Free The Swiss Courier: A Novel by Tricia Goyer, Mike Yorkey

later—probably sooner—Jewish interests will see to it that Engel successfully sabotages years of painstaking research by Professor Heisenberg’s team. Furthermore, the fact that Engel was raised by Christian cultists who have not bowed their collective wills to the Führer’s sure hand leads me to believe that Engel is a dangerous mole who must be rooted out.’”
    “I like that,” Kassler interrupted. “Makes our case, if I dare say so myself. And the last paragraph?”
    “Here’s how you ended your letter, Major. ‘Because of the critical nature of Engel’s work with Dr. Heisenberg, I humbly seek the Reichsführer’s direction on how to handle this delicate matter. Until I hear from you, I remain in your service’—signed, Major Bruno Kassler, SS Brigadeführer, Sektor Heidelberg.”
    Kassler smiled at his own devotion and humility, certain it would bring pleasure to the Reichsführer. He left his desk and paced to the window. “What’s the fastest way we can get this letter to Berlin?”
    “We have a courier service on the 7:23 night train. Your letter will be on the Reichsführer’s desk first thing in the morning.”
    “Very well. I would imagine his office will be calling sometime before the afternoon. I want you to be ready for that phone call, Becker. You understand its grave importance to the Reich, ja ?”
    “Yes, and thank you for your confidence in me.” Becker’s lips curled up with a hint of a smile.
    Kassler glanced down at the people hurrying along the boulevard, realizing they had no idea how their fate rested in his hands. His chest swelled with well-deserved pride. He wouldn’t be surprised if Herr Himmler himself called.
    The pleasure of receiving such a response paled only in comparison to another truth: Engel was in for the surprise of his life.
    Basel, Switzerland
     
    5:24 p.m.
    Dieter Baumann cocked the bill of his tweed hat and joined dozens of Baslers crossing the busy Thunerstrasse, weaving amongst the confluence of streetcar and bus lines. Without looking up, he darted into the entrance of the Globus department store.
    This line of work never ceased to amaze him, he thought, as he energetically took the stairs two-by-two to the fourth floor. Gabi Mueller had a boyfriend? The strait-laced church girl whose idea of a wild night on the town was playing a game of jass with three girlfriends? And that was no peck-and-go embrace, either.
    Dieter didn’t recognize the guy holding the flowers like an embarrassed grade-school suitor. From his vantage point across the street, Dieter could smell the manure oozing from the skin of the poor sap. What was she doing with a simple farmhand who stood in cow dung up to his ankles all day long? He made himself a mental note to find out more about this cheese farmer after the First of August holiday.
    Dieter reached the fourth floor landing and turned to his right, walking through the glass doors leading to the Globus coffee shop. The restaurant, which overlooked Basel’s main shopping district, was lightly populated this late afternoon. That was fine with Dieter, who took a good look at the half-dozen patrons sipping their café au laits or nibbling their slices of Aprikosen Torte .
    That’s right, apricots were in season . . . for those who could afford them, that is. Everything for a price.
    He settled into a two-person table next to the window, and a waitress took his order for Aprikosen Torte—with a dollop of whipped cream—and a cappuccino. “Please hurry.” He drummed his fingers on the table, as if shooing her away.
    Within three minutes, the waitress set the late-afternoon snack and cup of coffee before him, along with a bill for two francs. The apricot pie, coated with syrupy glaze, would hold him over until dinner. After the last forkful, he set a two-franc piece on the table and regarded his watch. Two minutes to go .
    At precisely 5:45 p.m., fifteen minutes before closing, Dieter set his hat on his head and departed the