"They killed him for making phony passports?" Keegan said with disbelief. "Who? Who did it?"
"The Sturmabteilung, " Reinhardt said.
"Am I missing something here?" Keegan asked. "Here we are, standing in front of an immigration man, and we're talking about phony passports."
"Christ, Keegan, you are thick," Wallingford said.
"As long as he has papers nobody will question him," Fuegel explained. "But if he comes in without papers, we have no choice but to deport him."
"Even if you know his papers are phony?" Keegan said.
"As long as he has a passport and a hundred dollars in his pocket, there'll be no questions asked. But he must have papers."
"Christ, what a silly game."
"Not silly, Keegan, necessary," Wallingford said. "If we permit German refugees to enter the country without passports, there will be hell to pay with the German government. We've got to maintain some semblance of diplomatic relations with Germany. We have to know what the hell's going on here and we can't do it if they shut the embassy down."
"So you're on the run?" Keegan said to Reinhardt.
"Ja."
"Running for his life," said Fuegel.
"What did you do?" Keegan asked quietly.
Reinhardt looked up slowly and said, "I disagreed with Hitler. Unfortunately I am also a Jew. That's what I did, sir. I have a big mouth and a Jewish mother."
"You've read his articles," Wallingford said. "He's an enemy of the state."
"What the hell's he doing here? Half the SS is down in the living room," Keegan said.
"There was no place else for him to go," Wallingford said. "No place safe."
"What am I doing here, Wally?"
"We have to get him out of Germany tonight."
"Tonight!"
"There's a warrant for his arrest. Specifically he's been charged with sedition for publishing The Berlin Conscience. If they catch him, he's finished."
"What do you mean, finished?"
"For Christ sake, Francis, you heard what he said. The brownshirts broke into his partner's place this afternoon, shot him in cold blood, then burned the building. You know what's going on here!"
Keegan thought about the storm troopers on their nightly forays, torch flames whirling in the wind as they drove through the streets in their open trucks, chanting their persistent dirge, "Down with Jews, Death to Jews," as they sought their prey. It was a common sight and like most people in Berlin, Keegan had become immune to its dreadful portent. Like most foreigners, he was reviled by the brownshirts but felt powerless to do or say anything against these drunken bullies with their insatiable appetite for violence. They had more power than the local police and they traveled in packs like hungry predators. Besides, it was a temporary thing, he thought. It would pass. And if the German people did not feel compelled to speak out against them what could he do? After all, it was their country. Germany was going through the trauma of revolution—death and fear were the companions of revolt. So he had learned to shut out the sounds of shattering glass and the cries of the victims, to turn his eyes away from the Sturmabteilung as they looted Jewish stores, beat up the owners, and painted crude, six-sided stars on the doors.
Keegan shook his head and his eyes opened fully. "I'm sorry," he said. "I don't get involved in local politics." He leaned over to Wallingford, and added, "This isn't your problem either, Wally."
Wallingford turned to Reinhardt. "Will you excuse us a minute," he said, and led Keegan into the adjoining office.
"We can't just ignore him," he said flatly.
"I admire him for going to bat for his country, but it's his country. We have to live with these people. It's none of our damn business."
"Listen, Reinhardt is one of the few outspoken German writers left," Wallingford said, his voice brittle with tension. "His articles and editorials have a strong impact on Germans. Hell, he could be nominated for a Nobel Prize this year—if he lives that long." He paused for a moment, then leaned over and said softly, "President Roosevelt wants him out."
"Ah," Keegan dragged the word out, "we get to the payoff."
"Call it anything you want, we need to move quickly, Francis."
"What do you mean we?"
"This is everybody's business. This man is a symbol. We need to get him out of Germany."
"You need to get him out of Germany. You blow this and you'll end up third assistant attaché in some banana republic with tarantulas for a staff. Hell, you got the whole damn diplomatic corps, spies crawling out your kazoo and you want me to find you a forger. What am I supposed to do, go over to the Kit Kat Club and ask around? Why don't you just grant him political asylum?"
"It's too late for that," Wallingford said, lighting a cigarette. "This man is a very hot potato, he's been accused of treason. Asylum would not go down well at all, not well at all. My instructions are to get him out of Germany tonight and keep the government out of it. You've got a plane. Let us use it to get him to Paris. It's two hours away. I'll take care of the rest of it."
"So that's what this is all about. You want my plane."
"Just to fly him to Paris. Two hours, for God's sake."
"First of all it isn't just my plane," Keegan said brusquely. "It belongs to four of us, a Frenchman and two Brits are in on it with me. We share it and we schedule a month ahead so we can all make our plans. I'd have to check with all three of them and I don't even know where they are right now. It could take hours. And if the Nazis find out, and they will find out, they'll probably confiscate it. I can just see myself explaining that to my Parisian partner. You're going to have to eat a hundred and fifty thousand bucks, Louie, Hitler decided to use our plane for weekend picnics. "
"Listen to me," Wallingford said desperately. "If they catch this man they're going to execute him."
"Then don't let them catch him. Just leave me out of it. This isn't my fight."
"It's everybody's fight. You'll learn that soon enough."
"Stop preaching. Call in your intelligence chief and lay it off on him."
"I can't involve them, damn it!"
"You're a real case, you are. You can't get involved because you're a diplomat. Fuegel can't get involved because he's in the immigration service. Reinhardt can't get involved because he's on the dodge. But I can get involved because I'm just plain good old Frankie Keegan, rich American sucker, that it?"
"No one would suspect you," Wallingford said. "We get him out in your car, take him to the airport and he'll be in Paris before morning. All he needs is a passport."
"For the last time, I'm not going to get involved in local politics. What's the matter, don't you know anybody else with an airplane?"
"Nobody that's here now, no."
"That's flattering."
"Look, we're not talking about politics here, we're talking about a man's life," Wallingford implored. "You heard what the SA did to his best friend. You know what they'll do with Reinhardt? They'll take him over to the basement of Landsberg prison and behead him. Behead him!"
"I don't believe that."
"That's the way they do it these days. I can show you intelligence reports. Last month they beheaded three university students simply for distributing The Berlin Conscience. This guy writes the fucking paper. You wonder why he's panicked?"
Keegan shook his head.
"Damn it, Keegan!" Wallingford sat down heavily on the secretary's chair and shook his head. "There isn't any politics here anymore," he said wearily. "It's a one-party situation. There won't be another election in Germany until Hitler is dead."
"Well, there's your answer," Keegan said. "Knock off Hitler."
"You've got a lousy sense of humor." Wallingford's shoulders sagged. "I gave you credit for more guts than this."
"Look," Keegan answered angrily. "Once and for all, I don't play politics, particularly German politics! The Germans adore Hitler. He drives down the street and everybody's out heiling away, throwing flowers in front of his car. Germany's i
n love with him. And Reinhardt's a traitor to Germany!"
"He's not a traitor, he's a writer who is speaking out against things he feels are wrong."
"One man's traitor is another man's patriot." Keegan tapped Wallingford in the middle of his chest. "Know what I think? You got caught with your pants down on this. You knew this guy was in hot water but you didn't have a plan. Now FDR wants him smuggled out of the country and you're up against the wall."
"I'll admit I wasn't prepared for the President's reaction. Besides, it happened too quickly. Some miserable little Judenjäger probably turned Reinhardt and Probst up."
"Judenjäger?"
"Jewhunters. It's what they do for a living. Trace family trees, look for a Jewish connection, report rumors to the Gestapo. Sometimes they are Jews themselves trying to stay out of trouble."
"Stool pigeons."
"Right. Stool pigeons."
"Call in your people," Keegan said, patting Wallingford on the shoulder. "Tell them what the President wants and cut them loose. You don't have any choice. Hell, I think the plane's in Paris anyway and even if it wasn't we couldn't find a pilot this late at night." He turned to leave.
"I thought I could count on you," Wallingford said.
"That's what you get for thinking, Wally," Keegan said without turning around. He went back to the other room.
"Good luck, Herr Reinhardt, I'm sorry I can't help you," Keegan said to the terrified little man. "I can do this for you. If you get out, there'll be ten thousand dollars on deposit in your name at Chase Manhattan Bank in New York to help you get started in America."
"That's most kind of you, sir. Thank you." Reinhardt turned to Wallingford. "Perhaps the Black Lily?" he asked.
"What's the Black Lily?" Keegan asked.
"You don't want to be involved," Wallingford said, "so stay out of it completely."
"Fair enough," Keegan nodded, and left the room.
When he got back downstairs, the actress was gone. The little man with the hump on his back was still there, though, and he watched Keegan's every step as Keegan left the embassy.
ELEVEN
In Der Schwarze Stier Verein, Berlin's most notorious nightclub, nobody paid any attention to Francis Keegan. The downstairs room was nothing more than an elaborate beer hall, a mob scene, crowded, smoky and boisterous, the heat oppressive. Keegan decided he would stay long enough to have a nightcap and hear the singer.
As he weaved through the crowd toward the bar, the manager, Herman Braff, pushed his way through the dancers toward him.
"What an honor, what an honor," the chubby little sycophant babbled. "I am always flattered when you come, Herr Keegan." Herman's tuxedo was a disaster of wrinkles and sweat stains and his shirt was soaked down the front. Rivulets of perspiration dribbled down his face which he dabbed constantly with a handkerchief.
"Looks like a great night for you, Herman," Keegan said.
"Lots of beautiful ladies." Braff winked. "Just your type."
"How about the new singer?"
"Nein, nein, nein." Herman shook his head vigorously, waving off the idea with his hand. "Not your type at all."
"I came to hear her sing, Herman, not to propose."
The German laughed. "Not to propose, that's a good one," he said. "Your type is . . ."
He put his two hands out in front of his chest as though he were carrying a large bundle, then rolled one hand across his buttocks in an imaginary parabola.
"Wonderful, Herman, you should be up there on the stage doing impressions."
Keegan shook his head sadly at the grinning manager and looked around the packed club. Smoke clouded the ceiling, the odor of stale beer was overpowering and the band was loud, dominated by the tuba and drums. There were young couples at most of the tables, some dressed in brown uniforms with swastikas on the arm, most of them thick-necked, blond and garrulous. Stag men stood two and three deep at the bar. The chorus line was dancing furiously on stage, as though trying to finish their number as quickly as possible. On the packed dance floor, couples undulated, mauled each other and ignored the stage show.
"How about those two in the corner booth?" Herman pressed on, nudging Keegan's arm with his elbow. It was important to Herman to impress Keegan for Keegan was a trend-setter. If he liked a place, he would draw others to it, expatriates who spent their American dollars and English pounds freely. "They are Americans. And they're with two boys. College students I would guess. They look bored."
"I came to Europe to escape Americans," Keegan said, squinting his eyes and peering through the swirling haze toward the corner, studying the two women as best he could. Both were brunettes, stunning, perfectly coiffed and dressed to the teeth. One, in a shiny, glittering short formal, her black hair cut in a pageboy, looked absolutely defiant, as if challenging every man in the room to try and pick her up. There was something about her, something familiar. Perhaps he had seen her photograph in the rotos. Perhaps she was an actress. The lack of visibility in the room prevented any real scrutiny.
Vanessa Bromley and Deenie Brookstone were ready to ditch the two American boys who had brought them to the club. Vanessa had tired quickly of their stupid college talk and undergraduate mentality. After all, she had come to Berlin not as a sightseer, but, as she put it, "to raise almighty hell," which definitely did not include being squired by two Dartmouth boys who knew her parents.
"I didn't come over here to end up with the same ninnies we left behind," she said.
Now the boys had sealed their fate by refusing to take them upstairs, to the private club called Das Goldene Tor where the nightclub act was supposedly more shocking than the one at the Crazy Horse in Paris.
"They're naked all over," Deenie had whispered earlier in the seclusion of their suite. "Men and women."
"Why are you whispering?" Vanessa asked.
"I don't know," Deenie answered, still whispering. "It's just so . . . scandalous."
"Only if we're seen. I'm sure nobody from Boston would be caught dead there."
"I'm real nervous."
"Will you stop whispering. "
"I can't help it."
Now the two absolute juveniles were preventing them from learning firsthand just how depraved the show really was.
"They're both virgins," Vanessa said with disgust, watching them thread through the crowd toward the men's room. "You can just tell."
"So am I," Deenie said weakly.
"Don't be silly!"
"I am."
"Deenie, you're nineteen years old. How come we've never talked about this before?"
"I don't know. It just never came up. How long . . . when did you . . ."
"Christmas holiday last year."
"Who . . . ?"
"Donny Ebersole."
"Donny Ebersole!"
"What's the matter with Donny Ebersole?"
"Donny Ebersole. He's . . . so . . . little. He's not as tall as you are."
"Size has nothing to do with it," Vanessa snapped back.
"Was it . . . fun?"
"Not the first time."
"You did it more than once?"
"Well, once you start what's the difference? I mean, we just did it all the way through the holiday, Deenie. And yes, it was a lot of fun."
"I just always figured I'd wait until I got married."
"Oh, for God's sake, Deenie, grow up! This is 1933." She thought for a moment, then added, "Maybe we ought to leave. Take a cab around town for a while, then come back."
"Will they let us in upstairs without escorts?"
"Oh, who knows?" Vanessa said, obviously getting annoyed by Deenie's constant blathering.
They were both aware that most of the men at the bar were staring at them, and why not? They were both gorgeous women and Vanessa was wearing what she called her "shimmy" dress, a white, form-fitting number, covered with rhinestones, that ended above the knee. She glittered like a handful of polished diamonds and when she walked the shimmering garment turned every step into a
n invitation. A rhinestone tiara topped off the package. Vanessa suddenly felt oppressed by the crowded room.
"I am not going to waste this evening on these two jerks," she said. "Come on, let's leave and come back a little later. Maybe they'll get the idea and leave."
"What if they don't?"
"We'll snub them when we come back."
"Vanessa!"
"Deenie, will you kindly please just grow up."
"At least we should wait until they come back. That's the right thing to do."
"Deenie, if you keep doing the right thing all your life, you're going to be a virgin when you're fifty."
At the bar, Keegan waited impatiently for the chorus to finish its work. A voice behind him said, "Francis?" He turned to find Bert Rudman, a reporter for the Herald Tribune, standing behind him. Rudman was one of their better-known correspondents, a good writer relegated at first to personality pieces, lately spending more time on European politics. They had known each other briefly in France during the war and had renewed their friendship during the year Keegan had been in Europe, bumping into each other all over the continent. A pretty boy who looked ten years younger than the thirty-five he claimed to be, Rudman was wearing a leather trenchcoat with the collar turned up and a brown fedora.
"I thought that was you," Rudman said. "Haven't seen you since that terrible bash in Rome."
"The Italians throw the worst parties in Europe."
"No, the Russians throw the worst parties in Europe."
"The Russians don't throw parties at all, Bert. It's against the law to enjoy yourself in Russia."
"Speaking of parties, are you going down to Bavaria for the Runstedts' boar hunt this weekend?"
"My horse is running at Longchamp. I'll be in Paris."
"He's been doing well," Rudman said. "I've been following him."
"I've made a little money on him this season. If he shows anything in Paris, I might try him out in the States."
"You mean you'd actually go home?" Rudman was surprised. He had heard all the rumors about Keegan. Some, like the bootlegger story, he believed simply because he had met Keegan in an army hospital on the Western Front when the kid was barely eighteen and stone broke. Now he was a millionaire. It had to come from someplace. The fact that he thought his friend was an ex-gangster only made Keegan's friendship more alluring. But Rudman feared if he pried too deeply into Keegan's personal life it would damage their friendship. Keegan was aware of Rudman's caution and while he would never have held it against the newspaperman if he did pry a little, he let Rudman think it would.
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