A thin, balding man with a reddish van dyke beard stood before him. He was only six years senior to Martin, but Walter Taubman looked far older than his thirty-four years; and far different compared to the childhood photograph Martin kept in his suitcase. “Martin,” the man said extending a hand. “Welcome. How are you?”
“I’m well, Walter, You’re so kind to see me.” They shook as Taubman stepped out into a reception area. There were just two desks. Secretaries sat at each, concentrating on typing.
“Not at all, Martin.” He looked Martin up and down. “You look fit. The Kreigsmarine must be treating you well.” He waved a hand, “Come, please join me for tea.”
They walked into Walter’s office. Desk, credenza, and side table were furnished in Monte Verde. A large leather couch and two deeply stuffed wingchairs flanked a black, slate fireplace. Walter walked to the side table and fussed with a silver tea service. He waved Martin to a leather chair before his desk and said, “How do you like it?”
Martin sat and looked around, taking in the deep wood paneling and original artwork. It had been a long time since he’d seen such comforts and it all seemed incongruous, especially when he thought of the hell he’d been through the past few weeks.
“Martin?” prompted Walter Taubman.
“A little sugar, that’s all.” Beside him was an ornate table with a number of sliver-framed photographs. The largest showed Walter seated with a woman wearing glasses, her hair done in a tight bun. Flanking them were two boys ranging in age from six to nine. “Is this--”
“--My family, yes, My wife, Stella. My sons; Fritz, he’s the big one and Gert, our budding pianist.” Walter chuckled and handed over a cup of tea. “Who was that girl you were dating, the glider pilot?”
Martin flushed. He hadn’t thought of her for years. “Trudie, yes. She did like to fly.”
“I thought she was quite enchanting. What ever happened?”
Martin shrugged. “The war.” His eyes snapped to a photo near the table’s rear edge. It was of a uniformed German officer, a colonel. Slightly yellowed, it had been taken ten years ago. Taubman had the same photograph packed with the rest of his luggage back in Japan. It was Manfried Taubman, their common father. He’d divorced Walter’s mother, Gerta, in 1914. She returned to her native Switzerland to raise Walter. Then Manfried married Martin’s mother, Hilda, in 1916. In 1918, at the end of the Great War, Manfried Taubman divorced Hilda and ran off with a Spanish flamenco dancer. But he sent, each month, an allotment to Hilda who raised Martin in Munich. Martin always wondered if Walter’s mother received a similar allotment. But now was not the time to ask.
With their father either carousing or off with the Wehrmacht, the two boys grew up in different countries, Martin staying in Germany with his mother, Walter moving back to Switzerland with his mother. Thus, the boys grew up separately, not maintaining close ties. Except, for the summers of 1930 and 1931 when Manfred made a Herculean effort to be with his boys and took them camping. After that, there was less and less contact and at war’s outbreak, they lost touch altogether; Martin in the Kreigsmarine and posted to Japan; Walter safely ensconced in Switzerland as a banker. One day, the Embassy duty radioman handed Martin a message announcing his father was killed in a tank battle near Rostov, Russia, in 1942.
Walter joined his half-brother in gazing at the photo. “A pity.”
“Yes. When did you find out?”
“Just last year. And you?”
“Same.”
Walter sipped his tea and raised his eyebrows. “It’s been -- what? Three months since I received your telegram from Tokyo. I’d expected you two weeks ago. Then...I was worried. So this is very good. I trust your...ah, journey went well.”
“It was awful.”
Walter averted his eyes for a moment, then looked back. “Brother, what can I do for you?”
“I need a bank account. Discreet, of course.”
“Of course.” Walter issued a thin smile and sipped his tea.
“I need to draw on it from anywhere in the world.”
Walter leaned forward. “Within reason, of course.” After a silence, he said, “Forgive me for asking, Brother, but we have a minimum requirement here at Montreux. How much do you plan to deposit?” He held out a mahogany box and flipped it open. Inside were American cigarettes: Chesterfield.
“No, thank you.”
Walter’s eyes darted over his inventory and finally selected one of the cigarettes as if it were a long lost bottle he’d misplaced in his abundantly stocked wine cellar. Sharply, he tapped the cigarette on the desk three times, then lit it with a gleaming silver Ronson lighter. After exhaling a huge cloud, his eyes settled on Martin. Well?
Martin waited until Walter was taking his second drag, then said casually, “Five tons of gold. Will that be enough?”
Walter’s eyes bulged just a bit; he stopped in mid-inhale and rasped, “What?”
“I said ‘five tons of gold.’”
With some effort, Walter composed himself and got rid of the smoke in his lungs.
“Walter?” Martin prompted.
“Yes, yes, we can help you.” Stubbing out his cigarette, Walter Taubman reached in his top drawer and pulled out a form. He scribbled for a moment, then looked at Martin, an eyebrow raised. “Brother, we do need a deposit to activate the account.”
“How much?”
“Well. Three thousand Swiss francs should take care of it.” Both of Walter’s eyebrows were up.
“How about thirty thousand American?”
The expression on Walter Taubman’s face was evident. Where would Martin Taubman, a common Kreigsmarine sailor, most likely on the run, get thirty thousand dollars American and five tons in gold? “Yes, that’s all right.”
Martin took out his checkbook from the Merchants Bank of Geneva, wrote a check, signed his name with a flourish and handed it over.
“Thank you.” Walter must have pushed a button somewhere because a secretary entered silently, and stood beside Walter while he signed another form and handed everything over to her. Once done, she walked out.
“Brother, to activate an international account, the ahhh...”
“--Gold?”
“Yes, the gold needs to be delivered to an AAA rated correspondent bank. Where would this be?”
“Chile.”
“All right. Where in Chile?”
Martin shrugged. “I was hoping you would have a suggestion.”
“I see.” Walter picked up a thick book and thumbed pages. “How about the Vina del Mar branch of Banco Santiago? It’s just three kilometers north of Valparaiso.”
“Oh?” Taubman sat back. Vina del Mar. He’d heard rumors about Vina del Mar. Along with many little towns in Argentina and Brazil, Vina del Mar was marked as a bolt-hole for high-ranking Nazi party officials. Stories of the Casino del Mar drifted back to him. High-rolling gamblers played there. It was one of the hottest spots in South America. He looked up. Walter’s eyes glistened. Yes, Walter knows all about Vina del Mar. I bet he’s financing a lot of other Nazi’s there right now. “All right. Vina del Mar.”
“Right. Once the gold is delivered to Banco Santiago, I can wire funds to you almost anywhere in the world at any time. Well,” Walter coughed politely, “at least a place that’s not at war, I mean. Now, would you like suggestions for code numbers for your account?”
“Please.”
The next ten minutes were absorbed with Martin and Walter signing a number of forms. At length, Walter stood, reached across the desk and extended his hand. “On behalf of Montreux Bank Des Switzerland, let me express our appreciation for the trust you have placed in us. It is our great honor to serve you.”
They shook and Walter remained standing, as if dismissing Martin.
Instead, Martin said, “I have three other requests, ahhh...just little ones.”
“I see.” Walter sat. “Please, anything.”
“First, I need a Swiss passport. Second, I need a radio, a tran
sceiver; a good Telefunken with world-wide range. Third, I need clearances and documentation for transport to the South Pacific.”
“South Pacific? Where?”
“Noumea, New Caledonia.”
“And you speak French?”
“Oui, Monsieur.”
Walter nodded. “Well then, that’s very good. Had you said, Davao or Manila or Singapore, I would have had doubts.
“But a Swiss passport? I’m afraid that’s impossible.” He held up a hand to cut off Martin’s protest. “But,” he smiled, “I think another country might be possible.”
Martin drummed his fingers.
“Belgian? Irish? British, perhaps. I might even be able to get an American passport for you. But Swiss? We’re just too tightly controlled here.”
Martin’s English was too heavily accented for British or American passports. “French, then.”
“Excellent. Noumea is French so it all fits.”
“How much?”
“Five thousand, American.”
“Shit.” Taubman saw his expense money flying out the window.
Walter Taubman pouted as if the word had never sullied his wood-paneled office. “I’m sorry. I’m only act as an intermediary in a matter like this.”
Martin was sure Walter would have draped black velvet over his family photo were it next to him. “All right. Five thousand.”
“Do you wish to use your real name?”
Walter knows all the questions. He’s done this many times. “No. Use Henri Dufor.”
Walter made notes. “Henri Dufor it is.” He tore off a piece of paper and handed it over. “So. Go to this address tomorrow morning at ten o’clock. They will take the photo and deliver the product to you by four tomorrow afternoon. Will that do?” He sat back and steepled his fingers.
Five thousand, wondered Martin Taubman? I’ll bet that’s at least twice the cost. “How much for the radio?”
“Five thousand.”
Martin dropped his head into his hands. “Shit.”
This time, Walter didn’t miss a beat. “I can have it delivered to your hotel room, if you wish.”
Martin looked up. “Discreetly?”
“Very. Where are you?”
“The Maurice.”
“Very, very good. We know the Maurice staff very well.”
“Is it going to cost me anything?”
“I’d say another two thousand.”
“And how about the transportation to Noumea?”
“I’ll have a French diplomatic visa rigged up for you. Red Cross, possibly. I’ve done it before and it seems to work all right.”
“Will it be Vichy?”
“No.”
“Good. All right. And how much is that going to cost me?”
“Well, you’ll have to go by ship. If you don’t mind me saying, less questions asked that way. Is that all right?”
Taubman had been hoping for air transport but he knew it would be impossible with all the American security. Instead, he was faced with a long sea voyage, four, five weeks possibly. Shimada would be going crazy with the waiting. But the irony struck him that he would be voyaging through the Suez Canal this time, not the long way around the Cape of Good Hope. “Yes, that’s all right. What’s that going to cost?”
“Well, after greasing the skids to get you manifested, I’d say about ten thousand American.”
“Shit!”
It was a cool and clear night in Geneva. With great caution, Taubman uncrated Walter’s Telefunken and carefully rigged the antenna. Thoughtfully, Walter had included a bottle of schnapps and two crystal glasses. Does he expect me to have company?
Martin sipped until five minutes to midnight then donned his earphones and got ready. At the stroke of twelve, he took a deep breath and tapped out the call letters: JTT/ITN...JTT/ITN...JTT/ITN.
At ten to one, he’d about given up. Then, his heart jumped when he heard a weak response: ITN/JTT.
Taubman gulped a glass of schnapps, fully energized. Carefully, he tapped out the message in a simple checkerboard code to Shimada.
1. MISSION ACCOMPLISHED.
2. AIR XPORT NOT AVAILABLE.
3. BOOKED MARIE LORRAINE, DEPARTS MARSEILLE O8142000.
4. ARRIVE NOUMEA ABOUT 0926.
5 PLS RNDZ 0929.
6. 50 METERS OUTSIDE REEF POUM 0500.
7. IF RNDZ MISSED WILL TRY 10010130, THEN AGAIN TWO NITES LATER.
8. WILL GUARD SAME FREQUENCY AS AGREED.
9. CONFIRM.
MT
He heard them trying to transmit but static was heavy, the I-49's signal very weak. He asked them to repeat. Finally, it came through.
GOLDEN KITE
Taubman settled back. Shimada and his damned medals. He wondered what Shimada’s reaction would be when he told him of the loss of Yukota and the I-57. He hadn’t seen the two together very long but his take was that the two submariners were close. Taubman poured one last glass of schnapps, flipped the power off the Telefunken, and put his feet up. So what? Six weeks to get to Noumea and put it all together. Walter’s papers had better be good.
The crystal glasses gleamed. Company. That’s what Walter is suggesting. Not a bad idea. It’s been a long, long time. He donned a coat and walked out.
PART THREE
The Captain
Only a seaman realizes to what extent an entire ship reflects the personality and ability of one individual, her commanding officer. To a landsman this is not understandable, and sometimes it is even difficult for us to comprehend, but it is so.
A ship at sea is a distant world in herself and in consideration of the protracted and distant operations of the fleet units, the Navy must place great power, responsibility and trust in the hands of those leaders chosen for command.
In each ship there is one man who, in the hour of emergency or peril at sea, can turn to no other man. There is one who alone is ultimately responsible for the safe navigation, engineering performance, accurate gun firing and morale of his ship. He is the commanding officer. He is the ship.
This is the most difficult and demanding assignment in the Navy. There is not an instant during his tour as commanding officer that he can escape the grasp of command responsibility. His privileges in view of his obligations are almost ludicrously small; nevertheless command is the spur which has given the Navy its great leaders.
It is the duty which most richly deserves the highest, time honored title of the seafaring world ‑ Captain.
Attributed to Joseph Conrad
CHAPTER THIRTY SIX
5 September, 1944
San Pedro, California
Unlocking two locks and a deadbolt, Emma Peabody opened the door to her basement. Casting another glance over her shoulder, she clutched the handrail and walked down the steep stairs to her basement. She snapped on the light and looked around with pride. Years ago Leo had converted it to a workshop complete with bench, vise, table saw, drill press and lathe. Leo had even poured a concrete floor and laid black and white checked tile on top of that.
Leo had retired from the Southern Pacific seven years ago and, in addition to puttering in his basement, had taken an interest in photography. Opposite the workbench was a closet-sized darkroom and photo-lab with developing and enlarging equipment. Leo’s photos still hung throughout the house, many of them showing trains rumbling through rugged California mountains, the engines proudly belching smoke and steam.
Leo had been an engineer and the two by three photo hanging over the work bench was Emma’s favorite: it showed a long, lanky, sandy-haired Leo standing before number 4112, his “baby.” It was an AC-5 class, flat faced, cab forward, 4-8-8-2 locomotive, one of the most powerful on the Southern Pacific Line. The photo was taken in Truckee California, near the Donner Pass, at nearly 7,000 feet. It was winter, the shot dominated by stark blacks and whites. Snow lay everywhere; old 4112, a big, black sinister looking locomotive, steam rising around her, filled much of the picture, while a switching engine and two othe
r cab-forward AC-5s puffed and snorted in the background. But there was Leo, resplendent in heavy winter overcoat and mittens, leaning against 4112 with his signature lop-sided grin. He still looked like the teen-ager Leo Peabody Emma had fallen in love with in at Horace Mann High School in Indianapolis.
She looked up at it and smiled. I love you, Leo. We’ll be together again. Sooner than later.
Leo died four years ago, but not before he’d installed their pride and joy, a project both shared. Wedged between his workbench and the photo lab was another simple bench with a deep sink. Tucked underneath was a 6 gallon bucket with lid and airlock, five gallon carboy, a five gallon boiling kettle, and two wooden crates of glass bottles. Above the bench were shelves containing racking tubes, a scale, thermometer, Pyrex pitcher and hydrometer. Leo had even found room to wedge in a refrigerator. Emma opened the door, her eyes scanning the ingredients boxes, all neatly stacked and correct. There were only twelve bottles of beer left; it would soon be time to brew another batch. She grabbed a bottle, uncapped it and tipped it towards Leo’s photo. “Here’s to you, Sweetheart.” Then she took a long satisfying swig. Wiping her mouth, she gave a thunderous, ripping belch, just as Leo would do. She sat in a chair, closed her eyes and shook her head, reveling in the fact that this stuff was far better than the cheap swill offered at Carmenelli’s grocery store down on Gaffey street... Ah Leo, who’s to say a couple of old beer drinkers like us didn’t have a happy life together, even though we didn’t have children? And the sad part was that they could only drink alone. Brewing beer was illegal in California.
She finished off the bottle, set it down, reached in the refrigerator, and uncapped another. Tipping it to her grinning Leo, she drank deeply. Not bad for a pale ale. Then she thought of the imperial stout she and Leo had made one time. Now that was a beer with a real kick, brewed by Leo who kept meticulous records and proceeded as if he were cooking up a batch of nitro-glycerin. Everything clean, measured precisely, poured impeccably. Even if I could get the ingredients, I wonder if I could handle that? Her eyes drifted to the drawer containing Leo’s notes. She reached in the refrigerator, uncapped another bottle and took a long swig. I wonder if--
THE NEPTUNE STRATEGY: A Todd Ingram Novel (The Todd Ingram Series Book 4) Page 31