The Devouring

by James R Benn

  “Why not?” I asked.

  “Because we bribe the staff to take messages and pass them on to us, like asking for room six-oh-eight.”

  “So?” I asked, still not getting the problem.

  “If a man can be bribed,” Lasho said, “he can be bribed.” Once again, he proved to be a quick learner.

  “Exactly,” Maureen said. “The bartender probably sells gossip to Swiss military intelligence and the Abwehr as well. So finish your coffee and we’ll take a stroll.”

  “Then you’ll tell us what we’re doing here?” I said.

  “All in good time, cowboy. The first order of business will be to get you all new clothes. And a bath. The Swiss are fixated on cleanliness, and the three of you need a good scrubbing.” She wrinkled her nose and drew in a sharp breath. Can’t say I blamed her.

  I turned up the collar of my overcoat as we followed Maureen’s clicking heels down a side street, away from the fancy waterfront neighborhood and into a warren of narrow winding streets and buildings festooned with colorful shutters. We entered a wide alley and Maureen halted, raising a finger to her lips, motioning for us to stay put. She doubled back, and we listened as her steps receded and then returned.

  “No tail,” she said.

  “How long have you been doing this spy stuff?” I asked. I didn’t want to burst her bubble, but a professional wouldn’t fall for the doubling-back routine. He’d melt into a doorway or double back himself.

  “Ever since I was a reporter in the city,” she said. “Be a gentleman, will ya, and don’t ask how long ago. Come on.”

  “What city?” Kaz asked as we trailed her. Lasho took up the rear, checking our six as Maureen forged on.

  “When a Yank says that, it usually means they’re from New York. Anyone else would be nice enough to mention the name of their hometown,” I said.

  “Bostonians are jealous of a real city with skyscrapers and a great baseball team,” she said, taking a ring of keys from her handbag and unlocking a stout wooden door as we gathered on the stone steps. She gave me a wink to say it was all in good fun. I smiled and glanced at the open bag. Nestled inside was a .25 caliber automatic. Maybe that’s why she wasn’t so worried about a tail.

  The stairway was dark, the walls showing long cracks in the plaster. Two flights up, Maureen opened an apartment door and ushered us in. A dismal hallway led into a large room with high ceilings and the lingering scent of rotten food. Two mismatched couches ready for the rubbish heap, or perhaps rescued from it, sat in the center of the room. They faced away from the kitchen, which was their best feature.

  “It ain’t much, fellows, but this address doesn’t attract much attention,” Maureen said, pointing out two bedrooms off the main room. “Right now, you fit in nicely. Soon as we get you spruced up, we’ll take the train to Bern and set you up in better digs.”

  “The forest was cleaner than this,” Lasho said. His face was impassive, but I decided to believe he’d cracked a joke, and laughed. He nearly smiled.

  “How about some information first,” I said. “Tell us what was important enough to bring us here from occupied France.”

  “Gold. Lots and lots of gold.”

  That was all she said before heading out to round up duds for Lasho. There were already clothes waiting for me and Kaz, suits and a couple of suitcases neatly packed. A tan trench coat was mine, slightly used, with a brown felt fedora rolled up in the pocket. Kaz scored a nice new gray coat along with a snappy black fedora. The sizes were right and the new coat was perfect for Kaz, who was a bit of a clotheshorse. Which told me that the OSS knew a lot of details about us, besides having a good tailor on the payroll.

  Before Maureen left, there’d been a knock at the door. Two short raps and then a third hard one. She seemed to expect a visitor, but palmed her pistol all the same. Turned out it was a barber, and as soon as he saw Lasho, he knew why he was there. He didn’t speak, just got to work, no questions asked. Scissors snipped as hair littered the kitchen floor. By the time Lasho’s mustache was trimmed and he had a shave, he was nearly handsome, in a scowling sort of way.

  Kaz and I had a shave as well. Not bad, fighting the war Swiss style.

  The barber packed up his gear, and I gave him some Swiss francs at the door, since my dad had taught me always to tip the guy who holds a razor to your throat. After a while Kaz emerged from the bathroom—sparkling clean compared to the rest of the joint—a towel draped over his shoulders.

  “You look like a new man, Lasho,” Kaz said.

  “I think I will have to be,” he said. “This is not a country for Sinti or for hunting Germans.”

  “It may be a different kind of hunting,” I said, taking a seat on the lumpy couch.

  “If we hunt for gold, there will be others in the hunt as well,” Lasho said, walking into the bathroom and examining himself in the mirror. He rested his hands on the sink as he stared at his reflection. Kaz shut the door, leaving Lasho alone with himself and whatever memories were at work behind those hooded, dark eyes.

  “He’s right,” Kaz said. “I wonder how much gold.”

  My feet were already up on the couch. The next thing I knew, I was dreaming of gold coins and croissants.

  Chapter Eleven

  In the morning, we followed Maureen at a distance, keeping her blue coat and matching wide-brim hat in sight. It was easy to follow from a block away, and it hid her face nicely. I didn’t know who might be watching, but if we were walking around with pistols stuffed in the pockets of our snazzy new jackets, then it stood to reason there might be Germans doing the same.

  Maureen had brought food for us last night, along with clothing for Lasho. We had a lot of questions, but she begged off, saying she had a rendezvous with a contact and that there’d be plenty of time on the train for a briefing. She left us with ample sausage, olives, cheese, and wine, so we didn’t mind.

  She’d come up with a second-hand black wool coat for Lasho. He trailed behind us, looking a bit like a butler attending to his baron. Me, I still felt like a cop, wearing my trench coat and slapping shoe leather on pavement. Like old times. We were cleaned up, rested, and looking the part of three travelers, clutching our suitcases and walking down the Rue Voltaire on our way to catch a train, enjoying the spring sunshine.

  Maureen’s blue hat slowed, then halted a block ahead. The foot traffic kept going around her, some people heading to the station entrance, others continuing on.

  “What’s wrong?” Kaz asked. I set my suitcase down and put my foot up to tie my shoe, buying time. Lasho craned his neck to see ahead.

  “There are people at the station entrance,” he said. “Waiting in line.”

  “So why isn’t she moving?” I asked. It could be anything. But she’d given us our tickets and told us what train to board; she’d be waiting in our first-class compartment. It was her idea not to be seen with us in case anyone was watching the station. She was never entirely clear on who anyone was. The Germans? Swiss intelligence? MI6 or some other allied competitor? A jealous boyfriend?

  “We are attracting attention,” Kaz said, as people stepped around us on the sidewalk, some of them staring as they heard English spoken.

  “Avec moi,” Lasho said, tapping me on the shoulder. A police car drove slowly by, an officer gazing out the passenger window. I followed, as Lasho pulled the brim of his cloth cap lower. A few steps ahead, I could see why Maureen had stopped.

  She was talking with a man. He wore the gray uniform and kepi of the Swiss army. It didn’t look like an interrogation. He leaned close, his head angled down close to her face, hidden by her dark blue hat. He laughed, throwing his head back. She placed a hand on his arm, an intimate but restrained gesture. Then she turned and walked toward us, the officer vanishing into the crowd.

  Maureen wasn’t laughing.

  “You didn’t tell me about the deserter,” she
said, the words coming out of clenched lips as she stood with one hand on her hip.

  “Hans,” Lasho said.

  “I don’t care what his name is. You should have told me. The border patrol is in a frenzy, and the Germans are demanding the other three deserters who escaped with him,” she said.

  “But Hans was the only deserter,” I said, the light dawning as soon as I spoke. “They must know Lasho was with us. They want the Gypsy.”

  “Yes. And they’re demanding the Swiss turn all of you over. The Swiss are protesting the shooting into their territory, the Germans are protesting the sheltering of deserters, and everyone looks bad. Do you know what that means?”

  “Yes. They need a fall guy, someone to take the heat off everyone,” I said.

  “Right. Any one of you will do nicely right now, according to my contact,” Maureen said.

  “That officer?” I said. “Can you trust him?”

  “More than I can trust you three, when it comes to the truth,” she said, casting a quick glance back at the line forming outside the station entrance.

  “You didn’t have much time to spare for us, sister, so don’t blow a gasket,” I said.

  “What do we do now?” Kaz said, not unreasonably.

  “Should I give myself up?” Lasho whispered.

  “Forget it,” Maureen said. “I paid too much for that coat to send it to the Germans. Give Anton cash. A lot.” Kaz drew a wad of Swiss francs from his pocket and handed it over. “Listen, Anton, we need to get to Bern. You’ll never make it through an identity check without papers. Get yourself there however you can. Steal a car, hitchhike, pay a truck driver, but don’t get caught. Then go to Herrengasse 23. Got that? It’s in the old city, along the river.”

  “Herrengasse 23,” he repeated, pocketing the cash as he watched the road.

  “Do you want a pistol?” Kaz asked in a hushed voice.

  “No. The temptation would be too great,” Lasho muttered as he vanished into the crowd. I didn’t take that to refer to using it on others.

  “The good news is that they’re searching for German deserters, not a couple of attachés,” Maureen said, her eyes trying to follow Lasho. “You two go together, I’ll be right behind you.”

  “Famous last words,” I said to Kaz as soon as we were out of earshot. “You trust her?”

  “She lives in a constant state of lies, deceit, and deception. It may not be wise to trust her motives entirely. She’s a tough cookie, isn’t she?” Kaz loved trotting out American slang when he could, rolling it around his Oxford-educated accent like the student of languages he was.

  “Nah. A tough cookie would have thrown Lasho to the wolves. She talks a good game, like a lot of reporters, but she’s probably got a soft spot for down-and-outers.”

  “Her current employer, you mean?” Kaz said, not wanting to trot out those three initials, OSS.

  “No, pal, I mean a big-city newsroom. If Maureen didn’t get her lunch handed to her at whatever Gotham rag put her on the payroll, then she knows how to put on a good front.”

  Like any obedient civilians waiting in line, we shuffled along, suitcase in tow, with our worn leather wallets in hand. They were stuffed with Swiss francs, our identity cards from the American embassy, and the usual flotsam that ended up in any guy’s wallet. Ticket stubs, a photo of a girl, a business card, the kind of thing that projected a sense of normalcy.

  Passing muster with phony papers was all about showing a combination of boredom and frustration. Bored because you’d done this a hundred times before. Frustrated because you had to catch a train. Nervous, well, that was the mark of a guy who had something more than a missed connection to worry about. Nerves you kept to yourself.

  “Bonjour,” Kaz said, handing over his ID when it was our turn. There were soldiers in their gray uniforms and plainclothes guys who were probably cops. Or intelligence, since the hunt was for three deserters, perhaps armed. The soldiers checked papers while the plainclothes men kept their eyes on the crowd, watching for furtive glances and grimy clothing.

  Kaz complained to me about the wait, checking his watch, muttering and shaking his head as the soldier with his papers handed them back and moved him along, irritated at his chatter. I offered my papers, which he took a quick look at and waved me through, not wanting to take a chance on another cantankerous American. Or Polish American, in Kaz’s case.

  “I wonder what Lasho will do,” Kaz said as we made our way to the platform. “Or if we ever will see him again.”

  “Let’s hope so,” I said, realizing that our Sinti friend had grown on me. “He’s survived alone in the forests of France. Switzerland should be a breeze.”

  On board the train we settled into our compartment and waited for Maureen. We watched as people hurried along the platform, delayed by the security check. Soldiers patrolled in twos, their rifles slung over their shoulders and their eyes dancing over the flow of travelers.

  “There is quite a difference being hunted by the Swiss rather than the Germans. While I have no wish to be apprehended, the thought is not accompanied by the same terror, is it? I imagine the Swiss police can be brutal at times, but it is nothing compared to the Gestapo kitchens,” Kaz said.

  “Yeah. It’s more like a game here. What’s the worst that could happen to us?”

  “An internment camp. Humiliation and boredom, I expect,” Kaz said.

  I spotted Maureen outside and rapped on the window. She pretended she didn’t notice. Probably something they taught her in spy school.

  “No problems, fellas?” she asked as took a seat next to Kaz.

  “It was a breeze, doll,” Kaz said, using his best American accent.

  “Well listen to you, Kaz. You’d fit right in on Forty-second Street,” she said, stowing the small bag she’d brought aboard. It looked expensive. Italian leather, maybe.

  “No luggage? Weren’t you waiting days for us?” She looked sharp in a blue tailored jacket and skirt, not to mention that hat. If she dressed like a million bucks every day, she’d need a steamer trunk.

  “I had the hotel ship it to Bern last night,” she said, pulling out a compact and checking her lipstick.

  “Late night meeting with your contact?” I asked.

  “Oh, Billy, tell me you’re not one of the banned-in-Boston crowd. Are you a prude, dear boy?”

  “Sorry,” I said. “No offense. I just wonder about things. Occupational hazard for a cop. Like I wonder how that Swiss officer met up with you just in time to warn you this morning.”

  “Because I asked him to last night,” she said. “And he was glad to oblige. I figured there might be a search on, and I wanted to know what to expect. I needn’t have bothered if you told me about the German deserter. I would have sent Lasho to Bern by a more secure route.”

  “His name was Hans,” Kaz said.

  “I would have been more interested in his name if you told me yesterday. Now he’s only a sad story.”

  “Okay, we should have told you. Sorry if you wasted time with your contact,” I said.

  “Oh, it wasn’t wasted, Billy.” She smiled conspiratorially at Kaz, and I felt my face redden. Maybe she was a real tough cookie, and I did have a touch of the prude.

  “Let’s move on,” I said, trying to cover my obvious embarrassment. “Now would be a good time to brief us on our mission.”

  “Right,” she said, as the train lurched forward and pulled out of the station. “Some bright lights at the treasury department came up with a scheme to prevent the Nazis from salting away money in neutral nations for use after the war. SS bigwigs and a lot of Hitler’s cronies are already hedging their bets and making private deposits in Swiss banks. Uncle Sam wants to be sure they can’t afford to start up a Fourth Reich a decade or so after we finish off the Third. Plus, we don’t want banks in neutral nations funding getaways for Hitler or Himmler o
nce we get to Berlin.”

  “That sounds swell, but why treasury? What do we have to do with a bunch of bean-counters in Washington?” I said.

  “Treasury came up with the idea. Money is their business, after all. They call it Operation Safehaven. Once the treasury boys got over here, they realized Safehaven depended on gathering intelligence about where the Germans were squirreling away their dough. So the OSS was brought on board. We’re supposed to identify where German funds are hidden, here and anywhere else in the world, and let treasury negotiate with the neutral governments to keep the money out of the hands of the Nazis and use it to rebuild Europe after the war.”

  “An exemplary idea,” Kaz said. “What do you need us for?”

  “Two things. The first is to keep the Gestapo at bay while we do our work. There are a number of Gestapo agents active in Switzerland. As you can imagine, they can come and go as they please. The Germans don’t know about Safehaven yet, but as soon as they think their hidden wealth is in danger, there’ll be hell to pay.”

  “At bay? What does that mean?” I said.

  “Make sure they don’t discover what we’re up to. Without creating an international incident. Can you handle that?”

  “We’ll try not to leave a trail of bodies in the street,” I said. I was kidding, but she nodded approvingly anyway.

  “What’s the second thing?” Kaz asked.

  “Look into any irregularities our finance people uncover. Bribes, anything that can be used to pry information from the Swiss banking establishment.”

  “You mentioned gold,” I said. “How much are we talking about?”

  “No one knows for certain. That’s what we need to find out. But hundreds of millions, certainly.”

  “That’s a lotta dough. One Swiss franc is about two bits, isn’t it?” I said.

  “I meant dollars, Billy. Hundreds of millions of dollars.” I whistled. “When we get to Bern, Allen will fill you in on the details. Banks bore me, and Safehaven is all about banks. Except for the Nazis, who do tend to keep me focused.”