Beacon of Vengeance

by Patrick W O'Bryon

  “Then let’s saddle up.”

  Horst sat stock still at the phone, receiver to his ear, every sense on alert. Before him on the wall of his hotel suite hung an oil painting of spotted cows grazing a lush green field by golden morning light. A windmill hovered on the horizon, almost lost in the haze rising from the pasture. His eyes moved across the bucolic scene, but his mind was far distant, his thoughts several steps ahead as he learned all that was known about the staged roadway accident, the removal of bodies and evidence, and the abduction of Lemmon.

  Both Peter Brenner and the young driver were gone. No great loss there. Drivers were easy to come by. And Horst had already determined that Brenner lacked the grit and determination to do what was necessary. His days at Horst’s side had been numbered anyway. Brenner—always the ramrod-straight military type, even back in the old days of Marburg. There was good purpose in Horst’s having chosen Klaus Pabst as his second-in-command, as his “dagger.” In Horst’s Gestapo you bent with the wind, and Klaus Pabst had bent willingly; Brenner had faulted Horst’s methods and refused to bend.

  It had started with the interrogations. Brenner had no problem eliminating enemies of the Reich with the immediacy of fist or knife or gun. But when it came to forceful extraction of information, his weak stomach got the best of him. From the beginning Horst had noted his looking away, his finding excuses to distance himself from what should be the most satisfying of experiences, since only by carefully noting the rising levels of pain could the interrogator really understand which methods worked and which merely delayed the inevitable. If secrets were held, or if the subject unknowingly had knowledge which could be of value to the Reich, only the most painstaking techniques would draw them out. Klaus had lived and breathed this awareness, while Brenner had cowered as the interrogations became more thorough. And then he had made the unforgivable error of sending protests up the line to Berlin. Upon hearing of this, Horst had decided Brenner should go. So, good riddance—there would always be others to do his bidding without complaint.

  Horst’s mask revealed nothing as he hung up the phone. He reached for his morphine kit—the degree of need lessened but the physical craving as strong as ever—and stepped out on the balcony overlooking the broad expanse of beach, now empty of officers and young women. Let the game play out, he thought.

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  Paris, Occupied France

  19 August 1941

  Marita strode confidently across the Place de la Concorde. In public she always moved as if late to an appointment, alert for anyone showing undue interest in her passage. Serge’s visit had cast an ominous pall over an already troubled life, and she hoped to reach a solution by meeting with Argent that morning. She now knew her lover’s real name was Harold Sperling, nicknamed Harry by his English mother. But for safety’s sake he could only be Argent to her, at least until the war ended. He had investigated this monster Serge and now had news to share with her, but suggested they avoid any place that might be under observation by the criminal.

  In her heart she wished never to have learned his true identity. She hadn’t asked, but one of her girls overheard him addressed by name by a fellow officer. Should she ever lose this risky espionage game played out nightly, she was certain to face death at Gestapo hands. She hoped she would be strong and courageous enough not to break under torture and reveal his identity, and thus send him to a horrible death, as well.

  Since the loss of her family she had taken to heart what Ryan once suggested and trained her trusted girls to extract intelligence from officers on leave in the city. Knowledge of what military units they commanded and where they were heading or currently fighting could conceivably complete a picture of German armed forces and armaments across the expanding Reich and prove valuable to the Allies. She had hoped by chance to run into an English spy. Rumor had it that many hid in the city, but none came to single her out.

  Instead, Argent had caught her eye, this tall, handsome young man with the kind eyes. She had sworn to hate all the Boches, for no matter how polite and intelligent, their hearts were dark enough to sanction mowing down innocents trying to flee the horrors of war. And Ryan had told her of the Nazi intent to annihilate all Jews. And then Argent had won her heart while finding an appropriate use for the intelligence-gathering system she had devised.

  On this warming August day only a few delivery vehicles and bicycles merged with the military transports and motorcycles. Across the Seine sat the Chamber of Deputies in neo-classical splendor. This former home to the French Parliament and now seat of the Nazi administration displayed a giant V for Victoire fronting the pediment and a long banner above the rank of columns proclaimed DEUTSCHLAND SIEGT AN ALLEN FRONTEN, “Germany victorious on all fronts.” On the square, French police mimicked the robotic gestures of their German trainers as they directed the meager traffic. She noted that the police saluted German officers passing by in their massive sedans. A soft wind tugged at the swastika flags draping balconies and façades, and she shuddered, her disgust never fading.

  Marita headed up Rue Royale toward the Madeleine, passing through a group of Wehrmacht soldiers on leave. She turned a deaf ear to their bawdy comments on her shapely figure. Would their tune change if they knew she was half-Jewish? How many shared the despicable bigotry, and how many others were in the same boat as Argent, merely conscripted into a war ordained by the almighty Führer? Her thoughts returned time and again to her handsome lover, so German in his looks and earnestness, and yet so seemingly pure of heart. He waited for her now, just moments away in their special café near Place de la Madeleine. He always arrived first to be sure all was safe for their rendezvous.

  One year had passed since Paris had opened its gates to the Occupiers, since her family had fallen under that rain of lead. She still trembled at night, imagining again and again what they experienced in those final moments. Had they thought of her safety back in Paris? Had they blamed her for making them flee and thus bringing them to that horrifying scene of death and terror? How much better might they have fared if they had all lived to see the relentless grip of racial hatred tighten further? Her fears for their well-being had driven them from the city. She was responsible for those deaths, and now she vowed never to run scared again.

  Just as Ryan had predicted, anti-Semitic persecution followed in the wake of the Boche hegemony. Obligatory registration of all Jews had begun within months. Vichy authorities seized Jewish property and goods, compulsory yellow posters singled out businesses as Jewish enterprises, and Marita witnessed the desecration of Jewish-owned storefronts by the anti-Semitic fascists. And then followed the first round-up, thousands of foreign-born Jews whisked away to the camps. How long before the educated and wealthy French Jews felt the weight of oppression, persecution and reprisal for daring to be born “Hebrew”?

  Marita side-stepped an old woman of obvious means whose tiny poodle in a diamond-studded collar hoisted his leg to a tree. She marveled at the changes in her divided city.

  For the vast majority of citizens life had become a constant struggle to find the food needed to survive another day. The long lines before the shops, the steady new release of rationed goods and foodstuffs—butter, meat, cheese, eggs, fresh fish, offal; every week something new, from potatoes to wine to milk. The shopkeepers hovering with their scissors, snipping the ration tickets into the special collection boxes. Special dispensation for those with children, but never enough to fill the stomach, and pity the sick, infirm or elderly who lived alone and couldn’t shop the black market, where the price of a kilo of butter rapidly approached the annual wages of an average working stiff. Without soup kitchens whole families would starve. Without fuel for stoves many more would die if the next winter proved as heartless as the last.

  But for those with established means and others with new, black-market wealth, Paris remained an oyster with pearls to be had. The finest restaurants offered caviar and foie gras to all who could pay: powerful German officers, high-society Parisia
ns, black-market geniuses, politicians, and celebrities of stage and screen. One only needed money or connections or both. To succeed, one needed only to follow the dictates of Hermann Göring. The Reichsmarshall demanded the city be squeezed for all its worth. Using the procurement officers of the German military and intelligence branches, those with means and power hoarded the treasures of Paris and France, packing them off to Germany while lining their own pockets with fortunes.

  Argent wore a fine light-weight worsted suit and red tie, and she hated herself for finding his superbly-cut Wehrmacht uniform equally attractive. He sat toward the rear of Café de la Madeleine, his hat placed atop one of the dainty chairs. His broad smile reminded her, as always, of Ryan Lemmon, her first and unrequited love. But now this Boche was rapidly winning her heart in an ironic twist of fate.

  He had arrived at the club barely an hour after that devastating visit from Serge, and they sat together for hours and discussed what might be done to save her business from the ravages of the gangster. His type of extortion had become so prevalent in a Paris of officially-sanctioned criminal activity that she wondered how her little realm had remained untouched for so long. Shouldn’t a club designated officers-only and purveying solely to the Boches have avoided this fate? Late that evening, Argent had left her with a promise to investigate and determine what could be done, and Marita implored him to act quickly before another of her people suffered at the hands of this monster.

  Now she joined him at the table, kissing both cheeks in an ordinary air-kiss betraying none of the passion in their hearts.

  “You have news for me, darling?”

  He nodded but didn’t speak, sipping his coffee as a young waitress approached to take her order. Marita asked for tea and the uniformed server scurried away, allowing them privacy in the near-empty café. No other customers sat near enough to overhear their conversation.

  Marita glanced about the room adorned with pale-yellow tablecloths and matching damask-papered walls. She always found this café so soothing. A glass-fronted display cabinet offered a wealth of cakes and beautiful pastel macaroons, treats for the German guests and the wealthy. Normally out of reach for someone like Marita.

  “It’s going to be more difficult than we hoped.” Argent picked up a sterling silver spoon to stir his lukewarm coffee, a nervous gesture. She could tell he was hesitant to bring her the news. “This man’s well-connected and very successful at what he does.”

  “Give it to me straight.”

  “His name—his given name—is Pierre Savoyard. He goes only by “Serge.” He’s a gutter bum from the 11th with a police record as long as your arm—mostly assaults, armed robbery, break-ins, that sort of thing. He sat out a couple of years for extortion at La Santé but walked on all the other charges. The police were very obliging at first but soon clammed up. I asked my superior to look into it further, and it seems that Serge’s connections go high up indeed. He’s in league with a guy named Lafont, whose ties include the purchasing officer for the SS. They’re all in deep with the German military who share in the profit-taking, so we can’t just make him disappear or they’d come down twice as hard on you.”

  “Mon Dieu! So what are we to do now?” Marita ignored the tea delivered to the table, instead taking a sugar cube and dissolving the sweetness on her tongue, a rare and welcome distraction to the mess she was in. Although frequently receiving gifts of better foodstuffs from the customers of the club, she shared them and her personal ration coupons with the girls and staff, especially those with children or elderly family. Marita often joined her fellow citizens in going to bed hungry. “There has to be a way to get rid of him.”

  “Not until we better understand how he works. We know he lifts liquor from club shipments and resells at a profit, then threatens the suppliers if they claim the order was incomplete. He may have an extortion racket with some of the other night clubs, just as he’s going for with you. It’s all guesswork until we learn more, but word is he’s loaded and greedy.” Argent looked both apologetic and worried. “I’m afraid you’ll have to team up with this guy until we can find a hole in his armor.”

  “But my dancers will quit in droves—they know what he did to Colette!”

  “Make that case to him. Tell him he’s a partner but has to visit only when the club isn’t open for business. Show him the books, appear cooperative, and all the while you find out all you can about his operations.”

  “So I’m a spy, once again.”

  “Come on, ma petite, you do it so well.” He gave her his best smile.

  Marita looked wary. “I hate the bastard’s guts. And if he’s willing to mutilate a beautiful young girl, what makes you think I’m safe with him?”

  “We won’t take that chance. Count on it. Tell him you need advance notice anytime he plans to show up—you know, to be sure the girls aren’t there. Then call me, and I’ll stay out of sight but ready to shoot if needed, all his powerful friends be damned.”

  She placed a hand over his. “I’ve a small storage closet in my office for the film reels back in the days when the place was a movie house. The shelves are long gone and I just keep boxes of records there. If we put a hole in the door for ventilation, you can hide whenever he visits and listen in.”

  “That should work, and if we disguise the opening in the door I can keep an eye on him, as well.” Argent appeared dubious.

  Marita had difficulty imagining Argent hunkering down in a closet and spying through a peephole. “So, is this our only plan?”

  “Doesn’t seem we have much choice, does it?”

  “For the moment, no, but keep thinking. There’s got to be a better solution to rid us of this bastard.”

  On the quiet Rue St. Louis, just across the bridge from Îsle de la Cité and the towering Notre Dame, the French window fronting Chez Claude was open to the street and passers-by. A small blackboard posted alongside proclaimed the day’s menu: sausage and kraut, galettes and crêpes, green salad. The proprietor had chalked a diagonal line through the word “sausage,” reflecting the vagaries of that day’s food supplies.

  Ed stepped up from street level into a narrow space lined by banquettes and small cloth-covered tables. Enameled panels advertised the pleasures of various beers and liqueurs. The lunchtime patronage was mostly gone. A young couple at the table nearest the open window lingered over a near-empty bottle of rosé. He spotted a zinc bar at the rear with two beer taps and high shelves of wine and spirits. An older man in rolled-up sleeves busied himself behind the bar, and the pass-through revealed a tiny kitchen staffed by a disheveled woman, an unlit cigarette butt at her lips. Ed placed her immediately as the man’s overworked wife. To the right leaned an off-kilter door in red indicating “Toilettes.” The proprietor wore a collarless shirt with a red scarf around his neck and a long apron which had seen better days. He smiled as Ed entered and returned his greeting while coming forward to welcome the stranger.”

  “You wish to dine, monsieur?” His best hope was for one more paying customer before closing for the afternoon break. He directed the new guest to a table near the bar.

  “Un verre de rouge, s’il-vous-plaît.” Ed had quickly decided to wait for von Haldheim. A glass of wine would hit the spot.

  The bell over the door jingled anew and a well-dressed man entered. He wore a finely-cut suit and vest with a silk tie despite the warm weather. Though the man’s nose was pore-ridden and his complexion flushed, von Haldheim carried himself majestically. He appeared fit and moved with grace toward Ed’s table, stopping to greet the owner with a handshake and quietly whisper something before introducing himself to the American.

  “Mr. Lemmon, what a pleasure! I would have known you from afar—you bear a striking resemblance to your brother, just not as tall, perhaps?”

  “Not quite.” They shook hands. “Herr von Haldheim, I recall Ryan’s stories. You introduced him to the Berlin nightlife a good decade back. He appreciated having such a knowledgeable guide.”

  Th
e proprietor interrupted their small talk with a 1921 Château Haut-Brion straight from the cellar beneath the establishment. He carefully removed the layer of dust from the bottle before pulling the cork with a flourish and sampling the wine, then nodded his personal approval and offered it to his two guests to try. Ed knew a little about wine, and was amazed to see this grand cru and desirable vintage appear in such a surprising locale.

  “Excellent, Claude. As always, you surpass my hopes and expectations.” Rolf poured a bit more of the wine into the owner’s tasting glass as he withdrew from the table.

  “Merci, Monsieur von Haldheim. So kind to grace again our humble establishment.” Claude disappeared into the kitchen to huddle with his wife. Ed suspected they would be happily preparing the check for such a well-paying customer.

  With the place all theirs after the other couple departed hand-in-hand, Ed asked the obvious. “So tell me, to what do I owe this pleasure?”

  “First, please tell me of Ryan. Is the splendid chap doing well and now at some American university, as he had hoped?”

  “Ryan does very well indeed. He’s now working with our State Department on an exchange program with your government.” Ed tried the excellent Bordeaux and wished he were enjoying it with Grace rather than stuck here with this stranger. “Ryan is also here in Europe.”

  “Really? What luck! Perhaps the three of us might have dinner sometime. The canard à l’orange at Le Pré Catalan is superb.”

  “Well, I don’t know Ryan’s schedule so can’t say when he might be back in Paris. We’ll just have to see how things go. But meanwhile, I’m very intrigued by your contacting me—it’s a bit out of the ordinary. Are you in Paris in some official government capacity? You mentioned access to our embassy roster.”