The Monte Cristo Cover-Up

by Johannes Mario Simmel

  Loos repeated nervously: "Rivals?"

  "The gentleman works for the British secret service."

  Loos thumped the table with his fist. "You damned scoundrel!" he cried, beside himself with rage.

  "Steady, Lehmann," Thomas reprimanded him. "If you can't behave decently I shall leave you to yourself."

  The major pulled himself together with a tremendous effort "You are a German. I appeal to your sense of patriotism . . ."

  "Lehmann, for the last time I must ask you to behave yourself!"

  "Come back with me to our own country. You have my word as an Intelligence officer that nothing will happen to you. An Intelligence officer's word of honor is not to be trifled with . . ."

  "No," said Thomas quietly. "The best thing is not to trust it from the start"

  The major swallowed hard. "Then sell me that black brief case. I offer you three thousand dollars."

  "The gentleman from London offered me double that just now."

  "Well, how much do you want, then?"

  "That's a silly question. As much as I can get"

  "What a depraved rascal you are!"

  "Yes, that's what your colleague was saying just now."

  The major's expression changed with startling suddenness. He murmured admiringly: "Man alive, I wish we had you on our side . . ."

  "Come on, Lehmann. How much?"

  "I—I must ask Berlin again—request fresh instructions .. •"

  "Go ahead then, Lehmann. Request them. And hurry up about it. My boat will be leaving in a few days' time."

  "Just tell me one thing. How did you get that brief case into this country? I know the Portuguese customs men stripped you to the skin!"

  "I got a foreigner to help me." Thomas Lieven thought with gratitude of his evasive fawn. 'Tricks of that kind, you know, Lehmann, require a certain little quality which is quite out of the reach of people like you."

  "And what is that, may I ask?"

  "Just charm."

  "You hate me, don't you?"

  "Herr Lehmann, I have led a happy life. I used to be a peaceful citizen. You and your colleagues in Britain and France are responsible for my sitting here at this moment Do you expect me to be grateful to you for that? I didn't want to have anything to do with any of you. So you'd better be careful how you deal with me. Where are you staying?"

  "In the Casa Senhora de Fatima."

  "Fm in the Hotel Palacio do Estoril-Parque. So is the gentleman from London, incidentally. Ask your chief how much that black brief case is worth to him. Your colleague

  was asking his chief this evening . . . Well, that's that. And now I really must eat!"

  [2]

  The night was still warm.

  Thomas Lieven drove back to Lisbon in an open taxi. He could see the moonlit foam of waves breaking along the shore, the luxurious villas bordering the wide highway, the dark pinewoods, the palms and the picturesque night clubs perched on low hills, from which echoes of feminine laughter and dance music floated to his ears.

  He drove on past the fashionable bathing resort of Estoril, with its casino sparkling with lights and its two great hotels.

  Elsewhere Europe was sinking further and further into ashes and ruin. But here people were still living in an earthly paradise.

  It was a poisoned paradise, thought Thomas Lieven, a deadly Garden of Eden, filled with the reptiles of many nations spying on and threatening one another. It was here in the Portuguese capital that they met, grew powerful and played their monstrous devils' harlequinade in whole battalions of the so-called Fifth Column.

  In the heart of Lisbon, the splendid Praga Dom Pedro, with its pavements in black and white mosaic, Thomas Lieven alighted. The gardens in front of the great cafes that surrounded the vast square were still crowded with native citizens and foreigners.

  Church clocks in all directions were resonantly striking eleven. While the strokes were still echoing around the square Thomas was surprised to see the people in the cafes, both the Portuguese and the refugees from Austria, Germany, Poland, France, Belgium, Czechoslovakia, Holland and Denmark, jumping up from their seats and pouring across to the lower end of the Praga Dom Pedro. Thomas allowed himself to be swept along in the tide of humanity.

  At the end of the square stood a massive newspaper office. High across the facade of its top floor ran a neon-lit band recording a stream of the latest news. Thousands of eyes stared upward in fascination at the procession of illuminated letters, which might mean life or death to so many of them.

  Thomas read:

  DNB The German Foreign Minister von Ribbentrop and the Italian Foreign Minister Ciano, at an arbitration meeting in the Belvedere Castle, Vienna, have finally reached a decision on the question of the new frontiers to be drawn between Hungary and Rumania . . .

  UNITED PRESS Heavy German air raids on Britain continue, causing serious damage and loss of life in Liverpool, London, Weybridge and Felixstowe ...

  INTERNATIONAL NEWS SERVICE Italian heavy bombers have attacked Malta in great force. Concentrated air raids are also being directed against British military establishments in North Africa ...

  Thomas Lieven turned to watch the faces of the crowd. Few of them bore indifferent expressions. Nearly all appeared shocked, anxious, dismayed or actually despairing.

  On the way back to his hotel Thomas Lieven was four times accosted by good-looking women. One was from Vienna, one from Prague and one from Paris. The youngest of the four, almost a child, had a face like a madonna. Thomas gave her some money and wished her luck. She told him she had fled from Spain after Franco's victory.

  In the garden of the six-storied Parque Hotel the scent of the flowers was overpowering. Even the lounge resembled a sea of exotic flowers. As Thomas walked through it dozens of attentive glances, suspicious, menacing or alarmed, followed him.

  Here too he heard nearly all the languages of Europe.

  But none of the people seated in the lounge looked shocked, anxious or despairing. They were for the most part secret agents of both sexes, living in luxury as they plied their base and stupid trade under the cloak of patriotism.

  The moment Thomas entered his suite soft arms were flung around his neck and he smelled the perfume used by Mabel Hastings. The young stewardess was wearing a white pearl necklace and high-heeled shoes. Nothing else.

  "Oh, Jean—at last, at last! What a time you've been!"

  She kissed him tenderly. He inquired in a businesslike tone: "Where's that black brief case?"

  "In the hotel safe—just as you told me—"

  "That's fine," said Thomas Lieven. "Then we needn't talk of anything but love now—"

  Next morning about half-past eight a tired but happy Mabel Hastings flew off to Dakar. Next morning about ten o'clock a happy and not in the least tired Thomas Lieven, after partaking of a copious breakfast, set about his plans for a thorough revenge, before he left Europe, on his tormentors of the German, British and French secret services.

  That morning, August 31, 1940, a smartly dressed gentleman entered the biggest bookshop in the city, on the Avenida da India. He asked for plans of some German and French towns. He found what he wanted, among other sources, in a 1935 Baedeker. Then he went to the General Post Office. His charm and persuasive eloquence succeeded in persuading an elderly female clerk to put the telephone books of five German and fourteen French towns at his disposal for an hour. The General Post Office of the cosmopolitan city of Lisbon possessed a complete library of all the telephone registers of Europe.

  Thomas copied 120 names and addresses out of the books. In the Rua Augusta he bought a typewriter and some paper. Then he returned to his hotel, fetched the black brief case from the safe and went upstairs to his pleasantly cool suite on the first floor. The windows overlooked a park full of strange shrubs and trees, fountains and brightly colored parakeets.

  In order to get into the best possible frame of mind for his task he ordered a second tomato cocktail from the floor waiter. Then he sat d
own to work.

  He opened the black brief case, which contained his whole fortune in cash. It also contained six closely written lists and some blueprints of new types of heavy tanks, flame throwers and fighter aircraft.

  I wish I could drop all this accursed muck down the pan right away, thought Thomas. But Major Debras is sure to know of them and would miss them. Loveioy and Loos, however, don't know anything about them. They only want the lists.

  Well, they'll get lists.

  He examined the six sheets of typewritten paper. They gave the names of the service and civil members of the Deuxieme Bureau, the names of French agents in Germany and of trusted persons in Germany and France. There were 117 altogether.

  The names were accompanied by addresses, followed by a couple of sentences, the first to be used in speaking to the agent and the second to be used by the agent in replying. Only

  then could one be sure that one was dealing with him and no one else.

  For example, Thomas Lieven read: "Willibald Lohr, Diisseldorf, Sedanstrasse 34. (1) Have you by any chance seen a gray miniature poodle with a red collar? (2) No, but they're still selling honey over in Lichtenbroich.

  "Adolf Meier-Wilke, Berlin-Grunewald, Bismarckallee 145.

  (1) Are those your pigeons on the summer-house roof? (2) Don't turn around. Your buttons are undone."

  And so on.

  Thomas shook his head and sighed. Then he inserted a clean sheet in his new typewriter and unfolded a street plan of Frankfurt-am-Main. One of the names he had copied from the Munich telephone book was of Friedrich Kesselhuth.

  He typed that name, then bent over the Frankfurt street plan.

  Suppose we take Erlenstrasse, he thought. He found that it adjoined the road leading into the town and was short. The scale of the map, he noted, was 1: 16,000

  How many houses could there be in Erlenstrasse? Thirty or forty, definitely under sixty. All the same, we may as well make sure.

  He typed: "Friedrich Kesselhuth, Frankfurt-am-Main, Erlenstrasse 77. (1) Is that girl at Fechenheims's dark or fair?

  (2) Eat that bird of yours quick, it's tainting the air." Now for the next!

  Thomas transported a certain Paul Giggenheimer from Hamburg-Altona to Diisseldorf, No. 51 of the extremely short Rubensstrasse. "(1) John Galsworthy is 66. (2) We must get our colonies back."

  Well, that's Number Two, thought Thomas Lieven. I need another 115. And 111 have to type the whole blasted rubbish out three times. One for Lovejoy, one for Loos and one for Debras. Quite a job. Never mind, it'll pay off well.

  He went on typing. After half an hour he suddenly felt he really couldn't carry on. He went to the window and looked down into the park.

  Confound it all, he thought. This will never do. Let's think again.

  The idea was to get rid of the genuine lists because they could only cause more harm whoever got hold of them, Germans, British or French. I've made up my mind that no one else is to die on account of those lists.

  On the other hand I've also made up my mind to take ven-

  geance on all the idiots who have ruined my life. But am I really taking vengeance on them by doing this? Am I really preventing fresh harm from being done?

  If the French and British start working with my bogus lists they'll find out that they're all wrong. And that'll be fine.

  But what about the Germans?

  Let's suppose that Friedrich Kesselhuth of Munich has a namesake in Frankfurt who hasn't got a telephone. Or let's suppose that they've lengthened Erlenstrasse in Frankfurt lately and there really is a No. 77 there now. The Gestapo will arrest all men of the name of Kesselhuth. They'll be tortured, imprisoned, executed . ..

  And that's only one of the names and addresses. There will be 116 others!

  Perhaps the gentlemen of the three secret services will find out how they've been had and throw the lists away. They might have at least enough intelligence for that. All the same, after all my recent experiences, I'd better not rely on it.

  But, damn it. Debras will be coming for that brief case on September 3. What the devil am I to do?

  How easy it is to betray and kill people. And how laborious and troublesome it is to rescue and protect them from torment, persecution and death ...

  [3]

  The telephone bell rang.

  Thomas Lieven, startled out of his reflections, picked up the receiver. He shut his eyes when he heard a well-known voice say: "Lehmann speaking. I've been talking to the party in question. He offers six thousand dollars."

  "No sale," said Thomas.

  "What do you mean by that?" The voice of the major from Cologne sounded panic-stricken. "Have you sold it already?"

  "No."

  "What's the position, then?"

  Thomas stared glumly at the sheet inserted in his typewriter. "I'm still negotiating. I'll take your offer into consideration. Call me up again tomorrow." He hung up without another word.

  Til have to call one of the fellows on my lists Fritz Loos, he thought angrily. Then he put all the papers back into the black brief case and carried it downstairs to the head porter, who locked it away in the hotel safe. Thomas resolved to take

  a little walk and think things over. There must be some solution to this problem. There must, there must . . .

  The agent Lovejoy was sitting in the lounge, still with an enormous bruise on his forehead.

  Lovejoy sprang up and dashed across to Thomas, his eyes alight with cupidity "What about that brief case? I saw it in your hand quite clearly. What's going on?"

  "I'm still negotiating. Ask me again tomorrow." "Look here, I'll give you more than that Nazi of yours, I don't care how much it is!"

  "All right, all right," said Thomas Lieven, hurrying away. Deep in thought he went out into the sunny street. Deep in thought he wandered off through the city. In the Avenida da Liberdade he had to stop. A funeral procession was going by under the palms. Police were holding up the traffic. Apparently the funeral was that of an important Portuguese citizen, for hundreds of men and women in black were following the coffin with solemn expressions. Many were in tears. Pass-ersby raised their hats. Prayers resounded. The air smelled of incense.

  Suddenly a hoarse chuckle was heard amidst the murmuring of the mourners. It was an elegant young gentleman, who had interrupted the proceedings with such appalling tactlessness.

  "Dirty foreigner!" exclaimed an old woman, spitting on the pavement at his feet.

  "Yes, ma'am," said Thomas Lieven. Then he raced off, shouldering his umbrella, to the Central Station close by.

  In the main hall newspapers and magazines from every country in the world were on sale at a big bookstall. Pictures of Churchill and Hitler, Goering and Roosevelt, hung peacefully side by side, surrounded by photographs of pin-up girls, nude athletes and martial headlines in many languages.

  "I want some newspapers, please," said Thomas Lieven breathlessly to the wrinkled old salesman. "All the French and all the German papers."

  "They're all two days old."

  "Doesn't matter. Give me all you have. Last week's too. And any from the week before last."

  "Drunk, aren't you?"

  "No, perfectly sober. Come on, dad!"

  The old man shrugeed his shoulders. Then he sold out his entire stock of old numbers of the Reich, the Volkischer Beo-bachter, the Berliner Zeitung. the Deutsche Allgemeinen Zei-

  twig, the Muncher Neuesten Nachrichten, Le Matin, L'Oeu-vre, Le Petit Parisien, Paris Soir and nine French provincial newspapers.

  Thomas took the whole lot back to his hotel and locked himself into his suite. Then he began to examine the dusty old pages, but only those at the back, where the columns of obituary notices were printed. Plenty of people died dally in Paris and Cologne, Toulouse and Berlin, Le Havre and Munich. The dead were safe from the clutches of the Gestapo.

  Thomas Lieven started typing. He worked fast. For he could now put down genuine addresses with a clear conscience.

  On September 2, 1940, our f
riend bought certain leather goods, two black brief cases, in the Avenida Duarte Pacheco. Early that afternoon he took one of them to the ultra-smart establishment of Senhor Gomes dos Santos.

  Senhor dos Santos, one of the best tailors in Lisbon, personally welcomed Thomas, laughing jovially as he shook his hand. Laughter gave Senhor Santos a very prosperous appearance, since he had a great deal of gold in his mouth.

  In one of the dressing rooms, curtained with a delicate shade of pink, Thomas Lieven met Major Loos, who was wearing a new, well-cut suit of dark gray flannel.

  "Thank God," exclaimed Loos with great relief, as soon as he caught sight of Lieven.

  For the last three days he had been continuously kept on tenterhooks by Thomas. He had repeatedly met him in bars and hotel lounges and on the beach. But the man had repeatedly put him off. "I can't make up my mind yet I must speak to the Englishman again first."

  Lovejoy had been given exactly the same treatment by Thomas, who had kept him guessing whenever they met, telling him that his rival was always increasing his offers. In this way an offer of ten thousand dollars had by this time been made by both gentlemen. Thomas decided to let the matter rest at that figure.

  He told both gentlemen in a serious tone: "Until you leave you must keep it absolutely secret that it is to you that I have sold the brief case. Otherwise your life will be in danger. Consequently the transfer must take place where no one is likely to see us."

  Loos had suggested a dressing room in the stately establishment of Senhor dos Santos. He told Thomas: "That tailor's a miracle-worker. He can make you a faultless suit, to measure,

  of the best English cloth, in three days." He tapped his sleeve. "Just feel the stuff."

  "Yes, really excellent"

  "We all deal here."

  "Who is 'all'?"

  "All the agents who live in Lisbon."

  "And you call this a place where no one is likely to see us?"

  "Of course I do! Don't you understand? Not one of my respected colleagues would ever dream that I'm employed here!"