‘Jawohl!’ said Strasser with a contemptuous laugh. ‘You talk like the Jew bankers in Berlin. “You do this. We’ll do that! Why argue?” Thank you, no, Amerikaner. I shall not sleep.’
‘Whatever you say.’ Scarlett shrugged. ‘I’m beginning to understand why you guys lost the war.’ Scarlett rolled over on his side. ‘You’re stubborn about being stubborn.’
For a few minutes neither man spoke. Finally Gregor Strasser answered the American in a quiet voice. ‘We did not lose the war. We were betrayed.’
‘Sure. The bullets were blanks and your artillery backfired. I’m going to sleep.’
The German officer spoke softly, as if to himself. ‘Many bullets were in empty cartridges. Many weapons did malfunction… Betrayal—’
Along the road several trucks lumbered out of Villers-Cotterets followed by horses pulling caissons. The lights of the trucks danced flickeringly up and down. The animals whinnied; a few soldiers shouted at their charges.
More poor, stupid bastards, thought Ulster Scarlett as he watched from his sanctuary. ‘Hey, Strasser, what happens now?’ Scarlett turned to his fellow deserter.
‘Was ist?’ Strasser had catnapped. He was furious with himself. ‘You speak?’
‘Just wanted you to know I could have jumped you… I asked you what happens now? I mean to you?… I know what happens to us. Parades, I guess. What about you?’
‘No parades. No celebrations… Much weeping. Much recrimination. Much drunkenness… Many will be desperate—Many will be killed also. You may be assured of that.’
‘Who? Who’s going to be killed?’
‘The traitors among us. They will be searched out and destroyed without mercy.’
‘You’re crazy! I said you were crazy before and now I know it!’
‘What would you have us do? You haven’t been infected yet. But you will be!… The Bolsheviks! They are at our borders and they infiltrate! They eat away at our core! They rot inside us!… And the Jews! The Jews in Berlin make fortunes out of this war! The filthy Jew profiteers! The conniving Semites sell us out today, you tomorrow!… The Jews, the Bolsheviks, the stinking little people! We are all their victims and we do not know it! We fight each other when we should be fighting them!’
Ulster Scarlett spat. The son of Scarlatti was not interested in the problems of ordinary men. Ordinary men did not concern him.
And yet he was troubled.
Strasser was not an ordinary man. The arrogant German officer hated the ordinary man as much as he did. ‘What are you going to do when you shovel these people under ground? Play king of the mountain?’
‘Of many mountains—Of many, many mountains.’
Scarlett rolled over away from the German officer.
But he did not close his eyes.
Of many, many mountains.
Ulster Scarlett had never thought of such a domain… Scarlatti made millions upon millions but Scarlatti did not rule. Especially the sons of Scarlatti. They would never rule… Elizabeth had made that clear.
‘Strasser?’
‘Yah?’
‘Who are these people? Your people?’
‘Dedicated men. Powerful men. The names cannot be spoken of. Committed to rise out of defeat and unite the elite of Europe.’
Scarlett turned his face up to the sky. Stars flickered through the low-flying gray clouds. Gray, black, dots of shimmering white.
‘Strasser?’
‘Was ist?’
‘Where will you go? After it’s over, I mean.’
To Heidenheim. My family lives there.’
‘Where is it?’
‘Halfway between Munich and Stuttgart.’ The German officer looked at the strange, huge American deserter. Deserter, murderer, aider and abettor of his enemy.
‘We’ll be in Paris tomorrow night. I’ll get you your money. There’s a man in Argenteuil who keeps money for me.’
‘Danke.’
Ulster Scarlett shifted his body. The earth was next to his face, and the smell was clean.
‘Just… Strasser, Heidenheim. That’s all?’
‘That’s all.’
‘Give me a name, Strasser.’
‘What do you mean? Give you a name?’
‘Just that. A name you’ll know is me when I get in touch with you.’
Strasser thought for a moment. ‘Very well, Amerikaner. Let’s choose a name you should find hard to forget—Kroeger.’
‘Who?’
‘Kroeger—Corporal Heinrich Kroeger, whose head you shot off in the Meuse-Argonne.’
On November 10 at three o’clock in the afternoon the ceasefire order went out.
Ulster Stewart Scarlett bought a motorcycle and began his swift journey to La Harasee and beyond. To B Company, Fourteenth Battalion.
He arrived in the area where most of the battalion was bivouacked and started his search for the company. It was difficult. The camp was filled with drunken, glassy-eyed, foul-breathed soldiers of every description. The order-of-the-early-morning was mass alcoholic hysteria.
Except for Company B.
B Company was holding a religious service. A commemoration for a fallen comrade.
For Lieutenant Ulster Stewart Scarlett, AEF.
Scarlett watched.
Captain Jenkins finished reading the beautiful Psalm for the Dead in a choked voice and then led the men in the Lord’s Prayer.
‘Our Father Who art in heaven…’ Some of the men were weeping unashamedly.
It was a pity to spoil it all, thought Scarlett.
His citation read in part.
… after single-handedly destroying three enemy machine-gun nests, he took out in pursuit of a fourth dangerous emplacement, destroying that also and thereby saving many Allied lives. He did not return and was presumed dead. However, until the fighting ceased a week hence, Second Lieutenant Scarlett provided B Company with an inspiring cry of battle. ‘For Old Roily!’ struck terror in the hearts of many an enemy. Through God’s infinite wisdom, Second Lieutenant Scarlett rejoined his platoon the day following the cessation of hostilities. Exhausted and weak, he returned to glory. Through presidential order we hereby bestow—
The Scarletti Inheritance
Chapter Five
Back in New York, Ulster Stewart Scarlett discovered that being a hero let him do precisely as he wished. Not that he had been confined, far from it, but now even the minor restrictions such as punctuality and the normal acceptance of routine social courtesies were no longer expected of him. He had faced the supreme test of man’s existence—the encounter with death. True, there were thousands like him in these respects but few were officially designated heroes, and none was a Scarlett. Elizabeth, startled beyond words, lavished upon him everything that money and power could make available. Even Chancellor Drew deferred to his young brother as the male leader of the family.
And so into the twenties bounded Ulster Stewart Scarlett.
From the pinnacles of society to the owners of speak-easies, Ulster Stewart was a welcome friend. He contributed neither much wit nor a great deal of understanding and yet his contribution was something very special. He was a man in working sympathy with his environment. His demands from life were certainly unreasonable but these were unreasonable times. The seeking of pleasure, the avoidance of pain, the enjoyment of existing without ambition were all that he seemed to require.
Seemed to require.
But not what Heinrich Kroeger required at all.
*
They corresponded twice a year, Strasser’s letters addressed to a general post office box in mid-Manhattan.
April, 1920
My dear Kroeger:
It is official. We have given a name and a new life to the defunct Workers party. We are the National Socialist German Workers party—and, please, my dear Kroeger, don’t take the words too seriously. It is a magnificent beginning. We attract so many. The Versailles restrictions are devastating. They reduce Germany to rubble. And yet it is good. It is good for us. The people are
angry, they lash out not only at the victors—but at those who betrayed us from within.
June, 1921
Dear Strasser:
You have Versailles, we have the Volstead! And it’s good for us, too… Everyone’s getting a slice of the pie and I’m not missing my share—our share! Everybody wants a favor, a payoff—a shipment! You have to know the right people. In a short time I’ll be the ‘right people.’ I’m not interested in the money—screw the money! Leave that for the kikes and the greasers! I’m getting something else! Something far more important—
January, 1922
My dear Kroeger:
It is all so slow. So painfully slow when it could be different. The depression is unbelievable and getting worse. Trunkfuls of currency virtually worthless. Adolf Hitler has literally assumed the position of chairman of the party over Ludendorff. You recall I once said to you that there were names I could not speak of? Ludendorff was one. I do not trust Hitler. There is something cheap about him, something opportunistic.
October, 1922
Dear Strasser:
It was a good summer and it’ll be a better fall and a great winter! This Prohibition was tailor-made! It’s madness! Have a little money up front and you’re in business!… And what business! My organization is growing. The machinery is just the way you’d like it—perfect.
July, 1923
My dear Kroeger:
I am concerned. I have moved north and you can reach me at the address below. Hitler is a fool. The Ruhr takeover by Poincare was his chance to unite all of Bavaria—politically. The people are ready. But they want order, not chaos. Instead, Hitler rants and raves and uses the old fool Ludendorff to give him stature. He will do something insane, I feel it. I wonder if there’s room in the party for both of us? There is great activity in the north. A Major Buchrucker has formed the Black Reichswehr, a large armed force that may find sympathy with our cause. I meet with Buchrucker shortly. We’ll see.There is plenty for everybody but no one believes that. It’s very much as you describe—the people who shouldn’t fight each other are doing just that. Nevertheless, I’ve nearly accomplished what I set out to do. Soon I’ll have a list of thousands! Thousands! Who’ll do as we want!
September, 1923
Dear Strasser:
Since last October it’s been a better year than I ever thought possible! It’s funny—but a person can find something in his past, something he may hate—and realize it’s the best weapon he’s got. I have. I lead two lives and neither meets the other! It is a brilliant manipulation if I do say so myself! I think you would be pleased that you didn’t kill your friend Kroeger in France.
December, 1923
My dear Kroeger:
I head south immediately! Munich was a disaster. I warned them not to attempt a forcible putsch. It has to be political—but they would not listen. Hitler will draw a long jail sentence, in spite of our ‘friends.’ God knows what will happen to poor old Ludendorff? Buchrucker’s Black Reichswehr has been destroyed by von Seeckt. Why? We all want the same thing. The depression is nothing short of catastrophic now. Always it is the wrong people who fight each other. The Jews and the Communists enjoy it all, no doubt. It is an insane country.
April, 1924
Dear Strasser:
I’ve had my first contact with any real difficulty—but it’s under control now. Remember, Strasser? Control… The problem is a simple one—too many people are after the same thing. Everyone wants to be the big cheese! There’s plenty for everybody but no one believes that. It’s very much as you describe—the people who shouldn’t fight each other are doing just that. Nevertheless, I’ve nearly accomplished what I set out to do. Soon I’ll have a list of thousands! Thousands! Who’ll do as we want!
January, 1925
My dear Kroeger:
This is my last letter. I write from Zurich. Since Herr Hitler’s release he has once again assumed leadership of the party and I confess there are deep divisions between us. Perhaps they will be resolved. I, too, have my followers. To the point. We are all of us under the strongest surveillance. The Weimar is frightened of us—as well it should be. I am convinced my mail, telephone, my every action is scrutinized. No more chances. But the time approaches. A bold plan is being conceived and I had taken the liberty of suggesting Heinrich Kroeger’s inclusion. It is a master plan, a fantastic plan. You are to contact the Marquis Jacques Louis Bertholde of Bertholde et Fils, London. By mid-April. The only name he knows—as myself—is Heinrich Kroeger.
A gray-haired man of sixty-three sat at his desk looking out the window over K Street in Washington. His name was Benjamin Reynolds and in two years he would retire. Until that time, however, he was responsible for the functions of an innocuous sounding agency attached to the Department of the Interior. The agency was titled Field Services and Accounting. To less than five hundred people, it was known simply as Group Twenty.
The agency got its shortened name from its origins: a group of twenty field accountants sent out by the Interior to look into the growing conflicts of interest between those politicians allocating federal funds and those of the electorate receiving them.
With America’s entry into the war and the overnight industrial expansion necessary to sustain the war effort, Group Twenty became an overworked unit. The awarding of munitions and armament contracts to business throughout the country demanded an around-the-clock scrutiny beyond the capabilities of the limited number of field accountants. However, rather than expand the silent agency, it was decided to use it only in the most sensitive—or embarrassing—areas. There were a sufficient number of these. And the field accountants were specialists.
After the war there was talk of disbanding Group Twenty, but each time such action was considered problems arose that required its talents. Generally they were problems involving highly placed public servants who dipped a bit too greedily into the public jewel box. But in isolated cases Group Twenty assumed duties shunned by other departments for any number of reasons.
Such as the Treasury Department’s reluctance to pursue a vapor called Scarlatti.
‘Why, Glover?’ asked the gray-haired man. ‘The question is why? Assuming there’s an ounce of prosecutable proof, why?’
‘Why does anyone break a law?’ A man roughly ten years younger than Reynolds answered him with another question. ‘For profit. And there’s a lot of profit in Prohibition.’
‘No! God damn it to hell, no!’ Reynolds spun around in his chair and slammed his pipe on the desk blotter. ‘You’re wrong! This Scarlatti has more money than our combined imaginations can conceive of. It’s like saying the Mellons are going to open a bookmaking parlor in Philadelphia. It doesn’t make sense—’
‘Join me in a drink?’
It was after five and Group Twenty’s staff was gone for the day. Only the man named Glover and Ben Reynolds remained.
‘You shock me, Ben,’ Glover said with a grin.
‘Then to hell with you. I’ll save it for myself.’
‘You do that and I’ll turn you in—Good stuff?’
‘Right off the boat from old Blighty, they tell me.’ Reynolds took a leather-bound flask out of his top drawer and two water glasses from a desk tray and poured.
‘If you rule out profits, what the devil have you got left, Ben?’
‘Damned if I know,’ replied the older man, drinking.
‘What are you going to do? I gather no one else wants to do anything.’
‘Yes, siree! That is no, siree! Nobody wants to touch this—Oh, they’ll go after Mr. Smith and Mr. Jones with a vengeance. They’ll prosecute the hell out of some poor slob in East Orange, New Jersey, with a case in his basement. But not this one!’
‘You lost me, Ben.’
‘This is the Scarlatti Industries! This is big, powerful friends on the Hill! Remember, Treasury needs money, too. It gets it up there.’
‘What do you want to do, Ben?’
‘I want to find out why the mammoth’s tusk is plungi
ng into bird feed.’
‘How?’
‘With Canfield. He’s partial to bird feed himself, the poor son of a bitch.’
‘He’s a good man, Ben.’ Glover did not like the sound of Reynolds’s invective. He liked Matthew Canfield. He thought he was talented, quick. There but for the money to complete an education was a young man with a future. Too good for government service. A lot better than either of them. Well, better than himself, better than a man named Glover who didn’t care anymore. There weren’t many people better than Reynolds.
Benjamin Reynolds looked up at his subordinate. He seemed to be reading his thoughts. ‘Yes, he’s a good man. He’s in Chicago. Go out and call him. His routing must be somewhere.’
‘I have it in my desk.’
‘Then get him in here by tomorrow night.’
The Scarletti Inheritance
Chapter Six
Matthew Canfield, field accountant, lay in his Pullman berth, and smoked the next to last thin cigar in his pack. They had no thin cigars on the New York-Chicago Limited and he inhaled each breath of smoke with a degree of sacrifice.
In the early morning he would reach New York, transfer to the next train south, and be in Washington ahead of schedule. That would make a better impression on Reynolds than arriving in the evening. That would show that he, Canfield, could close a problem quickly, with no loose ends left dangling. Of course, with his current assignment it was difficult. He had completed it several days ago but had remained in Chicago as the guest of the senator he had been sent to confront about payroll allocations to nonexistent employees.
He wondered why he had been called back to Washington. He always wondered why he was called back. Probably because he believed deeply that it was never just another job but, instead, that someday, somehow Washington would be on to him. Group Twenty would be on to him.
They would confront him.
With evidence.
But it was unlikely. It hadn’t happened. Matthew Canfield was a professional—minor level, he granted to himself—but still a professional. And he had no regrets whatsoever. He was entitled to every wooden nickel he could dig up.
The Scarletti Inheritance Page 6
