The Parsifal Pursuit

by Michael McMenamin

“I don‘t want you to think I can‘t handle this,” Rolf said. “I can and I will. It is only that… that I cannot fight like this forever. As soon as this is over, I am moving my family out of Munich, out of Bavaria.” He laughed under his breath. “Maybe out of Germany entirely.”

  “Your English is good, not a trace of a British accent—you‘d do swell in Ireland, even the States,” Cockran said, as they took the last flight of stairs. “Quiet now. We‘ve got a job left to do.”

  It occurred to Cockran that much of the world was filled with good and honest men like Rolf. The kind of men who were not trained to stop thugs like the Nazis. Only ruthless men like Bobby—and, in fact, Cockran himself—could do that. Men who knew how and who would do whatever it took to stand up to gangsters and terrorists like the SS. The world would always need men like the Apostles. Which included him, the Big Fella‘s last Apostle.

  In that moment, Cockran thought of Mattie. Did she need a man like him? Probably not. She was too independent. He had always been quick—too quick?—to lecture her about risk-taking yet here he was, smack in the middle of a night of mayhem in Munich he had organized just as he had when he was an MID agent. A double standard? Pots and kettles and name-calling came to mind. A double standard? Not exactly leading by example was he? He‘d think about it later. If he made it through the night alive.

  Cockran, Sullivan and Rolf walked down the hall that led to Hoch‘s apartment. The other members of the team were spread out in the surrounding block to make certain no trap was being sprung. All that was left was snatching Hoch and taking him for a little ride.

  Rolf now carried the axe in both hands. When they reached the apartment door, Cockran stood to one side and knocked three times. No response. Sullivan raised his Thompson and leveled it at the door. Cockran knocked again. No response.

  “Ready?” Cockran looked to Sullivan. Sullivan nodded. Cockran held his hand out and Rolf handed him the axe. Cockran put his Webley away and gripped the axe firmly. He drew the axe head back and heard the door being unlocked. He froze, then recovered enough to lower the axe head to the ground and watch as the door swung inward. Instead of the tall Nordic figure they expected, they were met by a brown haired, unremarkable woman in a robe and nightcap. She stood in the doorway, a sleepy, tow headed toddler held at her hip and stared dubiously at the men before her. She raised an eyebrow at Cockran‘s axe and said something in German.

  “She asks if there is a fire in the building.” Rolf said.

  “Ask her if Hoch is home.”

  Hoch‘s wife answered before Rolf could translate the question. “She says that her husband isn‘t here. That he received a telephone call during dinner from a woman, a business colleague. He packed his bags and left right after that. He told her he would be gone for several weeks. But it wasn‘t the first time the woman had called him here.”

  Hoch‘s wife then looked at Sullivan and the machine gun at his side. She took a step back and began to close the door but Rolf stepped forward asking his own questions. In moments, Rolf‘s easy manner had her smiling as she answered his questions. Behind him, Cockran could sense Sullivan‘s growing impatience as the two continued their conversation, punctuated by an occasional bitter laugh from her. Finally, Rolf shook his head, said a few final more words and turned back to Cockran.

  “She suspects he‘s having an affair with the woman who called. A month ago, she found lipstick on his collar and several long blonde hairs on his black SS uniform. She once steamed open a letter addressed to him in a feminine hand. It was a love letter in rudimentary German to her “Tristan” from his “Isolde”. Hoch promised to call his wife once he reached his destination. She wants to know if you have a message you wish her to deliver?”

  “No,” Cockran said. He couldn‘t say why but he believed the woman was telling the truth. A husband with a young son shouldn‘t have blonde hairs on his uniform, let alone another woman‘s lipstick on his collar. “Tell her we‘re sorry to have bothered her. Tell her we‘ve delivered enough messages tonight.”

  38.

  Joey’s Big Story

  Berlin

  Saturday, 6 June 1931

  IT was pouring rain when Joey Thompson left the Hotel Adlon and caught a taxi to the Club Kakadü. As he had been instructed, Joey carried a week-old copy of the New York American which he carefully placed at a table beside him.

  “We‘ll find you. Wear a dark suit with a red tie and put a New York newspaper on your table.” Joey had dutifully done both things. Now he waited, sipping a gimlet. It was dark and smoky inside the Kakadü. Joey had draped his trench coat and umbrella over the back of the second chair at his small table, leaving the third chair vacant, again as instructed.

  Joey was nervous. This would be his first big story. And tonight would be the first interview that he had arranged himself, not one that Mattie McGary had found for him. Joey took another sip of his gimlet and, as he was popping one of the two pearl onions in his mouth, a large bald-headed man sat down at the table‘s third chair. He wore a white turtleneck under a dark jacket. He‘s the one, Joey thought, but first they had to exchange code words. Like a spy.

  “Is New York pleasant in summer?” the man asked. “I‘ve never been.”

  “Greatest city in the world. But better in the spring. You should go.” Joey replied, completing the exchange.

  The man nodded and rose. “Wait two minutes then meet me outside.”

  Joey waited and then walked outside. The streets were glistening from the rain, but now only a light drizzle was falling. A long, dark sedan was sitting in front of the Kakadü, its engine idling, side curtains obscuring its interior. The rear door opened and the man from the bar motioned for Joey to get in. As he sank into the seat, he noticed curtains between the driver‘s compartment and the back seat. With the side curtains, it wasn‘t possible to see out.

  The big car leaped forward with sudden acceleration and a soft cloth blindfold was placed over Joey‘s eyes. “What the hell is going on?” Joey asked. “Why the blindfold?”

  “You ask too many questions, Mr. Newspaperman. Be silent. Soon you will know.”

  JOEY was alone with his thoughts three hours later after they had returned him to the Hotel Adlon. He was still in shock. Who would ever believe him? A mysterious mansion. Two figures hidden in shadows. A plot to assassinate Hindenberg! Mattie McGary in the hands of a man sworn to kill her! It was all too fantastic to be true. Except... he had it all in black and white in the large manila folder on the desk in front of him. He poured himself another glass of bourbon.

  What should he do? What would Mattie do? From the few times she had deigned to talk with him before this story came along, he knew what she would say. “Get the bloody story first and worry about anything else later.” But even so, Joey didn‘t believe that she would go after a story first and leave a colleague in peril.

  He took another sip of bourbon and saw that it was 1:00 in the morning. He hadn‘t realized how much time had gone by. There was no way he could wake the Hearst European Bureau chief in London at one a.m. for this. Ted Hudson wasn‘t going to be sympathetic to Mattie‘s plight anyway. He would tell Joey to get on the story and he would look after Mattie. Except Joey didn‘t believe he would. He had been taken to Hudson‘s club in London once for dinner with two other Hearst stringers when the subject of Mattie had come up as the butt of a ribald joke Hudson told as they lingered over cigars and brandy, something about her vertical rise in the Hearst empire being achieved horizontally. It was obvious from his comments that he didn‘t think much of female journalists in general or Mattie in particular. Given the rumors that Hudson had once proposed to Mattie and been turned down, Joey didn‘t believe Theodore Stanhope Hudson IV would lift a single manicured finger to save her.

  But if it was after midnight in London, Joey thought, it wasn‘t in New York, where it was 7 p.m., or California, where it was only 4 p.m. Yes, he thought, he‘d go right to the top. It all depended on where Hearst was working that day. A
nd he most assuredly would be working, putting his personal touch on whatever he and his major domo, Joe Willicombe, decided was the big story of the day. He would call Willicomb because Joe would always be at Hearst‘s side. And the first place to start was the New York American. That was the flagship and Joe‘s New York secretary always knew where to find him. Always.

  It took only fifteen minutes for the Hotel Adlon switchboard to connect him to Joe Willicombe‘s secretary. “Miss Moore? Joey Thomas in Berlin. It‘s after midnight in London and I‘ve got to talk to Mr. Willicomb. It‘s a matter of life and death. Honest.”

  It took only five more minutes after that for the ever-efficient Miss Moore to connect him directly with Joe Willicombe at Hearst‘s northern California estate, Wyntoon. Miss Moore told him Hearst had been there all week supervising the construction of an authentic Bavarian village on the banks of the McLeod River amid the towering trees in the shadow of Mount Shasta.

  “Yes, Thomas, what‘s up?” Willicombe asked.

  Joey quickly explained everything, from his originally taking over Mattie‘s interviews right up through the few hours he recently spent in a secluded Berlin mansion.

  “Hold on a second, Thomas. I‘m sure the Chief is going to want to hear this personally.

  Joey was nervous. While he had received two handwritten notes from Hearst, he had never met or talked to the man himself. He only knew what Hearst looked like from photographs and newsreels. He was unprepared for the high voice which came from such a large, rambling hulk of a man. Joey told the same story to the Chief that he had told Willicombe, only Hearst stopped him more often to ask questions. When Joey had finished, Hearst was all business. Joey felt better just hearing the determination in his voice.

  “Find her friend Cockran. I know him from personal experience. He‘s tough and he‘s resourceful. Tell him he has a blank check from the Hearst organization to do whatever it takes and hire whatever men are necessary to ensure McGary‘s safety. If Mattie gave you his address in Venice, then that‘s where he‘s going to be. Go there. At once. I don‘t want you working on this story while you‘re in Germany anyway. After you find Cockran, he can take care of finding McGary and you can get back to your story. But McGary comes first. Got that?” the high voice said.

  “Yes, sir. Understood. I‘ll catch the first train to Venice.”

  AS the Hotel Adlon switchboard operator broke the connection, a tall man with close-cropped light brown hair was hovering over her. Bruno Kordt took the earphones off his head and passed them back to her. “Danke, Fraulein. You have been most helpful,” Kordt said as he slipped her a 100 reichsmark note. He shook his head. Someone in the Geneva Group had betrayed them to an American journalist, revealing not only the Hindenburg assassination plot but also von Sturm‘s search for the Holy Spear. Zurich would have to be told. Something would have to be done. And Kurt von Sturm would know exactly what that was.

  39.

  A New Recruit

  Innsbruck, Austria

  Sunday, 7 June 1931

  REINHARD Hoch did not like the question. That much, Sturm could tell. They were having a late afternoon lunch of ham, dumplings and a local red wine on the terrace outside the Breinnössl restaurant in Innsbruck. The Alps rose majestically behind them in a high, blue sky.

  Sturm was indifferent to Hoch‘s feelings. He had wanted eight armed men to accompany him into the Alps in the event the black-garbed strangers who had attacked them in Alexandria had another go. But Sturm had been frustrated by his telephone call to Zurich, who had refused his request. He told Sturm to draw on his own private contingency funds as Geneva‘s Executive Director, but no charge was to be made to the Kaiser project. That meant he could afford only four armed men and Sturm didn‘t think that would prove sufficient. But four good men would have to do. The fact that Willi Wirth was one of them gave him comfort. He was barely twenty-one but, in many ways, he reminded Kurt of himself at that age. Even now, he was almost as good as his best man, Bruno Kordt, who would lead the Hindenburg assassination team.

  Hoch, however, presented intriguing possibilities. He was a genuine volunteer with impeccable credentials and looking for adventure. A fellow naval officer, recently retired, with a letter of introduction and recommendation from Admiral Canaris himself. How Hoch had learned of Sturm‘s expedition was also explained in the Canaris letter, saying he was writing at the request of his good friend, Fritz von Thyssen, known to Sturm and the rest of the Geneva Group as “Berlin” and whose United Steel Works employed Sturm as his executive secretary. Perhaps sending him Hoch was Geneva‘s way of apologizing for not authorizing more funds.

  “Explain to me again why you left the German navy,” Sturm directed “It is unusual for a naval board of inquiry to convene over such a minor matter as a broken engagement.”

  “I quite agree, Herr von Sturm, but the father of the young woman is one of the largest shipbuilders in Bremen and he has many important contacts high in the Navy. She tried to blame her pregnancy on a defective diaphragm but I discovered the slut had been sleeping with two other men. Two brother naval officers. I think the device was simply worn out from overuse,” Hoch said and then laughed with a loud, honking sound from his long and narrow nose.

  “Both men testified in my defense, and exposed her for the whore she was. The Board of Inquiry had no choice but to acquit. But Admiral Canaris told me that I would never receive another promotion. He found a new and better position for me and I resigned my commission.”

  “And your new position is?” Sturm asked.

  “Admiral Canairis requested I keep that confidential.” Hoch paused, took a sip of wine. “But I was raised a Catholic and helping you retrieve such a holy relic would be a high honor.”

  Sturm decided to take Hoch on. A new recruit and an extra weapon might come in handy. “I will be pleased to have you with me, Herr Hoch. We leave for Zell-Am-See tomorrow.

  Monday

  HIS breakfast coffee untouched beside him, Kurt von Sturm held the telephone to his ear and frowned as he listened to what Zurich was telling him, more than mildly surprised to learn that Mattie‘s lover might soon be on their trail if the American journalist made it to Venice.

  “Yes, I agree, Zurich. That is a most unfortunate development. But it‘s nothing we can‘t handle. I agree. There is a traitor within Geneva. No one else could have known the details of our plans but we can identify and eliminate him later. Our first priority should be the death of the American journalist, Mr. Thomas. My men will attend to that.”

  “What about this Cockran?” Zurich asked.

  Sturm shrugged. “The critical target is the American journalist. He must be stopped. If this Cockran follows us into the Alps, I will deal with him. Go back to your breakfast, my old friend. Do not let this interfere with your digestion.”

  Sturm hung up the telephone receiver which immediately rang, a clanging of high-pitched bells. He picked it up.

  “Kurt, it‘s Mattie. Professor Campbell and I are down in the lobby. We‘ve been waiting ten minutes. If you don‘t come soon, we‘re going to miss the train to Zell-Am-See.”

  “I apologize. It was business from Berlin. An accident at the steel mill required my attention. Please be patient. It will take me one more phone call to clean things up. I‘ll be down in five minutes.”

  Sturm then had the switchboard operator place a call to Bruno Kordt in Berlin. He reconsidered what he had told Zurich about Cockran. His prey was vulnerable. He didn‘t know why but he had a sixth sense about these things when it came to women. If the man she loved could be taken out of the picture permanently, the hunter was certain he stood an even better chance of once more tasting the sweet lips of his prey sooner rather than later.

  “Bruno? Sturm here. I spoke with Zurich. Excellent work last night. Take four good men and catch the same train to Venice as the American journalist, Joseph Thomas, whose call you intercepted. Follow him. Wait until he attempts to meet with the American named Cockran, then eliminate him
. No, you need not worry about any others. The journalist is your primary target but collateral damage is acceptable. Clean things up, Bruno. Permanently.”

  Part V

  Italy, Austria, and Germany

  8 June–18 June 1931

  In remote, isolated castles, a new generation will grow up in whose presence the world will shudder. A bold, imperious, violent, cruel generation—this is what I want.

  Adolf Hitler, 1931

  Joachim Köhler, Wagner’s Hitler

  Wewelsburg castle became—in Himmler‘s eyes—what Camelot had

  been to King Arthur and the Knights of the Round Table, Monsalvat to

  Parsifal and the Knights of the Holy Grail, a mystical seat hidden from

  the gaze of the uninitiated, the towered sanctum of the higher members

  of SS chivalry.

  Peter Padfield, Himmler, Reichsführer—SS

  40.

  Death in Venice

  Venice

  Monday, 8 June 1931

  SO what‘s a martini?” Bobby Sullivan asked as Cockran placed an order with their waiter on the terrace in front of Harry‘s Bar on the Grand Canal. The Apostles had left Munich for Venice the morning after what the newspapers were calling “Communist Mayhem in Munich.” Most had then headed for Ireland, while McNamara and Murphy went south to see Rome and maybe a glimpse of the Pope. Cockran had persuaded Sullivan to stay with him until Mattie arrived. There were plenty of rooms in the palazetto he had leased and Cockran had assured Bobby the fishing in Venice was excellent even though he had no idea where to find fish here except at a restaurant.

  Cockran and Sulivan had come straight to Harry‘s Bar after dropping off their bags at the palazetto. Harmony travelled with them to Venice to ensure she made it safely out of Germany but, once they arrived, Cockran had assigned an Apostle—Donal—to escort her on the first train to England which left that morning. She had objected, shaken by the violence preceding their abrupt departure, but Cockran had turned her down. She didn‘t need a lawyer right now. And, after what almost had happened with her the other night, he didn‘t want Harmony as a distraction while he waited for the woman he loved to finish her quest and return to his arms.