“Then he must have been a very bright, as well as a very brash, young Jew, Herr Baron,” von Heurten-Mitnitz said.
“He explained to me that in order to preserve my ex-wife’s public reputation, it had been decided to send the boy out of the United States.”
“To you?”
“No. What he said was that Max Liebermann, who owned Continental Studios, wanted the best possible education for the boy. It turned out, by the way, that the young Jew lawyer was Liebermann’s nephew.”
“Was his name Liebermann?”
"No, Fine,” the Baron said. “Stanley S. Fine.”
“Go on,” von Heurten-Mitnitz said.
“It was put to me that Die Schule am Rosenberg, in Switzerland…”
He looked at von Heurten-Mitnitz, who nodded to show he knew about "Rosey.”
“… was the sort of place where Eric belonged,” Fulmar went on. “Fine solicited my influence in getting him admitted.”
“And did you use your influence to do so, Herr Baron?”
“Yes, I did. After consulting with some friends of mine in the Party, and with, of course, the Baroness.”
“Officially or unofficially?”
“At first unofficially, and then officially. It was necessary to settle the question of whether or not the boy was Aryan.”
“And?”
“My former wife is descended on both sides from good, solid, Silesian peasant stock. My son is unquestionably Aryan.”
“And how does that affect his standing in the Almanac de Gotha?”
The Almanac was a quasi-official publication listing royal and noble bloodlines.
The Baron gave him an icy look.
"It has not yet come up," he said. “If it does, and if he were a German, he would be in his own right Baron von Kolbe. And, of course, as my eldest male child, he is heir to my title.”
"Under German law, he is German,” von Heurten-Mitnitz said.
“As I said, Herr von Heurten-Mitnitz, so far as I know the matter has not come up.”
“Yes,” von Heurten-Mitnitz said. “So you got him into Rosey?”
“Not only that, but I paid for it. I couldn’t have it said that a Jew was paying for my son’s education, could I? I paid for it, and I was happy to do so.”
“Did you intend to finally bring the boy to Germany?” von Heurten-Mitnitz asked.
“That’s precisely what I had in mind,” the Baron said. Von Heurten-Mitnitz looked at him, waiting for amplification.
"On his graduation from Rosey,” the Baron went on, “I arranged for him to matriculate at Philips University in Marburg an der Lahn. As I had, and my father had. At some time during his college years, when it appeared to me that he was sufficiently mature to understand the circumstances, I planned to discuss his future with him. I had come to believe the best thing for him would be to enter military service, either with my regiment or perhaps even the Waffen-SS.”
“And your plans for him,”von Heurten-Mitnitz said dryly,“somehow went awry?”
“Since I was naturally unable to meet him when he came to the university, ” the Baron said,"I asked the manager of our plant in Marburg—we make ‘special’ aircraft engines there—to ease his path. The manager is also an alter Marburger. He went to the president of our Brüderschaft (fraternity) and explained the situation. Accommodation was arranged for him in the dormitory, that sort of thing, and he agreed to look out for him.”
“I see,” von Heurten-Mitnitz said.
“My son wanted nothing whatever to do with my Brüderschaft,” the Baron said.
“Excuse me?”
“My son appeared in Marburg in the company of a young Moroccan named Sidi el Ferruch, who was the son of the Pasha of Marrakech. They had been roommates at ‘Rosey.’ They arrived in a Delahaye touring car bearing diplomatic license plates. The car was driven by el Ferruch’s personal bodyguard. The bodyguard and el Ferruch’s manservant, as well as el Ferruch himself, were traveling on diplomatic passports. They were also armed.”
“Astonishing,” von Heurten-Mitnitz said.
“They established themselves in three connecting suites in the Kurhotel,” the Baron said. “And when my man finally found them there and explained to my son the arrangements we had made for him, my son announced that he was perfectly comfortable where he was. He had no intention of moving into a student dormitory or, for that matter, joining a Brüderschaft.”
“He was not quite what your man expected, eh?” von Heurten-Mitnitz chuckled.
“When I heard what had happened,” the Baron went on, ignoring the remark, “I simply made time to go to Marburg to talk to my son. I tried to explain that, while someone like el Ferruch might exempt himself from normal undergraduate customs and regulations, it behooved him to remember that he was my son, a von Fulmar, and was expected to behave as such.”
“I gather that he was not receptive?” von Heurten-Mitnitz said.
“He told me bluntly that he was an American and didn’t much care how Germans were expected to behave. As for behaving like a dutiful son, he told me it was ludicrous of me to suddenly appear out of nowhere and start acting like a father to him.”
Helmut von Heurten-Mitnitz shook his head sympathetically.
“I then told him I had no intention of maintaining him in a resort hotel and that he could either move into the student dormitory and do what he was told or leave the university. He actually laughed. It was all I could do not to slap his face.”
“He laughed at you?”
The Baron nodded.
“On his eighteenth birthday he had entered into a contractual arrangement with Continental Studios. So long as he remained outside of the United States and maintained an absolute silence regarding his relationship with Monica Sinclair, there would be deposited monthly to his account with Thos. Cook & Sons the sum of five hundred dollars, which would be more than enough for his personal expenses.”
“How difficult for you,” von Heurten-Mitnitz said.
“He went on to refuse any help from me in any way. He wanted no part of me, or of his German heritage. At that point, Herr von Heurten-Mitnitz, I am ashamed to tell you, I lost my temper.”
“You struck him?”
“No. But I called him ‘an arrogant, ungrateful bastard’ and told him that I washed my hands of him, once and for all.”
“And his response?”
“He told me to go fuck myself, is what he said.”
“I’m surprised you didn’t strike him,” von Heurten-Mitnitz said.
“During the entire conversation, el Ferruch’s bodyguard stood behind my son’s chair. He was an enormous Negro with a pistol in his belt. Frankly, I was afraid. Not so much physically, you understand, Herr von Heurten-Mitnitz, but because of the political and diplomatic ramifications of a confrontation with him. Because of his diplomatic status.”
Helmut von Heurten-Mitnitz managed to restrain a smile. His mind’s eye saw the Baron nervously eyeing N’Jibba, el Ferruch’s enormous, shining black Senegalese bodyguard. What had kept the Baron from doing something foolish was not his awareness of political and diplomatic ramifications, but a menacing robed character two meters tall and weighing 150 kilos.
“I gather the discussion concluded soon?” von Heurten-Mitnitz asked. “And that was the end of it?”
"It wasn’t the end of it, but yes, I left,” the Baron said. “As soon as I could, I discussed the situation with my legal counsel. He confirmed my belief that I had the legal right under German law to bring my son to heel. But he also pointed out that the matter wasn’t quite that simple. He therefore made a few discreet inquiries of highly placed persons within the Foreign Ministry and the Party.”
“And?”
“The matter came to the attention of the Foreign Minister himself, who thought it would be ‘ill-advised at the present time’ to either exercise my parental rights or to seek to have my son declared a German. Under American law, since he was born there, he is an American. The America
ns were liable to become highly indignant if a German court were to declare otherwise. ”
“And I would think,” von Heurten-Mitnitz added, “that others had in mind the possible usefulness of el Ferruch should war come and we find ourselves in possession of French Morocco.”
“I thought it might be something like that,” the Baron said.
“I was the German representative to the Franco-German Armistice Commission for Morocco,” von Heurten-Mitnitz said. “In that capacity, I came to know your son, Herr Baron.”
“Did you?” the Baron asked, surprised.
“Before we get into that, let me ask, how often did you see your son after your first encounter? Or should I say ‘confrontation’?”
“I never saw him again,” the Baron said firmly.
“And you had no idea that the last time he left Germany, he had no intention of returning? There was no telephone, not even a postcard?”
“I never had any contact with him after that meeting.”
“But you did pay his tuition at Marburg?”
“It was suggested to me that I do so,” the Baron said.
“And gave him an allowance of— How much was it?”
“Five thousand Reichsmarks monthly,” the Baron said. “But that, too, Herr von Heurten-Mitnitz, was at the recommendation of highly placed persons. ”
“So I understand,” von Heurten-Mitnitz said.
He fixed the Baron with a stern look.
“Herr Baron, it goes without saying that what I will now tell you is a state secret. You are to tell no one.”
“I understand,” the Baron said.
“There is reason to believe that your son is now connected with American military intelligence.”
The Baron’s face went white. “I can’t tell you how ashamed that makes me.”
Helmut von Heurten-Mitnitz let him sweat a moment.
“The information we have is considered highly reliable,” he said.
"Certainly, no one thinks—” the Baron began, and stopped.
“Certainty not,” von Heurten-Mitnitz said. “There is no suspicion that in any way reflects on your own loyalty.”
“Then… what?”
“It is considered possible that he will attempt to contact you, most probably through third parties, but perhaps in person,” von Heurten-Mitnitz said. “FEG is involved with much that is of interest to the Americans.”
“I must strenuously protest even the suggestion—”
“Herr Baron, there is no question whatever in my mind of your loyalty. But he is your flesh and blood!”
“If he is connected with American military intelligence,” the Baron said, “he is an enemy of the German state. That transcends anything else.”
“I am going to give you my private telephone number,” von Heurten-Mitnitz said. “And the private telephone number of Standartenführer Müller, who is handling this matter for the Sicherheitsdienst. If there is any attempt by your son to contact you, or if anything comes up that arouses your suspicions in any way, I want you to contact either of us immediately.”
“Yes, of course,” the Baron said.
Helmut von Heurten-Mitnitz wrote the numbers on the back of another of the calling cards identifying him as Brigadeführer SS-SD, and handed it to the Baron.
“Thank you for giving me your time at this period of grief,” he said.
"I thank you for your understanding, Herr Brigadeführer,” the Baron said.
The Baron, von Heurten-Mitnitz thought, is fully prepared to denounce his son to the authorities if given the chance. And Eric von Fulmar and Colonel William J. Donovan of the OSS certainly had known he would. What, then, is the meaning of the postcard from Eric von Fulmar asking that his father be given his regards?
“One final question, Herr Baron,” von Heurten-Mitnitz said. “Are you acquainted with Professor Doktor Friedrich Dyer?”
He saw on von Fulmar’s face that the question struck home.
“I am not personally acquainted with him,” the Baron said. “But he is, at the request of Reichsminister Speer, serving as a consultant to our Marburg Werke.”
“So I understand,” von Heurten-Mitnitz said smoothly. “But you’re not personally acquainted with him?”
“No,” the Baron said.
Von Heurten-Mitnitz now understood that the answers to the questions posed by the Bad Ems postcard had to lie with Professor Dyer of the University of Marburg, his relationship with the Fulmar Werke there, and most important of all, his relationship with Albert Speer. Müller was going to have to go to Marburg, while he himself tried to find out why Reichsminister Speer was interested in an obscure professor there.
VI<
Chapter ONE
The U.S. Navy
Bureau of Aeronautics
Washington, D.C.
31 December 1942
The second-ranking officer in the United States Navy was formally known as the Deputy Chief of Naval Operations (DCNO). The DCNO was a busy man.
When he had business, for example, with the Director, U.S. Navy Bureau of Aeronautics, the DCNO’s aide-de-camp would call the Director BUAIR’s aide-de-camp and tell him the DCNO wished to see the Director, BUAIR, and that if it was convenient, he would like to do so from, say, 1420 hours to 1445 hours on that day, or maybe the next. The DCNO’s aide-de-camp was very rarely told that the “suggested” time and date would be inconvenient.
The chain of command was considered very important to the smooth administration of the Navy Department in Washington. If the DCNO had business with a subordinate of the Director, BUAIR (which rarely happened) , the word would be passed through the Officer of the Director to the subordinate in question.
Lieutenant Commander Edwin Ward Bitter, USN, was aide-de-camp to Vice Admiral Enoch Hawley, USN, who was Chief, Aviation Assets Allocation Division, of the Bureau of Aeronautics. He was very surprised that the aide-de -camp of the DCNO would telephone his office at all, and even more surprised at the conversation that followed:
The DCNO wished to see the Chief AAAD as soon as it would be convenient. When would that be?
“I’m sure the admiral can be in your office in thirty minutes, Commander, ” Lt. Commander Bitter said. “Can you tell me anything that will help the admiral prepare?”
In other words, what does the DCNO want to know?
“The admiral will come to your office, Commander,” the aide-de-camp to the DCNO said. He then apparently consulted his watch. “It is 1455. The admiral will expect to be received by Admiral Hawley at 1525. Thank you very much, Commander.”
The phone went dead.
Bitter cocked his head in curiosity, then stood up from his desk and walked to Admiral Hawley’s open office door. The office was neither large nor elegantly furnished. The desk was wood, but it was scarred, and utilitarian rather than ornamental. An American flag and a blue flag with the three silver stars of a Vice Admiral hung limply from poles against the wall. On the desk were In and Out boxes and three telephones, and an old Underwood typewriter was on a fold-out shelf. Bitter knocked at the door.
Admiral Hawley, a silver-haired man in his late forties, glanced up and made a “come in” gesture with his hand. Then, as Bitter walked into the room, he returned his attention to the stack of papers on his desk, reaching several times from them to punch buttons on his Monroe Comptometer, then waiting with impatience as the automatic calculator clicked and spun through its computation process.
Finally, he looked up at Lt. Commander Bitter.
“Admiral, DCNO will be here at 1525. His aide just telephoned.”
"Here?” Admiral Hawley asked, demanding confirmation.
“Yes, sir,” Bitter said. “I told him that I was sure you could be in his office in thirty minutes, and he said DCNO would come here.”
Admiral Hawley made a strange noise, half grunt, half snort.
“Is the Chief still here?” he asked.
“No, sir. I gave him liberty,” Bitter said.
“Then I suppose you had better make a fresh pot of coffee,” the admiral said.
“Yes, sir.”
“Is there anything stronger around?”
“There is the emergency supply, Admiral,” Bitter said.
“This may qualify—I am presuming, Ed, if you knew what he wants, you would have told me—as an emergency.”
“I asked,” Bitter said. “He avoided the question.”
Admiral Hawley nodded.
“Make sure it’s available, and ice and glasses and soda, but don’t bring it out until I tell you to. The only reason I can imagine why he’s coming here is that he’s so ticked off at me that he doesn’t want to wait until I could get over there.”
“I’m sure it’s nothing like that, Admiral,” Bitter said.
“Then you enlighten me, Ed,” Admiral Hawley said.
Bitter thought about it and finally shrugged. He then went to prepare the coffee and to make sure the Chief had not made a midnight requisition upon the bottle of Scotch and the bottle of bourbon, the emergency rations, in the filing cabinet behind his desk.
Admiral Hawley stood up, pulled a thick woolen V-necked sweater off over his head, stuffed it in a cabinet drawer, and then put on his uniform blouse. After that, he made an attempt to make his desk look more shipshape than it did.
And then he stopped.
To hell with it. If I’ve done something wrong, it was an honest mistake, and I’ll take the rap for it. I am no longer a bushy-tailed ensign. For that matter, no longer a bushy-tailed captain. If the DCNO didn’t understand that my desk is crowded with stacks of paper and a clerk’s comptometer because I’m working, fuck him.
The door from the corridor was opened at 1523 hours by the DCNO’s aide-de-camp. The DCNO marched in.
“Good afternoon, Commander,” he said, and quite unnecessarily identified himself. He was a large man, tanned, who looked like—and indeed was—an ex-football player.
“Good afternoon, Admiral,” Bitter said. “Admiral Hawley expects you, sir, and has asked me to show you right in.”
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