Read Online Stealing Trinity by Ward Larsen - Free Book Online
Authors: Ward Larsen
Tags: United States, Fiction, Suspense, Historical, Thrillers, Mystery & Detective, Suspense fiction, Espionage, Intelligence Officers, Germany, Nazis, Great Britain, spies, spy stories, Spies - Germany, Atomic Bomb - United States, Intelligence Officers - Great Britain, Spies - United States, Manhattan Project (U.S.)
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smiled. What did the Americans call it? The silver lining in the cloud. Five years ago Braun had seen the life he wanted, yet had no idea how to acquire it. Now, for all the suffering, the war had taught him much. He would take what he pleased, by any means necessary. And he knew precisely where to start.
At the water's edge he paused to look left and right. There was nothing but empty beach in either direction, two barren, opposing pathways that might lead anywhere. The immediate choice seemed natural. Just as in the Cauldron, Braun turned west and began to walk.
Forty minutes later he had taken up an observation position. Hidden in a dense outcropping of bushes, Braun watched sporadic traffic along a two-lane road. Across the street lay a diner, host to only two cars at the early afternoon lull. He found himself critiquing the structure -- it was probably no more than twenty years old, yet the wood frame had already begun to sag, and the shingled roof needed repair. The Americans built things quickly, but rarely to last.
Minutes earlier, a vagrant had trudged by, an old tramp with grey stubble across his face. The clothes were tattered, the gait unsteady. Easy prey, but hardly satisfactory. Braun needed three things -- clothing, money, and, if possible, transportation. The tramp would provide only one, and that marginal. As he waited, scents from the diner drifted across the road. Hunger pulled at Braun's stomach, but it was a well-ingrained task to force the urge aside. How many men had he seen die from such simple impatience?
The answer to his problems presented itself in a cloud of dust and black diesel smoke. A large delivery truck creaked to a stop on the near shoulder of the road in front of him. The driver, a chunky, middle-aged sort dressed in workman's clothes and a flat cap, climbed down from the cab and trundled across the street to the diner.
Braun studied him as he had come to study all men. Size, strength, carriage. The driver did not wear glasses. There was muscle in the mans shoulders, but also thickness around his belly. His hands were small and thick, the fingers like fat sausages. His gait was compact but even, nothing to indicate infirmity. He would be strong, but stiff and immobile. His hair was long enough -- it could be grabbed and held if necessary. And he wore suspenders. No man with experience would ever go into a fight wearing straps so close to the throat. But then it dawned on Braun -- for the first time in years, his adversary would not be expecting a fight.
The trucks engine was left to run, suggesting a short stop. A call of nature? Braun wondered. Or perhaps a cup of coffee? Either way, the opportunity was clear. Taking the truck directly was not an option. The driver would report it missing within minutes. Braun checked left and right along the road, making sure no other traffic was approaching to see a naked German spy crawl from the woods. He edged out of the weeds and climbed to the running board of the truck's passenger door. He saw two seats in the cab, but nowhere behind them to hide. The passenger door was unlocked, and he noted a tire iron on the floor between the two seats. His tactics evolved.
The driver emerged from the diner five minutes later. He carried a thermos in his hand and Braun adjusted his mental blueprint. He would have to deal with that first. It was heavy, and no doubt filled with some type of scalding liquid. He stayed low behind the passenger door as the driver's side opened, then slammed shut.
He counted to three before throwing the door open. Braun lunged into the passenger seat and spotted the thermos on the floor. He swatted it aside and scanned for any new threats. The pause was designed to give the driver a good look at the hostile, naked man who had just violated his coffee break. His reaction was as rash as it was predictable. He lunged for the tire iron, head low, right arm extended. At the bottom of this motion, Braun brought his right bicep up
At the water's edge he paused to look left and right. There was nothing but empty beach in either direction, two barren, opposing pathways that might lead anywhere. The immediate choice seemed natural. Just as in the Cauldron, Braun turned west and began to walk.
Forty minutes later he had taken up an observation position. Hidden in a dense outcropping of bushes, Braun watched sporadic traffic along a two-lane road. Across the street lay a diner, host to only two cars at the early afternoon lull. He found himself critiquing the structure -- it was probably no more than twenty years old, yet the wood frame had already begun to sag, and the shingled roof needed repair. The Americans built things quickly, but rarely to last.
Minutes earlier, a vagrant had trudged by, an old tramp with grey stubble across his face. The clothes were tattered, the gait unsteady. Easy prey, but hardly satisfactory. Braun needed three things -- clothing, money, and, if possible, transportation. The tramp would provide only one, and that marginal. As he waited, scents from the diner drifted across the road. Hunger pulled at Braun's stomach, but it was a well-ingrained task to force the urge aside. How many men had he seen die from such simple impatience?
The answer to his problems presented itself in a cloud of dust and black diesel smoke. A large delivery truck creaked to a stop on the near shoulder of the road in front of him. The driver, a chunky, middle-aged sort dressed in workman's clothes and a flat cap, climbed down from the cab and trundled across the street to the diner.
Braun studied him as he had come to study all men. Size, strength, carriage. The driver did not wear glasses. There was muscle in the mans shoulders, but also thickness around his belly. His hands were small and thick, the fingers like fat sausages. His gait was compact but even, nothing to indicate infirmity. He would be strong, but stiff and immobile. His hair was long enough -- it could be grabbed and held if necessary. And he wore suspenders. No man with experience would ever go into a fight wearing straps so close to the throat. But then it dawned on Braun -- for the first time in years, his adversary would not be expecting a fight.
The trucks engine was left to run, suggesting a short stop. A call of nature? Braun wondered. Or perhaps a cup of coffee? Either way, the opportunity was clear. Taking the truck directly was not an option. The driver would report it missing within minutes. Braun checked left and right along the road, making sure no other traffic was approaching to see a naked German spy crawl from the woods. He edged out of the weeds and climbed to the running board of the truck's passenger door. He saw two seats in the cab, but nowhere behind them to hide. The passenger door was unlocked, and he noted a tire iron on the floor between the two seats. His tactics evolved.
The driver emerged from the diner five minutes later. He carried a thermos in his hand and Braun adjusted his mental blueprint. He would have to deal with that first. It was heavy, and no doubt filled with some type of scalding liquid. He stayed low behind the passenger door as the driver's side opened, then slammed shut.
He counted to three before throwing the door open. Braun lunged into the passenger seat and spotted the thermos on the floor. He swatted it aside and scanned for any new threats. The pause was designed to give the driver a good look at the hostile, naked man who had just violated his coffee break. His reaction was as rash as it was predictable. He lunged for the tire iron, head low, right arm extended. At the bottom of this motion, Braun brought his right bicep up
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