A man in a herringbone jacket entered the bar, caught the eye of the stooped bartender and quietly gave his order. Must be a regular, thought Ryan, to know what’s available. The newcomer lit a cigarette and took a seat at the bar. He set his gray snap-brim fedora atop the polished surface.
CHAPTER FOUR
Berlin-Wannsee, Germany
20 September 1941
The airmail package from Bayonne had been waiting at Prinz-Albrecht-Strasse when Horst arrived in Berlin. He immediately tore away the wrapping paper and horsehair padding to reveal a small canning jar. Although the specimens had darkened in color, the alcohol had preserved their integrity, but such meaningful trophies deserved a more impressive container. Fine Zwiesel crystal provided a fitting vessel once he had filled it with clear grain alcohol and sealed the lid with red wax.
For the first week the souvenirs had held a position of honor in his newly assigned office, a none-too-subtle display of intimidation. A few bolder colleagues dared to inquire about their provenance, but even fewer showed what he considered an appropriate degree of appreciation for his trophies. Reinhard Heydrich, calling in old favors and currying new ones in both the SD and Gestapo, seemed determined to avoid offending during this consolidation of power. He instructed Horst to take the mementos home to Wannsee.
Seated in the desk chair of his home study, he now admired the way the light from the windows caught the facets of the crystal jar. Swirling within the container, the two fingers reached out to each other, touching but feeling nothing.
That devious Jew-bitch had come close to destroying his political future, but now greater opportunities lay ahead. He took great comfort knowing she had perished with no peace of mind or hope for her son. How devious and deceptive she’d been with that blond hair and long limbs. These darkened flesh of the preserved digits recalled her mongrel bloodline so offensive to his Germanic purity and sensibility. Such mixed breeds were only worthy of bowing to the will of their masters. The made the fingers dance in the jar as he hummed a Nazi tune.
The impressive Wannsee mansion had sat vacant during his years in France. Leasing to strangers could have left disorder and damaged its appeal. Children made messes on carpets, scratched polished oak and walnut, and filled the rooms with disturbing cries and demands. The fault lay in random procreation. All children should be the product of Lebensborn, offspring of pureblooded SS men and breeder mothers selected for Aryan beauty and strength. Only the state knew how to breed, educate and train the future heroes and fruitful mothers needed to repopulate the Reich’s ruling class. Far better that his home had remained sealed from outside influences.
A somewhat dull-witted woman had looked after necessary housecleaning during his long absence. Regrettably, certain items no longer appeared in their customary places when he returned. Or so it seemed. The maid had protested meekly that nothing had changed, that she’d only moved objects for dusting purposes, but he’d assumed theft and sent her to the Barnimstrasse prison.
He would hand-pick new staff when time allowed. A trustworthy cook was a necessity, someone accustomed to his special eating habits, but for the moment he would get by with the groundskeeper and his wife who occupied the carriage house. The young Kähler could drive him into the city until further notice, and his pinched-faced woman could prepare meals as needed.
Soon he would search out maids to keep the place spotless and satisfy his personal needs. Perhaps Ethnic Germans from the occupied territories, fresh, untouched girls who had yet to experience genuine fear or pain. That would surely raise his spirits. He would train them to live or die at the beck and call of a powerful master. Yes, young and pure of blood suited his purposes well.
The emptiness of the house felt comforting, free of emotional taint from his previous life. He no longer saw Erika and the half-breed child in its darkened hallways. The place was now a bare canvas stripped of all old pigment, leaving him free to create new scenes to satisfy his artistic bent. He drew sketches for converting the cellar into a welcoming retreat to test the limits of those young girls from the country.
His dream of blood had followed him from France. An old friend now, it colored each night’s sleep in a crimson wash. Once he was settled in at headquarters, he would turn his efforts back to the destruction of Lemmon and Gesslinger. For now, he would rely on the plodding Richard Kohl to track the bastards down.
Those first meetings with Heydrich had disappointed. His long-time mentor was clearly uncomfortable with Horst’s altered appearance. The frozen grimace on the scarred left side remained unchanged since 1938, but the recent encounter with Gesslinger and Lemmon had left much of his face swollen. The yellowing bruises and tiny knife marks below his eye had not yet fully healed. Horst found the look suitably intimidating, but Heydrich had suggested a few more days recovering at the Wannsee mansion before any formal re-introduction as his new right-hand man.
“Please understand my position, Horst. We’re talking monumental changes here. I need all the support I can muster.” Heydrich tapped his cigarette ash on the edge of the saucer and took a sip of tea. As always, Heydrich’s long face and close-set eyes reminded Horst of a nag. “In a few days I sit down with the Führer to discuss the unfortunate situation in Bohemia and Moravia. I will convince him that the weakling von Neurath is unsuited to the demands of Prague’s administration. We’ve already compelling evidence of widespread Czech resistance and intent to destroy harvests, putting the well-being of the Reich at risk. I intend to show our Führer that only my personal control can assure stability and security in the Protectorate.”
“Then you’re one step closer to becoming Reichsprotektor, Reinhard!” Such a position granted ministerial status and direct access to Hitler. Surmising Heydrich could be grooming him to assume control of Reich security, Horst felt his excitement mounting. “Is the Reichsführer-SS on board?”
“Himmler gives tacit approval and will openly support my bid once the time comes. He can well imagine his SS in full control of the entire Protectorate, a splendid move for him, as well! Once in Prague I intend to use the full might of the SS to destroy those conniving Czechs. Ruthless suppression is all they’ll understand, and I shall deliver just that!”
Horst saw his opening: “So to clarify, I am to hold your position here in Berlin and ferret out any who might oppose you, correct?”
Heydrich nodded. “Plus another important challenge. In your absence I’ve taken special interest in the Abwehr. There’s simply no reason for duplication of our security efforts, so it’s high time we incorporate military intelligence into the Sicherheitsdienst. Admiral Canaris is a charming old man, but he’s as unsuited to his position as von Neurath to his. My dossier on the admiral grows thicker by the day, and now the old man’s lobbying against our denial of Geneva protection to the Bolsheviks. My God, man, they’re sub-human brutes! The admiral’s simply too old-school, too conservative, afraid to show the strength our new world demands, and his activities border on treason. It’s only a matter of time before we must rid ourselves of Canaris.”
“Then I focus first on him?”
The long face of Heydrich bobbed and again von Kredow thought of a horse. “Get on it immediately. I’ll send over the file this morning and perhaps you can find added leverage there for my meeting with the Führer. Removing Canaris and von Neurath will make all our tasks easier.”
“One last question, then.” Horst squared his shoulders. “Should you become Reichsprotektor, who will assume your duties here in Berlin?”
“Ah, yes…that matter.” Heydrich set down his tea cup and pushed the saucer aside. “I shall stay on as head of Reich Security, as well. I find no reason not to handle both positions, do you?” Heydrich’s eyes never left Horst’s.
“Of course not, Reinhard. If anyone can handle such enormous responsibilities, it’s you and you alone.”
Fuming internally, Horst had held his tongue. Plenty of time later to change his mentor’s mind.
Horst knew the rumo
rs of Heydrich’s Jewish background, and Canaris was thought to hold damning documentation to prove it. Three years earlier, Horst himself had concocted a cover story to conceal his own violation of the race laws. Perhaps Heydrich’s openness to take that story at face value stemmed from concerns about his own racial heritage. Once Horst delved deeply into the Canaris case, he might discover information of personal advantage in future dealings with Heydrich.
For now, fear and intimidation would consolidate his position at Gestapo headquarters. Once Heydrich was busy decimating the Czech partisans, Horst would eliminate anyone in Berlin who failed to toe his personal line. Meanwhile, he would prove himself to both Heydrich and Himmler by helping destroy Canaris.
Who knew what might come next? What if some ill should befall his mentor along the way? Preparedness always paid dividends.
CHAPTER FIVE
Paris, Occupied France
20 August 1941
It felt good to be in charge again. Heydrich had rewarded Kohl’s years of covert SD work in Washington with an assignment that put to work his vast insider knowledge of American diplomacy. As Reich liaison to the Special War Problems program, he had excellent cover for carrying out intelligence-gathering in Paris. His time had finally come for a hands-on role in running an espionage team, and he was determined to show himself the equal of von Kredow.
The young man entering Kohl’s office had shown himself to be a surprisingly valuable asset. His serious demeanor and low-key personality allowed him to blend in well, and a sharp mind kept him out of trouble. The Waffen-SS had rejected his flat feet and mixed racial heritage—his mother German, his father Belgian, but Edmond Brédeaux was nonetheless a fervent Nazi. Kohl saw in him a youthful, slender version of himself, even down to the eyeglasses. Recruiting Edmond to play the mole in von Haldheim’s espionage group had given his disciple the boost needed to become an effective agent.
Kohl greeted his protégé with words of commendation: “Excellent job, Edmond, excellent indeed! The phone lines at Ermenonville are now tapped, and Mirabeau is off to Berlin on Lemmon’s tail. Thanks to your fine work, we’ve isolated the principal players in this melodrama surrounding that damsel in distress.”
“They’ve made it easy for me, sir. Von Haldheim trusts me as errand boy for his agents. I’m hoping before long to move up to driving the spymaster himself.”
“Don’t sell yourself short, Edmond. Your diligence in following up on the one called Argent led us to the nightclub and the woman’s arrest.”
“I was as surprised as anyone to find an American conspiring with the Abwehr.”
“For whatever reason, freeing that woman appears to be high priority for Canaris’ local operation. We assume that’s why Lemmon’s off to Berlin. Our man Mirabeau will track his every move. Lemmon is sure to make a mess of things. I personally planted the suspicion in his mind that his cover’s blown.”
Edmond leaned forward, always the attentive student. “Why make things more dangerous for Mirabeau?”
Kohl gave a smug grin. “Nervous agents always make mistakes, because constantly watching your back runs you into walls. Mirabeau is well aware I’ve alerted Lemmon and will take necessary precautions, but I want him there the moment the man slips up. I’m most interested in discovering why the Abwehr is interested in this cabaret woman, a seeming nobody.”
Edmond waited expectantly as Kohl used his necktie to wipe smudges from his wire-framed lenses. “So what’s next for me, sir?”
“How easily could you get away on short notice?” He set the glasses back on his nose.
“I’m on-call for driving or courier needs. Any unexpected disappearance without an excellent reason would destroy the trust I’ve built up and could cost me my position.”
Kohl spent a moment staring intently at the young agent. He raised an eyebrow. “Personally, I find you’re looking a little peaked.” Edmond frowned at the non sequitur, not grasping what was meant and causing Kohl to chuckle. “Perhaps a sudden grippe coming soon which might keep you in bed for a few days?”
Edmond’s face brightened with understanding and considered the suggestion. “Yes, that might work.”
“Here’s the thing—no one’s quite sure where the woman ended up. We’re trying as hard as von Haldheim to track her down, but she’s temporarily fallen through the cracks. The forced-labor system is notoriously inept at keeping track of all these prisoners. But using Canaris’ resources, von Haldheim’s bound to find her soon enough. With Lemmon in Berlin, Argent holds the key to lead us to her.”
“And my role in all this?”
“Powerful local colleagues whose cooperation I value insist her life is forfeit. She put a stop to a very lucrative business arrangement of theirs. If they can’t lop off her head, they’ll make her life hell and break her in some labor camp. I want you on the spot, tracking every move this Argent makes and ready to step in should he interfere with that arrangement, understood?”
“He knows me too well, sir. Wouldn’t a stranger be a better choice to tail him?”
“Perhaps. But you know the man, and you’ll be the one to drive him to the station when he gets the call. It’s high time you learned to tail a suspect, anyway. Practice for a few hours on some unsuspecting type in the streets of the city and you’ll quickly get the hang of it. Not that difficult at all. Keep a non-descript coat and hat in the car with you at all times. A theatrical supply shop can provide a mustache or beard of some sort. ”When Argent makes his move, you’ll get him to the station. Phone your dispatch from there, make your excuses, then get on board and stay out of sight.”
“Sounds exciting, sir. I’ll be ready. One further thought—may I assume violent measures are appropriate should Argent attempt to make off with the woman?”
“If the Waffen-SS had been wise enough to accept your services, you would now face such challenges on a daily basis. While the SD tends more toward using its brains rather than the brute force of our Gestapo brothers, we’re always ready to take strong action for the good of the Party. Does that bother you?”
“Not at all. In fact, I look forward to showing what I can do, but I will need a weapon.”
“Excellent, I knew you had it in you!” Kohl slid a small pistol and a box of cartridges across the desk. “Now, get out there, practice the disguise, and familiarize yourself with the weapon. Our documents office will provide a Gestapo identity card. Keep it with you at all times, and well-hidden from our Abwehr friends. Use it on a moment’s notice to board a bus or train without a ticket, understood?”
“Understood, sir. And thank you for your confidence.”
“No thanks needed, Edmond. Just make sure the woman stays wherever she is.”
CHAPTER SIX
Berlin, Germany
23 September 1941
Ryan joined a crowd outside a large department store on Kurfürstendamm. An incoming war report blared from the speakers above the sidewalk. The crimson-and-black swastikas flapping overhead did little to brighten the once-proud building, now as drab and distressed as the clientele. Haggard faces reflected back in the plate-glass window behind which all the goods were marked Display only—not for sale. He moved on past neglected food shops where customers queued out front, hoping to re-supply family pantries from the scarce items available that day. Berlin had become a city of wide-spread deprivation.
For two days he had wandered the central city on foot, noting how others eyed with suspicion his tailored suit and polished shoes. The Berliners appeared drawn and tired, their once-fashionable clothing reflecting two years of wartime shortages—shoes with wooden or cardboard soles, paper collars replacing cloth, wool worn so thin it revealed the underlying shirt. But most noticeable were the cloth patches identifying foreign workers and German Jews, the latter marked by a yellow six-pointed star and the word “Jude.”
His eyes met those of one such bedraggled citizen as they crossed paths. In response to Ryan’s unexpected smile, the stranger quietly commented: “Auslä
nder, nit?”
“Amerikaner,” Ryan conceded, not surprised the Jew knew he was a foreigner. He handed him a ten-mark note.
Ryan considered taking the S-Bahn out to Grunewald to see the former von Haldheim villa, but melancholy got the better of him. He chose instead to keep a few past memories intact. Tiring of the sulphurous odor of the city, he set out for the pine-scented air at Wannsee, but the dour faces of fellow passengers soon drained his enthusiasm. As he switched trains to return to the city, his eye caught the reflection of the man who wore the pale fedora.
Von Kredow should have him in his talons by now, yet he roamed freely with only that snap-brimmed hat on his tail. What was holding back the Gestapo? Or was the man waiting for Ryan to make contact with the Abwehr and compromise others? Having suffered through many of von Kredow’s deceptions, Ryan was determined to control the next move.
Dependence on others had never been Ryan’s way. Whatever the challenge, he had always trusted in his innate talents to steer him to success. The machinations of Horst von Kredow had undermined that certainty. Erika and Leo’s fate plagued him, and Marita’s life depended on some unknown task. It seemed a malevolent fate was setting his course, and he wondered if he could find the strength to resist should it draw him in an unwanted direction.
Having no word from either Argent or Rolf tried his nerves. Returning in the evening to the hotel, he immediately turned to the papers, searching for coded news of Marita. With nothing there, he scanned the biased news reports for some sense of the war’s progress. Soon the papers lay scattered at his feet, as useless as the propaganda they spread. The radio provided only passing distraction. Fanfares interrupted the classical or popular music to announce military advances and victories, always followed by some boisterous martial song. Occasionally Hitler himself ranted against the Bolsheviks and English. Finally, with all diversions exhausted, Ryan clicked off the radio, put up his feet, and reluctantly allowed his thoughts to drift. They always returned to one indisputable fact—Marita was suffering horribly just out of his reach. Given the opportunity, he would act.
Fulcrum of Malice Page 24