Read Online A Bridge to Treachery From Extortion to Terror by Larry Crane - Free Book Online
Authors: Larry Crane
Tags: Espionage, Military, Revenge, Politics, Terrorism, Betrayal, Army, Army Ranger, strike team, collateral damage
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Landsberg, they’d pulled off at any point along the way that seemed right for the moment—often just a gravel track that took them out through clover fields and into the cool, coniferous forest. There they’d find a place to sit on a blanket in the pine needles and enjoy a bottle of wine, fresh cheese, and hard bread.
They’d never been short of conversation then. They’d still had a lot they didn’t know about each other and a passion to learn it. In those first few months thirty years ago, they’d told each other everything that came into their minds, regardless of how ridiculous it was or how difficult it would be to back down from later.
In the beginning of his tour of duty, they’d lived in a tiny German apartment—three rooms off a central hallway: a living room, bare save a micro-couch, a chair, and a coal stove; a miniature kitchen with a refrigerator the size of an oven, an oven the size of a bread box, and water made hot at the spigot; and a bedroom that was essentially a large closet, furnished with a high oak bed and its billowing, goose down quilt.
In bed then, they were all the things they were not now: greedy for pleasure, strong, and creative. That first night in Germany, he’d shivered with anticipation until she’d stepped into the room from the frigid hallway in nothing but a blue Navy watch cap, high-heeled slippers, and a pair of woolen mittens. Starting at her toes, he had warmed her up.
They’d collected beer glasses with colorful distinctive decals. The idea was to escape the city on the smallest road they could find and motor on until they found a gasthaus in the middle of some burg—where the smells of spring mud and honey wagons mixed with that of the strong, warm beer—and where it was sure no one spoke English.
Mag passed easily for German: blonde and flushed across the cheekbones. Only Lou’s crew cut and tennis shoes gave them away. Out there in the country, the people knew no English, so it would have to be German or nothing. “ Zwei glas bier ,” is all it took, as long as he stuck up the two fingers. Sometimes they had cheese and bread with their beer; always they asked to keep their glasses; and almost always they cost a mark each. The liter glasses held maybe an Urbanus Bier, with a burgermeister picture in red and yellow; or a Hasenbrau , with a blue rabbit; or a Fortunabrau , with a hunting horn. His favorite, though, was the Reichsadler-Brau they picked up in Steppach, with its black, double-headed eagle and coat of arms.
* * *
The Connecticut highway seemed to drop away below them. They’d started out after noon. Now they were beyond Danbury, heading north toward Candlewood Lake. They left the highway for a side road and found a spot among the trees where they could look out at the water.
“I’ve been thinking about Germany,” she said.
“The drives? Yeah, I remember.”
“It’s still fun. I’m really enjoying this,” Mag said.
“What? We haven’t done anything yet.”
“Who said we had to do anything?”
“Nobody.”
“No worries. No schedules. We can do anything we want.”
“Anything we want.”
The tops of the pine trees across the lake sliced through the lower half of the sun, robbing their spot of just enough warmth to raise goose bumps on her arm. She pulled a sweater from her oversized tote bag and he helped her with the sleeves.
“I don’t know what’s happening with this Westover account. I don’t know what to do. We did nothing either right or wrong. It just transpired,” he said, twisting against the stiffness in his neck.
“Let’s be careful with it, darling,” she said, softly kneading the base of his skull. “I want to have fun, but I don’t want to get in over our heads. Okay?”
“It’s all probably going to vanish at some point, but we don’t have to trash enjoyment before we even have any.”
“I don’t want to think about
They’d never been short of conversation then. They’d still had a lot they didn’t know about each other and a passion to learn it. In those first few months thirty years ago, they’d told each other everything that came into their minds, regardless of how ridiculous it was or how difficult it would be to back down from later.
In the beginning of his tour of duty, they’d lived in a tiny German apartment—three rooms off a central hallway: a living room, bare save a micro-couch, a chair, and a coal stove; a miniature kitchen with a refrigerator the size of an oven, an oven the size of a bread box, and water made hot at the spigot; and a bedroom that was essentially a large closet, furnished with a high oak bed and its billowing, goose down quilt.
In bed then, they were all the things they were not now: greedy for pleasure, strong, and creative. That first night in Germany, he’d shivered with anticipation until she’d stepped into the room from the frigid hallway in nothing but a blue Navy watch cap, high-heeled slippers, and a pair of woolen mittens. Starting at her toes, he had warmed her up.
They’d collected beer glasses with colorful distinctive decals. The idea was to escape the city on the smallest road they could find and motor on until they found a gasthaus in the middle of some burg—where the smells of spring mud and honey wagons mixed with that of the strong, warm beer—and where it was sure no one spoke English.
Mag passed easily for German: blonde and flushed across the cheekbones. Only Lou’s crew cut and tennis shoes gave them away. Out there in the country, the people knew no English, so it would have to be German or nothing. “ Zwei glas bier ,” is all it took, as long as he stuck up the two fingers. Sometimes they had cheese and bread with their beer; always they asked to keep their glasses; and almost always they cost a mark each. The liter glasses held maybe an Urbanus Bier, with a burgermeister picture in red and yellow; or a Hasenbrau , with a blue rabbit; or a Fortunabrau , with a hunting horn. His favorite, though, was the Reichsadler-Brau they picked up in Steppach, with its black, double-headed eagle and coat of arms.
* * *
The Connecticut highway seemed to drop away below them. They’d started out after noon. Now they were beyond Danbury, heading north toward Candlewood Lake. They left the highway for a side road and found a spot among the trees where they could look out at the water.
“I’ve been thinking about Germany,” she said.
“The drives? Yeah, I remember.”
“It’s still fun. I’m really enjoying this,” Mag said.
“What? We haven’t done anything yet.”
“Who said we had to do anything?”
“Nobody.”
“No worries. No schedules. We can do anything we want.”
“Anything we want.”
The tops of the pine trees across the lake sliced through the lower half of the sun, robbing their spot of just enough warmth to raise goose bumps on her arm. She pulled a sweater from her oversized tote bag and he helped her with the sleeves.
“I don’t know what’s happening with this Westover account. I don’t know what to do. We did nothing either right or wrong. It just transpired,” he said, twisting against the stiffness in his neck.
“Let’s be careful with it, darling,” she said, softly kneading the base of his skull. “I want to have fun, but I don’t want to get in over our heads. Okay?”
“It’s all probably going to vanish at some point, but we don’t have to trash enjoyment before we even have any.”
“I don’t want to think about
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