Paris Encore

  THE ZION COVENANT BOOK 8

  PARIS ENCORE

  The Zion Covenant Book 8

  Bodie & Brock Thoene

  www.FamilyAudioLibrary.com

  ThoenE-Books

  Visit the Thoenes’ exciting Web site at www.thoenebooks.com

  Copyright © 2005 by Bodie Thoene. All rights reserved.

  Cover illustration copyright © 2005 by Cliff Nielsen. All rights reserved.

  The Zion Covenant series designed by Julie Chen

  Designed by Dean H. Renninger

  Edited by Ramona Cramer Tucker

  Portions of Paris Encore were printed in The Twilight of Courage, © 1994 by Bodie and Brock Thoene, by Thomas Nelson, Inc., Publishers under ISBN 0-7852-8196-7.

  First printing of Paris Encore by Tyndale House Publishers, Inc. in 2005.

  Scripture quotations are taken from the Holy Bible, King James Version or the Holy Bible, New International Version® NIV® Copyright © 1973, 1978, 1984 by International Bible Society. Used by permission of Zondervan Publishing House. All rights reserved.

  This novel is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the authors’ imaginations or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, organizations, or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental and beyond the intent of either the authors or publisher.

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  Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data

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  Printed in the United States of America

  11 10 09 08 07 06 05

  7 6 5 4 3 2 1

  Dedicated to the memory of Rebekah Marie Swanson.

  She loved books and people and Jesus and was loved by so many in return. She used to say of her mother, Rona Swanson, “I tell my mom everything. Why not? After all, we shared the same heart. . . .” They still share the same heart in a bond that stretches beyond this present world. Heaven is richer for Rebekah’s presence, though earth is poorer without her. But the day will come when every tear will be wiped away by the gentle touch of Jesus. Until then we remember and honor the miracle of her life.

  “There are only two ways to live your life. One is as though nothing is a miracle. The other is as though everything is a miracle.”

  Albert Einstein

  Paris Encore is a “Director’s Cut,”

  including portions of the Thoene Classic The Twilight of Courage

  and thrilling, never-before-published scenes

  with the characters you’ve come to know

  and love through The Zion Covenant series.

  The First Six Months of World War II

  1939

  September 1—Nazi Germany invades Poland

  September 3—England and France declare war on Germany

  September 17—Soviets invade Poland

  September 27—Warsaw falls

  October—“Phony War” begins

  December 13—German battleship Admiral Graf Spee cornered in South Atlantic

  1940

  February 16—Altmark incident

  PART I

  A mighty fortress is our God,

  A bulwark never failing;

  Our helper He amid the flood

  Of mortal ills prevailing.

  For still our ancient foe

  Doth seek to work us woe—

  His craft and pow’r are great,

  And, armed with cruel hate,

  On earth is not his equal.

  From “A Mighty Fortress Is Our God” by Martin Luther

  1

  Descent into War

  Fall 1939

  The appointment of Winston Churchill to the post of First Lord of the Admiralty in British prime minister Neville Chamberlain’s War Cabinet on September 3 had been a political move. The position ensured that Churchill could no longer publicly voice criticism of the government.

  Churchill knew this. The press was fully aware of the implications. The public war preparations had stumbled along at an agonizing pace as the country of Poland suffered and died day after day under the Nazi blitzkrieg. Up to this point the governments of England and France had stopped their ears to the pleas of the dying Poles. But since England and France had declared war with Germany on September 3, frenetic activities of newly established petty bureaucracy had replaced prewar complacency. Blackout restrictions. Rationing plans. Evacuation billeting. All these issues became coupled with the term British Patriotism as England’s allies perished alone and unaided.

  It was with all this in mind that John Murphy, chief of Trump European News Service, met with Winston Churchill this afternoon in London. The reason for the meeting was a personal one, one friend to another, the note from Churchill declared. Murphy would not be granted a journalist’s privilege of asking probing questions about the war.

  Today Churchill was dressed in coat and tie, appearing much more official and governmental than Murphy had ever seen him. The ubiquitous cigar and water laced with a drop of whiskey were on the desk.

  Churchill motioned for Murphy to be seated. “You have a bodyguard, as I suggested?”

  “Yes, a good man. Very quiet. His name is Inspector Stone. He’ll remain on the farm in Wales with Lori Kalner, Elisa, the kids, and a TENS employee, Eva Weitzman. And, of course, Elisa’s mother and aunt.”

  “Yes, Elisa’s aunt, Helen Ibsen. The widow of the German evangelical pastor Karl Ibsen, who was arrested by the Gestapo. I read the official Reich report given to the American Embassy, which claims Reverend Ibsen killed himself.”

  “None of us believe it.” Murphy traced the brim of his hat with his finger. “Lori will remain in Wales with her mother. Mrs. Ibsen is a strong woman. She’s taking it with courage. We are certain Pastor Ibsen didn’t take his own life.”

  A single downward jerk of Churchill’s head concurred. “Indeed, he did not.” Sausage-shaped fingers stained by cigar tobacco pushed a tan folder marked Confidential toward Murphy. “It is just in from intelligence. I had a word about it with the prime minister. It is agreed that you have a right to know the truth about Pastor Ibsen.”

  Murphy hesitated before opening the report. The details concerning Karl Ibsen were sketchy, with long paragraphs blacked out. He scanned the document to the end. He felt the blood drain from his face as he absorbed the facts surrounding the death of Karl Ibsen.

  “This is . . . correct?” Murphy breathed, barely able to speak.

  Churchill responded quietly. “It has been confirmed. The Nazis have redefined martyrdom as a type of suicide. It is indeed suicide to speak out against attacks on Jews and euthanasia and abortion and sterilization in Nazi Germany. To protest and hold true to one’s beliefs is suicide in a land where laws are reinterpreted and black is declared white by puppet courts. So, in a way, the pastor did commit suicide. He stood up for the right when everyone else accepted the new German laws as law. But though it may be suicide to protest against evil, Pastor Ibsen did not die by his own hand. I felt . . . perhaps the certainty of this fact is something Mrs. Ibsen and her daughter should know. Tell them if you like . . . or not.”

  “They’re already certain Pastor Ibsen died heroically.” Murphy replaced the document on Churchill’s desk.

  “Then perhaps the details—the horrible circumstances of the good man’s death—are not for them to know. But the Nazi claim of suicide is yet another lie of the devil we must fight . . . and here is the proof.”

  “I . . . thank you.” Murphy resisted the urge to ask when British military aid would be sent to Poland. Perhaps he knew the answer anyway. “What now, Winston?”

  “We prepare. Years of slashing our military as G
ermany built her armies leaves England at a disadvantage. We have a lot of catching up to do. The entire energy of the nation must be focused on winning this war.”

  “How long?”

  “As long as it takes. We will prevail. Whatever it takes. You can quote me on that.”

  Murphy left the Admiralty offices with the certainty that Poland had burned as a sacrifice to give the West time to rearm. There had been no one to quench the fires of that holocaust.

  The British government led by Neville Chamberlain had met evil strength with moral weakness in the hope that weakness would bring peace. But the scent of Britain’s fear had merely whetted the appetites of the dark gods of war.

  Murphy ticked off the descent into the abyss of total war:

  Years of official apathy when Hitler broke every treaty.

  Disarmament of the British army and navy.

  Appeasement.

  Complacency of the Western nations in the face of Germany’s policies of government-sanctioned murder against her own citizens and the unborn.

  All this had, in the end, led to the moment when the death of one individual like Karl Ibsen no longer seemed significant. How many more would perish because of the misguided thought that peace could be won by bargaining with the devil?

  Death had begun its march one soul at a time. Now it devoured thousands. In the end, Murphy thought, millions—men, women, children—would die. When the final tally came, the horrible sum of individual lives shattered would be unfathomable . . . incomprehensible to the human mind.

  Murphy knew the mistakes of history would be repeated.

  They cry, “Peace! Peace!” But there is no peace!

  Murphy was certain of all this as he made his way toward home. He would write his story about war preparations in Britain. Wire his copy to the U.S., where it would appear in the morning papers. The newsreels shot by Mac McGrath would be played in theatres across the nation. But even now, who in America heeded the warnings?

  Wilhelmstrasse was as slick as an ice-skating rink as the staff car of Gestapo Chief Himmler pulled away from the curb of the German Chancellery in Berlin.

  Reinhard Heydrich, one of Himmler’s chief lieutenants, sat beside him, gazing out at the colorless day. The only break in the monotony was the red banners draped from the cornices of the building, indicating that the Führer was in residence.

  “He was in a mood,” Himmler said without amusement.

  Heydrich countered sullenly, “I thought you said he did not need to know about Richard Lewinski. That it was better left untold until we have taken care of the matter.”

  “Nothing remains a secret from the Führer for long. Not even internal matters of the Gestapo.”

  Heydrich nodded. He swiped his finger through the fog on the windowpane. “Sometimes I think he has eyes in the back of his head.” He arched an eyebrow. “Like my mother when I was a boy. She knew everything I did. Everything I said.”

  “There is no dark magic to it, Heydrich. Have you not figured out that we are in rivalry with everyone else who has access to his ear? My guess is that fat Hermann Göring has an informer in my department who feeds him information. . . .”

  “Göring’s appetite is healthy, to be sure.”

  “And from Göring’s mouth to the ear of the Führer.”

  Heydrich tugged at his collar. “It is irritating. Richard Lewinski is nothing. Nothing at all. I did not realize he was a Jew when he worked in the Enigma factory. I did not think of him at all. Just another engineer designing variations on the same theme. And when I found out, I sent him packing like every other Jew. Off to Poland. Dumped him on the Polish frontier with twelve thousand other vermin. How was I to know the rat would go underground?”

  “You should have killed him.”

  “We were more careful in those days. World opinion mattered then. Lewinski is well connected in America. We still had some pretense of friendship with the Americans.” Heydrich laughed. “Before the Führer started calling Roosevelt ‘the Paralytic.’”

  Himmler opened the snap of his leather portfolio and fished out a clean handkerchief. He cleaned his glasses and then blew his nose loudly. “I am catching cold,” he complained. Then, “Lewinski is not in America. That much has been confirmed. Not in Rumania. Every acquaintance has been followed.”

  “You will not call off the American agents, will you? I still believe he will show up there.”

  “We have the best men on it. Our fellow in the U.S. State Department has access to files that would indicate a change of identity.” Himmler sucked his teeth. “As I told the Führer, this is simply a matter for patience.”

  “It is a matter of cold weather. The army is stalled and he is bored, so we must amuse ourselves and him by tracking down some useless little Jew who may remotely be able to reconstruct our Enigma encoding machine.” Heydrich slapped his knee. “Even though the code cannot be deciphered without the exact and perfect combination.”

  “We will find him. It will disappoint Göring if we do so. It will please the Führer. We will bring in ‘the Russian.’” Himmler shrugged as though the matter would soon be settled. “A man like Lewinski cannot be hidden for long.”

  Heydrich nodded and wiped away the fog again as they drove along the Spree River. “He must be in the possession of one of the Allied governments. Or at least a neutral. Our enemies would not let a mind like that go free. They will feed him pastries and encourage him with praise as they keep up their hopes that he might be capable of doing us some mischief. But it is impossible. Enigma is invulnerable.”

  The Russian, Nicholi Federov, had every reason to disavow his association with the Gestapo now that Hitler and Stalin had become so cozy. And the Gestapo could have handed Federov over to the Communist government of Stalin for a tidy sum, since Federov had been such an ardent and destructive force in the White Russian opposition to the Bolsheviks. But both Federov and Gestapo boss Heinrich Himmler knew that such a move would be counterproductive.

  Possessing diplomatic papers known as a Nansen Passport, the Russian could move with relative ease throughout the neutral nations of Europe. He was a well-known wine merchant with connections in Switzerland and France and had first begun his work with the Nazi regime after being recruited in England by Hitler’s foreign minister, Ribbentrop. Ribbentrop had also been a wine merchant before his rise in the ranks of Nazi power.

  It seemed an innocent enough beginning for Federov. He was not particularly interested in the politics or the chaos of the German nation. He did not particularly like the strutting little Brownshirts of the Sturm Abteilung, also known as the SA or SS, except for the fact that they hated the Bolsheviks. The Nazis feared and despised Lenin and Trotsky and the rest of the Czar-killers who had renamed the Russian cities after themselves: Leningrad, Stalingrad. Disgusting.

  And so, although Hitler did not drink wine, he shared similar tastes with the Russian wine merchant. In those days, Hitler had hated Stalin and all Communists with a passion that made him foam at the mouth like a rabid dog. This seemed an attractive quality when the Russian first observed the Nazi leader. Federov held to the old maxim “The enemy of my enemy is my friend.” Hitler, upon coming to power, had proceeded to smash the German Communist cells with impunity. Thus, an alliance was made between Federov and the enemies of his great enemy.

  Federov knew everyone who either drank wine or sold wine in Europe. Since this grouping omitted very few people, he provided the Gestapo with a large quantity of information gleaned from various talkative sources. Which high-placed German diplomats had anti-Hitler leanings. Who had ties to certain organizations that would like to see the Führer dead. It was Federov who had been key behind the scenes in the apprehension of the French singer Elaine Snow as she attempted to assist the would-be assassin and probable Bolshevik Georg Elser after his attempt to blow up Hitler in the Munich beer hall. The Führer had grown fond of the Russian. He was pleased to hear that Himmler and Heydrich had personally recruited him to handle the
Lewinski matter.

  Federov had been informed that the Jew, Lewinski, was a notorious Communist, certain to pull all of civilization down the drain after Russia if he was left to go free.

  Since Stalin and Hitler were now allies, this should not have mattered to the Nazis on the face of it. Federov, however, understood the complex forces at work behind their extraordinary alliance.

  With the unpleasant union between Hitler and Stalin, no one could imagine that Federov could have ties to the German Secret Police. But the wine business was slow, and Federov had grown accustomed to living well. In addition to the issue of money, he justified his perfidious existence with the certainty that the treaty between the Nazis and Stalin was just a marriage of convenience. Soon enough these strange bedfellows would wake up and notice that the other stank. By and by, Federov was certain, German troops would succeed in naming Leningrad for St. Peter once again. The Communists who had destroyed his homeland would be slaughtered like pigs, and Imperial Russia would be restored. After some agreement with the Germans, of course.

  Even now, after the war had begun, the Russian was welcome in Brussels, Amsterdam, Geneva, London, and Paris. He was the perfect choice to sleuth out the whereabouts of a certain brilliant Jewish mathematician working for one of these governments. Someone who drank wine would know him. And after one drink too many at some embassy party, the Lewinski beans would be spilled. Then Federov would simply dial the local fifth-columnist thugs, and the issue of Richard Lewinski would be settled for good.

  This game depended entirely on whom a man knew. Since Federov knew everyone, and was liked by most, he was very well suited to his occupation.