Chapter 23

Quinn reveals his connection to the Nazi agents. Schubert discerns that the train is the most logical target. Plans develop to confront the enemy outside Carcross.

Chapter 23

The next morning, Schubert woke disoriented, wrapped in blankets, fully dressed. He looked at the bedside clock. It was nine-thirty. Evidently, he’d forgotten to set his alarm. He stared into nothing—had he dreamt about Louise? He sensed something at the edge of his consciousness and willed it to return. After a while, he gave up. His mouth was dry; his tongue felt thick, stuck to the roof of his mouth. Had he drunk excessively the night before? He couldn’t remember. He stumbled to the bathroom and upon opening the door, shielded his eyes: the sun was streaming through the window. The room was warm; the sun lifted his spirit. He drew the curtains aside—there wasn’t a cloud in the sky. The entire horizon was a continuous swath of blue. He splashed water on his face and looked in the mirror. The bags under his eyes reminded him of the stress he was under. The villains on this stage, he reasoned, were all too real to be ignored and forgotten.

After lighting a fire and setting the kettle to boil, he heard the squeal of brakes outside his kitchen window. A squad car was parked outside. Peters and Geneviève were walking up the sidewalk. Jonas Power fell into step behind them. Schubert greeted them at the door.

“Good morning. Do come in—I’ve just put the kettle on for coffee.”

Peters said: “Since you weren’t coming in today, I thought we could have the meeting at your house.”

“Thanks Bart. The last few days have knocked the wind from my sails.”

He nodded, saying, “Amen to that. I’m feeling it, too.”

“Power,” Schubert said while hanging coats. “Your performance yesterday was stellar. I was surprised how quickly Quinn gave up the ghost.”

“I was as well. Perhaps the man has a conscience after all.”

The four of them sat around the table. The morning sun had quickly warmed the kitchen. Schubert rose to open the window a crack. Fresh air and the aroma of coffee filled the kitchen.

“I’ve been mulling over this case,” he said, sitting down. “Jäger’s actions are pointing us in a direction. That much I firmly believe. My telexes to Head Office and MOD lead Jonas to Whitehorse. MOD wanted Geneviève and her brother to suss out any veracity behind my suspicions. Von Sonnenfeld, Jäger and perhaps Müller are spokes in the operation. Von Sonnenfeld had Aiden Quinn’s thugs terrorize George Jeckell for a mining permit, which in turn, allows von Sonnenfeld to purchase TNT. Peters, what did Simpson discover after his chat with Mr. Byrne over at the mining supply store?”

“Byrne said von Sonnenfeld had enough TNT to ‘blow up most of a mountain.’ According to Simpson, those were his exact words.”

“What targets would they need explosives for?” Schubert asked the trio around the table.

“They can’t blow up the entire American base. Part of it, sure but for what purpose?” Jonas said. “If these Nazis are supposed to spread terror, they’re about three-thousand miles from the nearest significant population—Vancouver or Winnipeg.”

“As I reviewed the case last night, I kept returning to the question: who is helping these agents. We found only three persons of interest and one of them is dead. If we assume there are others agents here, someone is hiding them, feeding them, providing them with matériel. They could’ve been sheltered by the Irish. I just don’t see any other possible contacts in a town this size.”

“Probably at Quinn’s request,” Peters added.

“There must be a big payoff for Quinn to takes the risks he has,” Power said.

“I agree,” Schubert responded. “Presumably some of those Kaiser Wilhelm coins were destined for his coffers. 

“OK, this is what we know so far: ‘Sanskrit’ is supposedly an operation too tempting to avoid, the prize, too great.” 

Geneviève joined in the conversation. “Jäger had gold and diamonds. Money to finance an operation. The Irish are the most logical choice. Quinn’s men have already helped the operation by clearing the way for von Sonnenfeld to obtain TNT.”

“Peters, what are you thinking? I sense something brewing,” Schubert observed.

“There’s only one other thing left to destroy in the Territory. The railroad,” Peters said, “and that makes no sense either. What’s coming up from Skagway that’s so important?” 

Schubert said: “The railroad is a legitimate target but your question is correct: what could possibly be on that train to warrant the insertion of enemy agents this far north? That’s what I can’t answer.”

“I’ve been asking myself what led Jäger to my brother’s cabin. Our Resistance identities are unknown. Even if he did know, nothing we accomplished would warrant our assassination. The cost of getting him here for that is beyond even Hitler’s paranoia. There is only one thing that makes sense: he needed a place to hide out until he met with von Sonnenfeld and Müller. James’ place was a random choice.”

Power added, “Maybe Jäger was never meant to be in Blue River. What if his part of the mission went wrong right from the beginning?”

Schubert nodded. “It’s possible. Rempel’s murder, as well as Dickinson’s would support that. But we’re back to the question: what would possess a foreign government to send agents here?”

“What if we’re asking questions from the wrong direction?” Power said. “Have we considered the possibility that there’s nothing on the train? What if the commandos’ presence here is based on falsified information?”

Schubert said: “You’re implying intelligence has been planted to tempt the Germans into action, a prize worth risking for. If that were the case, the intelligence leak isn’t meant for the Germans…”

Geneviève finished Schubert’s thought. “It’s to flush out a traitor, in either Ottawa on Washington. This could explain why MOD had nothing to say on the matter and your communiques were ignored.”

“Agreed. Whatever the case, explosives means only one thing: the Germans aren’t  taking prisoners. The train has got to be the target—it’s the only logical choice. We can rule out the American base. They would never get passed the guards or dogs. Even if they did, they would be killed before they even started.

“Peters, you’ve lived here your entire life. If we assume the train is the target, where are the possible locations for maximum damage?”

“They’ll need shelter so my guess is they’re heading for Carcross. Anything further in this weather would be suicide. There’s an abandoned Indian village a few miles down Bennett Lake, about two miles past Carcross. The tracks follow the edge of the lake. There are a couple of sections where the lake is over three hundred feet deep, if I remember correctly.”

“Deep enough to bury a train,” Power added. 

Schubert said: “Von Sonnenfeld and Müller will need help. Peters, do you think Quinn will talk? I’m not sure we can intimidate him with another one of Power’s performances.”

“I doubt it. Our only leverage is time in prison. He’s been before—he’ll probably welcome three meals and a bed.”

“But he’s been aiding an enemy government. The consequences could be capital punishment. I think we should try to reason with him. Quinn is a thug and a criminal but that doesn’t make him a traitor. Let me get dressed. Let’s go have a talk with him. Power, do you mind waiting here with Geneviève? We shouldn’t be more than an hour.”

Schubert entered the interview room with two mugs of coffee. He had thought of bringing pastries but decided against it. Quinn sat across the table, neither handcuffed nor in  leg irons. Schubert passed over the coffee. Quinn made no effort to reach for it.

“Tell me about the Germans who contacted you.” Schubert couldn’t tell if Quinn was resigned, angry or afraid. His face gave nothing away. He was a career criminal: he knew what to expect in an interview.

Schubert waited five minutes and then asked again. When he got no answer, he changed tactics.

“You want to play silence, fine. But you’ve got five minutes to decide if you’re going to cooperate. If you do, I’ll speak to the DA in Ottawa, because that’s where you’re heading.  You won’t be tried in the Territory—this case goes way beyond the pale of our local judiciary. If you don’t speak to me, I’ll recommend the maximum penalty, which is death. You’re playing with stakes that go way beyond petty theft and ruffing up rivals. It’s your choice.”

Schubert sipped his coffee and tried not to look at the clock behind Quinn or glance at his watch. After more than five minutes, he was about to leave when Quinn slowly slid the coffee cup over and took a drink.

“You know how this game works. You always owe someone. I nearly had you owing me. Wouldn’t that have been grand?”

Schubert was thankful the quid pro quo would never be fulfilled.

“How does this relate to my question?”

“Don’t be daft, Schubert. You damned-well know the answer.”

“Enlighten me.”

Quinn slowly sipped his coffee.

“A letter or a telegraph arrives and the assumption is you’ll play along.”

“And if you didn’t?”

“Consequences, usually to loved ones back in Ireland or Toronto.”

“Someone contacted you, anonymously?”

 “A few months ago I received a telegram from one of Éamon de Valera’s mutts.”

“Who is de Valera?” Schubert interrupted.

“He’s the leader of Fianna Fáil, in Ireland. They’re all fascists and they’ve no love of England and a little too much for Germany.”

“There is a fascist party in Ireland?” Schubert hadn’t been briefed on Fianna Fáil while in MI5, which he considered very irregular.

“Yes.”

“How did they find you?”

“That’s a bloody good question, one that I’ve been pondering since this all began. It’s probably someone back home, someone with ties to Fianna Fáil who knows where I am. Knows where I’m vulnerable as far as family are concerned. The message said, ‘friends’ of Ireland would be arriving and we were to extend them the warm hand of hospitality.”

“Meaning supply them as needed.”

Quinn nodded.

“How many Germans are here?” Schubert asked.

“No idea. Other than that fop, von Sonnenfeld, I met no others. But you can assume there are more.”

“How many of your men are involved?”

“O’Daly and Fagan were assigned to Jeckell. There are four others.”

“What’s the target?”

“You probably won’t believe me, but I have no idea. When my boys and von Sonnenfeld’s crew were planning, he revealed nothing about the target. Switched to German when he didn’t want my boys understanding the conversation.”

“Nothing? Not even a word or a phrase that was repeated? They must have heard something.”

“I told O’Daly to keep an ear open. He said one word kept coming up when von Sonnenfeld was speaking with his men: ‘Zug.’ No idea what it means. That’s all I can think of.”

We were right—they’re after the train, thought Schubert. He stood to leave.

“I’ll speak with the DA in Toronto, you have my word,” he said, leaving the room. 

Quinn finished his coffee. He’d been a royal fool, he had. There was no changing that. He was at the mercy of Schubert, and he knew it.

“It’s the train!” Schubert hollered as he entered his home.

“Quinn fessed up? How did you get him to talk?” Power thought Quinn would rather die than confess. Maybe the man had a conscience after all.

“OK, maybe I’m getting ahead of myself. Quinn said von Sonnenfeld revealed nothing about their mission, except his men overheard the word ‘Zug’ mentioned repeatedly.”

“The train from Skagway?” Peters said, as if there were multiple trains converging on Whitehorse. “Makes no sense.”

“When does the next train arrive?” Power asked.

“Sunday,” Schubert replied. “We’re cutting this close. Today is Friday. We’ve got two days.”

Power began to object. “Hold on, Schubert. You’re basing this on what, one German word?”

“What else do we have? There’s certainly not a battalion of Germans arriving in order to storm the American camp. It has to be something else.” 

“Well, we need help—more men. Is two days enough time? Could we persuade the White Pass to hold the train at Skagway and cancel the Sunday run?”

“They might listen if I had proof of an imminent disaster. But I can’t very well go to the White Pass office and tell them a couple of Nazis want to blow up their train. I sound like an idiot just saying that amongst ourselves. I also don’t wield that kind of authority. That would have to come from higher up, like your office.”

“Can we alert the police in Carcross?” Power suggested. “Enlist the help of the Americans?”

“Listen to yourself, Jonas. If I’m wrong about this and I call in the Yanks or by some miracle, force the train to halt its operations and we find nothing, I’m finished. As for Carcross, we have two men stationed there. They’ll be outgunned for sure. We’re dealing with well-trained enemy agents. We’re not prepared for this kind of thing. Only she is,” Schubert said, nodding at Geneviève. 

“And if you’re right and we fail,” added Peters, “you’re disgraced.”

“The situation leaves me somewhere between Scylla and Charybdis—no good options. Suggestions, anyone?”

No one spoke. 

After a time, Geneviève had the beginning of a plan. 

“We have no opportunity for reconnaissance. Assuming von Sonnenfeld, Müller and the Irish are in Carcross, we’re going in blind. We have one advantage: they aren’t expecting us. Assuming Jäger was one of theirs, they’re down one man so they’ll be forced to improvise. But Karl is right in assuming other agents have rendezvoused without his knowledge.”

Geneviève waited for Schubert to direct the next stage of the conversation but he looked at her and nodded. She continued.

“I suggest three teams. The first consists of a spotter and sniper, stationed on high ground near this village, that gives us a clear view of the tracks. Do you recall any geography of the village?” she asked Peters.

“There is a hill nearby the church—Catholic. The steeple will suffice if it hasn’t rotted away. It was made out of wood, mind you. No way of knowing if the stairs or ladder up the steeple have rotted away.”

“Very well, with two options we gain a second advantage. That’s a good start. The second team will sweep through the village towards the tracks, heading north. The third team will sweep south.” She turned to Schubert. “Do you have any ‘Handy-Talkies’ at the station?”

“No, but I might be able to persuade the Americans to loan me a set.”

“Let me call them, sir. I’ll speak with Herschel,” Peters offered.

“What time will the train pass through Carcross,” Geneviève asked Schubert.

“The trip from Skagway is sixty-eight miles. It leaves Skagway at eight in the morning and takes about four hours, depending on snow conditions. We’re forty miles from Carcross. It’ll take us the better part of four hours to get there by motor. Peters,” Schubert called, “ask Herschel for a loan of one of their six by six’s. I’ll pay for the use myself if I have to.”

Peters nodded and called the base.

“Time is against us,” Geneviève said. “If we leave today for Carcross we might get lucky and spot them in the village. If not, on Saturday we move to the abandoned village and begin a house-to-house search. We need shotguns and a sniper rifle. Power brought two handguns. I’ll take one with a suppressor. As for the rifle, a .30-06 or a 7mm—scoped, will suffice. Both are common hunting rifles. Forget the Geneva Convention—bring hunting rounds.”

Twenty minutes later, Peters returned to the room. 

“Hershel managed to kick the request all the way to the top. When he mentioned Nazi agents in the territory, all resistance ended. We’ve got Handy-talkies and better than a six by six: they loaned us a half-track. And, I managed to swing the use of a Springfield M1903. Seems they’re ready for all sorts of action there, although they confessed it’s still wrapped in the box.” He paused. “There’s just one hitch. The half-track isn’t available until Saturday. Both treads are off for repair.”

“Seems time is now our enemy,” Schubert said, directing his comment to Geneviève.

“There’s nothing we can do. We use the extra day to rest and gather supplies. Review our attack plan.”

What had been an idea less than an hour ago was taking shape. 

Schubert said, “It’s time to alert the men. Power, I would advise you stay in Whitehorse. Peters, tell Simpson…”

“No way, Schubert,” Power interrupted. “I’m coming with.”

“You have no experience with firearms. You’re dressed to go to the symphony. This is not something to be trifled with,” Schubert replied.

“He’s right,” Geneviève added. “A fire-fight will compromise your ability to perform, unless you have experience.” You’re a liability and we haven’t even begun, she thought.

“My office sent me here, no, my boss sent me knowing goddamn full well that something was going on. I’m seeing it through.”

Schubert couldn’t argue with the man’s determination. 

“Alright then. Peters, give Power a crash-course in firearms. Preferably a shot gun. Alert Simpson and Tournamille. Next to you, they’re my two sharpest officers.”

The meeting was over. Schubert collected the mugs, placing them in the sink. He heard the door close and watched the squad car pull from the curb.

He turned around and found Geneviève sitting in the living room. She looked very tired. The return to action triggered memories she had tried to forget.

“How are you fairing?” he asked.

“I’ll make it,” she said, feigning bravery. He could hear it in her voice. “I’m sorry I took over your planning. I have become Danielle Hoffman again. It was my nom de guerre. Planning, strategizing, reconnaissance—it was what I did for three years.”

“No apology is required. I’m grateful for your help. I realize I’m out of my depth.”

“This could get violent, very quickly. Have you taken a life, Karl?”

“Only on stage.” He paused. “I’m sorry to make light of your question. No, I haven’t.”

“It changes you. You saw what I did to Jäger.”

“I see a woman, fiercely loyal to her family. I don’t judge you and I sure as hell would never charge you. I told Peters the same and I was prepared to be fired. The man killed your brother. Jäger was a soldier and knew the risks.”

“And I killed him. When does it stop? War asks us to do the unconscionable. You will do whatever it takes not to die. The moral high ground is very difficult to scale. When you put yourself in harm’s way, you become a different person.”

Schubert fetched his pipe and lit a bowl of black Cavendish. The smoke hung near the ceiling. Were there any messages for him to discern therein? After a while, the smoke told him what a fool he’d been to consider for even a moment that the difficulties in his life could be compared to hers. While Geneviève had trained with the Resistance, he had still been learning Fauré chanson or Beethoven Lieder.

“There are leftovers in the fridge if you want.” He stood and excused himself. “I know its early, but I must rest. I’m nearly too tired to think.”

He climbed the stairs to his room, slowly. The cold followed him into his room. The room reminded him of his loss, as it did every night. He kicked off his shoes and climbed into bed. Even though he was exhausted, sleep wouldn’t come.

Geneviève began to run a bath. She was humming a tune; fragments stole from the bathroom under Schubert’s door accompanied by the light sounds of water lapping against skin and porcelain. It reminded him of another time when life with Louise and its incumbent sounds were a regular part of his day. Eventually, the humming stopped and the plug was pulled, sending water rushing through the pipes. Silence returned and he felt himself falling asleep.

He was unable to discern if he had slept and hour or a day, but a small sound woke him. Geneviève was at his door. She stepped into his room. Schubert felt the mattress sink as she sat on the bed, opposite him. She slipped under the covers and nuzzled close, pressing herself next to him. He felt the soft curves of her breasts against his back. She placed her arm over his, and she stroked his face and kissed his neck. She smelled better than a spring rain.

Schubert turned to face her. He ran his hand through her hair. “You’ve had your world turned inside out. I don’t want to take advantage of that.”

She touched his lips. “No, I am broken. None of us are whole. And for a moment, we can taste each other’s joy.” 

They kissed and then she rolled on top of him. 

“You wore a nightgown?” Schubert lifted it over her head; she shook her hair free and softly laughed. 

She shrugged. “A little expectation never hurt.” She took her time unbuttoning his shirt.

Afterwards, he became lost in the depth of her emerald eyes. He wondered how she could feel such passion, given the events of the past twenty-four hours. 

“How are you able to give of yourself…”

She sensed what he wished to say. 

“In the Resistance, death walked hand-in-hand with life. At first, the death of a friend was unbearable. The mind has nothing, no experience to reason it through. Eventually, death is accepted as inevitable otherwise as an agent you’re through. I still need to love and be loved, for one or both of us might die tomorrow; and if not then, maybe the next.”

Schubert pulled the duvet over both of them, the room having become suddenly cool. They held each other close. After a time, Geneviève’s slept and Schubert felt the slow rise and fall of her breath. The thought of Geneviève dying hadn’t occurred to him. Until a few days ago, she was a baker, not a Resistance fighter. But he could feel death slinking into the room, whispering promises of release and the end of pain. So much had been lost already. The thought of losing Geneviève, then Louise, and Geneviève’s brother—it was too much. He fought back the tears, condemning him for his selfishness.

Schubert heard footsteps on the porch. He rose, wiping his eyes and found a dressing gown. He was half-way down the stairs when he heard the knock. It was Peters and Simpson. They held a large, wooden crate stamped “USMC.”

“I know it’s late,” Peters said, stomping snow from his boots, “but I thought Geneviève would rather see the rifle tonight. Get a feel for it, you know?”

“No apology needed. Come in, lads.” Schubert held the door while his officers entered, the crisp air never far behind.

“Here’s the rifle,” Simpson said. He went outside and returned with another, smaller crate. “Unopened box of rounds. Probably a thousand. They said to keep the rounds. They want the rifle back, preferably with a few notches on the butt.”

Simpson cracked open the crate and gave a low whistle. Inside lay the Springfield M1903. 

“I figured Miss Geneviève was here, since you didn’t ask me to drive her home.” Peters immediately regretted stating the obvious.

“Not to worry, Bart. Thanks for this,” he said, pointing to the crate. “I’ll get Geneviève on it right away.”

Peters nodded goodnight and returned to the squad car with Simpson. Schubert pulled the curtains apart and watched as they pulled away. He turned to see Geneviève at the foot of the stairs.

He gave a start. “Are you always this silent?”

She smiled. “I hope we’ll have the time to find out.” 

She approached the table and removed the lid from the crate. “Excellent,” she said, lifting the rifle from the crate. 

‘Excellent,’ Schubert thought. I’ve just made love to a woman who has killed and will kill again. Then, the transformation occurred before his eyes. 

She pulled the rifle from the crate and began breaking it down, cleaning the barrel, chamber, trigger mechanism. She repeated the process four times, each time assembling the weapon and dry-firing it. The scope came pre-attached. She memorized the placement of the elevation and wind compensation dials, then polished the glass and turned the dials, working away any rigidity in the controls.

“I’ll need to put three rounds through before we leave, just to make sure. I’ll sight it in for 300 yards. I don’t imagine I’ll get closer. If we do, we’ll be lucky. I’m confident I can hit them at 900 yards.”

“I’m thankful you’re on our side, that’s all I’ll say.” 

Geneviève stripped the rifle one last time and returned it to the crate. 

“We have a long night ahead of us,” she said, as her gown drifted open. She made no attempt to cover herself.

“If time is of the essence, then there’s no sense wasting any of it.” 

They returned upstairs. For a long while they held each other, content to feel the warmth of each other’s skin.

“I will always love you, Karl Schubert,” she said, lying next to him.

Her words were unsettling, as if she had some foresight into the following days’ events.

Geneviève quickly fell asleep. Schubert imagined life in the resistance taught her to sleep at anytime possible. He kissed her neck, then slipped into his nightgown. The Steinway was calling him. He thumbed through a book of Brahms Lieder and stopped at Von ewige Liebe. “Of Eternal Love.” Brahms gave the piano the first word, with low undulating arpeggios, struggling for light. He began to sing.

Dark, how dark in the forest and field! Dusk has fallen, the world is silent.

Nowhere a light and nowhere smoke, Yes, and the lark is silent now.

A lad comes from the village, Taking his love home,

They walk past the willow thickets, Talking of much, and so many things:

“If you suffer shame and are cast down, O If you suffer shame from others around me,

Our love will end as quickly, As the day it started. It shall depart with the rain and wind,

As fast as we came together.” Says the maiden: “Our love shall never end!

Iron and steel are cast by the Smith But our love is far stronger.

Iron and steel, are melted by heat, Our love, will never change.

Iron and steel, will always be; Our love will last forever!”

From the landing at the top of the stairs, Geneviève listened as Schubert sang through his loss. She held her own before her. Without James, she no longer felt whole; a sense of incompleteness hounded her: they had been two halves, sharing a powerful bond. Had his death weakened her? She knew she would have to summon all her experience to survive the next forty-eight hours. But if Schubert died, what would become of her? Similar questions had stubbornly refused to abate before Resistance missions. It was part of her preparation: taking stock of her life should it end with a bullet.