Mason was about to respond when he saw two bodyguards flanking either side of a door at the end of the hallway. He looked back at Kessel and noticed the man looked uneasy and lacked his previous air of superiority. His boss was in the house.
Kessel shifted to block Mason’s view and said, “Why don’t we discuss things in my office?”
Mason pushed Kessel aside and charged down the hallway, but a moment later two baseball mitts for hands grabbed him from behind and pushed him against the wall. Boris ignored Kessel’s orders to release Mason. Mason twirled, using his left arm to break the man’s tenuous hold. But Boris was quick and grabbed Mason by the throat.
With the heel of his boot, Mason thrust his foot down on the tender bones of Boris’s foot. The pain must have been excruciating, and usually it crippled a man, but Boris still took a swing at Mason. The swing lacked power and speed, and Mason deflected the blow. At the same instant, Mason jabbed Boris in the throat with rigid fingers, just above the hyoid bone. Boris’s eyes popped wide. His hands grabbed his own paralyzed throat, and he staggered backward. His face turned red as he strained to take in air.
Mason knew the man would recover . . . eventually. He turned his back on Kessel and burst through the last door without knocking.
Schaeffer sat at his desk with his feet up and a drink in his hand. Mason’s already explosive rage kicked up to full-blown fury when he saw the other man, sitting in a high-backed, red velvet chair like a king on a throne—Ernst Volker, ex-Gestapo major and torturer-in-chief.
Mason balled his fists. In addition to his fury, he felt an instinctual combination of repulsion and fear. He did everything he could to resist charging the man and crushing his neck. “You!” Mason said to Volker.
“We meet again, Herr Collins,” Volker said.
“Shut up and stay where you are. I’ll arrest you as soon as I’m done with Schaeffer.”
“Relax, investigator,” Schaeffer said. “I can vouch for him. Have a seat, and we’ll talk.”
Mason kicked the door closed, slamming it in the faces of Kessel’s muscle. “Waving his falsified denazification papers at me won’t work this time. I can testify that he tortured U.S. soldiers.”
“You’re addressing a superior officer,” Schaeffer said calmly. “You will conduct yourself accordingly. You cannot burst into my office, acting like a crazed man, and threaten a civilian. Sit down and state your case, or I will have you arrested for insubordination.”
“Your boys just shot at me. I don’t like being shot at.”
“Those weren’t my boys, as you put—”
“Bullshit. You’re the only operator with enough clout to order a hit on a CID investigator out in the open. And thanks to your hit squad, there aren’t too many operators left.”
“If I wanted you dead, I wouldn’t have done it in such a clumsy fashion. Maybe whoever it was simply wanted to warn you to back off of your investigation.”
“You’d have to know the details of the shooting to think it was botched.” Mason stepped forward. “I knew arresting every German racketeer in town would flush out the leaders. I know you and Kessel—and this scumbag”—Mason pointed to Volker—“are behind the murders of Agent John Winstone, Hilda Schmidt, Kantos and his family, and the German gang leaders.”
“Those are very serious charges,” Schaeffer said. “Do you have any proof?”
Mason leaned on Schaeffer’s desk. “I’ll get the proof and bring you down. Your warning didn’t work. I won’t stop. And if you do manage to stop me, then there are plenty of people informed of my investigation that’ll be coming after you. You try to harm anyone to get to me, and I’ll be coming for you.” Mason straightened and removed his .45. He turned to Volker. “Get up.”
Schaeffer stood up and picked up a document conveniently placed on his desk as if anticipating this confrontation. “This document states that Herr Volker was cleared by the XII Corps CIC detachment’s commanding officer, Colonel Roberts. He has been officially sanctioned, and he is a valuable asset to the CIC. If you have a problem with Herr Volker, you’d better take that up with the colonel.”
“I will,” Mason said. “They might like to know what this man did in the service of the Third Reich.” He waved his pistol for Volker to move for the door.
Volker obeyed. “Thank you, Herr Schaeffer, for your defense, but Herr Collins and I have some catching up to do. Haven’t we? How you gave me vital troop positions and movements that aided us in capturing entire regiments in the Ardennes. I didn’t torture him, as Herr Collins alleges. He gave it up willingly. I’m sure whoever interrogates me will be interested to hear what I have to say.”
Volker’s perfect English and soft baritone voice brought back those days of torture: the beatings, the electrocutions, the dunkings in tubs of ice water, the sleep deprivation. Mason had never understood the idiom “seeing red with rage,” because his experience of it was like gazing into a black tunnel. Everything around him disappeared except his tormentor’s face.
It was only after Volker’s head snapped back and he crumpled to the floor that Mason realized he’d given Volker a left cross to the jaw. Mason lunged, while vaguely aware of Schaeffer yelling for his guards. He had just enough time to bring his fist back to strike again when four strong hands pinned him and pulled him away. He struggled, but the men held him fast.
Schaeffer calmly walked up to Mason and leaned in. “You’ve got nothing,” he said, elongating the last word to drive the point home. He slowly put his hand on Mason’s gun. “Let me holster this for you before you shoot someone and get into more trouble than you already are.”
Mason tried to free himself. No use. He knew he had to calm down and take the humiliation. He’d make up for it soon enough. He let Schaeffer take his gun. Schaeffer put on the safety and holstered it. He looked at Volker and tilted his head toward the door. Volker hurried out of the office.
Schaeffer turned back to Mason. “While you’ve been checking up on me, I’ve done the same on you. You have some reputation, investigator. It seems no one will mourn your loss. No one. Now, anything that happens next in here, it will be your word against a decorated officer’s.”
Without warning, Schaeffer gut-punched Mason, the fiery blast of agony forcing Mason to slump helplessly in the men’s arms. He struggled to catch his breath.
Schaeffer grabbed Mason’s hair and yanked upward. He put his face in Mason’s. “You come busting in here, gun drawn, and threatening me. You screwed up. I could have you put in the stockade for years. Now, unless you have concrete evidence, which I’m sure you never will, then I must insist you never step foot in this club again.”
Mason summoned all the willpower he could muster to control his breathing and stare into Schaeffer’s eyes. “Remember: You hurt anyone I know, and I’m coming after you.”
The two men lifted Mason by the shoulders and dragged him out the door. Kessel stood at his office door and watched as the men pulled him along the hallway. Kessel held up his hand for the men to stop.
He said to Mason, “Are you able to walk out of here on your own? I don’t want you upsetting the patrons.”
Schaeffer was right: Mason knew he had nothing to pin on any of them—for the moment. Plus, he’d let his temper get the best of him and blown military and CID protocol. He had little choice but to make a tactical retreat. He nodded to Kessel. His diaphragm worked again, but he wasn’t so sure about his legs. The men released Mason on Kessel’s gesture. It took Mason a moment to steady himself. Standing upright made his whole torso ache, but he managed. He walked carefully down the stairs. One of the three bodyguards preceded him, partly to make sure he didn’t cascade down the steps. As Mason crossed through the club, he caught sight of someone and nearly stumbled into the escort.
Laura sat at one of the tables with her boyfriend, Richard. Richard’s attention was on the show, but Laura’s eyes flicked wide when s
he saw Mason and she froze in midbite. Mason subtly shook his head as he passed her table. She understood the silent warning: She said nothing and remembered to chew.
TWENTY
Outside the club, the cold night air felt good on his face. It did nothing for the cramping in his gut—or his mind whirling with questions about Laura’s sanity. His stomach heaved, but only a little bile and blood came up. He was sure he’d be peeing blood for a couple of days. He waited until he was deep in the Casa parking lot before spitting out the sour-metallic taste in his mouth. That was when he noticed Abrams leaning against a car.
Abrams threw down his cigarette and met Mason. “What happened in there?”
“I found Schaeffer. We had a little chat.”
“Mason!”
Mason looked back and saw Laura taking quick steps across the lot. He looked beyond her, back to the club, but no one looked on. At least she had waited until deep in the parking lot to call out his name.
“Laura, what the hell?”
Laura caught up to them, her hard breathing creating puffs of condensation in the cold air. Mason took off his coat, though the movement made his stomach cramp. With some effort, he threw the coat over her shoulders.
“Are you hurt?” Laura asked.
“I knew I shouldn’t have eaten the sauerkraut.”
Laura let him know she didn’t think that was funny. Another cramp made Mason lean forward.
“Lean on me,” Abrams said. “We’ll get you home.”
Abrams put his shoulder under Mason’s armpit and took some of his weight. Laura took his other arm. Mason let them help, though he could have made the last few steps on his own.
“Must have been an interesting conversation,” Abrams said.
“He showed his hand.”
“Showed his hand, then buried it in your gut?”
Mason chuckled then recoiled from a spasm of pain. “That’s about the size of it.”
Laura helped him into the passenger’s seat and slipped into the backseat. Abrams got behind the wheel, started up the car, and turned on the heat.
Mason turned in his seat to look at Laura. “I told you to stay out of sight, and you come to the worst place of all.”
“I wanted to check out the club for myself. No one knows who I am.”
“Does Ricky have any idea what you’re up to?”
“What does that have to do with anything?”
“So, no. Poor sap doesn’t know what he’s in for: you chasing danger like a dog chasing cars.”
“I came out here to see if you were okay, not to be insulted.”
Mason turned to Abrams. “Tell her how ruthless these guys are.”
“I’m not getting into the middle of a domestic dispute,” Abrams said.
That quieted both of them.
“There’s definitely something shady going on in there,” Laura finally said. “Feels more like a Chicago mob hangout than an army nightclub. And, no, before you ask, I didn’t talk to any of the employees. I simply observed. I see what you mean about the waitstaff. And the manager circulated through the crowd, shaking hands like a crooked politician. Then a group of colonels and generals went upstairs to the back offices.”
“Kessel and Schaeffer’s clubhouse of iniquity,” Mason said.
Abrams said, “I’ve been trying to dig deeper about how the club operates, where the money comes from, where it goes, but I hit a brick wall every time.”
“It’s a neat little setup, that’s for sure,” Laura said. “And right under the army’s nose.”
“You should press charges,” Abrams said to Mason. “An officer striking a CID investigator will land him in the stockade.”
“He can produce enough witnesses to refute that claim.”
Abrams shook his head. “I should have come along.”
“I heard about the machine gun fire near the Rathaus,” Laura said. “Was that you?”
“It was for me. This hit squad is picking off anyone with the slightest association with Winstone. At some point I’m sure Abrams here and I will be next on the list. That’s why you need to get home and stay there.”
“You’ve got to find those missing documents,” Laura said. “If what Winstone told you is true, that should bust the whole thing wide open.”
“We’ve searched Winstone’s villa,” Abrams said. “We’ve searched his office, his safe . . .”
“Well, search harder. You usually don’t give up so easily.”
Mason said, “Now, wait a minute . . .”
“I’d better get back,” Laura said and pulled off Mason’s coat. She opened the door then turned back. “And if either of you ever needs a safe place, you can always stay a few days with Richard and me.”
Abrams thanked her. Mason said nothing, seeing no point in repeating why he considered that a really bad idea. They watched Laura until she made it safely back into the club. Mason felt another cramp coming on and slumped in the seat.
“Did you come by car?” Abrams asked.
“I was so pissed, I practically ran over here.”
“Why don’t I drop you off?” Abrams said.
Mason nodded. Abrams pulled the car out of the parking lot, and they drove in silence for a while.
“I screwed up in there,” Mason said as he stared out the side window. “I lost my temper. But I did confirm two things: Schaeffer’s guilty as hell, and he’s partnered up with none other than our mysterious Herr Z—ex-Gestapo major, Ernst Volker.”
“The guy who tortured you during the war?”
Mason nodded. “I knew it when I smelled the Turkish tobacco at the Steinadler.”
“Let’s arrest him, then.”
“First we have to find him, then convince the CIC it was a mistake to clear him of war crimes.”
Mason filled Abrams in on what he’d learned from the meeting with Udahl and Pritchard: the autopsy confirming Winstone’s murder, and Schaeffer’s background. That not only was the mysterious Abbott ex-OSS, but Schaeffer was as well. He left out the part about Adelle’s past. Then he briefed Abrams more fully on what had happened in Schaeffer’s office. “Kantos was SOE, Schaeffer and Abbott OSS—could be some kind of connection. A brotherhood of trained saboteurs and assassins.”
“Maybe we should follow up on the OSS lead. There could be other ex-OSS agents in league with Schaeffer’s gang.”
“Scary thought,” Mason said, more to himself. “We’ll see what we can dig up.”
Abrams parked the car in front of Mason’s house and started to get out. Mason put his hand on Abrams’s arm. “Thanks, but I can take it from here. And I was thinking . . . it might be best if you lay off the case. At least the fieldwork. They might decide to go gunning for you.”
“I’m not going to sit this out. You can’t ask me to do that. Besides, I’m already in too deep for them to ignore me.”
“Back in Munich, I nearly lost my last partner. I don’t want it to happen again.”
“Partners don’t leave their partner’s ass hanging out in the wind.”
Mason nodded, accepting the premise, but hoped he wouldn’t regret it. He knew he’d blame himself if something happened to another partner, another friend. He exited the car and watched Abrams drive away.
After making a visual sweep of the area, he mounted the porch steps, unlocked the door, and pushed it open until it was flat against the wall. The house was dark and silent. He pulled out his .45 and took one step into the living room. While watching for movement in the darkness, he flicked on a light switch, which illuminated a floor lamp.
If someone wanted to take a shot at me, they would have done it by now. . . . “Adelle?”
He waited. “Adelle, it’s me. Mason.”
He heard a rustling noise coming from the first bedroom off the hallway. Then a hand wrapped around the door fra
me, followed by Adelle peering into the living room. She moaned in relief and ran to Mason, burying her face in his chest.
“I didn’t hear from you for so long, I . . .” Adelle said.
Mason didn’t return the hug. “You thought I’d been killed?”
Adelle nodded against his chest. “Or in the hospital.”
Mason took her arms and broke the embrace. “All the reasons I could have been late, and you assumed I’d been gunned down?”
Adelle stepped back. “Why does that sound strange? Look at how many people have already been killed.” She backed away to get more distance from him. “You make it sound like I knew something was going to happen. When are you going to stop being a cop for more than thirty seconds? You suspect everyone is guilty.”
“I do when I find out they’ve been lying. For instance, that sob story you told me about being arrested after your husband’s death and put in a labor camp. But you left out that you were released because you were screwing a high-ranking Nazi gauleiter.”
“I was twenty-two. I’d just lost my husband and father-in-law. I’d lost all hope and was facing death in a prison camp. I did what I had to do. I took a lover who saved me from prison. Go ahead, judge me. I’m a Nazi-loving tramp who doesn’t deserve a chance.”
Perhaps she was right, or perhaps Mason simply lacked the energy to continue. He’d expended every ounce of energy he had and felt an overwhelming need to sit. He shuffled over to the sofa and dropped onto the cushions. The onset of a raging headache reminded him that he hadn’t eaten in twelve hours. He rubbed his forehead then noticed Adelle sitting in a chair opposite. She looked genuinely hurt, and he regretted pushing her so hard, but he wasn’t ready to apologize. Too many people had lied to him, and, sadly, Adelle was at the top of the list.
Mason gave her a tired smile. “I forgot to bring more food,” he said and resumed rubbing his forehead. “Is there anything left to eat?”
That was the best he could do in declaring his desire for her to stay.
Adelle seemed to accept this, and Mason admired her for it. She rose from the chair. “We have eggs and bread. Breakfast okay?”
Spoils of Victory Page 19
