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The Nazis’ dark secrets are revealed, in a tense and compelling thriller from bestselling author Ian Slater.
June 1944. The moment has come. The Allied pincers are closing in. Hitler has already ordered his jet fighters, V-1 flying bombs, and V-2 rockets into action. Now, in a desperate bid to keep his war machine churning, it is time for the führer to use the most secret weapon of all.
For G.I. David Adam, it's a mission into hell. To stop Hitler’s mad plan will take him and others into the lion’s den, under the shadow of the SS—where exposure means death, but being killed is better than being taken alive…
Only a handful of courageous men and women can stop Hitler’s terrifying superweapon, and helped by French resistance fighters, Jewish slave laborers, and members of the Polish underground, these few will fight the most critical battle of the entire war.
“They’re frightening the game.” “Your name?” snapped the feldwebel. “Pardon?” “Your name? “Eh—oh, Bris. Leon Bris.” “Your papers?” “You’ll have to speak up,” said Adam, pointing to his left ear. “Compliments of your kaiser.” “What?” growled the feldwebel in awkward French. “Verdun!” shouted Adam. “Nineteen seventeen.” “Listen, Frog—” “What’s going on here?” Fichte, colonel of Das Reich, spoke in a curt, clipped upper-German voice. “Sir. Seems
Volk would rise, the storm break loose, and the world would be theirs. “I warned them, ” Hitler raged. “Time and time again. And now they will pay.” He swung toward Reine. “What I would give to see Churchill’s face when he knows too late…” Reine could hear a hollow roaring beneath him—a steel span bridge. They were crossing the Elbe south of Wittenberg. Soon they would begin the wide sweep right, west, toward the Harz, and be in Nordhausen by dawn. Chapter Fifteen
about sending the message. Was it worth the risk merely to tell London that more V-1s were coming, that there was supposedly something special about them, a new explosive? After all, Kurt was only a junior officer and so his information, chitchat during his breaks while on guard duty, was only of the most general nature. But then she remembered how Father Gervais had told her that she must not try to evaluate the information; that was not her job nor his. That was London’s business; only London
cringed, taking the towel she had been kneeling on, wiping her mouth hard, her eyes averted in shame at what he had forced her to do. Fichte dressed hurriedly, and as he clambered into the Kebelwagen, he feared he might be too late, that all his effort in finding out the man’s code name, his cutout, would be wasted, that the brilliant plan he had devised would be thwarted by Mueller’s stupid jealousy. Didn’t the clown realize that he, Fichte, had an informer already in the Arras jail,
could have had a riot on your hands.” Wölke rolled his eyes at Schulz, who was pouring their after-work drink. They were both amused at Breslau’s naiveté. Clearly HQ had never run a camp themselves. “The prisoners weren’t used beyond the grass margin,” explained Wölke wearily. “We’re not that stupid. Anyway, we got him, didn’t we?” “Well, where is he now?” snapped Breslau. “In the morgue. Do you want him?” “What did he have on him?” Wölke reached for the schnapps.