Synopsis

It’s 1942, the middle of WWII. New York City is filthy with German spies. But the Abwher, the intelligence branch of the Nazi military, has a special mission for its most lethal and dangerous spy, and it has nothing to do with his passion for girls.

Breathe of the Flesh is a WWII period espionage novel about FBI agent Thomas Leopard’s tragic descent into failure and loss. He is drinking and suicidal, selfish, loathsome and hateful. And he has a killer loose in his city, a killer who favors innocent teenage girls. This killer is the German spy "Der Tiger", a man who has a taste for fresh blood in his coffee. He has been dormant up to that point of the war, when he comes up with his own plan to go to the Bureau of Engraving and Printing in Washington D.C. and steal the printing plates for U.S. currency. When he learns how closely he has been stalked and nearly caught by Leopard, Leopard’s own daughter becomes Der Tiger’s next target.

EXCERPT

Van Roeple looked back at the stairs.  Two transit cops were coming down,
followed by the mountainous street cop.  The stairway at the far end was clear. 
Still no sign of the man in the hat and coat.  He ran for the far stairs.



A transit cop was waiting at the top of the stairs, watching the faces of each
person who passed on his left and right.  Van Roeple’s throat tightened.  His
chest felt like it was going to explode.  He swallowed hard, forced himself to
be calm, and walked toward the cop behind a pair of chatting women in similar
hats, one green, one blue, avoiding the cop’s eyes.



“Hey, mister, hold up a second,” the transit cop said.



Van Roeple walked away.  He took his hands out of his pockets and slipped his
right hand into the left sleeve.  His fingers touched the handle of the
knife.



A hand closed on his left shoulder and pulled.



“Mister, I said hold up.  I wanna ask you some questions,” the transit cop
said.



Van Roeple turned quickly.  The narrow, thin blade was concealed by his long
sleeve.  He pushed it into the cop’s midsection.  His mouth opened to speak. 
His eyes were set in a stern glare.  He stopped with a jerk and looked down.



“What have you done?” he said.



His eyes softened and grew wide.  His mouth was still open, but his jaw went
slack.  He slumped forward.



“This man needs help,” Van Roeple shouted.



He stepped back and let the transit cop drop slowly to the ground on his face. 
Every person in the station turned to look.  Quickly they bunched around the
body, cutting Van Roeple off.  He walked to a stairway that led up to
daylight.



On the sidewalk again, he paused to look around.  In a second, an army of cops
would come up the stairs behind him.  In the next couple of days, every cop in
the city would be looking for him.  He had taken one of their own, and for that
they would make him pay.  But it wasn’t the cops he was worried about.  It was
the man in the gray hat and coat.  He needed someplace to hide.



There, across the street.  The Museum of Natural History.  He would hide
there.



Voices echoed from the stairway behind.  Van Roeple crossed the street and
joined a group of young students and teachers going into the museum.



The police were clumped at the top of the stairs to the subway.  The
mountainous street cop in his blue wool coat stood out amongst the transit cops
in their gray and blue.  He sent them in different directions and the cops
fanned out.  The man in the gray hat and coat was with them.  He stayed with the
street cop.  They spoke with each other, then the cop went off with the other
transit cops.



Van Roeple moved toward the museum entrance, clinging to the perimeter of the
students and teachers as if he belonged with them.  He glanced back across the
street out of the corner of his eye.



The one in the gray hat and coat was standing with his hands on his hips,
looking both ways.  He looked straight across the street.  His hands dropped
from his hips and he started across the street with long strides.  Van Roeple
broke away from the students and teachers and went into the museum.  The floor
of the lobby area was dark marble.  His wet shoes skidded.



Along the sides of the lobby, the walls were covered with murals.  To the left
was a gift shop.  Ahead, at the foot of a short flight of stairs leading to the
main gallery, a group of patrons was waiting in a huddle while a tour guide
spoke from the stairs.  The glass doors opened behind Van Roeple.  The students
and teachers flowed through like a flood of water from a broken dam.



The tour group was going up the stairs into the main gallery.  Van Roeple took
a step in their direction.  He could slip in with the tail of the group, but he
stopped.



A short, dark hallway ran along the side of the gift shop.  By the corner, a
woman was holding a little boy under the arms to take a drink from a water
fountain.  She set him down and took his hand and they went into the gift
shop.



Van Roeple went to the water fountain, bent over, twisted the handle and took a
drink.  He wiped a drop of water from his chin.  The man in the gray hat and
coat was not there yet.  No one was looking his way.  He slipped around the
corner into the shadows.



At the end of the short hall was a door with the word “Maintenance” on a
placque.  He tried the handle but it was locked.  He pressed his back against
the wall, closed his eyes and let out a long breath.  His hands were still
shaking.  He thrust them into his pockets.



The glass doors opened.  His head snapped around.  It was him.  Van Roeple
shrunk back into the shadows.



But his stalker was just a man, a man in his forties, with lines in his face
and gray in his hair.  He looked left and right and went on.



Van Roeple’s fists unclenched.  A calmness poured through his body, draining
the tension away.  The corners of his mouth curled up.  He peeked around the
corner.  The man in the gray coat was going up the marble stairs to the main
gallery.  Van Roeple’s grin grew wider.  He walked quickly to the nearest glass
door and slipped out.