“But I only--”
“--shhhh” Hauser said in a hushed tone. “That is Standartenführer Wolfgang Schroeder of the SS.”
“I can see that.”
“And I’m under his orders. Don’t worry. I’ve flown these things many times before. So don’t worry, Sonny. We’ll make Paris. That is unless, you wish to wake the Standartenführer and ask him yourself. “
Cursing under his breath, the corporal stammered, “Yawohl, Herr Stabsfeldwebel.”
Hauser casually wiped the blood off the starboard window with a soaked rag as the corporals refueled the plane.
Taubman watched, and when the corporal’s head bobbed out of sight, he whispered, “Hauser.”
“Shut up,” the pilot hissed.
“See that mail chute over there?” Taubman nodded toward the hanger.
“Shut up. Do you want to ruin everything?”
Slowly, carefully, Taubman eased the envelope from his inside coat pocket. “Take this over there and drop it in.” He handed it over.
“Who the hell do you think I am? Your personal delivery boy?”
“It’s from Krüger to his wife. I promised I’d mail it.”
“Oh, why didn’t you say so?” Hauser took the envelope over and dropped it in the mail slot.
When he returned, the corporal reported, “All done, Sir. How about the oil?”
“That’s it. Stand back.” Hauser climbed in and started the Storch’s engine. The corporals stepped away as Hauser gunned the engine, stomped on the right brake and turned the little observation plane back toward the runway. “All ready for takeoff Herr Standartenführer? Your seat-belt buckled up nice and tight?” he called.
“Ha, ha,” replied Taubman.
Hauser waited behind a Ju-88G as its pilot ran up his twin Junker Jumo 213E vee-twelve engines, the noise, incredible, ripping at the night. Finally, the JU-88, its nose bristling with radar antenna, took off. Hauser guided the little wobbling aircraft onto the airstrip and gunned the engine. “Here we go, Sonny. Keep your seat buckled and your arse puckered. This may take a some time.”
The plane was very sluggish, at first. Finally, they gained speed and the tail lifted. Taubman felt the Storch trying to fly. “How much runway do we have?” he yelled over the engine’s roar.
“A thousand meters, if you don’t count the bomb craters. That’s where it gets dicey.”
The Storch stumbled into the night and Taubman heaved a sigh of relief and forced himself to breath. Now he could give some thought to their next task, a grisly one.
* * * * *
Hauser found a deserted country road forty kilometers southeast of Tours, near the village of Veigne. They landed under a full moon and, working quickly, hoisted Schroeder’s corpse from the Storch and laid it under a sycamore tree, the head propped up on the trunk. Carefully, Hauser positioned Schroeder’s cap over his eyes, then stood and gave a Nazi salute. “Wiedersehen, Herr sheisskopf.” Goodbye Mr. Shithead. Then he limped back to the airplane.
Taubman kneeled and folded Schroder’s hands over his belly. Then he searched for a moment and found a daisy. He picked it and stuck the stem between Schroeder’s fingers just as Hauser staggered back with the two cases of wine.
With a grunt, Hauser set the cases beside Schroeder and said, “Poor bugger looks peaceful. Probably for the first time in his life.” Then he turned. “Come on. Let’s get out of here.”
With Schroeder and his cargo gone, the Storch seemed incredibly nimble in spite of the fuel load. The night grew cooler, the air denser. They picked up a tailwind, with Hauser setting them on a near-easterly course, the brilliant moon showing their way over a quiet French countryside.
Taubman slept for a while, until turbulence shook him awake. He checked his watch. Nearly four am. “Where are we?”
Hauser pointed. “See that?”
Taubman craned his neck ,finding a faint glow on the horizon at about one o’clock. “What is it?”
“Dijon. Looks like they don’t believe in blackouts.”
Indeed, the glow was a beacon. “Thank you, Dijon.”
“We’re ahead of schedule.”
Taubman’s pulse quickened with the realization his objective was close. “Can we make the border?”
“No.”
Taubman raised himself in his seat and looked over Hauser’s shoulder. “Your fuel gauge says a quarter.”
Hauser whipped around. “Listen Schwanz. I’m in this all the way. I need fuel not only take you to Switzerland, but then get me back to Lyon.”
“Lyon?”
“Once I’m there, I’m okay. I have friends in the south of France.”
“What will you do?”
Hauser pondered the question. “Something I’ve wanted to do for a long time.”
The glow from Lyon came into focus. It looked like a cluster of lights over an intersection. “What?” Taubman said.
“Spain.”
“What the hell’s in Spain?”
“My son, Adolph. An Me109 pilot; he lost a leg in a crack-up. Adi bought a small vineyard down there. He has a wife. I think she’s pregnant.”
And Hauser had lost a foot in the First War Taubman recalled. He thought that one over, sensing there was more, and waited patiently.
As Dijon slid past their right wingtip, Hauser added, “Lost my wife and daughter in an air raid. I’d planned to join Adi all along. Your little offer just accelerated things a bit.”
“Glad I could help.”
“We’ll see.” He nodded to his left. “Look over there.”
“What?” said Taubman. The countryside looked dark and mottled.
“An airdrome is right down there. We need fuel, don’t we?”
Taubman couldn’t see a damn thing. “This time we don’t have the Standartenführer.” Blood roared in his head. Things had been going so well. Now this. And he was terrified of descending into a dark nothingness.
Hauser cut the throttle. and eased his Storch into a gentle bank to the left. “Ready to try your luck again?”
Hauser had eyes like a cat and found the heavily camouflaged runway on the first try. It was grass and the Storch bounced high, with Hauser fighting for control. Finally the little plane rolled out and, as before, Hauser taxied up to a hanger where a fuel truck was parked.
A lone soldier stood near the truck, a Schmeisser MP 40 machine pistol hooked over his shoulder. No one else seemed to be around. The soldier smoked and watched as Hauser shut down the Storch. Eventually, he flicked the cigarette down, ground it under his boot, and strolled over.
“Just like before, act like you’re asleep,” muttered Hauser. Then he jumped out, meeting the soldier at the engine. “Hi, there. Where is everybody?”
“All gone. We just closed down. My captain is in town getting last minute provisions before we take off.” He nodded to a lone Ju-52 tri-motor transport squatting nearby.
“Your captain?”
“Base commander.”
“Getting provisions at this time of night?” chuckled Hauser. “What’s her name?”
“Daphne. Now, what do you want?”
“Fill ‘er up, check the oil and tires and don’t forget the windshield.”
Taubman raised in his seat to see.
“Who are you?” The soldier was a Feldwebel, a sergeant. And he didn’t sound like a fool.
“Drifted off course on a cross country mission. Training hop.” Hauser jabbed a thumb over his shoulder. “That’s my student-pilot. Now, we need fuel.”
“Where did you come from?”
“Bar-le Duc. Who the hell do you--”
“--Bar-le Duc was evacuated and closed three days ago.” He unlimbered his Schmeisser and thrust out his other hand. “Your papers.”
“I know, I was there,” stammered Hauser. “They made us fly a triangle from Montargis to Bar-le Duc to--”
“Hands up, old man!” roared the sergeant. “Who the hell do you think you’re kidding? Montargis was closed two weeks ago
. What’s going on here? Tell that man to get out of there and stand beside you. Where the hell are your papers?”
Hauser raised his hands. “Top pocket.” then he said, “I swear, we got into Bar-le Duc.”
Carefully, the sergeant reached and pulled Hauser’s papers. “Bar-le Duc is closed, we’re closed, all of France is shut down. Where the hell have you been?”
“You’re closed? You don’t have any fuel?” gasped Hauser.
“Just with what’s in the truck. And that’s for our plane. What’s left over we torch with the truck.” The sergeant lowered his Schmeisser. “Your papers look all right. You may take down your hands. But I’ll need to see your trip manifest along with--”
Taubman climbed out and walked up to them. He shouted , “What’s going on here?”
“I’ll have to see your papers, Sir,” said the Sergeant.
Taubman drew his pistol and jabbed it into the sergeant’s temple. “How’s this?”
The sergeant’s eyes bulged.
“On your knees,” ordered Taubman. “Now when does your captain return?”
The sergeant shook his head.
“No time for this crap,” muttered Taubman. With a swift motion, he clubbed the Sergeant across the head. The man fell over with a groan.
Hauser’s hands were still in the air. The man gulped, looking down at the prone sergeant.
It was quiet. A zephyr rustled a tree line fifty meters away. “You heard the Sergeant, old schwanz,” said Taubman. “Take down your hands and dig up some gas while I tie this bastard up.”
With the Storch refueled, Hauser took off and headed east again. With the monotonous drone of the Argus and the still of the night, Taubman fell asleep. But ten minutes later, the Storch bounced and pitched. “What?
Hauser yelled, “tighten your buckle, schwanz. We may be in for a hard ride.”
“What the hell are you doing?” Yanking his buckle tight, Taubman looked about, seeing nothing. Not a headlight, not a sole village streetlamp, as the plane jiggled violently. For comfort, he raised up a bit to see the green backlighted instruments on the pilot’s panel.
“Just turbulence. We’re over the Jura mountains. Go back to sleep.”
“Are you sure?” Taubman ran his hand over his pistol. For some reason it made him feel better, although he knew it was useless up here.
“Twenty minutes, half hour, then you can stop peeing your pants.” Hauser laughed loudly.
Taubman grit his teeth. After a minute, it grew calm. Two minutes later, he felt himself nodding off. He relaxed his grip on his pistol and went back to sleep.
It was near day-break, and Taubman’s heart soared as they crossed the Swiss border. Hauser found the road Taubman wanted: a little stretch of country lane southeast of St Cergue. The Stabsfeldwebel, cut the engine, and landed softly, letting the plane roll to a stop under a grove of trees.
Quiet.
Leaves and a bit of dust swirled about the aircraft.
Hauser broke the silence. “All out.”
Taubman snapped his briefcase shut and climbed out. Retrieving his duffle, he leaned in and dropped a bundle of money in Hauser’s lap.
“What?” he said, thumbing the neatly wrapped stack. “There’s more than--”
“--that’s ten thousand, Dieter. I decided you need a bonus. Something to remember me by. Now go buy yourself a decent suit. You look like shit.”
Hauser’s eyes went wide. “Thank you.”
“You have enough fuel for Lyon?”
“Barely.”
“Where will you go in Spain?”
“Why?”
“I may want to look you up after the war.”
Hauser rubbed his chin trying to decide. “Lumbrales. It’s a village near the Portuguese border.”
“Sounds beautiful.”
“It is, I’m told.”
“Well then, good bye.” Taubman reached in and they shook.
“Hals und bein bruch, schwanz,” said Hauser. Literally, break your neck and your legs, meaning ‘good luck.’ He started his Storch, spun around and gunned the engine, the plane bouncing into the air after rolling just thirty meters.
Taubman stepped deep in shadows and reached into his duffle, pulling out a dark grey suit he’d bought in Hong Kong six months previously.
The Storch circled, wiggled its wings and flew west, its drone quickly fading. Taubman yanked off his Kreigsmarine tunic and threw it into the bushes saying softly, “Hals und bien bruch, alter mann.”
CHAPTER THIRTY FIVE
12 August, 1944
Three kilometers south of St. Cergue, Switzerland
Taubman had picked a remote spot to land, six kilometers inside the border, which put him well behind security guards and fences, the gangly Storch landing and taking off without a hitch. But Geneva was eighteen kilometers away. What if some self-serving, crooked, border agent happened along and took him in? He’d heard stories of Swiss border guards turning suspected fugitives over to the Germans for a price. Now that he was out of uniform, he could be shot. Looking occasionally over his shoulder, he walked the four kilometers to the main road without incident. Checking carefully for police and military vehicles, he turned right and headed toward Geneva, sixteen kilometers to the south.
Five minutes later, a Geneva-bound fire truck stopped. They’d been out for a test run after an engine overhaul and thought nothing of giving a neatly-dressed civilian a lift into town.
By eleven that morning, Taubman had checked into the Hotel Maurice and took a penthouse on the eighth floor. It cost $500.00 a night but he needed to be up high. After a three hour nap, he yawned, stretched and stepped into the shower, luxuriating in steam and the strong flow of hot water. Putting his head down, he let it gush over his head, neck, shoulders, back; he hadn’t felt so relaxed in a long, long time. Not even in the German embassy in Tokyo, where the piping was abysmal. As the water cascaded over his face...his mind wandered...the I-57.
“I-57,” he muttered aloud.
In Lorient, Krüger had said, “The I-57. She was due in last week. We’ve lost her, I’m afraid. Gave a position report shortly after you transferred off. That was it...No more radio transmissions. Disappeared....I’m truly sorry for your shipmates, your friends.” Then he took Taubman’s hand. “What a stroke of luck for you to have a ruptured appendix.”
Stroke of luck,’ Krüger had said. With I-57's loss, it was certainly a stroke of luck that there were far less people to share the gold. Right now, his share was about 1/47th, far better than 1/95th before the I-57 was sunk.
He was getting scalded. He turned off the shower and stepped out, still turning things over in his mind. He toweled off and ordered lunch sent to his room: roast goose. While waiting, he sat at the desk and doodled on Hotel Maurice stationery. The I-49 was now loaded with 142 one thousand ounce gold bars, weighing nearly seventy pounds each. At the U.S. pegged price of $35.00 per ounce, each brick was worth US $35,000.00. Therefore, five tons of gold was worth US $5,072,382.00. Before the I-57 went down, they were going to split it 100 ways: US$49,700.00 per share. Taubman ground his teeth, Shimada, the idealistic Bushido, insisted on an equal share for everybody, whereas Taubman and the senior officers wanted to take 50% giving the rest to the crew. At any rate, the split was now 47, or US $105,745.00 per man.
Better. A man could do a lot more with US$106,000.
Still muddling, Taubman finished his goose and dressed. He took the elevator down and walked through the Maurice’s ornate lobby onto the sidewalk. Turning right, he trekked three blocks to the Merchants Bank of Geneva. There, he set up a numbered account and deposited all the cash in his case: $100,000, less the $10,000 he’d given the old Storch pilot, less another $10,000 he kept out for himself. Completely unburdened and armed with a checkbook, he walked across the street and headed for the Monteux Bank Des Switzerland.
The lobby of the Monteux Bank Des Switzerland was done in marble with oversized, heavy mahogany furniture and deep green potted pl
ants everywhere. But what struck Taubman was that it was quiet and a sense of gloom and intimidation pervaded the understated elegance. Two men in dark coats and ties sat in back, one on the phone, another poring over a document. A large desk dominated the lobby’s center; a neatly coiffed receptionist worked on a folder. Her glasses conveyed a professorial image; but her hairdo, shimmering green eyes, and beauty mark, told a different story. Her smile was dazzling. “May I help you, sir?”
“Walter Taubman, please,” he smiled back.
She looked over her shoulder at a large clock with roman numerals. Clasping her hands, she said, “Mr. Taubman is in a meeting. Is he expecting you?”
“Yes.”
“Oh? At what time, sir?” She looked down and made a show of scanning a large inked register.
Taubman smiled again. “Dear Girl, Walter is my brother. He’s been expecting me for several days, now.”
She looked puzzled. “I see. And your name, please?” She picked up a phone.
“Martin Taubman.”
She turned to the side covered the mouthpiece and spoke softly. Hanging up, she waved a hand at a deep leather sofa. “Someone will be out. Please be seated. Would you like tea? Something stronger, perhaps?”
“No thank you.” As a Naval attaché’ Taubman knew enough about lobbies to know that one never sat while waiting. Nor did he accept a beverage. For sitting and balancing a cup of tea or whatever, put one at a disadvantage when the person he was calling for walked in. Instead, Taubman circled the coffee table like a hungry cat, looking down at a number of neatly fanned American and British magazines. It was tempting to sit and leaf through one of them, but he resisted and kept his pace, occasionally catching the receptionist’s glance.
He was on his fifth circuit when the phone rang. “Yes?” she said. After a nod, she replaced the receiver and waved to a bank of elevators, their trim in glistening, white marble. “Mr. Taubman will see you now. Please take the elevator to the third floor.”
“Thank you.” Taubman stepped in to find a uniformed operator looking straight ahead. Nothing was said. The operator closed the doors and whisked them up. They stopped at the third floor; the doors slid open.
THE NEPTUNE STRATEGY: A Todd Ingram Novel (The Todd Ingram Series Book 4) Page 30