The Parsifal Pursuit

by Michael McMenamin

  37.

  The Night Belonged to the Apostles

  Munich

  Saturday, 6 June 1931

  THE Apostles arrived late in the afternoon, sooner than Cockran had anticipated. One by one, they paid him and Sullivan a visit at their rooms in the Hotel Leinfelder. Counting Sullivan, there were only eight of them now, four short of their original strength of twelve during the heyday of the Anglo-Irish war. The lads that remained were no longer the boys they were when Michael Collins recruited them and brought the British Empire to its knees. The fledgling nation that had found its freedom through boys like them no longer needed their ruthless skills now that the Irish Free State‘s independence was secure from Britain and die-hard IRA types alike. But they were still on call if the Irish Free State or an old mate like Bobby Sullivan needed their services. There was O‘Neal and McNamara, Donal and Aiden as well as Murphy, Dennis and Ronan. Cockran knew them all and had fought by their side to destroy an IRA arms shipment in California two years earlier. Now he and Bobby were once more organizing them for mayhem, Cockran having been trained by the US Army‘s MID and Sullivan learning at the Big Fella‘s feet. Each Apostle received an assignment and an NBM worker to accompany him. One by one they came and one by one they left, quiet and unnoticed.

  They finished their preparations early in the evening. Homework done, their studies complete, the killers recruited and trained by Michael Collins waited for nightfall. They assured Cockran that these Nazi thugs didn‘t stand a chance. The night belonged to the Apostles.

  Cockran and Sullivan were the last to arrive at the NBM factory, with Harmony and Rolf in tow. The sun hung low on the western horizon, casting the factory floor in amber twilight. The last seven members of the Squad were lounging in chairs set up in the middle of the factory floor, the two German speakers among the Irish forging a bridge with the eight factory workers recruited by Sullivan. Collins had taken care to recruit a few lads who spoke German, the better to deal with the Kaiser‘s men supplying them with weapons after 1916‘s Easter Rising.

  “Listen up, men!” Cockran said. Everyone turned their attention to him as he took them through their assignments one last time, Rolf translating for the Germans. The Apostles and the NBM workers broke up into units of three, each with at least one bilingual member, whether a Tommy-speaking German like Paul or a German-speaking Irishman like McNamara. Cockran and Sullivan‘s own team would have four members. Each unit was to carry out its action within a five-hour window, starting at 8:00 p.m. Harmony would return to the hotel with Hermann Steinmetz.

  “We reconvene at one a.m. at our rendezvous spot down the block from Reinhard Hoch‘s apartment building. Hoch is the SS man in charge of the NBM sabotage,” Cockran said, passing around a small photograph Captain Weintraub had given them. “His apartment will be the final assault. You must make it to the rendezvous point near Hoch‘s apartment building. No excuses.”

  Cockran glanced over at Harmony, who appeared uncomfortable as he talked the team through their assignments. Her face was drained of color, as if she understood the danger.

  Cockran knew communication was key. Its failure was the bane of any offensive during the war. It was the first thing Bill Donovan had taught him. Michael Collins had reinforced it. Communication. Information. Intelligence. These were the elements that won or lost any battle.

  “Everyone understands?” Cockran asked, receiving silent nods. “Let‘s get to work, lads.” The SS were about to find out the hard way what it meant to cross swords with the Irish Republican Brotherhood.

  ONE of the advantages to hitting your enemy hard on his own turf is that he rarely expects it. The expansive home of Gunther von Goltz, the president of I.C.E.‘s German subsidiary, was lightly defended by three listless security guards—one at the front gate, and two others patrolling the grounds on foot. Rolf shifted uneasily between Cockran and Sullivan as they crouched in the shrubs on a hillside that overlooked the president‘s home. It was a little after ten o‘clock. They had taken for themselves the most heavily-guarded target. Still, Cockran wasn‘t worried so much about their own chances of success here, but more about the other lads.

  Cockran could not have imagined Rolf getting as deeply involved in their operations as he had, but he had volunteered to be Cockran and Sullivan‘s translator with no hesitation. Rolf was young, still in his early twenties, too young to have had any real military experience, but he didn‘t like the Nazis. His sister‘s boyfriend was a Socialist whom some SA thugs had put in the hospital while breaking up a political rally. Cockran was more than a little concerned how Rolf would handle himself, whether he would freeze up at the wrong moment once guns came into play.

  On the street below, one of their own NBM workers, Otto, strolled up to the brightly lit front gate. The guard came out to meet him and Otto began to gesture as if he were lost. The guard turned his head to point down the street and Otto, a pistol his right hand, swung hard at the back of the guard‘s head. The guard pitched forward to his knees. Otto struck again, knocking him flat. Satisfied he was unconscious, Otto quickly dragged the man back into the guardhouse where he was supposed to swap clothes.

  “Now,” Sullivan said, and the three of them made their move, creeping down the hillside that led to a five-foot wrought iron fence. They crouched at the base of the fence behind a row of bushes and looked for the first roaming guard. The guards were not SS, or even Nazis for all they could tell. They were employed by the same lax security service that NBM had used before Cockran had fired them. He had decided they would not kill guards if they could avoid it. He was after the men responsible—the V men and the SS—not the hired help. The one at the front gate had been taken out because he was best positioned to spot their descent from the crest of the hill. Only if the two roaming guards were alerted to their presence was Otto to approach the guards in his security uniform and kill them both at close range with a silenced weapon.

  The house was dark. Cockran saw nothing through the fence but a single glowing window which appeared to be the dining room. Strange to be having supper at this hour. They knew from reconnaissance that von Goltz‘s wife retired at ten o‘clock every night, so she would be in bed. They sat tight for three minutes, hoping to spot the guard, but he never came by.

  “Keep a sharp eye,” Sullivan said. “I‘m going over.” He climbed up and vaulted himself over the largely ornamental pikes that rested on top of the fence.

  “You next,” Cockran whispered to Rolf, who nodded and reached for the fence just as Cockran saw a faint orange dot hovering near the side of the house, glowing bright red, then fading back to a dull orange. Cockran snatched at Rolf‘s shirt and tugged him back to the ground. Sullivan turned to ask what was wrong, but Cockran motioned him down also.

  They all lay flat on the ground, Cockran‘s eye on the glowing embers of a cigarette in the lips of the guard who finally appeared. The light spilling out from the dining room window was making it more difficult to see in the darker areas and he had nearly missed spotting the guard. The man passed in front of the window and disappeared around the corner of the house.

  “Okay, go. Go!” Cockran said to Rolf, and quickly climbed up after him, dropping down beside Sullivan. He felt the strain in his hip when he landed, hoping he didn‘t split any stitches. They rushed across the open space to the side of the house and edged back towards the garden, where they knew von Goltz routinely left the French doors unlocked to facilitate early morning entrances after a late night with his mistress. Bobby had lock picking tools just in case. It was darker on this side of the house and easier to spot the other guard rounding the far corner and disappearing from view. Sullivan opened the door and Cockran and Rolf followed him in.

  Cockran distinctly heard two male voices echoing from the dining room. He removed his Webley from his shoulder holster and peered carefully through the archway and into the dining room where, at the end of a long polished dark oak table, Gunther von Goltz was enjoying cognac and cigars with a smilin
g Oskar Muller. Cockran thumbed back the hammer on his Webley with an audible click and stepped into the room. Their conversation halted and they turned, confused, to look at their uninvited guest. “Good evening, Herr Muller,” Cockran said. “You remember Mr. Sullivan, don‘t you?”

  Sullivan now stepped through the doorway, his Tommy gun gripped menacingly in his big hands. “Ah, what a happy surprise,” he said, and his face broke into a rare smile. Sullivan‘s eyes were fixed on Muller. “I‘m thinking you‘re familiar with Mr. Thompson here, aren‘t you now? Make any noise and won‘t I be putting you on more intimate terms with himself?”

  Von Goltz and especially Muller looked on the verge of panic, their eyes wide.

  “We bring a message.” Cockran said.

  “What…what is the message?” Muller asked hoarsely.

  Cockran gestured to Rolf, who entered hesitantly, glanced at Muller and von Goltz, then back to Cockran who said. “Please translate.”

  Sullivan stepped forward and spoke to von Goltz. “You‘ve had three good men killed and six others crippled.” Then he turned to Muller. “You tried to have us killed as well. Lawyers in America don‘t do that but perhaps things are different in Germany. Here‘s how we do it in Ireland. Pay close attention. NBM is under the protection of the Irish Republican Brotherhood. That means protection against the SS and I.C.E. or anyone working with them.”

  Cockran holstered his Webley and Sullivan handed him the Thompson. From his sleeve, Sullivan let a lead pipe slide out and into his palm. Von Goltz‘s eyes widened with fear.

  “W-What are you doing?” Muller demanded.

  “Delivering a message,” Sullivan said.

  “But…but you‘ve already given it!”

  “No,” Sullivan said calmly. “That message was for von Goltz. This one is for you.”

  Sullivan towered over Muller. “No! No!” the lawyer cried. “You don‘t understand!”

  Sullivan grabbed Muller by the lapels, lifted him off the chair and slammed him on the floor, flat on his back. With his left hand, he covered Muller‘s mouth. Then the Irishman raised his right hand high and swung the pipe down sharply on Muller‘s right knee. The sound of bones breaking as the kneecap shattered under the impact was followed by Muller‘s muffled screams into Sullivan‘s hand.

  Rolf turned his head and stared at the floor, averting his eyes from the violence. Cockran looked on impassively. He knew this was difficult for anyone to stomach but it was necessary. Fear had to be instilled in these gangsters and their followers. The police weren‘t doing it.

  “Quiet down, boyo, or I‘ll take more than your knee,” Sullivan said. Muller‘s cries softened to a moan, then a whimper, as he writhed in pain. Sullivan shifted his eyes to von Goltz. “And you. I‘ll be back for your knee if an SS man even drives by an NBM plant or if you report our little visit tonight to the authorities. We clear?”

  Rolf‘s eyes were still on the floor. “Translate Rolf,” Cockran said softly. “The worst is over.” Rolf lifted his head and quietly translated for von Goltz who finally nodded, terrified.

  Sullivan rose, took the Thompson back from Cockran and marched out of the dining room. Cockran and Rolf followed as they slipped back into the night.

  CAPTAIN Jacob Weintraub had placed his request to work the night shift after the American and Irishman gave him the list of V-men. He gave an excuse about his wife spending the evening with an ill friend. In fact, he wanted to be on duty to monitor all reports and to be sure that only trusted men went out to investigate the trouble he believed was coming.

  Weintraub sat alone in his office staring at the pool of light from his desk lamp, the sun having already set, when the first report was placed before him. It was a call from a woman who refused to identify herself. Two foreigners had accosted her escort on the way to the opera. The men had shoved her into a set of bushes, taken hold of her escort‘s arms, and firmly marched him in the opposite direction and out of her sight. The escort apparently put up no resistance. When pressed, the woman finally revealed that he was a deputy prosecutor named Eric Schmidt.

  Between ten and eleven that night, reports of two break-ins arrived, one after the other, nearly identical in detail. Both were from highranking police officials, one of them the superior officer to whom Weintraub directly reported. Both were V-men from Cockran‘s list. In each instance, three armed men, two of them foreigners, broke into the homes and held the family at gunpoint. The family was ushered into another room while one of the foreigners traded his gun for a crowbar. What the foreigners told the V-men the family did not hear ... and the crippled V-men refused to say.

  After those two reports, events quieted down for the next hour or so. Weintraub had to remind himself to stay calm and be patient. It did him no good to appear uncharacteristically nervous at a job that rarely required him to leave his desk. When the next report finally came in at half past midnight, Weintraub was totally unprepared for what had happened. The Irish were mad! What in God‘s name had he allowed to be set in motion?

  Reports flooded in, all describing the same event, but the most vivid report came from a widowed German matron who had watched the entire episode from her second floor window. She had noticed a pair of suspicious youths, snooping around some automobiles on her block and picked up the phone in order to report them. She lost track of the youths before she could complete the call. Still wary, she sat by her window and saw four nice young boys in their crisp, black SS uniforms emerging from their regular coffee house. They were such nice boys, she kept saying in the report. Always well dressed, well mannered and helpful around the neighborhood.

  The four SS men said goodbye to each other and split in pairs to head towards their automobiles. As the first pair got inside a late model Opel, a man casually walked from the shadows until he was alongside the motorcar and rolled an object underneath, then sprinted off down the street. The two men inside the Opel may have realized what was happening as they tried to get out of the motor car, but the small explosion which followed triggered a blast from the petrol tank that obliterated the Opel and engulfed it in flames. Even on the second floor, the woman was knocked to the floor by the force of the explosion.

  When she got up off the floor and peered back out the window, she saw the culprit fleeing towards a waiting motorcar at the next intersection. The other SS men saw him and rushed to their Horch, hoping to give pursuit, but as they closed the doors to their own motorcar, another man stepped out of the shadows from across the street. Before the SS driver could engage the clutch, the man unleashed a furious barrage of submachine gun fire into the car, shattering glass, puncturing holes and tearing the Nazis inside to shreds. The noise was more terrifying than the explosion, the widow had said. She kept watching long enough to see the machine gunner run off and join the waiting motorcar down the street.

  Captain Weintraub exhaled sharply as he pushed away from his desk. He hadn‘t realized what he‘d gotten himself into when he‘d thrown himself in with these bloodthirsty Irish. In many respects, they seemed more terrifying than the SS men they had just destroyed. But at least the Irish would soon be leaving the country. He wished the same could be said of the SS.

  Finally, shortly after one in the morning, a report came in that the deputy prosecuting attorney, the night‘s first victim, had been found unconscious on a sidewalk near where he had been abducted, sporting a broken jaw, broken wrist and a broken nose. Pinned to his chest were photographs of men inflicted with the very same injuries, each attached to hospital bills.

  Though he was later to hear rumors, including a few comments about verdamnt Irishers, neither Weintraub nor any other official ever received complaints from Muller, von Goltz or any V-man.

  THE Apostles and their new German allies gathered several blocks from Reinhard Tristan Hoch‘s apartment. News was swift—success on all fronts. The SS men who had tried to drive Cockran, Sullivan and Harmony off the road were all dead, their motorcars obliterated. The top V-men had understood and receiv
ed the message loud and clear––NBM is off limits.

  Cockran, Sullivan and Rolf carefully ascended the stairs that led up to the fifth floor of Hoch‘s apartment building. Sullivan was one flight ahead, his Thompson at his side, pressed against his leg. Cockran had his Webley drawn and cocked. Rolf was beside him, an axe in one hand. The color had returned to Rolf‘s face as time had distanced him from the earlier violence.

  Rolf began to speak softly. “I hated the Nazis after what they‘d done to Peter,” he said. “I thought I wanted to hit them back, punish them. Make their women feel the way my sister felt when she didn‘t know whether Peter would live.” They were still three flights away, so Cockran let him talk. “I wanted to see them bleed the way they had made Peter bleed. I wanted them to suffer.”

  Rolf stared down at the axe in his hand and hefted it once to observe it, feel its weight. “But I don‘t think I‘m like that,” he said. “I don‘t think I‘m capable. I don‘t think any man should suffer like that, even evil men like that man…” he swallowed. “Like that man Muller who got what he had coming to him. I‘m just not cut out for this.”

  They were rounding the second to last flight. “You did fine, Rolf,” Cockran said. “The worst is over. I understand why you don‘t like it but sometimes it‘s necessary.”

  “Herr Sullivan seemed to enjoy it,” Rolf said.

  “Enjoy? Not really.” Cockran said as they neared the final flight of stairs. “Bobby has a very black and white sense of what‘s right and wrong and he is more eager than most to punish those who have done wrong. And he needs less proof of that than you or me.”