He removed a bottle from the shelf and took a long swallow from a chipped glass. Good drinkable alcohol was ever more difficult to come by, but having money of any kind helped. René had grown accustomed to being master of his own destiny. But for now—and despite his reassurance to himself and his wife—deep in his heart he questioned whether that opportunity would ever arise again.
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
Gurs, Vichy France
14 August 1941
The guard disappeared the moment Ryan entered B15. The oppressive air was pierced by shafts of sunlight breaching the siding. Ryan’s eyes adjusted to the sudden change from searing sunlight to dark interior, and a cold sweat broke across his face despite the sweltering heat.
“How nice we meet again!” Horst von Kredow’s voice was cordial, a gentleman greeting an old acquaintance. The man’s face was a mask, unmoving and unnerving, his mouth a slit, his eyes pale-blue markers in the lifeless flesh. “Welcome to beautiful France. But enough pleasantries—it’s been a long while and we do need to chat.”
Nausea welled in Ryan’s throat and instinct shouted “run!”, but unyielding hands forced him to face his adversary. He’d left the sun’s glare filled with the joy of anticipation in surprising long-lost friends. Now Ryan searched the shadows for Erika and Leo, for René. He trembled, groping for words that didn’t come.
“Doctor Lemmon, how pale you look! Don’t worry about your friends, you’ll see them soon enough.” Horst directed Ryan toward a wooden chair. “Very soon, in fact.” The men at his back gripped his elbows again. “No need for force, meine Herren, I’m sure our guest is exhausted from his travels and will welcome our hospitality.” For a brief moment the unblemished side of Horst’s face caught the scattered light, and Ryan recognized again the handsome Nazi from Marburg. “Gentlemen, do help our guest with his coat.”
The taller agent took the jacket from Ryan’s arm before retreating into the shadows. He felt certain he recognized this man with the ramrod posture from years past, but couldn’t place him. Ryan sat. The chair lacked a leg, forcing him to extend one of his own to maintain balance and avoid falling to the floor. It was meant to disconcert him further, and it worked.
“Where are they?” Ryan found his voice at last. “What’ve you done with them?”
“We’ll get there in a moment. For now, let’s consider your immediate position—not ideal, nicht wahr? You’re back in a game where I control the entire board, and you are merely my pawn.”
Ryan seethed with fury at having stepped into another trap. “How in God’s name did you find me?”
“The easiest thing in the world, Herr Doktor, for you see, it was you who found me.” A chuckle escaped those tight lips. In the mote-filled light Horst’s scars shown livid, his jaw tight. “In truth, I sent you a personal invitation and you came of your own free will.”
Ryan groped for answers. Here he was again in the hands of Horst von Kredow, the Gestapo sadist who pursued him in ’38, tortured him, and would gladly have killed him had Ryan failed to escape. Here was the Nazi who planned the extermination of European Jewry, and wished to destroy Erika and his son Leo and his friend René. Nothing here made sense. Ryan had been in California for years, all ties to Washington and espionage cleanly severed. Who had known of his return to Europe, his trip to Gurs? Who had betrayed him? “They’re already dead, aren’t they?”
“By no means—at least not yet.” He formed the words with great care. “But that touching note in pencil which lured you here was my very own creation. Quite clever, don’t you think? You see, your Alsatian Gesslinger may have eluded me for the moment, but his lackey in Kehl shared your friend’s code name before he died, so I knew exactly how to bring you back to me.”
“Hugo Gerson.” Ryan pictured the overcoat spreading in the oily backwash of the Rhine lagoon, the balding skull with the single bullet wound.
“Yes, that was it, Gerson. A weak man—you’d be surprised how talkative he became—but when all was said and done, I did admire his loyalty.”
Ryan felt numb. He recalled the signature on the note which had drawn him back to Europe and guilelessly into Horst’s clutches, “The Lone Ranger,” his friend’s nom de guerre. Under torture Gerson had sung, unraveling René’s anti-Nazi network. “Then you got them all?”
“Ach, your ‘Lone Ranger’ gang, you mean? A childish choice of names, but my Washington colleague recognized it at once, and it didn’t take us long to round up that pitiful band. Had my recuperation from that distasteful night on the river been shorter, our three remaining fugitives would never have led such a merry chase. But here you are at last, joining me of your own accord, and a grand reunion is finally in sight. It will be the final game, so to speak, and I assure you I will make it well worth the wait.”
“But surely the boy’s done nothing wrong! He’s your son!”
“The boy was always as weak as his mother.” Any pretense of affability was gone. “Her Jew-blood pollutes his veins, corrupting any chance to be a productive Aryan. Witnessing her brat’s painful death will make her anguish all the more exquisite, and Leo finally serves me as a son should.”
Ryan’s fingernails dug into the flesh of his fists. “So they’re not here…not in this camp?”
“Ah, the coin drops at last.” Horst drew a line in the filthy dirt with the toe of his shoe. “No, I regret they’ve never experienced this despicable cesspool. My Jew-bitch of a wife hides in the coastal hills, sneaking into Bayonne always one step ahead of my people. She and her fuck-partner spy on our troops, help enemies on the run, dabble in sabotage—that sort of nonsense. They view themselves as partisans, not the anarchist Jews they really are…” he appeared distracted for a moment, “…but difficult to capture all the same. So I placed you back on the game board, and you came willingly as I knew you would. For that I thank you. You always play the role of simpleton so well—once again the bait to draw my enemies to me.”
The deception was truly brilliant in its scope. Horst and Kohl—and undoubtedly Heydrich behind it all. “So The Group…?”
Horst laughed, for the first time distorting his mask. “You Americans are always so naïve, so ready to believe whatever we set before you. Die Gruppe was my invention, created out of whole cloth. Heydrich loved the plan—further engaging your rich American industrialists who saw how the Führer would expand their influence in Europe. Their funding and political influence made The Group a reality, and our man Kohl, buried deep in your own State Department, found do-gooders like you to expose the few in Germany who still opposed us. Worked like a charm.”
Ryan’s mind buzzed with the implications. “So how did you track me down?”
“Don’t you see? Who should appear on Richard Kohl’s list of eager future diplomats but your drudge of a brother? Anxious to do his part to fight our Nazi menace, your sibling bragged incessantly to his boss of your vast experience in Germany, and Richard proposed recruiting you to be one of The Group’s ‘operatives.’ Needless to say, I was delighted you wanted to join in the fun. After all, we had left things rather unfinished in Marburg after you screwed my whore of a fiancée.”
“So you knew—”
“Every move you would make, probably before you did.” Horst made no effort to hide his gloating. “We tracked you across France and through Baden, but then you disappeared on me in Berlin, and the next thing I knew you were running for France with the Jew-bitch and my protocol. And what irony to learn you delivered the photos directly to my man Kohl! But we couldn’t let you get away with such impudence, now could we?”
Ryan ran the revelations through his mind, stunned by their complexity and cleverness. “So the note from René…”
“Pure forgery. Kohl’s cover was about to be blown. He was setting up the exchange program to repatriate some of our desirable citizens. He knew my need for your services, and your brother wanted you back in the espionage game, so it was child’s play using the bogus note alongside real ones Kohl had squirreled aw
ay, and now here you are again, literally at my beck and call.”
Ryan shook his head at his own gullibility. How royally von Kredow had played them all. Kohl must have reported Ryan finally underway to Gurs. He recalled his shadow in Paris and the stranger on the train. Yesterday’s twenty-four hour delay had surely given Horst the time to reach Gurs.
Horst bent down to pry a slender metal rod from the hardened clay of the floor. He creased the air as with a fencing foil, its whistle breaking the leaden stillness.
Damn, what a fool I am! Ryan felt an unexpected calm descend. Neither fury nor fear would serve him now, and neither emotion could help his friends. Only self-control might buy a reprieve, reveal an out. He knew Horst needed him, at least for the moment, so death wasn’t on the table. Not yet.
“So where do we go from here?” Ryan’s struggle with the off-kilter chair was taking its toll on his cramping leg as he eyed the switch in Horst’s hand.
“Well, my friend, let’s consider our options. And we can be friends, right? After all, we’ve been through so much together, meinst Du nicht? Horst used the “du” reserved for family and close friends, for children and soldier comrades. It grated, patronizing and degrading. “Now you’ll help me draw in the others.”
“Well, ‘friend,’ what’s the intent of that rod in your hand?”
“My dear Ryan, I’ve learned so much about ‘persuasion through pain’ that I can assure you—anticipation is more effective than any troubling conclusion.” He split the air with the metal switch again. “The end is over so quickly, don’t you know?”
“I’ll take your word for that, von Kredow.”
“I forget. You’ve never experienced this pleasure—you’re far too weak to know anything as intensely satisfying as wielding slow death with every flick of the wrist.” The whip snapped again.
The nightmare vision of the Gestapo agent on the train flashed through Ryan’s mind, the blood and horror, but he said nothing.
“Effective torture is actually much like sex—control is everything. But interrogation can be vastly more rewarding, what with its unlimited variations on pleasure and pain. And all things are best when taken exquisitely slowly.”
“Then let’s follow that maxim and postpone whatever you’ve in mind for me now?”
Horst chuckled before giving his men a nod. Leaving a dust cloud in their wake, they dragged heavy wooden sawhorses across the caked dirt floor, placing them a meter apart before Ryan.
“I’ve anticipated the coming reunion with my traitorous wife for years, so for the moment I must keep you healthy or the others won’t join our game. But this time around I won’t be delayed by another of your untimely escapes.” He cleared his throat of the rising dust. “You eluded me once in Marburg, and then again in Kehl. Believe me, it won’t happen again.”
“As a ‘friend’ you have my word.” Ryan swallowed hard. “No escapes.”
Horst hesitated, seemingly lost in thought. “Klaus Pabst never learned to swim, you know. Hated the water. Even at university you never found him in the Marburg pools.” He refocused on Ryan, new steel in his voice. “My ‘dagger’ was a priceless asset you took from me.” His face hardened. “For that you still owe me, and I will collect.”
Without warning, the men dropped Ryan on his back. One kicked away the chair while the other shoved a rough-hewn wooden pole beneath his knees. The larger man held a foot to Ryan’s throat while the second pulled his arms beneath the shaft and bound the captive’s wrists to his ankles with a cord. The pole now separated knees above and arms below, leaving Ryan completely at Horst’s mercy.
Both the foot at his throat and the swirling dust forced Ryan to find his voice through a fit of coughing: “France is a neutral country, Horst…” more racking cough, “…and mine is a diplomatic passport. People in Vichy know I’m here—they’ll come looking.”
“Ah, interesting point—shall we examine those papers?” The taller man slid the passport from Ryan’s jacket and handed it over. Horst moved Ryan’s photo into a ragged beam of sunlight. “A fair likeness, actually. A shame you’ll appear far less youthful when all this is over. But first, let’s ease your mind regarding diplomatic status.” He bent over to stare into Ryan’s eyes. “You no longer exist at all. In fact, you never made it to this hellhole, and those ‘neutral’ Vichy bureaucrats you trust so much will all confirm that, just as they assured you that your friends were detained here.”
A deep chill raced through Ryan, his body remembering the agonies suffered on the Gesslinger docks. “You said you needed me alive.” A quick swallow as he steadied himself.
“And alive you shall be! This next little exercise is merely a precaution. I regret I can’t go to Biarritz with you this afternoon as I’d first planned. I’d anticipated a lengthier stay for you in Paris, so your premature arrival here threw me off schedule. I must entrust your transport to these gentlemen here, and we certainly can’t have you slipping away again, now can we?”
Without bidding they hoisted Ryan from the floor, spanning the sawhorses with the pole. His head dangled toward the floor.
“Comfortable?”
The sharp edges of the wooden rod dug into the back of Ryan’s knees as the blood rushed to his head. He knew the pain was coming. “It’ll do, though rather hot and stuffy.”
“Well then, let’s cool you off.”
At a flick of the rod the two henchmen tore off Ryan’s footwear and tossed shoes and socks aside. He hung upside-down facing the ill-fitted door, its rim framed in sunlight, a mocking beacon to freedom. His entire body recoiled at the first blow to the bare soles of his feet.
“Now then, still bothered by the heat? Concentrate instead on the cramping, here before you know it.” The lash bit again. “You won’t be walking on your own for some time, I’m afraid.”
The following strikes came in steady, measured succession, each more painful than the last. Occasionally Horst broke the rhythm. Ryan heard the passage of the switch, but no blow came, giving him momentary hope that the beating was about to end. Then followed a new series of light, teasing taps to the raw flesh, and abruptly the whip struck again.
LA COLLABORATION
1941
CHAPTER ONE
Gascony, Occupied France
14 August 1941
Only one leisure pastime interested Horst von Kredow. Just as in the pursuit of human quarry, the game of chess demanded forward thinking, anticipating your opponent’s moves and potential errors, and calculating the odds of winning or losing by following a particular strategy. Unfortunately, le Masque found few willing to sit across from him at the checkered board. He didn’t know whether his face alone distracted and intimidated his opponents, or if they were simply unable to concentrate, knowing he held their fate in his hands.
So he normally challenged only detainees, offering freedom from their expected fate if they managed to outplay him. Only one had ever succeeded. Horst was true to his word and let the man live, but first he used pliers to painstakingly remove the winner’s teeth, giving each ivory stump its own square on the chess board.
“Looks like I’ve taken the bite out of his victory,” he had joked to his lieutenant Brenner. “And it’s perfect! Thirty-two teeth, thirty-two playing pieces back on the board.” The man’s bloody gums and slack mouth caused Peter Brenner to turn aside and vomit.
Horst hated seeing weakness in his men, almost as much as he hated to lose.
Whenever Horst had time on his hands and lacked a worthy opponent, he played chess against himself, observing his ‘opponent’ for errors in judgment, vying to outthink himself as he swiveled the board after each move. He had practiced this mental exercise for years. And, though stalemate was the most disappointing outcome, the inconclusive matches honed his game skills and patience.
So it was little wonder he was now taking such pleasure in the moment. His greatest chess game had finally reached the end stage. The foolish American knight was finally under his control. The Jew-b
itch Erika thought herself the powerful queen and safe from Horst’s attack, but she lived in ignorance. She could only see the few squares surrounding her, a tiny piece of the game. And the lump of a rook Gesslinger would limp beside her right into Horst’s trap. In truth, they were all his expendable pieces, lowly pawns. Black side, white side, it made no difference, for soon he would have his win, and the board would run red.
Horst had also assumed Lemmon was dead when he learned Klaus Pabst had washed ashore after the Kehl episode. His closest ally surfaced with his head a pulpy mess and his body bloated nearly beyond recognition. Horst had kept the photos to remind him of the tragic loss. But Richard Kohl in Washington was only too happy to set Horst straight about the fate of the man responsible for the loss of his most loyal follower. The Jewess and her mongrel American Lemmon had managed to photograph his protocol proposing mass extermination of the Jews, a report destined for first Heydrich and Himmler’s eyes only, and ultimately for the Führer’s final approval. Lemmon returned home alive, a beaten dog with his tail between his legs, and Kohl had boasted of personally destroying Lemmon’s evidence of the potentially damaging protocol.
So typical of Kohl to take credit for saving the day. That man had always been sour over working undercover while Horst publicly enforced Party rule. Still, Kohl remained a capable colleague, and they had worked well together. A shame the man had been ousted from that plum State Department assignment, for there was so much more they might have accomplished. From its inception under Heydrich’s encouraging eye, “The Group” had manipulated those naïve fools in Washington to identify foes of the Reich, working the willing American puppets with Horst’s invisible strings. “Die Gruppe” had been a stroke of genius. Horst’s genius. His alone.
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