The Gemini Agenda

by Michael McMenamin

  Cockran froze. He heard the voices stop at the sound. After a moment, the voices resumed and he made his way carefully down the metal stairway, trying to minimize the noise.

  When he reached the gangway, he looked down and then drew the Webley from its holster.

  The warehouse floor was mostly dark and three quarters filled with crates stacked two high, nearly eight feet. There were aisles between the crates every fifty feet or so. In a clearing in the middle of the floor sat Mattie, a single overhead light shining down on her. Her wrists were still cuffed in front of her, her ankles bound to the sides of the chair. Her coat was off and all she wore was that damn skimpy black dress with its narrow halter top. Normally, Cockran liked that dress a lot but now it made her seem bare and vulnerable. Beyond Mattie, cloaked in shadow, he could see two other figures bound and gagged in chairs, their features indistinguishable at this distance.

  Cockran could not tell what was going on. Mattie was being interrogated and giving her answers in German. Her tone of voice was angry. Four men stood around her, but the man questioning her was large with a gleaming bald head, his tuxedo jacket carefully folded on a chair behind him, his sleeves rolled up, his black bow tie neatly in place. He smacked Mattie with a vicious backhand, followed by an open-face slap with the forehand, blood appearing on her split lip. The bald man was clearly angry and not at all happy with Mattie’s answers.

  Quietly, Cockran began to move down another metal stairway from the gangway to the ground floor of the warehouse. Four men inside, four men outside. Not very good odds, but with most of the warehouse cloaked in darkness and the crates for cover, he would have the advantage of surprise. He stopped halfway down the stairs and saw the bald-headed man kneel down in front of Mattie and gently dab the corner of her mouth with a handkerchief. His tone was soothing. Then the bald man turned, took a glass of water from one of the other men and offered it to Mattie who held it in her cuffed hands. Good, he thought. A distraction. Time to move.

  Cockran started down the rest of the stairway and stopped short, two-thirds of the way to the warehouse floor. There was a man directly in front of him beginning to walk up the stairs. The man saw him and froze, startled. Cockran took one more step and leaped at the man, his shoulder hitting him in the chest and taking him back down the stairs where he landed on his back with Cockran on top. He heard the man’s head bounce off the pavement with a thick crack and felt his body go slack. Behind him, the remaining three men began to shout.

  Standing up, Cockran could see two of the three men approaching him from the spot of light in the center of the floor. They had heard the impact but it was clear they hadn’t seen him in the shadows behind the crates. He’d have to take advantage. The bald man—unarmed, from what Cockran could see—stayed behind with Mattie and watched the others. Cockran moved sideways to his right, trying to outflank the men who were walking from the light into the dark. One of them switched on a flashlight off to Cockran’s left. By the time the flashlight swept over to the aisle where he had been, Cockran had moved so far to the right that he’d become even with the aisle leading to the bald man holding Mattie hostage. He inched forward towards the light, Webley held tight in his palm. The bald man was staring after his men, shouting instructions in German, all of them searching in the wrong spot for Cockran who was about to come up behind the bald man. Cockran stopped just short of the light and cocked the Webley, the click echoing through the now silent warehouse. The bald man spun around as Cockran spoke.

  “You’d better understand English, Buddy, because it could save your life. Hands up!”

  “Cockran!” Mattie yelled, craning her neck to see him.

  “Tell that bald asshole to call his men off or I’ll kill him where he stands.”

  “I speak English, Herr Cockran,” the bald man said in a thick guttural voice. He didn’t raise his hands. Instead, he shouted something in German to his men. “But I don’t fancy the odds of your leaving this warehouse alive, with or without my death.”

  “Cockran, what are you doing?!” Mattie yelled, almost angry it seemed. “Coming in here with a gun when you’re outnumbered four to one? You could have been killed.”

  “More like eight to one, actually,” the bald man said, rolling his shirt sleeves down and smoothing them out. “But I admire your courage.”

  “Lunacy is more like it,” Mattie said. “Cockran, put the gun down!”

  What the hell was going on? What was Mattie trying to pull? Cockran saw the other two guards appear at the edge of the light, their weapons pointed directly at Mattie, the bald man and Cockran who had stepped forward, his Webley no more than three feet from her captor.

  “Let her go now or you’re dead,” Cockran said.

  The bald man leaned forward and took the cuffs off Mattie’s hands and untied her feet. “There, Herr Cockran. She is free. If you put your weapon down, I would be happy to explain.”

  “Bourke, it’s okay,” Mattie said,. “It was just a misunderstanding. Put the gun down.”

  “A misunderstanding? That asshole was using your face for target practice.”

  “There is an innocent explanation, I assure you,” the bald man said, re-fastening his cufflinks. “I am Erich Boldt.”

  “Do I look like I give a damn?” Cockran replied.

  “Apparently you do not,” Boldt said. He reached for his tuxedo jacket and calmly put his arm through the sleeve. “But you must understand. The Nazis are not my friends.”

  “So what? They’re not my friends either.” Cockran said, impatient at the non sequitur. “What’s your point?”

  Erich Boldt stepped towards Cockran, straightening his jacket. “My point, as you put it, is that I have no patience for Nazi sympathizers. The Nazis frown on my activities and believe that only they may use violence in furtherance of their goals. While I know Fraulein McGary has done me a favor in the past for which I am grateful, she is close enough to Hitler to have interviewed him not once, but three times. In my experience, Herr Hitler does not so willingly grant interviews to his enemies. So, when Fraulein McGary wanted the location of a clinic in Bavaria run by Baron von Verschuer, a well-known party member, I was suspicious. She was the second person to make that inquiry today. I had to make certain she was not, what is it you Americans say? ‘Setting me up.’”

  “She’s not setting you up. She’s working on a story which, if von Verschuer really is a Nazi, will bring them a lot of unfavorable publicity,” Cockran said.

  “Indeed, that is what Fraulein McGary told me,” Boldt responded, “and I think I now believe her. Frankly, if you would just lower your weapon, I might be fully convinced.”

  “You first,” Cockran said. Boldt nodded to his men and Cockran watched them holster their weapons and then he slowly lowered his Webley and did the same.

  “Good. Now we can talk.” Boldt said. “As I said, it naturally aroused my suspicions when Fraulein McGary was the second person to contact me today seeking information about Baron von Verschuer. Perhaps you can help me identify these other gentlemen.”

  Boldt snapped out a rapid order in German and his three men crossed to the other side of the warehouse where the other two captives were bound and gagged. Cockran watched as their hands and legs were freed and they were helped to their feet. One of the captives needed two men to lift him up as he could not put weight on one foot. He leaned heavily on one of Boldt’s men as he hobbled over to the spotlight.

  “Bobby!” Mattie exclaimed. “What are you doing here?”

  “And couldn’t I be asking you the same question? Our original plan was only to be your bodyguard but we had a wee problem along the way,” Bobby Sullivan replied with a smile, or as close to a human smile as he could muster and one he usually reserved for Mattie. Sullivan then turned to his fellow captive who Cockran could see was Rolf Heyden, a young Munich hotel concierge who had helped them last year with the Cockran client who had been the victim of a Nazi extortion scheme.

  “Rolf, I know you told me
you knew of someone who, for a price, could find anyone. But these two,” Sullivan said with a nod in the direction of Cockran and Mattie, “weren’t the ones I was looking for.”

  55.

  I Want To Help the Party

  Regensburg, Germany

  Monday, 30 May 1932

  ONCE in Regensburg, Sturm wasted no time. He hailed a cab and headed directly for the local offices of the National Socialist German Workers Party. He was dressed all in black—a turtleneck, slacks, and the hip-length leather coat worn by German naval airship officers.

  “Shouldn’t we start at the hotel?” Ingrid asked under her breath.

  “Not yet. I do not wish to be seen or noticed any more than is necessary.”

  They arrived at a squat beige two story building with a red tiled roof. Five blocks away, the twin spires of St. Peter’s Cathedral towered over the buildings around it. Ingrid adjusted her false glasses, wielding her pale green notebook like a shield and followed Sturm inside. A large flag in colors of red, black and white dominated the lobby, although not in the traditional horizontal bars of Imperial Germany. Instead, the flag was blood red, with a large white circle in the center, enclosing the ancient spiritual symbol of the hooked cross, a black swastika.

  A young man, a boy really, with short blond hair sat beneath it at a small desk and greeted them both with cold and suspicious eyes. “What is it?” he asked.

  “My name is Kurt von Sturm. I wish to speak with the Gauleiter.”

  “Do you have an appointment?”

  “No. But it is a matter of some urgency.”

  “Herr Vokhsul sees no one without an appointment,” the boy said with more than a trace of arrogance. “Everyone in Regensburg know this!”

  Sturm held the boy’s gaze. The boy grew uncomfortable in the silence, eventually shifting his eyes away. “I’m going to have to ask you to leave,” he said. “Sir.”

  Sturm reached into his breast pocket for his billfold. He found the badge inside and rested it quietly on the table beside which he placed an ID card. Before the boy had a chance to look at the badge, Sturm placed his hand over it and spoke in a quiet voice. “Give this to the Gauleiter. If you are quick about it, I will not mention your impertinence to Herr Vokhsul — and more importantly, I will not report to my superiors about the pathetic staff he has hired in this district.”

  Sturm slowly lifted his hand. The boy took one look at the badge and then the ID card. His face drained of color. “I am sorry Herr von Sturm. Deeply and truly sorry. Sir, I…”

  “I said to be quick about it.”

  “Yes, Sir!” the boy said as he stood up, shot Sturm a quick Roman salute and left.

  THEY chose to walk the ten blocks north to the main police station, the twin spires of the cathedral towering at their backs. Ingrid tried to keep pace with Sturm’s long strides..

  “What was that about back there?” she said in a whisper.

  “I secured the name of a police detective who will be able to help.”

  “No, with the boy out front. What did you show him?”

  “That? I showed him my credentials as Herr von Thyssen’s executive assistant.”

  “From the boy’s reaction, you would think Herr von Thyssen was Vlad the Impaler.”

  “He owns the United Steel Works,” Sturm said, ignoring her humor. “A man like that has a great deal of power and influence in Germany and his name carries instant respect.”

  “And the badge of his executive assistant strikes terror into the hearts of little Nazis?”

  “Was your wait outside uncomfortable?” Sturm asked, ignoring her question.

  “No, it was fine. The boy was too frightened to engage in conversation,” she said. “But why did you have to visit a Nazi party office to find a policeman who could help us? Why couldn’t we go directly to the police?”

  “Little happens in Bavaria without the Nazis’ knowledge, certainly not an abduction of two American students.”

  “How would the Nazis know if the police did not?”

  “They are privy to information that is not available to the general public, and that includes the authorities. They have key men and sympathizers placed at all levels of government. They are called ‘V-Men,’ shorthand for Vertrauensmänner, ‘trustworthy men.’”

  “You mean spies?” she said.

  “Sympathizers.”

  “Why wouldn’t the Nazis tell the police about kidnappings? Shielding kidnappers doesn’t seem honorable.”

  Sturm shifted his body to avoid another passerby and answered her stiffly. “Unless you continue this conversation in German, I insist you remain quiet.” Ingrid blushed but did not answer. Sturm took her hand and urged her onward, “Angegangen, hast!”

  At the police station, they did not stop at the booking desk to ask directions. Two stairways on either side led away from the entrance and up to a hallway of offices on the mezzanine. Sturm led Ingrid down this hallway, passing mostly men in muted gray plainclothes, until they reached a doorway that opened into a large open anteroom. The Bureau of Detectives.

  Sturm approached a stout woman in her thirties with short brown hair, sitting outside the main office. “Kurt von Sturm for Käpitan Bloem, please.”

  “Yes, Sir,” she said. “He’s been expecting you.” The secretary rose from her seat and knocked on the door, announcing their presence. Then she opened the door and waved them in.

  The office was darker than the anteroom outside, blades of light seeping in through horizontal wooden blinds. Kapitän Bloem stayed behind his desk and did not rise.

  “Good afternoon, Kapitän Bloem,” Sturm said. “I hope you don’t mind that I’ve brought my traveling secretary with me. She is excellent at taking notes if I need them.”

  “Gutentag, Kapitän Bloem,” Ingrid said in perfectly practiced German, adding a curtsy.

  “Please sit down,” Bloem said. “Let us see whether there is anything to take notes about.” Sturm nodded and sat directly before the desk. Ingrid took her seat at the side of the room. “I’m told we have some mutual friends?”

  “We may, in fact,” Sturm said, and reached inside his breast pocket again for the badge he had shown earlier. He laid it on the detective’s desk and let him examine it. Ingrid was too far away to see it and she would not be able to follow their conversation in any event.

  “45,250?” Bloem said with astonishment. “You must be one of the “old fighters”.

  Sturm nodded. “1923. How long have you been a member?” Sturm asked.

  “Me? Not nearly so long. I did not join until I saw which way the wind was blowing in 1930. I’ve never known which politicians to support. But the Depression persuaded me the Nazis had the answers. Even before then, I wanted nothing more than to rid Germany of the Versailles treaty and to hang the traitors of Weimar that burdened us with it.”

  “I could not agree more, Kapitän Bloem,” Sturm replied. “Why else become a V-Man?”

  Bloem gave a quick sideward glance at Ingrid, but she had not shown any special interest in Sturm’s comment about V-Men. Instead, she appeared to be scribbling away on her pad.

  “I want to help the party. I like to think I am in a position here in Regensburg to do so.”

  “Here is how you can help,” Sturm said. “My employer has asked me to track down two Americans. They were seen last in Regensburg. They’re missing and I need to find them.”

  “Americans? Is there anything you can tell me about them?”

  Sturm went on to describe them each individually from what Ingrid had told him—brown hair, average height, early twenties. Fraternal twins.

  “Herr von Sturm,” Bloem said quickly, “we receive so many visitors here in Regensburg every summer to see our cathredral, many of them Americans. You must understand how difficult it is for us to keep track of every one that comes in and out of our town. I will be happy to make several inquiries.”

  “I recently sat down to lunch with Heinrich Himmler,” Sturm said, conversationa
lly. “Himmler and I joined the Party around the same time in 1923 but he’s been a member longer than I have, Number 42,404. The one thing he kept emphasizing to me when we take power was record-keeping. Every police station in every town will keep perfect records of every citizen and stranger in their jurisdictioin. That way, Germany can keep a careful eye on the Fatherland’s enemies from abroad as well as at home.”

  Sturm paused for effect. It was true as far as it went. He had lunched with Himmler. But recently? Well, August, 1930 might be considered recent. It was right after the National Socialist breakthrough election that month when the Nazis overnight had become the second largest party in Germany. Sturm had brought much needed funds to the party and he was the apple of Hitler’s eye. Himmler tried to recruit him for the SS but Sturm turned him down flat. Few could do that with impunity but Himmler would never insult a man high in the Fuhrer’s favor. Hence, the invitation to join the SS remained open and the gleaming black uniform of an SS Obersturmbannfuhrer still hung in Sturm’s Munich apartment. Unused.

  “Now, Regensburg can’t be so large that a good Nazi like yourself would not be able to keep track of foreigners passing through your town. I imagine Herr Himmler would be most disappointed to learn that I was unable to find adequate assistance here in Regensburg.”

  Bloem removed a handkerchief from his jacket and patted the sweat from his brow. He turned to Ingrid. “Fraulein, please put your notebook away for the moment.”

  Ingrid looked up with blank eyes, probably understanding only the word “notebook.”

  Sturm intervened. “It’s all right, Heidi,” he said, nodding to Ingrid and gesturing with his hand to make it clear that he was asking her to stop taking notes. “You may stop taking notes.”