“His buddy? Why’d you deck him?” Cockran asked.
Mattie laughed. “Hell, the guy was as big as you and weighed fifty pounds more. His buddy was more my size. He never saw it coming. One punch.”
Cockran laughed. Mattie might — hell, she did — take too many risks but he had to admit she could take care of herself. Most of the time. It was the rest of the time that concerned him “What happened then?”
“The bartender intervened, called over a bouncer and had the two guys thrown out. He took me back to a corner table and introduced me to the owner who apologized for the behavior of his customers. When he introduced himself, I was astonished. Erich Boldt. I knew him by reputation. He’s one of the biggest crime bosses in Munich. I knew he smuggled weapons, but I hadn’t heard that he was involved in the Balkans. It turns out he wasn’t, but he wanted to be. He set me up with several more interviews that pretty much allowed me to expose the people who were running guns into the Balkans. Convictions followed. My guess is that he’s already stepped into the vacuum my stories created. I figure he owes me one.”
“Okay,” Cockran said. “We’re both fairly well armed. It shouldn’t be that dangerous.”
Mattie sat up now. “That won’t work, Bourke. I’ve got to go alone. I’ll take my Walther. But you can’t go with me.”
“Why?”
“If this guy’s still around,” Mattie replied, “my going there with an armed escort would scare him off. He probably wouldn’t see me. I’ve got to go alone.”
Cockran could sense an argument about to begin, one he wasn’t going to win. Not yet anyway. But there was no way he was letting her meet with that guy alone. He got up from the bed and walked toward the small sitting room.
“Nice ass, Cockran,” Mattie said. “Where are you going?”
“To call that pub in Donegal and try to find Bobby. We’re going to need more guns.”
52.
Why Are You Working for the Nazis?
Hotel Continental
Munich
Sunday, 29 May 1932
WINSTON Churchill was in fine form. Alternately smiling and scowling beneath the sparkling crystal chandeliers of the Hotel Continental’s dining room, the United Kingdom’s former Chancellor of the Exchequer was guiding his dinner guests, Mattie, his son Randolph and Cockran through the Battle of Blenheim, whose battlefields in Bavaria Churchill had spent the last week touring. Puffing on a long Havana cigar and taking an occasional sip from his flute of Pol Roger Champagne, Churchill had reached the battle’s climax when their first course arrived.
Later, after the waiter had cleared their table and brought them brandy snifters and a bottle of Remy Martin, Churchill returned to the subject they had discussed earlier in the day. The inability of Hearst, American MID, or Churchill’s good friend Professor Frederick Lindemann, “The Prof, to pinpoint the location of Verschuer’s clinic.
“The Prof has come up dry. His source at the Kaiser Wilhelm Institute told him it was highly confidential. In fact, he wouldn’t confirm if Verschuer even had a clinic in Bavaria.”
“Do you believe him?” Mattie asked
Churchill took a puff of his cigar and shook his head. “Baron von Verschuer’s Nazi sympathies are well known. Herr Hitler’s party will soon be the largest party in Germany and his becoming chancellor is only a matter of time. Courage is in short supply in Germany today.”
“Amen!” Randolph said as he poured himself another generous measure of brandy.
“Does the Prof have any other sources?” Cockran asked.
“As a matter of fact, he does,” Churchill replied. “A secretary at the Kaiser Wilhelm Institute who is in charge of making travel arrangements for all the visiting scientists. A woman to trust, the Prof says. She converted but her mother is a Jew. She’s no friend of the Nazis.”
“So she knows where the clinic is?” Mattie said.
“No. But the secretary has frequently arranged train tickets from Munich to Regensburg for scientists who have come to confer with Dr. Verschuer.”
“That’s close to the Austrian border, isn’t it?” Cockran asked.
Churchill nodded. “Yes, it’s on the Danube.”
“Perhaps we should plan to go there tomorrow instead of Mattie going to a meeting tonight with this Erich Boldt character.”
Mattie tensed. On the train from Friedrichschafen to Munich, Mattie had sensed that Cockran was holding back over her refusal to allow him to accompany her to meet Erich Boldt. Regardless of what Churchill or Cockran thought, however, she was going to meet him. Alone.
Churchill swirled his brandy in the snifter. “Who is this Boldt fellow?”
“An old source of mine,” Mattie replied. “He’s an underworld figure here in Munich. Gambling, prostitution and smuggling. Inadvertently I helped him eliminate one of his competitors two years ago with stories on gunrunning in the Balkans. He owes me a favor.”
“And Bourke does not wish you to go?”
“I’m not fond of the idea,” Cockran said. “Especially if she goes alone.”
Mattie shook her head. “It’s the only way. He won’t talk to people he’s never met.”
“Will you be armed, my dear?”
Mattie nodded. “My Walther.”
“And it’s a place you’ve been before?”
Again, Mattie nodded.
Churchill took a puff of his cigar and gazed off, finally returning his glance to Mattie.
“The risk seems acceptable,” Churchill pronounced.
Mattie smiled. Good old Winston. She knew he’d never say no to an adventure but Cockran’s displeasure was written all over his face.
The White Mouse Cabaret
MATTIE wrinkled her nose at the oppressive odor of cigar smoke, stale beer and sweat as she sat at a table nursing a scotch and water and watching what passed for the floor show. The table at which she was sitting had a small lamp with a red fringed shade and a telephone beside it which bore the number twelve, the same as her table. She was wearing the little black dress she had worn on her trip with Ted Hudson. It was fine then in a decent restaurant but here, she felt like a high-class hooker. Already, her phone had rung twice and she had turned down propositions to join prosperous, well-fed Bavarians at their tables. Being Sunday night, the cabaret was only two-thirds full and the aging dancers seemed no more enthusiastic than the crowd as they shed their clothes. All the way. No pasties or g-strings as in America. Mattie found it all to be sad and certainly not erotic.
The telephone rang and Mattie picked it up. A deep voice said ‘Fraulein McGary?’”
“This is she.”
“A large Mercedes motorcar is waiting outside for you. Are you armed?”
“Yes.”
“At the motorcar, you will be relieved of your weapon. This is acceptable?”
“Yes.”
Mattie claimed her evening coat from the hat-check girl and walked out the door to the end of the frayed and tattered red awning which covered the entrance to the White Mouse. Waiting there, its engine idling, was a long black Mercedes. A door swung out as Mattie arrived and she ducked her head and stepped into the car. She felt strong hands pat her down. The man was thorough and professional as he searched for the automatic pistol he soon found in her coat pocket. She turned, and there in the far right-hand corner of the limousine, its windows lined with curtains, was the gleaming bald head and thick neck of Erich Boldt.
“Fraulein McGary. How pleasant to see you again.”
“A pleasure to see you, as well, Herr Boldt.” Mattie answered in German.
“So. You are seeking information about Herr Doktor von Verschuer. A strangely popular man. Yours is the second inquiry I have received today about him.”
Mattie was surprised and she let it show. “Really? Who was asking?”
“All in good time, my dear. All in good time. But first, we are taking a little ride. Somewhere quiet where we won’t be disturbed.”
Before she knew what was happeni
ng, the same strong hands which had patted her down and relieved her of her weapon grabbed her wrists in one deft motion and encased them in a pair of stainless steel handcuffs, ignoring her struggles. A soft cotton blindfold was tied over her eyes. When she began to raise her hands to her blindfold, someone pulled them forcefully down and slapped her face hard. It was Erich Boldt and his voice was cold.
“None of that if you know what’s good for you,” Boldt said. “Now tell me. Who sent you? Why are you working for the Nazis?”
53.
I Am Spoken For
Night Train to Regensburg
Sunday, 29 May 1932
VIELEN Dank,” said an attractive brunette in the dining car on the night train to Regensburg via Munich. The waiter nodded and left the couple to their meal.
Kurt von Sturm sat across from the brunette and marveled that a pair of false eyeglasses failed to dim the brightness and beauty of Ingrid Johansson — the name “Waterman” no longer applied to her as far as she was concerned. The “precautions” he had insisted upon just might do the trick. After his mother cut her long hair in a fashionable bob, he had spent time applying the dyeing chemicals he purchased from his Norden barber as Ingrid sat patiently in the tub.
The twins’ disappearance had changed Ingrid. Her life was in danger but finding her siblings gave her a purpose beyond herself. For Sturm, finding them was another matter of honor.
Ingrid was practicing her German over dinner. That was the second layer of her disguise. Ingrid had to appear to be German to anyone with whom she had to interact. The dining car was mostly empty as Ingrid spoke quietly in English. “I think my accent is improving.”
“And all this time, you thought you were teaching English to Franka.” Sturm replied.
“How do you explain who I am?”
“You are my assistant. My traveling secretary. You are there to take notes. Given your beauty, they will probably assume you’re also my mistress. Let them make that assumption.”
“But I’m the one who’s married,” she said. “Wouldn’t that make you my mistress?”
Sturm frowned. When Ingrid said things he didn’t quite understand, she was usually making a joke. He had known another beautiful woman who did the same. Kurt von Sturm. A mistress. That was pretty funny. He allowed himself a faint smile.
“Good boy,” Ingrid said, “Now, I’m not the only one learning a new language.”
“But you are learning fast,” he said. “Meine liebe Fraulein, von wo du bist?”
Ingrid replied “Entschuldigen, ich bin sehr beschäftigt.” Excuse me, I am very busy.
“Excellent,” Sturm said. “Entschuldigen, Fraulein, wurde du mögen etwas Tee?”
“Nein, danke. Ich bin fein,” No thank you. I’m fine.
Sturm responded in a blur of German which roughly translated to, “As you wish, Fraulein. You look so beautiful, I should like to introduce you to my mother and sister.”
“Danke sehr, aber ich wurde für gesprochen.” Thank you but I am spoken for.
Sturm leaned back in his seat with a smile. “You’re getting better all the time.”
Ingrid laughed triumphantly. “I don’t know. The only words I understood were beautiful, mother and sister. But you’re the kind of man who would make a pass at me after offering tea, let alone wine.” She gave Sturm a devilish look. “Can we return to our compartment now?”
“Yes. Why?”
“I’d like to practice my German pillow talk.”
Sturm paused, sensing another joke had been made with an American idiom.
Ingrid sighed with impatience. “Think about it for a minute. You’re a smart guy. You’ll figure it out.”
Sturm did. Then he laughed. He really did like Americans. Even their sense of humor.
54.
The Nazis Are Not My Friends
Munich
Sunday, 29 May 1932
DAMN! Cockran thought, as he slouched low in the front seat of his dark gray BMW 328 roadster parked half a block away from the White Mouse Cabaret. Cockran had watched with rising concern when he saw Mattie come out and step into a Mercedes with its side curtains drawn. He had a clear view through the front windscreen of all that happened once she was inside. The handcuffs and the savage slap was all he needed to know. Meeting Boldt alone was a mistake. As the car pulled abreast of Cockran, its rear interior light was switched off and he strained to see anything out of the shadows inside but he couldn’t. Where the hell was Sullivan? He should have been here by now with two more Apostles.
Cockran had tried one last time to persuade Mattie to put off her meeting with Boldt until the following day when Bobby and the Apostles would certainly be there, but she had refused.
“We can’t afford to waste a whole day. And I don’t want to be followed, Bourke. It will make Boldt suspicious and I must get him to trust me” she had said.
Cockran turned in his seat to watch the Mercedes speed down the street. It turned right at the first intersection and Cockran put the BMW into gear, executed a u-turn and followed the Mercedes. Soon, they were deep within a warehouse district. Lights were on in some buildings but most were dark.
The Mercedes turned left at another side street. Cockran was about to do the same when he noticed that the street was a dead end. Fifty yards away at the end of the street sat a squat, three-story brick warehouse building with fading white paint. It did not look occupied. Cockran drove past the dead end, did a u-turn, parked the BMW on the boulevard, and walked back to the dead end street. He reached the building on the corner and heard a horn sound three times.
Cockran peered down the street and saw a battered overhead metal door rise in the white building and the Mercedes disappear inside. The front of the building was featureless and the only windows were long horizontal ones set eight feet above the ground. The metal door closed and two guards armed with submachine guns returned to their position.
Well, that takes out a frontal approach, Cockran thought. He needed another way to get inside. When he was a captain in the Great War, he would never move a unit forward without reading the latest reports from aerial surveillance to give him a current layout of his own and the enemy’s trenches. As he did not have access to a biplane or a reconnaissance balloon now, he would have to get higher up for a bird’s eye view.
Cockran looked up at the building that shielded him from view of the guards a block away. It was four stories high which was enough to give him perspective. He began rounding the building, searching for some way to get inside, and stepped into an alley which ran along the building’s right side. A rusted metal fire escape zigzagged its way up the side for four stories. Unusual for a German building but fortuitous for him. The fire escape was set ten feet off the ground to discourage what Cockran had in mind — gaining entrance to the roof. A rusting metal oil drum was at the far end of the fire escape, but that still left him a good foot short of getting his hands on the bottom rung. He walked deeper into the alley until he found what he was looking for. Several sturdy looking empty wooden crates with stencils on their sides, Braun Precision Tools. Underneath that, Milwaukee, Wisconsin. God bless America.
Picking up one crate, Cockran returned to the oil drum and placed the crate on top. Standing on the crate, he hoisted himself onto the bottom rung of the fire escape and made his way up it to the roof. Once there, he walked over to the ledge to get a look at the warehouse. He lay prone on the roof and peered over to see the two guards standing watch outside the entrance. Along the right side of the warehouse, he could see at least two more guards by the telltale lights from their cigarettes. Not a very good chance of gaining entry at ground level.
Directly across, it was difficult to see much detail on the warehouse’s roof, the lights from street level not reaching that height. One thing was clear, though. The warehouse was surprisingly close to his building, separated by an alley about ten feet across, although it was at least a twelve foot drop down to the warehouse roof from his building. But if he made it
, the odds became better. They would not be expecting an intruder from above.
It was risky, to be sure, but it was the only way he was going to be able to rescue Mattie and maybe commandeer that Mercedes to get them out of there and past those machine gun-toting guards outside. Would the noise of his landing be noticed by the guards? He didn’t think so. The sound of the traffic on the boulevard would mask his aerial approach.
Of course, there was the immediate problem of a four story drop to his death if he couldn’t clear the ten foot space. He thought he could leap that far, certainly with a running start and the lack of any ledge to impede his progress. But doing it was entirely different than thinking about it. Still, he had no choice. Mattie was in trouble and, just like the idiot he had been about her visit to Cold Spring Harbor, he had let her walk into it alone.
Cockran took a few steps back, steadied himself, waited until he could hear approaching trucks on the boulevard, then started forward. Gradually building his speed, he stutter stepped near the building’s edge to time his footing and plant his right foot. He leaped into the air, the roof below soaring towards him but his heart hung in his throat as he saw his legs waving over the four story drop to the pavement below. He landed hard, his right foot and then his knee hitting the roof as he rolled forward and back up to his feet. Ignoring the pain in his knee, he turned around to look up at the other building. It seemed a lot higher and further away than before. He waited, listening for any sign his landing had been heard but there was only silence.
A small padlock hung on the heavy metal door to the stairwell but it was easy work for Cockran to pick. Padlock gone, he had to be careful with the door. It was big, old and looked like it was rarely used. He needed to be quiet. He pulled the door open slowly and squeezed inside the stairwell. He followed the stairwell down two floors to another door. He opened it and saw a metal stairway leading down to a metal gangway that lined the perimeter of the open ground floor of the warehouse. He could hear voices echoing up from the warehouse floor. He let the door close behind him. Despite his care, it gave out a faint metallic squeak.
The Gemini Agenda Page 28
