Knight To King 6 (paperback)

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In this post WW II spy-action thriller, two secret agents Vivian Tate and Antoni Franko are sent into Poland to recover the advanced V-2 guidance system and other Wonder Weapons developed by the Nazis during the war. The challenge is that the Soviets are doing the exact same thing for their own missile program. In addition, a former Nazi SS official is also looking for the devices so he can cut a deal directly to the Americans instead of facing a War Crimes Tribunal. Find out how the Cold War began and what ultimately lead to the US putting a man on the moon.

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Enjoy a sample from Knight To King 6

She hung naked from a chain apparatus tethered from the ceiling. Her arms and legs were held apart by leather straps; her stomach and breasts pointed down toward the floor. She drifted in and out of consciousness after each lashing on her bare back and buttocks. Blood, sweat, and vomit dripped from her face. Despite the cold, dark, and damp conditions of the women’s jail at Alexanderplatz, sweat radiated from every pore of her body.

The pain was excruciating, but the worst was yet to come. The twenty-nine-year-old SIS operative feared what was to happen next. For the previous hour, she had been severely beaten by a female Gestapo interrogator. The Gestapo woman used a rough, twelve-inch wooden stick and lashed out across the woman’s back and rear.

The Gestapo woman grabbed her prisoner from her wet hair and shouted in German, “Tell me your name. We know it is not Hilda Bradt!”

The young woman could only mumble and responded in German, “I’ve told you my name . . . It’s Hilda Bradt. I’m not who you say I am . . . there must be some terrible, terrible mistake.”

The jailer had no more patience. She grabbed the stick then raised a set of ropes that controlled the torture apparatus which pulled and spread the woman’s legs apart even further. The Gestapo woman was about to lash out again when the heavy wooden door to the cell swung open unexpectedly. A young, uniformed SS officer entered. He was medium height and slender in build. His dark hair was neatly cropped, and he held a hat under his left armpit. In his other hand he held a white hospital gown. SS Obersturmführer Otto Krupke commanded, “That will be all, Stürmmann. You can return to your post upstairs.”

“But I have her almost broken. All I need is another five minutes.”

Krupke simply pointed his finger at the jailer.

“She’s lying. She’s a British spy.”

With that, the female torturer dropped the wooden stick to the floor and exited the cell.

When the Stürmmann left the cell, Krupke encircled his prisoner. Each step of his heavy leather jackboots was deliberately placed down on the wet pavement, dramatizing what was to come. The woman continued to gasp and weep. She had withstood the torture for several hours, over seventy-two to be exact. She had done as she was trained back at Broadway Street. She had held out for as long as possible to enable her colleagues to escape or change safe houses and identities. It was time. She would accept her fate.

Surprisingly, Krupke didn’t do anything. He continued encircling the twenty-nine-year-old woman. Had the woman been able to see him, she would have seen a man gazing upon her in lust, but despite her broken appearance, she was still an attractive, young woman with a lean, muscular figure, firm breasts, bright, blue eyes, and light, golden blond-hair.

Krupke finally broke his silence and spoke in German as he released the prisoner from the torture mechanism. She dropped to her hands and knees. “You have performed admirably, Fräulein. It is time to end this charade.”

The woman crouched into a fetal position, trying to cover herself as Krupke continued to speak in German. “We had you under surveillance the whole time. We saw you coming and going from the meeting. The persons you met were British agents working for the Secret Service. Those men have been caught and will be executed for the crime of espionage. If you cooperate, I can spare your life.”

She continued to weep and did not respond, clutching her naked body. Krupke continued his monologue. “I have the authority to offer you an accord. Just tell me your real name for starters. We know it’s not Hilda Bradt, and this all ends!”

Krupke stopped in front of the woman, bent lower to her face, and dropped the hospital gown on the floor. He simply said four words, quietly in English, “Put the gown on.”

The woman was about to reach for the garment, but something in the back of her mind told her to stop, think, and then respond. She realized the SS man had spoken perfect English with a perfect American accent. It was the first time in her incarceration that anyone had spoken in English. She made no move, for any movement to reach for the gown would prove to her executioner that she understood English and was, therefore, a British spy. No, there was something that wasn’t quite right about this young, clever Nazi. He was trying to trick her. She froze and stiffened up even tighter.

Krupke watched and waited. His prisoner did not respond or move. He waited for another five minutes, still no movement from the young woman. “Go on. Take the gown,” he said again in English. Nothing. He tried a different approach. Then he responded in very good, if not fluent, Polish, the young woman’s native language. “I’m not going to hurt you,” he said. “There is obviously some serious mistake. You can put the gown on.”

The woman was astonished. She realized that hurting her was precisely what the man was trying to do, trick her into a false sense of security with his perfect composure, English, Polish, and mannerisms. She decided she had won a small victory over her adversary. Slowly, she reached for the gown.

“Please, let me help you,” he said again in Polish. Krupke assisted her to her feet and helped place her bruised arms through the armholes. They were now face-to-face, his brown eyes to her blue eyes. She could smell his clean body and aftershave lotion. “Let me escort you back upstairs, where we can sort this out comfortably,” he said.

The SIS woman’s mind was as sharp as a dagger despite the pain and torture. She was already well ahead of her adversary. He’s no match for me, she thought. The after-shave lotion gave her an idea. She decided to push her luck as she spoke in Polish. “First, I must have a bath.”

Not surprisingly, Krupke responded, “Naturally. I’ll escort you to the washroom where you can freshen up. Can you at least tell me your name? All I ask is just a simple name.”

The woman responded calmly and quietly, “My name is Irina . . . Irina Jankowski.”

Krupke contemplated his response while he took in the name. It was the first time she had said that name during her interrogations; he had been listening and recorded her dialogs. The name Irina Jankowski had never come up. “You see, that wasn’t difficult. You can have your bath now, but I must accompany you the entire way.”

The two walked up five flights of stairs to the top of Alexanderplatz. Krupke helped her at every step and believed that it was impossible for anyone to escape from the facility, especially someone in this woman’s condition.

As they came to the washroom, Krupke pointed to the door, and the two continued in Polish. “Go inside, I’ll be waiting here. Take the gown off and leave it with me. You can have it back when you’re finished. There’s a towel inside.”

The woman did as she was told, and dropped the gown to the floor.  She said, “Close the door. I won’t take long. Please, I’d like some privacy after my ordeal.”

Krupke nodded. “I’m a gentleman. As you wish.”

Once inside the bathroom, with the door closed and locked, the woman quickly surveyed her surroundings. She knew she didn’t have much time. The washroom was basic. A toilet, sink, and tub; no mirror. There was, however, one tiny window with no bars, above the tub, not more than a foot square. She had to act quickly and decisively. She turned on the water to fill the tub. As the water was running, she grabbed the bar of soap and lathered her body. Next, she placed the wash towel between her teeth and stepped onto the tub and looked out the window. She could see daylight and early-morning sunshine. She guessed it was probably near six. A good time. Few people would be up and about at this hour.

Without thinking further, she opened the tiny window and squeezed her lathered body through the small opening. She mustered all the strength left in her broken body. Once her upper torso was outside the window, she wiped the soap from her hands with the washrag, then reached for the rain gutter. She pulled her body up and onto the roof. Once on top of the roof, she wiped the remaining soap from her hands, feet, and legs, then tiptoed along the entire length of the Alexanderplatz. She followed the gutter to the farthest downspout from the bathroom. Then, she climbed down the full five floors to the street level, holding on to the downspout. Once she had a firm footing on the ground, the young woman, who would later be known as Vivian Tate, darted onto the streets of Berlin, naked but free.