CapturedbytheSS

Captured by the SS

Gail Starbright

By the twenty-first century,
Germany has all but taken over the world. Only one nation remains untouched…America.
Only spies slip in and out of enemy territory. Within this shadowy and
dangerous world of cloak and dagger, Isabel Riley is an American spy deep in
enemy territory.

Isabel is detained at a German
checkpoint by a black-uniformed SS officer. She’s arrested, taken into custody
and interrogated.

But she soon learns her enigmatic
captor wants more than just her secrets. He enjoys tying her up or teasing her
with the tails of his leather flogger. But floggers and video cameras are the
least of her concerns. In the eyes of the Third Reich, ownership is real. And a
lovely American spy is far too tempting of a war prize to pass up.

Chapter One

Berlin, 2008

It’s strange. I’ve been behind enemy lines more times than I
can count, and yet I’m still not accustomed to seeing the flag of the Third
Reich.

It’s probably because back home in America, that particular
flag is nowhere to be found, and quite frankly, I’d like to keep it that way.
When this assignment came up, I didn’t hesitate to volunteer.

Tearing my gaze from the brightly illuminated roadside
flags, I turn and study my driver. He told me his name is Ian and that he’s
honored to help me, but I don’t quite believe him…neither on his name or the
part about helping me.

He’s a contact arranged through my superiors, a German
citizen supposedly sympathetic to the American cause. Essentially, his job is
to drive me around and provide a few basic provisions until we’re out of Berlin
and relatively safe in Hannover. I only wish I could trust him.

I hate that I’m so suspicious of my contact. But in this day
and age, it’s hard to trust anyone who’s not from the States. The vast empire
of the Third Reich includes all countries, islands and continents except for
the forty-eight, tightly guarded, continental states of America.

Silence lingers between me and my driver. “I want to thank
you again for assisting me,” I declare in German.

He turns his head briefly toward me. “No, don’t thank me.
It’s no trouble, really.”

Strange answer. For about the millionth time, I silently
wish I could work alone. Unfortunately, I need help behind enemy lines. It’s
hard enough just to smuggle me into Germany, but I still need things like food,
shelter and
especially
transportation.

Believe me, if I could barter gold or gemstones in exchange
for goods and services without revealing my American citizenship, I would. But
the empire’s laws allow only electronic currency. Because my ID is fraudulent
and not linked to a valid account, it’s impossible to load credits onto my
card’s magnetic strip.

Electronic currency is an anti-espionage tactic that was
concocted by the Gestapo in the mid-nineties. Our agency has tried to work
around it by offering merchants diamonds in exchange for food, lodging and
transportation, but few citizens are willing to go against the Gestapo. So, I’m
basically stuck behind enemy lines without a penny or a German credit to my
name, which is why I so desperately
need
a contact…even though I don’t
want one.

Don’t get me wrong. I don’t mind working with another
person. I’m not some anti-social diva or something. The problem is that the
empire keeps raising the rewards for information that leads to the capture of
US spies. In the beginning, payments were considerable, but lately, the
empire’s rewards have quite literally entered the status of overnight wealth.
I’ve heard stories of even the most trusted contacts suddenly turning against
American agents.

Inhaling deeply, I steady my nerves as we cruise under yet
another metal archway. This is actually our fourteenth checkpoint tonight.
Since Berlin is the capital of the empire, security is tight and traffic is
funneled through several checkpoints. But we only have one more to get through
and then it’s smooth sailing on to Hannover. From there, a second contact is
going to help me get back to the States.

“One more,” my driver mutters in German.

Relief washes over me…I’m almost out of Berlin. And I’m not
worried at all about my contact in Hannover. I’ve worked with him before. His
alias is David.

He and his synagogue have been very generous to our agency
in the past, literally betraying the empire to help us, even though the Third
Reich no longer persecutes the Jewish community.

Officially, apologies as well as financial reparations were
issued decades ago to Holocaust survivors and Jewish families, but I don’t
think it was enough for some. I know I’ll feel better once I meet up with
David. His reasons for helping me are personal.

My driver cruises up to the flashing yellow lights of a
lowered gate. Like most checkpoints, it’s heavily guarded. So far, I’ve already
spotted four armed guards milling about. They’re all dressed in heavy
olive-drab coats and gear.

Behind the lowered gate and off to the side are marked
spaces to search vehicles and baggage. Several red, white and black flags
billow in intense columns of bright white light. I try not to stare too
intensely at the swastikas. After all, my ID states I’m a native German citizen
residing in Hannover. I’m supposed to be accustomed to seeing that flag.

Forcing my gaze forward, I make my eyes settle on a sign
mounted on the lowered gate. In German, it reads,
All vehicles must stop. Be
prepared to show identification. Persons and vehicles subject to search.

For some reason, my driver seems more nervous than at the
last checkpoints. His nervousness makes me a bit antsy. Inhaling deeply, I will
myself calm. The one car in front of us finally cruises forward after being
waved through.

The gate we’re stopped behind opens swiftly before my driver
rolls up slowly.

Since it’s two in the morning, there’s hardly any traffic.
During peak times, it can sometimes take hours to get through.

At a snail’s pace, our car cruises up to the second lowered
gate. As is expected, my driver barely mutters a greeting before handing the
patrolman both of our ID cards.

I don’t stare at the armed patrolman, but instead subtly
watch him out the corner of my eye.

He takes one look at our IDs before promptly turning around.
Without a word to us, he walks into the building behind him.

Hmm, interesting.

Anything other than a quick glance and a wave through can be
a problem. My driver clutches the steering wheel, and I mentally review our
cover story. If asked, we agreed to explain that we were in downtown Berlin to
see
Madama Butterfly
at the Hoheit opera house. We even have torn
tickets and a program in the car to support our story. The program is lying on
the car’s center console with the tickets tucked inside.

A few seconds turn into several seconds. Before I know it, a
full minute passes. And then another. Swallowing hard, I start sweating in my
blue satin dress. I wore the dress and the high heels to support the opera
story as well as a nice dark coat. My driver bought the outfit this morning at
a consignment shop.

After several nerve-racking minutes, the same patrolman
steps back out and approaches the driver’s side door.

In clipped German, he informs my contact, “I need you to
pull the vehicle to your right, turn off the engine and then come back over
here.” There’s nothing threatening or menacing in his order, and in all
honesty, it’s fairly commonplace to be stopped and searched.

I try to remain calm as my driver rolls to the right and
pulls into a marked space that’s designated for vehicle searches. Four armed
guards merely watch us, but luckily, no one seems overly eager or
trigger-happy. Sidearms and rifles remain either holstered or slung over
shoulders.

I nonchalantly step out and close the door. Without looking
around, I walk the short distance back to the building. My driver is next to
me.

Although the vehicle search itself doesn’t bother me, I
don’t understand why the patrolman walked off with our IDs first and then came
back. That strikes me as odd…as if he were told to be on the lookout for our
names.

My driver clears his throat and looks around. It’s cold
tonight. I plunge my hands deep in my coat pockets, trying to warm up.

Three additional armed guards emerge from the building. They
walk past us, making a beeline for our car. They rapidly descend on the small
four-door vehicle and start opening every door, latch and compartment. Several
lights suddenly come on and illuminate the vehicle from all conceivable angles.

Without being obvious about it, I scan the area and take in
every single patrolman, including the ones searching the car, the ones milling
about and the other two who are guarding us. Specifically, I’m looking at their
uniforms. All of them are dressed in dark-green coats and gear.

I breathe a sigh of relief. They’re all regular military,
enlisted men. If there was someone dressed in gray, then there might be cause
for concern since only commanding officers dress in gray. The last thing I need
is some overzealous officer looking too closely at my forged ID, though I’ve
been told it’s good enough to fool even the most critical eye. I’ve actually witnessed
my ID being passed under a handheld black light, and the guard has never once
even batted an eye.

Of course, if my ID is ever radioed in or checked on the
computer, I’m screwed. But a quick visual inspection or a pass under a black
light is usually common practice. In all the years I’ve been doing this, I’ve
never once had a guard research my ID. I think they have to be really
suspicious of someone to do that.

“I need you both to step inside,” one of the patrolmen
informs us curtly in German. He’s gesturing toward the building with a gloved
hand.

I’m not sure what’s up with this, but I definitely don’t
like it.

Trying to remain calm, I follow the guard inside. Two more
soldiers are waiting. I find some small relief in that the two additional men
inside are also dressed in standard olive-drab uniforms.

One comes up to my driver. “This way,” he says, directing
him down a hallway.

The other guard steps up to me. “Step this way.” I’m
directed in an opposite direction from where they’re taking my driver. I’m not
sure why they’re separating us, but it makes me even more nervous.

After leading me down a short hallway, the patrolman stops
in front of a closed door. He pushes it open and gestures for me to follow.
Since the door opens into the room, he has to step inside to hold it open.
During several of my past assignments, checkpoint guards have strip-searched me
before, but this seems different than a strip-search.

Holding my breath, I walk into a white-walled room. The
patrolman points to the side, indicating he wants me to walk to my left.
There’s even a red sign on the floor that says
Stand here
in German. I
obediently walk to where he’s pointing as my gaze subtly sweeps the area. As a
trained agent, I’m taught to take in every detail of my surroundings. Unfortunately,
I can’t see the whole space. The open door is blocking my view of the other
side.

Almost immediately, I sense a third person is in the room
with us and intentionally standing in the room’s blind spot.

What the hell is going on?

Without another word to me, the guard walks out, pulling the
door closed behind him.

The minute the door closes, I finally see who’s standing in
the room with me, and it takes every ounce of control I have to remain calm.
Unlike the other patrolmen who are all dressed in standard military gear, this
man is wearing the very distinct black uniform of the SS.

Oh dear.

There are only a handful of SS officers in the entire
empire, and there is absolutely no reason why one would be at a checkpoint at
two o’clock in the morning…unless of course, he’s been tipped off that an
American spy is behind enemy lines. The entire scenario reeks of treachery, and
I have a sudden urge to find my contact and strangle him to death.

“Hello,” he greets me in German. He takes several steps toward
me.

I force myself to smile. After all, I’m supposed to be a
citizen of the empire. At least that’s what my ID says. I try not to stare at
the swastika on his red armband.

I can tell he’s eager for me to speak. My German is perfect,
and I can easily fool any patrolman that I’m a native citizen. But unlike
patrolmen, SS officers are specially trained to detect any foreign lilt or
pronunciation.

To be accepted in the SS, a candidate has to pass several
grueling language exams, which consist of both written essays and oral
interviews. I’ve heard it’s almost impossible to get through the testing
process, which actually takes several years to complete. Consequently, there
aren’t that many SS officers. Hell, I think their numbers are only in the low
teens, which is why I’m really surprised to be staring at one right now.

Because of his specialized training, he’ll know I’m American
the minute I start speaking. And I don’t have a contingency plan for this
scenario. It’s not that my superiors have never thought of this. It’s just
that…we don’t have a success story to base anything on.

For the last thirty years, the elite SS has been a roadblock
for my agency. Our only advantage is their low numbers. Although I don’t have a
good plan for this scenario, I have been trained on how to handle tense or
high-stress interviews. I just need to stay calm and think quickly.

To buy a little time, I offer him a polite curtsy. This is a
situation where Nazi culture actually works to my advantage. Although the
practice is a bit out of date, women are still technically discouraged from
speaking. It’s considered more ladylike or proper to either smile or curtsy,
especially for women from higher social classes.

He only nods once at my action. I’m not sure what exactly he
sees. The rim of his hat is shadowing his eyes, making it hard for me to get a
bead on him.

“Please, I’d like to speak to you. Tell me your name.” His
tone and mannerisms don’t strike me as menacing. I sense uncertainty from him,
as if he’s not sure what to make of me just yet. I can only guess the empire’s
high rewards most likely send the SS on several pointless chases. He’s probably
accustomed to false leads, which might be an advantage for me.

But…I
do
have to speak now. Since I know my
pronunciation won’t fool an SS officer, my best bet is to fake another accent
while speaking German. If I’m lucky, I can convince him I’m from one of the
territories of the Third Reich. It’s not a great plan, but it might work. I
just have to muddy the pronunciation enough to convince him I’m not American.