Munich Signature (Zion Covenant)

by Bodie Thoene

  A woman screamed. Footsteps ran toward the open door of the elevator.

  “Somebody call a doctor!”

  “Is he dead?”

  “Call a doctor!”

  “Get back, everybody!”

  “Pull him out of there!”

  “Careful! Easy . . . give him a little room! Let him breathe!”

  “Okay, pal. That’s it. Take a breath. You ain’t gonna die, buddy. Another breath. Slow and easy like.”

  ***

  It was an ordinary pair of pliers, and yet, Georg Wand knew well what such an ordinary tool in his hands could accomplish. He removed the price tag and placed the pliers on the desk beside the radio. Tonight Elisa Linder-Murphy played a violin concerto by Dvorak. No doubt this was played with some sense of sympathy toward the floundering Czech government with whom she had such ties.

  Georg smiled. Such a foolish gesture on her part. After tonight he would make certain that she played no more songs for the pygmy race. As a matter of fact, she would be unable to play anything at all ever again.

  He toyed with the pliers, turning them over and over again. He had used such a tool on Rudy Dorbransky in Vienna as well. Dorbransky had remained silent, but Georg and Sporer had made him suffer longer because of that silence. In the end it had been of no benefit to the Jewish violinist. He had died anyway. A long and slow death. It served him right, Georg reasoned. Things might have been easy for the fellow if he had only been reasonable and shared his information. They might have killed him more quickly.

  Georg was certain that Elisa Murphy would not be so unreasonable. The moment he clamped the pliers onto the knuckle of her index finger, she would talk. She would beg him to listen and she would tell him everything he wanted to know. Getting information from women was easy for Georg Wand. Elisa Linder-Murphy would be no different than all the others in the end. She would be a much simpler project than Rudy Dorbransky had been.

  The final applause echoed from the radio into the hotel room. Elisa would be taking her bows now. He could imagine her holding her instrument in long, delicate fingers. He could almost see her smiling at the audience that had listened in the studios of the BBC.

  She was an extraordinary musician, indeed. This fact gave Georg Wand the ultimate power over her. To crush those extraordinary fingers one by one with such an ordinary tool—who would think of such a thing? If he held a gun to her head, she might well smile and tell him to shoot; it would be over so quickly. But these pliers . . . to make her watch the destruction of her own life one joint at a time—now that was where the genius of Georg Wand lay.

  ***

  “Oy, such a place this America is!” exclaimed the rabbi of Nuremberg as Captain Burton switched on the freighter’s PA system to broadcast the orchestra of Tommy Dorsey playing at the Algonquin Hotel live from New York!

  There was reason to smile and laugh tonight onboard the Darien. Men and women sat spellbound in little groups as the music echoed over the dark waters. Periodic interruptions were enjoyed as quartets of harmonic voices sang love songs about detergents and jingles about cigarettes and the honking of an automobile horn was interspersed with excited jabbering about the newest Ford automobile!

  Maria, her group of five future American debutantes around her, translated every word of the advertisements as well as song lyrics. Ada-Marie danced with Trudy, Gretchen with Louise, and Katrina with Klaus. A sprinkling of stars lit the moonless night sky like tiny lanterns. Even the grim faces of the ultra-orthodox looked more relaxed.

  “To hear America is almost like being in America,” Aaron pronounced as the program emcee described the pretty girls on the dance floor. Other young men looked wistfully at the girls who giggled in their own group across the stern from them.

  Klaus leaned over to kiss Maria on her forehead. “A cruise on the Atlantic, my love,” he grinned. “A million stars. A warm breeze. An American orchestra. What more could we ask for?”

  Maria reached up to stroke his cheek. “A bed? Something to sleep in, maybe? You and me together, perhaps?”

  Klaus threw his head back in laughter. “I have almost forgotten what that is like.” He kissed her on the cheek and settled down beside her to gaze up at the stars and remember.

  26

  Drag Hunt

  Georg Wand traveled to Portland Place on the top of a big red omnibus. The quiet Victorian square was lit by old-fashioned streetlamps that illuminated the large white stone headquarters of the BBC.

  The bus moved on in a cloud of exhaust. Georg stepped back into the shadows to study the entrance of the prominent building. It seemed out of place here, like a dry-docked ship set among the ornate houses of an older age.

  Things seemed so very still tonight that it was almost impossible to imagine that within that white ship of a building the voice of a nation reached out to millions of houses. Here Churchill convinced the listeners of the dreadful threat of Germany, only to have Prime Minister Chamberlain cast doubts on his assertions. Then perhaps another minister threw opinion in this direction or another. Strange that these Britishers allowed so many opinions to be broadcast. It was no wonder that everyone was confused.

  The English could not even agree on what music they should listen to. Highbrows demanded classical. The lowborn clamored for American jazz.

  Tonight the listening menu served up classical. Elisa Linder-Murphy was the main course. First she would play her music, then she would emerge from the BBC, and Georg Wand would begin carving. Slowly and carefully he would do his work: separating information from flesh and bone.

  It was exacting work, exhausting work, but Georg was adept at it. He absently clicked the pliers in his coat pocket. They sounded like teeth, hungry for a meal.

  ***

  It was not the deep cough of Ada-Marie that woke Maria from sleep, but the heat of the child’s fever. Her little feet radiated against Maria’s legs, causing her to climb from the hammock and grope toward the stairs to find the doctor.

  Wringing her hands, she followed Dr. Freund up the steps as he carried Ada-Marie to the infirmary. Trudy was sent to fetch Klaus. The other children still slept, unaware of the seriousness of their little sister’s condition.

  Shimon watched quietly from his cot as Dr. Freund checked the child’s uneven breath with his stethoscope. Klaus and Maria hovered in the background, their faces shadowed with concern.

  Dr. Freund straightened slowly. His expression was grave, almost angry as he spoke. “Pneumonia. Both lungs.”

  Maria cried out and put a hand over her face. Klaus seemed almost ghost-like as he stood supporting her.

  “What can we do?” Klaus managed to say.

  “Here?” There was something in the tone of the doctor’s voice that answered the question with hopelessness. He touched the little girl’s face. Her lips were tinged with blue and her breathing labored. “Keep her as comfortable as possible. There is very little else.”

  Maria shook her head in disbelief. What was the doctor saying? Did he mean Ada-Marie might die? That she would die? She pulled free of her husband’s arm and walked slowly to the bedside of Ada-Marie. Smoothing the child’s damp hair from her forehead, she whispered the beloved name. Ada-Marie stirred at the touch of her mother and then convulsed again with coughing. A sprinkling of freckles stood out against the pale skin.

  “Only two more sleeps until New York,” Maria’s voice quavered. “Only two more sleeps and then a hospital. Medicine. Mama is right here, Ada-Marie. Hang on for Mama.”

  The doctor turned away from the scene as if he could not bear to watch. His features were tight with frustration. He was a physician without even the barest tools to work with. Klaus read his expression. Hopeless.

  “Surely we can do something?” The voice of Klaus cracked. He spread his hands in bewilderment. How could this happen so suddenly?

  ***

  There was room for only two cots in the infirmary. Shimon watched the pale faces of Maria and Klaus as they hovered over their child. He
heard the dull despair in the tone of Dr. Freund. His heart ached for the child. For the family.

  Slowly, his wounds still tender, Shimon sat up and swung his legs over the side of his cot.

  “What are you doing?” asked Dr. Freund almost angrily.

  “It is time that I go up with the other men.” Shimon answered quietly. The truth was that he simply could not bear to see such grief enacted before him. “Maria—” Shimon leaned against the watertight door—“you may have my bed. She will like you to sleep by her.”

  Maria glanced up in gratitude at the big man. She did not refuse his generosity.

  “You are not well enough for this,” Dr. Freund protested.

  “I am. You are a good doctor.” Shimon managed a sad smile through his ragged, new-grown beard.

  The doctor replied with resignation. “Not good enough.” He accompanied Shimon to the stairs leading up to the outer deck. “Ask the rabbi to come,” he whispered. “They will need him before morning. The child is breathing by sheer will, breathing to please her mother. The rabbi should be here.”

  ***

  Murphy looked and felt as if he had been hit by a truck. His nose was broken. The doctor had packed it with yards of cotton gauze. “Hey, Doc, are you sure one of those guys didn’t leave a fist up there?”

  His eyes were swollen to mere slits. “One of ’em had to be Joe Louis in white makeup.”

  Two ribs were cracked. “Why don’t you wrap that tape a little tighter, Doc, so I can’t breathe at all? It will save them from coming back for the second round.”

  Now Murphy lay back on the sofa of his hotel suite as Trump paced the length of the room and back. “Other than this, I’m fine,” Murphy replied dryly. Talking made him wince with pain. Even wincing made him wince. “I’m not worried about me.”

  “We contacted Scotland Yard in London immediately, of course. By the time we phoned the BBC there was already a bodyguard at the studio with her. We left a message. She’ll call you as soon as she finishes the broadcast.”

  “Thanks.” Murphy sounded as if he had a cold. “Somebody needs to be with her twenty-four hours a day until we can get her to America.”

  “Or until you join her in Europe.” Trump rose up on his toes as if he had something important to say.

  “I’m hoping she’ll join me here.”

  “Actually, I just got a phone call from the President’s press secretary.”

  “Which president?”

  “Roosevelt, of course. You’ve stirred up things up a bit, you know.” Trump managed a smile. “Turned up the heat. Anyway, President Roosevelt has settled the date for the conference of the Western Nations—the refugee conference in Evian. No matter what happens here with the Darien, it seems as if the Evian Conference ought to be your story.”

  Murphy tried to frown. The effort was too painful. He exhaled loudly as he thought about Charles, who slept soundly in the next room. “I need to stick around for the boy’s operation. I owe him that. I brought him here and—”

  “We can see to it he’s taken care of.” Trump brushed away Murphy’s objection. “And there is always Mrs. Rosenfelt.”

  “She’ll have her own family here if things go well in the State Department mire.”

  Trump paced a few steps more, then turned. “You are my new chief of European operations, Murphy. Evian is the place I want you to start. The issue I want you to start with. If Hitler does indeed invade Czechoslovakia, there will be tens of thousands more people like the ones on that little ship. The fate of eight hundred is insignificant when you look at what is happening to the multitudes.” He was determined. Murphy would not stay in the States any longer than necessary. “Charles Kronenberger will survive without you. The assignment is yours. My new head of European operations needs to be in Europe. That is you.”

  “What about the Darien? Who will cover the story?”

  Trump scratched his chin and peered thoughtfully up at the ceiling. “Well, to tell the truth . . . I thought I might like to take this assignment myself.”

  Murphy tried not to look surprised. How could this man, the head of a multimillion dollar publishing empire, take time to cover the plight of the Darien? Murphy did not ask that question. Instead he answered diplomatically, ‘That is a real relief to me, Mr. Trump,” he said, knowing that the story would have a guarantee of front-page coverage on every one of the Trump empire newspapers.

  Trump smiled, pleased at the approval of Murphy. “I got myself tangled up in this one, son. Those blankity-blanks down at the State Department got my dander up again. We’ll need to work real close on this. You at the conference and me for the ship.”

  “And what about Charles? And Mrs. Rosenfelt?”

  “I’ll see to both of them, don’t you worry. I’ve already hired a lawyer to look into the fact that Mrs. Rosenfelt’s family was refused visas unfairly. Did you know she has enough in her bank account to support them all for several years? The State Department contention that they might become public charges just doesn’t hold water in this case!” He banged his fist on the table. “There has been an abuse of the law here, and I’m gonna see to it that we turn the State Department so blasted inside out that they’re looking at the world through the soles of their feet!”

  Murphy tried to smile, but the effort was too painful. He liked this gruff old man. He liked working for him. Trump was sending him to Europe because this story had the man so up in arms he wanted to attend to the details himself. Old man Trump was determined this would have a happy ending—and he would write it!

  ***

  Georg Wand strained to see the dial of his watch. It was 10:17 pm and still Elisa had not exited the building of the BBC. She was later than usual. He toyed with the clanking pliers impatiently. Had she slipped out another way?

  At 10:20 a black, official-looking sedan pulled up in front of the entrance. Two men stepped out and waited beside the car. Perhaps an important government official had broadcast. Someone who needed bodyguards. The prime minister?

  Again Georg glanced at his watch. Then he looked up and gasped as Elisa emerged laughing and chatting from the BBC. The men stepped to either side of her. One opened the door for her as the other took the violin case from her and stepped in after.

  Even in the darkness Georg could feel himself redden with disappointment and anger. Had he waited too long to move in? Or was this perhaps a temporary arrangement? Two fellows sent to pick her up for some engagement Georg had not anticipated, perhaps?

  Georg cursed as the black sedan moved away from the curb and immediately turned the corner out of sight.

  The omnibus would come in another ten minutes. He would simply return to the lobby of the Savoy to wait for her.

  ***

  “The hook is set.” Tedrick leaned far back in his swivel chair and pressed his fingertips together. He was pleased with the latest development.

  Elisa gazed miserably at the telephone on the broad walnut desktop. How could she say anything at all to Murphy with Tedrick sitting in the room? Who could know who else might be listening? And now this terrible news that Murphy had been beaten up by thugs in New York. Yet she could not even ask him about it.

  “What about the Savoy?” Elisa asked, disturbed by the news that the New York thugs had mentioned her name as well as the Savoy Hotel.

  “Shelby knows what she is doing.” Tedrick was reassuring without a hint of warmth in his voice. “A drag hunt,” he said cryptically; then he realized the obscurity of his allusion. “Ever ride the hunt?” he asked with a smile. “Fox hunt?”

  “The sort of sport you would enjoy,” she snapped. “I am a musician. Foxes and hounds are not my style.”

  He laughed. “A drag hunt is when the scent of the fox is laid even when there is no fox. The hounds simply follow the scent; the riders follow the hounds. Everyone has a jolly good time and no blood is spilled. The fox is usually grateful.” He leaned forward. “Why aren’t you grateful, little fox? The hounds are baying only at you
r scent. Tonight only at your scent. Tonight you are off to Paris.”

  “And what do I tell my husband?”

  “Tell him you’re fine, which you are. And you are certain to stay that way in such a bloodless hunt. No details. Tell him you have a bodyguard. His publisher has arranged for that. Tell him you are eager to see him, if you like. Sooner or later you might slip him the news that you will have to repeat your vows—unless you would prefer to remain legally unattached. That might also be of benefit considering your past relationship with Thomas von Kleistmann.”

  “You are despicable!” Elisa flared.

  Again Tedrick laughed at her anger. “Probably,” he answered. “But more practical than despicable. Say what you like to Murphy, within the limits you know we will enforce. Really, I would not mention von Kleistmann, however. John Murphy may suspect that you have stayed in Europe just to visit your old friend.”

  Enraged, Elisa stood and moved to the opposite side of the room. The room was not big enough. She had grown to despise Tedrick over the past few days. She had felt this strongly about the Nazis, but to carry such anger for an Englishman was somehow even more unpleasant.

  The phone rang. Tedrick did not move. He motioned with his head for Elisa to pick up the receiver. Murphy was to think she was at the Savoy Hotel. The switchboard operator had been well coached. “Your move,” Tedrick smiled as the phone rang again.

  Elisa picked it up. The long-distance crackle brought tears of frustration to her eyes. “Murphy?” she asked desperately.

  Seconds of delay. His voice echoed through wires and half a dozen connections before finally arriving. “Elisa—you’re all right. Thank God!”

  “I’m fine, darling. Except I miss you terribly.” Tears streamed down her cheeks. She could hear her own voice tumbling across the hollow chasm that separated them. “Are you all right?”

  “If I wasn’t so busy with all this . . . refugee stuff . . . Ship will be in tomorrow evening . . . Got it all ready for . . .”