‘‘What are we going to tell your mother?’’ he asked.
‘‘That Sarah’s pregnant, and that’s all,’’ Ann said.
2
Berlin, Germany November 10, 1941
Helmut Maximilian Ernst von Heurten-Mitnitz liked America. He’d graduated from Harvard in 1927 and, in the footsteps of four generations of Heurten-Mitnitz younger sons, had joined the Foreign Service to end up at the German embassy in Washington. Two years later he served as consul general in New Orleans and he remembered that city with particular fondness. He thought often of Kolb’s, a German restaurant just off Canal Street, where he was treated with exceptional warmth and good food. And in two Mardi Gras parades, dressed in a fantastic costume, he’d ridden a float and thrown candy and glass beads at the hordes of people jamming the narrow streets of the French Quarter.
On his return to Berlin in 1938, Max discovered that his older brother, Karl-Friedrich, had lent the National Socialist German Workers’ party the prestige of the von Heurten-Mitnitz name and a great deal of money. Privately both Max and Karl-Friedrich detested most of the upper-echelon Nazis, but there was no question that the Nazi party had saved Germany from the fate of Russia. And it was inarguable that life was better under Nazi rule than it had been before.
But Max did not want to fight the Nazis’ wars. He had his foreign-service exemption, but his brother’s loans had made their family highly visible. Someone was only too likely to see in him a fine officer with a bright destiny on the eastern front. He needed some important assignment in which he could further his career and at the same time remove himself from the doom that would befall him if he stayed where he was. He needed to get out of Berlin.
Johann Müller was one of the original hundred thousand members of the National Socialist German Workers’ party, and he was thus entitled to wear the golden party pin. He had joined the infant Nazi party because he had realized very early on how useful membership was going to be to a policeman. Müller never believed for an instant that the party, or for that matter Adolf Hitler, was the salvation of Germany. There had been policemen under the Kaiser and under the Weimar Republic, and there would be policemen under whatever replaced the Thousand Year Reich.
Müller had been a Kreis Marburg Wachtmann for two years when he learned that Hermann Göring, as police president of Prussia, was quietly building a secret police force. Müller applied and was appointed to the Prussian state police as a Kriminalinspektor, grade three. He arrived in Berlin immediately after Hitler, as boss of what would soon be the Gestapo, had Göring out and replaced him with the rather more trustworthy Heinrich Himmler.
Although Himmler immediately retired most of the people Göring had brought in, Müller stayed. He hadn’t been with the state police long enough to be corrupted. Besides, a policeman who wore a gold party pin and who had risen from the ranks in rural Hesse was really the sort of man they were looking for. Himmler needed ordinary policemen to handle ordinary crimes.
When the war came, though he remained a policeman, Müller was ordered into uniform. Some of his duties, however, still required ordinary clothes. Without any particular plan, Johann Müller had come to be a specialist in crimes— from embezzlement to currency violations to vice—committed by military officers, senior and influential government employees, and party officials. Müller became the man in Berlin who decided whether or not a case was made. Sometimes he ordered detention or arrest; other times, he merely threatened these—to see what would happen. Other times he decided the charges ‘‘had no basis in fact.’’
And still other times, of course, he kept people under his thumb, either for use as informers, or in positions where they might do him some good, while he made up his mind what to do with them.
His own specialty was the investigation of payoffs and kickbacks, which meant digging up money people had spent considerable time and imagination burying. He was good at it.
He met Helmut von Heurten-Mitnitz when a Swede with a diplomatic passport and a Foreign Ministry official had shown up together in bed at a hotel in Lichtefeld, an incident with implications beyond mere offense against the morality of the state. The liaison officer Müller usually dealt with at the Foreign Ministry had been replaced by von Heurten-Mitnitz. When Müller got to Bendlerstrasse, he was not surprised to find the diplomat looked as elegant as he had sounded on the telephone. He was a tall, sharp-featured, fair-haired East Prussian of about thirty-five. And he was wearing a well-cut British lounge suit that had certainly cost as much as Müller made in a month.
Five minutes with von Heurten-Mitnitz was long enough for Müller to judge that von Heurten-Mitnitz was a far more practical man than his manner and elegant dress implied. At the same time, Max von Heurten-Mitnitz had seen enough of Müller to be convinced that the policeman before him was not the simple Hessian peasant he carefully painted himself to be.
Thereafter (the matter of the Swede and the Foreign Service officer having come to a swift and satisfactory conclusion) , von Heurten-Mitnitz possessed an uncanny knowledge of who was paying whom for what secret information. In return, Müller received an unexpected promotion to Sturmbannführer (major, SS-SD) shortly after the invasion of the Low Countries. Their relationship was quite satisfactory.
Max regarded his appointment to Morocco as one of his great diplomatic feats. As Foreign Ministry representative to the Franco-German armistice commission for Morocco, Max would in fact have very little to do with the armistice with France. Rather, the commission (nine senior Foreign Ministry officials and their staff) was the euphemistic title for the official body through which the French protectorate of Morocco was governed. Most important, he’d be in Morocco, and away from Berlin.
His new post would obviously involve certain security and intelligence functions, which in turn would mean dealing with an officer of the Schutzstaffel-Sicherheitsdienst (SS-SD). Since not a few of the SS-SD were very dangerous indeed, Max wanted, as his liaison with the French gendarmerie, an officer with whom he had a degree of mutual understanding. Within the hour he had Müller on the phone.
‘‘Perhaps, Herr Sturmbannführer, if your busy schedule would permit, you could spare me a few minutes of your time?’’ von Heurten-Mitnitz asked.
‘‘When?’’
‘‘Are you free now?’’ von Heurten-Mitnitz asked.
‘‘I’m tied up now.’’
‘‘Pity. Are you free for dinner?’’
‘‘Yes.’’
‘‘The Kempinski at seven?’’
‘‘I’ll be there.’’
3
The Hotel Kempinski Berlin, Germany 7:30 P.M., November 10, 1941
Max von Heurten-Mitnitz and Johann Müller had roast loin of boar, oven-roasted potatoes, and a crisp green salad, and they washed it down with Berlinerkindl, the local beer. With boar, there was simply nothing better than a light Pilsner beer.
Von Heurten-Mitnitz told Müller he’d been given a month to settle his affairs before going to Morocco, but thought he could leave a good deal sooner than that. ‘‘How much time will you need?’’ he asked.
‘‘I’ll be ready when you are,’’ Müller said.
Unsaid was what they both were a little afraid of: The assignment could be changed so long as they were in Berlin.
‘‘We’ll go by air,’’ von Heurten-Mitnitz said.
Müller nodded, caught the waiter’s attention, and signaled for another round of Berlinerkindl.
‘‘Is there anything I should do before we go?’’
‘‘One small thing,’’ von Heurten-Mitnitz said. ‘‘Just before I left the office, I had a call from Richard Schnorr.’’ He looked at Müller to read in his face whether or not he knew the name. When he saw that Müller was fully aware that Richard Schnorr was a highly placed functionary in the headquarters offices of the National Socialist German Workers’ party, he went on. ‘‘Does the name Fulmar mean anything to you?’’
‘‘The electric company?’’
Von Heurt
en-Mitnitz nodded.
‘‘There is a son, Eric,’’ he said, ‘‘who is in Morocco.’’
‘‘What’s he doing in Morocco?’’
‘‘He’s involved with the son of the pasha of Ksar es Souk, who is believed to be moving currency and jewels illegally out of France and Morocco.’’
‘‘Interesting,’’ Müller said.
‘‘And there are those who believe he is avoiding military service,’’ von Heurten-Mitnitz said.
‘‘How does he get away with that?’’ Müller asked.
‘‘He has an American passport.’’
‘‘Legally?’’
‘‘His mother is American. He was born there, and we are being very careful with the Americans.’’
‘‘Does he also have a German passport?’’
‘‘No.’’
‘‘Why not?’’
‘‘He’s a very clever young man,’’ von Heurten-Mitnitz said, ‘‘who realized that accepting a German passport meant accepting German nationality, and that German nationals were expected to serve the fatherland in uniform.’’
‘‘Has he lived here?’’
‘‘Oh yes,’’ von Heurten-Mitnitz said, chuckling. ‘‘Oh yes. He spent four years at Philip’s University in Marburg as a candidate for a degree in electrical engineering. He’s perfectly fluent in German; and he is tall, blond, good-looking, and rather resembles the young man on the Waffen-SS recruiting posters.’’
Müller chuckled. ‘‘I see the problem,’’ he said. ‘‘And the solution. Arrest him for the currency violations, bring him to Germany, and put him in uniform.’’
‘‘It’s not so easy as that, unfortunately. No one seems to be able to prove that he is smuggling. And if he were arrested, it would be embarrassing to both his father and the party generally.’’
‘‘Uhhh,’’ Müller grunted in agreement.
‘‘But there’s more to the tale,’’ von Heurten-Mitnitz said. ‘‘He was in Paris in August with the son of the pasha of Ksar es Souk—and traveling on documents issued by the kingdom of Morocco.’’
‘‘How does he get Moroccan travel papers?’’
‘‘Through Sidi Hassan el Ferruch,’’ von Heurten-Mitnitz said.
‘‘That’s the son of the pasha?’’
Von Heurten-Mitnitz nodded. ‘‘They were at school together in Switzerland, and at Philip’s University.’’
‘‘Who’s the pasha? Somebody important?’’
‘‘There are two factions in Morocco,’’ von Heurten-Mitnitz said. ‘‘The king’s and the Pasha of Marrakech’s. The pasha’s loyalty to the king is questionable—’’
‘‘How powerful is a pasha?’’ Müller interrupted him.
‘‘That depends on the pasha,’’ von Heurten-Mitnitz said. ‘‘The pasha of Marrakech, Thami el Glaoui, is nearly as powerful as the king. He commands several hundred thousand tribesmen—armed tribesmen. Other pashas have only a handful.’’
‘‘And the smuggler’s father?’’ Müller asked.
‘‘The pasha of Ksar es Souk,’’ von Heurten-Mitnitz explained, ‘‘commands nearly as many tribesmen as the pasha of Marrakech. Together, they have roughly as many as the king. And they are close allies.’’
‘‘And his son is a smuggler? Why?’’
‘‘The amount of money involved boggles the mind,’’ von Heurten-Mitnitz said. ‘‘In wartime, it seems that people with a lot of money—Americans, South Americans, and we Germans, Müller—are willing to pay extraordinary prices for works of art. So much money is really a matter of state, rather than a mere crime.’’
‘‘And you’re supposed to stop this, right?’’ Müller asked.
‘‘The Americans have an expression,’’ Max von Heurten-Mitnitz said, ‘‘ ‘fighting with one hand tied behind you.’ But in this case I have both of mine tied behind me. On one hand, I am not to embarrass the party because of Baron Fulmar’s son, and on the other, it is possible that the king of Morocco may have to be replaced if he continues to prove uncooperative. If that becomes necessary, it is intended to replace him with the pasha of Marrakech. How cooperative would he be if we threw the son of his ally in jail? Or executed him?’’
‘‘Then why don’t we just find some other suitable pasha? ’’ Müller said practically.
‘‘I don’t think you understand the Moroccans,’’ von Heurten-Mitnitz said. ‘‘They’d go berserk. It would be like a holy war.’’
‘‘Then you have to let this el Ferruch alone.’’
‘‘I have been ordered to stop the flow of gold, currency, precious jewels, and fine art through Morocco,’’ von Heurten-Mitnitz said, ‘‘by superiors who believe I will be dealing with picturesque characters in bathrobes.’’
Müller chuckled again. ‘‘And I was so happy when I heard I was escaping from Berlin.’’
‘‘The Americans have another interesting saying,’’ von Heurten-Mitnitz said. ‘‘ ‘There’s no such thing as a free lunch.’ ’’
Müller thought that over for a moment and then chuckled.
‘‘There’s one obvious solution,’’ he said. ‘‘We could arrange some accidents.’’
Von Heurten-Mitnitz did not appear to have heard him.
‘‘There is one other alternative,’’ he said. ‘‘One that would possibly not only solve our problems with young Fulmar, but would be of value to the fatherland.’’
‘‘You mean, turn him into an agent?’’ Müller asked.
Von Heurten-Mitnitz nodded.
‘‘If we could use him to give us access to the pasha of Ksar es Souk, and through him to the pasha of Marrakech . . ."
‘‘Yes,’’ Müller said thoughtfully.
‘‘I don’t think appealing to his patriotism would work,’’ von Heurten-Mitnitz said. ‘‘Nor do I think he will frighten easily. We’ll have to think of something else.’’
‘‘It will work out,’’ Müller said confidently. ‘‘These situations almost always do, if you work hard enough.’’
‘‘And don’t do anything foolish,’’ von Heurten-Mitnitz added. ‘‘Thus it would be helpful if you can get a copy of Fulmar’s dossier. Perhaps something of interest happened to him while he was in Marburg.’’
Müller nodded. ‘‘I’d planned to see my family,’’ he said. ‘‘This will give me an official reason to go to Marburg. I’ll see what I can dig up. But if all else fails, Fulmar will be put on a plane, and you won’t know anything about it until you hear he has returned to the fatherland.’’
‘‘I must ask you not to do anything like that until you have discussed it with me first,’’ von Heurten-Mitnitz said quickly. ‘‘Neither of us can afford to be sent home because we have become persona non grata with our Moroccan friends.’’
4
Casablanca, Morocco November 28, 1941
There was absolutely no doubt in the minds of the two agents of the French Sûreté, nor of their adviser, a Sturmführer of the SS-Sicherheitsdienst, that if they could stop the American Cadillac they would find that its occupants possessed nearly three hundred thousand dollars in United States and half that much in Swiss currency. In addition, there was a small leather bag stuffed with investment-quality (that is, heavier in weight than three carats) diamonds and emeralds and comparable jewels. On the open market these were worth about as much as the Swiss and American currency combined.
The problem was that the law made no prohibition against simple possession of foreign currency. Neither was the simple possession of jewels illegal. Such a law would be impossible to enforce.
The other problem for the Sûreté and the Sicherheitsdienst was that one of the two young men was Sidi Hassan el Ferruch, the son of the pasha of Ksar es Souk, and the other young man was an American, Eric Fulmar, traveling on an American passport. Word had come from the Foreign Ministry on Bendlerstrasse itself that confrontations with American nationals were to be handled with the utmost discretion. Roughly translated, that meant to avoid touching Americans
unless they’d been caught red-handed.
What the Sûreté and Sicherheitsdienst agents wanted was to catch the two of them in the act of smuggling the money and jewels out of the country. If it was not judged wise to shoot him in the act of escaping, the American could at least be tried and jailed, pour encourager les autres, and Sidi el Ferruch could become a much more valuable chip in the never-ending game played by the French with his father.
The object, then, was to catch them.
None of the agents believed that tonight would be the night that would happen. For one thing, el Ferruch knew the agents were on their trail, and for another—unless they had guessed very badly—the obvious destination of the two (and el Ferruch’s Berber bodyguards, trailing the Cadillac in a Citroën) was a restaurant on the Coastal Highway between Casablanca and El Jadida.
The restaurant, Le Relaise de Pointe-Noire, sat all alone on the rocky Black Point, sixty or more feet above the crashing surf of the Atlantic. There was only one entrance to the restaurant, and there was no way to get from the restaurant down to the beach without passing through that entrance.
The two would never transfer the money or the jewels to someone else at Le Relaise de Pointe-Noire, because that would risk having whoever they gave it to caught with it. Which meant that they intended instead to spend time on one of the chambres séparées overlooking the crashing surf, have their dinner, and then pass the evening in the company of firm-breasted and dark-eyed Moroccan ladies of the evening. Le Relaise de Pointe-Noire had the most attractive poule to be found in Morocco.
It was raining, which meant that the two policemen who had stationed themselves where they could watch the granite outcropping on which Le Relaise de Pointe-Noire was built were going to become very wet and uncomfortable. There was no way to get a car in there, and it had to be watched, against the off chance that either el Ferruch or the American was foolish enough to try to sneak off down the beach. The third agent would go inside the restaurant to see what he could see.
The Last Heroes Page 18