Hammer of Angels: A Novel of Shadowstorm by G. T. Almasi

Miriam stands behind us. She smacks her hands together to resemble an indolent train company
Unterführer
trying to stay warm.
    Brando reaches into his portable warehouse and produces a six-volt battery, a coil of unshielded copper wire, and a block of C-4. I help him wire up the tracks so the wheels of a passing train will complete an electrical circuit and set off our bomb. We’ll damage the track and derail the train simultaneously.
    We return to our ditch-away-from-home and lie back down. It’s important to make sure our bomb actually goes off. If it doesn’t, we can’t leave it there to be discovered later. That would muster extra German security without the benefit of “creating a chaotic and hazardous situation,” per our orders.
    While it was light, we kept our hands over our mouths, partly to warm them but mostly to hide the little puffs of steam our breath makes in the winter air. Small details like that can make or break an operation. Now that it’s dark, we can risk talking a little.
    Brando goes first. “Miriam, who is the Rabbi? We’ve heard about him, but not from anyone who has actually met him like you have.”
    Miriam contemplates the stars. “The Rabbi is our heart and soul. He led us out of bondage, taught us to hide, to fight, and—most importantly—to survive.”
    She tells us the Rabbi was originally a slave in Holland. His master died and left in his will that his slaves should be released. This is extremely rare and creates some awkward situations, as there is no place in Greater German society for Jewish people. Those few who had been freed were deported out of the country.
    The Rabbi, however, disappeared underground and founded the first cell of an abolitionist network for escaped slaves. This network now spans all of Greater Germany. The escapees can leave Europe or stay and help fight slavery. Many opt to stay.
    Miriam stops talking and cocks her head to one side, her eyes pointed slightly upward. For a moment, this gesture makes her look like a Hollywood glamour girl from the 1920s. But that moment passes quickly—I don’t imagine Hollywood starlets having a Star of David tattooed around their left eye. Nor do I imagine them speaking Yiddish.
    â€œAch!” she says, “Here comes the
verkachta
train. Get ready, my little
meshugenuhs
. It’s showtime!”
    We wriggle to the top of the ditch. Brando lets Miriam use our starlight binoculars, and I tell him what I see with my optic modifications.
    â€œThere it is, coming out of Strensall.” The train chugs toward Haxby. When the engine passes over our little present, a flash of light is closely followed by a sharp bang.
    A derailing train is quite a thing. For starters, it’s deafeningly loud. The ground shakes from the clamor of a host of hundred-ton frying pans clanging together. Little bits of debris land all around us. One of them plops into the dirt in front of my face. It’s a sheared-off rail spike, ripped out of its socket. I slip it into my pocket.
    Metallic groans and shrieks echo across the field as the train cars crumple into their new earthy homes. Miriam cackles to herself in a language I’ve never heard as we exit stage left.

08
    Two days later, Tuesday, February 3, 1981, 5:10 A.M. GMT
    Office of the Bürgermeister, York, Province of Great Britain, GG
    Don’t forget to look up.
    One of my professors at Camp-A-Go-Go gave an entire lecture on our human tendency to watch for danger by scanning left and right. What I remember from his explanation is this two dimensionality has something to do with our prehistoric lives on the flat savannas of Africa. His class was called Hiding in Plain Site. The professor’s next lecture was about exploiting our lateral tendency. We explored all sorts of ways to sneak around security systems based on this one idea.
    Thus, the Spider was born. Hiding on a ceiling is great since it affords an