by DS Holmes
“Friday,” he said softly. So his minder had met Himmler’s aide for drinks before the rendezvous at Monbijou park. Johanna had mentioned that the officer had been drinking. Was this where his drink had been spiked with a drug? he wondered.
“Rost, what the hell are you doing in my office?” Johnny Flowers demanded.
The club owner’s big body filled the doorway, wearing the same suit he’d worn on Saturday, right down to the newly-shined shoes and starched white spats.
Looking up sheepishly, Thomas said, “You spoiled me with those packs of Chesterfields. Got any more?”
“Ask the cigarette girl.” The overweight owner moved with remarkable agility, scooping up the pictures and dropping them inside a file cabinet. “For you, they’re on the house.”
“That’s generous.”
“I can afford to be.” Flowers grinned. “Somehow I don’t think you’re going to be around much longer.” He opened a lower drawer, came up with a couple packs of Pall Malls and tossed them at his uninvited guest.
“Thanks.”
“I oughta break your neck, Rost. It’s your fault Gerda is dead.”
“I didn’t kill her.”
“Your interest in her did,” Johnny countered. “Now get the hell outta here.”
“Someone wants to buy you a drink. She’s waiting by the bandstand.”
Flowers spat into a brass cuspidor. “Oh boy, a free drink in my own joint.”
“I have to use the lavatory.”
“Don’t let me stop you,” Flowers said. “I mean, when you gotta go...”
Back at the table, Thomas found his glass empty. Helga nodded at his glass. “I couldn’t see letting French cognac sit there, unloved. Anyway,” she paused while the waiter deposited three tumblers off a cork-lined tray onto the white tablecloth, “here’s to American drinks.”
“Manhattans?” Thomas guessed, noticing that only his contained a maraschino cherry.
“With just the right amount of bitters to balance the sweet vermouth. Add fine whiskey and we are in heaven.” She sipped from her glass and lit another Gitanes.
The fat man appeared at their table. His presence on the dance floor instantly became the focus of everyone’s attention—the famous American nightclub owner with underworld connections in a dozen countries. Clearly relishing his celebrity status, Flowers took his time preparing a thick Cuban cigar, then rolled it around on his lips and lit it.
Finally, he lifted his Manhattan and, acknowledging the crowd, said, “Here’s to the FBI and IRS,” downing the drink in one gulp. As his admirers clapped and cheered the performance, Johnny drew up a chair and sat down, the cigar jutting from his mouth like an expatriate Winston Churchill. Finally, the club owner rested his gaze on Helga and some of his brash confidence faded away.
He took out a silk handkerchief and patted beads of perspiration from his forehead. “To what do I owe this honor, Frau Schmitt?”
“Hello, Johnny.” She smiled thinly. “You’ve met my date?”
“Thomas Rost? Hell, yeah. I’ve read all his fucking book reviews.” With trembling hands, he stuffed the handkerchief in a jacket pocket.
“Relax, Johnny,” she cooed, “we’re here to unwind. A few quiet drinks, some American jazz, it’s all good.”
“Damnit it all, I know what you mean,” Flowers said. “Well, the drinks are on the house. Anything you want, name it.”
She leaned back in her chair, ran her pink tongue over her lips. “Italian food. Tonight, I am dying for a big plate of ravioli with mushrooms, covered in marinara sauce.”
“Yeah? I know exactly the place.” Flowers grinned. “The Roma, near Kleiststrasse, the finest Italian restaurant in Berlin.”
“I trust they are open tonight?”
Johnny rose, buttoned his jacket. “Allow me to phone ahead for reservations, Frau Schmitt. Would you like me to call a taxi, also?”
“You are too kind, Herr Flowers.” She rose from her seat, crushed the cigarette in a glossy ceramic ashtray. “I’ll walk with you to the bar.”
Finishing his Manhattan, Thomas retrieved the cherry and chewed slowly on it. He watched as Flowers placed a black telephone on the counter and dialed. Behind the owner’s back Helga reached over the bar, grabbed a bottle of cognac, uncorked it and sloshed the expensive liquor onto the varnished wood. Then she placed a cotton napkin in a puddle of cognac, took a small can of lighter fluid from her purse and squirted it onto the fibers. Like magic, a cheap metal lighter appeared in her hand and, flicking a flame off the flint, she dropped the lighter on the napkin and stepped back from the bar.
Fire exploded like a small incendiary bomb and bright yellow flames spread quickly along the length of the bar. Flowers turned around, dropped the telephone and staggered backward, his coat sleeves on fire. The bartender splashed water from the sink’s faucet onto the counter to little effect, and the bouncer rushed forward with a tablecloth and tried to smother the flames on the American gangster’s burning arms.
The dining room and dance floor had become a scene of panic, diners and dancers and band members shouting and pushing their way to the front of the club and out the door, leaving behind trampled women and men, bent instruments and upturned tables and chairs—the spilled drinks and broken glass shining in the lights of the bandstand.
Helga returned to her table and brought Thomas to his feet. “You didn’t try to run out.”
“It seemed wise to wait a minute for things to settle down. The smoke isn’t too bad, yet.”
“A very cool customer, you are. Come with me.” She half-dragged him back to Flowers’ office.
“I told you, there isn’t a back way.”
“Yes,” she agreed, “a definite fire code violation.”
“Why are we back here then?”
“I want the pictures. Where are they?”
Thomas shrugged.
“I’m beginning to sense how you think, Rost. You were here a few minutes ago, weren’t you?” She rummaged through the desk’s drawers, tossing papers into the air. “His photographer snapped some pictures on Friday. I want them!”
“The file cabinet on your right, top drawer.”
She found the pictures, picked out a few which she put in her purse, and threw the rest on the floor. “Dirty old man,” she muttered. “Let’s go.”
A trail of gray and black smoke writhed sinuously past the office, up the hallway and over the bar. Leaving the club just ahead of them was the African pianist, wearing a tablecloth.
Chapter 20
THE KAISERHOF HOTEL on Mohrenstrasse was hosting a gala reception for European diplomats on behalf of Joachim von Ribbentrop, Germany’s cynical Foreign Minister. One of the capital’s most prestigious hotels, the Kaiserhof was strategically located close to Wilhelmstrasse’s corridor of power and intrigue.
Helga was laughing as she led Thomas into the second-floor suite. “Never trust an American. Johnny wants to have it both ways, but he’s too dumb to know we’re onto his games. One day, he will outlive his usefulness to the regime.” She shut and locked the door behind her and trailed Thomas into the sitting room. “You, on the other hand, were brilliant!”
“I’m half-American,” he said, and took off his borrowed fedora.
“That’s my point! If you can’t be full-blooded German, half-American is next best. Of course, in the end, the German half will prevail.”
“Why set fire to his bar?”
“I knew you’d snooped around his office. I knew it!”
Thomas felt a little groggy. He’d only had the one drink. “I’ll be safe at my apartment for the night,” he said, taking in the double bed in the next room.
Helga brushed past him, sat on the mattress. “You’re staying right here, with me.”
Ingrid will wonder what happened, he told himself. “At least let me pick up a few things. I promised Inspector Beck I’d return his coat and hat.”
“Is that all you want from there?” She patted the bed. “Or is it a
girl you want tonight?”
Not the drift in conversation he’d expected. “You think I’m safer here?” He pulled off Beck’s surplus overcoat, hung it in a closet.
“Have I let anyone hurt you?”
Thomas checked the closet’s shelf. “Extra blankets? I’ll sleep on the couch in the sitting room.”
“This is our safe house. Better than any of the SD’s apartments in the city. Imagine that fool Ribbentrop downstairs, champagne and caviar! Not for me.” She unfastened her blonde hair, flopped back on the mattress, letting her hair spread out on the ochre-colored bedspread. “Just between the two of us,” she said confidentially, “I see myself as the future of German womanhood. Let simple-minded Magda Goebbels take the award for Germany’s Mother of the Year. The Fatherland’s destiny will be driven by the combined might of its brave soldiers and, before the war is over, its women warriors.”
“The Fuehrer announced that? I must’ve missed the decree.”
“Don’t be cute, Thomas. The Fuehrer believes our Teutonic myths and legends and is willing us back to those days of glory.”
“Don’t forget the tragedy.” Thomas found the pack of Chesterfields, lit one. “I’m a fan of Wagner, too.”
“It’s so much more than music, don’t you see? We are meant to rule Europe, to hold back the uncivilized Slavs.” She sat up, arms outstretched behind her. “Defense of the Reich is my job. Shedding the blood of its enemies is my duty. My passion, however, is for men of intelligence and vision and action.”
“Like General Heydrich?”
“My hero,” she said dreamily.
“Anyone else worthy of your adoration?”
“You.”
“Me?”
She smiled. “Admittedly, you got off to a poor start. But what began as a boring assignment with some old-fashioned intellectual has become a real challenge. I love a challenge, don’t you?”
“Fuck comfort,” he agreed.
She laughed again. “Truly, you have surprised me as a very resourceful man. The general expects great things from you.”
“Yes, he does.” Despite the nicotine, his head felt like it was filled with cotton wool. The room started to spin.
“You know what we are, Thomas?”
“Tell me.”
“We are like a young couple on their wedding night. Now what do you think of that?”
“No one spends their wedding night in Berlin. They go to the Harz Mountains, the Black Forest, to the—’’
“Alps, the Bavarian Alps. Oh, Thomas, let’s pretend we are at the Berghof, guests of the Fuehrer.”
Thomas fell into a fit of coughing and went to the bathroom for a glass of water. “So I have to spend the night in this hotel. Won’t the general be jealous?”
“Not at all. He is very broad-minded, the perfect gentleman.”
Not an apt description for one who had impregnated and abandoned a wealthy industrialist’s daughter, Thomas thought. “Like I said, I’ll take the couch.”
She shook her head. “Let’s make love.”
The glass slipped from his hand onto the carpet and, rubbing his eyes, he stumbled into the bedroom door.
“You don’t look well, Thomas. Come, sit here with me. I’ll take care of you.” She kicked off her heels, ran a hand over the bedspread—her voice coming from a thousand miles away.
“You put something in my drink while I went to the men’s room.”
“Nonsense.”
He tried to turn away and went down hard, burying his face in the deep pile carpet. Lying there he heard water running into the tub, then felt her hands peeling off his clothes and dumping them in a heap by the bed. She lifted him up in her arms, carried him to the bathroom and lowered him into the freestanding tub.
“Don’t be embarrassed,” she whispered huskily. “I used to be a nurse.”
“An Amazon,” he mumbled, and sank lower into the hot water.
Unbuttoning her blouse and skirt, Helga took off her outer garments and unfastened her brassiere. “You’ve been working too hard, my sweet Thomas. Let me restore you to full strength.”
Was this how it had been for the Sturmbannfuehrer? His eyes went out of focus and he saw three sensual faces and six oblong breasts—a fertility goddess whose nipples brushed the water and whose lips met his so fiercely he couldn’t breathe. Suddenly he began to cough again and she drew back. He couldn’t stop coughing until she forced a dark bottle to his mouth and forced him to drink. It tasted like flavored syrup mixed with alcohol. Her breasts pressed against his right cheek, her left hand was under his chin. She poured more of the elixir into his mouth until it spilled out.
“Codeine for your cough. Like I said, I was a nurse.”
He laid his head back on the curved rim of the tub, closed his eyes. After ten minutes, or maybe an hour, he heard the gurgling sound of water draining and felt a soft towel wiping down his chest and shoulders. Before the towel reached his legs, he climbed unsteadily to his feet and got out of the tub. Taking the bath towel from her, he tied it around his waist and slid along the tiles and onto the carpet. Reaching the bed, he flopped down on his back, more tired than he had ever been in his life.
“You spiked my drink at Johnny’s. What did you put in it?”
She joined him on the bed, straddled him. “A love potion. This is our night, Thomas. No one rejects my love.”
Opening his eyes, he saw the face of Uta Perle. “I can’t sleep with you. You’re a killer.”
Helga slapped his face, once, and again, this time harder. “How dare you! I serve the Reich.”
Feeling the sting on his cheeks, a hurt that made him feel more alert, he said, “Murder serves no cause.”
She hit him again, a closed fist this time that brought blood from his mouth, and got off the bed. “You are unworthy of me.”
The light went out, the bedroom door slammed shut. “I will sleep on the damn couch alone!” she yelled.
He heard the door’s lock click.
December 23
Chapter 21
HIS BODY WAS STRETCHED out on hot sand, a huge ball of fire burning down from the blue heavens. Staked to the ground, his arms and legs ached from the strain of pulling against taut ropes. When his belly exploded in pain he wanted to cry out, but his tongue was swollen and his mouth parched. A solitary vulture picked at his entrails, feeding on his flesh, common carrion to be disposed of.
“Wake up, Rost,” a voice said insistently. “Someone is here to see you.”
Thomas jerked awake, realized it was a bad dream. “Ulbricht?” he said thickly. “How did you get in?”
“That’s what I’d’ve asked, too.” The SS officer switched on the bedside lamp, held up a pass key.
Thomas raised himself up on an elbow, looked around the room. “She’s gone?”
“Downstairs, the dining room. A breakfast meeting with Obersturmfuehrer Brandt.” Ulbricht went to the closet, removed the clothes hanging there and laid them on the bed. “She’s a thorough type. Looks like she had your clothing washed and cleaned while you slept. Get dressed. Waiting in the next room...your guest. He is a very impatient man. Don’t make him angry.”
While Thomas dressed, the officer went into the bathroom and filled a glass from the brass faucet. “Drink this. It’ll help with the hangover.” He held out the glass. “I’m aware of Frau Schmitt’s lusty nature. She is like a Black Widow.”
“She drugged me.”
“You’re still alive. That’s more than some of her lovers can say.” Ulbricht ushered Thomas out of the bedroom. “Be careful what you say to this man.”
The window curtains were drawn back, the first light of dawn breaking over the city. Sitting in the glow of a floor lamp, a short man with a disappearing chin adjusted his pince-nez. Even in his black uniform and jackboots the man seemed, physically, unthreatening. But that impression—a paper-pushing bureaucrat— had proved misleading and deadly for many. Thomas was now in the presence of Germany’s fanatically anti-Sem
itic, occult-influenced Reichsfuehrer-SS. Himmler crossed his legs, dangling a jackboot over the carpet.
“Herr Rost,” the SS leader began, “you have caused me a lot of trouble.”
I’ve heard that before, Thomas thought. Perversely, he felt a pleasurable warmth spread through him.
Ulbricht handed a cup of hot coffee to his boss. “Sit down, Rost. Help yourself to coffee.”
Thomas took the hint, suspecting that the head of Hitler’s protection squad—Schutzstaffel—disliked taller men hovering over him. He sat on the couch and poured black coffee into a porcelain cup. The first sip helped to clear away the “cobwebs” laid down by Helga’s chemicals.
“Well, Herr Rost, what have you to report?” Himmler asked smoothly.
Thomas took a deep breath and plunged in. “Sir, your assistant set a task for me to accomplish. I am doing my best.”
Himmler set down the cup, surveyed the hotel room. “How do you explain these accommodations?”
“Not easily, Herr Reichsfuehrer.”
Ulbricht shot a glance at Thomas, then looked away, shaking his head at the audacity of one who had ignored his advice.
Himmler stroked his thin mustache, kept his eyes on Thomas, as if deciding the fate of an errant citizen. A tense minute passed before he rested his hands on the upholstered chair’s armrests. “Here’s how it is, Thomas Rost. General Heydrich, my most capable and loyal assistant, has been under a lot of pressure. Protector of Bohemia and Moravia, head of the Reich Main Security Office, special duties for our Fuehrer...I believe that the assignment you are on is one too many.” The SS boss spoke in a didactic manner, explaining the facts as a schoolmaster might to a dull-minded pupil. “The general can only do so much, what with his shuttling back and forth between Berlin and Prague. Are you beginning to understand what I am getting at?”
