The Iron Heart - [Franz Schmidt 02]

by Marshall Browne

  She was seated in the study, and twisted toward him as he appeared in the door. The thick curtains were drawn. The only illumination came from the gas fire and his candle for blackouts.

  He said, ’I’m sorry if I startled you.’

  She rose from the chair as he switched on the electric light. Her face was pale and tired. Schmidt regarded her with sympathy. All the tension of sitting here hour after hour, waiting and listening.

  He removed his overcoat and hat and took them out to the hall. Returning, he said, ‘I have some information

  She put a finger to her lips, whispered, ‘Is it safe to talk?’

  ‘I think so.’ This was tutoring from her cousin, Schmidt realised. He didn’t think anyone could have put microphones into his flat — yet. In the past two days she, or himself, had been here all the time. To ease her anxiety, he went and switched on the wireless and turned up the volume.

  ‘There.’ Dirge-like strains of another Wagnerian concert filled the room. Not as sinister as the melody in his head as he’d crossed the platz. But not comforting either. He sat down, and she resumed her seat. How best to give the news? There was no other way than to say it. ‘Elisabeth von Bose was arrested by the Gestapo last night. Frau Kapp too. There’s no further news of them.’

  ‘No!’ She gazed at him, stricken.

  He steeled himself, added quietly, ‘Your neighbour Frau Singer died last night. Apparently from a heart attack.’

  Schmidt didn’t know what to expect from her. However, he’d seen the way she’d recovered after the incidents with Rossbach. The long, heavy sigh she emitted came as a relief to him. She whispered, ‘Do you know what happened to her dog?’

  Schmidt shook his head.

  She nodded slowly to herself, as if all her worst fears were being confirmed.

  Despite her brave face, was he putting too much on her at once? No. Get it all out of the way. He cleared his throat. ‘Herr Rossbach died last night. A fall down steps near his flat. Drunk, they say.’

  Her head jerked up and this time her stare was one of utter disbelief. She gasped, ’Dead!’

  He stood up and put his hand on her shoulder. ‘I’ll make us coffee.’

  They drank their coffee in silence. Now she appeared to be in a trance. In the kitchen he saw that she’d eaten sandwiches. He was allowing her a small respite. Even so, when he eventually began to talk about Rubinstein, he had to repeat the opening remarks twice before they sank in. The music blaring out was giving him a headache. He got up and turned the volume down.

  ‘Herr Rubinstein, Frau Singer’s friend, has helped people escape during the past twelve months. He intended to help Frau Singer. Now he wishes to help you. He has a Swiss passport…’

  He watched her eyes fill with tears; Frau Singers passport. Another circle of fate was being joined.

  Schmidt turned his head away to give her a moment and the doorbell shrieked in their cut-off world.

  ‘God!’ At the fearful sound, Schmidt sprang up, staring toward the hall. He moistened his lips and walked quietly out. He realised that he’d not removed the camera and equipment, or the box with the key’s impression, from his pockets. He placed his head against the door and listened. One person, breathing heavily. Schmidt said, ‘Yes?’

  A disembodied voice replied, ‘It’s Major Hoffmann, Eugene and Anna’s friend.’

  A moment later Martin Hoffmann stood in the hall, the door closed behind him, a wrapped-up, tense, but formidable man, staring as if his life depended on it into the auditor’s face.

  Schmidt was reciprocating.

  Anna hurried out and embraced the major. ‘Martin! Where is Eugene?’

  He stepped back awkwardly, blushing, holding Anna by the shoulders. ‘I’ve admitted him to a clinic run by a friend. He’s exhausted. He’ll be safe and out of the way for a few days.’

  Schmidt took Hoffmann’s overcoat and hat and hung them up. The auditor noted the Abwehr officer’s athletic build, the sparse red hair brushed back from a florid brow, the desperate eyes. That they were moist with tears. Schmidt led the way into the study. The major glanced around, taking in everything. He said, ‘You’re a member of the Party.’

  Schmidt looked down at the badge on his suit coat. ‘It’s a small piece of metal. One should look beyond appearances.’

  Hoffmann nodded with understanding. ‘Very well.’ He turned to Anna, his eyes blinking rapidly. ‘Do you know about Elisabeth and Frau Kapp?’

  He saw that she did. ‘A damnable business. We’re trying to find out the situation.’

  It was a death sentence, and he didn’t know how Eugene would cope with that; how Anna would. He pulled his thoughts together. ‘I spoke to Eugene about a plan for you to leave Germany. For various reasons he rejected it. However, I believe I can find a place of respite outside Berlin, while we work out -’

  Anna quickly brushed hair back from her face. ’Herr Schmidt has a plan.’

  ‘Ah!’ Hoffmann looked over at the auditor. He’d been hoping that this mystery man might see a way through the fog. Though it was the kind of uncertain hope that he detested having to rely on.

  Schmidt nodded, then explained about ex-judge Rubinstein without identifying him. While he was doing this, Anna went to the second bedroom and returned with her passport. She shook out a spare photograph tucked into it and gave it to Schmidt.

  He peered at it, then looked at the one in the passport. They were different in two respects. In the spare, her blonde hair was put up, and smoothly arranged in a kind of roll; and she was wearing spectacles.

  He looked across the study at the woman with the straight shoulder-length hair, minus the glasses. A different woman.

  ‘I had a temporary problem with my eyes,’ she said. ‘I have the spectacles with me.’

  ‘Could you do your hair like this again?’

  ‘Of course.’

  Schmidt let out a long silent breath. It was just the kind of photo he guessed Rubinstein wanted.

  Hoffmann edged closer and looked over Schmidt’s shoulder. He sucked audibly at his lips and paced the room. He was shaking his head.

  ‘What is it, Martin?’ she said.

  ‘It would still be very dangerous. They’re getting much better at detecting false documents.’ His hands gripped together. He pulled up and stared at the Dürer engraving — not taking it in.

  Calmly, she said, ‘Nothing will be without risk.’

  They had remained standing. Schmidt lowered his head, thinking. It would be highly dangerous, even with the Swiss passport and a changed appearance. Was there a way the scales could be tipped in her favour? Lost in thought, he turned and slumped down in his armchair. The others sat down too, stymied, watching the brooding auditor.

  Piece by piece, it came to Schmidt, fed by the mind that von Streck had identified as Machiavellian in the Bankhaus Wertheim affair; as in the past, not complete, needing further work, but a nucleus . . .

  He looked up at them. ‘The Swiss doctor who denounced them, who’s an avid Nazi admirer —’

  The major grunted. ‘Much more than that. He’s proved himself a deadly agent.’

  Schmidt hardly heard the interruption. ‘Could a way be arranged, or manufactured, to force him to escort the fräulein in her Swiss identity, from Berlin to Zurich?’

  Hoffmann’s mouth dropped open. ‘How on earth could that be done?’ He sounded incredulous, then irritated and angry at such a false hope.

  Anna looked puzzled, but alert.

  Schmidt smiled slightly, though there was no amusement in him. ‘By blackmail. By death threats against his loved ones; presuming some exist.’

  Hoffmann shifted his body forward, and gazed at the auditor.

  Schmidt was thinking hard. His eye downcast, more pieces came weaving and bobbing to the surface. He lifted his head. ‘Could he be convinced that he was in danger of being exposed to the Nazis as a double-agent? A traitor — shown forged documentation to this effect?’

  Hoffmann started. In a f
lash, his brain shook off the doubt and anger. He leapt up. ‘By God! He was in Oxford in 1936—37 doing advanced medical studies. Eugene and I were there in 1934—35. We’re still in touch with our professors, and -’ He stopped, not wishing to elaborate on this. He paced the room— his own mind having darted off across dark country. His particular section of the Abwehr was in touch also with British Intelligence - close touch. MI5 had been on the sideline of the aborted September putsch.

  But did they have the time to set up such a scheme? He smacked a fist into a hand, and turned to face the others. ’I think there’s a way we could put deadly fear into this man. However, it would take several days to arrange.’

  Schmidt nodded. ‘Fräulein Anna should remain here.’

  He trusted that von Streck didn’t yet know of her presence in his flat. If he did? Well, he would cross that bridge . . .

  Abruptly, Hoffmann strode to Anna, embraced her again, nodded emphatically to Schmidt, and left without another word.

  ~ * ~

  Anna had gone to bed, whether to sleep Schmidt couldn’t tell. In the hall, he approached the loathsome phone. He checked his watch: 11.45. Without further hesitation he took up the receiver and wound the handle to call the exchange. When the woman’s voice came he asked for the special number. After a minute or two: ‘Yes?’ He knew it would be the blond giant.

  ‘I wish to meet our good friend.’

  ‘Very well. He is free tomorrow evening at 6.00 pm. In the lobby bar at the Hotel Kaiserhof.’

  ‘Good. I’ll be there.’ Schmidt hung up. The bar at the Kaiserhof was code for the third place that von Streck had designated for their meetings. A safe place, according to von Streck, as safe as the line he’d just used was, if the special plenipotentiary, wherever he was on this snowy Berlin night, was still in control of their respective destinies. Schmidt fervently hoped that he could sleep tonight. His brain needed to be sharper than it’d ever been.

  ~ * ~

  29

  S

  TURMBANNFUEHRER SACK ceased his brooding on the file before him and took up the telephone. It was ten minutes to midnight, yet the corridors in the Prinz-Albrecht-Strasse building resounded with heavy footfalls, and phones were shrilling in most departments. He drummed the thin fingers of his left hand on the desk as he waited for the connection. Mid-afternoon, word had come through that the Huber fugitive and her husband had been shot dead by SS guards in a forest on the Swiss frontier. Only two of them were free now. The Reichsbank woman, and Frau Maria Beck and her editor husband. The Countess von Dreisler and the count were already in London after their escape through Cairo; their family members were being rounded up.

  ‘Yes?’

  ‘It’s me. Can I come and see you?’

  ‘When?’ Freda Brandt hadn’t been asleep but she was tired, and sounded annoyed.

  ‘Now.’

  ‘Are you mad?’

  Sack sighed. ‘It’s important, it concerns your auditor colleague. Action needs to be taken.’

  Thinking over his day, suspicion had hardened in him concerning the auditor; doubt about his own position if he moved against the man had clouded his mind. Despite the overriding power of the Gestapo, certain situations could be as treacherous as quicksand.

  Freda was silent. Then: ‘Very well. Make it quick.’

  Thirty minutes later Sack entered her flat. The Reichsbank manager, attired in her dressing-gown, was drinking hot milk. She didn’t offer her sallow-faced lover any, nor did she invite him to remove his overcoat, just gazed at him accusingly. ‘Julius, if you’ve come here expecting a fuck -’

  The agent smiled sadly. ‘No, Freda, the only thing on my mind tonight is your chief auditor.’

  ‘Ha! What’s happened?’

  ‘We now have a file on the fellow . . .’

  At full alert, Freda Brandt’s eyes flicked to the agent’s.

  ‘He lost his eye in 1935 to a Brownshirt flagstaff, during an attempt to protect a Jew caught up in a Party rally. Later on, he and his mother gave shelter to a fugitive Jewish secretary from his bank. She was arrested. His mother died suddenly, but he appears to have escaped any kind of serious investigation, mainly due to the intervention of an SS officer attached to the bank. His close friend, a banker called Wagner, was a funds courier for the SPD. A traitor who died under interrogation.’

  ‘My God!’ Freda breathed. ‘All of that! And he’s wormed his way into the Reichsbank.’

  Sack grimaced, showing his small teeth. ‘But this is the nub of it: He unearthed a fraud against Party funds at his bank and exposed the traitors. Two Party members.’

  For a moment, Freda was silent. Then she said, ‘There’s the reason for his hero status. I asked him about it. He says he’s sworn to secrecy.’

  Sack nodded. ‘That might be true. A Party functionary by the name of von Streck entered the picture, with commendations for Schmidt. A high Party functionary. Just how high?’ Sack spread his thin hands. ‘His name’s only mentioned once or twice.’

  They both considered the implications of this.

  Sack added, ‘Another mystery man . . . Like your Herr Schmidt, he might have a number of irons in the fire.’

  ‘What about Fräulein von Schnelling?’ Freda asked.

  ‘Still on the loose. Her cousin, the captain, appears to have disappeared. The fellow’s on Admiral Canaris’ staff but he’s on sick leave. In a bad way, I think.’

  She peered at him. ’Where’s she gone, Julius?’

  He shrugged. He was relying on her breaking cover or on their network of informers.

  Her brow creased. ‘On his past record of assisting women fugitives, perhaps Schmidt knows?’

  Sack gave her a shrewd look. He might do. But it was a deeper level that was beginning to interest him about this bank auditor with the eventful past.

  ‘The Party took out his eye,’ Freda murmured. ‘For a Party man he keeps strange company. These women traitors . . .’

  She stood up, slopping a little of the milk on her gown. ‘Julius! You must go south. To this man’s home city. That’s the only way to get to the truth.’

  The agent ran his tongue over his teeth. He might be able to do that, but would it be worthwhile? Was there much else to find out beyond what they already knew? Perhaps his ex-wife ... He stared at the untidy room, then at Freda standing over him. There was definitely an odour emanating from the auditor’s past - even from the special plenipotentiary von Streck.

  However, the situation could be fraught with hazard, and an alarm bell was already ringing in the back of his head.

  ‘Well?’

  He considered the tall woman. Her hair was loose again tonight. He visualised the curves, the soft and secret places beneath her gown. Not so secret to many. He said, ‘I’ll have Schmidt followed from tomorrow. I’ll think about going south. I have a lot on my plate, Freda.’

  ‘Humph! You should see what’s on mine.’

  Weariness fell on Sack as he limped away from Freda’s building. Which way should he move? He felt on the edge of either making or breaking his career. If the latter turned out to be the case, more would be broken than that; if he was to move in close to the Party’s upper echelons, he’d need to be as cautious as a fox approaching its lair. He swore under his breath. Would his fucking bruised hip ever heal?

  ~ * ~

  30

  T

  HE NEXT MORNING the fog-obscured buildings of the government district surrounded Schmidt like grey ghosts as he arrived at the Reichsbank. This scene was setting an indeterminate note for the two meetings arranged for tonight. He couldn’t be certain that Rubinstein would make contact but, barring a disaster, von Streck would be waiting for him.

  At 8.15 am he reached the third floor, entered his office, locked the door and listened. No following footsteps. He must get this done. Disaster felt as close as his next breath. Rapidly he transferred the camera and equipment from his pockets to the desk; the other items he kept on his person - in his coat’s l
eft-hand breast pocket, a small buff envelope with Anna’s passport photograph, in the right-hand pocket, the box containing the key’s impression.

  Done. He exhaled his breath as he locked the drawer.

  At 8.30 am, going through the president’s incoming communications in the inner sanctum, he felt the steel safe behind him awaiting its violation — if he could bring events to that point.

  Later, Fräulein Esser, more nervous by the day, despite his efforts to put her at ease, brought him morning coffee and a sandwich for lunch. On each occasion she admitted a blast of chilled corridor air.