Spoils of Victory

by John A. Connell

  “Let’s show Schaeffer what I’ve found lurking in the woods,” Weissenegger said.

  Mason clamped his hands behind his head.

  Weissenegger nudged Mason forward with the gun barrel. “It’s now or never.”

  Mason stepped several yards into the clearing, and Weissenegger yelled out, “Schaeffer. I brought you a present.”

  Mason and Weissenegger slowly descended the incline toward the house.

  “Don’t slip, would you?” Mason said. “That thing might go off.”

  “I’m as sure-footed as a cat.”

  The front door opened and Schaeffer came out onto the porch. He held a pistol at his side. “Well, I’ll be damned.” He stepped off the porch and waited at the bottom of the stairs. “Good work, Hans.” He then held up his pistol. “Hold it there, though.”

  Mason and Weissenegger stopped.

  “How did you get the drop on such a slippery fish?” Schaeffer asked.

  “I followed him. He’s got Volker at Winstone’s villa.”

  “So Volker’s who gave me up. I wondered where that rat had got off to.”

  Weissenegger said, “This guy wanted you so bad he forgot to look behind him.”

  Schaeffer waved his gun. “All right, come on,” he said, though he kept his gun aimed in their direction.

  Just as Mason took a step forward, two army light trucks came roaring down the driveway.

  “This could be trouble,” Weissenegger said.

  “I wouldn’t move a muscle if I were you,” Mason said.

  Schaeffer’s face went wide with surprise. He whirled his gun around and fired two shots at the oncoming vehicles.

  The four men in the lead vehicle returned fire as it skidded to a stop. Mason and Weissenegger remained where they were. Running would just attract flying bullets. And just in case, Mason slowly crouched down. Hans must have seen the wisdom of this move and did the same thing. Schaeffer dashed across the field in the opposite direction, but the deep snow hindered his progress. The four men in the lead jeep jumped out, two of them aiming their guns at Mason and Weissenegger, while the other two took a few steps, aimed, and fired. A bullet clipped Schaeffer’s arm, and he tumbled into the snow.

  The second truck came to a more judicious stop. The covering on the truck kept the occupants in shadow, but the silhouette of the front passenger looked very familiar. When the front passenger stepped out, Mason’s stomach did a little flip, more from disappointment than shock—and not a small amount of trepidation.

  “Mr. Collins,” Udahl said with a satisfied smile.

  “Colonel.”

  “Lower your weapon, Hans,” Udahl said, “we’ve got it from here.” He signaled for the two men to bring Mason forward. They seized Mason’s arms and pulled him up to Udahl. Weissenegger followed them and stopped just behind Mason.

  “I’m pleased to see you,” Udahl said.

  “I’m sure you are. You get to kill two birds with one stone.”

  “Seems like that inflated ego of yours got the better of you. Like coming here alone, for one, though that’s typical of you, and something I was counting on. Trusting Hans, for another.” Hans stepped over to join Schaeffer’s men, and Udahl said, “Hans tipped me off that you were coming.”

  “If you can’t count on your enemies, who can you count on? So tell me something. Should I address you as Franklin Udahl or Lester Abbott?”

  A tic of surprise and irritation crossed Udahl’s face. “I thought it fitting to use Abbott’s name.”

  “It makes sense, since you were in the OSS, and part of the same team as Abbott and Schaeffer.”

  Udahl beamed like a proud teacher. “Yes, I was. Lester Abbott died when our OSS team was sent on a mission to Czechoslovakia. A debacle, really. A total fuckup on army intelligence’s part. The Nazis knew we were coming. Schaeffer, here, managed to get away, but Abbott and I were captured and sent to the Gestapo. Abbott was a puddle of human flesh when they were done with him. He and I endured unbelievable torture—perhaps not so unbelievable to you—but my God, the damage they did to my body . . .” He paused and looked down to the snow as if remembering that time. He finally lifted his head and said to no one in particular, “Bring him over.”

  The two men dragged Schaeffer over and dropped him at Udahl’s feet. Schaeffer cried out in pain as they forced him to his knees. Udahl squatted to face him. “I gave you an opportunity to run. You should have taken that opportunity.” When Schaeffer said nothing, Udahl asked, “Where are those documents?”

  Schaeffer looked up at Udahl with confusion in his eyes. “I don’t have them.”

  Mason felt a flush of excitement. Winstone’s documents still existed: No one had found them.

  Udahl leaned forward to be in Schaeffer’s face. “You didn’t run because you wanted to save yourself by turning me in.” Schaeffer started to protest but Udahl continued. “Don’t bother denying it. Mr. Collins told me all about it in his letter.”

  “That’s a lie!” Schaeffer yelled.

  Udahl’s voice hardened. “You came here to get the documents, the rat that you are. Now, where are they?”

  “I’m telling you, I don’t have them!”

  Udahl stood and said to four of his men, “Search the house.” He watched the men charge into the house, then turned back to Mason and frowned. “You look glum, Mr. Collins. Does it bother you so much, seeing an officer and war hero who’s fallen from grace?”

  “I see you more as a frustrated and bitter OSS agent who couldn’t just walk away from the war.”

  “Did any of us, really? Over the course of our operations, in one form or another we in the OSS killed a battalion of men. We made victory possible, and at great cost. And when it was all over, the OSS was deemed expendable, brushed aside and forced to swear a vow of silence. What we did and lost and sacrificed and suffered is all locked away in vaults. We became ghosts. Then a group of us finally made a decision. Why not put all our training to use for a personal cause? We made a pact to suck this rotten country dry. I know it won’t last forever. Eventually we’ll have to close up shop. But we’ll disappear into the shadows with well-lined pockets.”

  “Is that what you think of yourselves? Noble outlaws? How about murderers? Sadists? Butchers of young women?”

  “Now you’re just boring me with your small-minded morality. It’s simple. Life gives you two options: You die fighting or you die surrendering. I prefer the former. You, you’ve already surrendered to a system that uses you, that crushes you, and you wind up scrambling for the pennies thrown out into the hungry mob. I watched you grovel at Pritchard’s feet just for a chance at being a police detective, and once they’ve chewed you up and spit you out, all you’ll have left to look forward to at the end of your life is growing bitterness and fading memories. Pathetic.”

  Udahl nodded to one of his men, who came around behind Mason. He kicked Mason in the back of the knees, forcing him to kneel in the snow. Mason had been in this situation before, and it brought back haunting memories of another time. A Gestapo captain forcing him to do the same thing. Forcing him to his knees at gunpoint and demanding he choose between two equally doomed children. The very act, the memory, enraged him.

  Yet, he would wait.

  One of Udahl’s men came out of the house with a look of worry. “We found about five grand but nothing else.”

  “The goddamned money’s what I came for,” Schaeffer yelled. “I don’t have any documents. I wasn’t going to rat on you. I needed the cash to get out of here.”

  In a swift move, Udahl grabbed Schaeffer’s right hand, shoved a gun in it, and brought Schaeffer’s hand up to his head. The gun went off in a deafening explosion. Hot blood splattered Mason’s face. Schaeffer slumped to the ground.

  Suddenly, from the tree line, came the sound of a whistle blowing, and close to twenty men emerged from the s
urrounding forest. They were MPs with rifles and Thompson submachine guns. With them, to Mason’s surprise, Abrams stood in the center of the line, alongside Densmore.

  “Drop your weapons,” Densmore said.

  “I knew you’d come for Schaeffer,” Mason said to Udahl. “But I needed evidence against you. You’re under arrest for the murder of Major Schaeffer, Colonel.”

  One of Udahl’s men opened fire and began to run. At the same moment, the rest of Udahl’s men opened fire, using the vehicles as shields. Abrams, Densmore, and the MPs followed suit in a deafening fusillade.

  The outburst of gunfire distracted Udahl for a split second. That was Mason’s chance. He launched upward, grabbing Udahl’s gun by the barrel and pushing it out of the line of fire. The gun went off, but because Mason had trapped the slide, the gun jammed. He then shoved his free hand into Udahl’s wrist to disarm him, but Udahl was surprisingly strong and agile.

  Udahl trapped Mason’s free hand then elbowed him in the face. He twisted into Mason’s body and flipped him. Mason hit the ground, but instead of continuing the attack, Udahl tried to chamber a round. Mason leapt up and tackled Udahl, while again trapping Udahl’s gun arm. They traded blows as they rolled on the ground. Udahl fired the gun twice in desperation, the explosions rendering Mason deaf to any sound other than his own heavy breathing.

  One of the bullets ripped through Mason’s overcoat and just grazed his shoulder. Mason jerked against the bullet’s impact, and Udahl took advantage of Mason’s break in concentration to get to his knees. Heedless of the bullets whizzing by his head, Udahl used his free hand to strike Mason once, twice, in the face. He tried to stand, using the power of his legs to wrench his gun hand free, but rather than pulling back in opposition, Mason rolled into Udahl and twisted Udahl’s wrist. Udahl cried out, fell backward, and lost his grip on the gun.

  Mason grabbed for the gun submerged in the snow. A mistake. It gave Udahl time to rise up and bring out a Ka-Bar knife. He lunged for Mason’s chest. Mason used his leg to block. He had protected his chest, but the knife plunged deep into his thigh.

  The searing pain paralyzed him. All he could do in the next instant was cover his chest and neck with his arms. Udahl rose up for another lunge with the knife.

  But Udahl’s thrust was cut short. Weissenegger grabbed him from behind. He lifted and pulled Udahl up and away. Udahl threw his elbows into Weissenegger’s stomach, then slammed the back of his head into Weissenegger’s face. Weissenegger grunted and staggered backward. Udahl whirled around with his knife and slashed Weissenegger across the chest.

  Mason tried to get up, but his leg gave out. He crawled for the fallen pistol as Udahl sent another thrust of the knife at Weissenegger’s chest. Weissenegger grunted and fell to his knees.

  Udahl turned back to Mason and charged. Mason made a final lunge for the pistol, grabbed it, and flipped onto his back.

  Through the blasts of gunfire, Mason heard Abrams yell in the distance, “Mason, no!”

  Perhaps he could have warned Udahl to stop. Perhaps he could have shot him in the leg. But his rage blotted out his reason, and Udahl continued his deadly charge with his knife.

  Mason fired twice, hitting Udahl both times in the chest. The .45 bullets had the force of a freight train, and they stopped Udahl’s midair lunge. He crumpled and fell in front of Mason.

  Udahl’s death took the fight out of his men. They dropped their weapons and raised their hands. Two had managed to escape, but a handful of MPs went after them. Mason tried to see if Weissenegger was all right, but the pain forced him back to the ground.

  He yelled to the sky, “Get a medic for Hans.”

  Abrams ran up to Mason and kneeled next to him. He pushed Mason’s hands away from his wound and applied pressure.

  “Hans needs more help than I do,” Mason said.

  “Densmore’s taking care of it.”

  “You were supposed to be in Frankfurt by now,” Mason said.

  “Shut up and lie still.”

  “I’m going to kick your ass once they patch me up,” Mason said just before he passed out.

  FORTY

  Mason woke up with a hammering headache and a throbbing pain in his thigh. He’d come awake a number of times, like coming briefly to the surface in a warm ocean, only to descend again. But this time, he became fully aware of his surroundings. He lay in a bed cordoned off by a white curtain. An IV bottle hung above his head, with a tube attached to his arm.

  Okay, I’m in a hospital . . . again.

  He raised his head slightly, magnifying the headache. He smiled before dropping his head back onto the pillow.

  Abrams sat slumped in a chair, with his head flopped backward, and snorted more than snored, like he was searching for truffles in his sleep.

  “How’s a man supposed to get any sleep with that buzz saw going?” Mason said loudly.

  Abrams stirred and rose up in his chair. “Hey, you’re awake.”

  “I’m aware of that. Thanks. What are you doing here?”

  “They let me hang around until you woke up so I could say good-bye.”

  “You weren’t supposed to be anywhere near here. I promised you an ass kicking.”

  “Fortunately, not in your condition.”

  “How’s Weissenegger?”

  “Just came out of his second surgery. He’s in bad shape, but they say he’ll live.”

  “Good. I owe him.”

  “Margareta’s with him. She actually seems to like the guy. Figure that one out.”

  Mason chuckled then shrugged as he thought back. “I can see it. He’s a little slow but smarter than I thought. It just takes him longer to get there. You know, he was the one who called Udahl. He pretended to betray me by telling him I was going to the forester’s house to pick up Schaeffer. He almost had me convinced.” Mason turned to get a better look at Abrams. “I didn’t see you get off the train.”

  “The train was just about outside of Garmisch when I couldn’t stand it anymore and jumped.”

  “I should have handcuffed you to the seat.”

  Abrams shrugged. “I knew what you were up to, but I didn’t know where. So I went to warn Densmore. I got back to headquarters right after you’d called him. Good thing I did, too. Densmore was only going to take a couple of guys with him.” Abrams furrowed his brow. “How did you figure out Udahl was the guy calling the shots?”

  “I didn’t know for sure, but a bunch of little things kept tickling my brain: him knowing our informant was a ‘he,’ for one. That kind of started it. Then he knew about me seeing Adelle after that night at Winstone’s, when no one but you and she knew about that. He kept throwing me bones, then telling me not to ruffle army-brass feathers. He warned me not to touch the Casa Carioca. Insisted that I report only to him and tell him everything. Then right after that witnesses would disappear, the wiretaps were blown. In one meeting, he already had files on exactly who I suspected, even though I hadn’t mentioned them. Once General Clay got involved, he threw Schaeffer at me to cover his ass. The fact that Abbott had been killed in the war. All this floated around in my head, but I never put it all together until Schaeffer used the same phrase Udahl liked to say, ‘no rest for the wicked.’ I played a hunch, leaving that letter for him, then having Hans call him.”

  “You gambled your life on a hunch.”

  “An educated guess.”

  “That was pretty stupid.”

  “Stupid’s my middle name.” When Abrams declined to argue that point, Mason said, “I appreciate you helping out.”

  “Don’t mention it.”

  Mason noticed the MP standing guard outside the door. “If he’s waiting to escort you to the train station, this time he’d better ride along.”

  Rather than laughing along with the joke, Abrams glanced at Mason’s wrist. Mason started to raise his right arm to see what Abram
s was looking at, but his arm lifted only a few inches before a pair of handcuffs stopped him. He shook his hand, making the handcuff rattle against the metal bed frame.

  “What the hell is this?” Mason yelled.

  A nurse rushed over and scowled. “Would you mind keeping it down? There are other patients in this ward besides your highness.”

  “Not handcuffed to their beds.”

  “Keep it down or I’ll order a muzzle,” the nurse said and stormed off.

  “Gamin’s gone over the edge,” Abrams said. “He wants you kept in confinement until a court-martial hearing can determine whether you’ll be charged with willful murder of a full-bird colonel. Not that rank should have anything to do with it, but in Gamin’s mind, it’s like killing the pope.”

  “Willful murder? Are they kidding?”

  The nurse stomped over to the bed and called out to the MP guarding the door, “Corporal, I need you to gag this man. He’s disturbing the other patients.”

  The MP turned to the room, unsure what to do.

  Mason held up his free hand as if surrendering. “That won’t be necessary, ma’am. I’ll be a good little prisoner-patient.”

  The nurse seemed satisfied that she’d gotten her point across and disappeared behind the curtain.

  Keeping his voice to a roaring whisper, Mason said, “That son of a bitch. It was self-defense.”

  “I don’t think it originally came from Gamin. The scuttlebutt is, it came from a higher source. Someone’s trying to burn you.”

  Mason fell silent as he absorbed this. Whoever it was, they had to have major influence to push for murder charges when there were witnesses who saw Mason shoot Udahl in self-defense. “It’s got to be someone in league with Udahl. Someone very high on the food chain. They’re trying to cover their asses.”

  Abrams seemed to be debating whether to say more. Mason knew the look. It would be some brand of bad news.

  “What is it?”

  Finally Abrams said, “Volker’s dead.”

  “What?” Mason started to yell it, but cut it off before the nurse carried through on her threat.