Fulcrum of Malice

by Patrick W O'Bryon

  On the third night he had a quick beer at the Adlon bar and took to the streets. He carried a folded straight razor in the right pocket of his overcoat, and a hand-made garrote rose within his left sleeve from his wrist to his shoulder. He turned up his overcoat collar against the chill, crossed the square and headed into the side streets.

  An air raid was expected, the citizenry forewarned. Beyond the main boulevards total darkness reigned. Whitewashed curbstones caught the slightest glow from the sky, but were of little help to the few pedestrians. He sensed rather than saw. An occasional vehicle approached, its headlamps masked to meet blackout regulations, and he could make out the block ahead. Passers-by kept their voices to a whisper, as if afraid to disturb the blackness. Some wore glow-in-the-dark swastikas in their lapels. Disembodied feet moved cautiously through the night, shoes aglow with Lumogen polish. An occasional quiet curse at some unseen hazard broke the stillness.

  He aimed for the center of the sidewalk but often veered off course in his blindness. Once he narrowly missed a signpost, warned in the nick of time by the brim of his hat. Moments later he bumped into the wall of a public urinal reeking of piss. Two women brushed past him and he felt for his papers, suspecting pickpockets at work. As the murmured apologies faded, he strained his eyes, searching for each upcoming intersection, each alleyway.

  A nightclub door swung open behind him. In the meagre shaft of light he spotted a couple exiting with arms entwined. A hunched figure a few meters back slipped behind the stoop to evade the light. The man wore a light-gray fedora. It was the man in the bar that first evening, the one who knew what to order. The same man who followed him toward Wannsee and doubled back on his tail. No longer the slightest doubt.

  The slit-shaped headlamps of a sedan approached cautiously. Ryan used the illumination to confirm the stalker was still on his heels. Edging closer to a service alley while still exposed by the lights, he entered the passageway. If luck held, his follower would believe himself undetected and follow him in.

  Any misstep would blow his cover. A few meters into the alley he lowered himself against the wall, removed his hat, and counted the seconds, estimating the man’s progress. Out on the sidewalk a pedestrian ambled by, his flashlight shielded with colored paper. It was enough to silhouette Ryan’s stalker in the mouth of the alleyway, something glinting in his right hand.

  Von Kredow’s orders would be to disable, not kill. Horst would want him alive. Ryan thought of tortured and missing friends, the legacy of that brutal sadist since university days. Qualms and uncertainty had clouded his judgement in Nantes, had allowed Horst to live. Erika and Leo might have paid the price for that hesitation. He would show no pity now.

  The hem of the man’s overcoat passed a hands-breadth from Ryan’s shoulder. He drew a slow breath and rose to his feet. The muted light from another vehicle on the street allowed him to distinguish the contours of the man’s back. In those brief seconds, Ryan rushed forward, arms extended, his cupped hands a meter apart. He slammed them over the man’s ears, sending that damned hat flying. The target cried out and instinctively grabbed for his ruptured eardrums. A pistol clattered on the stones.

  Ryan’s right arm shot around the man’s neck, his other wedged against the base of his skull. He jerked the stranglehold tight. “Who sent you?” His question a hissed demand. The man struggled but said nothing. Ryan could feel the tension in body and jaw, knew he was preparing a countermove. Remembering the damaged hearing, he shouted, each word emphasized, his lips pressed to one bleeding ear: “Who the hell sent you?”

  With a sudden parry to the side, the man stomped toward Ryan’s instep and pivoted to escape his grasp. Ryan was ready. He dropped, wrenching hard, dragging his victim to the ground. The fierce downward momentum of both bodies worked the fulcrum of his forearm.

  The victim shuddered several times, then lay still. For long moments Ryan maintained the pressure. At last he rose to his knees and lowered the man’s head to the stones. His search for a pulse found nothing but the trembling in his own hand.

  The man’s pockets revealed nothing. Ryan located the pistol a few steps from the body. Its heft and size suggested a Browning. He slipped the weapon into his pocket alongside the razor. He swept the area near the wall with his foot until he found his hat.

  Pariser Platz spread out in vague, angular shapes under a sliver of moon. The drapes of his unlit hotel room were open, and the faces of Erika and Marita haunted the shadowed city before him.

  One thing was clear—he would have to get out of the Adlon by morning. In broad daylight, the body in the alley wouldn’t escape discovery for long.

  He broke the seal on the Courvoisier. Bringing the bottle to his lips, he downed several slugs, but brandy couldn’t still the fire in his gut. He thought of the man he’d just killed, the snap of his neck. War was war. As they taught in Toronto, a secret agent is a soldier like any other. Killing was killing, with no room for compassion or misgivings, and none expected from the enemy. Despite best efforts to justify his action, he struggled with doubts.

  Marita is worth any number of Gestapo.

  Ryan toasted the skies and took another long drink from the bottle, the cognac warming his throat but not the chill in his soul. He wished searchlights would puncture the scattered clouds and sirens wail their warning of death from above.

  Heil Hitler? Go to hell, Hitler!

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  Berlin, Germany

  24 September 1941

  That morning Ryan intended to put immediate distance between himself and the Adlon. The Kripo would have found the body by break of day, and Horst would learn of it soon enough. He joined the hotel guests gathering at the front desk. When his turn came, he inquired about mail or messages.

  “Nothing for you today, sir,” the clerk solicitous, hating to disappoint. “But the Morgenpost just arrived. May I get you a paper now?”

  Ryan accepted the morning edition with thanks, knowing he must check the Personals for word from Argent. “I’ll be away for a few days,” he told the clerk. “Please set aside any messages for me and I’ll check in periodically.”

  “Very well, sir. A pleasure to be of service.”

  As Ryan turned to leave, an object escaped the folds of the paper and fluttered to the burgundy carpet. No writing marred the envelope’s surface. In the phone alcove he broke the seal and removed a page ripped from a small notepad. The hand-written message was simplicity itself: “Invaliden. 15:00. Richthofen.” He knew the Invalids’ Cemetery by the Hohenzollern Canal, the final resting place for military heroes of the German nation. Judging by his choice of meeting spot, his contact had a macabre edge.

  Ryan surveyed the lobby. A businessman appeared to be looking his way, only to disappear behind his newspaper. A spiral of cigar smoke rose above the Morgenpost between his hands. The front desk tallied bills and politely handled disgruntled guests, while luggage carts gathered outside the lifts and bellboys scurried about. A messenger walked through the lounge, ringing chimes to announce a telegram for one of the hotel’s patrons. The clerk who’d given him the morning paper dealt with a dispute over allegedly mistreated baggage. Reaching the elevator, he finally released his breath.

  At a quarter to three that afternoon, Ryan stood before a heavy monolith of granite and removed his hat. A single name on the stone evoked aviator brilliance: Richthofen. Here lay the famed “Red Baron” of the Great War, praised by friend and foe alike for unmatched prowess in the skies over France, his crimson Fokker triplane flashing a deadly warning to all who dared confront him. The aviator’s eighty confirmed kills received unending glorification from the militarized German nation, but his tombstone impressed with its simplicity rather than ornament.

  Ryan scanned row upon row of monumental tombstones. In all directions angels spread their wings, stone lions guarded stacked weapons, carved eagles grasped arrows in their marble talons, and still not a living soul in sight. He checked his watch. 15:10. Dried leaves skittered along
the gravel pathway and an unexplained tremor ran up his spine.

  Movement off to his right. A figure in black crouched low, placing something at the foot of a grave. A widow rose on unsteady feet, her cane a crutch. She hobbled back toward the cemetery gate. A sleek raven cawed after her and dropped out of sight, investigating whatever she had left behind.

  Ryan replaced his hat and pulled his overcoat tighter to ward off a chilling gust. Would it be disrespectful to light his pipe? There’d been no thought of lunch, his stomach churning at the prospect of finally moving forward after days of interminable waiting. Surrounded by memorials to the dead, his thoughts drifted to Isabel, to the mutilated body police had found in the Spree. Had he alone mourned her loss in Berlin?

  “Do you enjoy flying?”

  Ryan jumped with a start. Caught staring blindly at the monument to Richthofen, he had heard no footsteps. A short man bundled in heavy naval greatcoat stood beside him, a gold-trimmed uniform cap under his arm. The biting wind whipped at the man’s thinning white hair. Admiral Wilhelm Canaris, chief of the Reich’s Abwehr.

  “I do enjoy it, sir.” The admiral’s modest appearance came as a surprise, a friendly grandfather on an afternoon stroll rather than the spymaster charged with leading Hitler’s powerful military intelligence network. He spoke educated English. “I did a bit of glider time when studying in Marburg.”

  “Then you should become an aviator. It pays to follow one’s star, don’t you think?”

  “Another time and place, perhaps.”

  Canaris smiled. “I must confess, your enthusiasm for flying was known to me—thus this meeting spot. Personally, I prefer the roll of an ocean to dodging about in thin air.” He offered Ryan his hand. “Canaris. Guten Tag. And you are most certainly Carl Seffer.”

  “Herr Admiral, a pleasure to meet you in person. I anticipated meeting one of your subordinates, at best.”

  “What I have to share with you, Mr. Seffer, is better done in person.” Canaris gave a stiff bow of respect before the Richthofen monument. “I hope you don’t mind a cemetery rendezvous. My respect for the heroes of Prussia and Germany—men of the old military school who lie buried here—knows no bounds. I invited you here to see if we might find a way to help my country recover her past glory—” Canaris set his cap back on his head. “—without putting Europe at further risk.” Ryan caught a look of fleeting melancholy.

  “Nothing would please me more than stability in Europe, sir.”

  “Well, our friends here can’t eavesdrop, so we can speak freely.” He tucked in a few strands of disheveled hair. “Come along, Mr. Seffer.” He raised the collar of his greatcoat. “My bones aren’t meant for this chill, and movement helps.” Canaris took Ryan’s elbow and guided him up the path.

  “Forgive my boldness, but do I sense in your words diminished respect for Germany’s current military leadership?”

  “I make a distinction between political and military leadership. Sadly for Germany, we now find ourselves with a dangerous mix of the two.”

  Canaris clearly referred to the Waffen-SS, the political armed force of the Nazi Party. Ryan was intrigued. “And how does intelligence gathering fit into that mix?”

  “Let me put it this way—an intelligence network should serve both its people and its leaders. Difficulties arise when the two have conflicting goals. My mandate is to protect our nation from external as well as internal threats, but the current situation puts unimaginable strain on that work.”

  “Wouldn’t some find that statement treasonous?”

  Canaris chuckled. “Treason is betrayal of the nation, which is to say its people, but not necessarily its government. Sadly, some in Germany seek to bolster their system of governance at the people’s expense and have turned to the ugly business of racial suppression and ethnic domination. To me, rejection of the true cultural heritage of Germany—its humanistic ideals, its art and literature—amounts to treason of the worst sort.” Their walk had brought them to the front gate of the cemetery and Canaris turned back.

  “So, given your read on the current situation, what can we do about it? ‘We’ meaning a cooperative venture between your organization and the people I work for.”

  “As you must know, Germany now wields incredible power outside normal military channels. Decisions are made with the goal of hegemony and furthering political, social and racial objectives.” Anger and disgust clouded Canaris’ blue eyes. “These decisions will ultimately lead to the destruction of the German nation, its people, its lifeblood.” Canaris stopped and raised his jaw in determination. “But thanks be to God, a few traditionally-minded military leaders fear for the future of our beloved country. These men—and I count myself among them—are determined to put a stop to this madness. Do I make myself clear, Mr. Seffer.”

  Ryan realized no one would believe he was hearing such candor. A trap perhaps? “Yes, sir, you do indeed.”

  “Good. Because that is fundamental to what I’m about to ask of you.” Canaris stopped momentarily. He removed his cap and bowed his head before the grandiose shrine of Gerhard von Scharnhorst, the Prussian hero of the Napoleonic Wars. He ran a hand through thinning white hair and replaced his hat. “And I understand from our mutual friend in Paris that you desire something from me in return.” .

  “Yes, a matter of great personal importance.”

  “Ah, la pauvre Mademoiselle Lesney. Un affaire regrettable, n’est-ce-pas?” The admiral was said to have mastered at least six languages.

  Despite Ryan’s new sense of caution, he felt a kindred spirit in this potentially dangerous man. “This woman’s a dear friend of many years, maliciously targeted by French gangsters and falsely persecuted by the Gestapo in Paris.”

  Canaris resumed his stroll. “At the urging of our mutual friend in Paris, I took the liberty of looking into this case. Her execution was commuted at my urging.” His smile remained enigmatic. “Von Haldheim assured me our intelligence operations in Paris profited from her contributions.” His face remained placid, but Ryan sensed the man was toying with him. “Are you asking more of me beyond keeping her head on her shoulders?” He came to a halt.

  Ryan chose his words carefully: “First, please know how grateful I am for your intervention. Now I ask that she be delivered to a neutral country.”

  Canaris nodded. “America remains neutral, does it not? Or perhaps you know otherwise?”

  Ryan imagined a hand-tied fly on the surface of a creek, slowly drifting past a curious trout. He refused to rise to the bait and comment on America’s current or future plans. “I was thinking Switzerland, or possibly Spain.” COI reported that Canaris was well connected in Spain, and German operatives sometimes worked hand-in-hand with British agents there to thwart Moscow’s interests.

  Canaris pulled his collar tighter. “Ah, yes, warm and sunny Spain—a lovely country. This Berlin chill has never suited my constitution.” He shuddered. “Even a greatcoat does little against this wind.” He strolled on. “But, assuming our mutual interests lie in my freeing this woman from her current distress, are you ready to help me in return?”

  “There’s little I can offer a man of your authority and resources.” Ryan knew he was out of his depth sparring with this clever man. “Rolf von Haldheim assures me any assistance comes with strings attached.” Ryan stopped. “So, I’m willing to help anyway I can, as long as it compromises neither my ethics nor my country. And, of course, assuming it’s within my power.”

  “Well said, Mr. Seffer. You seem a man after my own heart. I admire moral courage and ethical conduct.” He seemed momentarily distant. “True gentlemen are such a rarity these days, you know?”

  A man near the canal observed from a distance. Canaris acknowledged him with a dismissive wave. A bodyguard. The admiral chose a side path and they continued on. “As you must know, the intelligence services value both discretion and indirectness.” Ryan was again impressed by Canaris’ command of English. “But there’s a time and place for everything, inclu
ding straight talk. As our two countries are not as yet adversaries, we may have certain goals in common. Shall we place our cards on the proverbial table?”

  “Agreed.” Ryan was wary. The admiral was a master of subterfuge. “So who presents the first card?”

  “Since a card game is the chosen metaphor, let’s set a few Hoyle’s Rules, shall we? First, identities. You obviously know mine, so may we assume I’m clever enough to know why you left a comfortable university position in California for the hazards of present-day Europe? Bear in mind that Von Haldheim works for me, and at my direction he made an overture last month to your Foreign Service brother in France.”

  “Edward mentioned a possible peace feeler coming from certain highly-placed Germans.”

  “Then we are off to a very good start, and it’s time for openness, our second Hoyle’s Rule. Your role here in Europe, Mr. Seffer, goes far beyond your Special War Problems Division. Let’s be frank. You are here on behalf of “Wild Bill” Donovan and his newly-minted COI.” Ryan raised a hand in protest but Canaris continued unchecked. “And can we assume that you and your friends are laying the groundwork for America’s joining the Allied cause?” Ryan said nothing. “No dissembling, Mr. Seffer. Just as you are surely well briefed on me, I too have done my homework, and frankly speaking, I’m very impressed by what I’ve learned about you.”

  Just how much of Ryan’s European history was documented in the Admiral’s files? “What exactly impresses you?”

  “Your early years in Germany are interesting but hardly noteworthy. But you returned to the Reich in ‘38, drew some unwanted attention from the Gestapo, then departed somewhat hastily. There are rumors of an unsolved death or two, perhaps some intelligence material misappropriated from our SD colleagues? Details are quite sketchy, since someone has made a concerted effort to cover your tracks and perhaps those of others close to you.” Canaris was still smiling. “So, Mr. Ryan Leonard Lemmon, have we done our homework?”