Sworn enemy, p.1
Sworn Enemy, page 1
Cover image: WWII Beach Invasion © Todd Headington. Courtesy iStockphoto.com.
Cover design copyright © 2013 by Covenant Communications, Inc.
Maps copyright © 2013 by Briana Shawcroft
Published by Covenant Communications, Inc.
American Fork, Utah
Copyright © 2013 by A. L. Sowards
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced in any format or in any medium without the written permission of the publisher, Covenant Communications, Inc., P.O. Box 416, American Fork, UT 84003. The views expressed within this work are the sole responsibility of the author and do not necessarily reflect the position of Covenant Communications, Inc. or any other entity.
This is a work of fiction. The characters, names, incidents, places, and dialogue are either products of the author’s imagination, and are not to be construed as real, or are used fictitiously.
ISBN 978-1-62108-476-1
For Melanie
A wonderful sister, a smart test reader, a loyal fan, and a dear friend.
I’ve always wanted to write the type of books you love to
read. When you picked out the Cambridge Five and
Ultra clues, I knew this book had to be for you.
Acknowledgments
I’m indebted to many people for their assistance with this book. First, thanks goes to my wonderful test readers: Melanie, Laurie, and Teresa. And I am grateful to the other writers who looked over part or all of my manuscript: Linda White, Terri Ferran, Stephanie Fowers, Daron Fraley, Tod Ferran, and Marianna Richardson. Their constructive criticism and encouragement helped make this book better.
Thanks goes to Lela Machado for giving me access to an outstanding research library. Most of the books were informative and helpful, and I still laugh about that propaganda book written by Romanian Communists.
I also owe thanks to Briana Shawcroft for her maps. She did an excellent job helping me figure out what I wanted and then creating it.
The team at Covenant, especially my editor, Sam, also deserves a big thanks for all of their hard work on this and my previous book. I’m grateful to have such a talented group involved with my projects.
I am thankful for my husband and his patience and support. And for my young daughters, who usually napped at the same time so I could work while they slept.
I’d also like to express appreciation to all those readers who purchased Espionage and to those who shared their enthusiasm for it with others. Without their support, this book wouldn’t have been accepted for publication. And I’m grateful for my first-time readers and their willingness to give my writing a chance.
Useful Terms
FFI—Forces Françaises de l’Interior. French Resistance group
Gefreiter—Soldier in the German Army, rank similar to a private in the US Army
Hauptmann—Officer in the German Army, rank similar to a captain in the US Army
Hauptsturmführer—Officer in the Gestapo, rank similar to a captain in the US Army
Korvettenkapitän—Officer in the German Navy, rank similar to a lieutenant commander in the US Navy
Kriegsmarine—German Navy
Luftwaffe—German Air Force
Maquis—French Resistance group
MI6—British Secret Intelligence Service, division responsible for foreign intelligence
Milice—Collaborationist French police during WWII
NKVD—Soviet secret police from 1934 to 1953, responsible for foreign and domestic espionage
Obersturmführer—Officer in the Gestapo, rank similar to a first lieutenant in the US Army
OSS—Office of Strategic Services. US intelligence and sabotage agency that operated from June 1942 to January 1946
Politruk—Junior political officer in the Soviet Red Army (Latinized form)
Rottenführer—Gestapo squad leader
SOE—Special Operations Executive. British intelligence and sabotage agency that operated from July 1940 to January 1946
Standartenführer—Officer in the Gestapo, rank similar to a colonel in the US Army
Sturmmann—Stormtrooper in the Gestapo
Unterfeldwebel—Junior-level noncommissioned officer in the German Army; squad leader
Wehrmacht—German Army
Major Baker’s Team
Major Wesley Baker: British, MI6/SOE, special-ops veteran
Locotenent Constantin Condreanu: Romanian, SOE
Lieutenant Peter Eddy: American, OSS, combat and special-ops veteran
Sergeant Charles Logan: Irish, SOE, special-ops veteran
Sergeant G. Moretti: American, OSS, paratrooper, combat veteran
Corporal James Nelson: British, SOE, linguistic specialist, special-ops veteran
Kapral Krzysztof Zielinski: Polish, SOE, paratrooper, communications specialist, special-ops veteran
Private Daniel Fisher: British, SOE, paratrooper, sniper, combat veteran
Private David Mitchell: Canadian, SOE, paratrooper, sniper, combat veteran
Private Oliver Quill: British/Australian, SOE, paratrooper, forgery specialist
Private Richard Holmes (Sherlock): British, SOE, paratrooper, medic, combat veteran
Henry Lucaciu (Luke): American, OSS, civilian, demolitions specialist
Tiberiu Ionescu: Romanian, SOE, civilian, demolitions specialist, special-ops veteran
Chapter One
The Trap Closes
Friday, June 16, 1944, Near Basseneville, Normandy, France
Genevieve watched as Peter poured the last bucket of water into the trough. “You’re going to spoil me,” she said.
Even though it was dark, she knew he was smiling. She was glad she couldn’t see it; she often had trouble breathing when she saw his smile and the way it lit up his eyes.
“I don’t think you’re in danger of being spoiled anytime soon. Not after I’ve dragged you halfway across France.” He set the bucket on the ground and ran a hand through his thick brown hair. “To be honest, I’ve lost track of how far we’ve come.”
“One hundred eighty kilometers by truck and cart from Calais to Rouen. One hundred kilometers on foot since then.”
Peter nodded slowly. He was American and kept track of distances in miles. She guessed he was doing the conversions in his head. “I’d say the least I can do is get you a bath. I’d build you a fire, but that might attract too much attention.”
Genevieve stared at the water and looked forward to being clean again. They’d been traveling on foot for a week, and she’d never felt so dusty, grimy, and sweaty. She’d complained about being dirty when the two of them arrived at the derelict barn a half hour ago, but she hadn’t meant for Peter to wash the trough out and fill it for her. When she’d offered to help, he’d insisted on doing it himself.
“How are your blisters?” he asked.
“About the same.”
“Hmm.” Peter came over to where she was sitting and knelt down to look at her feet the best he could in the poor lighting. “Maybe it’s time to steal another car.”
Genevieve laughed. “The last time I was in a car with you, I barely made it out alive.”
“Not because of my driving though, right?” Peter grinned at her again.
“No, not because of your driving.”
Peter straightened. “I’m a completely safe driver when I’m not worried about getting shot or blown up. But stealing a car’s probably a bad idea anyway. Some P-47 would see us driving along in a Wehrmacht jeep and shoot us to pieces. I guess we’ll have to keep walking.” Peter dug through a bag and handed her an old piece of bread. “Breakfast?”
Genevieve took the bread. “Aren’t you going to eat?”
“I think I’ll save it for a midpatrol snack.”
“Peter, I haven’t seen you eat your last two midpatrol snacks.” Conversations like this were becoming a morning ritual. Peter always gave her a larger portion of the food they’d taken with them or scrounged along the way then put some of his back when he thought she wasn’t looking. “You’ve walked just as far as I have—you need to eat something.”
“But you’ve had a rough couple of weeks.”
“So have you.” She heard her voice crack as she remembered one recent event in particular. “And when your brother died, you didn’t exactly take it easy.”
Peter sat next to her and reached for her hand. “That was different. I wasn’t there—just heard about it on the radio.” Peter’s older brother died at Pearl Harbor, and Peter had joined the US Army the next day. Genevieve’s older brother had died eleven days ago. She’d witnessed his last breath, and then she’d left Calais with Peter, fleeing the Gestapo, trying to make it to the new front in Normandy. Peter ran his thumb over her fingers. “Besides, there aren’t any recruiting stations around here. Not that they’d take you anyway.”
“No, I doubt they’re desperate enough to enlist skinny French girls.”
“You could probably teach most new recruits a thing or two about making a bomb though.” Peter reached for their bags. “Can I borrow your mirror?”
“Of course.”
“Thanks. I’m going to backtrack to that creek we passed and try to get rid of this.” He fingered his dark beard, scratching the skin underneath. “I wonder if the bruises will be gone when I get all the hair off.”
As recently as yesterday, Genevieve had been able to pick out faded purple and yellow bruises all along Peter’s arms, neck, and face. She was sure the bruises the Gestapo left on his cheeks and chin would be equally visible after he shaved.
“I haven’t emptied it, Peter.”
She caught a hint of mischief on his face. “Good. A barn like this is bound to have a few rats in it somewhere. You can always shoot them if they start bothering you.”
Genevieve shuddered as she looked around the old barn. She hated rodents, and the gaps between the barn’s wooden boards were large enough to invite a small army of them to take up residence. The cracks in the wall were so wide she could make out the ruins of the home that had once stood nearby, likely destroyed at the beginning of the war. Her quick glance around the barn didn’t reveal any animals, but she knew rodents weren’t what Peter was really worried about. They were still in Nazi territory, and the Gestapo was tracking them.
Peter checked his pistol, a stolen German model, then slipped it back into its holster. He stood and opened the barn door. “See you at daybreak. Enjoy your bath.”
“If I fall asleep before you get back, you will wake me at noon this time, won’t you?” Since leaving Rouen, they’d traveled by night and slept during the day. While one slept, the other was on guard duty. Peter always gave her the first sleeping shift, and he never woke her at midday like he was supposed to. Yet he always made her promise to wake him the second the sun set so they could begin their nightly trek on time.
“Maybe.”
That was Peter’s way of saying he’d wake her if she was having a nightmare, which happened often enough—for both of them. It wasn’t the answer she was looking for, but she was too tired to argue. Peter slid the barn door shut, leaving her alone with her bath. I should have packed an alarm clock. But even if she had, Peter would probably turn it off.
Three minutes into the bath, she caught herself singing an aria from Carmen. She stopped as soon as she realized what she was doing and chastised herself for being so careless. Refugees fleeing the Gestapo are supposed to be invisible and silent.
A smile replaced the song. Genevieve only sang when she was happy, and that morning, the singing had slipped out unconsciously, just as it had every day for the past week. Even though she was homeless and wanted by the Nazis, Genevieve was content. Being clean again was part of it, but she gave Peter most of the credit. It still surprised her, how he made her feel. She’d met him only a few weeks ago when he’d been assigned to work with her brother to investigate three suspicious intelligence sources for the Allies. Peter hadn’t been the first good-looking commando to work with Jacques, but he had been the first who’d offered to help with laundry.
Genevieve pulled herself out of the cold bathwater and used her blanket to dry her skin. When she was dressed, she strung a rope between several old posts and hung her blanket over it. Then she unpacked the extra clothing from their bags and washed it all in the bathwater. They planned to stay until nightfall, so the clothes would have time to dry. There was little soap, the water was cold, and the lack of light meant she couldn’t see very well, but the promise of clean clothes was sufficient motivation for her to do what she could.
As she finished hanging Peter’s spare pants, she caught herself singing again and stopped, shaking her head as if the motion might somehow get the tune out of her head. She heard someone outside and glanced through a hole in the east wall, assuming Peter was early. She expected to hear him call out to make sure she was dressed, but instead, she heard several pairs of footsteps.
Genevieve turned around as the barn door slid open. She felt her heart plummet and glanced at her pistol, still next to the trough. It was too far away.
“Bonjour, Mademoiselle Olivier; it’s such a pleasure to see you again.” The deep, menacing voice belonged to Standartenführer Tschirner, the Gestapo chief of Calais. He’d questioned her before, but she’d been using an alias then. She wasn’t sure how he knew her real name but hoped it wasn’t because he’d tortured her neighbors.
With Tschirner were four SS stormtroopers in shiny black boots and immaculate uniforms. One of them held a lantern, and in that light, Genevieve recognized two faces from her time in Gestapo prison, and from her nightmares. Sturmmann Weiss was tall and muscular, with suntanned skin and coarse blond hair. He stood at Tschirner’s side with his arms folded and gave her an unpleasant grin. The second man, Sturmmann Siebert, was even larger. He walked to her side, towering over her petite frame, and grabbed her arm in a crushing grip.
Tschirner nodded his approval. “I must admit, mademoiselle, I am disappointed to find you all alone. Where is Lieutenant Eddy?”
Genevieve didn’t answer. The standartenführer had a talent for scaring her tongue into immobility, but she was grateful for his question. If Tschirner was asking about Peter, it meant he and his men hadn’t already found and killed him. Tschirner kicked over the two bags Genevieve and Peter were using and riffled through the contents. The bags held little—they were running out of food, and their extra clothes hung on the clothesline. Tschirner bent down, picked up the three framed pictures Genevieve had brought from home, and held them up to the light of the lantern. He spent only a second on her parents’ wedding portrait and the family picture from almost nineteen years ago. But he studied the photograph of her brother and sister-in-law then showed it to Weiss.
Weiss nodded. “That’s him.”
“Where is this man?” Tschirner held the picture so Genevieve could see it, his finger pointing at the image of her brother.
Genevieve was still too frightened to speak. Tschirner glanced at her guard. “Sturmmann Siebert, I believe she needs her tongue loosened.” Before the words registered, Genevieve found herself hurtling toward the wall. She put her hands up to shield her face just before she crashed into the weather-beaten wood boards and collapsed to the floor in pain. The graying boards were old, but they were still rough and hard. Her hands and arms stung where small splinters of wood pierced her skin. Her elbow, ribs, and hip throbbed from the impact.
Tschirner gazed down at her without emotion. She looked back at him, hoping the wet hair and bits of old hay sticking to her face obscured her fear. “Where is he?” he said, pointing again at the picture.
Her voice cracked as she answered—a combination of grief, pain, and fear. “He died.”
“When?”
“June 5.”
“What a shame. He didn’t live to see the Allies make their pitiful invasion attempt,” Tschirner said with a sneer. “Who is the woman with him?”
“His wife; she’s also dead.”
“When?”
“1941.” The date was permanently engraved in Genevieve’s mind, but she didn’t think Tschirner needed to hear specifics.
“And these are your parents?” He pointed to the family picture. Genevieve nodded, feeling a new jolt of pain run through the left side of her body as she moved. That side had hit the wall the hardest. She held the bottom of her rib cage with her forearm to try to hold back the spread of pain. “And are they also dead, mademoiselle?”
“Yes.” Her mother had died when she was three, her father when she was thirteen.
“Why, Mademoiselle Olivier, you appear to be completely alone in this world. How pathetic.” Tschirner tossed all three pictures across the barn. The glass shattered, and Genevieve automatically moved to retrieve them. She moved only an inch before Siebert seized her arms and jerked her to her feet. She gasped in pain when the sudden movement triggered a new wave of physical agony.
Another SS guard handed a pile of papers to Tschirner. He leafed through them; they were the false identity papers Genevieve and Peter were carrying. “Mademoiselle Olivier, you are under arrest for traveling with forged papers and leaving Calais without permission. I could have you executed for such behavior.” He stepped forward and studied her, his face within inches of her own. She was frightened, but she knew there were worse things than execution.
“I’ll make a deal with you. Cooperate with me, and I’ll have you assigned to a work camp instead of the gallows. Where is Lieutenant Eddy?” he asked.
“He left.”
“Yes, but when will he return?” As Tschirner questioned her, he ran his fingers across her forehead, moving her hair so he could see her face better. She turned away, feeling suddenly nauseated as he touched her skin.
