That German scientists were working furiously on atomic weapons development, and, in fact, were ahead of the US. Now, it appeared the opposite was the truth. What she and everyone else had been told was just propaganda. Lies. A way, perhaps, to get the Americans to work longer, harder, faster.
She finished photographing the memo on her Minox and slipped it into the dead drop on the way home. She knew it would trigger a reaction. She was ostensibly spying for the Germans. The same Germans who were
not
working on an atom bomb. So if the Germans weren’t making a bomb, why was she spying for them? True, they might want information anyway, but why the urgency? The cloak and dagger meetings and signals? Moreover, if the Germans were designating every mark for the
Wehrmacht
, where did the money she’d been given come from?
She thought back over the events of the past year, starting with Karl’s death last December. A death that had never been resolved. Then Max’s kidnapping in April, which had not been solved either. Irving died in a mysterious fire that October, after she’d made him show her the Pile. Three tragic events in twelve months. They weren’t all coincidence. She’d known that, deep within her subconscious, but she hadn’t wanted to admit it.
But now she had to. Her survival depended on it. Hans and his Nazi companions had orchestrated everything. Killing Karl was the first step. It made her penniless and vulnerable. Then they abducted Max, returning him only when she agreed to work for them. Finally, they got rid of Irving—he was a complication they didn’t need.
And now they would be closing in on her. When they figured out she knew it had all been a ruse, what would they do? She recalled how vague Hans had been about her future once the Manhattan Project moved. What if she had no future? What if she was nothing more than a pawn in their operation? Unimportant. Expendable.
A wave of hot emotion rolled over her. She explored it. Tasted it. For once it wasn’t fear. It was anger. An anger approaching fury. After everything that had been done to her and her loved ones, how could she let them make her superfluous?
When she got home, she fixed dinner, then played Lincoln Logs with Max until bedtime. Once he was asleep, she tried to come up with a plan. She could go to Collins and confess she was a double. Expose Hans and his people. But Collins had never trusted her, despite the fact she was passing him intelligence. He would accuse her of treason, and he’d be right. He wouldn’t understand the desperation of a mother forced to protect her child. She would certainly spend the rest of her life in prison. She might even be executed.
She slumped on the sofa, head in her hands. Lanier was no guarantee of safe passage, either. He’d hadn’t made any promises. He’d simply said that, in return for her compliance, he would try to “back her up.” She was truly
gefickt
.
She went to the closet and retrieved the .22. She brought it back to the living room, and raised it in the air. Then she aimed it an imaginary target. Could she do it for real? Her throat closed up. She wasn’t sure. All she knew is they would not—could not win. Not this time. She knew something else too. Her days as a spy were at an end. No more deception. No more duplicity.
She picked up the phone.
Chapter 31
December, 1942
T he next day Lena spotted the signal from Hans on her way back from lunch with Sonia. A miniature American flag stood in a snow-covered urn in front of the 57th Street florist. He wanted to meet her after work. She considered not showing up. But if she didn’t, Hans would come after her, or worse, Max. So when she got home, she went to the closet, loaded the .22 and slipped it into her coat pocket. At least she would have the element of surprise.
The Ford rolled up a few minutes later. A typical winter day in Chicago, the sun was setting, but it had snowed a few inches the night before, and the bite in
She finished photographing the memo on her Minox and slipped it into the dead drop on the way home. She knew it would trigger a reaction. She was ostensibly spying for the Germans. The same Germans who were
not
working on an atom bomb. So if the Germans weren’t making a bomb, why was she spying for them? True, they might want information anyway, but why the urgency? The cloak and dagger meetings and signals? Moreover, if the Germans were designating every mark for the
Wehrmacht
, where did the money she’d been given come from?
She thought back over the events of the past year, starting with Karl’s death last December. A death that had never been resolved. Then Max’s kidnapping in April, which had not been solved either. Irving died in a mysterious fire that October, after she’d made him show her the Pile. Three tragic events in twelve months. They weren’t all coincidence. She’d known that, deep within her subconscious, but she hadn’t wanted to admit it.
But now she had to. Her survival depended on it. Hans and his Nazi companions had orchestrated everything. Killing Karl was the first step. It made her penniless and vulnerable. Then they abducted Max, returning him only when she agreed to work for them. Finally, they got rid of Irving—he was a complication they didn’t need.
And now they would be closing in on her. When they figured out she knew it had all been a ruse, what would they do? She recalled how vague Hans had been about her future once the Manhattan Project moved. What if she had no future? What if she was nothing more than a pawn in their operation? Unimportant. Expendable.
A wave of hot emotion rolled over her. She explored it. Tasted it. For once it wasn’t fear. It was anger. An anger approaching fury. After everything that had been done to her and her loved ones, how could she let them make her superfluous?
When she got home, she fixed dinner, then played Lincoln Logs with Max until bedtime. Once he was asleep, she tried to come up with a plan. She could go to Collins and confess she was a double. Expose Hans and his people. But Collins had never trusted her, despite the fact she was passing him intelligence. He would accuse her of treason, and he’d be right. He wouldn’t understand the desperation of a mother forced to protect her child. She would certainly spend the rest of her life in prison. She might even be executed.
She slumped on the sofa, head in her hands. Lanier was no guarantee of safe passage, either. He’d hadn’t made any promises. He’d simply said that, in return for her compliance, he would try to “back her up.” She was truly
gefickt
.
She went to the closet and retrieved the .22. She brought it back to the living room, and raised it in the air. Then she aimed it an imaginary target. Could she do it for real? Her throat closed up. She wasn’t sure. All she knew is they would not—could not win. Not this time. She knew something else too. Her days as a spy were at an end. No more deception. No more duplicity.
She picked up the phone.
Chapter 31
December, 1942
T he next day Lena spotted the signal from Hans on her way back from lunch with Sonia. A miniature American flag stood in a snow-covered urn in front of the 57th Street florist. He wanted to meet her after work. She considered not showing up. But if she didn’t, Hans would come after her, or worse, Max. So when she got home, she went to the closet, loaded the .22 and slipped it into her coat pocket. At least she would have the element of surprise.
The Ford rolled up a few minutes later. A typical winter day in Chicago, the sun was setting, but it had snowed a few inches the night before, and the bite in
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