A Despicable Profession

by John Knoerle

  Patrick answered, his eyes shiny with whisky. Sean looked up from the couch where he was reading. Anna and I entered the parlor, set down our grips and shrugged off our coats. The room was cold. Patrick closed the door behind us.

  “Sean, Patrick, this is my friend Anna.”

  They mumbled greetings. Anna and I stood there as the Mooney brothers appraised us like cattle at auction. They sensed that funny business was afoot, could smell it maybe. I had compromised my authority.

  “I’ll open that bottle of wine,” I said with a nod to the guttering fifth of Jameson’s on the low lacquered table. “We’ve got some catching up to do.”

  I looked to Anna and hiked my head toward the kitchen. Her cool gray eyes said she would stay put. I hung our coats on the coat rack. She took a seat on the wobbly chair opposite Sean and Patrick on the couch.

  By the time I returned with two juice glasses of Bordeaux Anna had Ivan curled up in her lap and Sean and Patrick sitting on the lip of the couch, leaning forward. I stopped behind the boys to listen.

  “Your Mister Schroeder, he is gut at this job. Sehr gut. I was keep like a bird, a bird in a...”

  “Cage,” offered Sean.

  “Yes so. A bird in a cage. Your Mister Schroeder, he have open this cage to...”

  “Set you free,” said Patrick.

  Anna smiled. “Yes so. Your Mister Schroeder knows about what he is doing.”

  This heartfelt endorsement got the boys to nodding. I hoped it was true. I hoped I knew about what I was doing.

  I handed Anna a glass of wine, turned to Sean and Patrick and asked how they liked their steaks.

  “Medium,” said Sean.

  “Bloody,” said Patrick.

  I returned to the kitchen and chopped the onions I had liberated from Tattia’s kitchen and fried them up in the stick of margarine I had likewise liberated. I put the steaks on the broiler tray and slid them in. If there’s a more mouthwatering combination of aromas than broiling steak and frying onions I would like to know about it.

  Pepper and A-1 were the only missing ingredients. I wasn’t going to round up any steak sauce around here but we were not going to sit down to our last supper without pepper on our steaks. I searched the kitchen cupboards and drawers. I considered trolling the halls with a dollar bill but shouted out a stupid question before I did.

  “Anyone have any pepper?” Anna wrinkled her brow. “Pfeffer.”

  I followed Anna into the parlor. She opened her two ton suitcase and rummaged in her pile of silver cutlery and fine china wrapped in sweaters and underwear. She came up with a crystal shaker and handed it over. It held just enough black pepper to season the T-bones blistering in the broiler.

  “Vielen Dank, gnädige Frau.” Thank you, dear lady.

  “Sehr gerne geschehen, mein Herr.” You are most welcome, kind sir.

  The steaks were great. Conversation around the small table just off the kitchen consisted primarily of groans of pleasure not normally associated with the dinner hour. Bone skinny Anna beat us all to the finish line, with an assist from a furry creature at her feet.

  When Anna cleared the plates I ran down the operational details. I wasn’t a lone wolf anymore. I was a goddamn miserable commanding officer responsible for the lives of my subordinates. How in the hell had that happened?

  “We launch at 0300 hours, which is 3 a.m. to you raw-assed rookies.” The Mooney’s half-lamped eyelids snapped to. “If the entry booth guard is snoozing we cuff and gag him. If he’s on alert Anna will lure him from the booth before we pounce. Once he’s cuffed and gagged we search him and the booth for passkeys. Failing that I’ll jimmy the door to his left and walk him up the stairs. We threaten to cut his goozle if the jailer doesn’t open the cell. If the jailer’s somewhere sleeping it off I pick the cell lock. Patrick you’re lookout, Sean’s my backup. Any questions?”

  Sean and Patrick, bellies full of steak and whisky, could only manage one.

  “Should we disguise ourselves?”

  “Like we did at the...you know.”

  “No masks, no kerchiefs. We’re not crooks. Now go, take the bedroom, sleep it off.”

  The boys shuffled off. Anna settled onto the musty couch with a fresh glass of wine. She kicked off her shoes and put one leg up on the low slung table and flexed her toes. Prettiest foot you ever saw.

  I got my Walther from my topcoat, sat down next to Anna and ejected the spent clip. I examined the mag chamber, the breech, the bore and the muzzle and dry fired a couple times. The gun was in working order.

  I jacked in another clip. I had one more in reserve. I should have cleaned the bore with powder solvent and lubricated the action with oil but I hadn’t thought to grab my gun cleaning kit when I packed up to travel to New York-Antwerp-Berlin and it was too late to return to Mrs. B’s rooming house in Cleveland to retrieve it and anyhow it didn’t matter. We weren’t going to win this night with guns.

  I went down my tick list. Gas in the truck. Knife. Lock picks. Camera and flashbulbs. Penlight. Handcuffs. Gags.

  I didn’t have any gags. I went to the kitchen, grabbed a dirty dish rag and tore it in two. Done. Now what?

  L pill. I had one cyanide capsule, wrapped in tinfoil and tucked in my billfold. Anna should have it just in case. I removed, unwrapped and offered it to her. She pushed my hand away. She knew what it was. She wasn’t interested.

  I took a sip of fine French wine and relaxed. This was something I knew well. War. War is every vile horrid thing they say it is and then some but it has one redeeming feature. Clarity. We would win the battle to free Ambrose or we would lose. Planning and preparation were important, worry and speculation were pointless. We would know soon enough.

  Soon enough, soon enough. Too bad I had no earthly idea what time it was. My Teutonic clock was rusty. Co-ordinated timing would be crucial. I knew I should borrow a wristwatch but I had a superstition about ‘em ever since The Schooler got croaked and I didn’t want to jinx the operation by changing up now.

  Anna wore a dainty wristwatch, face turned to the underside of her wrist. I asked her what time it was. She showed me. 8:50. I took her exquisite hand in mine, squeezed it and drifted off, setting my mental alarm clock for 0230 hours.

  “Süße Träume,” murmured Anna.

  Sweet dreams.

  Chapter Forty-nine

  I dreamt of sweet-smelling wheat fields and far off mountains crowded with black firs and leafy green Buchen, veils of steam nestled in the ravines. I was high above, soaring like an eagle. Then I woke up. Anna was snoring softly besides me on the couch. I borrowed her wrist. 0228 hours. My Teutonic clock was back in working order.

  I went to the kitchen sink and splashed cold water on my face and had a crazy thought. I didn’t need to rouse these good people from their peaceful slumber and send them off to die. I could do this myself. The guard in the entry booth was the only two-man pinch point and I could wangle my way past...

  Anna bucked me aside with a bony hip and dunked her head under the freezing water and kept it there. My crazy thought went away. I went to the bedroom to wake the Mooney boys. Protruding feet and mops of hair were the only sign of them, so burrowed into the rutted beds were they.

  “Time to rise and shine gentlemen.” They slept on. “Up and at ‘em ladies!”

  Still nothing. I positioned myself between the two cots, grabbed the steel frames of each and yanked. Sean and Patrick tumbled to the floor. Sean awoke and jumped to his feet. Patrick laid on his back and snored. He had a rosary clutched in one hand.

  “Throw him in the shower. We go in ten.”

  I went back to the parlor to inventory my equipment, laid everything out on the low lacquered table. The pipes groaned, Patrick howled. I picked up the German-made 35 millimeter single lens reflex Kine Exakta the CO had given me and looked it over. It was a thing of beauty, with a synchronized flash attachment and shutter speed that went all the way up to 1/1000 of a second. How the guys who designed it managed to lose World War II
I couldn’t tell you.

  Anna was down on one knee in the kitchen, searching drawers for a dish towel, her wet hair piled atop her head. She held it in place with a pot holder. An ideal moment to test the camera.

  “Say Käse,” I said and pushed the shutter button. The flash bulb popped as Anna looked up. She cursed me in Russian and pushed me out of the kitchen.

  I burned my fingers replacing the flash bulb, gathered up my gun, knife, penlight, pick set and handcuffs and stuffed them into the pockets of my topcoat. I ducked into the bathroom to check on the boys. Patrick stood naked and shivering, trying to dry off with a threadbare towel, his teeth chattering like castanets. Sean was combing his hair in the mirror, cool as a cuke.

  “Use the toilet,” I said.

  I went to the bedroom and changed into a clean shirt from the dresser drawer, tied up a necktie while I was at it. I smelled like a late shift stevedore but I looked like one of Wild Bill Donovan’s Ivy Leaguers.

  Not quite. The knot was too tight. The Ivy Leaguers let you know they were top drawer by observing the rules with a smirk. Ten dollar Brooks Brother’s ties? Of course. Cinched up into a proper Windsor knot? Never.

  I loosened my tie and set forth to achieve what I had been charged by General William J. Donovan to do. Rescue Ambrose. Keep the Committee to Free Berlin from attacking the Soviet Armory. And stop the Red Army from rolling across the Elbe.

  Okay, I could do that. But not with a full bladder. The Mooney boys were still using the bathroom. Anna was bent over in the parlor, wringing water from her hair. I went to the kitchen and relieved myself in the sink.

  There. I was now ready to make Western Europe safe for democracy.

  We clomped down the stairs at 0250 hours. All the stuff in my coat pockets made me clank like the Tin Man. We reached the street. The night was clear and cold, no moon. Just right. We hurried down the block toward the delivery truck I couldn’t yet see.

  I was new to command, unused to dealing with the big picture. Which in this case meant posting a sentry to guard the proud steed that would carry us to victory. Scavengers were everywhere, that the truck still had a battery and four tires was a minor miracle. Did we still have the truck? I could’ve sworn that I....ah, there it was, parked behind a flowering tree, tires still in place. I noticed a problem as we got closer however. The windshield was fogged.

  I flagged out my arms and halted the procession. “Heads up. We have company.”

  I surveyed the truck. No busted windows. Whoever was inside knew how to pick a lock.

  So what? Not a post-war Berliner didn’t know how to pick a lock, filch a car battery or make supper from rainwater and tree bark. There were refugees inside the truck. Displaced persons escaping the cold. That’s what they were. That the delivery truck was known to the NKVD by now was beside the point. They were smart, the NKVD. Too smart to hide in a truck and fog the windows. If they wanted to ambush us they...

  “We going to do something here Chief?” said Sean.

  “Yes we are. I’ll jump in. If gunfire erupts, run like hell.”

  Sean looked worried.

  “Probably just some vagabonds.”

  “You sure?” said Sean.

  “Let me do it,” said Patrick.

  “Nah,” I said, “this is my job.”

  I stepped forward and keyed open the driver’s side door before they could argue. “Wachen Sie auf. Zeit, zu gehen” Wake up. Time to go.

  No answer.

  “Ich weiß, dass Sie dort hinter sind.” I know you’re back there.

  No response, nothing stirring. I stepped into the cab with my gun and penlight, aimed both at the back of the truck and said, “What the fuck?”

  A skeletal old man in a ragged coat sat in the far corner, arms hanging limp, eyes glassy. Dead as a mackerel. I clambered back to make sure. His skin was still warm.

  Shit. Was this an omen? Or just another night in Berlin? I closed the old man’s eyes and searched his pockets, found a well-used ice pick suitable for lock picking. No wallet, just half a pack of Chesterfields, the sum total of his wealth.

  Take a breath Schroeder. Don’t hyperventilate yourself into a brain spasm. The old man just wanted a sheltered space to breathe his last. It doesn’t mean anything. It’s not a curse, a warning or an omen.

  When Sean said “What’s up?” I almost shot him. He was standing in the cab, one foot up on the transmission hump, a ghostly silhouette.

  “We’ve got a situation.” I shined my penlight on the corpse.

  “Jesus, Mary and Joseph.” Sean crossed himself. “You know this man?”

  “No.”

  “What do we do about him?”

  “We roll him in a blanket and set him on the sidewalk.”

  “Patrick is terrible superstitious. It would be better if he doesn’t see this.”

  I squeezed a sigh, groan and curse into one long breath. “All right, I’ll duck out and stall him. You haul our friend out the back. There’s a blanket back there somewhere.”

  I crawled back to the cab just as Patrick was climbing in. “False alarm, nobody there.” I nudged him back out to the pavement. “Sean’s just tidying up back there. You know how he is.”

  “Sure. Just like Mum.” The truck’s ribbed gate rattled open.

  “I’ll give him a hand.” I snagged Patrick’s wrist. “He can handle it. We need to talk.”

  Patrick, who didn’t care to be separated from his older brother for longer than ten seconds, stood down for a moment. “What about?”

  What about? Good question. I lowered my voice. “I think you know.”

  Patrick thunk himself cross-eyed. “I do?”

  Anna was standing on the sidewalk, watching Sean deposit a rolled-up corpse at the curb with one eye and looking a question to me with the other. I stifled a yawn. Not to worry.

  “You’re the key to this operation, Patrick. When Sean and I go upstairs to spring Ambrose you, Patrick Mooney, are the last line of defense. It’s a big job. Can you handle it?”

  Patrick grinned, jauntily. “Damn straight.”

  I squeezed his arm. “Good. I knew I could count on you. The Mooney brothers are stand up guys. Each and every one of you.”

  What the hell was Sean doing, saying a Requiem Mass? I was running out of bullshit.

  “Have you got your .38?”

  “Yes sir,” said Patrick, craning his neck, itching to go see what his brother was up to.

  “You know your duties and responsibilities?”

  “Yes sir.”

  I was about to ask if he had donned clean socks and underwear when I heard the blessed rattle of the truck gate closing. “Okay, time to go.”

  I pulled Patrick into the cab. He jumped into the back to join his brother. I leaned over and opened the door for Anna. She climbed in and sat erect in the passenger’s seat, her hands folded primly in her lap.

  I lit the truck, let the pistons and motor oil get reacquainted and said, as I geared into reverse, “We’re off. Off to show Joe Stalin and the Communist Party what a group of can-do Yanks can do!”

  The Mooney’s war whoops covered the sound I felt through the soles of my feet. A sickening crunch, a snap. I pictured clearly what I had backed over. The old man’s ankles dangling from the curb. Had I severed his feet from his legs? Or were they still connected by mangled tendons and shattered bones? If so they wouldn’t be for long. I had to pull forward to get this adventure underway.

  “What was that?” said Patrick as I pulled away from the curb with another crunching thud. No one had the heart to tell him.

  My old man was a melancholy German, the polar opposite of his jolly brother Jorg. But he could surprise you. He gave me a book for my fourteenth birthday. “The Power of Positive Thinking” by Norman Vincent Peale. It was hokey but I read it cover to cover. And was glad I did.

  “That was just a bump in the road Patrick. Look to the future, think happy thoughts. That’s my philosophy boys and girls. Accentuate the positive, e-li
minate the negative, and don’t mess with Mister In-between!”

  Chapter Fifty

  We had smooth sailing as we drove north on Bundesallee. The streets were empty at the late hour, electric power stations shut down for the night. The only sign of life the occasional candle flickering in a dirty window, three floors up. I kept thinking about the old man with the crushed ankles despite myself. A happy portent for the night ahead.

  We drove in silence, Anna next to me in the passenger’s seat, the boys standing in the back, hanging onto angle-iron brackets where the delivery truck’s shelf racks used to be.

  I turned east on a side street, no sense parading down the Kudamm. Shadowy figures who were stripping a panel truck melted into the darkness as we rumbled by. I rolled down my window to make sure I was hearing what I heard. The far off hoo hah, hoo hah of a siren. An ambulance or a fire truck, no cause for alarm.

  I said so aloud and plowed east toward the Soviet Sector, dodging rubble and bucking through bomb craters, looking for a way back to the Ku-damm, not wanting to blow a tire on this ill-advised detour. I am, it must be acknowledged, one hellaciously bad commanding officer. I hadn’t determined if we had a functional spare.

  I found my way north to der Kurfürstendamm and stopped. Something was up. Two sirens were sounding now, in counterpoint, one near, one far. I looked out the windshield for signs of a fiery glow on the horizon. Sean and Patrick were clustered behind me now. Anna leaned forward. The Berlin sky was black.

  I drove east on the Ku-damm, nervous as a tick. Not good. A strong leader radiates confidence at all times. Say something, Schroeder. Lighten the mood.

  “Good news, gentlemen, Anna and I made a baby. And not the way you’re thinking. Show the boys our bundle of joy dearheart.”

  Anna put her hand to her mouth. “Oh!”

  “You don’t have him? You forgot Hal Jr.?”