After Klausener hung up, Gerlach muttered to himself, “Ach! Verdammter Schweinhund!” What a moron. He couldn’t call Basel, where it was too late, and besides, placing an international telephone call was complicated these days.
Finally he strode up to one of the black-uniformed SS officers who were loitering outside the entrance to the hall. His stomach constricted as he approached, but he reminded himself that, in his gray suit and tie, he looked utterly dignified.
The SS man was in black, head to toe: black tunic, black leather buttons, black tie, black breeches, and black jackboots. On his right forearm were the letters SD, enclosed in a silver diamond. The three plaited parallel silver threads on his shoulder tabs and the badge on his collar patch indicated that he was an SS Sturmbannführer.
“Forgive me for disturbing you, Herr Sturmbannführer, but I need your assistance.”
Frau Eva Hauptman noticed that her best friend, Mitzi-Molli Krüger, was acting a bit superior. The box in which they sat, which belonged to the Hauptmans, seemed positively cavernous without their husbands. Maybe that was why she was paying more attention to Mitzi-Molli than she might normally have. Mitzi-Molli’s air of superiority rankled her, and the worst thing about it was, Eva couldn’t say anything about it. She knew what Mitzi-Molli was thinking—she’d known the woman long enough, since finishing school in Hannover. Mitzi-Molli had taken pleasure in Eva’s humiliation. She was always jealous of Eva anyway—of Eva’s beauty, even her choice of a husband—so it must have given her no small pleasure to see her friend embarrassed that way: Imagine, that cad had pretended not to know her! He couldn’t have forgotten her—in Paris they’d had a brief but ardent affair, and Eva Hauptman was a vixen in bed: men did not forget her.
No, Daniel Eigen hadn’t forgotten her, of course—but why had he pretended not to know her?
Maybe he was here with another woman—that would explain it—yet she hadn’t seen him talking with a woman. He was talking to some boring-looking Tunte, with not a woman in sight.
Eva began thinking about how to let Mitzi-Molli know about Daniel Eigen’s rakish reputation. Eigen, she would explain to Mitzi-Molli, must have been embarrassed to see her, given how passionate their relationship had been; surely he was still in love with her, and no doubt he was at the ballet with another woman. That was why he had acted so strangely!
As she was about to turn to Mitzi-Molli and casually, ever so casually, say a few words about Daniel Eigen, the door to the box opened. The women turned to see a black-uniformed SS man standing there.
The SS men always made her uneasy, even though her husband was highly placed in the Reich. They were arrogant, drunk with power, and they really didn’t know their place. She had heard far too many stories of people from good families, well-connected society people, who had been taken in to the SS headquarters in Prinz-Albrechtstrasse, never to return.
The SS man pointed at her and began speaking, rudely and without even introducing himself. “Can you come with me, please,” he said.
“Excuse me?” Eva replied in her haughtiest voice.
“We need to clear something up.”
“The ballet is about to begin,” Eva said. “Whatever you want, it can wait until later.”
“It’s a matter of utmost urgency,” the SS man said. “You greeted a man in the lobby—an American.”
“He’s not American, he’s Argentine. What about him?”
Nazi Germany’s security service, the Reichssicherheitshauptamt, was divided into seven distinct departments. One of them, Department VI—in charge of foreign intelligence and counterespionage—was so large that it had its own headquarters building, a modern four-story building located at Berkaerstrasse 32, at the corner of the Hohenzollerndamm.
Less than one hour after SS Sturmbannführer Rudolf Dietrich placed an urgent call from a special SS call box on Unter den Linden, in front of the opera house, a senior official knocked on the door of the chief of Department VI and entered the corner office. Both men worked long hours, but the department chief, SS Oberführer Walter Rapp—at thirty-two, the youngest department chief in all of the SS—seemed never to leave his office. Rapp prided himself on his attention to the smallest detail. He read every intelligence report, vetted all major expenses, even ran his own agents. He was said to have an ear up to every wall.
The junior man, SS Standartenführer Hermann Ehlers, spoke quickly, because he knew that his chief had little patience for interruptions. When Ehlers had been speaking for no more than a minute or two, Rapp broke in.
“This American—if he was exposed by SD Paris, why was he in Moscow?”
“I’ve searched the card files myself, and I don’t know much more than bits and pieces, sir. I know he killed several of our men in Paris after his réseau was eliminated.”
“His real name?”
“Stephen Metcalfe. He works for an American espionage ring founded by a spymaster named Corcoran.”
“Corcoran’s name I know.” Rapp sat up, now intent on the junior man. “I have my own lines into Corcoran’s ring. What do you know about what he was doing in Moscow?”
“Very little. But I have the summary here of the agent report dispatched by our asset in the Lubyanka. The NKVD detained Metcalfe and put him through a lengthy series of interrogations.”
“And?”
“The interrogations were not successful. Metcalfe was released.”
“Why?”
“I can only read between the lines. He seems to have manipulated his investigator, led him to believe that he was working for Beria.”
“Is he? Was he?”
“That’s very likely a lie he concocted, though Beria has not been asked directly. No one dares. The point is, his is a case that is of personal interest to Gruppenführer Heydrich, a matter of the highest priority.”
“Heydrich? How do you know this?”
“The SD agent assigned to eliminate Metcalfe is a favorite of Heydrich’s, a fellow violinist and a ruthless bastard—”
“Kleist, surely. It can be no one else. And the American still lives?”
“Heydrich wanted the American flushed out, followed, his business in Moscow investigated. But now, of course, Heydrich wants the American out of the way.”
Oberführer Rapp thought for a moment. “Call him in. If what I hear about Kleist is accurate, I have a feeling he’ll be happy to complete his assignment. Does Metcalfe have any known contacts here, any acquaintances?”
“There is a banker. A Tunte, a queen, named Gerlach.”
“A sexual connection?”
“No. Gerlach is the one who reported his suspicions about Metcalfe. The American arrived in Berlin earlier today under the cover of a banker with the Bank for International Settlements in Switzerland. He met with Gerlach a few hours ago.”
“He’s staying where?”
“The Adlon. We’ve already had his room searched. Undercover Gestapo agents have been stationed at the Adlon waiting for his return.”
Rapp grunted an acknowledgment of Ehlers’s fast work. “He will be seeing Gerlach again?”
“Presumably. Gerlach will cooperate, of course.”
“Other known contacts?”
Ehlers hesitated for a moment. “I ran a thorough crosscheck,” he said with scarcely concealed pride, “and Metcalfe’s name came up in another card file. Apparently a minor Foreign Office diplomat in Moscow named von Schüssler filed a routine contact-with-foreigner report. He encountered and had a brief conversation with Metcalfe. Von Schüssler was also questioned by Kleist in Moscow.”
“Really? I know of von Schüssler—at least, of the Schloss von Schüssler.”
“So he’s a rich man.”
“Extremely. He’s in Moscow, you say?”
“Actually, he’s on leave for a few days here in Berlin.”
“Most interesting coincidence. Perhaps there’s nothing in it, but this is a lead that must be explored. I’d like you to contact this Kleist and send him around to von Sc
hüssler’s residence at once.”
“Yes, sir.”
“We must cover all possibilities. It goes without saying that a matter of top priority to Gruppenführer Heydrich is of top priority to us, too. The American will not leave Berlin. It’s as simple as that.”
Chapter Thirty-five
The Schloss von Schüssler was nestled in the thick, dark pine forests about thirty kilometers northwest of Berlin. It protruded from a mountaintop, with its battlements and conical turrets of ancient stone, its steep red stone roof and ancient white stone walls, looking precisely like the fourteenth-century castle-fortress it was. Centuries ago, the von Schüsslers had been Free Knights of the Empire, a status greater than any noble title, though the title of Graf, or count, was bestowed upon one of Rudolf von Schüssler’s illustrious ancestors in the early nineteenth century. The estate had been in the family for centuries, and though it had not served as a true fortress since medieval times, its fortifications remained intact.
Kundrov had given Metcalfe directions to the von Schüssler family estate. While the Russian made preliminary arrangements, Metcalfe had bought a car off of a downtrodden-looking German several blocks from Unter den Linden. The German had been parking his beat-up Opel Olympia when Metcalfe had approached and, in his best, most colloquial German, had offered close to a thousand Reichsmarks, far more than the vehicle was worth. Money was tight in Berlin these days; the German seemed surprised at the generosity of the offer and had hastened to turn over the keys. Only when Metcalfe was driving up the mountainside to von Schüssler’s schloss did he see why the German had been in such a hurry to sell his Opel. Not only was the car underpowered, but it had all sorts of transmission problems; the car shivered and shuddered as it climbed the mountain to the schloss, to an extent that Metcalfe feared he wouldn’t make it.
On the way he managed to buy a pair of Zeiss binoculars for bird-watching as well as some Tyrolean-style clothing, all loden-green and gray boiled wool. By the time he arrived at the schloss—parking the Opel in the woods, out of sight—he was attired as a bird-watcher. It was early evening, however: not a plausible time of day for any legitimate birder. But his cover was better than nothing, and as long as he didn’t linger, he would have time to conduct a brief surveillance. Ideally, if he could enter the schloss undetected, he could find a place to hide and then meet up with Lana later in the evening.
But after circling the schloss, he determined that the obstacles to penetration were formidable indeed. The stone walls were high and smooth, and inside the walls roamed trained German shepherd guard dogs. The fortress mentality was probably more a matter of style than of necessity. It was the way rich Germans liked to live, a symbolic display that had practical uses in wartime. Metcalfe attempted to scale the walls at one point, which set off the dogs, who obviously smelled him. Rather than risk alerting the castle’s caretakers—von Schüssler himself was still at the Opera House, but he would have staff in residence—Metcalfe dropped back to the ground and returned quickly to his car. But he had seen enough to know that climbing into the grounds would be difficult to the point of impossibility. At the main entrance to the schloss were massive tall iron gates, where more German shepherds, and even more Doberman pinschers, growled menacingly as he drew near. Only authorized vehicles would be permitted to enter. Not far from the main schloss building was a brick carport where a stunningly beautiful Daimler saloon was parked. It obviously belonged to the master of the house. As Metcalfe watched from behind a broad oak tree, he saw a man emerge from the side of the schloss, dressed in the livery of a chauffeur. He stopped for a moment, seeming to observe the dogs growling.
Metcalfe tensed. The driver must have been alerted by the disturbance. If he came to investigate, Metcalfe would have to run through the woods without being seen. But he waited to see what the chauffeur would do.
The uniformed man pulled out a small silver whistle and blew into it. Immediately the dogs stopped their growling. Metcalfe breathed a sigh of relief. The driver must have assumed that it was some animal that the dogs were growling at.
A few minutes later, Metcalfe returned to Berlin, driving down Unter den Linden to the Staatsoper, then pulling around to the rear of the building. He did not have to wait long before von Schüssler’s Daimler—ivory with black trim, its tall radiator grille distinctive, its interior cream leather and walnut burl—pulled up near the stage entrance. After a few minutes, the liveried driver, the same one Metcalfe had seen calling off the dogs at the schloss, got out of the car and lit a cigarette. Leaning against the building, he smoked placidly, waiting for his employer and his employer’s lady friend.
Kundrov, who made it his business to know Lana’s whereabouts at all times, had told Metcalfe that the chauffeur had earlier brought Lana and von Schüssler’s bags to the schloss. Kundrov also reported that von Schüssler was inside the Staatsoper, standing by the dressing rooms, bearing an armful of poppies. Hearing that, Metcalfe was embarrassed by his feelings of jealousy. It was ridiculous, of course; she detested the man. But still . . .
He checked his watch. The performance should be just about over by now. Lana would emerge, probably with von Schüssler, and together they would get into the Daimler. The trick was for Metcalfe to catch her eye first, let her see him without von Schüssler seeing him as well. He had to get a note to her, somehow arrange a rendezvous. He had considered and rejected the idea of giving the driver a note to hand to her—the chauffeur worked for von Schüssler, so he would be loyal to the German and might instead give any such note to his employer. No, the only way to get a message to Lana safely was to hand it to her himself as she exited the theater.
Unless . . . There were other ways. A delivery boy could run up, hand her a bouquet of flowers, a note inside. Yes. That could work. He looked around and noticed that the chauffeur was walking toward the stage entrance. Why? To greet von Schüssler there? Metcalfe hadn’t noticed anyone coming out; had the driver seen something Metcalfe hadn’t? Then he overheard the driver speaking to the guard attending the stage door. A snatch of German floated toward him: “die Toilette.”
Metcalfe looked at the unattended Daimler and made a snap decision.
It was an idea, perhaps a crazy idea . . . but if it worked, it would solve the problem of how he and Lana could meet.
He raced toward the rear of the Daimler, pushed the trunk release, and lifted the lid. The roomy trunk was empty, lined with carpet, and immaculate. There weren’t any bags, because Lana and von Schüssler had already sent them ahead. The only thing in it was a folded blanket.
He looked around; no one was in sight.
If he did this, he would have to move fast . . . now!
He climbed into the trunk, then pulled the lid closed. The latch snapped shut, and he was in darkness. He rolled over to one side of the compartment, reached for the blanket, pulled it over him.
If everything went well . . . if . . . the trunk would not be opened: there was no reason for anyone to open it. Until they reached the schloss and von Schüssler, Lana, and the driver got out. A few minutes later, once he was sure there was no one around, Metcalfe would open the trunk from the inside and climb out. It was a bold maneuver and risky, yet it was the best way to reach her.
If everything went well. If the trunk was not opened.
And if it was? He had a gun, provided for him by Chip, and would use it if he had to.
He felt around the pitch-black interior of the trunk, shifted his body until he could reach the top of the trunk lid, feeling for the trunk-release lever.
There was nothing there.
Only smooth enameled steel.
There was no trunk release! He was flooded with panic. How the hell was he going to get out of here? He was locked inside!
Metcalfe could smell the fuel exhaust from the idling car, the gases filling the space in which he was coiled. People could pass out, even die, from breathing a car’s exhaust fumes.
He ran his hands frantically over the trunk’s
interior, searching desperately for a lever, a knob, anything that would pop open the trunk. But there was nothing—nothing but smooth steel.
Christ on a raft!
He was trapped!
The violinist parked his car by the circular drive and walked slowly toward the schloss, taking in the medieval architecture with a gimlet eye. It was impressive, to be sure, but he had seen much finer.
The news that his prey was in Berlin—had come to Kleist’s hometown!—was an invitation, a provocation, impossible to resist. The violinist did not like to leave business unfinished.
He rang the bell, and the mammoth wooden door was opened by a wan gray-haired manservant.
“Herr Kleist? Darf ich Sie bitten, nährer zu treten?” The head butler, who had already been told to expect the SD man, asked him to enter in the excessively formal manner that one would use with a tradesman. It was a deliberate snub, but Kleist ignored it.
“Is your master here?” Kleist asked.
“No, sir, as I told your boss—”
“He’s not my boss. When are you expecting von Schüssler?”
“Graf von Schüssler is not expected for two hours. He is in Berlin, at the opera house.”
“Have you had any visitors?”
“No.”
“Are von Schüssler’s wife and children in residence?”
“No,” the butler answered huffily. “They are on holiday in the mountains.”
The violinist paused for a moment, took in the dank, fungal odors of the old castle, the fetid smell of ancient stone mixed with the must of decomposing organic material. On top of it was the smell of cleaning fluids, of silver polish and furniture oil, and a faint trace of a female perfume. The only male smells were that of der Hausdiener and the ammoniac, perspirant smell of a laborer. Not von Schüssler. The female smells were not strong, indicating that the family members were indeed absent, had not been here for several days.
The Tristan Betrayal Page 43