A Bodyguard of Lies
by
Donna Del Oro
An Imprint of
Musa Publishing
A Bodyguard of Lies
By Donna Del Oro
Copyright © Donna Del Oro, 2012
Smashwords edition
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All Rights Reserved. Except as permitted under the U.S. Copyright Act of 1976, no part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed, or transmitted in any form or by any means, or stored in a database or retrieval system, without prior written permission of the publisher.
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This e-Book is a work of fiction. While references may be made to actual places or events, the names, characters, incidents, and locations within are from the author’s imagination and are not a resemblance to actual living or dead persons, businesses, or events. Any similarity is coincidental.
Musa Publishing
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Published by Musa Publishing, January 2012
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This e-Book is licensed to the original purchaser only. Duplication or distribution via any means is illegal and a violation of International Copyright Law, subject to criminal prosecution and upon conviction, fines and/or imprisonment. No part of this ebook can be reproduced or sold by any person or business without the express permission of the publisher.
ISBN: 978-1-61937-895-7
Published in the United States of America
Editor: Erica Mills
Cover Design: Kelly Shorten
Interior Book Design: Coreen Montagna
Warning
This e-book contains adult language and scenes. This story is meant only for adults as defined by the laws of the country where you made your purchase. Store your e-books carefully where they cannot be accessed by younger readers.
“In wartime, truth is so precious that she should always be attended by a bodyguard of lies.”
—Winston Churchill
Prologue
June, 1940
The four-decker ferry tossed about in the Irish Sea. Keeping her sea legs, Clare Eberhard stood and peeked through the curtains of stateroom number five. It was dark and the rain lashed the window with howling fury. She glanced at her watch. It was time.
Her heart leapt and her stomach tightened into a hard ball. Beads of sweat covered her brow. An attack of nausea threatened but she pushed it down. Her extensive training hardened her mind. This was wartime, a time for drastic measures and sacrifice. Every loyal German was a soldier. She was both loyal and a soldier.
A pounding at the door.
“I’ll get it,” Clare said to the girl sitting on the bunk. The pretty, blonde Irish girl looked up from her book of poetry and smiled. She tucked a needlepointed bookmarker into her book, swung her legs around, and planted her feet on the floor.
“It’s sure to be the cabin steward with the tea I ordered. Please join me, Katy. Bound to be an unsettling crossing. The tea will be soothing.”
Clare smiled, then frowned almost reflexively. The young Irish woman was sweet and charming. They had met each other an hour before boarding—although Clare knew her entire personal history—and had teased each other about their strikingly similar looks: their height and figure, hair and skin color, facial features. All except for the eyes. The Irish woman’s were a striking hue of blue, almost turquoise. Physically, they could have been fraternal twins.
They’d discussed their plans for jobs in London, shared verbal summaries of their Curriculum Vitaes and basically hit it off. So much so, they decided to share the cost of a stateroom aboard the ferry, finding it prudent for two single women traveling alone.
Bile rose and burned her throat. Clare quelled her weakness and smiled at the Irish girl.
“Yes, I’d like that. Thank you. You’re very kind.” Clare put up her hand, making the girl hesitate. “I’ll get the door. I’m closest.”
She paused for a long moment as she gazed at the young woman’s countenance. The resemblance was so remarkable, the main reason why Horst had scouted the country and finally chosen her. She was just the right mark. Now, there was no stopping the chain of events that their superiors had set in motion two years before. They had their orders.
Such was war.
The Irish girl glanced at the door, then back at Clare. As if wondering why her new friend, Katy O’Donnell, was hesitating. A flare of the girl’s turquoise eyes alarmed Clare, prompting her to act. Forcing down any residual regret, Clare went to open the door a crack. She recognized her lover—now disguised as a common Irish machinist—and hurriedly stepped back so he could burst into the small room. She pushed the door shut against the squalling wind. Then Clare whipped around to watch the terrible thing that had to happen.
The Irish girl opened her mouth to protest, but Horst was quick. He clamped a big hand over her throat, choking off her scream. With his right hand, he hit the side of her head with the butt of his pistol. Blood splattered onto the young woman’s bedspread as he forced her down on the bunk, his knee pinning her legs to the bed.
Clare watched, transfixed, her hands covering her mouth. Horst growled an order. She rushed to hand him a clean towel, which he used to cover the girl’s head. As the now unconscious woman sprawled on the bunk, he crouched over her and hit her again and again, smashing her skull. Fascinated by the brutal attack, Clare flinched every time she heard the crunch of bone. By the time Horst was finished, the white towel had turned completely red. For seconds, she stared at the blood-soaked towel. Horrible…so much blood.
With a lurch, she ran to the sink and vomited. Horst stood erect and flung the bloody towel on the floor. Not looking at Clare, he panted as he washed his hands in the stateroom basin and dried them with another towel. One deep breath and exhalation after another, Horst appeared to regain composure. Clare studied his face, looking for signs of disapproval. There were none, which relieved her.
“If her body’s found,” Horst explained in fluent English, his Irish brogue still in place, “it will appear that her head was crushed in the explosion. The sea will be her grave.”
Her handler and lover looked satisfied. It was a clean kill and the girl hadn’t suffered. After all, he was a skilled assassin. She marveled at his skills and how well he maintained his deep-cover persona. Could she do the same and make him proud?
“Don’t forget her things,” he said.
“Yes, of course.”
Clare ignored her raw throat and aching stomach, and packed the girl’s satchel with the various items she had laid on the bedside table: a small pocketbook with her lipstick and comb, Irish driver’s license and ferry ticket, her passport. Clare rummaged around. Other items, such as personal letters, university transcripts, and a typed CV and offer of employment, were already tucked into various pockets of the satchel.
“Here it is,” Clare murmured, “the War Office letter.”
Her eyes drifted from Horst’s face to the cabin floor. Clare picked up a large barrette that had flown from the girl’s hair during the attack. That and the book of poetry were covered with her blood. Silently, she wiped them both with her skirt. She then stuffed the book into the satchel and fastened the barrette to her hair, matching the girl’s simple hair style. Silently, she slipped out of her wool skirt and sweater.
“Hurry now—schnell,” Horst whispered, switching now to German as he undressed the Irish girl’s body. Remarkably, no blood stained his or the girl’s clothes, the towel having absorbed most of the blood splatter.
Already in her slip, Clare pulled on the Irish girl’s wool skirt, sweater, and coat. She grabbed the scarf hanging on the side of the bunk but decided not to wrap it around her neck when she noticed the blood spots on it. Then came the long strap of the satchel.
In their short time together, Clare’d studied the girl’s mannerisms, her soft voice, the slight burr in her educated English, the fussy, obsessive way she checked and double-checked herself, as though she lacked self-confidence and appeared overly eager to please. Clare would have to remember that. Still, she wished there’d been more time to study this girl’s personality traits.
“Leave your fake documents on your bunk for them to find,” barked Horst. “They must think Katy O’Donnell died. Give me ten minutes. And don’t forget. The first explosion, go outside. The second one will be bigger. Stay on top. Find the lifeboats and the crew in charge of them. Stay with them. Don’t come back to the cabin.”
As though they hadn’t rehearsed this a hundred times, Clare nodded dutifully. Their eyes locked together for a moment but they didn’t embrace. Horst squeezed her arm.
“You shall be fine. You’re a born mimic. A superb actress. That’s why we recruited you. You have my name and address in Rosslare. Write to me once you’ve settled in London. If I move before then, I shall contact you.”
She nodded, her mouth trembling a little.
“Until we meet again, mein Schatz,” she said in German. She felt embarrassed that her lower lip trembled.
Horst simply nodded. Then he was gone. Gone into the bowels of the ferry.
Clare stared at the closed door for minutes, refusing to glance at the girl’s body. It had to be this way. After tonight’s horrors, Clare would go to the War Office in London and save lives. German lives.
The satchel’s shoulder strap bit into her shoulder. For a moment, she stood there, absorbing the alien scent and texture of the girl’s wool clothes. She wondered if she’d ever think or feel like her. Could this impersonation actually succeed or would she find herself hanging from the end of a rope in a month’s time?
Reality stabbed her. This wasn’t theater. This was life…or death.
Open-mouthed, she inhaled deeply and slowly counted to five. Exhaled slowly and counted again. She repeated this routine several times until her pulse slowed to normal. Until her hands stopped shaking.
No longer Clare Eberhard. No longer the Wehrmacht trainee. No longer Katy O’Donnell with her fake documents and fake accent.
She was now an Irish woman from Killarney.
Minutes later—right on schedule—the first explosion rumbled through. The four-deck ferry pitched violently to the side. She slammed into the cabin door but recovered herself.
Now!
Chapter One
2005
FBI Headquarters, the Hoover
Building
Department of Investigations
Washington, D.C.
Jake Bernstein plopped down at his desk, having wolfed down his lunch in five minutes. The tuna sandwich and Coke bunched like a hard knot in the pit of his stomach. With his fist, he pounded his sternum and then gulped down the last of the Coke.
Frustration and restless impulses simmered just beneath his calm exterior. Every night he fought an urge to run the dark streets until he dropped. His limit was five miles, but lately it wasn’t enough. His life was out of balance again and he felt caged. The old stirrings of cabin fever.
All work and no play made for a repressed libido, according to his pal Eric. Shit—when was the last time he’d gotten laid? Weeks—no, months—ago, by a woman he met at a party Eric dragged him to. Jake hadn’t called her back, although she’d been cute, sexy…and willing. The truth was, he was getting tired of loveless sexual encounters.
I wonder why…
His interoffice phone rang. He flushed his mind of thoughts of women and sex and adventure. His boss, Terry Thompson, was old-school, preferring to use the phone over email.
“Yeah, Terry?” Jake sat up in surprise. The Assistant Deputy Director of Investigations was giving him an abrupt heads-up.
Terry Thompson had already given British Intelligence the okay on an ongoing investigation of theirs. A naturalized American woman was their target. She was suspected of World War II espionage and possibly a truckload of other war crimes.
“This is yours, Jake. You’ve got the qualifications for this job. It’s undercover field work…and you need a break from the paper mill. Clear the cobwebs, see the world. Shouldn’t take more than a week or two. Check your email. They’re sending over encrypted files for you to read.”
Jake digested this. This must be top priority.
As Terry rang off, Jake turned to his computer. This assignment wasn’t an assessment, the lowest category of investigations. This had risen to a preliminary investigation, which required a factual basis of suspicion. His boss had made clear Jake was assigned to cooperate with MI5’s ongoing investigation.
Such requests from other intelligence services, domestic and abroad, were typical. The legat at the American Embassy in London was their usual liaison with British Intelligence, and he’d sent on the urgent request. Terry had recommended him and passed on the encrypted message, followed by a name and phone number in London.
Steeping with curiosity, his heart pounding, Jake punched in the number on an outside secure line. Several clicks later, a deep baritone voice answered.
“MI5, History section. Major Phillip Temple, case officer.” The crisp British accent made Jake smile.
He introduced himself and added, “How can I help you, Agent Temple?”
“Call me Major, Agent Bernstein. I’m retired army but I confess the moniker has stuck.” The man then spoke for over five continuous minutes while Jake took copious notes on a legal yellow pad. At the first lull in Temple’s narrative, Jake jumped in.
“Major Temple, let’s see if I’m getting this. An old Irish guy—a veteran World War II sailor—has been writing and calling your office for the past ten years…claiming his cousin”—Jake consulted his notes—“this Mary McCoy, vanished around 1940…and he suspects foul play. He thinks someone killed her and assumed her identity in order to gain access to the War Department. That whoever did this might’ve been a Third Reich spy. Is this correct?” To Temple’s affirmative, he added, “Does this World War II sailor have any concrete evidence? Or just conjecture?”
“A smattering of coincidences, mainly. Nothing concrete. My own investigation indicates there was a Mary McCoy, a Dublin College graduate, with a gift for foreign languages and fluent in French and German. She worked for the War Office from mid-1940 to early 1945. Ten years ago, this Mike McCoy tracked down and met this woman, thinking she was the cousin he’d grown up with. She was living in Texas, the widow of an American Air Force officer. According to this old veteran, biographical details matched, but this tenacious ol’ chap was convinced after meeting this woman that she couldn’t possibly be his long lost cousin.”
“Oh yeah? What convinced him?”
“Her eyes. They were a different color of blue than he recalled. His cousin’s eyes were an unusual shade of turquoise-blue. The Texas widow had dark blue eyes. The Mary McCoy in the War Office was a transcriber of radio messages, which required fluency in both French and German. She handled secret communiqués from our undercover agents abroad, many of whom were French and German citizens working for the Resistance.”
“So maybe he was mistaken about her eyes. Y’know, old people and their faulty memories. After all, this Mike McCoy must be in his eighties or older—”
“Eighty-eight at the time of his death one year ago. I inherited his file. Nearly seventy pages’ worth. He was the stubborn, pit bull sort—kept calling every week until his death. After he died, his son took over—a Mike McCoy, Junior. My predecessor, unfortunately, didn’t take the man or his son seriously.”
On the line, Jake heard a loud snort of disdain.
“I do,” Temple went on. “I did some checking, rang up a few old-timers in Killarney who recalled the young Irish beauty who went off to Dublin then London after her parents died. Managed to survive a terrible ferry disaster just before reporting to the London War Office. Close to sixty souls went down with the ferry. At the time, authorities suspected a German U-boat attack but no fragments of torpedoes were found.”
Jake wrote furiously on his yellow pad. “Okay, Major, got it. What about eye color?”
“Everyone I spoke to recollected the girl’s eye color as blue. Not much to go on, is there?”
“But this sounds like priority status.”
“Yes, it is. If this Irish girl were killed and her identity stolen by a German spy, so help me, it’s incumbent upon me, even after all this time, to set things right.”
“Sixty years, sir?” Jake was incredulous, but Mossad and the Jewish Defense League weren’t the only ones still hunting Nazi war criminals.
“It’s fallen upon my shoulders to discover the truth. I believe President Truman said in 1945 that Nazi war criminals would be hunted to the ends of the earth. We believe in doing just that.”
“I understand, Major Temple. Believe me, I understand.” For a moment, Jake thought of his grandfather, a German Jew who fled Germany in the mid-thirties. “Assuming the old man was correct—and that’s a big assumption—you want me to investigate this American grandmother, this Mary McCoy Snider. To confirm her innocence or guilt.”
“That sums it up bloody well.”
“I’m not a regular field agent, Major, although I’ve been trained for field work and the Bureau occasionally farms me out on undercover assignments for various task force teams. Mainly, I analyze data.”
“Agent Bernstein, I’m familiar with your special qualifications for this assignment. As you know by now, I’ve already cleared your participation with your supervisor, A.D.D. Thompson, and he agrees. He also assured me that…uh, considering your background, you’d take this assignment to heart.”
His background…Jake immediately understood what the MI5 officer was referring to. His German-Jewish background.
Jake leaned back in his chair. “I see. Any other reason I was requested for this assignment, Major?”
“You speak German, and according to your file you’ve traveled extensively in Germany. You’re familiar with the various regional accents. If this woman, Mary Snider, was a Nazi spy, as soon as you get her to speak German, you’ll be able to tell if she’s a native speaker. Or an English speaker who learned it whilst in Dublin.”
“I get your point,” muttered Jake. Despite his own fluency in German, as soon as he opened his mouth, the average man on the street in Stuttgart or Hamburg could tell he was American. Still, he had a good ear. “Major, accents can change with time and relocation.”
The Brit cleared his throat. “I suppose you’re correct in that. I wouldn’t know, not a linguist myself. Another consideration, not unimportant. You’re single and from your file photo, rather good looking. We need an agent who can…uh, charm the ladies.”
Jake cringed. Whenever the Bureau needed an undercover agent to schmooze a woman to get information, they sent for him. Seduction was his dubious claim to fame at Headquarters. A kind of typecasting that he was beginning to resent. Annoyed, he blew air from his cheeks.
Yet, the man sounded committed to seeing this thing through. Fury, barely controlled, seeped through the man’s tense voice. His words vibrated with outrage.
To an older generation of Brits—and Americans—the horrors and hardships of WWII still lingered. In their collective consciousness, the Nazis and Hitler’s Gestapo were still the boogeymen. The embodiment of everything evil in mankind. Jake understood that all too well.
“Agent Bernstein, if we can prove this Mary McCoy Snider was a spy for the Third Reich, we’ll seek extradition and put her on trial. Charge her with a multitude of war crimes, and rather than hang her sorry ass, as you Yanks like to say, we’ll make certain she never sees the light of day. The media shall have a field day and the ACLU and some bleeding-heart American senators may object, but rest assured, we’ll see justice done. Even sixty years after the fact.”
“An eighty-something-year-old grandmother?” Jake shook his head slowly. It seemed pointless after all this time.
Nevertheless, he could sense his grandfather, dead now these past two years, nodding his approval. His entire family was slaughtered in the death camps. If nothing else, Jake owed it to his Jewish heritage to give MI5 a thorough investigation. He could hear his grandfather’s voice, his English thick with a German accent: “You go get ’em, Yaakov. Go get dose sons-a-bitches.”
“Okay, Major, I’ll get on it right away, although I’ve got a full desk—”
“Agent Bernstein, this assignment begins tomorrow morning, London time. Just as soon as you can catch tonight’s flight to London—”
“London? Tonight!”
“Your ticket’s waiting at the United counter at Dulles. It happens that our computers picked up her hotel registration two days ago at the Kensington Hilton. She’s in London, as we speak. With her granddaughter, a Meghan Larsen, a high school teacher. Close to your age…”
Temple’s pause was pointed, implicit with meaning. Jake scowled. They were typecasting him. The schmoozer…
“They’ve booked a two-week tour of Britain and Ireland. We’ve persuaded an American gentleman to take another tour—at our expense, naturally—and thus, you’re taking his place. There’s no better way to gather evidence, is there, than an on-the-spot investigation? Mary McCoy Snider shall trust an American over a Brit, most assuredly. Our Intelligence MPs are aware and have approved. You’ll report to me directly and I’ll keep them in the loop. It’s all set up.”
Jake looked around his small office, scanned the stack of files next to his computer. Field work, on such short notice? Already, his heart beat like a rocker’s drums. Well, why the hell not? The damned files could wait, and the change would do him good. More than good. He was going stir crazy and his boss had already given the green light.
“All right, Major, I’ll be there.”
“Jolly good. You know, Agent Bernstein, it’s never too late to see justice served.”
Jake wasn’t so sure about that. Sixty years was a long time, even for wartime justice. Yet, Nazi war criminals were prosecuted even into the twenty-first century. He recalled the recent case of a former SS death camp guard, uncovered in New Jersey and living on a pensioner’s salary; he was extradited to Germany, tried, and was now serving a life sentence in a Berlin prison.
Lady Justice, though blind, had a long memory.
“We’ll see, Major Temple. Let’s see where the facts lead us, okay? So far, you’ve got a theory and a bucket load of conjecture.” After all, that’s all the Irishman had—this Mike McCoy—a theory supported by a few memories and maybe a few coincidences.
“Yes, well, I’ll meet you at Heathrow, seven a.m. London time. Don’t laugh, but I’ll be the fuddy-duddy in a tan trench coat and plaid sporting cap.”
“Shouldn’t be hard to miss.”
Jake punched off, smiling.
London. I’ll be damned…
Chapter Two
London
Major Temple looked, in Jake’s opinion, like the stereotypical Englishman. Of average height and pale complexion, his graying blonde hair was indeed covered by a plaid cap, and his tan trench coat hung loosely about his lanky frame. Jake was certain he’d seen the same outfit on a BBC production’s police constable named Inspector something-or-other. Temple spoke with his crooked, yellow teeth clenching an unlit pipe, grinding the wood of the pipe like a dog gnawing his bone.
Maybe that was the point. An old fogey, Brit style.
The major filled Jake in about the assignment as he wended his way through London commuter traffic like a teenaged stock-car driver. Adrenaline pumped through Jake’s brain and synapses fired up. His hands white-knuckled, Jake reveled in the ride. Wrong side of the car. Wrong side of the road. Like bumper cars without the bumping fun. His first adventure in the UK. He would’ve enjoyed it more if it weren’t for the dull ache in the back of his skull.
Unfortunately, the thrill ride was over too soon. After the major showed his ID card at a bollard-protected gate, the steel bollards disappeared into the ground and the major stepped on the gas. By the time the Brit had parked into his spot in an underground garage, it was apparent where they were.
“Ever been here, Agent Bernstein?” Major Temple inquired, his pipe protruding between his side teeth.
“Thames House? MI5 headquarters. Nope, never. Thought I had to get to the hotel before the tour bus showed up.”
Temple nodded. “We have a little time. This stop’s important. You’ll see, there’s more to this case than I was free to tell you before. Shall we?”
Jake drew in a big breath to calm himself down. They were blindsiding him and he resented it. Silently, he followed the major to a steel-lined elevator. Temple placed his palm on a biometric scanner; a green light flashed and the elevator doors opened. Jake followed the major inside.
One part of Jake’s mind registered the plethora of surveillance cameras tracking their every move; another part struggled with a lack-of-sleep headache. On the plane, he’d read MI5’s entire file on Mary McCoy. Now, he badly needed an infusion of caffeine and a good night’s sleep. Keeping a bland expression, Jake remained silent. After all, he was on their turf.
They descended several floors. The elevator door opened onto a carpeted floor, dimmed with paneling and heavy drapes. Subdued lighting and plush fixtures led Jake to assume that this underground floor was reserved for guests whose identities were to be concealed. Important guests, as in members of Parliament, perhaps, or members of the nobility. A shiver crawled up his spine as the significance of the surroundings struck him. More to this case than the major had let on?
For damned sure.
As they stopped in front of an ornately carved door, Temple rapped first, then entered. Seated at a small conference table were two men enjoying cups of tea.
Major Temple nodded to both men, who stood to greet the American.
“Mr. Jones. Lord Wexford. FBI Special Agent Bernstein. Please take your seats, gentlemen. We have only fifteen minutes, so we’ll make this concise.” Major Temple tilted his head and spoke to the air. “Jenny, bring us two cups of coffee. Black?”
Jake smiled and said, “Yeah, the stronger the better.” Things are looking up.
He studied the other two men, as they studied him in return. One, the younger of the two—Mr. Jones, no doubt an alias—wore the rumpled suit of a civil servant. He was blond and freckled, maybe in his mid-forties. The older, silver-haired guy was Savile Row, from his silk shirt down to his Italian loafers. An English gentleman.
Jake smiled and played the folksy American routine. “Never met a British lord before.” He shook hands with the two men.
Mr. Jones chortled and sat down, leaning back in his chair. His blue eyes met Jake’s dark gaze, sizing him up. Jake bristled under the man’s scrutiny, betting Jones had jumped to a few hasty conclusions of his own.
“Agent Bernstein, Lord Wexford is the eleventh Earl of Cantwell. One of our esteemed members of the House of Lords and a member of Parliament’s Intelligence Committee.”
Jake inclined his head. “Lord Wexford. I guess Major Temple’s right. There’s more to this case than one old Nazi spy.”
Both Temple and Jones nodded their agreement. Lord Wexford merely smiled, then sobered quickly. He appeared preoccupied and ready to get down to business. Jake immediately liked his lack of pretension. There appeared to be nothing arrogant about this man.
“Quite right, Mr. Bernstein. The major has asked me to brief you on our other concern tangential to the Mary McCoy investigation. A very delicate matter that we hope you shall help us resolve.” Lord Wexford’s cultivated baritone resonated against the panels in the elegant room. The man’s confidence showed a crack, however, when a nervous hand strayed to his ascot to straighten it.
Jake nodded wryly. “I feel like I’ve been ambushed a bit but okay, enlighten me.”
The coffee arrived on a silver tray, which Major Temple took from the hands of a middle-aged woman. He shut the door firmly before bringing the tray to the table, then looked up at one of the corner cameras and ran a finger across his neck. “They” were shutting off the live video feed, Jake realized. Whatever this briefing revealed, it was to be classified. On a restricted, need-to-know basis.
“How to begin…” The Earl turned contemplative, dark-gray eyes on Jake. “As you Americans say, keep it simple. So I shall endeavor to do just that.” Lord Wexford sighed audibly and a quiver ran through him. “After my father, the tenth Earl of Cantwell, died two months ago, I came upon some documents in his home safe. These documents—mostly lists of money transfers—led me to believe that my father had been the victim of a blackmail scheme going back over fifty years. In addition, this blackmailer influenced his political stance on crucial issues of the Kingdom that I’m not at liberty to discuss. Over the course of nearly fifty years, he evidently felt compelled to pay a sum of fifty-thousand pounds a year into a numbered account registered to a bank in Zurich. This regular deposit had been made faithfully since October of 1948, ever since my father’s marriage to Sarah Wexford. Or Lady Sarah, as she was known then.”
“Lady Sarah was Lord Wexford’s mother,” interjected Mr. Jones. Jake nodded his understanding.
“My mother, Lady Sarah Wexford,” Lord Wexford continued, displaying a trace of annoyance at the interruption, “was the daughter of a renowned naval hero during the war against the Third Reich. Lady Sarah worked in the War Department as a secretary. All of her cousins her age did their part for the war effort. It was expected, of course, for the nobility to set an example.”
“Quite right,” said Temple. Mr. Jones nodded vigorously. While Jake waited patiently, he sipped the hot, strong coffee and felt immediately restored.
Lord Wexford went on. “Unbeknownst to me or anyone else in my immediate family, my father and mother kept this blackmail scheme a secret. Even after my mother died in 1990, my father never let on, most likely for my sake. He took his secret to the grave, probably believing it would end with his death. It hasn’t.”
As the strong aroma and flavor of the coffee cleared his head, Jake began to see what this British aristocrat was leading up to. His suspicions leaped ahead. Was Lord Wexford’s father, the tenth Earl of Cantwell, protecting his wife, Lady Sarah? From what? From being hanged for treason for wartime spying? Or something more prosaic, like a sexual scandal?
Lady Wexford worked in Churchill’s War Department as a secretary. That made sense. Even the teenaged crown princess, now Queen Elizabeth II, worked for the war effort in the Civil Defence motor pool. But there had to be proof of some kind. So what did Lady Sarah Wexford’s wartime activities have to do with Mary McCoy Snider? Something else was missing, he sensed, another piece of the puzzle.
Jake wanted to cut to the chase, so he jumped in without preamble. “Was there something you found in those documents leading you to suspect that your mother, Lady Sarah, might’ve been the true target of those blackmailers?”
Lord Wexford blinked, nodded and then continued, his long patrician hands steepled together as if in prayer. Jake realized this public airing of his family’s dirty laundry was costing him. He could feel the man’s shame roll off of him in waves.
“Very astute of you, Agent Bernstein. Yes, I did. Clipped to one of the bank transfer statements was one page from my mother’s diary in her handwriting. On that page, she revealed her…shall we say, sympathies for the German cause. If the remainder of my mother’s diary ran with the same theme, I’d have to regard my mother as a Nazi sympathizer. What we called the Fifth Column. Perhaps she carried her sympathies further. Perhaps not. Certainly, the War Department would’ve never hired her had they known of these sympathies.”
“And so you concluded this diary, if it still exists, holds proof of your mother’s spy activities…or perhaps the diary exonerates her and that one page is just a young woman’s nonsense.”
“Yes,” Lord Wexford said. Every crease on his pale but stolid face reflected his emotional pain. “But there’s more. On that one diary page, she mentioned her friendship with Mary McCoy, a woman who also worked for Churchill’s War Office. Apparently, they shared a secret, which she didn’t reveal on that one particular page.” The man sighed again and ran his manicured hands through his silver hair. “Last month I received a phone call on my private line at my London house. Basically instructing me to continue my father’s bank transfers to this bank in Zurich. It was a male voice I’ve never heard before and disguised with a rather crude, electronic device. Nevertheless, I recorded it. MI5 couldn’t place or track it. This man also said he’d be in touch regarding a certain matter of importance for the House of Lords. The blackmail and extortion attempts continue, you see. Matters of national security are involved as well as my family’s reputation.”
“It’s obvious,” broke in Jones, “these buggers plan to continue this wicked scheme of theirs.”
“Quite right, you were, m’lord,” interjected Major Temple, “to come to us forthwith. We’ll put a stop to this insanity.”
Jake stood with a soft grunt and leaned his arms on the back of his chair, hunching over. The back stretch felt good—after all, he’d spent the night practically doubled over. Agony for a man of his height, six-foot-two. While the Brits stirred with discomfort at his casual behavior, Jake forced his mind back to the briefing. This case had more prickly needles than a Saguaro cactus.
“Excuse me, my back’s killing me. Well, I see why you’d like to get down to the bottom of this. As I investigate Mary Snider, you’d all like to know the extent of her connection to Lady Wexford during their time together at the War Office. If Mary was a Nazi spy, was Lady Sarah, too?”
Maybe Jake’s bluntness caught them off guard, for he sensed an undercurrent of desperation. He paused as the three men exchanged tense, uncomfortable looks. Was he wrong in making the assumption about Lady Sarah? Wasn’t that why Temple had brought him here to this briefing?
Lady Sarah and Mary McCoy shared a secret. Could’ve been anything…a man they both slept with…
The Earl leaned his elbows on the table and lowered his voice.
“I presume you don’t read the gossip rags, Agent Bernstein. My daughter, Lady Betts, as she’s called, is about to be engaged to the prince, second in line to succeed the throne. Her Majesty must give her approval, as is tradition in the English nobility. If it is true—that my mother did indeed spy for the Third Reich—the ensuing scandal would rock the United Kingdom to its foundation. The Queen would have no choice but to refuse my daughter. All because of her grandmother. Her Majesty lived through the war, experienced first-hand the bombings and tragedies—no, it would be unthinkable for her to allow the granddaughter of a Nazi spy to marry a prince of the realm. Absolutely unthinkable.” The Earl broke off, gazed mournfully at his ancestral ring and shook his head in anguish.
So what? There were probably scads of noblewomen who’d love to marry the guy. Every guy gets his heart broken at least once or twice. No big deal. Been there, done that.
But the Brits were another breed. Pride, tradition, and history far outranked pragmatic American thinking. To an American, if your ancestors robbed banks, it didn’t necessarily reflect on you. Each man or woman chose his own destiny, made his own place in the world. To the Brits, scandal in the royal or noble ranks was anathema to them. This nobleman—the eleventh Earl of Cantwell—would be ruined. His reputation, political career, possibly his wealth, his daughter’s future…all up in flames.
Stretching the kinks out of his back as he walked back to the men, Jake noticed that Major Temple wore a crooked smile. So did Lord Wexford, while tugging at his leather-trimmed lapels, as if he were thinking, These impossible Americans…but we need the wanker, don’t we?
Jake softened his voice. “There’s no proof so far that your mother was a spy for the Germans…but strong indications that your mother fell victim to blackmail and extortion. When did Lady Sarah’s diary disappear?”
Lord Wexford blinked repeatedly as he watched Jake arch his back until it popped. Major Temple moved his pipe to the other side of his mouth. Mr. Jones’s face flushed red, and he glanced over at the Earl before speaking.
“Lady Sarah’s diary disappeared toward the end of the war. She declared it missing to her husband, Lord Wexford’s father. It concerned her greatly.”
“We believe,” Temple said, “the blackmailers stole this diary, which the family knew she’d kept for many years. This diary would prove Lady Sarah’s innocence during the war. A couple of pages of professed Nazi leanings don’t prove she spied for their cause. Even though the blackmailers used it as a weapon against the Earl’s family, those pages don’t prove she actually did commit treason. Recovery of that diary would prove essential to dismissing any such suspicions.”
“I bet.” Jake rubbed his hand down a stubbled cheek. God, he needed a shower, shave, and a good night’s sleep. His headache had subsided but he still struggled to keep straight all of these new complications in the case. “Okay, and you think if Mary McCoy Snider was a Nazi spy, then she might know who’s got the diary, maybe even who the blackmailer is. That’s a big leap. A gigantic one, in fact.”
The major relit his pipe, his gaze returning to Jake; there was a glint of respect in the man’s hooded eyes.
“Quite right, but the mention of Mary McCoy in that diary and the implication that they were friends during the war…well, it led me to draw this conclusion.”
“So you suspect that if we can prove Mary McCoy Snider was a spy, she might exonerate the Earl’s mother.” He drew out his pause. “Or not…”
“Exactly so,” the major said. Lord Wexford and Mr. Jones nodded in unison. They looked relieved that their American agent wasn’t as dense as they first thought.
One score for the home team.
“And if I somehow find proof of Mary Snider’s guilt and that the Earl’s mother collaborated with her in some way, then what? I report back to you and…?” He cocked up both shoulders.
Jones sat up straight, crossed his arms over his chest and stiffly said, “Then we’ll deal with it in our way.”
Yep, you’ll bury it deeper than spent uranium rods.
“Well”—Jake returned to his cup of coffee and gulped down the bitter dregs—“gentlemen, that’s one tall order. You think that this American grandmother’s going to spill the beans and confess it all to me, a complete stranger? That she was a Nazi mole?”
He looked at the three men, waiting for each in turn to meet his gaze. While Temple’s and Lord Wexford’s eyes reflected a modicum of hope, Jones’s stare was blatantly skeptical.
Major Temple spoke up, his voice weighted with confidence.
“You’re American. The granddaughter’s your ticket into their cozy twosome. Through her, you might be able to breach the barriers an elderly, naturalized American housewife would have built up over sixty years of maintaining…possibly a lifetime of lies. From what I’ve heard and read, you’re adept at inspiring trust in women.” Temple glanced at his watch and stood, bringing their meeting to an end. “We have to hurry to catch that coach.”
Lord Wexford stood and extended his hand. “At this point, it’s a sticky wicket you have to play with but, Agent Bernstein, you’re the best shot we have.”
Jake shook his hand, then Jones’s. He frowned at Jones. The Earl’s handshake was firm, Jones’s limp. Lord Wexford trusted him, more than Jake could say for Jones. Clearly, the Earl and Major Temple had twisted Jones’s arm to include an American agent within their investigative circle.
Jake finally smiled. “I’ll do my best to learn the truth.”
“That’s all we ask,” said Jones, barely concealing a slight smirk.
Somehow, Jake doubted that the truth was all they wanted.
Chapter Three
They were standing in the small lobby of a Best Western, waiting for the Global Adventures motor coach to arrive and pick him up. A large suitcase on rollers, topped by a leather carry-on, leaned against Jake’s leg, about as annoying as the Major’s choice for his cover. Insurance analyst. He knew nothing about insurance but a lot about real estate and investments. His best buddy, Eric White, regaled him so often over drinks about his career in the investment brokerage industry, it was enough to cross his eyes. Still, Jake had listened and learned. And had a stock portfolio to show for it.
Screw the Major’s cover. I know how to play this.
Major Temple turned his way. “There were two moles, Agent Bernstein, who worked for the Abwehr, German military defense. Two very clever women, code named Hummingbird and Black Widow. Needless to say, neither our SIS nor your intelligence agencies during the war ever uncovered their true identities. Wehrmacht documents confiscated by the first Allied brigade into Berlin in 1945 revealed their code names, but not their real identities.”
Jake said nothing.
“Both Lady Sarah and Mary McCoy worked closely with coded communiqués. They both knew French and German and thus could translate documents. According to their wartime photos, Mary was once a lovely creature. Lady Sarah was the plain Jane. Look further in the file. There are government head shots of both women.”
“Yes, I saw them in the files. Lady Sarah was listed as one of the women in Mary’s social circle.” It was Jake’s turn to frown and snort. “So, no one in the Wehrmacht knew the English covers of these two female moles?”
Major Temple took the pipe from his mouth and tapped the tobacco into a potted plant. He looked up at Jake, the lines around his mouth deepening.
“If they did, they didn’t survive the war. Many files were destroyed when Berlin fell. Besides, the Abwehr officers were so paranoid that only a direct handler knew the true identity of a secret agent under his control. Confiscated files showed only code names and ID numbers. We know this from the few captured war records we found.”
The chill on this early June morning, even in the hotel lobby, ran through Jake, making him shiver. He zipped up his brown, bomber-style leather jacket and frowned. MI5 sounded convinced of Mary McCoy Snider’s guilt already. So much for their objective investigation. Was he here just to validate their conclusions? Mary Snider was guilty; Lady Sarah, innocent.
“Maybe this Mary McCoy Snider was neither of those two female spies. Let’s suspend trying and lynching this American grandmother before we gather the evidence, okay? Maybe both women are innocent.” He sighed heavily and massaged his forehead. The mild throbbing pain had moved from the back of his head and now stung right behind his eyes.
“What were those code names again?”
“Hummingbird. No idea what the significance is.”
Hummingbird. Could’ve referred to the Nazi Party’s Night of the Long Knives, also called Operation Hummingbird. When Hitler ordered a purge of a rival group within the Nazi Party. The SS and Gestapo carried out the killings and Hitler’s group ascended in power.
“Okay, and the other?”
“Black Widow. No idea, either.”
Black Widow. “Hmm, was the Earl’s wife—this Lady Sarah—married before?” Jake asked pointedly.
“No, not that we’re aware. Lady Sarah’s marriage to the tenth Earl of Cantwell was her first. She supposedly was a bit of an odd duck. What? Do you suppose the code names have something to do with the women’s true identities?”
Jake shrugged. He was grasping at straws.
Just then, a large white motor coach pulled into the curved driveway in front of the hotel, diverting his attention. The tour’s guide, a dark-haired man in his forties who was dressed in a white bulky sweater and brown cords, hopped down, a clipboard in his hand. He was glancing about, looking a little harried and peeved that another stop had to be made to pick up the one American tourist who hadn’t stayed at the Kensington Hilton, like all the others on the tour. Major Temple nudged Jake.
“Your carriage awaits, Bernstein. I shall take my leave now. Don’t forget to report in every evening at ten.”
The major handed Jake a secure mobile phone, which he tucked into his jacket’s inside pocket. Acknowledging the older man’s military background and bearing, Jake gave a quick half-salute, biting back the sarcastic retort that sprang to mind. I’m thirty-two, Major, not thirteen.
“Will do, Major,” he said and grabbed the handle of his suitcase. “Where the hell is this motor coach going, anyway? Besides the Republic of Ireland?” Major Temple’s bushy gray eyebrows arched. “No, didn’t have a chance to read the itinerary. Too busy with the files.”
Temple chomped on his pipe, one side of his mouth upturned in another wry smile. Jake sensed the man was holding something back.
“Southwest England, Wales, Republic of Ireland, a bit of Scotland. Two weeks’ worth.”
“And if I conclude this investigation in less time?”
“Then we debrief and back home you go. We’ll handle the filing of charges and arrest warrants if needed. Extradition, if necessary, for Mrs. Snider. Well then, good luck, ol’ man.”
Jake nodded and took his leave. Outside, he hailed the guide, a friendly, outgoing sort who introduced himself as Robert Morse. The man quickly turned the suitcase over to the driver, who stowed it in the storage bin at the side of the motor coach. As soon as Robert checked him in and indicated that he could take aboard his carry-on, Jake moved to the coach’s front door. He suddenly stepped aside as a young, very pretty blonde climbed down, spun around, and helped an elderly woman descend.
“Sorry, Robert, my grandmother has to visit the restroom.”
The blonde glanced over at Jake, grinned in greeting, then took her grandmother’s arm and followed the direction of Robert’s sweeping arm. The two women entered the glass-fronted hotel lobby and walked slowly around the corner of the lobby’s counter. Jake’s gaze clung to them.
So there they were. Mary McCoy Snider and her granddaughter, Meghan Larsen. What a hottie!
“Quite a looker, that one,” Robert murmured to him, his eyes following their progress as well.
An understatement, Jake thought as he nodded to the man in agreement. The granddaughter was lovely—had the face and figure of a Hollywood starlet. She had a wholesome but sexy look about her. The red lipstick she wore accentuated her full, sensual mouth; her deep-set blue eyes were large and luminous. A boxy navy-blue pea jacket concealed some of her curves, but the overall effect of a beautiful, symmetrical face, a tanned complexion, long blonde waves partly covered with a large, black beret, and graceful motion was powerful. Like a slap of warm sunshine in this cold, damp country. Seduc—er, schmoozing that girl was going to be a perk, not a chore.
Already, he was warming to this assignment.
The grandmother, bulky in a long wooly coat, looked attractive despite her purported eighty-five years of age. The elderly woman was well preserved, he decided, and must have been quite a beauty in her youth. Like her granddaughter, she would’ve turned men’s heads and carried her power over them like a Hollywood pinup girl.
“Would you care to board, Mr. Schoenberg?” offered Robert, the tour guide, interrupting his reverie.
“Call me Jake. I’ll wait until the women return.”
The tour guide tossed him a knowing smirk.
A few minutes later, Jake was helping the elderly woman up to the steep first step. Mary McCoy Snider paused on the steps, holding onto the railing on the coach’s door, and looked back at Jake, her dark blue eyes sharp with intelligence.
“Thank you, young man. What’s your name?” she asked, a slight Texas drawl softening her naturally strong, clear voice.
“Jake. Jake Schoenberg from Virginia.” He smiled up at the elderly grandmother, who then nodded and moved up into the coach. He slid his gaze down to the granddaughter, who’d paused at the coach’s door. The top of her head came to his jawline.
“Thanks for helping, Jake,” she said, blinking up at him before climbing the steps herself. Her long honey-blonde hair brushed his shoulder when she moved past him. There was a self-conscious shyness in her manner. Which Jake found odd, for such a beautiful woman. Wow. His pulse revved up.
Dude, you’re on duty.
Wasn’t that why they chose him? Get close, peel off the layers of distrust…
He proceeded up after Meghan Larsen, appreciating the rear view. Too bad, he thought, when the two women took seats near the front of the packed coach. The one vacant double-seat was in the rear of the coach. He nodded a friendly greeting to all of the passengers as he passed them on his way to the back. They were mostly couples but another single man, an older guy in his fifties, sat alone at the halfway point in the coach. Two women of about the man’s same age were behind him. They perked up as he walked by, shot him wide smiles beaming with anticipation.
He knew that look.
After stowing his carry-on underneath the empty seat next to him, Jake sat down. His long legs brushed against the seat in front. Damn, like traveling in coach. Two weeks in this freakin’ bus—how was he going to stand it?
He leaned over. From his vantage point, he could see the blonde’s wavy locks falling about her shoulders. She was sitting on the opposite side of the coach in the aisle seat, her grandmother in the window seat. Damn, he’d have to find a way of sitting closer to them. Maybe their seats on the coach weren’t fixed…or he could feign motion sickness and ask Robert to place him further forward.
As he was plotting a way to chat up Mary Snider and her granddaughter, the blonde swiveled her upper body and looked down the aisle. Their eyes locked together briefly and she smiled. Despite a night without sleep, and heavy with jet lag, Jake felt his pulse kick up. Something lurched in his chest. His groin clenched. Jake returned the smile.
Good, he thought, she noticed me. Contact with targets made.
Chapter Four
Winter, 1941
London
Mary awoke early. Dawn was barely an hour old but it was an important day, the first Saturday of the month. As prearranged with her handler, she had a rendezvous. By eight o’clock, it would be too late; the markings would be erased by then if it rained. Shivering, she dressed quickly, for her room on the top floor of Mrs. Watson’s Rooming House for Ladies chilled her to the very bone. Silently, she cursed the owner of the house. Fires wouldn’t be lit for another six hours, as coal was rationed throughout London. As was everything else. It was winter, and England had entered the war against the Third Reich, foolishly so, Mary thought.
On her way down the stairs, hugging her wool coat to her, she ran into her landlady. The gray-haired, middle-aged woman was a long-time widow from the last war, the one the English had optimistically called The Great War, “the war to end all wars.” They’d won that one but they wouldn’t triumph over the Third Reich.
The fools should realize that and call it quits now. Save themselves the grief and destruction that was surely to come.
“On your way to the market at this hour, dearie?” Mrs. Watson inquired mildly between coughs. The woman and everyone else in the Rooming House would develop pneumonia, Mary thought sourly, if she didn’t keep her house warmed up.
“Yes, the farmer’s market at Black Friar’s. Vegetables are fresher and there’re more selections early on. May I get you something…for tonight’s supper, perhaps? My treat, now, Mrs. Watson. I insist.”
The landlady appeared more than a little pleased by Mary’s offer, so after a minute of the woman’s lead-licking and list-writing with her stubby pencil, Mary was on her way with her cotton shopping bag. Wrapping her wool scarf tightly around her neck, she ventured outside into the gloom. Street lamps were turned off at the very break of dawn to conserve electricity, and there was talk that they’d be off indefinitely if the Germans began bombing runs. In her sturdy boots, Mary picked her way carefully through the slush and ice. It hadn’t snowed in over a month, but the temperatures were absolutely unforgiving, the sidewalk ice treacherous.
As she approached the neighborhood park two streets over from Henrietta Street, her head burrowed into the scarf’s warmth and her ears hidden under a cloche, she paused and tugged on her wool stockings, as if both leggings were falling. Trained in counter surveillance, Mary used the moment to scan the square. An old man with a lumbering gait, wearing a Macintosh and plaid fedora, was walking his terrier, exiting the park on the north side. Crossing the street, she continued on for another block, then doubled back. The old man might’ve been her drop, but maybe not. There was a new one every month, it seemed, or else the old man was a master of disguise. Nevertheless, she couldn’t take the slightest chance.
After six months of working in the War Office as a French and German transcriber, Mary was well aware that the Secret Intelligence Service, or SIS, had surveillance teams which plowed the streets, their targets mainly Nazi sympathizers and foreign residents. Occasionally, some of the women in the clerical and motor pools complained of being watched and followed. As though their loyalty was in doubt, they’d huffed with outrage. That old, fat, cigar-chomping PM was no trusting dolt. Mary knew that a team followed her once a month in various places and at random times and days, as they did with all of the girls who worked in the War Office. Her head always tingled intuitively when she was the target, so she’d learned to be cautious.
The park was empty, and the only things moving were skittering maple leaves and the rare detritus left by careless pedestrians. She entered the north side on her way to the farmer’s market four blocks further south near Piccadilly Square. Just a frugal shopper taking a short cut through the park.
Spying a white chalk mark on one leg of the nearest stone bench, she went over and sat down. Mary bent over to retie her boot, then purposely dropped the shopping bag which contained her pocketbook and Mrs. Watson’s list. While picking it up, she felt under the bench by that leg. What she retrieved was a small four-inch square envelope taped to the underside. An old Christmas greeting card was inside. The brief message hand-printed in ink on its blank interior was, of course, all in code. Her heart couldn’t help but skip a beat, then race on like that of a delirious schoolgirl. Her only concrete connection to Horst, her handler and her lover. A few German endearments came to mind as she imagined his austere but handsome face, his tall, erect carriage and long, muscular legs. A memory of his forceful lovemaking stirred deep within her…
The recollection faded. Their relationship was all business now. How long had it been this time? Three months. He’d deemed it too risky to come more often. They were both in deep cover and ordered by the Abwehr—the intelligence wing of the German military—to stay that way for the duration of the war. Horst’s cover, that of an Irish longshoreman, was more complicated than hers; he handled several undercover operatives in Great Britain, five that she suspected. Their identities were unknown to her, of course. In case one was caught and tortured, he or she wouldn’t be able to give up the others before the ultimate execution by hanging. They all knew the danger but they were all patriots of the Fatherland. Their childhood education by various English governesses had finally paid off. They could all speak like native English, Irish, and Scotsmen, one of the main reasons they’d been recruited. And now this extensive spy network was under Horst’s direction. Clare couldn’t have been more proud of him.
Nor could her father, an important official in the National Socialist Workers Party and a decorated World War I veteran of the Luftwaffe. Clare’s lieber Vater had promoted service in the Abwehr, for she’d been a talented drama and foreign language student at the Universität. It was where she’d fallen madly in love with the quiet, intense engineering student, Horst Eberhard. He’d joined the Abwehr first, then brought her along. Now, five years later, they barely saw each other.
Still, he couldn’t get away more than once a month to visit his sweet cousin Mary in London. Her gloved hands trembled slightly as she read the card. If she were found later with this card, at first glance the message would be innocuous: “Hope all is well with you, dear cousin. Cousin Clarence is meeting with Billy but I don’t know when or where. Write and find out for me. I should enjoy seeing them. Arrange a party with our friend if you can and please find a place for me to stay. I shall have my suitcase and other belongings with me. Will visit you next month at the usual time and place. With love, Thomas McCoy.”
So Churchill was meeting with the Americans…and somehow Mary was to ferret out the date, time, and place of this meeting. Something important was afoot, no doubt. Also, he was coming to London with a radio transmitter, and she was to find a hiding place for it. If they were caught with it—Katastrophe! Mary’s heart raced and her head swam. She sat back, struggling to compose herself. This was to be her first big challenge. She took a gulp of air and shuddered as she expelled it, watching her breath steam and cloud up. In some way, that simple little distraction calmed her. After all, what could they do to her besides hang her? Everyone had to sacrifice for the Fatherland.
She straightened herself and looked at the card again. Much as she wanted to keep it as a sentimental memento, she couldn’t. She put a cigarette to her mouth and lit a match to it. Taking a deep drag, Mary then burned the card and envelope, the ashes of which she deposited in the rubbish bin on her way out of the park.
So how was she to gather this information? No sooner had the question entered her mind than the remedy presented itself. The young brunette in Scheduling, the horsey-faced one with the big teeth, a homely girl whose friendship Mary had been instructed to nurture. Of course…Sarah. Some English nobleman’s daughter…the one who held—Sarah’s German cousins in Wiesbaden had dutifully informed the Abwehr—strong National Socialist sympathies…to exploit perhaps?
Mary had to tread cautiously. Regardless of her devotion to the Fuhrer’s Thousand-Year Reich, she had little desire to have her neck stretched by a British rope.