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

to the torture room. The guard acknowledged him, turned around, and looked through a peephole, then knocked twice. Sergeant Buchalter, a burly soldier in his early thirties, answered the door with a pair of pliers in his left hand. His blood-splattered gray tunic was half-unbuttoned, displaying a soiled white shirt.
    Kassler entered. A single lightbulb illuminated a room that reeked of sweat, blood, and fear. In the far corner, a bony middle-aged man had been stripped to his waist. His arms were wrapped behind a post, and his wrists were bound by rope. Blood streamed from a gash on his left temple, flowing down the side of his face onto his chest. More blood dripped from his left hand. The prisoner’s whole body quivered, as if seizures overtook him. His knees trembled the worst, and he struggled to remain standing.
    “I told him if his knees touch the ground, I’ll beat him to a pulp,” Sergeant Buchalter said.
    “So why did you call me?”
    “Because the prisoner hasn’t been giving me names. All I’ve gotten out of him is something about a church.”
    “Have you employed more persuasive techniques?”
    Buchalter shrugged. “He screamed after I yanked one of his fingernails out, but didn’t yield. There’s something different about this one. That’s why I called you.”
    “His name?”
    “Vinzent something.”
    “Let’s have a look.”
    Kassler knew from experience that interrogation sessions usually didn’t turn out this way. Most men cracked at the mere mention of things getting “rough.” Others sang like catbirds when nail-pulling pliers were produced. Sharp knives loosened tongues as well. Whatever the method, the vast majority of prisoners—under torture—blabbered everything they knew. Only a few were truly committed to keeping silent. Nothing moved them. In those rare cases, however, more stringent measures were required.
    “Do you have a copy of the leaflet?”
    “Right here.” Buchalter removed a handbill from his shirt pocket and pressed it into Kassler’s hands.
    “Appeal to All Germans!” the headline shouted. Kassler read on.
    The struggle for freedom of speech, freedom of religion, and protection of the individual citizen from the arbitrary actions of our police state is happening at this very moment in time. The tide is turning against National Socialist Germany. The Bible says, “‘Vengeance is mine,’ saith the Lord,” and His vengeful sword of retribution will destroy the totalitarian regime that launched a global war and has killed millions and imprisoned millions of others, including God’s Chosen People. Support the resistance movement!
    Kassler’s chest constricted, and he felt heat rising to his face. “He’s given you no names?”
    “Not yet, Major. He keeps mumbling something about the church of Jesus Christ.”
    Kassler balled up the leaflet and tossed it to the floor, sure he could turn this Vinzent character around. He approached the prisoner and grabbed a tuft of hair, jerking his head up. “You know what happens if you don’t give us what we want.” He tightened his grip.
    The prisoner labored to speak.
    “You want to say something?” Kassler demanded, shouting in the man’s ear. “Don’t you know what will happen to you if you don’t talk?”
    The prisoner nodded. “Yes, I know.” It was no more than a whisper.
    Kassler leaned forward.
    “Victory,” the man mouthed.
    Anger coursed through his veins. “Victory?” He slapped the man’s face. “Victory will be ours, not yours!”
    Kassler unbuttoned the leather holster containing his Luger pistol and brandished the gun. He inserted the tip into the prisoner’s right nostril and rammed the extended black barrel deep into his sinuses. The man—unable to resist—screamed in pain.
    “You have it all wrong!” Kassler roared. “The Third Reich will be victorious in the end!”
    “Something . . . different . . . victory . . . in Jesus.” The prisoner groaned in obvious pain. “There is