Echoes of Silence

by Patrick W O'Bryon

  “As ready as I’ll ever be.” She sounded strained.

  “Tomorrow then. This looks to be the break we’ve been waiting for.”

  “Won’t be any easier for me, though.” She hung up without further comment.

  ❖

  Each morning Ryan placed a call to the cut-out number, always from a different public phone. Each time he received the same terse reply from that unknown woman: “Stay put. Call tomorrow, same time.” Three weeks had passed since meeting the forger in the train station, and he was thankful for the fictitious identity of “Ernst Mahler” that now allowed him to relax a bit as he moved about. Becker had done an excellent job. The new papers had passed their first control check on his second day in that guise. Ellington appeared to be stonewalling him, or perhaps his messages were going astray. Was the new boss purposefully trying to box him in, render him ineffective, willing to waste him as an asset? Without so much as a reply, he could do nothing but wait.

  The silence from Canaris spoke volumes, as well. Ryan’s calls to the admiral’s cut-out had all proved fruitless. The number remained disconnected. Clearly, nothing would come from German military intelligence as long as wanted posters might link the admiral’s Abwehr to Ryan’s Reichsbank caper. Was the conflict between German military intelligence and Himmler’s security services coming to a head? Ryan would have to depend on Ellington and the COI.

  Extending the stay at his current lodging added to the pressure. Every housing block in the vast city had a warden, and every warden was duty-bound to report suspicious talk or behavior. A casual conversation with Frau Küpfermann revealed that the timing of his arrival on Emmengasse had been fortunate, for Herr Richter, the local block supervisor, was out in a ward at Beelitz-Heilstätten recovering from a near-fatal heart attack. Yet he might return to his eagle-eyed duties at any moment and report the stranger rooming above the widow. Ryan was prepared to vacate at a moment’s notice of Richter’s return.

  In the same second-hand shop where he’d earlier replaced his shoes he had found a decent snap-brim fedora to better mask his features when on the street. He passed hours hiding behind the local papers in crowded cafes. Whenever possible he stretched his legs during the busiest times of day, usually during the morning commute. Evenings he holed up in his cramped quarters and read whatever he could put his hands on. On occasion he joined his landlady sitting before the radio, listening to music over a glass of the sherry he provided. Mostly he simply “stayed put,” as ordered by the cut-out.

  On this particular morning he headed out toward the Alex for a brisk walk. He quickly spotted something out of the ordinary, a large man in a wrinkled suit leaning against a building at the intersection of Dircksenstrasse and the square. The stranger shielded his face behind a newspaper and ignored his busy surroundings. There were far better places to catch up on the morning’s news. Heading across the boulevard toward the shops, Ryan casually glanced in a display window and spotted the man trailing him only a few meters back. He slowed his pace and noted the follower adjusting his steps as well. The man appeared quite inept at tailing a mark. Ryan decided to test his theory by stepping into the shop of the mustachioed tobacconist. Would the stranger proceed down the street, loiter outside near the pretzel vendor’s cart, or enter the shop as another customer?

  Shutting the door behind him, Ryan greeted the friendly shopkeeper while listening for the bell to announce someone on his heels. It rang a second time, and the tobacconist’s smile faded instantly, his eyes darting rapidly left then right. Just as quickly two powerful men gripped Ryan by the arms. He instinctively lurched down and away to break free but his struggle proved futile. He could smell booze on the one, Bay Rum on the other. The trembling shopkeeper sought refuge behind the counter, sweat beading on his forehead.

  “Kriminalpolizei,” Bay Rum hissed in his ear. “Easy, buddy, you’ll come with us now.” Ryan tried a lunge to the left, desperate to throw them off-balance. Instead a fist drove the air from his lungs. He doubled over, gasping, and they patted him down, confiscating his papers and penknife and snapping on handcuffs. “Nice try, asshole.” Bay Rum pulled up sharply on the chain and Ryan felt a jolt of pain in his shoulders.

  A black sedan idled at the curb. Bay Rum took the driver’s seat while the other cop forced Ryan into the rear. He hunched over to ease the pain in his gut and lessen the pressure on his wrists. “What’s this all about?” he demanded, knowing full well it was for the Reichsbank intrusion. Nothing else made sense. “What the devil’s going on?”

  Bay Rum concentrated on his driving. His partner, now seated beside Ryan, laughed. “Yours to find out soon enough, buddy boy.” The man’s breath reeked of alcohol.

  Ryan’s old State Department identity would have meant a single phone call to Pariserplatz and swift release from custody. Although the American ambassador had left Berlin after Kristallnacht in ‘38, the Chargé d’Affaires who maintained the embassy would have intervened on his behalf. But now he could divulge nothing. Instead, he played the offended innocent: “Where are you’re taking me? I’ve done nothing wrong. My papers are in order—just have a look.”

  “You can shove your papers. Just shut your trap or you’ll get another good pasting.” A jab in the ribs made the boozy cop’s point. The driver’s eyes remained on the traffic as they negotiated several turns before merging into the ebb and flow of the Alex. The massive stone façade of Kripo headquarters quickly loomed overhead. They pulled to the curb at the very spot he had passed a quarter hour earlier on foot. A short trip. A dangerous trip. Pain and misery waited inside.

  The long, bland corridors swam in a bilious shade of pale green. The arresting cops spoke briefly with the officer at the reception desk before hustling Ryan up the staircase. Offices lined the aisle, some with doors shut, others revealing industrious occupants behind metal desks. Men and women worked through stacks of dossiers or busied themselves with typewriters, ringing telephones, and filing cabinets. For the moment he’d landed with the criminal police and he was pleased to be upstairs. With the Gestapo he would be down in some basement cell awaiting a particularly cruel interrogation. Here he couldn’t expect niceties or coddling but would likely survive. He’d heard the Berlin Kripo maintained some semblance of respect for legalities. That meant a fighting chance if he saw an opening, but for now he had no cards to play.

  The cops shoved him into the anteroom of a larger office where a colorful wall calendar offered stark contrast to the drabness of the surroundings. On the opposite wall hung a large plan of the city, a smaller map of the Mitte district, and a corkboard burdened by numerous wanted notices. A matron wearing gray herringbone and an equally gray hair bun worked a typewriter, glasses perched low on her nose as she alternately consulted a dossier, then returned her gaze to the keys to enter notations on some official form. She paid no attention to the new arrivals.

  An open door beyond her desk revealed the chambers of a detective. Ryan started when he read the name on the brass plate: “Kriminalrat Gregor Brandt.” A first glimpse through the doorway confirmed it. Despite a decade of wear on the man’s face, Ryan recognized the same detective he’d last seen back in ’31. This same inspector had shown up unexpectedly at the von Haldheim villa to investigate Isabel Starr’s disappearance. He’d suggested Ryan back away from any personal search for his missing girlfriend. Ryan had long suspected that Brandt had been the source of a newspaper clipping arriving in his mail shortly thereafter. It reported the body of a woman found in the Spree River.

  The two oafs shoved him into the inner office. The inspector remained behind his desk. Bay Rum made a show of laying out Ryan’s confiscated wallet, knife and papers. His partner stood beside their prisoner, one hand pulling up on the cuffs to force a subservient bow before the detective. Brandt thumbed through the identity documents, a vague smile playing beneath his mustache. He read through the bogus letter from the Tod Organization and counted out Ryan’s cash and coin, making separate stacks for each. Finally, he sli
d everything aside and gave Ryan a studied glance with no hint of recognition. He addressed himself to Bay Rum: “Any difficulties?”

  “No, sir, like a walk in the park. Nabbed him entering a tobacco shop, pretty as you please.”

  “Good work, the both of you. Now remove the cuffs and leave us alone.”

  “Yes, sir.” The cop nodded to his partner, who unlocked the restraints with obvious regret. They shuffled out to wait for further instruction in the antechamber.

  “You may have a seat, Herr—” he again consulted the forged documents, “Herr Makler, is it?”

  Ryan knew the inspector was toying with him. “Mahler,” he corrected, rubbing his wrists, steadying himself. “You will find everything there in best order, Herr Kriminalrat.”

  “Without a doubt.” Brandt made no attempt to mask his sarcasm. He called out to the cops to shut the door. “Now, then—” he reached for a small leather notebook resting on the desk and absent-mindedly rubbed a thumbnail over blemishes on its cover, “tell me all about yourself—” his brief smile revealing a smoker’s teeth, “Herr Lemmon.”

  Hearing his name still came as a shock although he’d half-expected it. Ten years was not that long a stretch and he himself had easily recognized the inspector. All the same, the game was changing in real time, the rules unknown, and his new cover fully blown. No point in feigning ignorance. “You and I have met before, Herr Kriminalrat, some years back.”

  “Ten years, to be precise. You were looking for a young woman gone missing after a brawl and fire in Wedding and you’d made quite a nuisance of yourself around town. I recall it all well.” He set the notebook down on the desk, his index finger now resting on its surface. “You see, Herr Lemmon, I’m blessed with an excellent memory,” he chuckled softly, “as well as a drawer full of little booklets just like this.” His finger beat a quick percussive note on the leather. “Years of investigations, years of questions. Some answered, many not.” He pulled open a drawer and dropped the notebook inside. “But now I have a bigger riddle to solve, and perhaps you can help shed some light. Why does an American live unregistered and under false identity in the Emmengasse?” He removed a pipe from his jacket pocket and began to fill the bowl. “You’ll understand my curiosity, I’m sure.”

  “I know this looks suspicious, sir.” He eyed the tobacco. “You may recall I’m a journalist. I’m now writing for an American magazine—Colliers. You’ve heard of it?”

  Brandt nodded. He slid pouch and matchbox across the desk and encouraged Ryan to light up. “Sorry my men interrupted before you could make a purchase. We’ve noted you share my love of a good pipe.”

  Ryan, wishing he knew the detective’s angle, took advantage of the offer while further spinning his tale: “Well, you see, my editor asked me to spend a few weeks as an average citizen in the heart of wartime Berlin. You know, getting an insider’s feel for the New Germany.”

  “And the false identity? You must know you break the law in pursuit of a ‘story.’ Forgery is a serious crime, and we can’t have foreigners pretending to be upright citizens of the Reich, now can we?”

  Ryan shrugged as Brandt toyed with him. “It seemed the easiest way to go undercover for a week or two.” He lit his pipe and returned the matches and pouch.

  “So tell me—what have you learned about us, Herr Lemmon? What will you share with your readers once you’re home again?” He struck a match and drew on the pipe.

  “Well, let’s see. First off, everyone appears to have employment, so no beggars on the streets.” He drew on knowledge gleaned weeks before while staying at the Hotel Adlon. “And big changes are underway, what with the elimination of vast stretches of housing along the East-West and North-South Axes. Word is your Führer is building a grand metropolis to rival ancient Rome. So urban renewal is well underway, and the face of the city changing.” He had run out of any observations he dared voice.

  “And our citizens, our Berliners? Are they happy with all this change?” Brandt’s eyes bored into Ryan, daring him to drop his gaze.

  Ryan, following a hunch, decided on marginal candor. “They seem subdued, sir, likely worried about their loved ones off fighting the war. And that cynical old Berliner wit has all but disappeared.” Ryan thought he might have gone too far but soldiered on. “Yet with a strong economy, Wehrmacht success on all fronts, and adequate foodstuffs—and given the wartime footing—it appears your citizens are doing just fine.”

  Brandt leaned back in his chair, its springs creaking in protest. Ryan knew what followed would determine his fate. A full minute passed before the detective appeared to arrive at a decision. He chuckled and released a cloud of smoke. “You must know I have you dead to rights.”

  Now Ryan nodded. “You do.”

  “I could throw you in a detention cell and have you interrogated by the likes of the men out there harassing my secretary. Worse still, I could send you down to our basement, where truly troublesome cases are resolved by our SS colleagues, sometimes in messy but often very productive manner. Or, were I in a particularly foul mood, I could—and probably should—have you transferred to Prinz-Albrecht-Strasse and turn you over to the Gestapo. Your story ambles right up their alley.”

  Ryan suppressed a shudder. The scars on his own flesh attested to the horrors awaiting any prisoner of the Gestapo. He pressed on with his story. “I’m well aware of the dangers, sir, but hope you’ll show some leniency. America deserves to know of your National Socialist successes.”

  Brandt idly stroked his mustache. “Here’s what I’ll do for you—” he set his pipe in the ashtray and picked up Ryan’s documents, “you may walk out of here with these phony papers. You may spend a few more days exploring our fair city, researching that magazine story of yours. But should you run afoul of the Gestapo, you’re on your own. Should you manage to keep your head down, however, you return to America and write your Collier’s story. Clear?”

  “Clear.” Ryan was hesitant to speak further. “Most generous and understanding of you.”

  “Good. You have one week to wrap up your observations, then you leave my city, understood?”

  “Of course, and thank you for being so accommodating.” Brandt offered only the wisp of a smile. “Then I’m free to go?”

  The inspector slid Ryan’s possessions across the desk. “We’ll pretend I never laid eyes on these. Just stay out of trouble.” He chuckled. “A few among us still value freedom of the press.” Ryan saw something more in the detective’s final look. This wasn’t a free pass, but the reason for his release remained a mystery.

  Once outside the police presidium he headed for a café on the Alex. A headache was coming on, his bruised belly hurt, and he was inordinately thirsty. Someone had him in his sights and knew his every move.

  Brandt leaned back in his chair, reminding himself to have someone oil the springs. This man Lemmon appeared much the same after a decade—still decent looking, the hair a bit thinner on top perhaps, blue eyes as piercing as ever. He wished his own appearance hadn’t suffered quite so much in the interim. He withdrew from his file the Gestapo flyer on the Reichsbank affair and positioned the artist’s rendering before him. The notice had crossed his desk weeks before and awakened a remarkable memory. One of his little notebooks had refreshed the full history. And then his reliable snitch, the forger known as Becker, had given him all he needed to track the man down.

  A nice thing about growing up in proletarian Berlin: one learned that all men were basically alike. Some chose honest means to make a living; others chose more dubious and likely more lucrative paths. So it had always been, so it would always be, despite the misguided belief of many that force and intimidation would create an ideal society. Establishing social equilibrium was what he was all about, and having a gifted forger on his team served many purposes. Live and let live, he thought, as long as it leads to an appropriate goal, right?

  But what was Lemmon really up to, hiding under false flag? What had he done to cause such uproar on Prin
z-Albrecht-Strasse, and why hadn’t the man quit the country after his bank job? Any theft of monetary funds or negotiable securities would have been a case for his criminal police, not the Gestapo, and the Reichsbank wasn’t your everyday target. It was the Führer’s personal operation dealing only with the highest level of governmental finance and investment. Involvement by Himmler’s secret police meant espionage of some sort, so this man Lemmon was clearly a foreign agent. With America’s economic support propping up the Allies, the United States was an adversary of the Reich, if not yet a declared enemy. Hitler would surely target America eventually, but that battle would keep until after the Russian surrender. Germany didn’t need another front until the vast eastern resources were won.

  But for now, Brandt needed to know where Lemmon’s allegiances lay. The American might just be the godsend needed to bring his plan to fruition, and Frau Friedrich was ready to do her part.

  chapter EIGHT

  Berlin, Germany

  December 1941

  It had happened in a cut-rate Berlin hotel room back in 1929. Shaving at the sink, Ryan heard a feminine voice, soft yet demanding as it whispered his name. He’d scanned the reflection in the mirror, expecting to see a maid behind him there to straighten the room. Or perhaps to offer a more personal service, as had occurred the previous summer in Dublin. But this time the room was empty and the worn floorboards should have creaked at anyone’s approach. Baffled, he attributed the aural haunting to a hangover and returned to rinsing the blade under the tap.

  Two years later he found himself on the terrace of a French inn. That was in late spring, the Cher Valley aglow under a disappearing sun, the twilight heavy with lilac. His breath caught as he spotted a white-gowned woman falling into a pond at the far edge of the property. He vaulted the balustrade and sprinted across the broad lawn, only to find the placid surface disturbed by nothing more than a few curious waterfowl. No trace of the woman in white. Was that specter also a trick of the mind, his imagination writing stories in a moment of distraction?