that the new owners did indeed actually buy the property from the Nazis. They said they had no idea who the previous owners were and had never seen them before. Haney said the story was believable.
