The Abwehr? Military intelligence. Not the Gestapo. The Abwehr didn’t concern themselves with resistance activities.
Paul restrained his feet. Before making decisions that couldn’t be undone, he needed more information. And he needed to collect himself immediately. He slowly lowered his hands. “I’d introduce myself, but you know who I am.”
“Indeed. We have been looking for you. Col. Gerhard Schiller worried when you didn’t report for internment. We planned to release you from the camp, but of course, you didn’t know that. We were relieved to see your name on the manifest for the Clipper.”
He had to use his real name to get the ticket. Apparently the Germans had an informant in the Pan American office. Paul’s fingers dug into his thighs. “What do you want?”
Eckert smiled. “Please have a seat. No need to fear.”
“You have a gun.”
Half of his smile fell. “Only to be used if you are not who you have claimed to be.”
Paul eased back to the armchair by the window. “Who have I claimed to be?”
“Schiller says you are a brilliant engineer, a cunning businessman, and a man smart enough to work with the winning side.”
“A collaborator.”
Eckert shrugged. “We preferzusammenarbeiten—working together. It is the only logical course.”
Paul lowered himself into the chair. He wasn’t finished playing the role of collabo. “Working together has suited me.”
“It has. And you are a well-informed man.” He nodded to the newspapers on Paul’s bed. “You know the Allies are losing. And the Americans? They can’t even stand up to the Japanese. How can they stand against the might of Germany?”
Paul gripped the armrests. Herr Eckert didn’t know how scrappy Americans were, or about the industrial power of the United States. “You still haven’t told me what you want.”
“Haven’t I?” Amusement lit the man’s wide-set eyes. “We want you in Germany, designing tanks.”
“Tanks? In Germany?”
He sniffed. “You’ll find Germany much more pleasant than France.”
No, he wouldn’t. “Tanks? I—I design automobiles, race cars.”
“No need to be coy. Schiller lives in your house. One of your staff said you drew plans for a tank. You were secretive, but she saw. Of course, we are sad you never showed us. And needless to say, such plans must never go to America.”
Paul’s suitcase lay on the luggage rack to the right of the door. His breath came harder. Neither his plans nor his brain could fall into German hands. He could grab the suitcase and run. And he’d be dead. The Abwehr would find his plans, tucked behind Josie’s Feenee stories.
His chest crushed. His little girl. What if she’d died?
But what if she lived? He couldn’t give up. Not yet.
An appeal for sympathy couldn’t hurt. “Sir, I’m a widower. I sent my daughter to America. I will not be separated from her.”
Eckert shrugged broad shoulders. “Schiller said you were willing to be separated from her in the internment camp.”
“No, I wasn’t. That’s why I left France.”
Eckert ran a finger along the gun barrel. “We will not allow you to give those plans to the enemy.”
Those plans. Behind the Feenee stories. Why did those colorfuldrawings flit in his mind, painting an idea? The idea danced like Lucie, in brilliant colors, in freedom. And he hated it.
Paul leaned his forearms on his knees. “You’re an engineer, Herr Eckert?”
“No, I was a banker.”
Good. “First, I have absolutely no interest in working for the US Army. Second, I know little about tank design. It took me years to draw up that plan, and it would take many more years to draw up a new one—whether for you or for the Americans. You don’t need me—you only need my plans.”
