The Swiss Courier: A Novel by Tricia Goyer, Mike Yorkey

cherrywood pipe. “Miss Taylor, do you trust him?”
    His secretary hesitated for a moment. “Mr. Baumann’s operational skills have been excellent, and he can be quite charming. He must be agreeable if he’s cajoling that much information from the Swiss and German operatives here in Switzerland. But there’s something ‘off’ about him, like he’s trying too hard.”
    “Hmmm,” Dulles muttered. He’d seen plenty of men like Baumann in his day.
    When Allen Welsh Dulles joined the Secret Intelligence Branch (SI) following America’s entrance into the war, he was taught to train case officers, run agent operations, and process intelligence reports. In the fall of 1942, Washington asked Dulles to set up shop in Switzerland because the neutral country was fertile ground for intelligence gathering—smack in the middle of Europe and surrounded by Axis countries. Since the Germans, Russians, and British were using landlocked Switzerland to spy on each other following the invasion of Poland, Dulles’s nascent network was playing catch-up. He found that sending Allied agents into Germany had scant hope of eluding the Gestapo, but travel between the Reich and neutral Switzerland was free enough to bring certain Germans to him. Hence the need for field agents with mother-tongue ability to speak German. Men like Dieter Baumann.
    Dulles struck a wooden match and drew a puff. “He was curious about General Patton today—a little too curious.” A wisp of smoke rose in the air. “Send a message to Jean-Pierre. Tell him I want Dieter Baumann put under surveillance. Very discreet. No reason to spook him.”
    Priscilla Taylor scribbled on her notepad, then looked up. “There’s one more thing, sir. Our contact from Heidelberg sent this eyes-only message while you were meeting with Mr. Baumann.”
    Dulles opened the sealed envelope and scanned its contents.
    “I have to contact Washington on this.” Dulles felt the knot in his gut tighten. “Something must be done immediately.”
     
    11
    Gestapo Regional Headquarters
     
    Heidelberg, Germany
     
    2:45 p.m.
    “Are you sure Sergeant Frisch hasn’t reported?” Kassler, back at Regional Headquarters, knew his question sounded accusatory, but this was important.
    Corporal Becker, standing before his desk, deflected the critical tone. “I’ve yet to locate him, sir. His bunkmate said he slept until noon and then left on a walk.”
    Kassler exhaled. “When’s Frisch due to report?”
    “Six o’clock for dinner, unless we can locate him beforehand.”
    “Very well.”
    “One more thing, sir,” the fuzzy-cheeked aide said. “It seems that Sergeant Frisch and the night brigade captured one of the Stauffenberg plotters last night. He was caught leaving a sheaf of anti-Hitler handbills at a local hofbrau. Frisch searched his apartment and found a hand-operated duplicating machine hidden in the attic.”
    “Where is the prisoner?”
    “In the basement, where information is being extracted at this moment. The lead interrogator called. Says he needs to speak with you—in person.”
    Kassler reached for his short-brim hat and leather belt, which holstered a 9mm Luger P.08. “You know where to find me if Himmler calls—or if Frisch shows up,” he said grimly to Becker.
    Kassler descended three flights of stairs, each landing pumping more adrenaline through his body. He had long ago taught himself to ignore the wide-eyed looks of outright horror and inevitable shrieks of pain from his victims. Detached, emotionally remote—that was the persona he embraced whenever he approached the basement Interrogation Center. Kassler willed himself into a state of calm because he knew enemies of the Reich would slit his throat if given half the chance. Kill or be killed.
    Still, there were always a few seconds of mental adjustment whenever he stepped inside the doors of the Interrogation Center, and this afternoon was no different. Kassler greeted the guard posted outside the entrance