The doorbell of the Berkshire Motel rang for the first time that day as someone stepped inside.
"Good day," a man said, taking off his hat. Behind him followed a group of men, each wearing a grim expression, except for one who carried a wide smile.
"Howdy, madam," the smiling man said. The older lady behind the counter gave him a puzzled look.
Paul turned his head and shot Heydrich, who was still grinning, an irritated glare before forcing his own smile back into place.
"Sorry, Miss. My friend is not from here," Paul said with an awkward smile.
"I can certainly see that," the receptionist replied, raising an eyebrow. "So, what can I help you gentlemen with?"
"We need a room. Well, rooms," Paul said after glancing at the size of the group behind him.
"Fine. Any special wishes?" she asked, reaching down beneath the counter.
"Something on the ground floor, preferably facing the garden instead of the parking spaces?" Paul asked.
"Alright. We still have a few rooms left," the lady said, reappearing with a ledger in her hands. "How many days will you be staying?"
Paul looked toward Werner and Heydrich. They both gave him the same vague look.
"For a longer time," Paul replied awkwardly.
The lady pressed her lips together. "Fine. One hundred up front then."
Paul's eyes widened slightly before he sighed.
Quite the scammer. But it is fake money anyway, he thought as he handed over the notes.
"Good. Here are your keys." She pointed down the hallway.
The group made their way toward their assigned rooms. Behind them, the lady leaned forward over the counter, watching them disappear before shaking her head.
"Weird fellas," she muttered.
At the rooms, Paul opened the door and immediately scanned every corner. He ordered the Gestapo men to search thoroughly. After a few minutes they were done, and Paul gathered them for a short meeting.
"We will establish a temporary base here and use it to communicate with the U-boat," he said in German.
"Finally," Heydrich muttered. "No more American."
"Friedrich," Paul said, nodding toward his backpack.
Werner quickly pulled out a large box that had filled the entire bag.
"A shortwave radio. We can stay in contact with this," Werner said, rubbing his hands together.
Paul nodded. "You will set up the communication channel. The rest of you make yourselves comfortable for the night. Tomorrow we start working. Any questions?"
"What about the sheriff?" one of the men asked, pointing toward the window.
"The sheriff?" Paul repeated, thinking for a moment.
"You two," he said, pointing at the pair. "Buy some liquor and dump him somewhere in a forest with the bottle next to him."
The men nodded and left quickly.
The next day
"Yes, Captain Prien, we can hear you," Paul said into the microphone of the large box lying before him.
"Good, good. How are you faring so far, Oberst?" Prien's voice crackled through the radio.
"So far so good," Paul replied, checking his watch. "We will meet our contact soon. Hopefully he will be helpful. And you?"
"I cannot complain. Your men brought us new supplies from the local town, so we are doing well," Prien said.
"Very well. Good day to you, Captain," Paul said.
"Good day," Prien answered, and the radio faded into silence.
Paul looked over at Heydrich.
"You said you know him?" he asked.
Heydrich nodded. "We are old acquaintances."
"Five of us will go," Paul said. "You two will stay." He pointed at a random pair. "Friedrich, you as well."
Werner shot Paul a surprised look but did not question the order.
"Yes, Sir," they answered in unison.
"Do not let anyone near this room," Paul said.
"We will not." The two Gestapo men saluted and drew their pistols.
Paul nodded and put on his coat.
The group of four headed toward the car parked in front of the motel, using it normally this time as the four-seater it was.
The seats felt warm to the touch after standing in the morning sun for hours.
Paul started the old Chevrolet and drove off.
The American countryside unfolded around them, stretching endlessly on both sides.
"You sound like you truly are acquaintances," Paul said suddenly, breaking the silence.
"We are. I met him early in my career. He was in the same training camp," Heydrich said, turning to look at Paul, who met his gaze.
"Anything I should know?" Paul asked.
Heydrich sighed. "He was always very calculative. An opportunist."
"Aren't we all," Paul muttered, returning his attention to the road.
"Indeed," Heydrich said softly.
After some more driving, Paul slowed down and pulled into the parking lot of a small roadside diner.
How stereotypical, Paul thought, shaking his head as he looked at the piece of paper in his hand.
"Connie's Diner," he read aloud, glancing out the window, at the big sign. "Connie's Diner."
"Seems we are at the right place," Heydrich said as he stepped out.
"You, stay by the car in case something goes wrong," Paul said, motioning to one of the men.
At the entrance he stopped the second one.
"Wait here as well. Stay alert," he ordered, then followed Heydrich into the diner.
The scent of seared meat hit Paul immediately, and a wave of warm air rushed into his lungs.
"Hello, gentlemen," a woman called from behind the counter. "Do you two lovers need a table for two?"
"Actually..." Heydrich began, scanning the sparsely filled room until his eyes settled somewhere in the back. "A table for three," he murmured.
Paul followed Heydrich as he walked toward the last table. A single man sat there, blond, long-faced, with a sharp nose. Wearing a tight, buissines suit. He began to smile as soon as he saw them approaching.
The man rose from his seat and extended his hand.
"Allow me to introduce Erich Gimpel," Heydrich said.
Paul narrowed his eyes, studying the famous German spy standing before him.
Although he was captured in the end, Paul thought while shaking the man's hand.
"This is..." Heydrich began.
"Oh, I need no introduction, Heydrich. You are famous enough, Herr Jaeger," Gimpel whispered in German, smiling.
Something in the man's smile flickered wrong, like he was trying too hard to look harmless. Everything felt unnatural, like he was acting. The feeling lingered, but Paul pushed it aside, noticing how familiar Heydrich and Gimpel seemed with each other.
And historically, Gimpel was no traitor. Perhaps it was simply the long years spent here that had made him feel so artificial, Paul thought as he took a seat.
"Are you hungry, gentlemen?" Gimpel asked, switching back into perfect English.
"Perhaps a coffee," Paul replied.
Gimpel nodded and lifted his hand to get the attention of the waitress who had greeted them earlier.
"One coffee for the gentleman here," Gimpel said. "Actually, make it two, Connie."
"Be right back," she said with a smile before walking off.
Once she was out of earshot, Paul leaned forward slightly.
"How much were you told?" he whispered.
"Only that you are hunting someone in New York," Gimpel said, his eyes full of questions.
"Klausemann. His name is Klausemann. A former officer I served with in Spain. He helped in an assassination plot and spied for the American side."
"We believe they have established some kind of new intelligence service," Heydrich added.
"A new intelligence service..." Gimpel repeated quietly. "Well, I have..." He stopped abruptly.
"Here is your coffee, Mister Greenwood," the waitress said, placing the tray on the table. "Enjoy." She walked away again.
"Greenwood?" Heydrich asked.
"That is what they know me as," Gimpel said, taking a sip of his coffee. His eyes wandered across the parking lot, stopping briefly on the man standing by the car and the other guarding the door. Gimpel's smile widened by a fraction.
"Where was I?" he asked. "Ah, right. I have indeed noticed some changes. As you were informed, I was placed in the civil administration department of the Capitol. At the moment I am assisting a congressman from South Carolina." He took another sip of the hot coffee before continuing. "I have heard whispers that the President has ties to certain privateers. The congressman was irritated by how often the President met with them. Perhaps that could help you."
"Privateers?" Heydrich asked, thinking aloud. "You mean the organization we might be looking for? The organization Klausemann is allegedly involved with... is private, not governmental?"
"Perhaps, perhaps not. It is only gossip I managed to collect," Gimpel said, turning his gaze to Paul, who had remained silent until now.
"We have an address..." Paul began, handing him a small piece of paper. "Our only clue."
Gimpel studied it for a moment.
"This is... yes, I know this place," he said slowly. "It is quite central, right in Manhattan. That Klausemann must be rather wealthy. Or perhaps the firm he works for is. Do you know if this is his home address?"
"We do not. We only know our informant met him there each time," Paul said.
"Well, I can certainly take you there if you wish," Gimpel replied.
Paul observed him briefly, then nodded.
Afternoon, New York City
A group of men stepped out of a small shop in the heart of New York.
All of them were noticeably well dressed, wearing tailored suits, coats and hats.
"Good idea, Erich. I like your tailor," Heydrich said, adjusting his hat. "Actually, our friend here is a tailor too." He glanced at Werner, wrapped in a brown suit.
Werner gave him a forced smile, then tilted his head upward as a raindrop landed on his cheek. Then another. Then two more.
While they continued walking, one Gestapo man after another opened his umbrella. By the time the last one snapped his open, the rain was already falling heavily. The group emerged from the narrow side street onto a wide avenue, overflowing with people.
Businessmen, families, elderly folks, workers. From above, the umbrellas merged into a shifting canopy, a moving tarp of dark fabric. The black umbrellas of Paul's group blended into the flowing mass, spreading out into different directions until they were indistinguishable from anyone else.
Only a street sign rose above the crowd.
It read: Times Square.
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