The Parsifal Pursuit

by Michael McMenamin

  “That depends,” Cockran said. “First tell me all you‘ve done to get more protection for NBM‘s factories here in Germany.

  “Oh, we placed pressure through the usual diplomatic channels, of course, and the German government responded, but our message appears to have lost traction at the regional and local levels. Quite frustrating, actually.”

  Cockran and Sullivan remained silent. The ambassador looked uncomfortable again. “We‘ve certainly put forth a strong effort on your behalf, gentlemen, let me assure you of that.”

  Cockran didn‘t reply. Sullivan let out a long slow breath, his eyes on the ambassador who quickly turned to Cockran. “Listen, this isn‘t a typical situation. I‘m sure you understand.”

  “Why don‘t you explain it to us,” Cockran said.

  “Well, I assume you‘re well aware that Nazi goons are behind the sabotage,”

  “More or less,” Cockran said.

  “Then you have to understand that the Nazis are packaging this in a relatively legitimate manner and that makes it difficult to prosecute.”

  “Sabotage is legitimate?” Cockran asked.

  “No,” the ambassador said. “But to the Nazis, it‘s fund raising, don‘t you see?”

  They didn‘t see, so Spaulding tried again.

  “Since no one in Germany likes the communists, the Nazis send goons from Hitler‘s SA, or the SS, to go round to different businesses and ask for what they call ‘campaign contributions,‘ in exchange for which they promise to protect them from communist thugs. They do this all over Germany, especially in Bavaria.”

  Sullivan spoke up for the first time, “Are there a lot of communists in Bavaria?”

  The ambassador smiled. “Not especially, no. Bavaria is a Nazi stronghold now.”

  “Sounds like a protection racket to me,” Sullivan said.

  “A what?” the ambassador asked.

  “If you want to make money selling protection, sure if it isn‘t best to sell them protection from yourself,” Sullivan said. “Nice work if you can get it.”

  “Is that the gist of it?” Cockran asked, cocking his head to Sullivan.

  “More or less,” the ambassador answered. “Though it‘s a little more nuanced than that.”

  “Still sounds illegal to me,” Cockran said. “Why is this so difficult to prosecute?”

  “We suspect the Nazis have infiltrated several levels of local and regional governments. It‘s clear they have enough friends sitting at the right levels of bureaucracy to slow down any activity they don‘t like, and to speed up any activity they do. As a result, most local and regional governments just turn a blind eye to their fund-raising practices.”

  “Why not put pressure on Brüning and the national government?” Cockran asked.

  The ambassador‘s baggy face sagged with fatigue and he removed his glasses to wipe them clean. “How can I explain this to you?” he said to himself. He replaced his glasses. “I suppose you boys know who Al Capone is, right?”

  Neither man replied and, after an uncomfortable silence, the Ambassador continued. “The man is the undisputed kingpin of a network of thieves and thugs. Everybody knows it. Certainly the United States government does. But what can they do about it? Nothing. There‘s no direct trail to anyone that matters––and even if there were, half the city government and most of the police are on the Capone payroll. He‘s the unofficial mayor of Chicago.”

  “Is this going somewhere?” Sullivan asked.

  The ambassador nodded. “Just imagine for a moment that Capone wasn‘t simply the unofficial mayor of Chicago. Let‘s say he actually were the mayor––the genuinely elected mayor of Chicago and his mob an actual party. Not just a local party, but one that dominates the entire state of Illinois and recently found itself the second largest party in the country.”

  “Enough assumptions.” Cockran said. “I see where you‘re going. Tell me why you‘re not leaning on the German government with the full weight of the U.S. State Department.”

  “Because you‘re still thinking like a lawyer,” the ambassador said. “If the United States government can‘t handle a regional crime boss like Capone, what makes you think it can have any impact on a more powerful, semi-legitimized mob in another country?”

  When Cockran didn‘t reply, Spaulding tried a different tack.. “Look, I do understand your client‘s difficult situation. It‘s done no good so far but I know officials in Bavaria who might be able to assist you. They don‘t all have Nazi leanings.” He reached for a pen and wrote the names down on a note pad. He tore it off and handed it to Cockran. “One of them is in Berlin for the week. He‘s at the Adlon. I‘ve met him socially and he‘s agreed to meet you there tonight at 8:00 p.m. He may know the right men for you to meet. Men who can actually help you.”

  They rose to leave and the ambassador rose with them. “I‘m only trying to level with you,” he said. “Lawlessness is on the rise in Germany. As lawyers, you gentlemen don‘t stand much of a chance of stopping them.”

  Sullivan buttoned his coat, put on his hat, and stared at the Ambassador, unsmiling. “I‘m not a lawyer,” he said.

  27.

  By Airship to Egypt

  Friedrichschafen

  Thursday, 4 June 1931

  MATTIE’S mood darkened the next morning when she woke up and made a final attempt, unsuccessfully, to talk with Cockran. What in hell were he and Bobby Sullivan doing out so late the night before and then out so early this morning to hire a motorcar? Worse, why had that bitch Harmony told her that she and Cockran had an early breakfast together and that now she was about to change out of her nightgown? She should be the only one wearing her nightgown at breakfast with Cockran, not some new blonde client. Later, Mattie met Sturm and Campbell in the lobby. They bundled into a long black Mercedes to take them to the zeppelin hangar and did not notice a small Auto Union sedan which followed them at a discreet distance.

  THE scar on the man‘s left cheek was vivid in the morning sun as he rested his elbows on top of the Auto Union sedan, adjusting the focus on his powerful field glasses. He lowered them once he was satisfied as to the identity of the last three people who had boarded the airship. He returned the field glasses to their case, watching as the great silver ship rose slowly in the air.

  Ten minutes later, the man parked his motorcar on the Lake Constance waterfront where a large Junkers W34 seaplane was anchored, its 600 horsepower BMW Hornet engine idling. He walked out the long dock and stepped down into the seaplane‘s passenger compartment. There were five other passengers, all with close-cropped hair, all wearing dark clothes and all with the same identical Celtic cross tattooed on the inside of their left wrists. The men raised their faces expectantly at Josef Lanz.

  “They are on the Graf. I hope our brother will not betray us, but the Lord expects us to anticipate what His enemies may do.” He paused. “Stefan, you have done well in selecting this seaplane. It will be in Alexandria well before the Graf. Are all the weapons securely stored?”

  “Yes,” the man called Stefan replied. “I supervised it personally.”

  “Excellent. May the Lord bless our journey,” Josef Lanz said as he made the sign of the cross in the air with the first two fingers of his right hand.

  On Board the Graf Zeppelin

  Thursday, 3 June 1931

  THAT evening after dinner on board the Graf, Sturm and Campbell repaired with Mattie to her cabin where Sturm spread out several Austrian mountaineering maps on Mattie‘s berth.

  “Here is one possibility,” Sturm said, pointing to the first of three maps. “Castles exist for a reason, typically to guard a trade route or an invasion path through the mountains. You would think that most castles would be near international borders, but borders have been altered often in history. Before the last war, South Tyrol belonged to Austria. Now it is Italian. What may have been a border at one time is now deep within Austrian territory. Or outside it. I don‘t believe Austrian officers would have hidden such a sacred relic
so close to their border.”

  Sturm stopped and placed a second map side by side with the first. “These two spots show great potential. At the mouth of high mountain valleys, impassable in winter, and a point of defense for the other three seasons. Unfortunately, they are hundreds of kilometers apart, each a five day journey from Zell-Am-See. Neither is near an old border so that speaks in their favor.”

  “And the third castle?” Mattie asked.

  “It is the least likely.” Sturm said, picking up a third map. “It is the castle nearest to Zell-Am-See. Three or four days away. It is located on a ridge halfway down a valley within the Grossglockner range. But it‘s closer to the old Austrian empire borders than the other two.”

  While Sturm rolled up the maps, Mattie called for the steward and ordered three snifters of brandy. When the brandy arrived, Mattie and Kurt sat beside each other on the small divan.

  Campbell sat on a small light-weight bamboo chair adjacent to the cabin‘s writing table. “The castles‘ locations may give us a clue as to who built them. A castle had two purposes, both to protect trade routes and territory, but also to protect the inhabitants within.” Campbell paused, brought the brandy snifter to his nose and then to his lips. “A castle high on a valley‘s ridge, rather than at its mouth, has only one purpose—to protect its inhabitants.”

  “So?” Mattie asked. “How does that make any difference?”

  “Your father would be disappointed to hear you ask that,” Campbell began.

  Mattie cut him off. “The Templars!” she said. “They built castles as well as fortified monasteries. So the third castle might once have been a Templar-built monastery while the other two could be Templar castles. But didn‘t they die out in the fourteenth century? Were there Templars in Austria?”

  Campbell smiled. “They disappeared but I don‘t believe they died out. The Templars had a huge cache of gold stored in one of their strongholds in France. The gold was never found. Austria and Switzerland were the two most likely places where the gold was transferred.”

  Mattie turned to Sturm. “So what is it exactly we expect to find in Alexandria?”

  “We have three likely Templar castles. I will be pleased,” Sturm said, “if this Weber can help eliminate one or more of the three locations.”

  “But what if he refuses to help?”

  Sturm‘s smile was cold. “I think not. He would find that to be...” Sturm paused, as if searching for the right English word, “a poor decision.”

  Mattie chilled. Sturm really was a ruthless man. Why was she so attracted by him?

  28.

  The Factory

  Munich

  Thursday, 4 June 1931

  IT looked like a prison, missing only a perimeter fence and barbed wire. The largest and most productive NBM plant in Europe was a depressing, two story rectangle of brick and glass.

  Sullivan drove their Audi R 19 sports convertible along the access road, fresh from their meetings earlier that day with both the U.S. Consul as well as a few more persons gleaned from the Spauldingrecommended Bavarian official last night at the Adlon. On the surface, their Munich meetings had gone better than those in Berlin but that was all––just on the surface. Assurances were one thing and actions another. Cockran didn‘t like how every Munich official directed their responses to Muller, effectively avoiding eye contact with Cockran and Sullivan..

  To Sullivan‘s credit, he didn‘t rub it in or quiz Cockran over what St. Thomas Aquinas would do now. They both turned their focus to a better defense for the main NBM plant. The Nazis had to be shown that if they didn‘t back off, they‘d damn well have a fight on their hands. Occasionally, Cockran found it difficult to maintain his focus. Mattie still had left no word. Harmony had frowned in sympathy as he left the front desk this morning, disappointment plain on his face. That Harmony was aware of this bothered him but Mattie‘s silence was worse. Was this what “taking a break” meant? No contact until she made it to Venice?

  Sullivan pulled the roadster into the yard that led to the loading docks on the left and the main entrance to the factory on the right, his eyes scanning the terrain. Cockran did the same. This may have been an ideal spot for a factory, but it was not easy to defend. It sat close to the banks of the Isar River behind it, good for cheap shipment by water but the docks were an easy access point for intruders unless they were patrolled regularly. Neighboring factories sprawled close enough to provide cover for anyone who wanted to approach the NBM factory from its flanks. Only the front of the plant was easily monitored but the building was dominated by large windows making it vulnerable to surveillance from the outside.

  Sullivan brought the motorcar to a stop in front of two large, steel doors. A man in work overalls stood with a rifle slung over his shoulder. Cockran helped Harmony out as Muller‘s luxurious Horch pulled up alongside.

  Harmony took in the rough looking guard. “Is he all we have to protect the factory?”

  Sullivan tugged on his fedora and winked at Harmony. “Not if we have anything to say about it, lass, and we will.”

  The guard stood aside when he saw Muller step out of his Horch and let everyone enter. The factory was standard––most of the open space dominated by machinery, with offices above the main floor, off to one side. The guard leaned inside and shouted towards the upstairs level. A tall, scrawny figure looked out of a doorway, saw them, and immediately came rushing down the metal stairway. They had asked for the plant manager, but all they got was a grave looking lad who couldn‘t have been much over 25. Muller asked where the manager was and got a curt response for his efforts.

  “He says he is the manager,” Muller translated. The young man kept talking. “He‘s an engineer. Hermann Steinmetz. Senior management quit last week and many in the office did so also. A few remained. They had no choice. They need work. His girlfriend helps run the office.”

  Steinmetz looked as if he expected you to mock him for his youth. Muller continued asking him questions without prompts from either Cockran or Sullivan, much as he had done a few times during their meetings with Munich officials and it annoyed Cockran. He was about to interrupt Muller when Steinmetz responded to the questions in a burst, waving his hands to emphasize whatever points he was making and forcing Muller to take a step back.

  “What are you two talking about?” Cockran asked, irritated.

  “He wants to know when NBM will start paying him for his new position.”

  “We can‘t help him with that,” Cockran said impatiently. “That‘s not why we‘re here.”

  “I know,” Muller said. “That‘s what I‘ve been trying to tell him.”

  Steinmetz interrupted in English: “Come, come,” as he stalked off into the factory. They all followed and gradually picked up the acrid scent of burning oil. They came upon two men working to repair a junction in the assembly line machinery. There was blood on the floor. The boy gestured animatedly at the equipment and Sullivan moved for a closer look.

  Muller translated, struggling to keep up. “This…happened early in the morning. The assembly wheel exploded…three men were injured…It appears to have been…tricked?” Muller furrowed his brow, “No, what‘s the phrase…?”

  “Booby-trapped,” Sullivan said. “Rigged to explode once the belt started, right?”

  “Yes,” Muller said.

  “Any violence with the security forces last night?” Sullivan asked.

  Steinmetz semed to understand and shook his head. “Nein.” He kept talking, his agitation growing. Muller translated, “Security didn‘t see a thing. Says he doesn‘t know how they pulled it off. He‘s been keeping a close eye on his workers and doesn‘t think they were responsible.”

  Suddenly, Steinmetz brushed back his coat to reveal the butt of a revolver resting in a shoulder holster. He thrust his forefinger in the direction of Muller and kept talking to him. “He…he thinks the security they‘ve hired is useless,” Muller translated. “He carries a gun now for his own protection. Some thugs tri
ed to grab him on his way home from the office last week and he held them off with that gun. He fears they‘ll be better-prepared the next time.”

  “Come, come!” Steinmetz said and once more stalked off. They followed him into a vacant office that had been converted into a makeshift infirmary––a field hospital of sorts. Three injured men were spread out on desktops. One, the least hurt, was sitting up with a thick bandage around his neck and dried blood staining his shirt-collar and sleeves. The other two had extensive blood-soaked bandages over their faces, chests and arms.

  Cockran turned to the boy manager. “Why weren‘t they taken to hospital?

  “Sometimes the ambulance comes when they call for it, but often it does not,” Muller translated. “No ambulance came today.”

  Sullivan spoke quietly to Cockran, “Security is shite, if you‘ll be asking my opinion.”

  “You think they‘re crooked or just clueless?” Cockran asked.

  “Doesn‘t much matter, does it now?” Sullivan said.

  “Perhaps we could hire a different firm?” Muller suggested.

  “No.” Cockran replied. “We need to work with men we can trust. We should be arming the workers. At least the ones with military service, especially any who‘ve seen action. Pay them overtime for the extra work.”

  “Arm the workers? That‘s crazy. They‘ll call us Bolsheviks!” Muller said, obviously appalled. “What about the current security force? Why not just strengthen their numbers?”

  “Because they‘ve done enough harm.” Sullivan said. “Sack the bastards! The workers can‘t do worse.”

  When they turned back to Steinmetz, Harmony asked “Why won‘t someone get them to hospital? They need medical treatment.”

  “I‘ll drive them to hospital, lass,” Sullivan said, putting his hat back on his head. “And wouldn‘t I be needing to retrieve a certain piece of luggage anyway?”