It’s been nearly one year since the publication of my WW2 thriller, Stealth. I’ve been working on a couple of projects, including the prequel to Stealth, entitled: An Enemy Within. Yes! There will be a prequel. The story takes place several years earlier, but for fans of the first book, you’ll be pleased to hear that some of the characters do appear in the prequel.

I’d like to invite you to check out a snippet from the prologue, giving you a taste of what’s to come.

Prologue

London: 1943

The spy looked pleased. He was more than pleased. In fact, he was elated. He read the cable that had been passed on to him by a confidant, an underling. It seemed straight-forward enough. His office received hundreds of cables from various sources. To anyone looking over his shoulder it would have seemed innocuous enough. There was just one little oddity. This cable was in German and stemmed from Herr Forscher (Admiral Canaris— head of the German Abwehr.) He read it again.

            “Alles in Ordnung. Viel Glück mit deiner Forschung.” (All is in order. Good luck with your inquiries.)

Good luck. Canaris had used an old English expression – meant as a joke and directed at his subordinates to get attention. But there was no luck involved. The enormity of the task struck him, not suddenly like an Ohrfeige (a face slap) but gradually, slowly, like a shiver, it washed over him, like the tide outside his office window. Yes, he’d been given a great opportunity by his Nazi masters to obtain military information from the highest levels in the British War Office. But at what cost to him?

The spy leaned back, the chair creaking from a lack of lubrication in its springs. He glanced around at his sparsely furnished office, the lack of amenities producing a scowl; one reminiscent of a man who’d just witnessed the favourite in the Gold Cup race stumble, right itself yet lose by a nose. The chair creaked again, a little less sharply, as if trying to persuade him that it wasn’t part of the shabby furnishings.

Still, the spy wasn’t about to leave matters to chance, least of all by drawing attention to himself with the acquisition of expensive furniture, thus inviting scrutiny by the envious and less fortunate and having to answer awkward questions. At best, it would give him a modicum of satisfaction, but at worst, it could lead to a probe of his finances. No, he wasn’t about to let that happen.

Money. He smiled again. Yes, currency in British Sterling. The Nazis were paying him in British Pounds, which he’d cleverly stashed away, thus keeping up the appearance of a poorly paid civil servant.

He looked at the framed picture of Britain’s leader, Winston Churchill, and sneered at the man, whom he relegated to the inferior class of spoiled bureaucrats and politicians. The sneer faded, replaced by a faraway look, wherein he imagined what “jolly old England” would look like after Hitler’s invasion of the British Islands. Canaris had disclosed through a few trusted confidants that Hitler’s plan – should the proposed peace talks fail – was to encircle Britain and cut it off from the rest of the Western World, leaving the populace alone and desperate for survival. 

The Führer was just waiting for Göring, the Reichsmarshall, to assemble the necessary aircraft within the Luftwaffe so that Germany could achieve air superiority over the English Channel. Then the invasion, dubbed Operation Sealion, could then begin in earnest.

Barely suppressing a grin, he pictured the day when Churchill’s feeble resistance would capitulate and bow to the stronger side. His side. And when that happened, he would no longer have to hide behind his bourgeois façade but assume a rightfully promised plum position in the Third Reich. For a moment, he envisioned a portrait of Hitler hanging not just on his wall, but on every wall of government buildings. He smiled again.