nodded.
Counter-Sabotage was one of the sections that would deal with student resistance movements. Quinn fished Garner’s picture out of his pocket. “Have you ever seen this man, mein Fraulein?”
ELLIE RECOGNIZED Garner’s face immediately, of course. Nevertheless she studied it dutifully for several seconds, then shook her head. “No—” she glanced at the officer’s rank insignia “—Herr Obersturmbannführer.”
“You’re sure?” he asked. “He’s a British diplomat with contacts in the White Rose,” his voice took on the slightest tinge of disgust, “and other such groups. You might have seen his photograph in a surveillance file.” He was in his middle thirties, athletic and well-built, but there the resemblance ended between this Amt III Lieutenant Colonel and what one would expect of a senior investigator from one of the RSHA’s elite divisions. He was darkhaired, dark-eyed, and dark-complexioned, with a prominent hook nose that a Propaganda Ministry missive would have to describe as patrician, while particularly unkind professional rivals might even resort to calling it Jewish. His hair was unkempt, and his face was unshaven.
She looked at the photograph again with an expression intended to convey that there was no possibility of her changing her answer. “No, Herr Obersturmbannführer,” she said. “I have never seen this man, either in person or in a photograph.” She affected an air of boredom and condescension. “With all due respect, sir, I am a clerical worker, not a Department Investigator. Rarely do my duties entail the study of surveillance photos of Reich undesirables. Herr Obersturmbannführer.”
“I see,” he said, the hint of an amused smirk at the corners of his mouth, and returned the picture to his pocket. He opened his mouth, apparently about to ask her something else, but thought better of it. “My thanks, mein Fraulein, and again, my apologies.” He shifted his body slightly to the side, moving out of her way.
She nodded curtly, brushed past him and headed down the hall, her heels clicking smartly on the tile. She had seen him notice her when they were both crouched on the floor and she glanced back over her shoulder, expecting to find him staring after her as she retreated down the corridor, but he was not. He had disappeared inside the Central Records office. She frowned, surprised and vaguely disgusted with the slight twinge of disappointment she felt, then shuffled all that aside and continued on her way.
CHAPTER V
DENLINGER’S APARTMENT was not difficult to find, and his wristwatch had reached only five to six when Quinn rapped authoritatively on the door, now dressed once more in civilian clothing. The flat was located on the second floor of a decaying tenement nestled amongst a colony of decaying tenements a few blocks from the university.
Quinn had spent the afternoon at Prinz Albrechtstrasse, most of that time in Central Records, but had been able to unearth almost nothing about Beauchamp’s meetings. What he had managed to turn up consisted only of oblique references—room reservations and a missive regarding the need for a “trustworthy” English interpreter to be made available. Only one document had caught his attention: a memo regarding the urgent need—Quinn suspected that haste had been the reason it was missed by whoever was being so careful that no other evidence of these meetings ended up in Central Records—to set up a meeting with a British representative to discuss the implementation of certain problematic aspects of the “Columbia-Haus protocol.” Quinn had no idea what the Columbia-Haus protocol might be, but he was sure it was something he should find out. He was almost positive the phrase was a codeword of some kind. Columbia-Haus had been a Gestapo prison in the Reich’s early days, but it had been abandoned as such, even before the invasion of Poland, and now stood derelict on the outskirts of Berlin.
Nor had anyone Quinn
Counter-Sabotage was one of the sections that would deal with student resistance movements. Quinn fished Garner’s picture out of his pocket. “Have you ever seen this man, mein Fraulein?”
ELLIE RECOGNIZED Garner’s face immediately, of course. Nevertheless she studied it dutifully for several seconds, then shook her head. “No—” she glanced at the officer’s rank insignia “—Herr Obersturmbannführer.”
“You’re sure?” he asked. “He’s a British diplomat with contacts in the White Rose,” his voice took on the slightest tinge of disgust, “and other such groups. You might have seen his photograph in a surveillance file.” He was in his middle thirties, athletic and well-built, but there the resemblance ended between this Amt III Lieutenant Colonel and what one would expect of a senior investigator from one of the RSHA’s elite divisions. He was darkhaired, dark-eyed, and dark-complexioned, with a prominent hook nose that a Propaganda Ministry missive would have to describe as patrician, while particularly unkind professional rivals might even resort to calling it Jewish. His hair was unkempt, and his face was unshaven.
She looked at the photograph again with an expression intended to convey that there was no possibility of her changing her answer. “No, Herr Obersturmbannführer,” she said. “I have never seen this man, either in person or in a photograph.” She affected an air of boredom and condescension. “With all due respect, sir, I am a clerical worker, not a Department Investigator. Rarely do my duties entail the study of surveillance photos of Reich undesirables. Herr Obersturmbannführer.”
“I see,” he said, the hint of an amused smirk at the corners of his mouth, and returned the picture to his pocket. He opened his mouth, apparently about to ask her something else, but thought better of it. “My thanks, mein Fraulein, and again, my apologies.” He shifted his body slightly to the side, moving out of her way.
She nodded curtly, brushed past him and headed down the hall, her heels clicking smartly on the tile. She had seen him notice her when they were both crouched on the floor and she glanced back over her shoulder, expecting to find him staring after her as she retreated down the corridor, but he was not. He had disappeared inside the Central Records office. She frowned, surprised and vaguely disgusted with the slight twinge of disappointment she felt, then shuffled all that aside and continued on her way.
CHAPTER V
DENLINGER’S APARTMENT was not difficult to find, and his wristwatch had reached only five to six when Quinn rapped authoritatively on the door, now dressed once more in civilian clothing. The flat was located on the second floor of a decaying tenement nestled amongst a colony of decaying tenements a few blocks from the university.
Quinn had spent the afternoon at Prinz Albrechtstrasse, most of that time in Central Records, but had been able to unearth almost nothing about Beauchamp’s meetings. What he had managed to turn up consisted only of oblique references—room reservations and a missive regarding the need for a “trustworthy” English interpreter to be made available. Only one document had caught his attention: a memo regarding the urgent need—Quinn suspected that haste had been the reason it was missed by whoever was being so careful that no other evidence of these meetings ended up in Central Records—to set up a meeting with a British representative to discuss the implementation of certain problematic aspects of the “Columbia-Haus protocol.” Quinn had no idea what the Columbia-Haus protocol might be, but he was sure it was something he should find out. He was almost positive the phrase was a codeword of some kind. Columbia-Haus had been a Gestapo prison in the Reich’s early days, but it had been abandoned as such, even before the invasion of Poland, and now stood derelict on the outskirts of Berlin.
Nor had anyone Quinn
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