He hung up, just catching the other’s gasp. He stared at the parquet floor. Freda was in the door, her eyes on him.
The jangling of the phone made them both jump in their skins. It was Ludwig. ‘My line is clear,’ he said tersely.
‘Mine, too.’ Not that Sack cared at this point.
‘I’ve talked to my predecessor who’s now retired. His health failed after last November’s debacle. He looked into aspects of the bank case before it was stripped away from him ...’
‘Go on,’ Sack said urgently.
‘That day in November, when Wagner took the bonds to Zurich, von Streck was at the frontier. He stopped Wagner’s interrogation, passed him through. After Wagner’s arrest, when he returned, an SS driver said von Streck attended Wagner’s interrogation shortly before he died. An hour later, the SD agents were shot dead. Whatever was going on, von Streck was pulling the levers of that night’s work.’
Sack absorbed this. ’Good. Will your ex-colleague testify?’
‘Yes. His operational section was wiped out. The death of all those colleagues ruined his life.’
Sack hung up.
Freda was shaking with nerves and impatience. ‘Do you have what you need?’
He nodded slowly. ‘I have enough.’
Her expelled breath hissed in the hall. Decisively, Sack seized the phone, and cranked the handle. When the operator responded he asked for a number that he knew by heart, but had never called before.
~ * ~
To Schmidt, the SS guards outside the Reichsbank had become as commonplace as the city’s many statues. When he stepped through the small port in the main door he no longer saw them. A black limousine waited at the kerb, engine running, its windows fogged up. The rear door swung open, and the auditor saw that the shadowy driver was beckoning him to get in. He slipped into the empty rear seat. ‘Sir, Herr President Funk will be here shortly,’ the man said.
The next moment, right on the auditors heels, ushered by Herr Wolff, the dwarfish man slid in beside Schmidt. Bowing awkwardly in his seated position, Schmidt, with a small shock, saw the brown satchel in the other’s leather-gloved hand.
The limousine moved off immediately. ’Good evening, Herr Chief Auditor! I’ve been summoned to meet with the Reich Marshal. Tonight, I present the final report on my labours.’ Dr Funk’s voice was an amiable, excited lisp in the confines of the limousine’s rear-seat.
‘Congratulations, Herr President,’ Schmidt said with another slight bow.
‘Schmidt, in an important way, you’ve been a part of the project. Your good work’s helped me. I wish you to accompany me at this significant moment.’ The small man was bubbling with high spirits. Schmidt flinched as the hand dropped on his thigh and briefly gripped it. What the president had just said might be true, but it was only part of the night’s agenda.
Four minutes later they drew up in a courtyard of the Chancellery. Many official cars were parked on the cobbled space, the drivers gathered in small groups.
With a sinking feeling, Schmidt now considered the tiny cassettes in his suit pocket, thanked providence that he wasn’t carrying the pistol. He must get the cassettes to von Streck. As they were deep in his suit coat pocket, even if he was searched, they might not be discovered. He breathed a prayer to some deity.
Funk led Schmidt into the vast building. The Reichsbank chief and his aide were waved through by an SS officer of the Leibstandarte. The scale of the Chancellery was monumental, designed to impose a sense of overpowering awe on visitors. The brutal facade assaulted the eyes of those outside; the interior stunned with its vast expanses of red marble and walls aglitter with giant mirrors. Despite his intense trepidation, Schmidt took in the bombastic magnificence, the atmosphere dense with power and grand plans. He remembered the great Goethe had said: ‘I call architecture a kind of petrified music.’
This was petrified propaganda. With his heart beating hard, Schmidt walked two paces behind Funk as they went through chambers where black-uniformed, silver-insigniaed troopers stood at attention at every doorway and at intervals along the walls, rifles held in white-gloved hands. A forest of flag-shafts projected from the walls, displaying pristine swastikas.
Many more visitors were ahead of them. The principal actors of the Third Reich were engaged in a long procession. They reached a table where the incomers were depositing overcoats and hats, and the uniformed officers their side-arms. Schmidt removed his overcoat and tendered it to a grim-faced SS orderly. Funk had removed his fur coat and flung it down on the table. Grandly he permitted an officer to peer into the brown satchel. The man handed it back with a salute.
They set off again, and the president beckoned Schmidt to his side. Out of the corner of his mouth, he said, ‘The Fuehrer’s having a late-night session. You’ll have the opportunity to see many famous people in his anteroom. I’m obliged to meet the Reich Marshal in another chamber. I can’t take you in.’ He gave Schmidt one of his twisted smiles. ’Herr Chief Auditor, make the most of this opportunity to rub shoulders with the celebrities of the Reich.’
With his fussy steps, Funk was covering the monolithic spaces at a good rate, and Schmidt had to hurry to keep up. He leaned his head close to the auditor’s. ‘Afterward we’ll go on for a little celebratory dinner to one of my favourite places. Just the two of us. An intimate occasion, my dear Schmidt. Now you stay here.’
They had entered a vast anteroom crowded with men in military uniforms, civilian clothes, and uniforms of Party colours and cuts. One hundred people, at least. The president dived into the throng and disappeared. Schmidt moved until he was near the wall. Five metres away to his left, an SS detail stood before a large closed door, eyeing the throng with a certain contempt. The statuesque, square-jawed men appeared aloof to the whirlpools of ambition circulating before their eyes: a tableau of figures, conferring, shaking hands, bowing, making confidential remarks, exchanging pleasantries. In the mass, the assembled supremacy appeared to be human beings; the fear each generated in their spheres seemed diluted. But any one of them, detaching himself, and approaching the guard would’ve brought the watching troopers to heel-clicking, muscle-quivering attention.
Schmidt swept his eye around. Famous in the Party. Not to the man in the street. He saw no Hess, Goering, Himmler or Goebbels.
But he saw Manfred von Streck. He was ten paces away, wide, rocklike, the centre of a circle. The coal-black curls rippled with light. The mole stood out. Very evidently, he was the life of the circle.
Schmidt’s heart lurched painfully. Not five paces away from that group, red-haired Major Hoffmann stood beside a white-haired man in an admiral’s uniform. The major’s head lifted in cautious surprise as his eyes found the auditor, quickly moved on. Schmidt felt his back touching the Fuehrer’s wallpaper.
~ * ~
Freda Brandt’s mind had finally found repose despite her aching and painful body. The bottle of champagne, her last from Paris, had helped. But it was the final telephone call Julius had made that was the overwhelming reason.
Thank God he’s made the decisive move. The thought stood in her brain like the illuminated capitals in a teutonic manuscript. The vexation burning in her mind had been doused. Tomorrow he’d strike a great blow. That was a certainty. Traitors would be exposed and the dark roots of base plots would be ripped up and revealed in daylight. First the Czech gold success, now the unmasking of high-level conspirators against the Reich! It could be expected that the Party would be grateful. Her mind throbbed with gratification and excitement.
Sack had removed his jacket. He was smiling now at this fabulous woman. Then, for a moment, he dropped his eyes and became serious. The last call he’d made was to Heydrich’s office. Late as it was, he’d requested an immediate meeting with the head of the Reich Security Service. Cautiously, an aide had explained that his master was away from Berlin, but he’d be in his office at 9.00 am. If the matter was sufficiently important the chief would see the sturmbannfuehrer at that hour.
So 9.00 am it was to be. Only eight hours away.
‘“Blood and soil”, the dear Fuehrer says, Julius,’ Freda breathed. ‘Always careful of our destiny.’
Sack was getting a little tired of this. ‘They say his breath is terrible,’ he said.
Thunderstruck, Freda stared at him. ‘Do you think yours is good?’ She burst out laughing as though they’d shared a joke. ‘Julius, that champagne has made me feel like a fuck.’
He grinned his relief and pleasure. ‘Your injuries?’
‘I’ll take off the dressings and you’ll see my blood. My wounds earned in our endeavours!’
He raised a restraining hand, but already she’d tossed back her skirt revealing her powerful white thighs. She peeled the bandages off her knees, tossing the soiled white linen strips on the floor. He stared at the coagulated blood and the yellow antiseptic patches.
‘I’m bloody in that special place as well. But that’s never worried you before.’ She laughed her throaty laugh. ‘It only worries the wash-maid.’
He stood up, unstrapped his pistol holster and unbelted his trousers. She stared at what he revealed and gave a girlish giggle.
~ * ~
Major Hoffmann made no move toward the Reichsbank auditor, nor did he look in his direction again. He thought: What on earth is Schmidt doing here? His presence bore out his own and Eugene’s supposition that the fellow was engaged in secret work. Anti-Nazi work. And still he existed!
Ah. The major’s glance fell on Manfred von Streck.
Next to Hoffmann his boss, Admiral Canaris, the head of the Abwehr, was in earnest conversation about submarine construction with a Luftwaffe general. The major was only half-listening. Anna had escaped. And Schmidt had done the lion’s share of that. A service not to be forgotten. And dear Eugene . . . His friend’s fate was a sad weight on his heart. What had happened? The news would not be good . . . Hoffmann’s eyes roamed the room. Tonight was one of those command performances imposed at short notice on the military elite and the Reich administrators. Poland was the subject in the air. The Fuehrer might or might not make an appearance. At intervals, the big door sprang open and a military personage was ushered in and the crash of heel-clicking, the shouted salute was heard, even through the closed door.
The project Colonel Oster and he had been working on was complete. The full battle plan for the Polish aberration would be delivered to the British and the French within two days.
His eyes flicked back to von Streck. He’d also put something together. Oster had only hinted at it, but it seemed another plan was to go in tandem with the military one. Hoffmann guessed it was of an economic nature; possibly concerning the Reich’s war-financing; and was coming via the hands of the showy, thick-set special plenipotentiary. And Herr Schmidt.
Hoffmann flexed his athletic shoulders. The Admiral touched his arm. The Luftwaffe general had moved on. ’We’re here tonight, Hoffmann, for no real purpose, the Fuehrer won’t appear. It is merely a piece of theatre, a prelude to his Polish concerto.’
~ * ~
He stood in the foyer of the building. A giant, shadowy figure. He’d switched off the electric light. Despite his great size, he was a person who spoke softly, made the minimum of noise. He hoped that the door had no special locks or bars. He could break it down within a minute, barge it off its hinges with his shoulder, but he wanted silence.
The large revolver in his coat was fitted with a silencer. If a neighbour saw him, they’d have to be killed. His appearance was too distinctive. He would use his hands for that. He listened for footsteps. Approaching sounds would be deadened in the snowy street. But it was late; he’d been here fifteen minutes and not a soul had passed by. He removed his gloves, and flexed his fingers. It was time to go to work.
~ * ~
Sack, in a golden sunburst, felt the day’s terrific tension coming to a gigantic climax; flowing into the member that was sliding vigorously in and out of her. ‘Harder!’ she muttered. Her teeth were in his shoulder but he felt no pain. The same with his fingernail-raked chest. She whipped her head back: ‘Faster!’ His tight bum was pumping like a machine, glowing like a small moon in the darkness. He raised himself on his elbows, driving harder, deeper. She shrieked a microsecond before his immense groan filled the room, pursuing the echo of her scream.
Sack didn’t understand what had gone wrong. Then the attempt to understand evaporated in his brain and his torso collapsed on her.
‘Julius, you clumsy bastard! Get off! What -’
Freda Brandt’s eyes snapped open as the cold metal pressed against her forehead. ‘No!’ she screamed.
~ * ~
47
A
N HOUR HAD PASSED with all the pretentious fakery of the occasion. There was no food or drink available, and Schmidt felt hungry for the first time in days. President Funk had dinner plans for them, and plans that went beyond dinner. He’d have to make sure the evil little fellow consumed an abundance of alcohol. Cognac. He’d become an attentive pourer of cognac.
He started. Von Streck’s giant aide! The man had entered and moved to his superior’s side. Lowering his blond head, he spoke a few words into the special plenipotentiary’s ear. Von Streck nodded brusquely, turned and excused himself from his circle. He didn’t make straight for Schmidt, but in a flash the auditor knew that he was to be the destination of the circular progress that’d been commenced.
The auditor slipped his hand into his suit-coat pocket and found the tiny cassettes.
The broad man, beaming the wide yet enigmatic smile, came out of the crowd with a cry of pleasure, and reached for Schmidt’s hand. ‘My dear fellow! What a surprise!’ The ebullient greeting was almost lost in the hubbub. Genuine surprise did appear on his face as he felt what was in the auditor’s hand. But he completed the formal handshake then, putting his right hand into his pocket, brought out a handkerchief. He mopped his brow, and a new smile appeared. ’The Fuehrer’s heating is superb!’
In a low voice, Schmidt said, ‘There’s an investigation -’
The plenipotentiary clapped the auditor’s shoulder and said in a quieter, conversational tone, ‘No longer a problem. Put your mind at rest, my dear fellow. Now!’ His voice dropped again, so that Schmidt had to strain to hear. ‘My dear fellow, excellent work. New orders will arrive for you tomorrow. You’ll be leaving the Reichsbank with immediate effect. Your great skills are needed elsewhere. We’ll talk again soon. Goodnight, Schmidt!’ He wheeled around and, seconds later, had merged into another group and was clapping another shoulder.
Schmidt stared after him. His head had begun to ache. His mind and his body had become deadened with delayed shock. And with the feared confirmation that von Streck’s words had brought.
He was fastened to this man’s destiny by bands of iron.
He was looking straight at President Funk who, five paces away, was with a man whom Schmidt vaguely recognised from his brief stint at the Economics Ministry. Funk, as usual, was talking out of the side of his mouth but his eyes were on Schmidt. The president no longer had the brown satchel. In mid-sentence, he winked at the auditor.
Schmidt flexed his shoulders, thought: Tonight, cognac, tomorrow, departure; after he’d cleared his desk of incriminating evidence. He’d drop that in the Spree. He’d heard the cracking of ice breaking up on the river.
Unbidden, the faces of the dead began to flick through his head like pictures in a cinematograph. The dead and missing in his life were forming a longer and longer queue. And now he guessed there were two more. The future! The knight must never have known his from one day to the next, and that seemed to be the genetic hand Franz Schmidt had been dealt; the personal labyrinth he was entrapped within.
Yet every labyrinth has its exit. Helga and Trudi flashed up in brilliant images. Affectionate, watching faces. Dresden. Could they ever be reunited? And now Anna . . . Fate would sort that out.
His socket had begun to smart. A subtle reminder that it needed cleansing attention.
Unexpectedly, the multicoloured, moveable throng parted before his eye and the Reich Marshal, in a dazzling white uniform, appeared and strutted down the anteroom.
Gazing with his one-eyed vision along the channel left in the fat man’s wake, Schmidt found himself not without hope. In Dürer’s great engraving, the knight was locked into his mission for the duration of human kind. But Franz Schmidt still had life — and hope — pumping in his veins.
He whispered to himself, a talisman: ‘Hope springs eternal, even in an iron heart.’
The Iron Heart - [Franz Schmidt 02] Page 39