July 1947
July 1947On his way home, Werner was plagued with doubts. For one thing, he didn’t have anything but Dean Harris’ word. What if the American turned on him and called Sokolov? Cold sweat broke out and ran in rivulets down his back.
He balled his trembling hands into fists and hid them in the pockets of his coat. He had no option but to trust Harris, since he’d gambled his life on the premise that an American promise had more substance than a Russian one. What if he had misjudged the American Kommandant?
Suddenly he began to see NKVD police at every corner, ready to pounce on him. Completely shaken and exhausted he arrived at his office in the Haus der Einheit.
Haus der Einheit“Hey, Böhm, running late today?”
His head snapped in the direction of the caller, instinctively raisi
