“I remember, Karl,” Göerner said.
Helena stood up and threw her napkin on the table.
“Come on, boys,” she said.
“You don’t have to stay, Liebchen,” Otto said. “But the boys will.”
She locked eyes with him, and then walked out of the room.
Göerner looked at Castillo.
“Your mother used to say, you know, that the one thing you really inherited from the Old Man was his complete lack of tact,” he said.
Castillo nodded, and then said, “You said you thought the money they were moving was from Oil for Food.”
Göerner nodded.
“Let me tell you where I’m coming from, Karl,” he said. “When you were being a smart-ass before, with ‘the legend of the castle,’ it started me thinking. You were right. Your grandfather didn’t like Americans, and if the Old Man were alive today, he probably would like them even less. But then I realized that if he were still here, and knew what’s going on, and an American intelligence officer—not you, not his grandson, any American intelligenceofficer he thought he could trust—came to him and asked about this, he would have told him everything he knew.
“And you’re right, Karl, I am sitting in the Old Man’s chair. And in this chair, I have always tried to do what the Old Man would do. You understand me? That’s why we’re talking about what we never said out loud before, what you really are; that’s why I’m going to tell you what I know, and that’s why I wanted the boys to hear this. The Old Man was right about that, too. You’re never too young to learn what a lousy world we’re living in.”
“I understand, Otto,” Castillo said.
“Some of this I know myself,” Göerner began, “but most of it comes from Eric Kocian—”
“Who?”
“He’s the editor of the Budapester Neue Zeitung,” Göerner said. He looked at Torine. “That’s one of ours, which is to say, one of Charley’s. Charley did tell you, didn’t he, that he’s the owner of Gossinger Beteiligungsgesellschaft, G.m.b.H.? That’s the holding company for everything.”
“No, he didn’t,” Torine said. He looked at Castillo and added, “It probably just slipped his mind.”
“Okay, Eric is an old man. Well into his seventies. He’s half Hungarian and half Viennese. He was an eighteen-year-old Gefreite—corporal—in the Old Man’s regiment in Stalingrad. They were really seriously wounded, which turned out to be a good thing for them. They were evacuated on the same plane; they didn’t wind up in Siberia for a decade or so after the surrender at Stalingrad.
“After the war, Eric came here—Vienna was nothing but rubble; what was left of his family had been killed the day the Americans tried to bomb the Hauptbahnhof and missed and destroyed Saint Stephen’s Cathedral—and he really didn’t have anyplace else to go. The Old Man put him to work on the farm, and then on the Tages Zeitung when he could start that up again. And then when the Old Man got the Wiener Tages Zeitung up and running, Eric went to Vienna. He was managing editor, about to retire, when we got the Budapester Zeitung presses back from the communists. Eric came to me when he heard I was thinking of selling the plant, and asked that he be allowed to try to get the Zeitung up and running again.
“I didn’t think that would work, but I knew the Old Man wouldn’t have told him no, so I agreed. We renamed it the Budapester Neue Zeitung and he started it up. It worked. It’s the largest German-language newspaper in Hungary, and is actually a competitor of the Wiener Tages Zeitung in Slovakia, the Czech Republic, and Eastern Austria.”
“He’s the guy who did the story on the Lebanese, what’s his name, Douchon, who was murdered in Vienna?” Castillo asked.
“The first story was written by one of our men on the Wiener Tages Zeitung. When Eric saw it on our wire, he had serious doubts about it. So he went to Vienna himself, where of course he knew everybody, especially the senior police, and they told him that it wasn’t a . . .” Göerner stopped and looked uncomfortably at his sons for a moment and then went on: “. . . a case of one more Middle Eastern homosexual being murdered by his blond Viennese boyfriend, as our man had hinted, but most likely by people who wanted to shut Douchon’s mouth so that he wouldn’t be talking about Oil for Food.
“Eric had already been looking into the oil-for-food story, and it fit what he’d dug up himself. So he came to me—came here; he didn’t trust the telephone—and told me about it, and said he really wanted to go into it.
“I told him he was liable to get himself killed, and he responded, ‘At my age, what a good way to go out, on a big story.’ So I told him no, I’d assign people to the story, and then he said, ‘Okay, then I retire. I’m going to do this story.’”
“Did he retire?”
“Of course not,” Göerner said.
“I want to talk to him. Tomorrow.”
“I’ll have to go with you,” Göerner said. “Like most people around here, Kocian thinks you’re squandering the Old Man’s money while pretending to be our Washington correspondent. He actually pointed out to me the striking similarities between a story we published under your byline and a piece that appeared in the American Conservative magazine. I forget what it was, but you certainly didn’t spend a lot of time paraphrasing that story.”
“I’ll try to be more careful in the future,” Castillo said.
Göerner nodded.
“Your original question, Karl, was about money being hidden, or washed, in South America, especially Argentina.”
“Yes, it was.”
“I’ve always been fascinated with that, and so was your grandfather. The Nazis didn’t think it up. They weren’t that clever. It actually started after the First World War and the Versailles Convention. The French and the English, you will recall, got German East Africa as reparations. As well as just about everything that could be taken out of Germany proper.”
Göerner paused, then asked, “This is going to be a rather long lecture. You sure you want me to go on?”
“I don’t know about Charley,” Torine said, “but yes, please.”
“Go on, Otto, please,” Castillo said.
“As bad as the Geneva Convention was—and I’m one of those people who think it made Hitler’s coming to power and thus World War Two inevitable—it did not confiscate outright the holdings of individual Germans, or Hungarians, or anyone else, in what had been German East Africa. It simply changed the colonial government from German to French and English; people still owned their farms and businesses and whatever.
“Then the French and English levied taxes on the farms, businesses, etcetera, which they had every legal right to do. The problem was that the taxes had to be paid now in French francs and English pounds. The German mark was worthless. There was no way a German landholder could come up with enough francs or pounds to pay his taxes. The properties were then confiscated for nonpayment of taxes and sold at auction in francs or pounds to the highest bidders, most of whom happened to be Frenchmen and Englishmen.”
“Dirty pool,” Torine said.
“Of questionable morality, perhaps, but perfectly legal,” Göerner went on. “The only people who did not lose their property were a lucky few—including some of your Hungarian kin, Karl—who for one reason or another had gold on deposit in South Africa. The South Africans hated the English and the French, and closed their eyes when the gold that Germans held in their banks was transferred to either some friendly South African or Swiss bank.
“Then, when the tax auctions were held, lo and behold, some of the bidders were Swiss and South African, who were able to buy francs and pounds at very favorable rates with their gold, and be in a position to outbid the French and the English who had come to the auctions looking for a real bargain.
“That’s how your Nagynéni Olga, Karl—”
“Excuse me?” Torine interrupted.
“My Hungarian aunt Olga,” Castillo furnished. “She lived with us here, until I was what, Otto, about seven or eight?”
“You we
re eight when Olga died,” Göerner said. “Anyway, because they had gold in South Africa, Olga and her husband, who was then still alive, managed to not only hang on to their former German East African property, but to buy at auction the Gossinger holdings, which otherwise would have gone to some undeserving Frenchman or Englishman.
“After World War Two, the communists in Hungary, of course, confiscated everything she owned there, but when the Old Man finally got her out of Hungary, she still held title to the African properties. She left it to the Old Man when she died. He held it until he decided that Kenya was not really going to become the African paradise the new black leaders said it was going to be after independence.”
“I never heard any of this before,” Castillo confessed.
“All you had to do was ask, Karl,” Göerner said. “The importance about all of this is that people learned the lesson. They understood that it was prudent to have hard currency out of whatever country they lived in. This proved a boon to the Swiss banking industry, who instituted the numbered account and really strict banking secrecy laws.
“The trick was to get the money out of your country without letting your government know. This generally required that you have a friend in the country where you wanted to hide your nest egg. For many Germans, a place where you could find German friends—in some cases, relatives—was in Argentina. In the thirties, people are prone to forget, Argentina had the largest gold reserves in the world.”
“Were we involved in this?” Castillo asked.
“Yes, we were,” Göerner said. “What your great-grandfather, and then your grandfather, did was begin to buy our newsprint from Argentina.”
“I don’t follow that,” Castillo confessed.
“Newspapers consume vast quantities of newsprint,” Göerner said. “Therefore no one was surprised when Gossinger Beteiligungsgesellschaft, G.m.b.H., began to buy newsprint from Argentina, where it was cheaper than newsprint from Denmark or Norway, and even cheaper than newsprint from the United States and Canada. And the government didn’t understand at first just how cheap it was.”
“I don’t understand that, either,” Castillo said.
“Let’s say newsprint from Denmark was so much a ton, say fifty dollars. Use that for the purposes of illustration; I have no idea what it was back then. And forty dollars a ton from the United States or Canada. And thirty from Argentina. Without raising any interest at all, the Dresdenerbank would transfer, say, three thousand dollars to the Bank of Argentina in payment for one hundred tons of newsprint. Bill rendered and paid. End of transaction. But actually, the newsprint cost twenty-five hundred. Which meant, for every one-hundred-ton transaction, there was five hundred dollars left over that could be quietly squirreled away in a bank account.”
“We did this?” Castillo asked, incredulously.
“We did it. Mercedes-Benz did it. MAN diesel did it. Seimens did it. And I can’t think of a brewery of any size, including ours, that didn’t do it.” He paused. “Where did you think the money came from for the economic miracle that saw Germany rise, phoenix-like, from the rubble we were in 1945?”
“I thought it was the Marshall Plan,” Torine said. “And hard work on the part of Germany.”
“All of the above, Colonel,” Göerner said. “The Marshall Plan kept us fed and out of the hands of the Soviet Union. And repatriated nest eggs permitted us to have the raw material we Germans needed to go to work.”
“Are we still doing this?” Castillo asked.
“Your grandfather thought Juan D. Perón was as dangerousas Hitler. We moved our nest egg from Argentina before you were born.”
“So why are these good old boys from Marburg sending oil-for-food money there?”
“I’m about to get to that, but that’s a two-part story, and one that will take some time. And I heard you tell Mr. Kranz that you wanted to demonstrate your miraculous telephone.”
“Yeah, I have to get on the horn.”
“We can get into this later,” Göerner said.
[SIX]
“I lied, Otto,” Castillo said. They were standing in the shade of the eaves of the stable, leaning on the wall, watching as Kranz set up the radio. A small circular dish pointed at the heavens. There was a control panel that resembled a small laptop computer to which had been added several rows of colored LEDs.
Helena had disappeared with the boys. Castillo wondered if she was protecting them from their godfather or whether Otto had subtly signaled her to take them away from something they probably would be better off not seeing.
“Why am I not surprised?” Otto asked.
“You can’t really buy one of these. AFC makes some great stuff for the civilian market, but these aren’t available.”
“What’s so fancy about this one?” Otto asked.
“All green, sir,” Kranz said.
“Encrypted voice, right?” Castillo asked.
Kranz handed him a telephone handset, a small black one that looked like it belonged hanging on a Reduced to $79.90 fax machine at Radio Shack.
“Encrypted voice all green, sir.”
“I’m not going to need cans?” Castillo asked.
“With the signal I’ve got, I can put it on the speakerphone.”
“Do it,” Castillo ordered, and handed him the handset.
“Encrypted speakerphone green, sir,” Kranz announced a moment later.
“Dick?” Castillo asked conversationally.
Castillo’s voice was then converted to digital electronic pulses, encrypted, reduced to a message lasting just a few milliseconds, transmitted to satellite 22,300 miles above the earth, relayed to another satellite, and then relayed to the dish sitting on the roof at the Nebraska Avenue Complex. There, the “burst” was expanded, decrypted, and fed to the handset Major H. Richard Miller, Jr., was holding to his ear.
A just-perceptible delayed moment later, Miller’s voice—having gone through the same series of events— came over the loudspeaker next to the stable near Bad Hersfeld: “Hey, Charley!”
“Where the hell have you been? We’ve been calling you for hours.”
“You went up twelve seconds ago,” Miller said.
“Anybody there with you?”
“Secretary Hall, Agnes, and Tom.”
“Have you got signal strength for speakerphone?”
A moment later, another male voice said, “Encrypted speakerphone green,” and a moment after that came the voice of Secretary of Homeland Security Hall. “How’s that, Charley?”
“Loud and clear, sir.”
“Tell me what you’ve got, Charley, and then I’ll give you the good news,” Hall said.
“Lorimer was a bagman in the oil-for-food thing,” Castillo said. “A whole lot of people want him dead, both for what he knows and for skimming a lot of money—maybe sixteen million U.S.—from the players.”
“You’re saying he’s dead?”
“The CIA guy in Paris thinks he is. I’m not at all sure. I’m going looking for him.”
“Where?”
“There’s a man in Budapest I want to talk to. He may have some ideas.”
“Where are you?”
“In Bad Hersfeld. We’re going to Budapest first thing in the morning.”
“I knew you weren’t in Paris,” Hall said. “Ambassador Montvale told me. That’s the good news.”
“What?”
“He said he had some information for you, and wondered where you were. I told him.”
“What’s the information?”
“He seemed a little reluctant to share that with me,” Hall said dryly. “And I thought it would probably be easier for him to give it to you—perhaps you would share it with me—than for me to go to the President.”
“When is he going to share it with me?” Castillo asked. His eyes met Torine’s. Torine disgustedly threw up his hands in a “what now?” gesture.
“When he called to tell me you were not at the Crillon, he asked me to put him in touch with you wheneve
r you checked in. I told him I would. You want to talk to him?”
“What choice do I have?”
“Not much, Charley. But it’s your call.”
“How do I do that?”
“We’re wired into the White House net. Just say the word.”
“I wish you could eavesdrop, sir.”
“If you don’t tell me to get off the speakerphone . . .”
“Thank you.”
Miller’s voice went into the heavens and back: “Bring the White House switchboard into the loop.”
“Switchboard.”
“C. G. Castillo for Ambassador Montvale. I will need a secure line.”
“One moment, please.”
“Director Montvale’s office.”
“I have Mr. C. G. Castillo on a secure line for Director Montvale.”
“One moment, please.”
“Charles Montvale here. Is that you, Major?”
“Yes, sir. Good morning, sir.”
“This line is secure, right?”
“So I have been informed, sir.”
“I have made inquiries vis-à-vis the FBI agent Yung, in Montevideo, Major.”
“Thank you, sir.”
“An interesting situation, Major. The attorney general tells me that Yung has been seconded to the State Department on a mission with the highest possible security clearance. What he’s doing is so secret, I am informed, that neither the director of the FBI nor the attorney general knows what he is doing.”
“That’s very interesting, sir.”
“And there is more, Major. When I asked the director of the State Department’s bureau of intelligence and research, he told me that he was unable to discuss Agent Yung’s activities with me without the specific permission of the secretary of state.”
“Even more interesting, sir.”
“Apparently Secretary Cohen neglected to inform the appropriate people of the President’s finding.”
“Have you had the opportunity to discuss this with Secretary Cohen, sir?”
“This is where this situation becomes really interesting, Major. Yes, I have. She says that she has no knowledge whatever of Agent Yung beyond what she heard in our conversation aboard Air Force One. She assures me, however, that as soon as she gets to Singapore, she will take the appropriate steps to get to the root of the matter.”
The Hostage Page 47
