Double Vision. Fiona Brand

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       Praise for Body Work

      “Body Work is the kind of book that sucks you into the pages and won’t let you go until the end. It’s edgy and different, with a strong hero and heroine who don’t fit the usual mould.” —Bestselling author Linda Howard

      “Brand tells a disturbing, engrossing tale of

      murder and madness, adding her own unique touches of eroticism and humour. An excellent read.” —Romantic Times BOOKreviews

      DOUBLE VISION

      FIONA BRAND

      

www.mirabooks.co.uk

      To Robyn and Don, and Keith and Daphne,

      who truly gave me my start in writing. Thank you for all the years of support and friendship, the teaching and advice, the cups of tea, the shared meals and those wonderful weekends at the Kara School of Writing.

      Thank you to Jenny Haddon, a former bank

      regulator, for her invaluable advice and her fascinating insight into the world of international banking, Eileen Wilks for giving me the inside running on how to get a driver’s licence in Texas, and Claire Russell of the Kerikeri medical centre for help with the medical details. Thank you also to Miranda Stecyk of MIRA Books for her editorial expertise and direction, and some really great ideas that helped make this story sing. You ladies are fabulous!

      Contents

       Praise Title Page Dedication Part 1 Prologue Chapter One Chapter Two Chapter Three Chapter Four Chapter Five Chapter Six Chapter Seven Chapter Eight Chapter Nine Chapter Ten Part 2 Chapter Eleven Chapter Twelve Chapter Thirteen Chapter Fourteen Chapter Fifteen Chapter Sixteen Chapter Seventeen Part 3 Chapter Eighteen Chapter Nineteen Chapter Twenty Chapter Twenty-One Chapter Twenty-Two Chapter Twenty-Three Chapter Twenty-Four Chapter Twenty-Five Chapter Twenty-Six Chapter Twenty-Seven Chapter Twenty-Eight Chapter Twenty-Nine Chapter Thirty Chapter Thirty-One Chapter Thirty-Two Prologue Copyright

      Part 1

      Prologue

       December 1944, Lubeck, Germany

      The steel arm of a crane, pockmarked by rust and salt, swung across the frigid decks of the Nordika. A heavy crate, a swastika and a number stenciled on the side, hung suspended, straining at aging steel hawsers as the freezing northerly gale increased in intensity.

      Gaze narrowed against the wind, Erich Reinhardt, captain of the cargo vessel, watched as the delicate process of lowering the crate into the hold commenced. Loading cargo under these conditions was an act of stupidity; putting out to sea was nothing short of madness, but lately, everything about Germany was madness. To the east, Russians were massing along the border. In the west, the British and Americans had launched their offensive. There was no heating, no food; his family was starving and they all lived in fear that British and American bombers would kill them while they slept. For months he had expected to die that way or, failing that, to be torpedoed at sea. Perhaps that was better than a bullet in the brain from a cold-eyed Schutzstaffel.

      “How much longer?”

      The question from the SS officer who had commandeered his ship was curt, but there was no disguising the accent. Bremen, maybe, Hamburg at a stretch, and straight off the docks. Himmler might be scraping the bottom of the barrel with this one, but Reinhardt still had to be wary. Oberleutnant Dengler might have working-class roots, but he knew ships and had taken control of the Nordika with ease. “Fifteen minutes, maybe half an hour if the conditions become more difficult.”

      And Reinhardt expected the weather to deteriorate. A storm front had been pounding the coast all day; a Force ten gale was predicted before dawn. He watched as another crate was lowered into place. Garish spotlights lit up the feverish activity in the hold and on the dock as the final truck was offloaded, a stark contrast to the blackout of the city behind, and all along the coast. Even the navigation lights along the channel were turned off. Loading cargo was dangerous, but attempting to navigate the channel in this weather, with no lights, was tantamount to suicide.

      Dengler strode to the railing and roared an order.

      The doors of a truck were flung open. Seconds later, people poured out—passengers, Reinhardt realized—and began to embark.

      The first was a tall, elegant woman, bent against the wind as she clutched a baby to her chest and held the hand of a toddler. A group of older children followed, hustled on by a straggling group of women and the tall, authoritative figure of yet another SS officer. Counting the two who held his crew at gunpoint in the dining room and the four supervising the loading of the cargo, that brought the total number of SS officers on the Nordika to eight; more than Reinhardt had ever seen in Lubeck at any one time, and seven more than was needed to keep him and his aging crew in check.

      A small girl, blond ringlets streaming from the hood of an expensive fur-trimmed coat, stopped when she reached the top of the gangplank and stared up at Reinhardt, her gaze expressionless, before she was hustled below.

      The wind picked up, scattering ice. Cold stung Reinhardt’s cheeks and flowed