Cold War Trilogy - A Three Book Boxed Set: of Historical Spy Versus Spy Action Adventure Thrillers

by William Brown

  "Who are you?” Michael demanded. “You aren’t the Kapitan. You aren’t Kapitan Bruckner! Who are you?”

  The next thing Michael knew, a short, round, bull-necked man in a badly wrinkled blue suit yelled, “That’s close enough, big guy.” Manny plowed through the last reporters like an angry bowling ball, bouncing them aside with his meaty forearms until he locked his arms around Michael’s waist. He lifted him up and over, and slammed him down hard on the carpeted floor as if he were a store mannequin.

  “Let me up.” Michael struggled. “Don’t you understand? That’s not him! That’s not Kapitan Bruckner! Can’t you see it’s not him?”

  Bruckner never heard any of it. As the reporters turned to watch the struggle on the floor, the cordon of US and German Navy officers pushed him through the crowd and out the hotel’s front doors before he had to answer any of Michael’s questions.

  CHAPTER FOURTEEN

  Twenty minutes later, Manny squeezed into the front seat of an unmarked police car parked in the alley behind the hotel. "Nice work, guys,” he said as he looked into the back seat. “Who organized the freakin’ Chinese fire drill in there? You two?" A bulky NYPD Detective named Larry Pedralski sat on the left side of the back seat while another of Manny’s old pals, Wally Hennessey, sat on the right. In the middle sat the big hick Manny had wrestled to the floor in the lobby. “And next time, get a car with a bigger back seat.”

  “Gee, thanks, Manny. We’ll have to remember that,” Hennessey said.

  Manny chuckled. Pedralski and Hennessey were part of the NYPD’s VIP Protection Squad. That was usually the softest duty in town, but not today. “Whose idea was it to bring the Kraut down the goddamned elevator," Manny pressed. “You two chuckle-heads or the freakin’ Washington Gestapo?"

  Pedralski looked at his partner. “Am I missing something, Wally? Who invited him to the goddamn party?”

  “Me? Hey, I’m just a simple, old retiree doing his civic duty, trying to help out the local constabulary. You got a problem with that, Larry, take it up with the Mayor’s office.”

  “No, no,” Hennessey sighed. “We’ve got enough problems already.”

  “I’ll bet you do!” Manny said as he looked at the big guy. The fight seemed to have drained out of him now. Good thing, too. When Manny took him down, he felt the hard muscle in the guy’s arms and shoulders; he was built like a rock. Lying in Pedralski’s lap on the crumpled newspaper was the stuff they took off him— a badly worn, black leather wallet; thirty-two dollars in cash; a silver cigarette case, a railroad ticket from Charleston to New York City; and a key to a locker at Penn Station. Manny picked up the wallet. Inside, he saw a South Carolina driver’s license with the name Michael T. Randall and an address of Rural Route 3, Rock Creek.

  “Rock Creek,” Manny quipped. “A hick from Hicksville. So what’s in the locker? A gun? A bomb? Your freakin’ cardboard suitcase?”

  The big guy finally looked up at him, but he said nothing. Manny tossed the wallet back in Pedralski’s lap, and picked up the cigarette case. Manny had worked Burglary. He ran his fingers over the surface. Real silver, beautifully made, but scratched and badly tarnished. Flipping the top open, he saw an inscription engraved in German, an ornate Nazi eagle and wreathed swastika, and the names:

  To My Strong Right Arm:

  Heinz Kruger,

  From His Grateful Admirer:

  Martin Bormann

  February 9, 1945

  "Martin freakin’ Bormann!” Manny bellowed as he twisted around and glared at Randall." All right, goddamn it! Who the hell are you?"

  Two hours later, Manny was sitting on a hard wooden bench outside the third floor interrogation room at Police Headquarters. Pedralski, Hennessey, and a succession of other NYPD detectives had taken turns grilling Randall; giving Manny plenty of time to make a few phone calls to people who might actually know something. When the last two detectives came out, it was obvious they hadn’t gotten anywhere with the big guy.

  “Mind if I talk to him?” Manny asked.

  “Why not?” Hennessey shrugged. “We worked on him good, but he just sat there like a stump and hasn’t said a damned thing. Not that it makes any difference. We ain’t got nuthin’ to hold him on, anyway. What? Bad taste in clothes? Abuse of newspaper?”

  “Not giving Eismer a soft place to land?” Pedralski threw in. “You fat shit, you know you coulda crushed the poor bastard.”

  Hennessey laughed. “Yeah, but did you see the look on Manny’s face when he opened that cigarette case! He looked like he’d just caught Adolf Hitler!”

  “He’s dead,” Manny answered.

  “So’s Martin Bormann.”

  “If you say so,” Manny countered. “Me? I don’t believe a freakin’ thing those Krauts say. So what now? You gonna kick Randall?”

  “Yeah, we just wanted to rap his knuckles and make sure he cools down.”

  “You want to talk to him, go ahead,” Hennessey said. “Just tell the dumb ass to stay the hell away from that Admiral or we’ll book him good next time.”

  “I’ll tell him.” Manny entered the interrogation room. It was oddly reassuring to see that so little had changed from his days down here, knowing it never would. The room was like a broom closet with two cheap folding chairs and a small table; all painted the same dingy, institutional green.

  Manny closed the door and plopped his large frame into the chair across from Randall. The battered newspaper from South Carolina, the black wallet, the railroad ticket, and the silver cigarette case were lying on the table between them. He leaned forward and gave the guy his best hard-ass-cop look, but it bounced right off. Manny had interrogated lots of tough guys, and he could always tell how it was going to go in the first five seconds. It was in the eyes. Hard-ass wasn’t going to work, not this time, not with this guy. Besides, that was the way Hennessey and Pedralski played it, and it got them nowhere.

  Using a stubby index finger, Manny flipped the wallet open and pointed to the driver’s license. "Randall, Michael T., born in 1924. That makes you what? Twenty-seven? Up here from Rock Creek, South Carolina, wherever the hell that is. Well, Randall, Michael T., you got one strange way of taking a vacation in the big city."

  Nothing. Their eyes were maybe eighteen inches apart and Manny couldn’t even get a flicker. “Look, kid, I’m not nearly as smart as those other guys. I was at the bottom of the class and they were at least two or three warm bodies above me, so instead of winging it, I did my homework before I stepped in here.” Manny reached into his jacket and pulled out a ratty spiral-bound notebook, licked his thumb, and slowly flipped back a few pages. "Rock Creek — as I remember, that’s down below Charleston.” Still nothing, so Manny nudged the newspaper. “And you rode the train up here last night, got in this morning, checked your bag, and went straight to the Plaza. Well, at least you got good taste in hotels.”

  “I’m not staying there,” Randall said, finally saying something.

  “Ah, he speaks! You had me worried. I thought maybe Hennessey and Pedralski were right; maybe I landed on you so hard you can’t talk no more.”

  “I’ve been hit a lot harder than that.”

  Manny looked at the scars above Randall’s eyes, on his cheeks, and at his rough hands. “Yeah, I guess you have. Anyway, I went to Penn Station and picked up your suitcase. They got it downstairs at the desk. Turns out it ain’t cardboard after all; it’s leather, hand-made in Sweden. Very nice. Very expensive. So, where’d a guy like you get something like that? Steal it?”

  “No, I bought it.”

  “A Swedish suitcase? You bought it down in South Carolina?”

  “No, in Stockholm, down the street from the Embassy. I got it before I left.”

  “Stockholm, huh. In Sweden. Before you left.” Manny studied Randall’s face, but there was nothing there. “You eat anything this morning?” Manny asked.

  “I had some sandwiches. Leslie made me some for the train.”

  “Who’s Leslie?”

>   “None of your business,” Michael quickly reacted. “Nobody.”

  “Nobody, huh?” Manny pried, but Michael clammed up again. “Okay, so you rode up here with your expensive Swedish suitcase, eating sandwiches nobody made for you. You check your bag and run right over to the Plaza, and then sit in front of the elevators so you can go after that Kraut admiral when he comes down. Is that about right?”

  “Yes… No, no!” Randal quickly shook his head. “Look, I didn’t come here to go after him; I came here to talk to him, that’s all.”

  “Why? You got some grudge against him, maybe some old score to settle?”

  “No, it’s nothing like that. I had to see him… to thank him.”

  “Thank him?” Manny snorted. “Now that’s a new one. You wanted to thank some freakin’ Kraut admiral? What the hell for?”

  “For saving my life,” he finally said. “Look, I know you’re not going to believe me, but he saved my life.”

  “A Kraut U-boat captain? How? By not killing you?”

  “No, no, it wasn’t like that. He took his U-boat into shallow water near the Swedish coast, so he could put me ashore.”

  “Put you ashore? Why? Were you some kinda Nazi spy?”

  “No! I was a prisoner, a POW. Look," Randall said as he leaned forward, realizing he had to open up to someone, if he wanted to get out of here. "I stowed away in his U-boat, and got caught. Instead of killing me or tossing me overboard, he put me in a raft and let me go. They had just put about and were heading back out to sea when a British bomber caught them on the surface. I saw the bombs drop, two of them. They blew big holes in that U-boat and there were flames and black, oily smoke everywhere. Nobody could have survived. Nobody. It went straight to the bottom with him in it. He’s dead. I knew it then, and I’m positive now.”

  Manny leaned forward, their faces only inches apart as he tried to read the guy. “You’re sure about that, huh? You’re sure it was Bruckner’s U-boat?”

  “Yes, I was on it for the better part of a week. I saw the number on the conning tower. It was the U-582 and Eric Bruckner was its captain. I met him. I talked to him.”

  “You did, huh. And you were a POW? How’d you end up in his U-boat?”

  “A lot of bad luck,” Michael tried to explain. “I was a waist gunner on a B-17. We got shot down over Berlin and I ended up in a forced labor battalion in Königsberg, on the Baltic coast. One day, they had us load a bunch of stuff into the U-582, Bruckner’s boat, and I was able to hide away and they didn’t find me until we were well out to sea. Some of the men wanted to kill me, but Bruckner wouldn’t allow it. Look, I know this sounds a little crazy, but it’s all true. I saw that submarine go down and Bruckner and his whole crew went down with it. Nobody got out. Nobody! So when I saw that story in the Charleston newspaper that he was coming here to New York, that he was alive, I couldn’t believe it. That’s why I had to come here and see him. I had to! Can’t you understand that?"

  One thing for sure, Manny thought, real or imagined, the guy believed what he was saying. “Okay, you had to see him, but you could’ve picked up the house phone and given him a call. You didn’t have to jump him in the lobby.”

  “I didn’t jump him! And I did try to call, all morning, but they wouldn’t put me through. So I snuck into the lobby and waited by the elevators. No matter what that newspaper said, I saw that U-boat blow up. That’s why I had to see him with my own eyes.”

  “Okay, you saw him. He’s alive. You satisfied now?”

  “No, because that isn’t him! That Admiral isn’t Eric Bruckner!”

  “Well, if it ain’t, you got one hell of a scoop, kid,” Manny shook his head, wondering why he was wasting his day on a nut case like this. Nevertheless, as he kept staring into those dark, angry eyes, he saw the kid was dead serious. Manny had a finely tuned bullshit meter. He could read people’s eyes, and when a story didn’t add up, he had a healthy respect for his own first impressions. Slowly, he felt that old queasy ‘cop’ feeling in the pit of his stomach. Bruckner? Soon to be one of the top officials in NATO intelligence? Yeah, maybe you do have one hell of a scoop, kid.

  Manny opened the silver cigarette case. “Heinz Kruger… and Martin Bormann? You know, I made a couple of calls while I was waiting for the Marx Brothers to finish with you. Seems your pal Bruckner is one thing, but Kruger and Bormann are the real showstoppers. They’re big time war criminals, kid, the biggest!” And at the very top of Israel’s most wanted list, Manny thought to himself; but didn’t say. “Bormann’s supposedly dead, got shot trying to escape from Berlin after Hitler killed himself. They had a body, dental records, all that stuff. You ever see him?”

  “Bormann? No.”

  “Nobody knows what happened to this guy Kruger. He was a real nasty son-of-a bitch. Ever see him?”

  “There was a blond SS officer in the U-boat pen that last day in Königsberg, up on the bridge with Bruckner. I had my head down, trying not to attract any attention, so I never got a good look at him: but he was the only SS officer I saw around there, so who knows?”

  “And you got his cigarette case."

  “It was under some papers on the map table in the control room. I palmed it and slipped it into my pocket.”

  “You palmed it?” Manny laughed. “In the control room of a Kraut U-boat? You got balls, kid. ”

  “No, I was desperate. It’s silver; and where I’d been, a thing like that was worth a man’s life. Now, it’s my good luck charm.”

  “Good luck? Well, I hope you never run into any bad.” Manny picked up his spiral notebook again and flipped it open to another page. “I put in a call to the Army and the VA. They say you flew nineteen missions in a B-17 and that you really were shot down over Germany in October ’44. Tough break, really tough; but they don’t know a goddamned thing about you ever being on a U-boat, or being in a prisoner in Germany.”

  “No, they don’t,” he answered quietly.

  “Okay, I’ll play. How come?”

  “Because I never told them. Who would ever believe a story like that? You don’t. And that’s exactly what the Kapitan told me that night. He said I should keep my mouth shut, because no one would ever believe me, and he was right."

  Manny stared at him. “The Army thought you were killed with the rest of your crew when the plane was shot down. In fact, they had you listed as ‘Killed in Action’ until you knocked on the door of the Embassy in Stockholm. How come you never came home?”

  “I… I couldn’t.”

  “Look kid, you think you’re the only one who came back from the war with battle fatigue and shock? Hell, there must be a million GIs who lost a lot of friends.”

  “It isn’t that simple.”

  “It never is, kid, but I’m listening,” Manny said, but Randall just sat there, the pressure building like a bomb ready to explode. “Kid, you gotta let it out.” Manny could see the wheels turning around inside. “Look at yourself, at what they done to you. How much more crap are you gonna take from them?”

  Slowly, words began to come out. It was only a trickle at first, but the trickle grew to a stream and then into a flood. It was if a dam had burst, and there was nothing Michael, or Manny, or anyone else could do to stop it until it was all out and he was empty.

  CHAPTER FIFTEEN

  After Michael told him everything there was to tell, he slumped back in the metal chair. He felt like a balloon that had shot across the small room only to run out of air and finally drop dead on the floor. How much time had passed since Manny got him to start talking? An hour? Two? Maybe three? He had no idea, but the fat cop sitting across from him looked exhausted too.

  “Okay… Okay,” Manny said. “So you decided to stay in Sweden?"

  “I didn’t decide anything; it just happened. Like I said, I went numb, maybe I blacked out. I don’t know; I really don’t. They thought I was dead when they found me in the bottom of that rubber raft — wet, limp, half frozen.”

  “You don’t need to be ashamed
about it, Mike. The shrinks call it battle fatigue, a nervous breakdown, emotional exhaustion, and a lot of other things. It happens.”

  “I’d been in that raft five, maybe six hours, I don’t know. Einar said the current was pushing me further out to sea, and I wouldn’t have lasted much longer.”

  “Who’s Einar?” Detective Eismer asked.

  “Einar Person. He owns the Brunnhilde. It’s an old fishing trawler based in Trelleborg, on the south coast of Sweden. They went out for cod, and found me instead.”

  “You ain’t the only one who came home with some dings and dents upstairs.”

  “No, I was the one who didn’t come home at all.”

  “True, but in the end, you did. It took a while, but you did.”

  “I knew I had to. I promised Eddie I’d go see his father and his sister and explain what happened. That’s why Einar took me to Stockholm.”

  “To buy the suitcase?” Manny joked.

  “No. I had no papers, no passport, so I had to go to the American Embassy.”

  “But you didn’t tell them everything, did you?”

  “Everything? I’m not sure I know what that means anymore. But, no. I told them our B-17 was shot-up bad over Berlin and we came down in the Baltic. I was hurt bad, and just got my memory back. It was what they wanted to hear, and they could close their file on a missing bomber crew. I figure it really came down in what’s now East Germany or Poland; but nobody’s wasting their time digging through old crash sites over there.”

  “And you never told them about Königsberg or escaping on the U-boat?” Manny asked, but Michael just stared. “Why not? What were you afraid of?”

  “I wanted it all to go away. Everybody was dead — my friends on the bomber, Eddie, Bruckner and his whole U-boat crew — all dead. If I told the truth, I knew what would happen. They’d hunt for that submarine until they found it; then they’d cut it open and go inside. I couldn’t let that happen. Too many good men are buried down there, Manny, men who died saving my life, and it would be a sacrilege.”