Having stowed the tent and medical kit in the trunk of her car, Franka pulled away from the cabin. White light spiraled out from the headlamps, illuminating little more than the outline of the road and the trees that surrounded it. John had suggested keeping the lights off as they drove but relented; he must have realized that would have been suicidal. It was almost impossible to tell one place from another in the dark of night. The roads were clear but more for the use of sleighs and skiers. She didn’t dare go more than twenty miles an hour as she rummaged through her mind for hiding places she’d known as a child.
It took five minutes to reach the spot she remembered, a road that led nowhere, perhaps to a house that was never built. She stopped at the end and directed John to drive down a few hundred yards, then trudged after him to help scatter branches and leaves over the car. It was hard to tell how well they’d hidden Berkel’s Mercedes—the night hid almost everything—but they had little time. It would have to do. It was a mile from the cabin, and closer to the village, but no one came here. Not in winter anyway.
They walked back to the car in silence, only just able to make out where it was parked. Franka peered into the black beyond the tree line.
John cursed under his breath, his hand over his face. “We should have hidden him in the car. I wasn’t thinking straight in all that panic earlier.”
“Can we go back and get the body?”
“It’s too late. We’d waste too much time.”
“Surely under the floorboards in the house is a better place than stowing him in the back of his own car? The cabin is so remote.”
“We’ll have to hope so.”
It was almost eleven by the time they got back. She held the oil lamp over the floor, searching for traces of blood. John was in the kitchen. The map was already spread across the table when she sat down beside him.
“How well do you know the territory south of here?”
“I know it a little. We used to take hikes down there when I was a teenager, but never at night, and never during winter. It’s hilly. Some of it is thick forest.”
“All the better to hide out in,” John said as he trailed his finger down toward the Swiss border. It was only inches on the paper, about forty-five miles through the forest to the nearest point. “The frontier zone extends out from the border for fifty miles in most directions. The forest is our only realistic chance. There are too many patrols on the roads and railways around the frontier zone. We’d never make it.”
“What about the border itself?”
“Making the border would be quite the achievement, but it would only be the beginning of our problems. The Nazis have set up a line of dozens of listening posts within five miles of the border. Guards with dogs patrol between them. The roads and villages down there are swarming with soldiers, and on the Swiss border itself guards are stationed every two hundred yards with orders to challenge everyone they see by day and to shoot without warning at night.”
“That’s why you were going to take Hahn through the mountains south of Munich.”
“Yes, getting there would have been no easy feat, but the mountain passes offer an opportunity that we don’t have here.”
“And we can’t get to them from here because I’ll be wanted for murder soon.”
“Precisely. We could try to make it before they found his body, but we must assume that he told someone where he was going. You’ll be wanted for questioning sometime tomorrow. We’d never make it. The forest is our only chance.”
“And once we get to the border?”
“We get lucky. We sneak across, and we’re free.”
“Luck? That’s our plan?”
“It’s not our plan, but we’re going to need a generous slice of it to get across.”
“But we do have somewhere to make for?”
“Yes, near Inzlingen, but let’s worry about staying alive long enough to get there.”
“No, John,” she said, reaching to him. “This would be so much easier for you if we left separately. You could make your way down to the border on the train. With your papers—”
He flicked her hand away. “All right, then. Gather as much food as we can carry. Start with the light stuff—bread and cheese. Pack as much of that as you can. After that, we’ll take some cans. Bring water, and the can opener too. I have matches, flints, and I’ll take a couple of those kitchen knives. I have a sleeping bag, but I want you to bring at least two blankets also. Wear your warmest coat and hat. Bring any spare ammunition you have for the pistol, and as much money as you can lay your hands on. We just might be able to bribe a guard to let us over the border if we get lucky. How much petrol do we have in the car?”
“Half a tank, perhaps?”
“That should do. We need to get as close to the border as we can without using any main roads. The regular routes will be thick with guards, even at night. We have to avoid being stopped at all costs, particularly once they realize that Berkel is missing. Don’t bring toiletries or more than one change of clothes. They’ll only weigh us down. Take only what you can carry, starting with food and water.” John folded the map and stood. “We can do this.” He held a hand out, and she took it. “We’ve no time to waste. Can we get out of here in fifteen minutes?”
“Yes.”
John felt the weakness in his legs. It was something he’d never known before. He wondered if he would be able to run if he needed to, let alone trek through snow-laden forests. He had always been able to rely on his body, whether it was to shoot a basket to win a game or to scale a wall in basic training. He hoped it wouldn’t let him down now, not when he needed it most. Not when someone else was relying on him and the mission itself depended on it. He made his way to the bedroom, reveling in the feeling of sitting on the bed, knowing it would be the last time he’d feel comfort like that for a while. He dropped the microfilm into the secret compartment in the backpack and zipped it closed again. His pistols were clean, and he shoved one into his coat pocket, the other down into his backpack. John stood up, ready. He looked around the room one last time, and then down at the floorboards, thinking about the decaying body of the Gestapo officer they’d stowed underneath. The room seemed clean—nothing to signify upon loose inspection what had happened here. He took the oil lamp with him, leaving only darkness behind.
Franka had packed the lighter food into her own bag, leaving the cans and water bottles on the kitchen table. John packed them into his bag, feeling the weight double. It was still nothing like Guadalcanal, or even basic. He could take it.
The sky was clear as he stepped outside. No clouds meant no snow, but also no insulation. He had been in Germany almost six weeks, had only spoken to one person, and had barely left the cabin. It was time for him to complete his mission.
Franka folded her change of clothes and placed it into an old rucksack that had gone untouched for ten years or more. Her hands were still shaking, perhaps from what had happened, or perhaps at the thought of what was to happen. It was hard to tell where one feeling ended and the other began. She worked through the route again in her head. She had skied those back roads as a teenager during winters and hiked them on warm summer days. She had never driven them. They weren’t roads as much as mere suggestions of corridors through the forest. She had little idea how far they could get but knew they had no other option. The Gestapo would show no mercy for killing one of their own.