The Iron Heart - [Franz Schmidt 02]

by Marshall Browne

  Schmidt realised that this was the overriding atmosphere he was feeling at the bank.

  ‘I’ll say goodbye, Schmidt. You know how to contact me. Only if it’s absolutely necessary. Otherwise, I’ll contact you. I’m going this way. Return the way you came.’

  The gloved hand shot out and this time shook Schmidt’s briefly.

  The sunshine, which had emerged from the looming overcast like a fugitive breaking cover, had drawn back. At 1 pm it vanished completely and the light began to fail. Electric lights were pricking the park’s greying distances.

  Hurrying back to the Reichsbank, Schmidt turned his thoughts to that vexatious subject: Under whose powerful wing did von Streck operate? Obviously not Goering. Goebbels? Unlikely. Reich Minister Himmler? Much more likely. Yet the feared and cunning head of the SS was a specialist in unearthing traitors. How could such dire treachery exist and survive in the heart of his own empire?

  It was an impossible question for Schmidt to answer. The only thing he was certain of was that the air temperature was plummeting — as if a weather-god had just yanked a lever down.

  ~ * ~

  9

  A

  MID FLURRIES of chilly rain Schmidt arrived back at the bank at 1.15 pm. Fräulein Esser was hovering outside his office door, wringing her hands. ‘Oh, Herr Schmidt!’ she cried as he turned the corner. ‘The president has summoned you! Half an hour ago! I didn’t know what to tell Frau Heyer.’

  This poor woman was a natural panic merchant. Doubtless the unbridled pressure from above wasn’t helping. Schmidt felt his own nerves twitching beneath his skin. Reassuringly he said, ‘Very well, fräulein. I’ll go right away.’

  He opened his office door, removed his overcoat, hat, and scarf, then went out and hurried to the lift. The distracted fräulein watched him go.

  In the anteroom, Frau Heyer also was in a panic. She audibly let out her breath as the chief auditor entered, and knocked on the connecting door she was standing by. ‘Please go straight in, Herr Chief Auditor,’ she whispered, opening the door for him.

  President Funk, chin in hand and deep in thought, was pacing the room. He stopped and stared at the auditor. His uneasy lips parted. ‘Ah, Herr Schmidt.’

  ‘Heil Hitler! Herr President, my apologies for the delay.’

  Funk’s soft hand released his chin and he saluted distractedly. ‘Herr Chief Auditor, the Reich is on the march. There’s no time for apologies or niceties. Just work to be done well, at full speed.’ He frowned, turned his small body, and went back to his chair. Schmidt stood before the desk, his face attentive. Funk beckoned him closer. ‘I’ve been assigned a very heavy responsibility. In the coming weeks it will command my complete attention. Naturally, my important duties here continue. From tomorrow, you will attend my office each morning at 8.30 am to read my incoming cables and correspondence. You’ll separate matters of the utmost importance that I should see. You’ll give those to Frau Heyer in a confidential file. The others you’ll direct to the appropriate officers for prompt attention.’

  His eyes flicked over the small blond auditor, then away. ‘I must temporarily lessen my workload. Do you understand?’

  ‘Yes, Herr President.’

  Schmidt’s mind was grappling with what he was hearing. Von Streck s voice sounded in his ears: You must get close to him. Now this! He could hardly believe it. A godsend.

  ‘Herr Chief Auditor, you’re recommended to me as a person of efficiency, judgement and discretion. A man who places the Party above all. I’m putting this commendation to the test. Do not let me down.’

  Schmidt gave his slight bow. The thin confidential tones had set up an echo in his head.

  ‘I’ll be working at the Economics Ministry. If it’s imperative to do so, you’ll contact me there.’ The dwarfish man nodded. ‘You may go.’

  As Schmidt stepped out of the anteroom, Freda Brandt was about to enter it. Her face flooded with surprise. ‘Herr Chief Auditor?’ she stammered. Schmidt smiled politely, bowed his head, and continued on his way. The woman’s virulent curiosity had to be sidestepped.

  The head of precious metals stared at the receding compact figure, her mind racing. Another visit to the president! The little man had been here three days and he was already in Dr Funk’s pocket! What was going on?

  A moment later she was ushered into Funk’s presence by Frau Heyer. The president didn’t look up from the papers he was intent on. ‘Yes, fräulein? Please make this brief.’

  ‘Herr President, I wish to report the authority from the National Bank for Bohemia and Moravia to transfer the gold held by Bern Trust and Privatbank to the Reich has been obtained and despatched to Zurich.’ Her report had the cadence of a monk’s chant.

  Funk looked at the blonde woman, re-confirming his impression at their first meeting: a slight nausea stirred in his stomach. ‘Excellent.’

  Fräulein Brandt paused, moistened her lips. ‘The Czechs are still holding out on the main reserves in London. To placate the Fuehrer, they’re releasing this smaller quantity ... I trust everything will proceed with dispatch.’

  Funk’s eyes hardened. ‘Is there a doubt, fräulein?’

  Freda Brandt’s face became pale. ‘The Swiss bank may question the validity of the authority, the circumstances under which it’s been given. They may be fearful of international criticism.’ Her voice trailed away.

  Funk sat back in his chair. His lips resumed their customary unattractive twist.

  ‘Herr Fischer,’ Fräulein Brandt blurted out, ‘is to visit Zurich again. I suspect he’ll call on this bank. He’s very close to one of their directors and I fear he may attempt to persuade them to refuse the transfer.’

  President Funk studied her in silence. ‘That would be the act of a traitor.’ The lisping tones fell into the silent room. The fräulein nodded vigorously ‘Fräulein, I’ve asked before. What evidence do you have that Herr Fischer would act in such a manner? Such a suicidal manner?’

  Fräulein Brandt bit her lower lip. ‘He’s not a Party member. His opposition to the transfer is very clear to me, in the attitude he adopts —’

  ‘But he’s actually said nothing, and done nothing?’

  She was silent. ‘He concealed the existence of this gold.’

  Funk waved his hand dismissively. ‘So you say. In short, you have no real evidence.’

  Fräulein Brandt’s mind was racing again. This hateful man clearly had his own agenda with Fischer; his own with the former president. What was the ex-Reichsbank chief up to in the background? What hold did he have over Funk? She drew in her breath. ‘Herr President, I strongly recommend that you order Herr Fischer’s visit be postponed.’

  Funk’s dark eyes stared into her. ‘No, fräulein, I won’t order that.’

  As if struck dumb, Freda Brandt stared at him. Her figure was rigid with tension; her classic face as if carved from marble.

  Funk studied his papers again. His nausea was rising. Jesus! These large scented female bodies. He must get her out of his room. He looked up. ‘However, I note your concern. We’ll observe what unfolds following Herr Fischer’s visit. If this bank should make a problem with the transfer, I’m confident we’ll have satisfactory recourse to the Swiss government.’

  Fräulein Brandt thought bitterly: I am not so certain about that.

  ‘The question of the gold in London will be settled by events the Fuehrer will soon put in motion.’ Funk closed the meeting with another dismissive wave.

  Moments later, seething with anger and frustration, her breast heaving, Freda Brandt strode away down the corridor, disjointed thoughts tumbling in her head.

  ~ * ~

  For Schmidt, the day had passed as relentlessly as a tramcar clacking along rails, jolting through junction points, crossing the freezing city. At 6.00 pm he sat in his office. His deputy and Fräulein Esser had gone off duty. There wasn’t much traffic in his corridor during the day and now it was deserted. Deep in hibernation one could say, though he sensed a sinist
er edge to the silence. The character of the times. Six of the bank’s eight directors had gone and not yet been replaced. That was part of it. ‘Sinister’ was a word that could now be ascribed to his own character.

  Grimly, he recalled his lies and duplicity at Bankhaus Wertheim. The two Nazi directors he’d framed for a fraud against Party funds — and sent to their executions.

  Did Helga understand the level he’d descended to? Probably she’d made her guesses. They’d parted before that last deadly phase.

  He recalled her agitation after he’d stepped in to try and save the secretary, Lilli Dreisler.

  ‘Did you do it consciously, Franz? Put yourself, our little Trudi, me, into danger? . . . No, I don’t think so. I’ve feared this. Oh, don’t worry, I share your doubts about our new Germany, of those in power. But what of the family? Can there be anything more important? I’ve never really spoken of that other world of yours. Are you trying to mould that code to your life - our lives? In these times? Oh, Franz, first your eye - now this unfortunate woman.’ Finally, she’d burst out, ‘All these years, I think you’ve been waiting for the Nazis! Your Fräulein Dreisler!’

  He put his head into his hands. But mercifully, like a stone dropping into icy water, the scene sank back to the past.

  He’d not had lunch and his eye fell on the slice of birthday cake put aside this morning. He reached for it. Apple cake. Chewing thoughtfully, he considered the road ahead. One of heart-stopping bends and precipitate drops though, for the moment, a waiting game. The president’s blueprint should not reach an advanced stage until near the end of the time he’d been allotted. He’d have time to assess what was possible and make a plan. Fate had already dealt him a high card: his entree to the inner sanctum. He swallowed a mouthful of the delicious cake.

  Even so, it might prove impossible to gain access to the blueprint. The president might leave all the papers at the Economics Ministry, might not let them out of his sight. The situation needed careful reconnaissance, and more bountiful dispensations from fate, and terrific luck.

  He finished the cake and dusted crumbs off the desk. Friday night. He’d the weekend ahead, and no plans. Though he’d work a half-day tomorrow. A lonely respite. He mustn’t dwell in his thoughts. A few minutes later he left, taking the back stairs.

  On the second-floor landing the lift door sprang open and a man came out, glanced toward the auditor, then went in the other direction. He moved in a limping walk to the end of a corridor and turned right.

  Schmidt pulled up short. It was the fellow he’d seen at the restaurant with Fräulein Brandt — the freakish Goebbels look-alike.

  Quietly Schmidt passed the lift and went to the corridor’s end. The uneven footsteps had stopped. He peered carefully around the corner and looked straight into a pair of dark eyes a metre from his own.

  ‘Yes, mein herr?’

  Schmidt gazed into those eyes as if spellbound. He felt the muscles in his throat constrict. He stepped back. His voice came: ‘My apologies, mein herr. The building is closed down for the night. I wondered if you required directions.’

  The man’s swarthy face was defined by whipcord-like muscles; as Fischer’d said, even up close he was the image of the Reich Minister. He studied the auditor, then spoke in a heavy Prussian accent. ‘That is kind of you, Herr . . . ?’

  ‘Schmidt.’

  ‘. . . Herr Schmidt. But I know my way around this place.’

  Schmidt bowed, taking in the light baritone voice. ‘I bid you good night then.’

  Turning, he retraced his steps. He would take the lift. Waiting for it, he listened closely and heard the receding irregular footsteps, a distant door open and then close. The fellow had waited in ambush in case Schmidt had followed. Schmidt knew it, was chilled that he’d walked into the trap. Careless! Only a small thing but it didn’t augur well for the future when the stakes would be higher. He should’ve been alerted when the footsteps stopped.

  He compressed his lips. He must regain the clandestine proficiency he’d put on like a new skin at Bankhaus Wertheim. He left the building.

  ~ * ~

  Sturmbannfuehrer Sack entered the room without knocking.

  ‘You’re late,’ Freda Brandt said, looking up from her work at the Gestapo agent. The small man gave her a dry look and slipped out of his overcoat. The leather crackled its electricity as he hung it on a stand, and placed the soft hat with it.

  ‘In my work, there’s neither late nor early. Just twenty-four hours.’

  ‘So you keep telling me.’

  Sack smiled and sat down opposite the manager. ’You wanted to see me?’

  ‘I do.’

  On Monday night at the restaurant, in whispered confidential tones, she’d told him of her discovery of the extra Czech gold at the Swiss private bank; how it must come to the Reichsbank; her fears and suspicions about any action Herr Fischer might take to delay or defeat this. He was a specialist in covert information, so every detail had been filed away in his brain.

  She said, ‘I’ve spoken to the president about Fischer, but he won’t act. Demands proof.’ She nearly added that the president was ultra-cautious concerning his predecessor’s relationship with Fischer, but her lips froze.

  ‘Proof,’ the sallow-faced man said, as though trying out a foreign word.

  Her broad hand thumped down on the desk. ‘He must be stopped from seeing his contact at the bank in Zurich. He’s booked on the Monday night express at 8.00 pm. Could you stop him? Cancel his train reservation? Find something temporarily wrong with his passport? I need him out of the picture for the next week. The way some of the Swiss are, I fear he might tip the scales against the transfer if he’s permitted to meet them.’ Sack looked down at his thin-boned hands at rest in his lap. ‘If he acts in the way you suspect he might.’

  ‘Ha! I’m certain he’s against us.’

  He raised his eyes. ’Then he’ll have to be dealt with, at some point.’

  She thrust forward, blue eyes blazing. ‘He’s refused to join the Party. The swine stinks of tobacco — his breath, his room, his clothes. The Fuehrer hates tobacco. Have you heard he gives presents to those of his staff who stop smoking? Thank God he’s forbidden it on the trams. Such good advice is scorned by Fischer. Because of its source.’

  Sack didn’t smoke, but there was a lot of grumbling in the Gestapo and SS about the Fuehrer decree that prohibited smoking on duty.

  Becoming calmer, the fräulein gazed thoughtfully at the man she’d known since her days with the League of German Girls. Despite his weedy stature, Sack made love with the force and endurance of a machine. The kind of power and longevity she needed to achieve her shattering climaxes. His limp was genuine, his leg misformed. Otherwise, his vanity played up the resemblance with Goebbels. She said with cold emphasis, ‘I want Rossbach in Fischer’s job. He was Fischer’s deputy until Fischer got rid of him.’

  Sack grimaced. ‘Any wonder? From what you’ve told me, Rossbach’s a dolt and a drunkard. You could throw in pervert. I don’t know how such a fellow could get into the Reichsbank.’

  Sack was a person of few words; those that he used were most often scathing and cynical utterances.

  Freda Brandt smoothed her hands over her brow. It was getting late. ‘All types are here. Look at our president.’ She regretted the remark instantly, even to this man who, despite his offhand manner, idolised her. ‘Rossbach’s smart enough when he’s not lazy. And he follows my orders. The rest I can keep under control.’

  Sack grunted. They sat quietly. The bank had shut down. On the top floor the cable room would still be staffed, the SS guards from the escort detail assigned to guard public buildings would be out front. The Reichsbank was like a wireless turned down to the lowest volume. Into this atmosphere Fräulein Brandt said, ‘We have a new chief auditor, Schmidt —’

  ‘Ah, Schmidt,’ Sack interposed, ‘I saw the fellow tonight in the corridor. He seemed interested in where I was going.’

  She paused, frowni
ng. ‘Oh? He’s come from nowhere. I hear he’s rendered the Party great service.’ Frau Heyer, who released tasty snippets from time to time, had told her this. ‘What is this service? All I know is that he’s here for ten minutes, and in and out of the president’s office like a trusted aide.’

  She brooded on the signed photograph of the Fuehrer that she’d been presented with two years ago. ‘Such a mild, correct fellow - so polite, so watchful. I don’t trust the type.’

  Sack gave a thin smile. He’d caught the slippery undertone of jealousy. Freda was as ambitious a woman as he’d met. To get where she was she’d had to be. Anyone who stepped on her toes had better watch out.