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  FULCRUM

  OF MALICE

  A NOVEL OF NAZI GERMANY

  Patrick W. O’Bryon

  Brantôme Press

  NAPA, CALIFORNIA

  Copyright © 2015 by Patrick W. O’Bryon

  All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed or transmitted in any form or by any means, including photocopying, recording, or other electronic or mechanical methods, without the prior written permission of the publisher, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical reviews and certain other noncommercial uses permitted by copyright law. For permission requests, write to [email protected].

  Publisher’s Note: This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are a product of the author’s imagination. Locales and public names are sometimes used for atmospheric purposes. Any resemblance to actual people, living or dead, or to businesses, companies, events, institutions, or locales is completely coincidental.

  Cover Design by G. S. Prendergast

  Book Layout ©2013 BookDesignTemplates.com

  Author Photo by Ashley Urke Photography

  Beacon of Vengeance/Patrick W. O’Bryon. -- 1st ed.

  ISBN978-0-9910782-8-8

  To my dear wife Dani

  and in memory of my father

  CONTENTS

  RÉSISTANCE

  WIDERSTAND

  Afterword

  Glossary

  Synopsis of Beacon of Vengeance

  The truth is incontrovertible. Malice may attack it, ignorance deride it, but in the end, there it is.

  ―Winston Churchill

  FOREWORD

  The Corridor of Darkness story spans a dozen tumultuous years from the onset of the Great Depression in Germany to the months before America’s entry into World War II. In the course of the trilogy the brilliant but initially naïve Ryan Lemmon gradually commits to countering the Nazi menace both covertly as an American spy and personally in a long-standing battle with a Gestapo nemesis. This concluding volume, Fulcrum of Malice, covers a few weeks in the waning months of 1941 as the United States prepares to enter the fray.

  If you are new to the story, consider beginning with the first novel of the trilogy, Corridor of Darkness, which will allow you to better appreciate the characters, the intrigue and any surprises along the way.

  For those already involved in the adventure, a short review of the concluding action in Beacon of Vengeance will ease you back into the story. A synopsis can be found following the glossary at the back of this book.

  And so we return to 25 August 1941 and a warehouse in Nantes, Occupied France, scene of a violent confrontation during the dark hours just passed…

  RÉSISTANCE

  1941

  

  CHAPTER ONE

  Nantes, Occupied France

  25 August 1941

  The gendarme was so focused on the field of carnage he hardly glanced at their identity cards as he waved the workers through. From front entry to rear gate the warehouse yard was littered with bodies, drained flashlights and spent weapons, all bearing witness to the bloodbath of the preceding night. Ambulance and morgue personnel scrambled about, searching for life, bandaging the few lucky ones, hefting bodies onto litters. At least eight uniformed men were down or on stretchers. Not one civilian casualty in sight.

  Once beyond earshot Nicolas Bergerac nudged his comrade. “Can’t say we’ll miss a few Vichy cops, right?”

  Marc Fermier looked back at the devastation. “Cut the strings on every fascist puppet, for all I care.” He stuck a half-smoked cigarette between his lips. “I really don’t give a damn.” Marc plucked a fleck of tobacco from the tip of his tongue as the butt bobbed in the corner of his mouth. “Got a light?”

  Nico handed him a matchbook. Brasserie Fer Rouge, Janine’s favorite spot. God, what a night they’d had! He could still hear her breathless moans as she demanded more than he could give. Chantelle had already drained him an hour earlier.

  The warehouse door showed no signs of forced entry. “Can’t imagine what they wanted in this shit-hole,” Marc said. “Who in his right mind would want to steal any of this crap?”

  They hesitated just inside the threshold. With all the mayhem on the loading docks, Nico had expected a shambles. Instead, all appeared quiet, untouched. He took a second to listen and observe. First rays of sunlight pierced the neglected clerestory windows. High in the rafters a sparrow crossed the mote-filled space. Many got in when the loading bays were open, few got out. Nico was known to toss crumbs outside the office when closing up for the night. He kept a water dish filled. All the same, the weekend janitors often gathered tiny corpses with the floor sweepings, feet curled in death, eyes pinched closed.

  “Tell you what,” Nico said with a shrug, “you take the right while I head over to the office. Anything unusual, just give a shout.”

  “You got it, boss.” Marc inhaled the precious smoke and took off, only to stop abruptly, turn and voice a sudden thought. “We find another belly-up flic in here, his tobacco’s mine, d’accord? My ration’s barely getting me through the week.”

  Nico gave a commiserating smile. Six kids, a nagging wife, that makes eight mouths to feed, not to mention his unquenchable demand for smokes. Couldn’t be easy for him these days. “It’s all yours, my friend.”

  Nico offered silent thanks for his own good fortune. His had indeed been a good night, and the slaughter outside couldn’t dampen his spirits. Fiery Chantelle—yes, a firecracker in the sack, her pointy tits bobbing as she rode him, her cries of pleasure enough to wake the entire apartment house. But all the same a bit angular for his tastes—always the appetizer, never the entrée.

  Then had come a quick wash-up at the sink, excuses made—early to bed, a new workday coming and all that—and out the door. A leisurely, quarter-hour stroll into the waiting embrace of his big, bouncy, blonde Janine, straining a negligee that had cost him twenty francs and worth every centime. Nipples like ripe cherries, and those soft, heavy thighs as she lifted her hips to his tongue. Yes, life was good. If he ever settled down it would have to be with Janine.

  He entered the company office, whistling Auprès de ma blonde. The work table was strewn with diagrams, maps and blueprints. He squatted to run a finger through a congealed smear on the concrete. Tacky, rust-red. A shout rose from out in the warehouse and he stood again, cocking his head, distrusting his ears. There…a second call from Marc.

  The sparrow took to the air as Nico ran up the cross aisle and headed toward the front.

  The acrid stench of canvas bit at his nostrils, hampering already labored breathing. Tight quarters restricted all movement. Some hours before, Horst von Kredow had opened his eyes to total darkness, blinking repeatedly to confirm he lived. Now his lids remained closed with nothing to see in the pitch blackness. Repositioning his arms accomplished little. His toes barely reached the end of the crate, one foot managing to touch the lid above him, the other, twisted sideways at the ankle, immobile. By craning his neck upward he could feel coarse wood against his forehead.

  His body inclined slightly, head down and throbbing. The attacks, first from Gesslinger and then Lemmon, had been severe enough, but Horst had long been immune to pain. Since the duel in Marburg his solace was in the all-embracing morphine. Seven years nearly pain-free, even in recovery from the trauma inflicted by his feckless wife. Yet now with the passing hours came a distress long forgotten, and he realized his body cried out for its trusted companion. He had skipped yesterday’s injection in his haste to settle old accounts.

  How long since Lemmon forced that poison between his lips? A cyanide pill was nothing new to him. He had once lost a British agent to such a capsule during a particul
arly enlightening interrogation. What fury and frustration in failing to spot the death pill tucked into that cheek! The moment he heard the Jew-bitch Erika call out for it, he knew he could turn it to his advantage. The game was only won through bold moves.

  So he’d allowed the American his perceived moment of glory. A sham death came so easily to an expert in all things lethal, a man who had witnessed—no, caused—so many real ones. The faked convulsions were a body memory from all he’d suffered with the damaged facial nerve, the foaming at the lips easy for anyone with salivary glands restructured by a bullet, the gift of a loving wife. And the imbeciles hadn’t known to finish the job. They could easily have shot him or crushed his skull or bled him dry, but impatience won out, or more likely squeamishness, the most dependable weakness of his adversaries.

  His thoughts wandered, his focus straying, his mind not accustomed to the rising physical discomfort. To actual pain. If not freed soon, his damaged facial nerves would be the first to scream for relief, to weaken his tenuous hold on self-control, on sanity.

  But that tiny insurance policy, the kill-pill, still rested between his jaw prosthesis and cheek. His tongue followed the slick contour of the steel implant, finding the gap left by missing teeth and exploring for the pill tucked between lower gum and jaw. He teased the deadly capsule onto his tongue and rolled it gently against his upper palate, relishing death so near, so accessible. How easy to crush the rubber, cracking the glass vial within and releasing his hold on life. Wouldn’t that please them all?

  What a risk he had taken in claiming to have destroyed his Marionette’s infant! A weaker man would have dangled that gift of hope in such a desperate situation, using the child as a bargaining chip to spare his own life. Horst von Kredow had never shown weakness, and in that moment he’d felt strangely empowered by inviting his own death. Perhaps he had sensed it wasn’t his time.

  The hours passed and the pain grew relentlessly, yet he felt more invincible than ever. Eventually workers would come, would hear him kick against the wooden lid and call for help. The corpses of his incompetent squad were also likely crated up nearby. How useless they had been when confronted by amateurs, what pitiful excuses for German manhood. Where were all the strong, the capable? His hands cramped and he scraped his fingers into the canvas to restore circulation. At least the bastards hadn’t made him share this coffin.

  A jolt, a jagged tear in the fabric of his concentration, and he exhaled slowly. The game would continue. Must continue. A stalemate, but only for now. Plump fingers from that little girl—a nice proof of life—and his Marionette would return to do his bidding. Easy enough to track down Erika and her rutting mates. Right now they would be convinced of his death, relaxing their guard, congratulating each other. The fools.

  His trembling fingers prepared to set the playing pieces back on the board. The final game of the tournament, and when the challenge no longer brought him satisfaction, checkmate at last. He drummed a staccato beat on the canvas. He willed the fingers to stop. They refused.

  The hours throbbed on relentlessly, marked only by flashes of jolting pain. He followed the ebb and flow of blood coursing through veins and arteries, a pulsing tremor rapidly turning to a drumbeat, his temples threatening to burst. He had never wandered this far from the morphine, never sensed such a weakening hold over breath and muscle. And mind.

  Dawn had to be approaching, perhaps already arrived, but only the sound of his labored breathing reached him. His jaw now trembled uncontrolled, and he forced the cyanide pill beneath his tongue to avoid inadvertently cracking its shell. He would leave nothing to chance. His safety valve.

  Workers were sure to come anytime now, and he prepared to draw their attention. Some unsuspecting worker would fetch a pry bar to open the crate and witness Horst’s resurrection in bloodied glory. The man would ask how all this had happened, and Horst would thank him politely, deflect all questions, and once the Good Samaritan turned to lead him away, that same crow bar would snap the man’s neck, a swift coup de grâce, the man’s body replacing his own in this infernal coffin.

  Sweat now streamed from every pore and warm urine saturated his trousers. He cursed the loss of personal control, of self-restraint, his lifelong trademark. Every fiber of his being cried out for the drug, for the easing, for the calm and self-will. His foot kicked relentlessly on the crate lid until deep, agonizing spasms wracked his thigh muscles, arching his back and strangling the animal cry in his throat.

  Nicolas ran to find his friend, wishing he’d first washed the tacky blood from his fingertips. “Nico! Over here! Come see this!” Nicolas spotted his comrade near the front of the warehouse. Surprisingly, no corpse sprawled at Marc’s feet.

  “So, what’s so important you made me run?” Nico bent over, hands on his knees as he caught his breath. Last night’s sexual exertions had taken more from him than he thought. Time to pace his activities.

  Marc pointed to the highest crate in a stack. Its label read “tenting material,” hand-printed in both French and German. “Just give a listen—our rats are doing more fucking than you and your two lady friends.”

  Nicolas heard only some distant commotion as a heavy vehicle entered the yard outside, its horn honking in frustration. “Cavalry arriving?” he asked.

  “A bit late for that, I’d say.” Marc pulled himself up on a cross-slat and pressed his ear to the top container. “There it is! Listen…and there again…” now he pointed, “and again…there!”

  “Ouais, heard it that time. But what the shit do we care? Check the label—Priority C—this shipment will be underway for weeks, and that’s assuming anything gets out at all today. Let the Boches on the Russian front sleep with the rats, right?”

  “Let them eat them for dinner, for all I care.” Marc fumbled in his pockets, his hands coming up empty, as usual. “But as long as you’re here…” He showed Nico the crushed cigarette pack and mimed sorrow.

  Nico handed over his pack of Gitanes. “Thanks for such an important discovery. Now come take a look at something of actual interest. There are papers scattered across the office that sure as hell weren’t there when we locked up Saturday and there’s blood all over the floor.” He showed his stained fingertips. “Now that’s worth a look, right?”

  Now his body convulsed incessantly. For a few moments Horst thought he heard distant voices, but then all went still again. He struggled to maintain some last vestige of control, but hours had passed since his last fix, his mouth and tongue parched, his stomach clenching. He tasted searing bile. My God, it’s too much!

  He bit his tongue trying to position the capsule between his teeth. It stuck fast on his dry palate, and hard swallowing did nothing to dislodge it. He gulped repeatedly, willing the pill to his good side, to solid teeth, to shatter with a crunch. A new contraction coursed up his spine, sending his head ramming into the lid. He jerked in pain, light momentarily filling his field of vision before absolute darkness returned.

  And then the pill was gone, the tiny lump descending whole into his roiling gut. He anxiously counted the seconds, but the capsule with its deadly toxin remained intact. So he would not die by his own choice, after all, and this agony would defeat him. He thought to scream out in protest but knew no one would hear. His death would be tortured and beyond his control.

  The exhausted police inspector took a cursory look at the plans and diagrams spread out before him, but his focus remained elsewhere. Roused at four that morning, trading disgusted looks with a wife who despised the bedside phone and never understood his unpredictable schedule, he’d listened to the report of gunfire in the warehouse district, six of his own men down. That would mean dragging himself into town, starting the investigation, filing reports and notifying families. Yet his only thoughts at that moment were of the warmth he’d just left and the way his wife’s long hair framed her face, still lovely after all those years despite her look of disgust. He’d dressed and kissed her good-bye. Too much death, not enough time for life.


  Releasing those thoughts he returned to dealing with the carnage outside. Two warehousemen waited by the door, caps in hand, exchanging glances. Having taken a closer look at the smears of blood on the concrete floor, he’d ordered two of his men to survey the entire warehouse. One now returned with a handful of Mauser 25mm shell casings. “Plenty of blood out there, too, sir, and smeared footprints, at least half-a-dozen involved. Plus drag marks, but no bodies.”

  “Hauled away, perhaps?”

  “There’s more to it, sir. A crate, with what appears to be blood smeared along the side. They may have stashed the dead in those boxes.”

  “So what’s keeping you? Open them up, gentlemen, every one if you have to! Let’s figure this out before the Boches come barging in and make a further mess of things.” The men scrambled out and he turned to the worker who appeared to be the supervisor. “A phone?”

  “Over there, sir,” the man pointed toward the far corner, a hesitant look on his face, “in the right-hand drawer. But do log all your calls.” Now he grinned. “Management rules, you know.”

  The investigator glared down his prominent nose and the man took an involuntary step back. The inspector turned to his lieutenant. “We may as well get this over with. Go ahead, notify the Gestapo.”

  Disgusted by the prospect of having his personal authority undermined, he stretched rubber bands around the maps and blueprints and made a neat stack of rolls at the edge of the table. Their military nature was obvious, as was the rendition of the port facility at Saint-Nazaire. The notations in French as well as German meant he’d stumbled upon trouble even worse than the loss of his men. Here was partisan resistance, not some black-market burglary gone awry. And now would come his worst nightmare, working hand-in-hand with the arrogant local Gestapo.