Kiss Me Twice

by Thomas Gifford

  Moller nodded. “Like Gehlen. I hear your spymaster Dulles has hired him—”

  “You got good ears,” MacMurdo said.

  “It was known he’d make a deal. You need us to help you face the Russians. We could have told you that years ago and saved the trouble of this war.”

  “You get no argument from me, pal. My superiors, all the way to the top, will be very happy with me if I deliver you to them as a brand-new friend … and also hand them Benedictus and his nest of Nazi art smugglers. What more could they ask? And naturally I come out a hero. As usual.” He took out his little black pipe and packed it, applied a match in the silence. The whole ceremony had the aspect of a celebration. He was telling Moller the heat was off and it hadn’t been so bad, had it?

  “What if I want out entirely?”

  “Where’s your gratitude, pal?”

  “I’ve had a long war. What if I don’t want to work for any government? What if I want to live my own life with my wife?”

  MacMurdo puffed and cogitated, an involved process.

  “Well, hell,” he said at last. “I guess it’s nothing to me, one way or t’other. I was just offering you a job, good pay, nice retirement program—”

  “If they didn’t just use me and then kill me, you mean.”

  “Who knows? I’m the first to admit you can never trust the men behind the desks. You don’t want to take the job, don’t take the job. You can take Karin and do whatever you want. You must have a good deal of money left. Unless Tash charged you rent this past summer.” MacMurdo chuckled. Smoke plumed out of his mouth and nose.

  “What will your report say if I disappear?”

  “Fortunes of war. You got killed in the infighting. I didn’t stop to pull your bleeding corpse to safety. You can go to Buenos Aires or Rio or Paraguay, anywhere you want. You’ll find plenty of old chums. Sit around on long summer nights and tell yourselves it was that fart Hitler who lost the war and exterminated the Jews and the Gypsies and the rest of you were just following orders—”

  “That’s the truth, actually.”

  “As you wish, pal. Anyway, take your money and your wife. Head for the hills. You’ve got money. You’ll find a way out. I know a guy here in the City of Angels can make you a passport good enough to get you past the beaners and into deepest mañana-land. Like I say, I’m a hero and you’re gone.”

  Moller’s eyes narrowed. He looked from MacMurdo to Cassidy to Leary and back to the Colonel. “Who are these men?”

  “Mine. It doesn’t matter.” MacMurdo tamped the ash with a nail.

  “Why? Why are you doing this for me?”

  “Because we’re alike, old pal, you and I. All around me I got civilians. But you and me, we’re company men. And I’d want to be given the same chance if our places were reversed. We’re not just soldiers. And we’re sure as hell not war criminals. You know what we are, you old German bastard, we’re fuckin’ warriors! Out of goddamned mythology, my friend!” He was pointing the pipe at Moller, prodding his chest as if he’d suddenly realized he had tied one on, a proper snootful. “And a warrior deserves respect. Simple as that. Your war is over. You followed your orders, you conducted a perilous mission in a foreign land—hell, you’ve earned the right to your own life. The right to die in bed.”

  Moller stared into MacMurdo’s face, searching for his eyes behind the veil of smoke. He wanted to believe. More than anything else, he wanted to believe. The Brotherhood of Warriors. “I see,” he said at last.

  MacMurdo rubbed his hands together, the pipe clamped in his powerful jaw. “Well, goddamn! We need us a plan. How we gonna make the switch, then? The minotaur for your wife? Hell’s bells, now we’re gettin’ somewheres!” He grinned at Cassidy and Leary. He was at his down-home best. “We doin’ bidness with this here old boy.”

  “The art auction.”

  “When? Where?”

  “I don’t know. Benedictus, it’s his show.”

  “We’ll find out. Are you gonna have trouble with old Tashkent?”

  “I think not. I’ll handle it.”

  “You think he might like to get his hands on your minotaur? Bring a nice price—”

  “There isn’t enough money, Colonel. And he doesn’t know where it is.”

  “He sure as shootin’ has got ways of finding out.”

  “Don’t worry, Colonel. Now … you asked me nothing about the Göring network.”

  “Oh, hell, you don’t know anything about it. Why would they tell you? You were a delivery boy, pal.”

  “I wanted to make sure you knew that.”

  “I do have one question, though. Who the hell is Vulkan?”

  “Who?”

  “Vulkan. Code name. Who is he?”

  “I never heard the code name Vulkan. I’m sorry.”

  “You wouldn’t be pullin’ my leg, would you? Old warriors and all?”

  “I simply don’t know. The word has never come up.”

  “Well, ain’t that somethin’. I do declare!” MacMurdo looked at Cassidy. “Somebody’s havin’ fun with us, pard. Ain’t that the dickens!”

  Cassidy and MacMurdo had the house in the Hollywood Hills to themselves that evening. Terry Leary had taken Karin out to see a movie, Gregory Peck and Ingrid Bergman in Spellbound. “It’ll do her good,” Terry said. “It’ll do me good. You and the Colonel can settle the hash of the Nazi swine and we won’t have to listen.”

  “I’m not sure it’s the picture for her,” Cassidy said. “Peck’s an amnesiac who may have killed somebody—his doctor, for Christ’s sake! Ring any bells? Karin? And her doctor’s been murdered—”

  “Relax, Lew. It’s only a movie.”

  Now Cassidy stood alone on the deck overlooking the twinkling lights of the city, each pathetically striving to be seen, like the faded starlets of yesteryear.

  Mona Ransom had set Moller up for them. Betrayed him. Did he know how it had worked? Would he kill her if he found out the truth? Would it be one of his necessary killings? Did Moller even know his brother was dead? Well, he did if he killed him. … But no, he wouldn’t have, Karin said he wouldn’t have. And what would have required the killing of Rolf? But he didn’t kill himself, so who did it for him?

  And what was going on between Manfred Moller and Benedictus? Benedictus had been the safe harbor, the contact, his goal when he set off in that crummy little plane from Nova Scotia … from the Reich in the U-boat, for that matter. What nerve it all must have taken, the Reich in flames, Göring going crazy, a one-way U-boat and an airplane stuck together with chewing gum. … How could Moller never have heard of Vulkan? Or was he lying? If it wasn’t Benedictus, then who? It was as if Vulkan were a ghost ship, a foghorn echoing, always just out of reach. …

  And what was the story on Karin and Manfred? She certainly hadn’t seemed to care a damn about him. Could she have been faking her concern all along? But she’d been desperate. Lew, please help find him, it’s all that matters, we must find him. … So why didn’t she care once he was found? Was that part of her deal with the Devil? MacMurdo. Because the Devil had something that belonged to her … therefore she had to help MacMurdo find Manfred Moller. It came down to that. Had to come down to that. He had something of hers. Something.

  Manfred, on the other hand, was smitten by her still. He’d insisted on his love for her in that strong silent way no doubt commonplace in the brotherhood of warriors.

  Where was the truth, anyway?

  Terry in the Kansas night, with the lights shining on the tarmac, had warned him that there was something funny going on, that Karin was giving him a performance, that the amnesia was an act. Impossible …

  But what if he’d hit on something? Was it possible?

  But why would she fake it?

  No, she couldn’t.

  Still, she’d given quite a performance as the distraught wife worried about her poor lost Santa Claus of a husband. But maybe that was the truth and the current attitude of indifference the performance. …
r />   And if it came to mysteries, as it seemed to all the time now—

  How the living, enduring hell had Tash Benedictus come to be expecting them at the castle? He’d been sitting up there getting stewed every night waiting for them!

  Impossible.

  Maybe Mona had it all wrong.

  Cassidy hoped so. If she’d had it right, if he’d been waiting for them, then it was all a whole lot worse than his nastiest nightmare.

  He heard a heavy tread on the redwood deck behind him. MacMurdo stretched mightily, yawned. It was thundering out in the direction of Santa Monica. The hillside around the house was wild country. Where the lawn ended the animals would come to watch, their eyes glowing faintly in the darkness. Up above Mulholland Drive was quiet, dark as a coal mine with cloud cover smudging out the stars. MacMurdo yawned again and shook himself like a Great Dane coming out of the water.

  Something in the shadows reacted to MacMurdo’s huffing and puffing. There was a sudden rustle in the leaves. MacMurdo turned in the dim light spreading outward from the house and planted his feet; the .45 had appeared in his hand.

  A deer stepped out of the darkness, stood still, looking at them in some wonderment.

  Slowly MacMurdo lowered the gun and exhaled.

  “Relax, Sam.”

  The deer came tentatively toward them, obviously the next thing to tame, a picture of gentle curiosity, head cocked.

  “Easy, boy,” Cassidy said, grinning at the warrior.

  “We’re down to the short strokes,” MacMurdo said. “Worst time in the world to relax. You just can’t be too careful. We’re dealing with what you could call unsavory types, in case it’s slipped your mind.” He smiled slowly, slid the automatic back inside his belt. He sat down in a slatted wood chair and put his feet up on the edge of the table. He was wearing ancient cowboy boots, the leather cracked and ingrained with dust. “What are you doin’ out here, pard?”

  “Trying to think. Driving myself crazy.”

  “Don’t sound so down in the mouth. Thing like this, you never can figure it out till it’s over. Hell, pard, you don’t even know for sure who the good guys and the bad guys are, not yet, not till it’s over. So … soon we’ll know.” He laughed in the dark. “Sometimes you’ve been thinkin’ I was one of the bad guys, right, Lewis?” He laughed again.

  “You were very convincing with Moller today. I was impressed.”

  “I was supposed to be convincing, and that’s the God’s honest truth.”

  “Too damned convincing, Sam. You set me thinking. I don’t trust you, Sam.”

  MacMurdo laughed again. “Oh, Lew, Lew. Like I said, you won’t know who’s who till it’s over. But don’t you think I’ve proved myself yet? You’re a hard judge, pard. What is it you’re thinkin’ about?”

  “I’m thinking about how I wish you’d drop the cornpone, hayseed bullshit. And I’m thinking about what I’ll have to do if it looks like you’re going to give Karin to him.”

  This time the laughter shook the deck. “Well, if that ain’t your looniest idea yet!” The deer nosing at the grass jerked its head up, figured enough was enough. The laugh boomed; there was a flash of white tail. Then it was gone. “Jesus, pard,” he rumbled, massive shoulders shaking, “if I can make you believe that load of road apples, the poor kraut bastard must think I’m Santa Claus and the tooth fairy rolled into one! Now pull yourself together, Lew, and listen up. I’m taking the minotaur and Herr Moller back to Washington with me and I’m gonna turn him inside out, shake him till he’s empty … unless we settle for the minotaur and kill the bastard. I don’t think he knows shit from Shinola—and one way or another the kraut’s a goner. Now don’t you worry about your little missus—you know in your heart you can trust your goddamn life to Sam MacMurdo. And that goes for Karin, too. You get Karin, pard, I put my word on record.” He had begun smoking a cigar. He was enjoying himself. The sound of his own voice always had that effect. The cornier he got, the more he ladled it on, the happier he was.

  “I wonder,” Cassidy said, “why Karin, with her amnesia and all, ever consented to do all this—since she made it clear to me today that she’s not interested in what happens to Moller, one way or the other. Now, I had to ask myself, Sam, if she isn’t here to try to get her husband back … then why is she here at all? And I can’t come up with a satisfactory answer. Something tells me you’ll have an answer, Sam.”

  “Oh, you know women. Why do they do the things they do?” He shrugged. The aroma of the cigar filled the night. “Maybe she changed her mind. Maybe she started out wanting her husband, then she met you and her subconscious went to work and she decided there was something wonderful about you, something she couldn’t explain, you were her white knight riding to the rescue. … How the hell should I know? I’m a simple soldier.”

  “You are so full of shit! It’s funny, but it scares hell out of me. Lying comes naturally to you, you’re a genius at it. Such a good old boy and you can’t tell the truth to save your soul—”

  “You better stop insulting me, pard, or I’ll have to plug you.” He didn’t sound offended. He might have been speaking to an unruly child.

  “I think she’s gone through all this because of the deal she made with you. Remember? A deal with the Devil … She says you’ve got something of hers.”

  “She say that? Really?”

  “What have you got, Sam? Better level with me.”

  MacMurdo dropped his feet to the deck with a resounding thud. “Look, sonny, I’m gettin’ your wife back for you. Just what’s givin’ you this big hard-on about me? What have I ever done to you? What more do you want from me? Are you sure you want to dig into all the reasons behind everything? What difference do they make?” He snorted grumpily. “You’re mighty damn intent on making everything complicated. Ignorance is bliss, truest damn thing ever said. Why don’t you just take your wife, you can go home, pard, and hang up your machine gun, call it a war—”

  “But you have something of hers. What is it, Sam?”

  “Well, maybe she’s thinkin’ about what I’ve got on her. Now there’s a distinction to be made there.”

  “Tell me what you’re talking about, Sam.”

  “I want you to know this is against my better judgment.”

  “Yeah, yeah—”

  “I’ve got some documents that prove she’s a … well, hell, she’s a war criminal. Maybe that’s what’s been on her mind, what convinced her to come along on our little adventure.”

  Cassidy couldn’t find his tongue for a moment or two, finally got it all pulled together. “Karin? A war criminal? That’s insane, you can’t believe that—”

  “Well, think about it. I had to have something to make her do this, didn’t I? She didn’t know you from third base and she’d never been in love with Manfred Moller. He was nuts about her, that’s all true. So I had to have her to bait the trap. You follow me? I might have done it without her but, hell, I had her in my hand. Of course, she wasn’t enough. This is where God was my copilot, as they say in Hollywood. Proves I’m on the side of right. She wasn’t enough … but she’d been married to you. The main trap was to get you involved, somebody with a real good reason to lead this scavenger hunt—and you’d do any goddamned thing I wanted once you found out your beautiful, long-lost wife was back from the dead. You were a perfect example of what is known in certain circles as MacMurdo’s Luck. Once you found Manfred Moller, then I had the second trap to spring. … Karin, who drew you into it, would draw Moller out of his hidey-hole. When the Good Lord puts so many of the pieces in your hands it’s a crime not to solve the puzzle.”

  “Okay, you’re lucky and you’re a genius but what’s this war-criminal routine? I’m gullible, but I’m not crazy—”

  “It’s a cruel world out there, pard. You ever notice that? For instance, Dr. Rolf Moller was not quite the Boy Scout he may have seemed. How do you think he was able to keep his little mountain clinic so spick-and-span and free of all the pus and crud of the
war? He had all the drugs and supplies and equipment he needed. He wasn’t off treating gut-shot soldiers in some field hospital right in the line of fire—hell no, he was on a war-long mountain holiday! Just lucky? Bullshit, my friend. Dr. Moller was doing some special work for Himmler and the SS and the Gestapo. He was working on British and American prisoners of war. Drug experiments, truth serums, some brain operations with particular attention to memory and willpower … the micro-control of pain to elicit information without killing, hypnosis, trying to turn prisoners into double agents … lots of very interesting stuff and it wasn’t the worst kind of experimentation—not the kind of things they were doing in some of the concentration camps. But it was still way outside the rules, people were sacrificed, that goes without saying. It was scary, not cricket at all if you happened to be on the losing side. I figure we had doctors doing some of the same stuff, but we won, see. So Rolf Moller’s a war criminal if we choose to make him one. … So that’s why he was a willing member of our mission, taking care of Karin, keeping her calmed down, all that drill. Karin served as his aide at the clinic once she’d recovered from her own wounds—she kept the records on the various experiments, served as a makeshift nurse, ran the ward, helped out with anesthetics, administered drugs, made herself useful. … Look, I wasn’t going to tell you all this, there was no need to, but since you suddenly don’t trust old Sam anymore, hell, you’re a big boy, you deal with the truth. We could make all this as tough on Karin as we choose: the German skating champ who marries an American and then becomes a movie star, goes back to Germany and spends the war torturing American prisoners … Now, the fact is this old girl probably didn’t do anything so godawful, but it’s up to us to how bad it looks. We could turn her into the Beautiful Angel of Death and stage quite a trial. You know how all that works. So, sensibly, she decided to lend us a hand.”

  Cassidy didn’t say anything for a while, waited for his heart to stop racing and the dryness in his throat to recede. Waited for his legs to stop shaking. Finally he spoke very softly. “You really are a bastard.”