War Prize, page 2
part #1 of Captured by the SS Series
He’s staring at me as if he already knows I’m American…or I could just be imagining it.
Frowning, he turns and retrieves a simple wooden chair that’s against the wall. He places it dead center in the stark white room.
“Please sit down.” He gestures toward it.
Trying to feign confusion, I force myself to walk across the room and then sit down. My satin dress tugs against my sweaty skin as I seat myself. I’ve read SS officers make even native citizens nervous, so I’m hoping he doesn’t read too much into my body’s reactions.
After I sit down, he nonchalantly pulls a second wooden chair beside me but turns it toward the opposite wall. He folds his eloquent frame into the seat.
I angle my legs slightly away from him so we’re not touching each other. But he murmurs disapprovingly. “Please slide closer to me.”
I reluctantly shift about, but I manage to avoid touching him.
Again, he murmurs disapprovingly. “I’m sorry,” he declares. “I need you to be a bit closer.”
I don’t think he’s going to be happy until I’m in his freakin’ lap. Trying to remain aloof, I shift about until our outer thighs are pressed together. He doesn’t say anything, but I can feel his heavy stare as I study the floor.
Because of the way we’re sitting, I could easily place my hand on his thigh or even his crotch. And I have a sneaking suspicion that’s exactly why we’re sitting the way we are.
He’s not making any sexual advances toward me, but I have the impression he’s silently inviting me to make a move on him. He leans back in his chair. His body language seems to suggest, I know who you are, but if you fuck me, I might let you go.
I’ve always been told that sex is a valuable tool in my arsenal, one of the few things I might be able to actually barter with. I even have a teacher in the art of seduction. I can practically hear my sex instructor whispering, “Put your hand on his thigh. He’s an SS officer, yes, but he’s still a man. If you’re nice to him, he might be nice to you.”
Even though it goes against my training, I fold my hands together and rest them in my lap instead. I can practically hear my seduction teacher screaming at me, “You know, no one likes a frosty little bitch who won’t put out!”
To me, it makes more sense to remain aloof. Since I’m pretending to be a citizen of the Third Reich, I think I should act confused and slightly nervous, as if I have no idea why I’m being questioned by an SS officer. If I grab his thigh, then that seems too obvious that I’m trying to hide something.
His body language changes slightly. He seems frustrated and annoyed, letting out a this-is-a-waste-of-time sigh. I may have just messed up. Maybe I should act a little nicer.
“I apologize for the closeness,” he states evenly. “It’s a necessary step in questioning.” He sounds sincere. I think he really believes I’m a citizen, albeit a non-native.
Holy crap, there may be some hope here. I think I just failed one of his tests for spotting an American spy.
Now if he buys my accent, I might actually get out of this. Of course, I guess I’m hitchhiking to Hannover, but I’ll figure out transportation later.
“This won’t take very long,” he states, obviously irritated.
I only smile feebly and nod once. He turns his head briefly away from me and mutters something about the Reich’s rewards.
“What business did you have in Berlin?” he asks simply. He’s barely paying me any attention.
I steady my nerves before answering. “We had tickets for Madama Butterfly at the Hoheit opera house.” Again, my German is slightly colored with an Irish accent.
“I see.” He sounds mildly interested. “The Hoheit is a beautiful opera house.”
His tone is conversational, relaxed. I think he really likes the Hoheit.
Without rushing at all, he peels off his black leather gloves. He’s not even looking at me. Clutching the gloves in one hand, he slips off his hat. Almost angrily, he places his upturned hat on his lap before tossing his gloves inside.
His blond hair is a little longer than I thought it would be. He appears to be in his mid-thirties. If he weren’t wearing an SS uniform, I suppose he could be considered attractive.
Without the low-rim hat, I notice that his eyes are pale blue. He also looks tired…really tired. I have the impression he’s been waiting for quite a while, which might explain his sour mood.
Interestingly enough, we are late. Christ, I guess my driver gave him an exact time to pick me up! A broken water main closed a major street, and we were stuck in traffic for hours. I’m so behind schedule that my contact in Hannover is probably worried.
“Your hand, please.”
He’s reaching for my left hand. I will myself to stare back into his blue eyes as I offer him my left hand. His warm fingers press against my wrist, obviously locating my pulse.
“You seem nervous,” he declares after several seconds. He doesn’t sound surprised.
Steadying my nerves, I force myself to answer. “I’m being questioned by an SS officer. That’s not exactly a common event. Why wouldn’t I be nervous?” Much to my relief, everything comes out sounding right. I say the words perfectly, and I color the pronunciation with a subtle Irish accent. Well, it sounds perfect to me.
“Your ID states you are a native citizen, but you sound Irish. Surely you know that only native Germans are allowed in Berlin.” He looks and sounds bored, like a member of the US Secret Service busting a teenager for loitering. Catching a nonnative in Berlin is hardly a case severe enough to bring down the SS.
I’m relieved he bought my accent. Maybe I really can get myself out of this.
Recognizing the opportunity, I feign defeat. I also make myself look nervous, which doesn’t require too much effort. “I only wanted to see Madama Butterfly at the Hoheit opera house.” Again, my German is slightly tinged with an Irish accent. “I meant no disrespect, sir, and I’ll promptly pay the fine.” I have no idea how I’m going to pay a fine, but that’s not important right now.
I’m not certain, but he seems to furrow his eyebrows a bit.
“Your fake ID is good. It’s one of the best I’ve ever seen. It seems like a lot of trouble just to see an opera.” His fingers never once leave my wrist.
“Perhaps, but the Hoheit opera house is legendary,” I reply, which is actually the truth. It’s common knowledge that only the best of the best performers appear onstage at the Hoheit. “I know it was foolish to sneak into Berlin, but I wanted an experience I could remember forever.”
“Where did you get that ID?”
“I made it.” Fortunately, most citizens in the empire do have easy access to computers, scanners, printers and even sophisticated laminators. Lucky for me, the empire is actually currently struggling with fake IDs.
From what I’ve read, quite a few nonnatives like to sneak into Berlin to catch a performance at the Hoheit. There’s also a museum and an art gallery in Berlin that’s home to some very rare and exquisite pieces. Personally, I think most nonnatives just like the thrill of sneaking in and crashing the trendy night club scene. It’s a citation if caught, yes, but it’s only a fine, albeit a steep one.
There’s talk of switching to fingerprint technology, but it hasn’t been implemented yet. Many doubt it ever will be. The logistics of such a project are just too great, especially for such a minor offense. I think the empire relies more on rewards to bring them the spies.
He’s silent for a long moment.
A shadow of confusion crosses his face. But in an instant, it’s gone. His body language abruptly changes. Only seconds ago, he looked tired, bored and annoyed. But now…well, he’s more alert and eager. His eyes narrow slightly at me.
I don’t like his new demeanor.
His fingers dig into my flesh, and I will my heart to not race. I desperately try to picture a serene and peaceful beach, hoping the image will keep my pulse in check.
“It’s very strange,” he declares. “When I said earlier that you sounded Irish, your pulse slowed slightly, as if you were relieved. It should have quickened, since it’s illegal for nonnative Germans to be in Berlin.”
My training kicks in, saving me from saying anything foolish…such as blurting out that I’m an American spy, for example. “I was only relieved that I now understand why I’m being questioned, that’s all.”
“You think an SS officer would be at a checkpoint at two in the morning to track down an Irish woman who only wanted to see Madama Butterfly?”
Unfortunately, I can’t think of a response to that question.
“Your German is quite good. I’m impressed. And you fake an Irish accent very well. But there’s something else about your German. I can tell it’s not your first language.”
Despite my best efforts to stay calm, my heart starts racing. His fingers press even harder into my wrist. A subtle smile tugs at the corners of his mouth.
“Since Ireland became a German nation in 1952, a young woman like you should have grown up speaking the language, but I can tell you didn’t. I can tell you grew up speaking English.”
I know I’m losing control of the situation, but I’m not without some pushback. English is still spoken in pockets of rural Ireland, which is precisely why I chose to use an Irish accent. The empire hasn’t completely eradicated the language. Trying not to panic, I scramble for a lie. “My family was very poor and lived in the country. I didn’t go to any imperial schools. I was homeschooled. My parents spoke English. I learned German later at the university.”
His head tilts slightly. “You’re very clever. Whenever I think I have you cornered, you manage to tell me another lie.”
“I’m not lying.”
His fingers squeeze my wrist. “Your pulse tells me otherwise.”
“I’m nervous. I’m a nonnative citizen from Ireland caught within Berlin city limits.” I pour as much conviction in that statement as possible. I want him to believe it. Oh God, please, just let him believe it. “I’m nervous about receiving a citation for breaking the law.”
“No, you’re not from Ireland. Your pronunciation isn’t quite right, though it’s very close.”
His conviction shatters any lingering confidence I have. SS officers are notorious for being expert linguists. I try to look annoyed, but I think my expression more closely resembles fear. I can feel my façade slipping.
“There’s a distinct slant to your words that’s unique to America. You hide it well, but it’s slipped out more and more as we’ve talked. Whoever taught you German did a superb job, and your Irish accent was brilliant. You knew your pronunciation would never slide by an SS officer, so you tried to hide your true country of origin.”
“I told you…I didn’t go to any imperial schools. I learned German later. I’m just a nonnative, that’s all.” My words are more of a plea, I know. Hell, I think I even forgot to muddy my statements with the Irish accent. I might as well have just said it in English because we’re way past deceit at this point.
“No. You, my dear, are an American,” he declares in English. “I heard it in your words when we first started talking. And your pulse quickened and slowed in all the wrong places, which meant you were lying to me.”
Though heavy with a German accent, his English is perfect. It surprises me that he knows English, though I guess it shouldn’t. He is a linguist after all. He’s probably even fluent in the phased-out languages as well.
I know I’m losing this battle, but I absolutely refuse to give up. At this point, he’ll assume I’m working for American intelligence, which I am, but maybe I can convince him I’m just a foolish civilian.
I have no idea why, but sometimes, civilians do really stupid things…such as sneak across borders and travel to known German territories. As a result, they usually get themselves in all kinds of trouble…like getting shipped in several bloody boxes to the US embassy in Canada.
If he thinks I’m a tourist, he might just kill me instead of bothering with an interrogation. “I just wanted to see Germany,” I state in English. “I was only sight-seeing.”
He studies me, seemingly unsure of what precisely to conclude. “You are different. I will give you that.”
Well, I’m not sure if that’s a victory or not.
“For now, I’ll just assume you’re working for American intelligence.”
I think I can cross out victory now. Not certain what else to say, I glance away from him. I don’t like defeat.
“I’ve never had an American spy use another accent like that. Choosing Irish was smart too since English is still spoken in parts of the country.” Again, he says it in English, but he sounds as if he’s talking more to himself than to me. “There’s something very…odd about you.”
He finally releases my wrist before retrieving his gloves and then slowly pulling them back on. A bit victoriously, he slips his hat back on as well.
I don’t say anything. My careless words have already gotten me in enough trouble. I’m not sure why he thinks my Irish accent was smart…it didn’t work.
“Come. Stand up,” he declares once he has his hat and gloves back on.
Without any threat or flair, he stands up briskly and retrieves a set of handcuffs from his belt.
Suddenly queasy, I don’t stand. Hell, I’m not even certain I can move.
“I said ‘stand up,’ American.”
Inhaling deeply, I try to remember my training. I’ve been told that in the event of capture, I should try to cooperate and do nothing to provoke my keepers…aside from giving away information of course. And following an order to stand doesn’t betray US security. On wobbly legs, I manage to stand.
“Good. Now we need to figure out exactly what to do with such a clever American spy.”
As he talks, he deftly turns me around before cuffing my wrists behind my back. I take slow, measured breaths, willing myself to stay calm.
A bit lightheaded, I barely register him patting me down. His gloved hands slip in each of my coat pockets before skimming briefly around my waist. The search doesn’t take very long. I think he knows already I’m not armed. Wordlessly, he turns me toward the door.
With a swift hand gesture, he motions for me to walk. Willing my legs to move, I manage to take a step before slowly crossing the room. He follows closely behind me. I stop at the closed door, and he steps next to me before opening it.
“Move,” he orders coldly, gesturing with a swift jerk of his head.
I step out into the hall. As an agent, I’ve always known capture is a definite possibility. But somehow, I never thought this would happen…or maybe I just hoped it never would. It’s a bit surreal. I feel I’m living out a reoccurring nightmare.
His hand lands on my left shoulder. He coaxes me to turn right. We walk for several paces before he pushes me to the right again. I stop at a closed door. He steps next to me to unlock and then open it before roughly grabbing my arm.
“Step forward, American,” he snaps, coaxing me to walk again. I will my numb body to cooperate.
We’re outside. I’m not certain, but I think we’re on the other side of the checkpoint. I consider making a run for it, but a fast glance around me quickly makes me rethink that idea. I immediately spot three armed patrolmen watching us. Running at this point would be stupid. Besides, I can’t exactly haul ass in heels.
A black car is parked near the building. He guides me toward the passenger side. His hand abandons my shoulder before he opens the door.
“Get in,” he orders.
Reluctantly, I climb in and sit down. He shuts the door. He doesn’t hurry in walking around the front to the driver’s side. After opening the other door, he quickly sits down and then starts the car. A seat belt snakes around me as the engine quietly comes to life. I’m not sure what kind of car I’m in, but I can tell it’s a high-performance vehicle, one of Germany’s finest autos.
As we cruise down the road, I vaguely wonder where he’s taking me, but I don’t really want to know either.
All I know for sure is that we’re leaving Berlin city limits, which is precisely what I wanted only a few short minutes ago…but I sure as hell didn’t want to leave as a prisoner in an SS officer’s car. There’s a lighted sign up ahead, Reichsautobahn, freeway of the Reich. I try to pay attention to directions and signs. We’re getting on the entrance ramp for East Freeway 21.
After merging, he leans hard on the accelerator and quickly takes the left lane. He flashes his headlights at a slower-moving vehicle in front of us. The other car quickly moves over, giving him the lane. Like most open freeways in Germany, there’s no posted speed limit outside the city. And since his vehicle is capable of reaching top speeds, traffic quickly gives him the right of way.
As we cruise, I desperately try to formulate either an escape plan or a quick suicide. If I weren’t handcuffed, I’d grab the steering wheel. I know how to pick a handcuff lock, and I’m limber enough to slip my cuffed wrists under me, but I can’t do anything with him right next to me.
Deciding it won’t hurt one way or the other, I attempt some conversation instead…at least for now. A better opportunity for escape or suicide may come later.
“You were tipped off about me, weren’t you?” I ask in English. “That’s why you were at that checkpoint.”
He looks surprised about something, and I think I know why. My training discourages idle chitchat with my captor. Even my seduction teacher told me that men don’t like a lot of talking. He’s probably not accustomed to prisoners asking him anything, but I don’t see the harm. After all, I’ve already been captured. I think the jig is up.
In truth, I’m trying to keep my mind occupied. I don’t want to think about all the horrible things that are about to happen to me.
After a long pause, he answers my question. “Yes, I was. Your driver is loyal to the empire.”
I silently curse my double-crossing contact.
“So why were you so late? I was told you would be there by eight at the latest. I’ve been waiting at that checkpoint for hours. I was actually about to leave.”
I don’t want to answer his question, but I guess it doesn’t threaten US security. Besides, I’m intrigued by an English-speaking Nazi, so I continue our conversation.
