Read Online In Satan's Shadow by John Anthony Miller - Free Book Online Page A
Authors: John Anthony Miller
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gotten, the winter he endured in Norway, and how much she missed him. Amanda listened, but didn’t say much. She didn’t think she had to. Hannah just needed to talk, and Amanda understood that.
When Hannah retired to her room, Amanda was alone. She treasured these hours, which she spent not practicing the violin, but tucked away in a private study for her use only. The room housed her camera, a dark room to develop the film, large folios of photographs, from nature to architecture to pictures of the Nazi elite, including Hitler and Goebbels and Göring and Hess, all meticulously filed. The walls were crammed with framed examples of her work, her favorite a large picture of the Fuhrer that hung above the fireplace. Photography was Amanda’s true passion, the hobby she loved above all else, even playing the violin.
She removed some negatives from her camera, and went into the dark room to process them. She studied the photographs as the images developed, slowly coming into focus, vague and hazy at first, then becoming crisp and clear. There were three different rolls, all taken in the last few weeks. She sorted through them as she hung them to dry, pictures of birds on one side, buildings on another, people in the center.
Suddenly, with a start, she looked at one photo, shocked by what the camera had captured.
CHAPTER 11
By the time he left the café, York was obsessed with Amanda Hamilton. She was fragile, like a cracked porcelain vase, yet an inner strength filtered through each flaw, hinting of a depth that was easy to underestimate. An aura of sadness surrounded her, like a clouded halo, her eyes dull, mirroring pain, all understandable given the loss of her baby, especially since the tragedy was published in the Berlin newspapers. Another private matter, her unfaithful husband, had also been made public.
She seemed modest and unassuming, her intellect impressive, but wrapped in a quiet, calm demeanor that showed no need to impress, no desire to brag, comfortable with who she was and what she had become. He found her interesting but mysterious, and he couldn’t determine why. At least not yet.
Nothing from their brief discussion hinted that she offered information to Kent, his predecessor. Just as there was no indication she betrayed him. He realized he didn’t know enough to form conclusions. But he did know what café she frequented. And for now, or at least until there was a message in the drop, he would continue to arrange chance meetings. Then he could get to know her better. But he had to be careful. Just because he thought she was vulnerable didn’t mean that she actually was.
He got a taxi, waiting for almost ten minutes to find one, and went to the cemetery to check the drop. It was a beautiful area of the city, blanketed with trees, the residences and apartment buildings around it evenly spaced, hidden with foliage and fences and walls. The lake in the middle of the graveyard offered serenity, a quiet solitude not available in sections of the city more densely populated. It was a nice place to spend eternity.
He entered the cemetery, cautiously studying those who walked by, looking for graves not recently visited, or moving to tombs they had seen many times before. There was a respectful silence, and it seemed only whispers were used to not offend the dead.
York walked through the lanes near the drop and, when satisfied that no one was watching, he went to the tomb and removed the finial from the wrought iron fence. It was empty. He quickly replaced it, glancing in all directions, noticing nothing suspicious. He then stood there for a moment, pretending to mourn a loved one.
He was beginning to wonder if there really was a spy. Or an informant, for that matter. Maybe Kent, his predecessor, had hoped to enlist one of the quartet, most likely Amanda Hamilton, but had been caught by the Gestapo before he could. The members of the string quartet may have had nothing to do with it, especially
When Hannah retired to her room, Amanda was alone. She treasured these hours, which she spent not practicing the violin, but tucked away in a private study for her use only. The room housed her camera, a dark room to develop the film, large folios of photographs, from nature to architecture to pictures of the Nazi elite, including Hitler and Goebbels and Göring and Hess, all meticulously filed. The walls were crammed with framed examples of her work, her favorite a large picture of the Fuhrer that hung above the fireplace. Photography was Amanda’s true passion, the hobby she loved above all else, even playing the violin.
She removed some negatives from her camera, and went into the dark room to process them. She studied the photographs as the images developed, slowly coming into focus, vague and hazy at first, then becoming crisp and clear. There were three different rolls, all taken in the last few weeks. She sorted through them as she hung them to dry, pictures of birds on one side, buildings on another, people in the center.
Suddenly, with a start, she looked at one photo, shocked by what the camera had captured.
CHAPTER 11
By the time he left the café, York was obsessed with Amanda Hamilton. She was fragile, like a cracked porcelain vase, yet an inner strength filtered through each flaw, hinting of a depth that was easy to underestimate. An aura of sadness surrounded her, like a clouded halo, her eyes dull, mirroring pain, all understandable given the loss of her baby, especially since the tragedy was published in the Berlin newspapers. Another private matter, her unfaithful husband, had also been made public.
She seemed modest and unassuming, her intellect impressive, but wrapped in a quiet, calm demeanor that showed no need to impress, no desire to brag, comfortable with who she was and what she had become. He found her interesting but mysterious, and he couldn’t determine why. At least not yet.
Nothing from their brief discussion hinted that she offered information to Kent, his predecessor. Just as there was no indication she betrayed him. He realized he didn’t know enough to form conclusions. But he did know what café she frequented. And for now, or at least until there was a message in the drop, he would continue to arrange chance meetings. Then he could get to know her better. But he had to be careful. Just because he thought she was vulnerable didn’t mean that she actually was.
He got a taxi, waiting for almost ten minutes to find one, and went to the cemetery to check the drop. It was a beautiful area of the city, blanketed with trees, the residences and apartment buildings around it evenly spaced, hidden with foliage and fences and walls. The lake in the middle of the graveyard offered serenity, a quiet solitude not available in sections of the city more densely populated. It was a nice place to spend eternity.
He entered the cemetery, cautiously studying those who walked by, looking for graves not recently visited, or moving to tombs they had seen many times before. There was a respectful silence, and it seemed only whispers were used to not offend the dead.
York walked through the lanes near the drop and, when satisfied that no one was watching, he went to the tomb and removed the finial from the wrought iron fence. It was empty. He quickly replaced it, glancing in all directions, noticing nothing suspicious. He then stood there for a moment, pretending to mourn a loved one.
He was beginning to wonder if there really was a spy. Or an informant, for that matter. Maybe Kent, his predecessor, had hoped to enlist one of the quartet, most likely Amanda Hamilton, but had been caught by the Gestapo before he could. The members of the string quartet may have had nothing to do with it, especially
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