Rising Sun

by Robert Conroy

  Since Germany was as much an enemy as Japan, it was slightly ironic that his weapon of choice was an 1898 model German Mauser that his father had smuggled over from his stint in World War I. His daddy had told him it was one of several thousand Mausers that had been adapted by the krauts for use as a sniper rifle. Bear had practiced with it for so long it was like an extension of his arm and eye. Dad had died of the Spanish Influenza in 1918 and left the weapon to his large son who cared for it lovingly. It was his only real connection with his dead father.

  In fact, he laughed, the only thing he caressed more tenderly was Ruby Oliver’s luscious body.

  He told himself to get back to reality. A handful of Japanese stood in plain sight only a couple of hundred yards away from where he was lying in the woods. He was on a knoll looking down through the trees to a clearing. Peering through the rifle’s scope, he could see that they were like the other Japanese soldiers he’d been observing. They were dirty, thin, and, with the exception of their officer, looked very hungry and dispirited. In the distance he heard gunfire. The first time it had happened, he’d been convinced that other scouts had been discovered, or maybe someone was shooting at him from long range. It took a while before he realized that the Japs were shooting up Alaska’s forests in search of game they could kill and eat. He thought their incessant and undisciplined firing was scaring off more potential food than they were going to kill.

  In Bear’s opinion, the Japanese soldier was a major disappointment. From what he’d read in the news and heard from other people, they were supposed to be great at operating in the jungle, which meant they should be able to do well in Alaska’s forests. Since it was generally agreed that the average Jap was less than human, they should have had no problem moving like cats through rough terrain. Not the Japs he’d seen. They did not move through the forests with anywhere near that level of skill. Instead, they were downright clumsy and noisy, always talking and sometimes yelling to maintain contact with their comrades. Worse, their gear rattled. Not the thing to have happen while you are stalking big game that walked upright. He’d been told that their shooting wasn’t very accurate, though he was not going to take a chance. In his opinion the Japs would never make anything of high quality. He’d concluded that their ferocity in battle was what made them so damned dangerous, not their technology.

  Colonel Gavin would be pleasantly surprised to find out that the Japs were in such bad shape physically. Bear wondered about their morale. They could be desperate, and desperate men could be very dangerous. Hell, even a cornered rabbit would bite. The Japs weren’t yet cornered, he thought, but if they were having trouble feeding themselves they could soon be as desperate as any cornered animal.

  Gavin would also be surprised to find out that the enemy had managed to drive three Type 95 light tanks up the road toward Fairbanks. Where they’d gotten the fuel, he didn’t know. For that matter, he’d been told the Japs had no armor, that it had all been destroyed by the navy. These tanks must have been brought ashore with the first group, or maybe they got off the transports before they were sunk, or maybe retrieved after the ships were sunk. It didn’t matter. The only important thing was that three of the beasties were clanking toward Fairbanks. They were miserable-looking things, each had a small cannon, and they too rattled and sounded like they would fall apart if they hit a pothole in the road.

  A Japanese officer was haranguing the men below him. He slapped them several times. The blows were hard enough to stagger the soldiers, but they just stood there and took it. Bear growled. Anybody do that to him and the guy would get his head stuffed up his ass along with that big sword the shit of an officer carried. It was no way to treat men, not even Japs. American officers wouldn’t dream of beating their men like that.

  Bear sighed as he looked at the tableau below. Should he or shouldn’t he? What the hell, he decided. He held the Mauser to his shoulder and looked into the scope. The officer’s head was clear as a bell in the crosshairs. Normally, he’d aim for the chest, but it was obscured. He gently squeezed the trigger and, as hoped, the sound was largely muffled by the ground and the earth he’d piled around the barrel.

  The officer’s head exploded and the dead man dropped like a rock. The soldiers around him ducked for cover. A couple of them returned fire, sort of, shooting in all directions. Enough fun, Bear thought as he got up and sprinted away. That was the third Jap he’d managed to kill on this patrol. He retrieved the small motorcycle that had carried him down the road and through the forest. Like his rifle, the bike’s engine was muffled. The Japs were only about seventy miles away from the American lines. It was time to talk to Gavin.

  * * *

  Dane and Harris looked through the one-way window at the little man in the chair. He was slight, bald, and had a pasty complexion. Not exactly an advertisement for a German superman, Dane thought. A dirty and badly scuffed briefcase lay by the German’s feet. It actually bore the emblem of the old Imperial Germany and not the swastika.

  “Are we really going to make a deal with this guy?” Dane asked.

  “Well now, that depends, doesn’t it? Frankly, I hope this little man does have something interesting to say. I got a telegram from J. Edgar telling me to get off my ass and get this sabotage thing solved, so I guess that gives me carte blanche to do whatever I have to.”

  “You heard from Hoover himself?”

  Harris chuckled. “And why the hell not? Seriously, he and I go back a long ways, even before there was an FBI for him to take over and shape into his image and likeness. You do recall that Hoover was head of the Bureau of Investigation before it became the FBI, don’t you?”

  “Sort of,” Dane admitted.

  “Well, I was one of his very bright young agents back when the Bureau was small. I helped him a lot and taught him a lot, and sometimes he’s a little bit grateful.”

  “I bet you also know a lot, which is why he tolerates you.”

  “Damn straight. He wants agents now who are straight-arrow and wear a suit well, not some rumpled old fart like me. But he tolerates me because of our shared history. Well, at least he does so far. I’m one major screw-up away from retirement, which is beginning to look more and more attractive. Now, you want to talk to this guy or to me?”

  Dane said that Harris should lead the questioning. They walked into the interrogation room and took seats across from the German. The man seemed a little surprised to see a naval officer, but quickly recovered.

  Harris took out a notebook. “Let’s get through the formalities. What’s your name and occupation?”

  The man was in his late forties, early fifties, and clearly uncomfortable. “My name is Johann Klaas and I work for the German embassy in Mexico City, or at least I did until the Mexican government shut it down and put us in house arrest pending travel arrangements to get us safely back to Germany. My position would best be described as an accountant. I was in charge of the embassy’s money.”

  Dane thought the man’s English was excellent, but then, the man was a diplomat of sorts. He did look very much like an accountant.

  “What do you want from us?” Harris asked.

  Klaas took a deep breath. “Asylum.”

  Harris pretended to make a note in his book. “I understand you faked a heart attack just before embassy personnel were to be repatriated back to Germany. Is that correct?”

  “Yes. During my time in Mexico City I made some friends and one was a physician who detested the Nazis for what they were doing to the Jews. He gave me some medicine that made me very ill and then confirmed that I was having a heart attack when I was sent to the hospital. As a result, they left for Germany without me with the understanding that I would follow if and when I was well enough to travel. Hopefully, that will be never.”

  “Why do you wish to defect?” Dane asked, earning a quick glare from Harris, who clearly wished to control the conversation.

  “I am not a Nazi. This may come as a shock to you but many, many Germans are not Nazis and ar
e horrified at what is happening to our country. It is especially true in the diplomatic corps. Yes, we applauded when Hitler gave us back our dignity and pride, but we did not desire war and we did not want the slaughter of our enemies and the massacres that are happening to the Jews.”

  Harris smiled wickedly. “I dare say there will be more of you denying you were Nazis when you lose the war.”

  Klaas smiled. He had bad teeth. “Of course. However, I have two other reasons for wanting to leave Germany. First, my late wife and I had two children. One is a daughter safe in Brazil. The second is a son who was an officer in the German army, what you call the Wehrmacht. He was killed just before Christmas fighting the Russians. Actually, he wasn’t fighting when he was killed. One of his comrades wrote and told me he had frozen to death because the buffoons in Berlin hadn’t planned on a long war; therefore, there were no winter uniforms for the men.”

  “So you want revenge on Hitler,” Harris said.

  “In a way, yes, but more than that. I want to help destroy the barbarians who’ve stolen my beloved Germany. Before he died, my son wrote several letters in which he described in vivid detail the atrocities being committed in the name of Germany and Hitler. He told me of mass rapes of scores of women at a time, and how even reluctant soldiers were required to participate, actually given orders to assault innocent women by their officers, in particular the SS. He told of systematic looting, and the indiscriminate slaughter of thousands of civilians simply for being Slavs or Jews, again with reluctant soldiers being required to participate so that none could ever be blameless.”

  Klaas shook his head sadly. “The army of my beloved Germany is behaving like the most savage of barbarians because the Nazis believe that the Slavs are less than human. The Jews, of course, are being treated far worse. There are even rumors that all Jews will be exterminated, if you could believe that.”

  “You’re right,” said Harris. “I’ve heard those rumors and they are a little far-fetched.”

  “You are aware, aren’t you, that Jews are being imprisoned, beaten, tortured, and denied a right to earn a living?” Klaas asked.

  “Yes,” Harris said.

  “Well, Agent Harris, my mother was Jewish, which in the eyes of the Nazis, makes me Jewish as well, even though I know only a little of it and have never practiced the faith. My mother’s family was what was referred to assimilated Jews. We considered ourselves Germans, not Jews. Many even volunteered to fight for the Kaiser in the past war. It doesn’t matter to the Nazis. If I was to go back to Germany, I’m reasonably confident I’d be thrown into a concentration camp. You can see that I am not a strong man, so it would be a death sentence. The fact that my son was in the army might have helped me, but he is now dead. Two men on the embassy staff were Gestapo and they told me they looked forward to getting my Jewish ass back to the Reich so they could take care of me.”

  Klaas shuddered. “I was a Jew who handled the Reich’s money; therefore, I was doubly cursed in their eyes.”

  Dane was surprised—no, stunned. This was all new to him. What the hell was going on in the world, he asked himself. He had been concentrating on Japan and not enough on the Nazis.

  Harris put down his notebook. “You’ve made a good case for letting you stay, but there’s no way I can prove anything you’ve said and it still sounds like you’re just trying to save your own skin.”

  Klaas was unperturbed. “I understand your position fully, and yes, I am trying to save myself. So let me offer you a quid pro quo. If I tell you something important, will you be willing to let me live in the United States at least until the war ends and I can get to my daughter in Brazil?”

  Dane could see that Harris’s eyes were lighting up. “It sure as hell would help.”

  Klaas sat back in his government-issue folding chair. “I can give you the man who is wrecking your trains.”

  * * *

  Harris and Dane moved Klaas to a more comfortable conference room. It was furnished with a polished wooden table and very comfortable chairs. Coffee and rolls were provided. Klaas seemed quite relieved and more comfortable with his improved status.

  He set down his coffee. “A short while before Mexico declared war on Germany, I was informed by one of the resident SS officers, who was an extremely fanatic Nazi, that English-speaking Germans on the staff were going to support Japan by entering the U.S. and engaging in acts of sabotage. That these acts would also support Germany was obvious.”

  “Who was the SS man?” Harris asked.

  “His name is Wilhelm Braun. He’s very murderous and I’ve heard that he killed Mexicans for amusement while with the embassy. That, of course, cannot be proven. Braun required money to set up a station in Mexico City and another in Monterrey. He took just about all the cash we had on hand and drained some other bank accounts. The ambassador went along with this. He had no choice. Along with Braun, a total of six men were involved and I have no idea which of them is at what city and what their addresses are. I also have no idea who crossed into the United States, although Braun most certainly did, and I rather doubt that he’s alone.”

  Harris refilled Braun’s coffee. “How is he communicating?”

  “At first by mail and telephone. When that became dangerous, he began using a shortwave radio. He broadcasts pretty much in the clear since he does not have one of our encoding machines.”

  Encoding machines? Dane and Harris looked at each other and wondered the same thing. Who knows about them, and could they get their hands on one?

  Klaas laughed. “I can read your minds. The machine at the embassy was destroyed and they are so complex that no one will be able to replicate one or break the code. If we Germans do anything correctly, it’s devising codes.”

  We’ll see, thought Dane. “So this Braun character sends messages in the clear?”

  “Pretty much,” Harris said. “Although he will generally say vague things like ‘our objective is near,’ or ‘Plan A is being implemented.’ He must know that any radio message might be overheard so he might be saying things that are truly innocuous on the surface. I can give you his radio frequencies and broadcast timing schedules, and you can decide that for yourself.”

  “Outstanding,” said Harris, rubbing his hands. “Now, any idea what is objective is, other than derailing trains?”

  “Yes. Some of my colleagues are quite chatty when talking among themselves; ourselves, since they considered me one of them. Tokyo has pressured Berlin, who is urging Braun to find the location of the Saratoga and her task force. Germany’s little yellow allies seem to think her destruction would make the Americans think more favorably on a peace treaty.”

  “What do you think?” Dane asked.

  Klaas sniffed. “I think the idiots in Tokyo are as insane as Hitler and his friends.”

  “Can you describe Braun for us?” Harris inquired.

  Klaas reached down and put the worn briefcase on the table. “It was a gift from my daughter,” he explained wistfully as he opened it. He pulled out a file folder and a number of photographs spilled out. He picked one from the pile. “Here is Wilhelm Braun.”

  The man in the picture was clean-shaven and looked perfectly ordinary. He had no distinguishing characteristics. Harris took the photo and said it would be copied and circulated. He added that Braun could easily disguise himself by changing his hair, growing a beard, or stuffing his cheeks with cotton when he went out. Klaas gave him other pictures which he said were the rest of Braun’s crew. He followed that with Braun’s radio frequencies and schedules.

  “How did you get all this?” Harris asked, suspicion evident in his voice.

  Klaas smiled. “When we were interned in a Mexico City hotel awaiting transportation to Germany, a number of the staffers had nothing else to do except gossip and brag. I copied down what they said, and stole the pictures from the trash. They were to be shredded and thrown out, of course.”

  “Can you give us any possible aliases he might use?” Dane asked.

/>   “No. I don’t think anyone on the staff gave him phony papers. I believe that would have been someone hired from the outside. Perhaps the Mexican police could help you.”

  Harris snorted. He had a very low opinion of Mexico’s police forces. Far too many of them thought that accepting bribes was part of their job description.

  Harris appeared to think about Klaas’s future, but Dane thought he’d reached a decision a long time ago. “We will grant you asylum, Herr Klaas, but with conditions.”

  “Of course.”

  “You will remain in San Diego with us to help in the search for this Braun person, and you will help monitor transmissions between him and his associates in Mexico. You will also assist in translating since few of my staff speak anything other than minimal German.”

  “Again, of course. And when my job is done, then what?”

  Harris answered. “You’ll get a new name and a place to live, unless you truly want to go to Brazil.”

  Klaas’s eyes misted over. He was clearly thinking of his daughter. “Brazil. Please.”

  * * *

  Although Amanda loved spending as much of her spare time as she could with Tim, she and the other two nurses had bonded thanks to shared experiences and looked forward to seeing each other socially. Even though they worked and bunked together, it was pleasant to just get away and talk.

  Also, there was the intriguing matter of Mack’s will. In response to a message from their local attorney, Morton Zuckerman, they met at Zuckerman’s office. It turned out that Zuckerman, a heavy-set jovial man in his late forties, was related to Richard Goldman by marriage and had insisted on telling them all about it in previous meetings.

  Zuckerman’s secretary, a very pleasant and attractive lady named Judith, also in her forties, told them he had a client, a tenant, and the meeting was running late. No problem, they said, and chatted in the reception area. After the meeting they would go out to dinner. Amanda would see Tim later that evening. Finally, the door opened and a solid-looking middle-aged man came out. He glared angrily around the room. He looked over the three women with ill-concealed hostility and familiarity before he stomped out, limping slightly.