The Black Orchestra by JJ Toner

Author:JJ Toner
Language: eng
Format: epub
Tags: thriller, espionage, historical, wwii, ww2, spy story, ww2 fiction, ww2 thriller, ww2 spy story
Publisher: JJ Toner

37

December 1941

For weeks after my ordeal in the pine forest, I slept poorly and only for short periods at a time. That moment in the forest clearing facing a loaded gun remained vivid in my mind, fuelling the continuing tremor in my bones.

Von Kemp never left my thoughts. I couldn’t believe that he intended to have me killed. Granted I’d given him no information so far, but what would he gain by my death?

On Saturday December 6, the telephone rang. Gudrun answered it. I was in the bath, attempting to keep my plaster dry. When I emerged from the bathroom, she said, “The Abwehr rang. Someone called von Pfaffel. He said they want you in the office right away.”

I cursed under my breath as I struggled to pull on my shorts with one hand.

Promising Gudrun that I’d get away as soon as I could, I hurried into the office.

Section II was almost fully manned by the time I arrived. Oberst von Neumann and Hauptmann von Pfaffel were both at their desks. It looked like a busy weekday; the only indications that it was not were the way people were dressed and Sigmund was not on duty – Siegfried the night watchman had taken his place.

I reported to Oberst von Neumann. He was dressed as always. Obviously, his off-duty clothes and his work clothes were the same. I had a mental image of a wardrobe full of frayed green U-boat jumpers with leather patches.

“The shit’s hit the fan,” he said, eyeing my broken arm. “Schiller will explain.”

I took the stairs down to the second floor. Oberst Schiller was on the telephone. The Translations Unit was packed. There were three Russian language specialists on duty, where normally there were two. I could tell that the Communications Unit was fully manned, too, as there was a continuous flow of runners carrying signals from the fourth floor.

Oberst Schiller dropped the receiver back in its cradle and turned to me. “Counteroffensive,” he said. “The Reds are defending Moscow. Help Gunther Speddig.”

Speddig was sweating. His fingers flew over the Enigma on his desk, but it was clear that he had no hope of keeping abreast of the influx; the stack of raw signals in his in-tray was growing. I greeted him with a hearty thump on the back, and sat down at the desk beside him. We worked together for four hours without a break. By the end of that period, there were just three signals in the in-tray and the supply from the fourth floor had dried to a trickle.

“Time for a bite to eat,” I said, stretching my bones.

“We still have to translate that lot,” Speddig nodded toward the pile of English-language signals that our efforts had produced.

“After lunch,” I said. “Come on, get your coat.”

I had spent very little time with Gunther Speddig when we worked together in Section I. We had lunch together twice during that three month summer period. I think he felt that I was still a couple of rungs

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