The Dissonant Spies

Thursday, March 4, 1942 4:40 a.m. Fog partially obscured the seemingly deserted Sandy Hook, New Jersey beach as the rubber raft rolled in with the tide. Ninety minutes earlier a German U-boat had surfaced eight miles offshore to offload two passengers clad in wetsuits, fins, and toting duffel bags, along with $150,000 in U.S. and Canadian currency. Near the shoreline, both eased silently into the waist-high surf, pulled the small raft up onto the beach, deflated and folded it into quarters. “We’ll bury this under the pier,” Lukas Schott whispered in perfect, Boston-accented, English. The other nodded. Hillside houses across the narrow bay were dark. As the pair hastened across the loose, dry sand toward the pier, they observed a single parked car. Dozens of seagulls and smaller birds arose and flew away parallel to the water. Within a minute, the two stood underneath the pier, staring past the posts for a spot to bury the raft, as they removed their waterproof garments. Lukas moved away to urinate. Both were completely bald. One was a womanRebekka Bader. She leant down, unbuckled her duffel bag, grasped a short-handled shovel, began digging, then stopped when she heard a female giggle. She turned around to look. Less than twenty feet away a teenaged couple peered at them from a single sleeping bag. A young man covered his girlfriend’s mouth with his hand. “Sorry to disturb you,” Rebekka said, as she set down the shovel. Hers was an Alabama accent. “Nature called for my boyfriend. You know how that goes.” Lukas returned to his duffel bag and removed some clothing. “We got disoriented in the fog,” Rebekka said. “Where are we?” “Sandy Hook beach,” the teenaged boy replied. “Good Lord,” Rebekka said. “Did you hear that, sweetheart? You missed by two miles.” She laughed cheerfully. “My goodness gracious.” Lukas joined in. “I told you the tide seemed sideways.” “He wants to enlist in the Coast Guard... can you imagine?” she said. “She’s making me look real bad,” Lukas said. “Women are like that, you know.” He laughed. “You don’t have any hair,” the teenaged girl said. “You’re bald... both of you.” “Makes his preparation more realistic,” Rebekka replied. “Rather stunning, don’t you think? Our friends can’t get over it.” She spotted their clothes strewn beside the sleeping bag, stooped down to remove a dagger and a sweatshirt from her duffel bag, and approached the couple. “Did you get here in a boat?” she asked. “Harold drove,” the teenaged girl replied. “Not very far, though... three miles... we both live up the hill in Highland.” She glanced in that direction. “You don’t look old enough, Harold, to own a new car,” Rebekka said. “Ha ha ha. Does that look like a new car?” he asked, pointing to a 1928 Model A Ford parked beside the end of the pier. “It’s not mine, it’s my dad’s.” “Out on the town, huh?” she said. “Good for you, Harold. Let me show you something.” She fell on him, dagger in hand, and with one swift motion slashed his throat. The girl’s scream was shortened by a second blade stroke. They both lay dead. “Did you consider an alternative?” Lukas asked. “Americans kill Germans for no reason. We kill Americans for good cause. We got a car, didn’t we?” Rebekka replied. “Until these two are found.” “We’ll get another... then another.” Lukas located the car key and wallet in Harold‘s pants, while Rebekka wiped blood off the dagger, then zipped the bodies inside the sleeping bag. “Let’s wrap them around this post and mound it with sand,” he said. “It’ll take hours to find them.” Within minutes they accomplished the task, donned casual garments and jackets, stuffed paper documents into their waistbands, then headed for the dead boy’s car with their gear.