The Iron Heart - [Franz Schmidt 02]

by Marshall Browne

  ‘It looks like a put-up job. Sack sniffs a rat. Obviously he’s after Schmidt — and von Streck.’

  Eugene broke into a paroxysm of coughing. Hoffmann waited. The sick man gasped, ‘This Sack . . . walking in a minefield, isn’t he? With von Streck involved.’

  Hoffmann grunted. ’But he might be lucky. Von Streck’s been close to Oster and the Admiral for years, as we know, though they’ve kept it under wraps. They hold him in high regard — Oster tells me. Which can only mean one thing -’

  ‘He’s with us,’ Eugene said.

  Hoffmann nodded. But a separate tributary from our own, he thought. The neighbour, disturbed by the wireless, began to bang on the wall. Hoffmann ignored it and leaned closer. ‘He’s a man whom Oster wants looked after for the common good.’

  ‘And Schmidt’s a man who deserves to be looked after,’ Eugene muttered. ‘What will you do?’

  ‘I’ll meet von Streck and warn him about Sack.’

  Eugene was silent, considering what he’d heard. He said, ’I’m going to do something for Schmidt, which may assist him.’

  Hoffmann sat back in his chair. Eugene’s face was enlivened, masking the ravages of his illness. He didn’t need to know what his friend intended to do. The question was whether he’d last long enough to do it.

  Eugene added, ‘And there’s another piece of unfinished business I must attend to.’

  Steadfastly the major regarded him. He sensed that he didn’t need to know about this either.

  In the street, a car braked, a slithering sound in the slush. They listened to it re-accelerate. Hoffmann got up and switched off the wireless. ‘I’ll drive you back to the clinic,’ he said.

  ~ * ~

  Now, outside the Adlon Hotel, Hoffmann checked his watch. If all was going well, in a minute or two Anna would depart for Zurich. God willing! A good Catholic, he breathed a prayer that the Almighty had the lovely woman in his care; that in eight hours she’d be free of this nightmare. That he would be free of his fear for her. He steeled himself, rigorously closing off thoughts of the alternative.

  A few minutes before leaving his office in the Wehrmacht building, the nurse at the clinic had telephoned and in a confidential voice told him ‘the patient’ had left. Grimly he knew that Eugene had begun to activate the last plan of his life.

  He strode up the hotel’s front steps. He was in uniform and the SS guards at the front door saluted. At this hour, the vast lounge had only a sprinkling of senior military officers in transit to postings across the Reich. The regulars from the Party wouldn’t appear until noon.

  In the far corner of the room, alone, the grotesquely broad man with the olive complexion and tiny black curls had risen to his feet from his chair and, a cigar in hand, was beaming at the major and grandly beckoning him forward. A red rose in his lapel burned like a red coal in the dim room.

  Keyed-up, the major, adept at clandestine work, knew that the smiling man was engaged in affairs at a level as deep as his own. Hoffmann moved forward, thinking: Where on earth do you get a rose like that at this time of the year?

  He guessed it had to be part of the exuberant, sartorial facade that the fellow exhibited to cover his secret life.

  ~ * ~

  ‘By God, Julius, you’d better move now,’ Freda Brandt said from her prone position in the hospital bed. ‘When you hear what I’ve to tell you, you had better.’ She grimaced with pain and gave him a furious look.

  From the door, hat in hand, still in his ankle-length leather coat, the Gestapo man stared down with concern at the woman he idolised. Her knees, an elbow and one of her hands were bandaged. ‘My dear Freda. They said you were attacked —’

  ‘Forget that!’ It was half a gasp. Her eyes blazed at him. ‘The von Schnelling woman has been hiding in Schmidt’s flat. I followed her from there this morning. She was carrying a suitcase, on the move. She’s changed her appearance . . .’

  Sack came to the bedside, eyes sharp. ‘Please tell me everything.’

  Five minutes later he hurried to a telephone in the main hall. The Reichsbank secretary had broken cover; was in transit; until now, he’d feared she’d already passed one of the Reich’s frontiers or gone into hiding in the provinces. But she was still in Berlin. Had been an hour ago. He was put straight through to the operational centre and clearly and forcefully gave his instructions. Then he spoke to Buhle and briefed the nervous subordinate. ‘Get two men down to the taxi-rank at Wilhelm Platz. Find out where she went. Be quick!’

  He limped at his fastest speed from the hospital, attendants gasping and scattering out of the way of Reich Minister Goebbels. If she’s taken a long-distance train, we’ve a chance of nabbing her. And, whatever the outcome of his inquiries concerning the special plenipotentiary, the auditor was done for. If he got the trial documents from Vormann, and if it lived up to his expectations, the pair of them were in the bag.

  The day that had become light had turned dark again, and snow flakes were whirling down in the wide canyons of the government district — like a host of tiny lost souls. Sack didn’t notice any of that. He smacked his fist into his palm as he hurried back to his office.

  ~ * ~

  42

  H

  ERR SCHMIDT!’

  Locked in the tide of hurrying bodies twenty paces from the Reichsbank entrance, Schmidt felt the plucking hand the same instant as he heard his name. His head whipped around.

  Von Beckendorf! In a doorway. Gazing at him, gripping his arm. Last night, Savigny Platz — now here! He’s an expert on my routines!

  The unshaven captain gave a smile at the auditor’s reaction, whispered, ’Can we talk?’ Schmidt took a quick glance around, seeing nothing but the usual anonymous mass of moving bodies. He gave a sharp nod. The captain inserted himself into the hurrying crowd and moved off, steadying himself on a walking stick. Keeping close, Schmidt muttered, ‘They might be following me.’ He’d seen no signs of it as he travelled in. His past experience pointed to the Gestapo’s inefficiency, and the dead agent might’ve dislocated the surveillance. Or they might be waiting for him in his office. He pressed closer to Anna’s cousin.

  The captain led the way under an arch into a deserted courtyard. He stopped. His eyes flicked back to the archway, then to Schmidt. His left hand was gripping something in his overcoat pocket. Schmidt had the automatic in his breast pocket.

  Visibly, Eugene gathered his strength. ‘Herr Schmidt, what you’ve done for my cousin is a marvellous thing. I wish to offer you something in return ... A Gestapo agent named Sack has been probing into the Wertheim case of last year. Whatever that might be. Seems he’s after the trial’s transcript and the investigation records. They’ve gone missing . . .’

  A dullness spread through Schmidt. Wertheims! What he’d feared! Last November von Streck, manipulating the case from behind the scenes, had adroitly papered over the cracks in the evidence. But the special plenipotentiary had enemies in the Party, who wouldn’t have forgotten the strange and damaging affair.

  Von Beckendorf was breathing hard. ‘Sack’s closing in. Von Streck and yourself are in his sights. Don’t ask me how or why.’ Head lowered, he leaned on his stick. ‘How to divert that suspicion? I’m finished. A week or two, I’ll be gone.’ His head jerked up. ‘Listen! You must expose me as a traitor. You’re an ingenious man. Make up a story about me — our relationship.’

  Schmidt listened with increasing horror to the words coming in painful bursts from the stricken man. ‘When they arrest me, I’ve something that’ll finish me quickly. Please. No arguments. Go to this Sack. Pre-empt his move on you with a good story. Make yourself a hero a second time.’

  The Abwehr officer grimaced a smile. ‘I’ve one more thing left to do. I believe I can do it tonight. I’ll telephone you at your office.’ More coughing racked his body. He spat a red mouthful onto the snow. ‘Excuse me. Usually more civilised.’

  Schmidt’s face showed his hopeless concern. He checked the archway. No-one there. The win
dows looking down into the yard, the same. His mind was racing. Von Beckendorf s plan had terrific merit, it was cold-bloodedly pragmatic, perhaps enough so to defeat the Gestapo at their own game. At least, to muddy the waters.

  ‘Will you do it? Will you be in your office tonight?’

  Schmidt stared into the other’s eyes.

  ‘For God’s sake!’ Eugene burst out.

  The auditor gave the same sharp nod as before. The captain sighed. ‘Right now, Anna’s on the train. God willing.’ He gave Schmidt a meaningful look and extended his hand. He’d spoken with the air of one who’d seen her off. ‘Good luck. I’ll go this way.’ But he remained still, thinking. ‘When they ask, be ignorant of Major Hoffmann.’

  He propped on his stick, turned, and walked across the courtyard to another exit.

  ~ * ~

  Twenty minutes later, in the third-floor lavatory, Schmidt studied himself in the mirror. The iris had returned to its normal size. Peering hard, he confirmed this. The drops were almost finished up. The eye still watered when exposed to the frigid outdoors but that was to be expected.

  One less worry to contend with. It would be serviceable for his last visit to President Funk’s safe - circumstances and Freda Brandt — permitting. That woman was now on his trail, had been from the very beginning and, by now, Sack might’ve given her a precise fix on him. These committed Nazis ingested suspicion with their food and drink, each breath of air. Hurriedly he washed and dried his hands. He was still shaken by his meeting with von Beckendorf. Such a significant thing decided in minutes in a snowy courtyard. A wonder!

  When he returned to his room Herr Gott was waiting, a pile of folders under his arm. He blurted out, ‘Fräulein Manager Brandt’s in hospital.’

  Schmidt pulled up, staring at the man.

  ‘She was attacked in the street an hour ago. Has slight injuries.’

  ‘What on earth’s going on?’ Schmidt was genuinely shocked.

  His deputy’s expression seemed to say: with managers Fischer and Rossbach both dead in the street, one might well ask that. But he shrugged and, with a sharp look at his superior, withdrew, having deposited the files in the in-tray

  Schmidt sat at the desk, brooding. The episode in this room yesterday seemed like a half-forgotten nightmare. It appeared he’d gone down into himself to draw on deeper reserves. He looked up into the Fuehrer’s photographic gaze.

  This was good news. If she remained in hospital today another obstacle was removed. He’d needed this gesture from Fate and it’d been delivered. He’d only got away with the previous session by the skin of his teeth.

  But betraying von Beckendorf to the Gestapo . . . ? The poor fellow was marked for death, might not even survive this day; he’d been greatly agitated when he thought Schmidt might refuse his offer.

  The auditor shook his head at the Abwehr man’s sense of gratitude and the means of repayment. What Schmidt had done for Anna had been instinctive; a knightly response. He felt he could describe it thus. But really it had been an act of love.

  Now he had to make up his story for Sack; await the depositing of the satchel in the safe. No report had come from von Streck on the quality of his photography, which was worrying. He put that aside. His mind was already at work on a new scenario.

  ~ * ~

  The express for Switzerland was one hour into this dread journey. Anna glanced at the Swiss but he quickly averted his reddened eyes. The first ordeal had been at the platform barrier where there’d been a passport and ticket examination. She’d held Lobe’s arm while he passed the documents to an official for perusal. Anna had ignored the iron-hard eyes of the Gestapo agent standing nearby, stared past them to the huge red, black and white swastika on a far wall, as if pleasurably amazed by the outsized symbol of the Third Reich. The doctor had fumbled and fidgeted in a way that had frozen her heart.

  Now she sat beside him as he dabbed nervously at his pink brow, and the express rattled and swayed and hooted south through the winter landscape. He’d only spoken to her once, with that strangled ‘Fräulein!’

  The face of her beloved Elisabeth slipped into her mind’s eye. Dear Herr Fischer. Dear Frau Singer. A fleeting picture gallery of the past. Elisabeth and Frau Kapp were doomed. This man would know their fate. She mustn’t think about it, she needed all her strength. I will get through this journey. I will nurse this betrayer of Elisabeth through it.

  Six other persons occupied the compartment; all strangers to each other. They kept their heads down in books and newspapers, except a giant blond man who, ignoring everyone, stared out the window.

  Anna lifted her head at a commotion in the corridor. Men were coming along it. The door slid back with a solid and ominous thunk, admitting a wind of body odour. ’Passport check! Ready, please!’A gold-braided conductor with an angry flush to his cheeks stood in the doorway. Crowding in behind him was the man with the intrusive eyes from the platform barrier. Again Anna prayed, with silent intensity, to her parents.

  ~ * ~

  At Prinz-Albrecht-Strasse, Sack paced his room, stopped to examine a large photograph on the wall as if it might give him some inspiration. The Nuremberg Rally — 1936. He’d been only twenty paces from the Fuehrer, seen every change of expression on his face as he’d made his speech. Happier and simpler days. But nothing to contribute to his problem. He turned away. It was 10.35 am.

  Someone had intervened violently to stop Freda’s pursuit of the Reichsbank secretary. Had it been Schmidt? If not, who? If he hadn’t heard from Vormann by noon, he’d go and see him. The SS bureaucrat was a man in a very vulnerable situation. His mother, long deceased, had been a Jewess. But that’s not what the certificate of descent which he’d presented to his SS employers said. A forged document. It was one of the useful pieces of information in Sack’s collection. Was Vormann high enough to get hold of the Wertheim case records, presuming they could be found?

  He sucked in his breath, turned back to the room. The report on the Wilhelm Platz taxi-rank hadn’t come yet. ’Damn! Damn!’ Was he surrounded by fumbling idiots? He limped to the internal phone and furiously wound the handle to raise Buhle.

  ‘Sir!’

  ‘Where is the auditor right now?’

  ‘At the Reichsbank. A new man’s been assigned to the surveillance, just reported in by phone. He picked up the subject entering the bank at 8.35.’

  ‘Very well. Outside of the bank he must be kept under strict observation. Is that understood? Report any departure to me immediately.’

  ‘Sir!’

  Sack replaced the handset. His external phone jangled. His nerves tightened another notch. ‘Yes?’

  A voice said, ‘Sir, the taxi took the woman to Anhalter Bahnhof.’

  Sack hung up. The Swiss frontier! He opened a drawer in his desk and pulled out a railway timetable. His thin finger slipped down columns. The 9.00 am express was due at the frontier at 3.45 pm. It stopped nowhere. He checked his watch: 10.50. For a moment he considered options then, seizing the telephone handle, wound it again furiously to call the switchboard.

  If this woman was on the train, they had her. Her disguise and, no doubt, false identity wouldn’t save her. If necessary, every woman near her age on the train would be interrogated. Bona fides torn apart.

  A few minutes later, having given instructions to the Gestapo officer in charge at the frontier, he put on his hat and overcoat and hurried down to the street. Vormann wouldn’t like him coming to the ministry but he had to put a bomb under the fellow; focus his mind on his tainted bloodline; on the consequences that he was facing.

  He was twenty metres beyond the door, head down against a snow-flurry, when he heard his name called. His head jerked up. He stopped. Vormann, a surprised look on his cold-pinched face, was standing a few metres away. He had an official attaché case in his gloved hand.

  ~ * ~

  The train was swaying unpleasantly. The conductor, his shoulders against the closed door, proceeded to punch tickets while the Gestapo agent
read Doctor Lobe’s passport, licking his finger, and turning the pages as if it were an absorbing story. Large drops of perspiration were visible on the doctor’s face, as if he’d been struck down by a fever. Praying for his composure, Anna forced herself to sit back, her own passport on her lap waiting its turn. Not her own. The cover story lay ready in her mind like a sleeping, soft-breathing child.

  The agent raised his eyes from the passport and, frowning, peered at Lobe. ‘You’re a resident of the Reich, Herr Doctor?’ The Swiss nodded, his eyes unquiet. ‘Why do you travel so frequently between our countries?’

  ‘Family reasons,’ the Swiss muttered.