“My dear Helmut,” Schlossberg said quietly, “you always insisted that I call you Helmut, remember?—you didn’t really believe I would operate on you, change your appearance, and not tell the Party, did you? We have followed the career of Benjamin Grossman with intense interest all these years, believe me. We were pleased when you survived Bergen-Belsen—”
“Some people were pleased, some not so pleased,” Mittendorf said, and chuckled. “How was it there, Colonel? Bad, eh? Real bad?”
Schlossberg cut in smoothly with a chiding glance at Mittendorf.
“And with your picture all over every airport and dock when the British were going to hang you for murder in Palestine, we could hardly miss that, could we? With our contacts among the Arabs? And of course since then you’ve become quite a hero with your name in the newspapers quite often. How did we find you?” He shrugged. “As Klaus says, we never lost you.”
Grossman suddenly reached out and picked up the glass of brandy, downing it quickly. It seemed to calm him a bit. He waved aside the waiter who had approached once the glass had been emptied, and poured himself a second drink, but did not drink it. He looked at Schlossberg evenly.
“I introduced you to ODESSA. It saved your life.”
“And I appreciate it.”
“Do you? I also gave you money—”
“I appreciate that as well. It enabled me to live quite comfortably until my ranch began to produce. I’m rather a wealthy man now, and I admit I owe a good bit of it to you.”
Mittendorf laughed. “And you couldn’t get the rest out! Ah, Colonel, the mistakes you made!” The heavy-set Mittendorf was having fun. What a pleasure to see the concern, the panic, on the thin Jew-face of the bastard when Schlossberg had sat down at the table! No arrogance now; none of that supercilious shit from the bastard now! No important friends in Berlin to lean on now; no family name other than one that didn’t even exist! What a joy!
“So you know that, too?” Grossman was looking at him, seeing the same Mittendorf, feeling the same contempt for the man he had always felt. The very contempt took the panic away; his mind began to function again. Mittendorf would really never be a danger, but the new Dr. Schlossberg might well be.
“We know everything there is to know about Brigadier General Benjamin Grossman,” Schlossberg said quietly. “And about his wife, Deborah, who is head hurse at the Magen David Adom first-aid station, and about his son, Herzl, and about everything else. Just as we know everything about Mengele and Bormann and the others who escaped the hangman and who someday we may call upon for their services.”
“So ODESSA still exists …”
“Of course it still exists,” Mittendorf said contemptuously.
“And you two are still a part of it?”
“We three are still a part of it,” Schlossberg said evenly.
“And what does that mean?”
Schlossberg leaned back comfortably, the introductions over, ready for the business of the evening.
“It means we have a job for you.”
“And if I refuse your job?”
“Not my job; our job. And why would you refuse?” Schlossberg asked, as if puzzled by the question. “You, a dedicated member of the Party? You took an oath as a gentleman and an officer of the SS. I knew when I operated upon you that you wished to save your life only for and until the day you could once again do your best for the Party, no? So why would you possibly refuse?”
“Besides,” Mittendorf added, his tiny eyes dancing with mirth, the smoke fairly exploding from his cigar as he chuckled around it, “who would put you on trial first? Who would have the opportunity to hang the famous Colonel Helmut von Schraeder, the Monster of Maidanek, eh? Poland? The Russians? Or—Israel, as they did Eichmann?” He laughed. “They would spend fortunes outbidding each other for you.”
Schlossberg looked at Mittendorf reprovingly.
“There is no need for threats, I am sure. Colonel von Schraeder knows his duty and as a dedicated officer I am sure he is ready to perform it.”
Grossman sat quietly, listening to the not very subtle sarcasm, staring into the amber depths of his brandy glass, fingering the delicate crystal gently. At last he sighed and looked up.
“All right. What do you want?”
“That’s better—”
Schlossberg pulled his chair a trifle closer to Grossman. It was evident that he was in charge of the operation and that Mittendorf had been permitted to attend only as a concession to his ancient feelings of hatred. Schlossberg spoke quietly and slowly.
“In 1965,” he said, “some six years ago, several hundred pounds of enriched uranium were stolen—or borrowed, or lost, or begged, or strayed, it makes little difference—from an enriching plant in the state of Pennsylvania in the United States of America. The factory, incidentally, was owned by a Jew. You know of this missing uranium, of course.”
Grossman sat silent, watching the other man, his face expressionless.
“Of course you do,” Schlossberg said evenly, not permitting the slightest doubt, and went on. “Then just a few years ago, in France, a truck carrying a much larger cargo of uranium—not yellow-cake but again enriched—was hijacked. This time we estimate the amount taken was substantial; many tons. And with this enriched uranium, as I’m sure you know, any decent scientific organization can quite easily produce atomic weapons.”
He was watching Grossman closely now, watching for the slightest change on the man’s rigid face, any sign that Grossman’s reaction would indicate he was striking home.
“Now,” Schlossberg went on, “we are convinced that all of this uranium ended up in Israel.” He held up his hand. “Before you waste your time denying this, if you intend to, I might mention that we are not alone in this belief. The Federal Bureau of Investigation and the CIA in the United States are equally sure.”
Grossman raised an eyebrow. “ODESSA has men in the FBI and the CIA?”
“ODESSA has men everywhere,” Mittendorf said, and suddenly smirked. “We even have a brigadier general in the Israeli Army named Benjamin Grossman, don’t we?”
Schlossberg waved him to silence, concentrating on Grossman.
“Where we have men and where we don’t has nothing to do with it. Getting back to this enriched uranium, we are sure not all of it has been processed into weapons; the amount would indicate an inordinate number of weapons beyond any immediate need. Besides, there undoubtedly will be further developments in the field, developments that will also require enriched uranium. So we believe Israel is holding, in its original pellet form, a great deal of this uranium.”
He looked around the room, satisfying himself that their conversation was entirely private and that the three of them appeared to be nothing more than three associates discussing business over a brandy. Grossman waited patiently, his face a mask, anticipating the demand soon to be made upon him. Schlossberg nodded.
“You know what we want, of course. Israel has so much enriched uranium they won’t even miss the small amount we need. Fifty pounds …”
Grossman pursed his lips. “For exactly what purpose?”
Schlossberg looked disappointed, as if his high opinion of the other’s intelligence had suddenly been put in doubt.
“For the obvious reason, of course,” he said, and leaned closer, his eyes alight with enthusiasm, almost fanatacism. “Can you picture the power of any group—of our group, ODESSA—holding the threat of an atomic weapon in our hands? We could get all the money we needed. We could get anyone out of prison we wanted, even Hess, the poor sod. In comparison with the idiots who hijack airplanes, we could really demand!”
“True,” Grossman said in agreement, since it obviously was true. “But who would believe you had the bomb unless you detonated it? And if you detonated it, what would you have left for your threat?”
Schlossberg smiled at him, a pitying smile.
“You were the one who always believed in having two strings to your bow. It takes about twenty-two
pounds of enriched uranium to make a small bomb; fifty pounds will do us nicely for two bombs. One bomb will be dropped in a suitable place—the Negev or the Sinai, possibly—to prove we are serious. The second will be held in abeyance as the threat. As a very real threat!” He looked at Grossman directly. “And please don’t tell us you know nothing of this material or where it is stored in Israel. We would scarcely believe you.”
Grossman looked back at the man, his face expressionless. Mittendorf leaned over.
“And if we didn’t believe you, we might have to denounce you to the Jews …”
Grossman smiled gently. He had been expecting this threat since the two men joined him at his table, and had formulated his response once his initial panic had left him.
“To begin with,” he said easily, “would our friend Dr. Schlossberg, who was tried and sentenced to death in absentia in Nuremberg, and you, Mittendorf, who the Poles and Russians are still looking for after all these years—would you two charming gentlemen be in any position to testify at any trial I might be asked to undergo? I rather doubt it.” He smiled and continued. “Secondly, even if you were foolhardly enough to present yourselves, who would believe you? It would be your word against mine—two known war criminals against the word of a man who suffered a year in Bergen-Belsen and later became a hero—if you’ll forgive the immodesty—in his adopted country’s army. And your motive for formulating this lie would be easily determined—to weaken the Israeli Army, undoubtedly at the behest of the Arabs. Thirdly, of course, is a matter of proof. ODESSA was kind enough to eliminate any records of Colonel Helmut von Schraeder, and the Allied bombers over Hamburg were kind enough to totally eliminate any possible records of a fictitious Benjamin Grossman. So, gentlemen—” He spread his hands apologetically. “I should think if there were to be any threats, they would come from my side, not yours.”
“Although they would also not get very far,” Schlossberg said, “since both Klaus and I have well-established identities other than our original ones in a place you will never know, and not in Argentina, if that is any help to you. You should be flattered; we traveled a long way to meet you tonight.” Schlossberg sighed. “I was afraid a brilliant man such as you would see the weakness of our argument,” he said regretfully. “Our first argument, that is …”
“And your second argument?”
Mittendorf leaned over, his tiny eyes almost buried in the fat of his face. “How would you like to be found in La Boca or floating in the Plate with a knife in your belly?” he said savagely, almost spitting the words past the cigar.
Grossman brushed away the smoke; he seemed to be brushing the threat away with it. After all, he had always known nothing could be done to avoid the possibility of personal violence.
“If you think that will advance your interests—”
“No, no!” Schlossberg said impatiently. “Klaus, be quiet! That certainly is not our second argument—”
“Then—?”
“Your family,” Schlossberg said quietly, and watched Grossman closely. “Our information is that you are quite attached to them. Let me see …” He seemed to be considering the matter. “A Jew mother and a Jew son. It would not be such a tragic loss at that, I suppose, so possibly that wouldn’t really constitute much of a threat, eh?”
Despite his control, Grossman’s face had whitened.
“However,” Schlossberg went on in a conciliatory tone, “it is pointless to consider such unpleasant things. Colonel von Schraeder, I am sure, will do his duty.”
He smiled and leaned back, a thin figure with sharp piercing eyes and a bushy wig, but impressive despite the overdone hair. He was a far different figure from the indecisive, hesitant Dr. Schlossberg who had ridden with von Schraeder from Lublin to Weimar so many years before, rubbing his bald pate incessantly and mumbling all his patriotic nonsense. What a little money and a little power can do! Grossman thought. Schlossberg leaned forward again, sure his message had been received.
“Assuming you are not interested in the technical side of the material we are discussing,” he said, “let me tell you something about the enriched uranium you will be delivering. It will not be a large package; the fifty pounds that we require will fit easily into your attaché case. It will undoubtedly be in the form of what are called pellets, that is, compressed granules; and each pellet will be about the size of a soup can. I would suggest that you take some ordinary kitchen bars of paraffin with you to separate the pellets in your attaché case; cadmium would be better but I cannot imagine where you would locate cadmium without raising suspicions and we do not want to make your mission any more difficult than necessary. Actually, I am quite sure the pellets are already coated, but the kitchen paraffin would be an extra precaution. Incidentally, as I’m sure you already know, there is not enough radioactivity in the material in its present state to affect anyone carrying it.”
Grossman sat quietly, his face a mask.
“Now,” Schlossberg said, getting to the nub of the matter, “we estimate two weeks should be more than sufficient for you to get your hands on fifty pounds of it. How you manage is your problem”—he paused as Mittendorf smirked—“but I should not fail if I were you.”
“And when—and if—I have it?”
“You will be instructed.”
“How?”
“You will be instructed,” Schlossberg repeated and came to his feet, motioning Mittendorf to join him. He bent slightly at the waist with old-world courtesy and indicated with a slight wave of his hand the almost-full bottle of brandy on the table. “It is paid for. And it was good to see you again. Bon appetit.”
He nodded, smiled, and walked away confidently, with Mittendorf hurrying to catch up. Behind them they left an extremely troubled Benjamin Grossman, for once without a plan.
In the street Klaus Mittendorf threw away his cigar and looked at his companion.
“Do you think he’ll do it?”
“I am quite positive he will do it.”
“But how can you be so sure?”
“My dear Klaus,” Schlossberg said, wondering as always why the organization tolerated an idiot like Mittendorf, “why do you think we planned this meeting so carefully? Why do you think we planned the entire operation so carefully?”
“I know, but—”
“Weren’t you paying the slightest attention to our conversation in there? I said we shall have two bombs, one to drop and the other to remain as the real threat.”
“I know. I heard that, but I don’t see—”
“Brigadier General Benjamin Grossman will see, and that’s all that counts,” Schlossberg said grimly, and ended the conversation.
Chapter 5
Benjamin Grossman could not remember a flight that interminable, that endless, but despite the everlasting hours and despite the fact that his mind raced the entire time, he could not come up with a solution. All my life a planner, he thought bitterly, and when I need a plan the most, I cannot find one! Getting the material would be no problem. He had often inspected the installation at what had once been the kibbutz of Ein Tsofar, and his access to all portions of that factory within a mountain was unquestioned. He had made many suggestions when the caves were being enlarged to provide for an installation undetectable from the air by planes or spy satellites.
No, getting his hands on the material was not the problem. Even the matter of how long it would be before the loss was detected was not the problem; in the United States it had taken years before the discovery was made and with care the same time could elapse in Israel before it was known. No, the problem was whether or not he should hand it over to ODESSA when and if he had it. His reasons for rejecting the organization back in Strasbourg in the first place had never changed; and to give in to blackmailers was merely to dig oneself deeper into a bottomless pit.
But the alternative to giving them the material was unthinkable. He had little doubt that ODESSA could reach into Israel and harm either Deborah or Herzl, although his knowledge of
security made him realize that proper precautions could make it very difficult. But, would giving ODESSA the material with which they could destroy Tel Aviv, if they chose, be any protection for those he wished most to protect? Obviously not. Certainly not. That could not be the solution to the problem. It was an endless chase in his head, and the only answer he could see was hardly an answer at all; and that was that he desperately needed help.
He came down the steps from his plane the following day weary from his trip and from not having rested at all, and from having worn himself out in his search for an operative alternative to the step he was about to take. But there was no other way that he could see. He answered the newsmen who clustered about him asking the results of his trip, but he had no idea of what he was saying, and he excused himself with an abruptness unusual with him. He climbed into his car and as they pulled away from the airport he reached over and tapped the sergeant-driver on the shoulder.
“No, not Ramat Gan. Take me to Mossad headquarters.”
He leaned back and watched the scenery pass, realizing he had come to feel deeply attached to this country, that its possible destruction at the hands of ODESSA or anyone else was unthinkable, or if not unthinkable at least not in his own best interests. Here he had been happy, if not for the first year, certainly after that. Almost twenty-five years of happiness, and now this! He should have destroyed Schlossberg after the operation, as the two inmates who had assisted had been destroyed! But it was too late to worry about that. He closed his eyes, but behind the lids there sprang up a picture of Herzl, stretched out lifeless, and he opened them at once, as if by keeping his vision occupied with the orchards they were passing he could blot out that terrifying thought. Yes, he needed help and he needed it badly!
The car pulled up before the headquarters building; he climbed down and leaned in to the driver. “Call the Magen David Adorn,” he said. “Tell my wife I’m back and where I am. I’ll be home in an hour or so.” He turned and climbed the steps, trying to formulate the proper words, and then dropped the matter. The words would come, proper or not; what had to be said would be said.
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