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“This operation has to work,” Bauer told von der Haas.

“For your sake?” he asked. “Or for Germany’s?”

Bauer nodded. “Both.” He looked around the room. “Where’s your leather bag?”

Von der Haas dropped onto the bed, exhausted, and bellowed out a sigh. “Why do you need it?”

94

THOMAS BAUER STOOD ON the platform at the Nuremberg train station, leaning against the lamppost in the center, trying to read the most recent edition of the Nazi newspaper Der Sturmer as he battled the frosty wind. In his pocket were two claim tickets for the explosives-containing luggage, checked at the station earlier today.

The bell tower across the street told him it was 5:09 p.m. Time for the train from Prague.

He glanced over the top of the newspaper at his surroundings. A few other people had gathered on the platform, bracing against the wind, also awaiting passengers.

He heard the sound of the train arriving, the pitch of the whistle, the rumbling of the tracks. The train rolled into the station and hissed to a stop.

Bauer trained his eyes on the car marked 4. Looking for a young man wearing an orange scarf.

Dozens of passengers got off. Mostly couples, a few families, some singles. Some put out their arms to embrace people awaiting them on the platform. Others carried their bags or slung them over their shoulders and ambled toward the concourse.

Nobody with an orange scarf got off. Nobody approached Bauer.

Bauer steeled himself. What had happened? Where was this student, Helmut Hirsch? Maybe it was something innocuous—the kid had missed his train, or had fallen asleep and missed his stop.

Or maybe the plot had been exposed. Which could mean Bauer was, too.

He needed a cover, fast. His mind racing, Bauer spotted an older man disembark as the conductor called out that the doors were closing. The man seemed to be alone, carrying a heavy bag.

With a big smile on his face, Bauer moved off the lamppost and approached the man. “Let me help you carry that luggage,” he said, patting the man on the back.

With a whistle and a chug, the train started up again.

“Ah, well—I won’t say no!” The man’s face brightened with Bauer’s offer. “Very kind of you.”

“Not at all, not at all. How was your trip?” Bauer continued chatting with the man, carrying his suitcase into the concourse. It wasn’t much of a ruse, but it was better than nothing.

He saw that the suitcases from Paris had not been claimed. There wasn’t any kind of elaborate system—the suitcases and bags were simply lined up inside the door to the platform with bright red luggage tags on them. There were only four in total.

Two of them would detonate when opened.

He slunk away after putting the old man in a taxi, taking a long route back to the hotel. When he opened the door to their room, Erich von der Haas was standing by the window, looking out with his binoculars.

“Am I blown?” Bauer asked.

“Not that I can see. Nobody followed you.” Von der Haas lowered the binoculars. “Nice job, pretending that you were waiting for that old-timer.”

“Best I could do to blend in.” Bauer removed his coat and hat.

“I don’t get it,” said von der Haas. “The kid lost his nerve? They caught him?”

Bauer shrugged. “One of those two, probably.”

“If it’s the latter, he probably confessed the whole plan. Or someone else at the Black Front did. The Gestapo could be waiting to see who picks up those suitcases.”

Bauer threw on a thick sweater. “You said you didn’t see signs of an ambush.”

“No, I said nobody followed you out. But I can’t see into the concourse, Bauer. There could be ten undercover Gestapo agents inside there waiting to pounce.”