War Prize Read online

  War Prize

  By Gail Starbright

  War Prize

  ALL RIGHTS RESERVED.

  War Prize Copyright © 2017 Cynthia Cody

  Edited by Cynthia Cody

  Cover design by Cynthia Cody

  Copyright for photo on cover: filipefrazao

  Photo purchased from iStock.

  First Published under the title, Captured by the SS Copyright © 2011 Gail Starbright

  Trade paperback for Captured by the SS Copyright © 2011 Gail Starbright

  First published with Ellora’s Cave Publication, first edition edited by Mary Moran, 2011.

  With the exception of quotes used in reviews, this book may not be reproduced or used in whole or in part by any means existing without written permission from the author.

  The unauthorized reproduction or distribution of this copyrighted work is illegal.

  This book is a work of fiction and any resemblance to persons, living or dead, or places, events or locales is purely coincidental. The characters are productions of the author’s imagination and used fictitiously.

  The author acknowledges the trademark status and trademark ownership of all trademarks, service marks and word marks mentioned in this book.

  The author does not have any control over and does not assume any responsibility for third-party Web sites or their content.

  Author note: This book was previously published in 2011, as both an electronic book and in paperback under the title, Captured by the SS with Ellora’s Cave Publishing. It has been revised, rewritten and republished under the title, War Prize.

  Trademarks Acknowledgement

  The author acknowledges the trademarked status and trademark owners of the following wordmarks mentioned in this work of fiction:

  BMW: Bayerische Motoren Werke Aktiengesellschaft Corporation

  Mercedes: Daimler Chrysler AG Corporation

  Table of Contents

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter One

  Berlin, 2008

  It’s strange. I’ve been behind enemy lines more times than I can count, and yet I’m still not accustomed to seeing the flag of the Third Reich.

  It’s probably because back home in America, that particular flag is nowhere to be found, and I’d like to keep it that way. When this assignment came up, I didn’t hesitate to accept.

  Tearing my gaze from the brightly illuminated roadside flags, I turn and study my driver. He told me his name is Ian and that he’s honored to help me, but I don’t quite believe him…neither on his name or the part about helping me.

  He’s a contact arranged through my superiors, a German citizen supposedly sympathetic to the American cause. Essentially, his job is to drive me around and provide a few basic provisions until we’re out of Berlin and relatively safe in Hannover. I only wish I could trust him.

  I hate that I’m so suspicious of my contact. But in this day and age, it’s hard to trust anyone who’s not from the States. The vast empire of the Third Reich includes all countries, islands and continents except for the forty-eight, tightly guarded, continental states of America.

  Silence lingers between me and my driver. “I want to thank you again for assisting me,” I declare in German.

  He turns his head briefly toward me. “No, don’t thank me. It’s no trouble, really.”

  Strange answer. For about the millionth time, I silently wish I could work alone. Unfortunately, I need help behind enemy lines. It’s hard enough just to smuggle me into Germany, but I still need things like food, shelter and especially transportation.

  Believe me, if I could barter gold or gemstones in exchange for goods and services without revealing my American citizenship, I would. But the empire’s laws allow only electronic currency. Because my ID is fraudulent and not linked to a valid account, it’s impossible to load credits onto my card’s magnetic strip.

  Electronic currency is an anti-espionage tactic that was concocted by the Gestapo in the mid-nineties. Our agency has tried to work around it by offering merchants diamonds in exchange for food, lodging and transportation, but few citizens are willing to go against the Gestapo. Believe it or not, sex is actually one of the few things that can be used as payment in my profession. Hell, I think most of my colleagues quite literally fuck and suck their way to freedom.

  I’m not sure if seduction is an art, a skill or a little bit of both. But whatever it is, I’m not good at it. My language skills are top-notch. I can memorize almost anything at a glance. And when it comes to breaking and entering, I have a gift. Seriously. My ability to breach even the most secure buildings in Berlin is really my most redeeming quality to my superiors. That’s the reason why I was given this assignment. It required breaking into the Echelon, which is considered by just about everyone impossible to do, kinda like breaching the White House or the Pentagon.

  Yes, I can bypass password protected locks and security cameras. I can enter and exit government buildings like a ghost but anything in the world of ooh-la-la…well, that’s a tricky one.

  Anyway, the real problem, in my opinion, is that the empire keeps raising the rewards for information that leads to the capture of US spies. In the beginning, payments were considerable, but lately, the empire’s rewards have quite literally entered the status of overnight wealth. I’ve heard stories of even the most trusted contacts suddenly turning against American agents.

  Inhaling deeply, I steady my nerves as we cruise under yet another metal archway. This is actually our fourteenth checkpoint tonight. Since Berlin is the capitol of the empire, security is tight and traffic is funneled through several checkpoints. But we only have one more to get through and then it’s smooth sailing on to Hannover. From there, a second contact is going to help me get back to the States.

  “One more,” my driver mutters in German.

  Relief washes over me…I’m almost out of Berlin. And I’m not worried at all about my contact in Hannover. I’ve worked with him before. His alias is David.

  He and his synagogue have been very generous to our agency in the past, literally betraying the empire to help us, even though the Third Reich no longer persecutes the Jewish community.

  Official apologies as well as financial reparations were issued decades ago to Holocaust survivors and Jewish families, but I don’t think it was enough for some. I know I’ll feel better once I meet up with David. His reasons for helping me are personal.

  My driver cruises up to the flashing yellow lights of a lowered gate. Like most checkpoints, it’s heavily guarded. So far, I’ve already spotted four armed guards milling about. They’re all dressed in heavy olive-drab coats and gear.

  Behind the lowered gate and off to the side are marked spaces to search vehicles and baggage. Several red, white and black flags billow in intense columns of bright white light. I try not to stare too intensely at the swastikas. After all, my ID states I’m a native German citizen residing in Hannover. I’m supposed to be accustomed to seeing that flag.

  Forcing my gaze forward, I make my eyes settle on a sign mounted on the lowered gate. In German, it reads, All vehicles must stop. Be prepared to show identification. Persons and vehicles subject to search.

  For some reason, my driver seems more nervous than at the last checkpoints. His nervousness makes me a bit antsy. Inhaling deeply, I will myself calm. The one car in front of us finally cruises forward after being waved through.

  The gate we’re stopped behind opens swiftly before my driver rolls up slowly.

  Since it’s two in the morning, there’s hardly any traffic. During peak times, it c
an sometimes take hours to get through.

  At a snail’s pace, our car cruises up to the second lowered gate. As is expected, my driver barely mutters a greeting before handing the patrolman both of our ID cards.

  I don’t stare at the armed patrolman, but instead subtly watch him out the corner of my eye.

  He takes one look at our IDs before promptly turning around. Without a word to us, he walks into the building behind him.

  Hmm, interesting.

  Anything other than a quick glance and a wave through can be a problem. My driver clutches the steering wheel, and I mentally review our cover story. If asked, we agreed to explain that we were in downtown Berlin to see Madama Butterfly at the Hoheit opera house. We even have torn tickets and a program in the car to support our story. The program is lying on the car’s center console with the tickets tucked inside.

  A few seconds turn into several seconds. Before I know it, a full minute passes. And then another. Swallowing hard, I start sweating in my blue satin dress. I wore the dress and the high heels to support the opera story as well as a nice dark coat. My driver bought the outfit this morning at a consignment shop.

  After several nerve-racking minutes, the same patrolman steps back out and approaches the driver’s side door.

  In clipped German, he informs my contact, “I need you to pull the vehicle to your right, turn off the engine and then come back over here.” There’s nothing threatening or menacing in his order, and it is fairly commonplace to be stopped and searched.

  I try to remain calm as my driver rolls to the right and pulls into a marked space that’s designated for vehicle searches. Four armed guards merely watch us, but luckily, no one seems overly eager or trigger-happy. Side arms and rifles remain either holstered or slung over shoulders.

  I nonchalantly step out and close the door. Without looking around, I walk the short distance back to the building. My driver is next to me.

  Although the vehicle search itself doesn’t bother me, I don’t understand why the patrolman walked off with our IDs first and then came back. That strikes me as odd…as if he were told to be on the lookout for our names.

  My driver clears his throat and looks around. It’s cold tonight. I plunge my hands deep in my coat pockets, trying to warm up.

  Three additional armed guards emerge from the building. They walk past us, making a beeline for our car. They rapidly descend on the small, four-door vehicle and start opening every door, latch and compartment. Several lights suddenly come on and illuminate the vehicle from all conceivable angles.

  Without being obvious about it, I scan the area and take in every single patrolman, including the ones searching the car, the ones milling about and the other two who are guarding us. Specifically, I’m looking at their uniforms. All of them are dressed in dark-green coats and gear.

  I breathe a sigh of relief. They’re all regular military, enlisted men. If there was someone dressed in gray, then there might be cause for concern since only commanding officers dress in gray. The last thing I need is some overzealous officer looking too closely at my forged ID, though I’ve been told it’s good enough to fool even the most critical eye. I’ve actually witnessed my ID being passed under a handheld black light, and the guard has never once even batted an eye.

  Of course, if my ID is ever radioed in or checked on the computer, I’m screwed. But a quick visual inspection or a pass under a black light is usually common practice. In all the years I’ve been doing this, I’ve never once had a guard research my ID. I think they have to be really suspicious of someone to do that.

  “I need you both to step inside,” one of the patrolmen informs us curtly in German. He’s gesturing toward the building with a gloved hand.

  I’m not sure what’s up with this, but I definitely don’t like it.

  Trying to remain calm, I follow the guard inside. Two more soldiers are waiting. I find some small relief in that the two additional men inside are also dressed in standard olive-drab uniforms.

  One comes up to my driver. “This way,” he says, directing him down a hallway.

  The other guard steps up to me. “Step this way.” I’m directed in an opposite direction from where they’re taking my driver. I’m not sure why they’re separating us, but it makes me even more nervous.

  After leading me down a short hallway, the patrolman stops in front of a closed door. He pushes it open and gestures for me to follow. Since the door opens into the room, he has to step inside to hold it open. During several of my past assignments, checkpoint guards have strip-searched me before, but this seems different than a strip-search.

  Holding my breath, I walk into a white-walled room. The patrolman points to the side, indicating he wants me to walk to my left. There’s even a red sign on the floor that reads Stand Here in German. I obediently walk to where he’s pointing as my gaze subtly sweeps the area. As a trained agent, I’m taught to take in every detail of my surroundings. Unfortunately, I can’t see the entire space. The open door is blocking my view of the other side.

  Almost immediately, I sense a third person is in the room with us and intentionally standing in the room’s blind spot.

  What the hell is going on?

  Without another word to me, the guard walks out, pulling the door closed behind him.

  The minute the door closes, I finally see who’s standing in the room with me, and it takes every ounce of control I have to remain calm. Unlike the other patrolmen who are all dressed in standard military gear, this man is wearing the very distinct black uniform of the SS.

  Oh dear.

  There are only a handful of SS officers in the entire empire, and there is absolutely no reason why one would be at a checkpoint at two o’clock in the morning…unless of course, he’s been tipped off that an American spy is behind enemy lines. The entire scenario reeks of treachery, and I have a sudden urge to find my contact and strangle him to death.

  Hmm, maybe I should have tried a little harder to be nice to my driver. Maybe if I had sucked his cock, I wouldn’t be in this mess right now. I think my inadequate skills in seduction may have just cost me my life.

  “Hello,” he greets me in German. He takes several steps toward me.

  I force myself to smile. After all, I’m supposed to be a citizen of the empire. At least that’s what my ID says. A part of my mind simply can’t process what exactly is happening here. I can’t focus on it. I won’t. Fear will completely shut me down if I focus on this. I need to just treat this as a high-stress situation. That’s all.

  I can tell he’s eager for me to speak. My German is perfect, and I can easily fool any patrolman that I’m a native citizen. But unlike patrolmen, SS officers are specially trained to detect any foreign lilt or pronunciation.

  To be accepted in the SS, a candidate has to pass several grueling language exams, which consists of both written essays and oral interviews. I’ve heard it’s almost impossible to get through the testing process, which actually takes several years to complete. Consequently, there aren’t that many SS officers. Hell, I think their numbers are only in the low teens, which is why I’m really surprised to be staring at one right now.

  Because of his specialized training, he’ll know I’m American the minute I start speaking. And I don’t have a contingency plan for this scenario. It’s not that my superiors have never thought of this. It’s just that…we don’t have a success story to base anything on.

  For the last fifty years, the elite SS has been a roadblock for my agency. Our only advantage is their low numbers. Although I don’t have a good plan for this scenario, I have been trained on how to handle tense or high-stress interviews. I just need to stay calm and think quickly.

  To buy a little time, I offer him a polite curtsy. This is a situation where Nazi culture actually works to my advantage. Although the practice is a bit out of date, women are still technically discouraged from speaking. It’s considered more ladylike or proper to either smile or curtsy, especially for women from higher soci
al classes.

  He only nods once at my action. I’m not sure what exactly he sees. The rim of his hat is shadowing his eyes, making it hard for me to get a bead on him.

  “Please, I’d like to speak to you. Tell me your name.” His tone and mannerisms don’t strike me as menacing. I sense uncertainty from him, as if he’s not sure what to make of me just yet. I can only guess the empire’s high rewards most likely send the SS on several pointless chases. He’s probably accustomed to false leads, which might be an advantage for me.

  But…I do have to speak now. Since I know my pronunciation won’t fool an SS officer, my best bet is to fake another accent while speaking German. If I’m lucky, I can convince him I’m from one of the territories of the Third Reich. It’s not a great plan, but it might work. I just have to muddy the pronunciation enough to convince him I’m not American.

  “My name is Sarah Yoven,” I reply in German. I’m careful to slip a slight Irish accent to my words. I’ve never actually practiced speaking German with an Irish accent. But I’ve always been good at improvising and thinking on my feet. Besides, I don’t have anything to lose at this point.

  He frowns at my greeting. I can tell he wasn’t expecting to hear the Irish.

  If my plan works, the worst scenario is that I’ll receive a citation because Nazi laws specify that only native citizens are allowed in Berlin. A native citizen is someone who was not only born in Germany but can also trace German ancestry to each parent and grandparent.

  With my Irish accent, I’m basically trying to say, Hi, I’m from a German territory, and I sneaked into Berlin illegally, which is a steep fine, yes. But it’s not a death sentence. Being positively identified as an American is a death sentence…and not a pretty one.

  If he hasn’t already figured it out, which he probably has, he’ll soon conclude my ID is fake since it states I’m a native citizen. Possession of forged identification can be a sticky charge, depending on how the document was used, but I’ll take my chances with it.