Our Father's Shadow: Two Minutes to Midnight, #1

By James Farner

"The sooner this ended the better."

Fifteen years have passed since the fall of the Third Reich. The Fuhrer is dead, but his shadow remains. Nazis who have escaped justice have encroached upon every democratic institution in the new divided Germany.

Klaus Becker is a uniquely talented mechanic working in a small garage in West Berlin. But his life is about to change when he is approached to join the security services of the new West Germany. With no family to turn to and nothing to lose, Klaus accepts his new charge.

Thrown into the mysterious world of surveillance and murder, Klaus finds himself hunting a mysterious blonde man. For reasons he doesn't understand, his boss London dedicates all the service's resources to hunting down this former Nazi and bringing him to justice.

When Klaus discovers the true purpose of the operation, it will alter his life forever…

• Language: English
• Publisher: James Farner
• Release date: Jun 13, 2019
• ISBN: 9781393563730

Book preview

Our Father’s Shadow

Two Minutes to Midnight Book 1

Copyright © James Farner 2019

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Contents

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Chapter Ten

Chapter Eleven

Chapter Twelve

Chapter Thirteen

Chapter Fourteen

Chapter Fifteen

Chapter Sixteen

Chapter Seventeen

Chapter Eighteen

Chapter Nineteen

Chapter Twenty

Chapter Twenty-One

Chapter Twenty-Two

Chapter Twenty-Three

Chapter Twenty-Four

Chapter Twenty-Five

Chapter Twenty-Six

Chapter Twenty-Seven

Chapter Twenty-Eight

Chapter One

1960

The beginning of the new decade had arrived. The Economic Miracle of the fifties had brought new hope to a fresh decade. Darkness descended over Berlin hours before. The lights in the windows of the newly built residential plattenbau tower blocks did little to penetrate the dark night.

Manfred Bruuner, a man of middle age, old enough to have fought in the war, stalked around the Kreuzberg district. Like every other district in Berlin, the victorious Allies had utterly obliterated the cityscape. Even now, the decaying pre-war housing showed the signs of war: bullet holes, missing masonry, and the marks of pieces of shrapnel that had torn through the air.

Bruuner came to a halt underneath one of the low plattenbau buildings. Deep in the shadows, he appeared as a ghost. Dressed in a black coat and trousers, he dipped his fedora hat as he waited for his target.

How long have you been here? said a man approaching from the shadows.

The man entered a slit of light coming from a nearby street lamp for a moment before disappearing into shadow again.

Bruuner paused, as the sounds of traffic in the distance broke up the tension. Moments.

Moments?

Yes, do you have it?

His target, Jurgen Dalman, around ten years younger, and a child during the closing months of the war, lifted his leather bag and offered it to Bruuner.

Show me.

Jurgen held a bemused look on his face. My, my, you are highly suspicious. You would think you were speaking to a Russian.

Enough, Bruuner grunted. Show me. You know the protocol.

Jurgen dipped his hand inside the bag and revealed a pistol and some ammo. The gun looked scratched and well used.

Bruuner could tell from the model and its condition that it must have seen action during the war. Then again, Europe still had a glut of guns, if you knew where to find them.

Good. And the documents?

Jurgen seemed irritated but acquiesced and pulled out a manila-coloured folder. Surely you are not going to read them first?

Of course not. Bruuner took the documents separately and deposited them in the specially tailored extra-large pocket within his coat. You know who they are for. They are none of my business. He finally took the bag with the gun.

Very well. Jurgen retrieved a packet of f6 cigarettes from his coat pocket, an East German brand.

You smoke that trash? said Bruuner.

They’re cheap and not too bad. We can relax now. As you know, we have plenty of time before we have to go to work. He held out the green and brown package. Would you like one?

Against his better judgement, he accepted one of the cigarettes. The West German authorities allowed them to be sold in West Berlin and the rest of the Western occupation zone, but few people liked them. Too communist. Too East German.

The flicker of the match held up to Jurgen’s mouth revealed his thin, dark features. He didn’t have a single blemish on his perfect skin. His razor-sharp haircut stuck out only an inch from underneath his hat.

So how is the East? said Jurgen, with a sarcastic lilt in his voice.

Bruuner stiffened at that. You know how the East is. Nothing is stopping you from walking there yourself.

Jurgen guffawed, which further irritated Bruuner. His family had the misfortune of living in the eastern half of Berlin. They had steadfastly refused to move to the western half when the Soviets began ripping up the railway lines and removing anything of any value for war reparations. It had bothered him for the last ten years.

You take a big risk living there, Jurgen continued. The Soviets will send you to Siberia if they ever find out about the true nature of your work. Remember that.

I know. Bruuner sucked on the harsh cigarette. Don’t you think I’m aware of that?

Jurgen shrugged. You would find life much easier in the west.

Once again, don’t you think I’m aware of that?

Family?

That’s enough, Jurgen. I don’t want to talk about it.

Jurgen clammed up and crushed his cigarette with his heel. Bruuner followed suit because the time had come.

Bruuner would have preferred to carry out this operation alone, but his handler had demanded a two-man team for it. His employer had become ever more careful, particularly after the gains made by the communists in places like Cuba. Besides, the Soviets regularly outwitted them in this game.

They made their way through the Kreuzberg district until they came to another plattenbau. This plattenbau already had signs of decay on it. These housing complexes were never intended to last more than a few years. Unless a person had money, they had no other alternative but to live there. A great crack ran through half of the wall on the bottom floor.

So, which apartment? said Bruuner.

Thirty-four, I believe.

Bruuner gave him a look. "You believe?"

I am sure.

He gave his cohort another look of disbelief. They couldn’t afford mistakes in their profession. Failure would mean instant dismissal and likely further consequences too dire to contemplate. Neither East nor West accepted mistakes.

Bruuner and Jurgen moved through the front doors of the plattenbau. The corridors of these apartment blocks had lights, but they barely succeeded in illuminating anything. The long shadows cast across the walls made the two men seem ten times as tall.

They ascended to the third floor. Every so often they would hear the activities of those within. Some residents listened to the radio and others argued with their wives in loud tones. This plattenbau seemed a world away from the conflict between the former World War II allies.

Jurgen approached the door of number thirty-four ahead of Bruuner. But as the senior partner, Bruuner moved him out of the way and pressed his ear to the door. He could hear a radio broadcast on low volume. He couldn’t make out the words, but his heart pounded, as he knew the moment had come. Their prey was home and trapped in a small apartment.

Bruuner retrieved the gun from the bag and handed it to Jurgen, who took it and filled the chambers with his ammo and cocked it, asking no questions.

Jurgen kicked open the door. The poor quality of the construction meant the door lost one of its hinges. Bruuner charged in with the gun outstretched. Immediately, their blond target raised his own weapon and fired.

The force of the bullet sent Bruuner flying as it penetrated his shoulder. Another shot went off and Bruuner saw only their assailant jump over him as he lay prone on the floor. The pain washed over him and he cried out.

He had failed his mission.

Chapter Two

Klaus Becker spent his day working as a mechanic. Oil stains, rusted tools, and cigarette butts littered the floor of the small garage of the Weiss family business. The garage had once been a luxury apartment building near the Tiergarten district in Central Berlin. The ruined, crumbling upper levels hadn’t changed since 1945.

Klaus! Mr. Weiss marched into the garage from outside. Why are you standing there dreaming?

Klaus blinked as he tried to access the memories of his childhood from 1945. He’d been there when the Third Reich came crumbling down. Back then, his blond hair and blue eyes marked him out as royalty. Today, they meant nothing. He only wished he could access the memories of the war. It’s like someone had shredded the paperwork from back then.

Klaus. Mr. Weiss approached him unsteadily. Are you okay?

Sorry, Mr. Weiss. I don’t know what came over me.

Mr. Weiss frowned at him. This is becoming something of a habit. I catch you standing around with your mind elsewhere. If you were anyone else, I would have given your job to someone else by now.

Sorry, said Klaus, his mind still wandering. I finished.

Mr. Weiss gave him a disbelieving look and went to inspect the black Volkswagen sitting in their garage. They often worked on these cars. Adolf Hitler’s government had sold hundreds of thousands of them during the glory years. Even today, many Germans had managed to preserve them.

Mr. Weiss took a turn around the car and grunted to himself. Finally, he climbed into the driver’s seat and turned the ignition. The engine purred as it came back to life. By the sound of it, the car could have rolled off the production line yesterday.

Klaus watched his boss’s face turn into a great smile of wonder. Yet it didn’t move Klaus. He’d seen his boss’s amazement many times before. Mr. Weiss had no faith in him. He continued to berate him if he stopped even for a moment. Still, Klaus needed this job. He couldn’t risk going without a steady income.

Mr. Weiss switched the car off. How did you do it?

He shrugged. It’s not as if this is the first time I’ve worked on that car. I could repair it with my eyes closed by now.

I see. Well...I have nothing to say to that.

Thank you, Mr. Weiss.

He stiffened up. That wasn’t a compliment, Klaus. You astound me, but you’re lazy.

Klaus nodded, resisting the urge to tell him he didn’t have a challenge that would take him the whole day.

In any case, I expected you to take the whole day to finish this. I have nothing else for you today, so I suppose there’s little need in you staying here. Go home.

Klaus smirked. Thank you, Mr. Weiss.

He made to leave, with a spring in his step. Any chance to get away from work early he grasped with both hands. Klaus made it to the threshold of the garage before Mr. Weiss cleared his throat. He stopped.

Mr. Weiss followed him out and eyed up his tool belt.

Oh. Klaus unclipped the tool belt and handed it back to Mr. Weiss. Sorry.

I hope you wouldn’t betray my trust. Mr. Weiss lowered his voice. I know this is not your only business, Klaus. Again, it’s because of your talents that I turn a blind eye to it.

Mr. Weiss took the tool belt and disappeared into the bowels of the garage without another word. Honestly, Klaus hadn’t meant to take the tool belt with him, but he would have sold it on the black market given half a chance. The flourishing black market of Berlin took anything of value and Klaus had become a regular fixture on it.

Klaus left the garage. The Economic Miracle of the previous decade had led to many new tower blocks rising up in Central Berlin. Even the old Reichstag a few streets away had received somewhat of a rehabilitation.

He walked towards the Tiergarten Park. The pathways fresh and full of greenery, Klaus weaved through the park to get to his awful little flat on the edge of Charlottenburg. Like most Berliners, he lived in a small apartment built in a tower less than ten years ago.

At the edge of the Tiergarten, a group of British soldiers, smoking cigarettes and laughing, idled around a tank with its enormous barrelled gun pointing in the direction of the distant Brandenburg Gate. They looked back at him, and one of them narrowed his eyes and said a word to his compatriots before stopping him.

Klaus gulped. The occupation had officially ended eight years ago, but the Allies still kept soldiers here to oppose the Soviets in East Germany. Germans were second-class citizens in their own country when compared to foreign soldiers. Viewed with mistrust and disdain, they had to bow to their conquerors.

As the soldier came closer, Klaus relaxed.

Good afternoon, Klaus, said a soldier Klaus knew called John Phillips in heavily accented German.

Afternoon, said Klaus.

Do you have anything for me?

That depends on what you need.

They both laughed together. John had spent much of the last five years on rotation in Germany. He had become a regular supplier and customer for Klaus on the black market. Germans still lacked many of the luxuries they’d enjoyed before the war. The occupying soldiers, against orders, were only too happy to provide them.

Bananas? said John.

Klaus tilted his head. Bananas? You know we don’t get them here anymore, at least not unless you’re rich.

They’re common in England at this time of year. They come over from the West Indies. I’d be willing to sell you a couple of bunches. You’d make quite a profit on them.

Klaus shook his head. A big risk. It’s 1960 not 1945. The big market in the Tiergarten has gone and if I didn’t sell them within a couple of days then I would have wasted my time and money. Food isn’t as big as a problem as it once was.

John looked disappointed. Whatever you say. You got any watches?

Klaus grinned. I’ve always got watches. I’ll bring them to you later.

Klaus shook hands with John and continued his journey back to Charlottenburg. The Russian soldiers in East Berlin loved watches. It was hard to tell why, but it wasn’t uncommon to see some Russians with three or four watches on their wrists. John once said the Russians didn’t use watches back home.

He made it from the main street into his neighbourhood when another voice called out. Klaus turned to find his friend Ralf Fischer jogging towards him. Ralf had a completely shaved head and a suit that his lanky figure had outgrown many years before.

Someone’s looking for you, Ralf blurted out.

Klaus pulled Ralf under the striped shelter of a small tobacconist. Police or soldiers?

Neither. But I saw him waiting outside your door. He kept knocking on it and then waiting again.

What? Who was it? What did he want?

I don’t know who it was. Tall man with red hair. What did you do this time?

What? Nothing. Klaus paused. Nothing that I don’t usually do. I don’t know anyone with red hair, though.

Ralf looked worried but had nothing more to say.

What should I do? I was going home now.

You could always ask him what he wants. It might be nothing. Also could be someone who wants to buy a watch or something else from you.

Or it might not be...

Ralf opened his mouth to say something but couldn’t get any words out.

Klaus’ pulse raced. He’d had trouble before, but not for a long time. The black market had big money in it, but he’d never made enough to attract the attention of the big fish. Why would they want to come after him now?

So what are you going to do? said Ralf.

Klaus threw his hands up in the air. I don’t know.

He mulled over his options. Ralf lived on the same corridor so he could hardly try to sneak into his apartment. Klaus had acquaintances all over Berlin, but none of them would dare allow him to stay with them if they found out he was hiding from someone. Germans had become suspicious and paranoid after the results of the war.

Don’t you have any distant relatives in Berlin?

Klaus looked him up and down like he’d gone mad. I don’t know my close relatives let alone the distant ones. Only an uncle...but he disappeared within six months of the war ending, and I was left on my own. It’s not like he ever talked about the rest of the family.

Then I’m out of ideas.

Thanks, Ralf, he said sarcastically.

Klaus turned away from his previous journey and went with Ralf back towards the centre of town. Klaus had some money in his pocket. Perhaps he might be able to convince someone he knew to put him up for the night, no questions asked?

Together, they went back through the Tiergarten and emerged underneath the Brandenburg Gate. The shadow of the Reichstag in the background gave Klaus the chills for some reason. This whole part of Berlin made him feel uneasy. To the left, the Reichstag. To the right, the heavily guarded remnants of Hitler’s bunker. Ahead of him, sandbags and tanks guarding the dividing line between West and East Berlin.

Soviet soldiers milled around their positions, not really paying any attention to them or their duties. Come to think of it, he found it strange when one of the occupying soldiers did do their duty. Most of them spent their time with the German women still selling their bodies for a decent wage. That trade hadn’t died out in the months and years after the country’s surrender.

The two friends circled around and made the crossing into the Soviet zone. West and East Germans had little problem in crossing between the two, especially in Berlin. The soldiers hardly maintained a ring of steel around their occupation zones.

Hard to know the difference, Ralf had mentioned at one point.

East Berlin was a communist state of the USSR. The new German flag with its compass in the middle waved over them, and from practically every building that bordered the Western powers. Yet it felt much the same as any other part of Berlin.

I don’t know where to go, said Klaus. I don’t know East Berlin that well.

Look, I know someone. Lives just off the Unter den Linden in one of the pre-war buildings. It wasn’t in bad condition in forty-five, so he tells me.

Lead on, said Ralf.

The Unter den Linden had once been one of the most fashionable streets in Europe. Known for its tree-lined