Cold War Trilogy - A Three Book Boxed Set: of Historical Spy Versus Spy Action Adventure Thrillers

by William Brown

  “But Comrade…”

  “But nothing. I created the Bruckner legend, and there are no holes in it. None! He was as pure as driven snow, a war hero with no Nazi ties. His U-boat vanished somewhere in the Baltic shortly after it left Königsberg and no one knows where it is. No one! So what can they prove? Nothing!”

  The German began to tremble. “You must pull me out, Comrade Varentsov. I’m not cut out for this kind of work. I try; I try, but my nerves… I just can’t take it, I can’t take it anymore. You must pull me out.”

  “Out? You mean out, like old Radetsky went out?”

  Friesemann saw it was hopeless. Varentsov would never let go now that he had his hooks in him. “But Comrade,” he begged. “Surely you see they will keep probing, digging and picking at me, asking more and more questions that I cannot answer. You must stop them. You must stop that American.”

  "Stop him? Stop him?” Varentsov sounded amused as he toyed with him. “There are many ways to ‘stop’ a man, Neptune. Do you want me to kill him? Is that what you’re asking? Maybe something subtle, like poison in his food? Or a quick whiff from a poison gas pen? No, like a good German, you want me to walk up and put a bullet in the back of his head. After all, this is New York, and I am sure no one would notice.” Varentsov’s eyes raked him. “Well, if that’s what you want, you’re a bigger fool than I thought. The man is undoubtedly an Israeli agent and he’ll be guarded.”

  “But what am I to do?” Friesemann pleaded.

  “Do? You’ll do precisely what you always do — nothing! If you get questions, brush them aside. You are Rear Admiral Eric Bruckner of the German Navy. So act like it, with typical German arrogance. As long as you do, and as long as you believe it, everyone around you will believe it too. If you stop believing it, if you stop playing the part for even a second, your lies will be as transparent as window glass.”

  “But the American knew! He looked me in the eyes and…”

  “Enough! Tomorrow you’ll leave here for Washington and on Saturday, you’ll get on your airplane and return to Germany as if nothing happened. But this is precisely the opportunity I’ve been waiting for. When you get home, I want you to contact your ‘other’ friends, the ones who wore silver death’s-head insignias on their uniforms."

  “The SS?” Friesemann stammered in disbelief. “That is insane! You want me to get mixed up with the SS? Think of the risks…”

  Varentsov’s eyes narrowed and Friesemann knew he had made another mistake. “Neptune, if you dare question my orders again, you will make another visit to the basement of the Lubyanka, and this time you won’t be coming back up. Do you understand me?”

  “Yes, yes, you are correct, of course, Comrade Varentsov,” he stammered. “One of my other tasks was to observe the Fascists and infiltrate their network if I could. You are absolutely correct. The hour is late, and I was wrong in my reaction.”

  Varentsov let him sweat a bit longer before he said, “That first year, after you returned to Germany, I always felt the Nazis kept an unusually close watch on you, but I never understood why. They asked numerous questions about your submarine and how it was sunk, but they never made any serious attempt to recruit you. That never made sense to me. Now we have the perfect opportunity to find out why.”

  “Yes, Comrade Varentsov. I see what you mean now.”

  “I’m sure you do,” Varentsov shot him a look of withering contempt. “Tell them that this American is blackmailing you with some horrible tales about war crimes. That’s a story they’ll accept easily enough. Better still, sound worried, as if it might actually be true. You can be embarrassed and circumspect, but hint that you sank a hospital ship, maybe a passenger liner, or you machine-gunned sailors in the water. They’ll like that even more. Then you can ask them to ‘stop’ this American for you. That will put you in their debt, so they’ll jump at the chance, I guarantee it.”

  “Yes, of course,” Friesemann nodded woodenly. “I’ll make the call.”

  “Good,” Varentsov dismissed him with a disgusted wave of his hand. “Now, scurry back to your hotel, ‘Herr Admiral.’ And you take care, take very good care; because if you make one more mistake, one more false step, it will be your last.”

  CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

  The early morning breeze in Central Park cooled their hot skins as Michael and Leslie jogged along the broad, winding footpath that ran around the lake. This was the third morning they had gone for a run in Central Park, mostly because there wasn’t much else for them to do. Manny said he would be back with some answers; but the late lunch that day ended up with the fat cop putting them up in a small mid-town hotel for a night, then for another night, and then a third. There had been that awkward moment when Manny called the hotel and asked for a room for two, and Michael had to correct him and insist on two rooms; but Manny’s concerns were over security, while Michael’s ran deeper. Leslie just thought it was funny. “You and me, this is getting awkward, isn’t it?” she whispered when Manny was at the desk. But that was how they ended up in a two-bedroom suite in a nondescript hotel on the upper west side with a quickly arranged security guard in the lobby.

  Awkward? That wasn’t exactly how he would have put it. Frustrating was more like it. Sharing a hotel suite wasn’t much different from the two bedrooms in her father’s small house in South Carolina, except this one had air conditioning. That didn’t make it any easier when he lay in bed thinking about her, unable to fall asleep. So Michael channeled his frustrations into long runs in Central Park and the Upper East Side; and Leslie came along, probably to make sure he came back.

  The winding walkways, patches of grass, shrubs, trees, and flowers helped him forget and pound out some of the anger that kept flaring up inside. Rhythm — that had always been the key. Synchronize the breathing. Measure each stride. Pump the arms like pistons. Feel it. Lose yourself in the rhythm… and forget. Forget the phony admiral in the hotel lobby. Forget the U-boat. Forget Königsberg. Forget Bruckner. Forget Eddie Hodge. Forget the anger. And forget the guilt. Sometimes it worked. Not today, though. Today, the anger and guilt were too damned strong for him to forget anything. All he saw was the fear hiding behind the eyes of that imposter in the hotel lobby. The “Admiral” looked like a cockroach caught on the kitchen floor when the lights came on, and that made Michael even angrier. Were Manny and the Washington brass protecting the German? Was that what was really going on here? All Michael needed was five minutes alone with him — five minutes and a pair of pliers — and he’d rip the truth out.

  Unfortunately, the “Admiral” had left New York two days before and moved on to Washington for more meetings, tours, and dinners, and he would be flying back to Bonn that evening. There was a photo in the Times of him standing in front of the US Capitol looking cool and calm, as if nothing had happened.

  “They’re letting that bastard slip away without making him explain a damned thing, aren’t they?” Michael shouted at Manny. “I knew it!” The fat ex-cop had stopped by to see them and found Michael packing. “We are wasting our time here,” Michael announced as he pointed at the newspaper story open on the bed. “There’s a train to DC in an hour. If I hurry, I can still catch him at the airport.”

  “No you can’t. He’s taking a military flight out of Andrews. They’ll never let you through the gate.”

  Michael stopped and glared at him, then threw his last shirt in the bag. “Okay, fine, you’ve kept me here long enough so he can get away. I guess that was the plan all along, wasn’t it?”

  “That isn’t what I was doing, Mike. Look…”

  “Fine! I’ll go by myself. My fault. I never should have let you keep me here; I should have gone after him two days ago.”

  “Then what? End up in a DC jail? Patience, my friend, a little patience.”

  “Patience? What about those ‘friends’ you told me about?”

  “They’re working on it. Gimme another day or two, huh?” Manny argued. “You won’t regret it.”

  That was
the most Manny would offer, but what choice did Michael really have? None. So he stayed for another day and went running with Leslie in the park. Still, the more he thought about the problem, all he got were more questions— questions, frustration, and more anger.

  “Hey, slow down!” Leslie’s pained voice called out from behind him as she labored to catch up. “Remember me? I’m the blonde with the short legs.”

  “I’m sorry, Les. My mind was somewhere else and I forgot,” he answered as he slowed to a walk.

  “Yeah, you forgot; nothing new about that. You’re sprinting again, damn it!”

  “Such language,” he turned to face her. “Do you kiss your father with that mouth?”

  Her eyes narrowed as she stopped next to him and gave him a look that could peel paint. “Kiss my father?” She stepped closer and poked him hard in the chest. “Kiss my father? You’re really looking for trouble, aren’t you?”

  She had the same eyes her older brother had, but she was taller, more filled out, and one hell of a lot better looking, especially standing there in a sweaty tee shirt and shorts. Finally, he put his arm around her shoulder and pulled her closer. “Sorry, Les. Sorry,” he said. She put her arm around his waist and her hand on his chest, and they walked up the path for a while like that.

  “We need to do this more often,” she told him, but he offered no reply.

  He felt as if he was falling off a cliff and there was absolutely nothing he could do to stop it. He was hopelessly in love with her. “If Manny doesn’t come up with something soon, we’re taking the train back south tomorrow.”

  “Anywhere you want, as long as you take me with you.”

  “I thought we were going to talk about that later,” he grumbled.

  “Okay. I can wait as long as you can, but don’t go running off and forget about me again, okay? I can put up with a lot of things, but not your forgetting about me. And by the way,” she stopped and made him look at her. “I’ve decided I’m not sleeping alone anymore; so plan on moving over tonight, because I’m coming in.”

  “That’s not a good idea, Les.”

  “It is to me. But we don’t actually have to DO anything, if you don’t want to.”

  “Don’t worry, we won’t!”

  “You know I never have, but I don’t care anymore,” she looked away, embarrassed. “I need to have you close. Can you understand that?”

  “And how long do you think that’s going to last?”

  “I don’t know and I don’t care. I’m not going to spend another night in the same house or some hotel suite with a wall between us anymore. And you don’t need to worry, Daddy knows all about it; I told him we’re sleeping together.”

  “You did? And what did he say?”

  “Daddy? He laughed and asked whether you knew about it. So, if you don’t want anything to happen, you’ll just have to control yourself.”

  “It isn’t controlling me that I’m worried about,” he mumbled.

  “Michael, just shut up. Do you have any idea how hard it is for me to say things like this? But it isn’t your decision anymore. I don’t know what happened to you or why. It probably has to do with the war and with Eddie; but you can’t seem to decide, so you’ve lost your chance. It’s my decision now.”

  “Leslie,” he said in frustration. “You don’t want me. I’m damaged goods.”

  “No, you’re not. I had plenty of boyfriends back home, the pick of the County, and I think I know a whole lot more about guys than you know about girls. Having you all to myself in the house and out in the boat every day, both of us on good behavior; well, that was good enough down there, but it’s not good enough anymore, and it has nothing to do with Eddie. I’m a grown woman, Michael, and I know what I want. I know what you want, too; so stop trying to talk both of us out of it.”

  “Leslie, it’s dangerous here. You should go back home ’til it’s over.”

  “No! I can take care of myself, and I’m not leaving you.” She took his hand and they set off running again but at a slower pace and side by side this time. It was the same path they took the two previous days, through the trees and open fields next to one of the main roads that looped through Central Park. Eventually, it brought them back to Fifth Avenue, where they sprinted across the street, dodging between the fast-moving cabs and buses, and then turned up a tree-lined street with brownstones on each side. Two blocks up, the street ended at a small neighborhood park, where they would turn and head back south to the hotel. There was a short-cut down a narrow alley that passed behind a row of restaurants and butcher shops. It was cool and dark. The old brick walls trapped the rich aromas from the previous night’s cooking, and the long lines of trashcans and dumpsters drew every cat in the neighborhood. These weren’t small house tabbies, either. They were big, raw-boned alley cats who defended their turf with loud hisses and flashing claws. Maybe they weren’t so different from the humans who shared the city, Michael laughed. It wasn’t always the big ones that got the best pieces; it was the hard, lean ones who saw what they wanted and took it. The others had to settle for leftovers.

  But as Michael and Leslie neared the alley that morning, someone had parked a blue delivery van across the entrance, nearly blocking their way. Michael slowed and let Leslie go on ahead as they dodged around the van’s rear bumper. As he did, he nearly collided with a man standing in the shadows. He looked to be an artist, a painter, holding a brush in his hand as he bent over an easel. The man had his back to them and a wide-brimmed straw hat on his head. Other than a fringe of blond hair beneath the hat, Michael never got a look at him as he ran past and entered the alley. Odd, Michael wondered, ignoring the faint peal of an alarm bell going off in his head; why would anyone paint back here in the shadows? But the thought quickly passed.

  Heinz Kruger remained bent over his easel, allowing the two joggers to pass before he took a quick glance up and down the street. Nothing. No police cars. Better still, no unmarked government cars and no watchers or minders; nothing but the morning honks and roars of a big city going to work. Perfect. He tossed the easel through the van’s open side door and fixed a hard stare on the Spaniard behind the steering wheel. His name was Esteban. He was fidgeting and sweating, clearly coming apart at the seams. Another goddamned amateur, Kruger swore to himself, and not to be trusted.

  “Stay here!” the German threatened as he pulled a 7.65 Walther PP automatic from the bottom of his paint box. It had a long, well-used silencer screwed to the end of the barrel. Even with the silencer, the Walther made a noticeable bark when fired, but it was unlikely that anyone would hear it in the alley. Still, the silencer looked positively wicked and that was its main purpose— to intimidate. “I’ll be back with Sanchez and the American in a minute or two, and you had better be here, ready to go, when I do!”

  “Damn that Steinhuber!” Kruger cursed under his breath. He was supposed to be Bormann’s top man in America. The Reichsführer ordered him to send two of his best operatives to meet Kruger on the docks in Philadelphia, where they took crew billets on an old tramp steamer making a quick trip up to New York to unload some cargo. His best men? They were Spaniards, supposedly combat veterans from Franco’s army in Spain. Combat veterans? This one, Esteban, had his fingers wrapped so tightly around the steering wheel that his knuckles were white. The other one was a fat lout named Sanchez. He was even worse. Old and slow, the only good thing about him was he was too stupid to be afraid.

  The hired help aside, Kruger had a bad feeling about this operation from the very beginning. It was slapped together without adequate planning, but Bormann refused to wait. Call it an infantryman’s sixth sense, but Kruger knew in the pit of his stomach that the smart play was to back off. They should watch the American for another day and wait for a better opportunity; but Bormann wouldn’t hear of a delay. Besides, an SS officer never retreats once he has committed, especially from two unarmed joggers in a back alley.

  As soon as Randall and the blonde woman entered the alley, Kruger
realized he had made a serious mistake. He should have placed himself at the far end of the alley, instead of relying on that idiot Sanchez to stop them. But if Kruger had done that, he would be leaving the two Spaniards back here with the van and his only means of escape. That would have been infinitely more stupid. Damn that Sanchez! How difficult could it be to stop the American, he kept asking himself. Kruger had given him a second Walther with a silencer. Randall had a woman with him and all Sanchez had to do was point his pistol at her, make Randall stop, and hold them there until Kruger arrived. Thirty seconds was all it should take. Kruger told Sanchez that Randall was not to be harmed, not yet anyway, not until he got him inside the van and had the chance to ask him a few pointed questions. Yes, he grinned, he would pry the secrets out of that cursed American’s head, slowly, one by one, while the Spaniards amused themselves with the girl. Sanchez would love that.

  So, Kruger turned and began jogging up the alley behind them, his Walther dangling casually at his side. It would be so simple, he thought, until he heard the unmistakable Pop! Pop! of a silenced automatic up ahead and a bullet grazed the wall next to him.

  “That fool!” Kruger swore as he took cover in a doorway.

  Leslie and Michael jogged side by side up the center of the alley, exchanging wary glances with the gang of big cats perched on the trashcans. The cats arched their backs and hissed, but it was all bluff. Puff yourself up. Show some teeth and claws. Cats or people, that was all it usually took; but the smile froze on Michael’s face when a thick stump of a man stepped into the alley not twenty feet ahead of them. The man’s skin was dark, and he had a thick mat of oily salt-and-pepper hair. Arab? Greek? Mexican? Hard to tell in that light, not that it mattered. The gunman held a semi-automatic pistol in his hand. That ruled out the Welcome Wagon, and the silencer at the end of the barrel ruled out a simple mugging.