by John Knoerle
“Eva I would like you to do me a favor,” I said. “I would like you to go to the front door and press the button and say that you would like to speak to Klaus Hilde, or whatever name he used with you. Tell him you have to see him. Tell him you have never had a man like him.”
“I think he will not believe this.”
“Sure he will. Not a man alive that wouldn’t.”
Eva giggled. Ambrose glowered. I parked the truck down the block. We walked back to the front door.
I gave Ambrose my handkerchief. “Stuff it in his mouth after we grab him.”
“What if he’s got his gun out.”
He would ask that. We couldn’t shoot Germany’s leading expert on the Soviet military no matter what. “He won’t.”
“What if he does?”
Poozle wasn’t making Ambrose stoopid, it was making him cautious. And a cautious Ambrose was no good to me. He was worried that Hilde would shoot Eva in the moment after he poked his head out the door and we jumped out to dogpile him. I didn’t want the charming Miss Eva to get plugged of course. But I wanted Brigadeführer Hilde more.
What can I tell you, it’s a rotten business.
I was racking my melon for a quick fix when Eva said, “If he has gun I will say for him to put away. And he will do as I say.” She said it with a great deal of confidence.
And that’s the way the cookie crumbled.
Chapter Eighteen
We drove down the block with a bearded man in the bed of the delivery truck, bound and gagged with my belt and handkerchief. Another adventure in ad hoc espionage.
I needed to conduct an in-truck interrogation of our kidnap victim before we pulled up to the white brick mansion. Our snatch was unauthorized, and we had only Eva’s word to guarantee that Klaus Hilde was Klaus Hilde. It wasn’t that I didn’t trust Eva – I didn’t but it wasn’t that. It’s that all this good news was giving me a rash. The bearded man resembled the old photo of Hilde. Same long oval face, same oversized ears. But his eyes and nose were different. Plastic surgery. Or a look-alike impostor.
I turned south on Koniginstraße and dragged the delivery truck down the boulevard like a bucket of chum. Eva sat in the passenger’s seat and Ambrose kept watch on our guest in the back. I checked the side view mirrors. I turned down a dead end lane. No one followed. I parked the truck and told Ambrose to remove the gag.
The bearded man took a huge draught of air, coughed, took another. I climbed into the back. I explained that we were American agents and apologized for the rough treatment.
“Where have you been?” he demanded in perfect English. “I have sent couriers to your headquarters, to your General Clay. They were turned away.”
This squared with what the CO had told me about Hilde reaching out. I told him we didn’t work for General Clay.
“Who then?”
“General William Donovan.”
The bearded man hiked his eyebrows. I asked him his name.
“Klaus Hilde, as you know.”
“Who was your intermediary in Karlsruhe?”
“He called himself Günter. He was to arrange my transport to Toulon, where I would catch a steamer to Lisbon. I was to hide in a manure truck!” The bearded man shook his head at the indignity of it all. “The NKVD had seen me even if your field agents did not. They were tracking me. When Günter contacted your operative it forced their hand. I was caught and captured.”
I didn’t bother explaining that the US didn’t have any field agents. Too embarrassing. I didn’t mention that I was the operative for the same reason.
“You were caught and captured and installed in a fancy villa.”
Hilde shrugged. “I negotiated.”
“If you wanted to reach out to us why didn’t you? You were living in the American Sector.”
“I was under guard. And they promised money for my family,” said Hilde. “I was not a true believer. Hitler was a fool, I knew he would be defeated. It is why I kept my files.”
He told a good story. But my neck itched. High value asset Klaus Hilde had got himself got awful easy. I pondered. An NKVD impostor would’ve been briefed about Karlsruhe. But he wouldn’t know the details.
“Günter had something he wore that he was proud of. What was it?”
“I don’t understand.”
“Think about it.”
The man stretched his spine, trying to get comfortable. I looked up. Ambrose and Eva were back at it in the passenger’s seat. Christ.
“A medal,” said the bearded man after a time. “A bronze infantryman’s medal.”
We had our boy. I climbed back into the driver’s seat and swatted the two-headed hydra to my right. Ambrose returned to guard duty in the truck bed, Eva pulled down her skirt. I scratched my itchy neck and fired up the truck, thinking about one of my spy school instructor’s pithy proverbs.
One coincidence is just that. Two are suspicious. And three are a conspiracy.
Col. Norwood had rung up two. His happy rescue of Ambrose and me. And the prostitute in his employ who just happened to know Herr Hilde’s address. If Norwood operated a brothel to gather intel the first thing he would have asked his ladies was, ‘ Any one have a line on Klaus Hilde?’
I drove back down the dead end lane and turned south on Koniginstraße. The Colonel said the Brits were sadly dependent on us cheeky Yanks. Could be Hilde was a gift to win us over, but Leonid said ‘valuable information should be sliced thin and served sparingly.’ Klaus Hilde was a full plate, with a side of hash browns. Hard to believe that Col. Norwood would be that generous.
“Pick up the pace, will ya?” said Ambrose from the back of the truck.
I looked at the speedometer. We were doing a respectable thirty. Kilometers per hour. I punched the gas pedal. The great beast gasped and gurgled and snapped my neck back.
Light snow drifted against the curb. I fished around for my string of thought. Oh yeah. What the hell was I going to tell the CO? We were shooting the breeze at the apartment when Herr Hilde stumbled by?
I turned right and drove past the white brick mansion at a good clip. The chain in the driveway was down. I took four right turns and approached again. No one cared. I pulled the truck into the driveway and had a talk with myself. Relax, Schroeder. You’re just doing your job. If you get canned you can go back to Cleveland, and defrost.
I told Eva to remain in the truck, told Ambrose to cinch up the prisoner from behind.
The CO’s face was a riot of conflicting emotions when we marched Herr Hilde through the front door. Anger at my insubordination, doubt that Hilde was the genuine article and barely suppressed eagerness to brace him and find out. He told Ambrose to take Hilde to the kitchen.
I gave Jacobson the full report, told him I had authenticated Hilde’s ID, told him where Hilde was billeted, even told him how I came to find out, and braced myself for an ass chewing that didn’t come. The CO had more pressing concerns.
We pushed through the swinging door to the kitchen and came upon an odd scene. Hilde was supine on the white tile floor, looking pained. Ambrose stood above him, pushing back on Hilde’s raised right leg.
“Our Nazi pal’s got back trouble,” said Ambrose by way of explanation. “I’m showing him how to get the kinks out.”
Ambrose lowered the right leg and started in on Hilde’s left. The CO looked down upon the sweating and grimacing former Abwehr General. The OSS had used a number of creative interrogation techniques during the war but this had to be a first.
“Why are you still in Germany?” said Jacobson.
“I sent my family to Buenos Aires in ’45. As you know.”
“Answer the question.”
Ambrose pushed back on Hilde’s leg, hard. Hilde tried to roll over but the CO stepped on his hand. Hilde groaned, and talked in quick bursts.
“I had documents...Too many to transport...I reached out to you...I hid until my money was very small...I fled.”
“And what of all the White Russian agents th
at have died and disappeared since your capture, agents you worked with before war’s end? Know anything about them?”
Ambrose pushed harder. Hilde shuddered and squirmed.
“I do not...My hosts never asked about them.”
“Why?”
“I can only speculate.”
“Do so,” said Leonid in his velvety baritone. Where the hell had he come from?
Jacobson removed his foot and told Ambrose to help Hilde up. Hilde dusted himself off and struggled to reclaim his dignity. He answered Leonid in clipped tones.
“Your White Russian agents are, after all, Russian. The Blue Caps know their identities. What they would want to know is their whereabouts at this time.”
“You had been in hiding and have no current information on their whereabouts,” said Leonid. “Is that your position?”
“It is not a position. It is the truth.”
The CO popped the question. “Where is your cache of documents now?”
“The Blue Caps have them.” Hilde tapped his head. “But I have a good memory.”
“If the Russians have them why are you still alive?”
“There are certain matters of interest that I did not commit to paper.”
“Such as?”
“Who gave me which document, and why.”
“We have a more immediate concern,” said Jacobson.
“I understand,” said Hilde.
“What can you tell me?”
“I will need a chair,” said Hilde, imperiously.
Ambrose dragged one over from the kitchen table. Hilde seated himself, stretched out his legs, straightened his trouser seams and rattled off all kinds of stuff. Stuff about Soviet military capabilities and orders of battle. He even claimed the Red Army had a well worked out plan for the seizure of all Germania, Operation LUNA, a plan they had been developing since late ‘44. He promised more details in return for an accommodation for himself and his family.
I stopped listening before he was done. This was all very important shit, but I was thinking about other things. Such as why Klaus Hilde was so easy to nab and so free with the very important shit.
It smelled. That Hilde said what we wanted to hear – Operation LUNA – made it smellier. A steaming pile of disinformation bought and paid for by the NKVD. Had to be.
And Col. Norwood? Well, there had been a lot of noise about Commies in MI6 but it was hard to figure. Norwood was an effete aristocrat with a degenerate lifestyle, a very unlikely Marxist. Of course in espionage to seem unlikely is entirely the point.
I asked a question when Hilde was done. “What happened to your guards?”
“I gave them a bottle when the young lady came to call.”
“That’s all it took to make them go away? A bottle?”
Hilde eyeballed Leonid with a leer. “They are, after all, Russian.”
How Hilde knew Leonid was Russian I couldn’t say. The little man’s accent wouldn’t raise an eyebrow in Omaha. But Hilde knew.
Leonid crossed to the kitchen sink and got himself a glass of water. He turned to face us and said, mildly, “There is a way to determine if Mr. Hilde is telling us the truth. A very simple way. If the extermination of our émigré agents ceases while he is in our custody we will have our answer.”
Herr Hilde’s smug leer lost altitude.
So. Here we were again. At the starting line, feet in the chocks, legs cocked. Ready. Set. Wait.
Chapter Nineteen
“We have to act as if everything Klaus Hilde told us is true,” said Victor Jacobson to Ambrose and me.
We were seated in the parlor of the white brick mansion enjoying snifters of cognac and a roaring fire. Herr Hilde was cuffed to a bedpost upstairs, Leonid had gone home and poor Eva was still waiting in the truck.
Jacobson continued. “We can’t wait to see if Hilde’s the one fingering our White Russians, not after what he said about Operation LUNA.”
“So what do we do?” said Ambrose.
The CO addressed himself to me. “Contact the leader of our network, code name MANTIS. We have a twice weekly blind drop, next one tomorrow, 1100 hours. If he’s still alive he’ll collect this note, instructing him to meet you at the Lustgarten at noon.”
The CO handed me the sealed note along with a diagram of where to place it. A loose flagstone behind a bench in the City Hall plaza. He gave us an ask and answer code.
“What do we want to know?”
“Damage assessment, what is left of the network. Any new thoughts on the identity of the snitch. And any signs of mobilization by the Red Army. Anything at all.”
“What about this Hilde fella?” said Ambrose. “We know anything about him?”
“No,” said the CO and stood up.
Ambrose and I gulped our brandies. Jacobson escorted us to the door. I considered confiding my suspicions about Col. Norwood to the CO but I didn’t have anything nailed down. Besides, the door was already closed behind us.
-----
Ambrose and I drove to the Rathaus the next morning. The snow had turned to slush and a daylight moon followed us down the street. Must have been earlier than I figured. We needed to get a damn clock.
I parked a block away and we walked back to the City Hall. Yes, Rathaus is German for City Hall, Fahrt means journey and a Schmuck Galerie is a jewelry store. What can I tell you, it’s a goofy language.
We hunted up the loose flagstone behind the park bench, I slipped the note underneath when no one was watching. Ambrose asked what we were doing here.
“We’re here to contact MANTIS.”
“You sure about that Chief?”
“What do you mean?”
“Well, did the old man chew you out? For going after Hilde without his OK?”
“He never mentioned it.”
“Why?”
“Because we tossed him the most sought after fugitive in Europe’d be my guess.”
“And one upped him pretty good. I don’t know much, but I know that big shots don’t like getting shown up by little shits like us.”
“And you’re thinking that Jacobson set us up here?”
“You’re the spy Schroeder,” said Ambrose, gesturing at the Rathaus plaza crowded with pedestrians and bicyclists. “This look right to you?”
I assured the goddamn bright-eyed Mick that Victor Jacobson would never sell us out. He took my word for it. But he was right about one thing.
A dead drop is supposed to take place in an out-of-the-way place where it can be deposited and retrieved in secret. A brush drop, where both parties know the appointed time and place, is usually conducted in a public place so both parties can enjoy the relative security of a crowd. The CO needed a spy school refresher course. This was a dead drop in a very public place.
-----
The Lustgarten sat in the shadow of the blackened Berlin Cathedral. It was more of a parade ground than a park but it did have benches. A bell tower tolled the noon hour. We waited. And, no, Lust isn’t lust. It’s joy, delight. Same diff, Ambrose would say.
I was beginning to think MANTIS was another casualty of the NKVD when he strode purposefully towards our appointed bench. It was our guy, had to be. Broad shoulders above a gaunt frame, wild haunted eyes, long gray hair spilling down a long dark cloak, a bright purple scar on his forehead. A deposed count, or a cavalry officer sporting an old saber wound. He was as hard to miss as a house fire.
“That him?” whispered Ambrose.
“I dunno.”
The man blew by us without a look. Our instructions were to wait until contacted. We waited. An old man with a black watch cap pulled down over his ears sat down on the bench a couple minutes later and crossed his legs.
“Would you know the time of day?” he said in an asthmatic wheeze.
“My wristwatch was stolen in Dusseldorf”
MANTIS stood up. “Let’s walk.”
He was a nimble old gent, poling himself along the parade ground on his cane. Ambrose and I had to lengthen o
ur strides to keep pace. He answered my questions before I asked them.
“Our network is a ruin...Those still alive have fled west...or burrowed deep...I cannot say and do not know...the identity of our traitor...It matters little...I am all that remains.”
He stopped and gulped air and gave us a dour look with rheumy eyes. I felt oafish, a well-fed American who doesn’t know how good he’s got it.
“The tree of freedom...is watered by the blood of martyrs,” croaked the old man bitterly, reciting the popular Communist slogan. He poled on. We followed.
“You will want battle plans...something is afoot.” We covered ten yards before I realized he was waiting for the question.
“How do you know?” We covered another ten yards before he answered.
“My military sources...were the first to die.”
“Do you know the plans? Is the Red Army mobilizing?”
The old man shook his head and spat.
“No, they’re not mobilizing? Or, no, you don’t know?”
“I don’t...” He stopped and leaned on his cane. “One question at a time!”
His cane slipped on the wet cement. Ambrose grabbed his elbow and held him up. MANTIS shook him off and stood erect.
“I have told you all I know.” He turned around and started back the way we came. We followed.
“What will you do now sir?” said Ambrose.
“I will do...what I do...Search the camps for recruits.”
“Is that difficult?”
“The new arrivals are farmers...conscripts...shopkeepers who lost all...They make poor spies...Still,” he said, whistled, wheezed, “they harbor much hatred for the dam-ned Georgians.”
We walked on in silence. The Lustgarten was almost empty. Had this been a downtown park in an American city the benches would have been crowded with old folks tossing bread crumbs to pigeons. But breadcrumbs were a valuable commodity in post-war Berlin. So were pigeons, come to think.
We returned to our initial contact point and sat down. The old man lit a Chesterfield, smoked it halfway down in two drags and coughed for the better part of a minute. He said he needed some money.