The Gemini Agenda

by Michael McMenamin

  THE telegram was from Berlin. Fritz von Thyssen—not the city. The telephone was located in the sitting room, looking out over the enclosed porch onto the North Sea. Sturm sat down, called the operator and placed a call to the private line he’d memorized years before and waited for the other line to pick up. Through the window, he saw his mother sitting with Franka on the hilltop as Storm sat quietly beside them, resting from his foray on the beach.

  “Kurt,” a familiar voice answered. “Thank you. I’m sorry to have interrupted—”

  “I read the telegram,” Sturm said tersely. He didn’t have the energy to maintain his usual pretense of deference. “Apologies accepted. Go on.”

  “Manhattan needs you,” Berlin said, taking Sturm’s cue. “He wants you to take over.”

  “Why?”

  “I’m afraid Bruno was not successful in New York.”

  Berlin’s words reached him through the telephone like a punch in the stomach. “That’s impossible,” Sturm said. “What happened?”

  “Bruno’s primary target fled the country before he could begin his operation.”

  “Then it was out of Bruno’s hands. Let him pursue the target. I’m on holiday,” Sturm said, not bothering to hide the edge in his voice. “You told me the Executive Committee of the Geneva Group approved my recommendation of Bruno.”

  “Manhattan specifically asked that you now supervise the operation. Geneva approved his use of Bruno but he does not consider this assignment as one being conducted under Geneva’s auspices,” Berlin said. There was the rub, Sturm thought and he didn’t like it. He was not hired help to serve at Manhattan’s beck and call. “He asked me to appeal to you directly.”

  “Bruno can handle it,” Sturm said, speaking to himself as much as to Berlin.

  “If you were just to help Bruno, work as a team as you have for so many years—”

  “No.”

  “But the target has fled to Germany,” Berlin said. “It would take only a few days out of your holiday and you would be back home by mid-week. And generously compensated.”

  “I haven’t seen my family in over a year and now you’re asking me to leave them again,” Sturm said. “How will you compensate me for that?”

  Berlin exhaled on the other end of the telephone. Sturm could tell he was growing frustrated. Too bad. “Kurt, we must not alienate Manhattan. You know that. Milan is only a few persuasive words away from joining us. With Milan, we would control three fifths of the Executive Committee. That will permit us even greater influence within the Geneva Group to put a real leader in as Chancellor, one who will guide Germany back to greatness. We both know von Schleicher is not that man. Isn’t that why you’ve sacrificed all these years?”

  Berlin’s voice was almost pleading. “If we lose Manhattan, we lose our most important ally and we are thrown back to the beginning at the most crucial moment. Manhattan is not from Germany. The stakes are not the same for him. We cannot afford to lose him. Please, Kurt, as a favor to your old mentor. I need you to take over. Germany needs you. Herr Hitler needs you.”

  Outside, Sturm saw that his mother had left Franka by herself on the hillside looking out onto the North Sea. She had grown so fast. And she was so indescribably beautiful.

  Sturm closed his eyes.

  “Who is the target?”

  “Manhattan’s wife.”

  Sturm opened his eyes wide. My God! Manhattan’s wife! Thank heaven Bruno had failed. Because Kurt von Sturm knew Manhattan’s wife. Intimately.

  “I’ll call you back,” Sturm said and disconnected the telephone line.

  “Will you be going away?”

  He was startled by the voice of his mother, unaware that she had been standing at the entrance to the sitting room, watching him. He looked out the window. Franka still sat outside with Storm, listening to the surf. Sturm rose from his seat and walked over to his mother.

  “Only for a few days,” Sturm said, taking hold of her arms. “But you will hear from me shortly and I am going to need your help. You must follow whatever instructions I give you without question or hesitation. Do you understand?”

  She looked at him with sad eyes, as though seeing a different man than her only son. “Who is to die this time?” she said.

  “No one, mother,” Sturm said, truthfully. “Not if I can help it.”

  Kurt von Sturm would not allow the wife of Manhattan to die at the hands of his friend and protégé Bruno Kordt. To do so would not be honorable. And Kurt von Sturm was an honorable man. He could not—and would not—permit Ingrid Waterman to be killed.

  PART II

  America and Germany

  21 May — 28 May 1932

  Racial hygiene in Germany remained until 1926 a purely academic and scientific movement. It was the Americans who busied themselves earnestly about the subject.

  Reinhold Müller, 1932

  [T]he parallel development of political and scientific ideas is not by chance but rather by internal necessity. We geneticists and racial hygienists have been fortunate to have seen our quiet work in the scientific laboratory find application in the life of the people.

  Doctor Otmar Freiherr von Verschuer

  31.

  What List?

  The Brown House

  Munich

  Saturday, 21 May 1932

  ERNST “Putzi” Hanfstaengl’s palms were sweaty and he reproached himself for being nervous. After all, he had known Adolf Hitler for over eight years and, unlike the sycophants around him, Putzi was not a member of the Nazi party. Nor did he refer to Hitler as “mein Fuhrer,” as did everyone else. No, Putzi contented himself with a simple “Herr Hitler.” Nevertheless, Hitler had summoned him to an audience at the former Barlow Palace, now called the Brown House, Nazi party headquarters. While he was flattered, he was also apprehensive.

  Putzi looked at his watch and glanced around the antechamber. He smiled to himself. The gleaming marble, the polished wood and the brass fixtures seemed very much at odds with the “Socialist” and “Workers” portion of the Nazi party’s full name.

  It well could be, Putzi thought, that Hitler simply wanted his advice. After all, he basically served as Hitler’s unofficial foreign press secretary. With an American mother and having been schooled at Harvard, Putzi spoke fluent, unaccented English. Indeed, he had introduced Hitler to the wealthy circles in which Putzi had traveled since childhood. He even introduced him to his own tailor so that the Nazi chief no longer wore ill-fitting suits which made him look like the son of an Austrian customs official. Which he was. Now, Hitler wore white tie and tails with the best of them at the opera or glittering dinner parties.

  Putzi knew that other Nazi leaders in Hitler’s entourage laughed at him behind his back and, occasionally, Hitler would do so to his face. Putzi took it all in good humor. He was a big man, well over six feet tall, with swept-back black hair and he towered over Hitler and the other Nazis in height as well as class.

  Come the fall, however, no one would dare laugh at him again and even Hitler would cease poking fun. Because, by that time, he would be able to casually let it drop that he was a personal friend of the President of the United States as they had been classmates together at Harvard where Putzi knew him as “Frank”. Franklin D. Roosevelt’s election as president, of course, wasn’t a sure thing. First, he had to be nominated but, as governor of America’s largest state, he clearly had the inside track. And America’s economy was so bad and not getting better that once Frank secured the nomination, he was as good as in. Hoover was a dead duck.

  A friend of the American President and a confidante of Germany’s next chancellor. No one would be laughing at him then. In fact, when Hitler came to power, as Putzi knew he would, perhaps being named German ambassador to America might well be in his future.

  A buzzer sounded. “Yes. At once, mein Fuhrer” Hitler’s blond, male secretary Friedrich Heinz said. Placing down the phone, he looked across at Putzi. “You may go in now, Herr Hanfstaengl. Der Fuhrer is re
ady to see you.” There was a note of deference in his voice, which Putzi appreciated. Not only was Hitler’s new secretary a poster child for Aryan supremacy, but he was respectful of his betters. Heinz was a good man.

  Putzi thanked him and walked through the door into Hitler’s spacious office.

  Hitler, of course, was not really ready for Putzi. Half-moon spectacles on his nose, he was engrossed in reading the sheet of paper in his hand and did not even look up when his secretary announced “Herr Hanfstaengl to see you, mein Fuhrer.”

  Putzi approached the desk and stood there, hands behind his back like a schoolboy summoned to the headmaster’s office, and waited. A good two minutes passed before Hitler looked up and appeared surprised to see Putzi in front of his desk. Taking off the glasses, which he never used in public, Hitler smiled and stood up.

  “Putzi, my old friend, how good to see you,” Hitler said as he grabbed Putzi’s big right hand in both of his and held it warmly, his vivid blue eyes locking onto Putzi’s. “I am so pleased that you could take time from your busy schedule to come in for a chat.”

  Putzi preened at Hitler’s stroking. “Thank you, Herr Hitler. I always have time for the future chancellor of Germany, the man destined to be the Fatherland’s savior.”

  Hitler smiled and, preliminaries over, motioned Putzi over to a sofa covered in leather the shade of oxblood. Hitler took a seat in a straight-backed wooden chair.

  Putzi took the proffered seat and once more smiled to himself. Hitler always sat him on that sofa because, with Hitler in the straight-backed chair, his head was now higher than Putzi’s whose ample posterior had sunk several inches into the sofa’s soft leather cushion.

  “Please give me your assessment, Putzi, of where the industrialists and the Conservative and Nationalist parties stand today.”

  So Putzi began to tell Hitler what he thought the Nazi leader needed to hear. Chancellor Brüning’s days were numbered. He had made a big mistake banning the Nazi’s military wing, known as the S.A., the brown-shirted Storm troopers. People needed jobs and Brüning had already strangled the economy by raising taxes and tariffs. Sooner or later Brüning was sure to lose a vote of confidence in the Reichstag and Putzi believed it would be sooner. While the Nazis were only the second-largest party in the Reichstag today, Putzi had no doubt that at the next national election, they would establish themselves as Germany’s largest party.

  “Who do your rich friends believe will replace Brüning as chancellor?” Hitler asked.

  “Sadly, Herr Hitler,” Putzi replied, “they do not believe President Hindenburg can be persuaded to appoint you. At least not at this time.”

  “That was not my question, Putzi,” Hitler replied softly, with the barest hint of menace.

  Putzi strained to hear Hitler and leaned forward. “The most persistent rumors I hear,” he replied, “are that either von Papen or von Schleicher will be the next Chancellor and, like Brüning, they will have to rule by presidential decree, leaving the Reichstag still as powerless as it has been with Brüning.”

  Hitler nodded as if he expected Putzi to say that but he made no reply. After a few moments, Putzi continued. “Many think that, once he is Chancellor, von Papen will offer you the post of vice-chancellor. If you accept that, Herr Hitler, which I strongly advise that you do, you will become the second most powerful man in Germany.”

  “Have you expressed this opinion to your rich friends, Putzi?”

  Putzi again missed the menace in Hitler’s voice because he once more had anticipated the question and his mind had raced ahead to formulate the answer. “Of course, Herr Hitler.”

  “You idiot!” Hitler shouted as he leaped to his feet and threw the papers he had been holding down onto the plush black and gold carpet. “If you know what’s good for you, you will refrain in the future from offering your worthless opinion in public about me or the party. It’s bad enough that Strasser goes behind my back to talk up the Nazis joining a coalition government. I don’t need my foreign press spokesman doing the same! Is that clear?” Hitler shouted once more, flecks of spittle flying in Putzi’s direction.

  Startled, Putzi nodded submissively. Gregor Strasser was Hitler’s right-hand man and more popular with the party rank-and-file than anyone except Hitler himself. “Yes, Herr Hitler. Perfectly clear.”

  “Good,” Hitler said, his tone of voice normal now. “Because von Papen visited me today and offered me the vice-chancellorship. He said that he would be Chancellor before the end of the month. And do you know what I told him?”

  “You turned him down?” Putzi asked in a timid tone of voice.

  “Exactly,” Hitler said. “But do you know why?”

  Putzi only shook his head dumbly from side to side.

  “Of course not, you dimwit! You yourself pointed out why but you were too stupid to recognize it. We will soon be the largest party in Germany and, once we are, no Chancellor, Brüning or von Papen, will be able to govern without our support.”

  “But what if von Papen governs by presidential decree, like Brüning?” Putzi asked.

  Hitler smiled but there was no humor behind it. “We will make the country ungovernable. The streets will run red with the blood of our enemies. And that senile old fool Hindenburg will send for me because he will have no choice. By then, even he will recognize that only I stand between a restored Germany and the anarchy of the Jews and Communists.”

  “But Brüning has banned the Storm troopers,” Putzi said.

  Hitler laughed and this time, Putzi realized there was humor behind the laugh.

  “He’s banned the wearing of brown shirts,” Hitler said. “So we won’t wear them. The brown shirts don’t give the Storm troopers their power. Their power comes from their fists, their clubs, their guns and the deserved fear they strike in the hearts of all those who oppose us.”

  Hitler walked back to his desk, clearly signaling that the conference was over. Putzi stood up, bent over, picked up the papers which Hitler had thrown on the floor, realigned them, and handed them back across the desk toward Hitler, who had resumed his seat and was looking at another paper he had picked up. Putzi hesitated. He wasn’t certain he should bring this up but, through a mutual acquaintance, he had received an inquiry from a German émigré in Great Britain. He had known nothing about it and couldn’t reply. So he had made several inquiries of his own and ran up against what his American friends would call a stone wall.

  Putzi had thought nothing of it at the time, but last week in Berlin, an American reporter had asked a disturbingly similar question. Hitler looked up and noticed Putzi was still standing there. “Is there something more, Putzi?” Hitler asked.

  “Yes, Herr Hitler. The SS is growing rapidly,” Putzi said, referring to Hitler’s praetorian guard headed by Heinrich Himmler. “I understand they have even begun acquiring their own businesses.”

  Hitler waved his hand impatiently, “Yes, yes, Putzi. What of it? Our Heinie is an ambitious man. Good for him.”

  “Well, Herr Hitler,” Putzi began, “I have received several inquiries about a new medical facility the SS has opened in the Bavarian National Forest near Passau and, in the event I receive more questions like this, I would like to know how to respond.”

  Putzi stiffened when he saw Hitler’s eyes squint, his lips drawn together in a thin line. His voice was low and Putzi once more strained to hear.

  “There is no medical facility at Passau.” Hitler said and again began to read the paper.

  Putzi turned and walked toward the door. He was halfway there when Hitler once more spoke, his voice soft but clearly audible. “One more thing, Putzi.”

  “Yes, mein Fuhrer?” Putzi asked timidly. He had not missed the menace this time.

  “Never mention Passau again unless you wish your name to be placed on my list.”

  Putzi gulped and then screwed up his courage. “What list?” he asked, feeling his throat constrict.

  “The list containing those whose heads will be the first to
roll when we take power. Gregor Strasser is working his way onto that list. Make sure you don’t end up there with him.” Hitler replied and then lowered his eyes once more, again dismissing Putzi from his presence.

  Putzi did not need to be told twice.

  Chartwell

  Kent, England

  Saturday, 21 May 1932

  WINSTON Churchill placed the telephone receiver down, put his unlit Havana cigar back in his mouth and took a sip from a glass of weak Johnnie Walker Red Label and soda at his right hand on the library writing desk where he sat. In less than two weeks, his god-daughter had made substantial progress. He felt this vindicated his decision to invoke the aid of W.R. Hearst in unraveling the mystery of ten dead bodies in America.

  Twins! Who would have imagined it? But there was more work to do. When the telephone rang, he knew the call he had placed moments ago to the Prof was ready.

  “Lindemann here.”

  “Prof!” Winston growled into the phone. “Sorry to disturb you on a Saturday evening but I’m just off a trans-Atlantic call from my goddaughter, the Hearst reporter, Mattie McGary, who is investigating those baffling deaths in America I spoke to you about a few weeks ago. She informed me she discovered some important clues which may assist us in getting to the bottom of these crimes. I would value your input on their meaning.”

  “What are these clues you refer to?”

  “Well, all we knew before was that the bodies were found naked, drained of blood and their eyes missing. But Mattie has found two additional facts. All the eyes were surgically removed and all the victims were twins. What do you make of that?”

  Lindemann paused and an uncharacteristically patient Winston waited as the Prof drew on his pipe while he gathered his thoughts. “Twins, eh? I recall monographs I’ve read from the Kaiser Wilhelm Institute in Berlin on twins and eye color. But that was several years ago and I can’t recall the author’s name. I’ll see what I can find on this.”