by Paul Lally
‘Let me see your manifest.’ I said gruffly. ‘I want to sort this out for my friend.’
He still hesitated, so I said, ‘Where’s your supervisor? I’m sure he can help me since it’s obvious you can’t.’
A quick eye-blink. ‘That won’t be necessary.’ He fussed and fiddled with some paperwork, but I knew he was just killing time. I had tumbled this shark’s racket and he knew it. No way was he going to slip off my gaff hook now. Time to flip him into the boat and sure enough, he reached under the counter and pulled up four slips of paper.
‘Ach, someone has made a transposition error,’ he said. ‘It happens sometimes, especially with all the confusion lately. I am most sorry, Herr Kreiser. Here are your tickets. Be here at the terminal four o’clock tomorrow morning at the latest. Enjoy your flight, danke schön for flying with Lufthansa, and please excuse me I have other customers who need my assistance.’
He couldn’t wait to get away. Sure, he’d catch hell from whomever paid cash for Kreiser’s seats, but that was his problem, not mine.
We cleared the crowd and came to a stop. ‘How you doing, Oscar?’
He clutched his tickets like they were four sheets of gold. ‘You have no idea...’
‘I do. And three days from now you’ll be in America.’
‘America,’ he said softly.
He made the word sound like music.
The scene at the Aviz hotel in downtown Lisbon was the exact opposite of the Lufthansa reservation desk. Instead of the strident, tense atmosphere and high-pitched voices filled with anxiety, the hotel lobby’s three-story, gold-leafed walls was a vast space filled with elegantly-dressed guests strolling with a casual sense of purpose amidst towering potted palms, their countless conversations merged into a gentle, contented murmur. Somewhere in this glittering, palace-like place, two classical guitars tossed a piece of music back and forth like a silk-covered softball.
Portugal’s declared neutrality kept it clear of the clutches of Nazi
Germany, and Lisbon had become the watering hole for spies, refugees and everybody in between that a global war attracts, including an improbable convention of prominent German scientists gathered for their annual meeting. Despite Europe being in flames, science apparently marched ever onward to the beat of a drum all its own.
From a quick scan of the fifty or so guests in the lobby, none of them seemed the scientist-type. Then I laughed at myself. What the heck did I know about what the well-dressed scientist was wearing that would distinguish him from - say, the two men standing by the potted palm, head- to-head in some intense discussion?
My orders were simple: Fatt and the crew would rest up at the hotel for a few hours, get some dinner, and then return to the Yankee Clipper early in the morning for the lengthy pre-flight procedures. Orlando and I were remain behind to help Ava and Ziggy, when, with scientist in tow, it came time for us to make a dash for the plane just before takeoff.
A scattered popping of flashbulbs lit up the lobby. Like some collective creature, everyone, myself included, swiveled our heads in the direction of the main desk where Ava leaned against the polished walnut and brass- trimmed counter, posing for pictures like she owned the joint. Ziggy stood beside her, beaming and jabbering at the reporters and photographers in a repeat performance of the ‘starlet’ act they’d done in Baltimore, only this time a female Portuguese translator heightened the drama by jabbering Portuguese at the top of her lungs.
People love movie stars all over the world and react the same way when they’re around them. What did it matter that Ava James didn’t speak Portuguese? Everyone understood the international language of dazzling beauty, and in this she was fluent. Hard to imagine this elegantly dressed, highly made-up, glamorous woman wearing a dirty blouse and slacks, on her hands and knees digging for gold in the Florida Keys.
But I guess that’s why she was a movie star. She could be anybody in the world she wanted, and still, somehow, stay Ava James.
She spotted me and gave me a quick wink before she brandished her cigarette holder in the air like a saber and shouted at me, ‘Sam, darling!’
Right on cue, Ziggy frowned and tried to restrain her, as if not wanting this to happen, but she shrugged him off like an annoying fly and swept toward me. The photographers swiveled as one, following their favorite target.
‘Where’ve you been hiding, you naughty, naughty, boy?’
I had no trouble acting sheepish and tongue-tied because I was, even though we’d rehearsed this routine a few times while we were stuck at Horta. There had to be a reason for our being together. This was it: movie- star-falls-in-love-with-dashing-pilot.
She twirled around to face the reporters, and as she gushed away in English, the translator rattled away in Portuguese.
‘Captain Carter promised to show me Lisbon and I’m holding him to it. Aren’t I, captain?’
I made a polite salute. ‘Yes, ma’am.’
Her laugh was rich and deep, ‘Get a load of this man’s manners.’ She took my arm and snuggled close. ‘Stick around, I just might keep you.’
A burst of Portuguese. The translator said, ‘He is your new boyfriend?’ A sprinkle of appreciative laughter. Her lips brushed against my cheek then she turned to her admirers. ‘What do you think, folks? Should I keep him?’
More flashbulbs.
Ziggy said sternly. ‘Time for our meeting, darling.’ She sighed. ‘If you insist.’
She gave me a quick kiss. On my lips this time, and then twirled away to head for the elevator. The press followed her like a flock of bees, leaving me stripped of my thirty seconds of fame by being kissed by a movie star. What surprised me when she did was her smell. I had expected a tidal wave of heavy perfume to match her equally heavy makeup. But instead a fresh, light aroma that, for lack of a better word, smelled like happiness.
I left that mystery hanging because I had exactly ten minutes to get to my room, clean up and meet up with Orlando, and head for dinner. After that we were to lay low and wait like a pair of Al Capone’s bodyguards until ten o’clock, when Ava would spirit the Herr Doktor to her room and the ‘heist’ would begin.
The word choice had been Ziggy’s, who had, to everyone’s surprise, gotten into the spirit of things ever since his drunken spree with Inspector Bauer back at Horta. Gone was the fretful, ever-worrying little nebbish. In its place was a brash, confident little Napoleon, intent on conquering the world. To watch him dismiss the reporters in the lobby with a confident wave of his imperious hand was to see Bonaparte himself standing at the gates of Moscow, demanding the Czar’s immediate and unconditional surrender.
The very thought of such a thing made me wince. Where the French emperor had failed, a German one was about to succeed. Moscow, like Washington D.C. had a smoking bomb crater to mark the passing of the Nazi hobnail boot. But where the United States had signed a Neutrality agreement, Russia had remained defiant; content to let hundreds of thousands of its citizens fall under the rule and reign of Nazi warlords, and worse for many of them, suffer their butchery when the SS Death Squads laid waste to village after village.
Stalin and his Politburo had abandoned Moscow and hightailed to a hiding place beyond the Ural Mountains. And while the Nazis had pursued him, they had still not destroyed him. At least not yet, and Juan Trippe’s words came back to me:
‘Hitler hesitates... Why?’
The answer apparently lay somewhere deep inside the head of the Herr Doktor Professor, and our job was to get him out of Lisbon, back to Couba Island and find out.
I checked my watch for the millionth time, which was probably Orlando’s limit, because he said, ‘You’re making time stand still by checking your watch all the time.’
‘Nervous habit.’
‘Pray instead?’
‘No thanks.’
‘Then I will, if you don’t mind.’
He closed his eyes and together we sat in comfortable silence in my hotel room. The last time I checked my watch it had said, 11:2
8. I never got another chance because the phone rang and I jumped as if shot.
Orlando smiled, ‘The power of prayer.’
Ava’s voice was tight with excitement. ‘He’s here.’
‘On our way.’
The original plan to have adjoining rooms hadn’t worked out. We weren’t even on the same floor. But a creaky elevator ride moments later and we were heading down a crowded corridor filled with Germans speaking in boisterous, unmodulated voices, edged here and there with insane giggles - your typical convention crowd doing its conventional, after- hours thing. We managed to dodge and weave our way past them without colliding with their wobbly trajectories, that is, until the last two, who plowed into us like we were flimsy roadblocks begging to be hit. Drunk? You bet. How else could they have misjudged someone Orlando’s size, or been so stupid as to growl at him?
‘Schwarzie, Raus!’
But to Orlando’s credit, all he did was gently grab both men by their shoulders, turn them in the direction of their departing friends, said ‘Auf Wiedersehen, brothers’ and nudged them on their way. They took one look at him and then staggered away in pursuit of the departing mob. The corridor quieted. The storm had passed.
‘You’re a better man than I am,’ I said. ‘I would have sent both of those bums to the moon for talking to me like that.’
‘When hootch does the talking, I don’t listen. And those two boys were talking up a storm.’
‘Even so…’
Orlando’s mitt landed on my shoulder. ‘Brother Sam, I appreciate how you feel, but you don’t live inside this skin like I do, and I manage all right with the Lord’s help.’
He spun me around like a top. ‘Let’s go be heroes.’
‘Welcome to the circus,’ Ziggy said breathlessly as he opened the door to Ava’s room.
As befitting her star status, she had a luxury suite complete with a spacious sitting room, where she currently sat across from a short, fat man in his 60s wearing a black dress and a white towel draped over his shoulders. He had a look in his eyes of complete and absolute terror.
‘Ready for this, professor?’ Ava said.
He nodded without saying a word. Ava reached into a hatbox and pulled out a mannequin head upon which rested a grey wig done up in a matronly bob. She brushed it up a bit and then held it in both hands like a living creature.
‘Head down,’ she said.
He bent over and she deftly flipped it onto his balding head. A few tugs here and there, and the deed was done. When he raised his head, I saw an old woman.
‘Now comes the fun part.’
Ava rummaged around in a wooden case beside her, its contents filled with tubes, cylinders, pencils and combs.
‘Nice set up you’ve got,’ I said.
‘Wally Westmore’s folks loaned it to me.’
‘Who’s he?’
‘The king of Hollywood’s makeup world, that’s who – Professor Friedman, meet Sam Carter and Orlando Diaz. They’re here to help us.’
‘I am pleased to meet you both. I hope you succeed.’ His voice was soft and high-pitched, which was good, considering he was looking more and more like a woman with every brushstroke and pencil line Ava applied to his pudgy face.
‘You’re good at this,’ I said.
‘Lots of practice - hold still, Professor, I need to line your eyes with this red stuff. You’ve been crying, don’t forget.’
‘Yes, I remember.’
‘Quick, what’s your husband’s name?’
‘Alfred Jäger.’
‘And?’
‘And he is vice-consul at the Compliance office in Denver, Colorado. He had a heart attack and is too ill to move. The doctors are afraid he might die. I am traveling to be by his bedside.’
She sat back. ‘Excellent. I believed you. Almost’
‘What did I do wrong?’
‘You’re words were okay, but...’ She punched her fist into her palm.
‘You need more oomph in your delivery.’
‘What is meant by ‘oomph.’?’
‘This…’ She leaned forward, eyes narrowed, fist stabbing the air for emphasis. ‘You’re going to be with Alfred come hell or high water because he’s your husband, because he’s the father of your four beautiful children, and because you will be good God-damned if anybody or ANYTHING is going to stand between you and the man you love, got that?’
Friedman watched like a man hypnotized; his chest rose and his fat- waddled chin jutted out and his tear-reddened eyes blazed. ‘Ja, I understand. Vielen Danke. This I can do.’
Orlando cleared his throat. ‘I need your baggage stubs, sir.’
‘Yes, of course.’ Friedman motioned to Ziggy, who fetched his suit coat. The professor dug around for a moment before pulling out two tags and handed them over. ‘Be careful. The trunks are extremely heavy.’
Orlando grinned. ‘Nothing I can’t handle.’ Then his face grew somber.
‘They’re okay to move aren’t they? I mean, in case they get dropped - not that I would, of course - but I don’t want to break anything.’
‘Not to worry.’
‘What’s inside?’ I said.
Friedman shrugged his shoulders. ‘I cannot tell you. That way, in case we are stopped and interrogated, you will be unable to divulge that information.’
‘What about you?’
His matronly face hardened slightly. ‘I have taken provisions to make sure that will never happen.’
I left it at that, and concerned myself with making sure Orlando and I were singing from the same choir book as far as getting this motley crew on board the clipper. The plan was to have Orlando head out to the plane early to load the professor’s baggage. As a Pan Am crew member, he could do that without triggering any questions from the Lufthansa harpies.
‘Where you going to stow it?’ I said.
‘Aft cargo hold, upper deck.’
‘Will it fit?’
‘I’ll make it fit.’
‘Make sure Fatt gets the additional weight for his COG calculations. Those things won’t show on the manifest. And if he doesn’t figure them in, then...’
He saluted. ‘May I remind you that this is not my first day working the flight line?’
With that, he was gone.
Our side of the equation was a little more complicated.
‘Where’s the professor’s ticket?’ I said.
Ziggy pulled it out of an envelope and handed it over. Gone was the familiar blue Pan American Airways logo and flight information. In its place was a Lufthansa version printed in black and red, with their damned swastika taking up more space than necessary. This particular ticket was different than the other ones I’d seen, sporting a red band down the right hand side, signifying Frau Hilda Jäger was a high-priority passenger due all the rights and privileges contained therein, including preferential seating and additional baggage allowance.
‘They did a good job on this,’ I said.
Ziggy beamed. ‘Those Couba Island counterfeiters could work in Hollywood any day. Take a look at what else they dreamed up.’
Not only had General Patton’s gang of artists cobbled up the fake Lufthansa priority airline ticket, they had also created a ‘letter of passage’ from Heinrich Himmler’s SS office that stated in almost hysterical terms that Frau Jäger was to be accorded every courtesy, given no restrictions, and afforded immediate passage through any and all ports of embarkation, without concern as to the inconvenience of others - so sayeth Reichsfūhrer SS Heinrich Himmler himself, with all the official -looking stamps and seals to prove it.
Ziggy tapped the letter. ‘This could get him into Hitler’s bedroom, I bet.’
‘I prefer America,’ Professor Friedman said quietly.
‘Speaking of which,’ I said. ‘Let’s go through the drill again.’
We spent the next few minutes ticking off what I hoped would be the ordered, uneventful steps of making our way from the Aviz hotel to the clipper. As we went through the proced
ure, Ava stored her makeup back into the case, but not without pausing to carefully muss up her hair a bit and opening a button on her tight-fitting blouse.
When I finished, she said, ‘How do I look?’
‘Like you’ve been through the wringer.’
‘Good,’ she said.
‘And how do I look?’ Friedman said.
‘The same. Only a bigger wringer.’
His laugh was dry, quick and nervous. ‘I’ve never done anything like this in my life.’
‘Then we’re even,’ I said, and stood and offered him my arm. ‘Frau Jäger?’ May I escort you to the plane?’
She took my arm. ‘Thank you, yes.’
Ava said, ‘Curtain up.’
Even at this late hour people still jammed the hotel lobby, some talking, others laughing, and mixed with it the contagious beat of a swing orchestra in a faraway ballroom playing an American tune whose name I couldn’t place to save my life. All of which made it easier for Frau Jäger and me to make our way to a relatively quiet corner, find two empty seats and wait for Ava’s ‘big entrance.’
Moments later she swept into the room, trailed by a bug-eyed Ziggy who bobbed and bounced like a tin can tied to a ‘Just Married’ car. But no happy bride and groom in sight, just one pissed-off actress about to explode.
‘No, no, no, no NO!’ she shrieked at Ziggy, and the lobby fell silent except for the faraway orchestra. ‘I don’t care who signed the contract. All I care about is getting the hell out of this dump and going home.’
She grabbed him by the collar and lifted him up onto his heels. ‘And I mean now!’
‘A deal’s a deal, sweetheart.’
‘Don’t you sweetheart me, you little weasel.’
She brushed a stray wisp of hair out of her face and swayed slightly as if she had been drinking.
‘They want good little Ava James to star in their shitty little movie? Fine, they can start by kissing my little…’
Ziggy’s hand clamped over her mouth and his eyes popped with terror at coping with this unexpected Medusa, her snake hair squirming everywhere and angry flashing eyes sending out death rays left and right.