The Honest Spy

by Andreas Kollender

  “Such as?”

  “I think he might have burned down a couple of towns.”

  “That doesn’t sound so bad these days. Does he succeed?”

  “Absolutely. Yet at the end, he loses his head.”

  “In that case, we should probably keep a real close eye on you. Come on,” Priest said, and they made their way up to the secret office of Allen Dulles.

  It was as if Fritz had seen Dulles just yesterday. He was wearing the gray three-piece and smoking his pipe. He greeted Fritz and the two of them sat in armchairs by the fireplace. Priest got them their whisky. “Where’s Ms. Stone?” Fritz asked.

  “Washington,” Priest said. “We’re to send her regards. She wishes you all the best.”

  “That’s all?”

  “She also said that no matter what happens, you should persevere.”

  “That’s nothing new,” Fritz said.

  “She liked you,” Priest said.

  “Greta Stone? Me?”

  Priest raised his whisky glass.

  “She just wanted me wrapped around her little finger,” Fritz said.

  He had learned to trust his OSS triumvirate so well. He had never imagined attending one of these meetings without Greta Stone taking part. Although he never quite knew what to think of the woman, he did miss her—her upright bearing and that coolness about her that was strange, but never unpleasant. He asked what she was doing in Washington. “Furthering America’s cause,” Priest said. “We miss her too, you know.”

  “Let’s get to business,” Dulles said. “Do you have any idea who was following you?”

  “Do you?”

  Dulles smiled and pointed at Fritz with the stem of his pipe.

  “Weygand’s people, I assume,” Fritz said.

  “They’re getting increasingly nervous,” Dulles said. “Now, there’s one other thing Ms. Stone was wondering about, and it’s something that interests me too. And that’s how did Hitler carry out domestic surveillance of the Germans? According to our assessments, the Gestapo and other agencies ran a cleverly thought-out, highly efficient system of total surveillance. We disapprove of such a thing, naturally. But it interests us just the same.”

  “I can’t tell you much about how the Gestapo is organized. It functions. They terrorize people, and they have immense authority. They don’t ask permission. They’re allowed to do anything. That in itself makes them powerful.”

  “They don’t ask. Everything’s allowed.” Dulles sucked on his pipe, crossing his legs. “Interesting, the way you put it. Purely hypothetically, Wood—you think they’ve been gathering material on every citizen?”

  “They threw a man out of a window right in front of his son. They didn’t need any material on him to do that.”

  “Fair enough,” Dulles said. “Okay, so you brought us something?”

  “Plenty,” Fritz said. He pulled pages from the pockets of his jacket and overcoat, from his socks and his waistband.

  “Good work,” Priest said, scanning the documents. “Wehrmacht armored reserves on the Western Front. Restructuring of units, German generals under suspicion. Good work, good work. And here, oh yeah, that jet fighter, the Me 262—outstanding! Though this handwriting of yours, Wood, is one of the war’s true disasters. Can you even read your own writing?”

  They’d been reviewing the documents for barely five minutes when Dulles looked at his watch and said good-bye. He had another appointment. Priest saw the way Fritz watched him leave.

  “Top-level stuff, Wood. Allen’s meeting with an SS general from Italy, Italian aristocrats, a Wehrmacht colonel, and a high-ranking exile coming from Sweden. Real big fish.”

  Fritz held up his pages. “What about this here?”

  “You’re his best informant. But Allen is moving in higher circles now. They’re polishing up a desk for him in Washington. A real big desk.”

  Fritz glanced around the office. He listened to the logs crackling in the fireplace and looked President Roosevelt in the eyes. Now only two actors remained to perform this clandestine chamber play of theirs.

  “Don’t take it personally,” Priest said.

  “I could lose my life, that’s all. That’s pretty personal.”

  Priest grinned at him. “Dulles is simply playing on multiple fields now, and, well, some happen to suit him better than others. Listen. I’ve seen plenty of intelligence pass through this office, more than you would probably think, from men and women alike: everyone from anti-Nazis and common traitors to probable double agents. But you? You’re the only one whose conviction I truly bought.”

  “Eventually.”

  “In the beginning, I thought you were a crackpot, or worse. All the others at least attempted to seek protection for themselves, or they took our money—plenty of it, by the way. But you came in here and just handed us the most confidential intelligence we’ve ever gotten our eyes on—and you didn’t want a thing. Greta really was fond of you, by the way.”

  Fritz ran a hand through his thin hair. “Does she have a husband?”

  “If she does, I wouldn’t want to be in his shoes.”

  They laughed. Priest put more wood on the fire.

  “You can call me Fritz.”

  “William. My friends call me Will.”

  “Sounds good, Will. You know, some people in Germany are trying to transfer huge amounts of gold into Switzerland.”

  “We already got wind of it. Am I right in thinking von Lützow is a weak link? That we can soften him up?”

  “I’ve already started working on that.”

  Priest chuckled. “That’s okay by me. But don’t tell Allen about operating on your own like that.”

  “Weygand has his eye on von Lützow.”

  “That problem will be taken care of.”

  “And what about the banks?”

  “Without them, this war wouldn’t have happened. There’s nothing new there, Mr. . . . Fritz.”

  “Mr. Fritz. The way that sounds!”

  “But you do have a very German name.”

  “I’m a very German sort. Glad to be, at that. German literature, German music, German philosophy. The Nazis aren’t Germans at all. They have no culture. They burn people; they burn books. All they have is their miserable screaming. If I hear one more time about how Hitler is supposed to be this great orator—what a load of shit. That’s absurd, just garbage. Churchill is an orator. Hitler’s just dull, a bawling baby. No substance at all. He’s always hiding away somewhere.”

  “You lived abroad for years. Maybe that’s why you see things differently than other Germans do? There was that safari in Africa. How was that?”

  “It was in South-West Africa, with my good friend Walter Braunwein.” Fritz drank his whisky, the memories sloshing down his throat with the liquor: conversations, Walter’s laugh, hey-ho, Käthe in South Africa wearing her sun hat in the car next to Katrin. “My best friend. He’s dead now, Will. You know why? Because I betrayed him. Here in this very room, without even realizing it. That secret transmitter near Dublin, you remember? Walter was there.”

  “Goddamn.” Priest rubbed at his chin. “Fritz, I’m so sorry. Your best friend?”

  “His wife then killed herself. Käthe.”

  Priest stared into the fire. Fritz knew that look, saw the moment when Priest’s cheeks warmed and all of existence seemed to shrink into the pull of the flames. It was the look of someone who was losing himself and concentrating, all at the same time.

  “That was the disruption?” Priest asked. “The reason we didn’t hear from you for so long?”

  “I couldn’t do it anymore.”

  “Yet after all that, you keep going.”

  “Marlene convinced me.”

  “What kind of a woman is she?”

  “The very best.”

  “I’m going to make sure Allen knows all this.”

  “Let it go, Will. I told you about it. I’ll tell others, the ones this actually concerns. But leave Dulles out of it. Please.�
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  “We all pay such a high price.”

  “You too?”

  “Not as high as you, Fritz. Nothing like that. But I haven’t seen my wife for three years. And she isn’t exactly one to stay sad, if you know what I mean.”

  “The first sound I heard coming from Marlene,” Fritz said, “was a laugh.”

  They sat together awhile longer, watching the flames grow tall around the black logs. Finally, Fritz said his journey had been exhausting and he needed to get to bed. They agreed to meet the following evening. Fritz asked if he should be worried because of his room and his tail.

  “I have no idea,” Priest said.

  “Yes or no, Will.”

  “Yes. You should. Not one of these Nazis now wants to have been a Nazi. They’re all starting to evade, cover up, look for escape routes. If word gets out about what you’ve done, Fritz, some people will start to realize what you must know. They’ll ask themselves what happened to all the secret files, how much you’ve seen. They’ll wonder if you maybe even kept copies.”

  “Wonderful.”

  “I promise you one thing: we will watch out for you. I will, personally. You can depend on it. You still have the revolver?”

  Fritz patted his jacket pocket.

  “If it ever comes to that, always aim for the center. Not the arms or legs, not the head. Shoot at the middle of the body, always at the middle. Don’t hesitate. Pull that trigger, then turn around and get out of there. Can you do that?”

  “I never would have known all that, Will. Good God. Hopefully, I won’t ever have to.”

  There was a knock at the door. A young man wearing a winter coat and hat entered, whispered something in Priest’s ear, and left again.

  “Your tail’s still out there.”

  “Shit.”

  “When you leave tonight, don’t worry about that. I have my best men on him. The best anywhere, period. The OSS keeps growing. Our people are getting special training, really good stuff. The OSS is going to become a pillar of America. The country can’t stay secure without us. It’s all very exciting and pretty incredible. You, Fritz—you were a big part of this.”

  “I want Marlene and Katrin. That’s all I require. Will, Marlene has to get out of there.”

  “I’ll do everything that I can.”

  “My daughter, Katrin. She’s the finest girl there is. Could you get a message to her? One that can’t be traced back? Can you get in touch with her somehow? Please, Will.”

  “I’ll see to it.”

  Fritz told him more about Swakopmund and about Hiltrud and Werner Lichtwang. “Perhaps Katrin’s sitting on the beach right now, Will. She likes to sit with her knees up and her arms wrapped around them. She always wears her hair down.”

  “I’d like to have a kid myself,” Priest said.

  “It’s the best thing a person can do,” Fritz said.

  The telephones at the diplomatic mission were ringing nonstop, yet few staff were left to answer them. A Mercedes limousine had pulled up to the villa, and men in leather overcoats were carrying crates from the building and stowing them in the trunk.

  Fritz wanted to speak to von Lützow, but the consul said he didn’t have time—he was on his way to an appointment. He couldn’t tell Fritz what the appointment was about. Then Weygand told Fritz that “I myself” will deal with “the likes of you, Herr Kolbe” and very soon.

  Then something happened that deeply amused Fritz. Right in the middle of the hallway, amid the clamor of the telephones and the clack of the typewriters, von Lützow shouted that Weygand should kindly come with him and that was an order. Fritz never heard von Lützow talk like that. But it worked, even on a bastard like Weygand. Rage filled Weygand’s face, yet he said he was coming at once and added, almost as a reflex, “Yes sir, Herr von Lützow.” Fritz grinned at Weygand, who marched out into the gray daylight behind the consul, swinging his arms far too aggressively.

  Fritz gathered the communications staff around and briefed them on the current routes to Salzburg. Many sections of the Foreign Office were to transfer operations there, he said, including the following departments . . .

  He bought a black bra and chocolate for Marlene on Marktgasse, and the British Times and the Washington Post at the train station. In his hotel room he lay on his bed, smoked, and read the news. In that moment he desired nothing more than for Marlene to be with him, to caress those cheekbones of hers, and to be standing on the train platform, reunited with Katrin. He let the newspaper fall and looked out the window into the powdery sky. Was it possible that no one in the Office was onto him yet? Then why had his room been searched, and by whom? It seemed inconceivable that he could be peacefully lying in bed like this: his body free from harm, blood flowing through his veins, the paper in his hands. What did it all mean?

  He folded up the newspaper, stood at the window, and looked out over the black, white, and gray city. How long had it been since Marlene had seen a city at peace? The life he shared with her was all war and secrets.

  Outside, a solitary man in a black overcoat was crossing the square, looking up at the veiled monument.

  “Individual Nazis had tried to move between five and seven thousand tons of gold into Switzerland—per month,” Fritz says. “Weygand never had full authority in such matters, so he couldn’t just oust von Lützow over it despite developing his own contacts in Berlin. I’m not entirely sure how von Lützow kept his position until the end. Probably cronyism. A person always knew someone who knew somebody else.” He sighs. “Will Priest ended up telling Dulles that I’d started working von Lützow on my own initiative. Dulles was appalled. His face went pale, but he didn’t say a word about it.”

  “Fritz Kolbe had emancipated himself,” Veronika says.

  “William Priest told you he would look out for you personally after the war, is that right?” Wegner asks. “Did he mean nowadays too, or only right after the war ended?”

  “It was his voice. I heard his voice when . . .” Fritz falls silent.

  “When what? Herr Kolbe?” Veronika is holding her camera ready.

  He goes into the kitchen, the dusk carving the shapes around him into silhouettes. He prepares a plate with cheese, radishes, onions, and dark bread. Then he goes outside and grabs three more bottles of beer from the cold water of the well. He looks around. Such a view, such fresh air. He hears the sluggish clanging of cowbells and the rushing of the stream in the valley, and sees the mountains going blue like the meadows now in shade.

  He’s held things in for so long. His pathetic attempts to write things down have all failed because he hides certain truths, just as the Nazis did. Eugen Sacher has been worried about him, and surely still is. Fritz remembers sitting outside the cabin with Eugen before Wegner and Veronika’s visit.

  “I’ll be the one to tell him, Eugen,” Fritz said. “Me. Not you.”

  “Are you really going to? You’ll tell him everything? Because if you don’t, it’s going to crush you.”

  “Yeah, yeah.”

  “With all due respect, Fritz, what you’ve written—and in English at that! The Story of George. George was an ordinary German boy . . . Sorry, old friend, but you’re no writer.”

  “It wasn’t that bad,” Fritz said.

  Eugen laughed and threw up his hands. “It’s a disaster. But you’ll do what you want. You always do. You have to.”

  “True.” Fritz gazed at the mountains, thinking he must get up there soon. “You know, Eugen, so many people want to be something special. I just want to be normal again.”

  “Then tell him, Fritz. About everything.”

  He is gripping both hands so tightly that one of the damp bottles slips through his fingers and hits the ground. It doesn’t break; the glass is thick and sturdy. He looks down at himself, at his strong legs. He thinks of Marlene’s legs. He remembers the prosthetics in her hospital office: in hindsight, such foreshadowing, yet he didn’t recognize it as such at the time.

  Ah, Marlene. My love.
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  He picks up the bottle and leans against the cabin. He hears footsteps and sees Veronika looking around the corner.

  “You look like you could use a drinking buddy,” she says.

  Fritz raises the bottles. “Drinking together like this is nice.”

  “I think so too.” Veronika walks over next to him, and they look out at the mountains across the valley, the sky growing dark. Fritz hands her a bottle. The beer makes a gurgling sound as they drink.

  “Do you have a man in your life, Fräulein Hügel?”

  “Oh, Herr Kolbe. Sure, there’s been a man here, another there. But I’m not really sure what I want.”

  Fritz studies her: such a young woman, her skin so smooth, even when she smiles. When Marlene smiled she got little creases on her cheeks. He loved that, and often placed a hand on one of her cheeks while kissing the other all over, that straight nose of hers so close to his eyes. Oh, Marlene, he thinks.

  Down on the road something yellow flashes, like a cat’s eyes. A car is driving across the bridge. It stops at the fork where Wegner halted this morning. The headlights make it tough to make out any details, nothing seeming to move, inside the car or out. The car pulls back a bit. If it takes the turn-off, Fritz knows, it’s coming up here. The road doesn’t lead anywhere else.

  “Anything wrong?” Veronika asks.

  “We’ll find out,” Fritz says.

  Whoever is down in the car must see the cabin clearly, given all the light glowing in the windows. Then the car’s lights go off, the darkness throws a black blanket over the vehicle, and two people step out. Fritz can’t tell what they’re doing—they’re too far away, and it’s too dark.

  “Who are they?” Veronika asks.

  “No idea. The thing is, in novels and plays everything tends to make sense. It’s not like that in life. Not everything lines up; not all the loose ends get tied up. It would be nice if they did, but that’s not the way it works. In novels, guilt eventually comes back to claim the guilty. In life? Sometimes, maybe—but God knows, it doesn’t always.”

  Fritz sees movement down at the car. Then the lights come on again and the car drives off down the road, spreading a fan of yellow light before disappearing into the valley.