The Dark Frontier by A. Decker (best books to read non fiction .txt) 📕

he was confident that he could shake them off around Lake Como at the very latest. If necessary, he would draw them into the forests along the lakeside and finish them off there. He would then take a ferry to the northern end of the lake and hope to hitch a ride up over the Maloja Pass. If all went well, he could be back with Patricia the next day.

Settling into his new compartment with these thoughts as the train pulled out of Zurich, his attention was drawn to the briefcase beside him. He had not dared open it until now for fear of what he might find inside. But he knew it contained a record of Patricia’s life.

When he slipped his hand inside the briefcase and removed the file, he saw at once that it was still smeared with dried traces of Breitner’s blood. He glanced nervously at the corridor outside the compartment. He was alone. It was a thin file and, when he opened it, he found only two pages inside. Frank took some comfort from this; he saw it as a sign that she had not played such a big part in Breitner’s life as he had feared.

The first page was a potted family history that contained little Frank did not already know – aside from the names of her parents, which were recorded here as: “Father: Roche, Léon (J)” and “Mother: Sommer, Ingeborg”, together with details of the schools she had attended in France, Stuttgart and now at the University of Basel. Alongside her father’s name was an inscrutable reference in parentheses: (See File D7LY.MK3-RL). Other than this, the only surprise was a short paragraph devoted to a year spent in London as an au pair with a family that suggested some kind of association with the corridors of power. She had never once mentioned this to Frank. He wondered why.

The other page was simply a long list of names, many of which were suffixed with the same designation that followed her father’s name: (J). Frank assumed this was to identify them as Jewish. The names meant nothing to him until he reached the bottom of the page, where he found Zimmermann, Joachim (J) and Eigenmann, Götz. A line had been ominously drawn through Achim’s name. Against his own name there was a bold question mark.

Attached to the back of this page with paperclips Frank found two photographs. One was of Patricia. Her hair was longer, which lent an added layer to her intriguing beauty. He gently eased the photo out from under the paperclip and sensed a warm thrill as he slipped it into his right inside pocket. The other photo was a group picture of half a dozen men in SS uniform, all except for one; this man wore a black homburg hat and a black coat that seemed almost too long for him; he looked decidedly uncomfortable in the company of all those uniforms. Frank assumed this to be Patricia’s father.

He folded these two pages with the remaining photograph and tucked them into the left inside pocket of his coat, intrigued to see what Patricia would make of these two pages when he showed them to her. Then he slid the now empty file back into the briefcase and placed it on the rack above the seat opposite in an effort to disown it.

These thoughts of Patricia and the image of her father preyed on his mind like clusters of doctor fish nibbling at every corner of his brain. But eventually the movement of the train carried him off into a deep sleep that kept his overactive imagination quiet. Even the stops between Zurich and the Italian border, with their whistles and the bustling activity of people getting on and off the train, were not enough to rouse him.

It was not until the train lurched to a stop at the border station of Chiasso that Frank finally woke. Before he was even able to get a grip on his surroundings, still dazed and disorientated as to his whereabouts, he was rudely stirred into action by a Swiss border guard demanding to see his passport. Fumbling around in his coat pocket for the document, Frank was aware of the border guard’s growing impatience. And when he finally produced his German passport, he sensed this impatience turn instantly to suspicion.

The border guard looked Frank up and down and carefully scrutinised every entry in the passport. Frank felt his heart begin to race. Was it possible, he wondered, that news of Breitner’s demise had already reached the southern border of the country? Was he already the subject of a manhunt? His fears appeared to be substantiated when the border guard disappeared down the corridor with his passport.

Frank sensed panic threatening to take hold as he considered his rapidly vanishing options. But he knew it was pointless trying to get off the train. He would have to bluff his way through somehow. A full ten minutes passed as he attempted to rehearse a credible story against the backdrop of a pulse rate so high that he could almost feel his heart pounding against the wall of his chest. All to no avail. The rehearsal proved unnecessary when the border guard returned. He handed the document back to Frank without another word and moved on to the next compartment. Frank slipped the passport under the cold metal of the firearm that still lay ready in his coat pocket.

After a further ten minutes or so, the train slowly pulled out of the station, across the Italian border and Frank started to relax. Until the train lurched to a stop again. It was the turn of the Italian border guards to demand his travel documents.

When the official in his navy uniform and jackboots appeared outside his compartment, Frank instantly reached into his coat pocket. But he was a little too ready to please. A touch too eager for his own good. In the meantime, the passport he had slipped into