by James R Benn
“Which banks?” Kaz said, his eyes steady on Maureen.
“Ah, Baron, you’re beginning to see the light, aren’t you?”
“What do you mean?” I asked, sensing that Kaz was a few steps ahead of me on this one. Me, I wanted to know who Allen was.
“The baron has legitimate interest in several of the major Swiss banks. The family fortune and all that,” Maureen said, giving us that coy smile of hers.
“How do you know? Isn’t privacy the whole point of Swiss banks?” I was getting steamed and it wasn’t even my dough.
“Yes, and that’s part of the challenge. Suffice it to say we have influence with certain banks in London,” she said, leaning back in her seat and gazing out the window. I wondered how Lasho was getting on out there. Not that it mattered, since he probably didn’t have a bank account.
“And my London bank kindly gave you information about fund transfers from Switzerland,” Kaz said, his mouth set in a grim line.
“Well, not me, Baron. Someone very British and very stuffy, I’d guess. All part of selecting the right men for the job. You can walk into the Swiss National Bank, Credit Suisse, Swiss Bank Corporation, and any others we may not know about and chat with senior bankers.”
“One bank isn’t enough, Kaz?” I knew he was rich. Really rich, actually. But why so many banks?
“As you are obviously aware, Miss Conaty,” Kaz said, displeasure edging out the veneer of politeness he normally cultivated, “my father had sufficient foresight concerning the inevitable Nazi threat to Poland to convert his holdings into cash and transfer those funds to Switzerland.” The Kazimierz clan was some sort of minor Polish nobility, and their patriarch had substantial land holdings as well as industrial investments in Warsaw and Kraków. He was a smart guy to sell all that off in the late 1930s. The guy who bought them, not so smart.
“He was one of the few who did,” Maureen said.
“He fought in the Polish-Soviet War in 1920. Before that, he’d watched the armies of the Great War roll across Poland, creating massive devastation. He knew what a modern war would do, especially one between two madmen.”
Kaz told Maureen the basics, but I think he was too angry about the snooping into his private affairs to give away much. I knew the real story: about how his parents had visited Kaz when he was attending Oxford and told him of their plans. There were still some details to work out, so they returned to finalize the sale of property in Kraków and organize passage for the extended family. Brothers, sisters, cousins, aunts, and uncles. It would be only a matter of months before the entire family relocated and joined Kaz in England.
That was the summer of 1939.
Germany attacked Poland on the first of September. By the end of the month, it was all over. Stalin and Hitler divided up Poland between them, and then the real killing began. Kaz’s family was wiped out, part of the German plan to eliminate the intelligentsia and reduce what had once been Poland to a slave state.
Kaz was the last Kazimierz, a lonely Polish baron with nothing left to lose. Except, apparently, for a whole lot of cash.
“I am sorry, Baron, about both your family and this intrusion into your private affairs. But, I assure you, it was in the best of causes. There are few Swiss bankers sympathetic to the Allies; any advantage we have will have to be used to the utmost.”
“If they’re unfriendly, what can we do about it?” I asked. “I mean, Kaz is an important client, but so are the Krauts, and they make deposits in gold.”
“True,” Maureen said, “but if we can gain the trust of the right banker, he can tell us if the Swiss are lying about the amount of Nazi gold they’re holding. We’d also like evidence of looted wealth in private accounts held by any top Nazis. The greatest service you could provide would be to find a sympathetic banker where you have an account and cultivate that relationship.”
“You mentioned the Gestapo,” I said. “Are we bound to run into them?”
“Watch out they don’t run into you. There are all sorts of German agents in Bern, often working at cross-purposes. The Gestapo, the Abwehr, the SS Economics Office, the German Foreign Service, and probably a few more I don’t know about. But there is one Gestapo man in particular you should keep an eye on. Georg Hannes. He’s a sophisticated brute. He specializes in ferreting out Swiss bank accounts owned by people in Germany or the occupied countries. It’s illegal for anyone under the thumb of the Third Reich to have private accounts outside the country. The rule doesn’t apply to the top boys, of course.”
“How does he do it?” Kaz said.
“Bribery and flattery go a long way. It helps that he’s got an unlimited expense account. He wines and dines the bankers and is quite good at getting them to reveal account numbers of illegal German depositors. A lot of these bankers are pro-Nazi to begin with, so he knows who he can approach. If the account holder is Jewish, and still alive, they can easily be persuaded to withdraw their funds and turn them over to the Nazis, in exchange for their freedom. Which is occasionally granted.”
“If they’re not Jewish, a visit from the Gestapo is probably enough to get them to sign their fortune away,” I said.
“Right. I’ve watched Hannes drag account owners into the bank with him. Whatever the Swiss think, they have to turn over funds to the owner, even if he looks frightened to death.”
“My god, I hope they never knew of my father’s accounts,” Kaz said. “I’d hate to think of him being tortured.”
“If you have your money, then he didn’t talk. I mean, they never found out, obviously,” Maureen said, trying to backpedal on the notion of Kaz’s father being tortured to death.
“Hannes sounds like a worthless excuse for a human being, but why do we need to watch out for him?” I asked.
“He’s smart, and we can’t risk him alerting the Nazis to this investigation. Obviously, he’s got contacts throughout the Swiss banking community, so he’s bound to learn of it eventually. Let’s make sure it’s later. Much later. That’s also a big part of your job.”
“Makes sense. But what should we do if we run into Hannes?” I asked, figuring Kaz would have a few suggestions.
“If the opportunity presents itself, he should be killed,” Maureen said calmly. “If Lasho makes it to Bern, he’d be the one to do it.”
“Why Lasho?” Kaz said. “I have no problem putting a Gestapo agent in the ground.”
“Because you two have a mission, and that’s paramount,” she said. “Hannes should be eliminated on general principles. The world would be a better place without him. Plus the Germans would lose a valuable agent right when they need his nose to the ground. This isn’t an order, you understand. It’s just something I’d like to see done.”
And by Anton Lasho, the Gypsy killer. A patsy if there ever was one.
I had to admit it. Maureen Conaty was indeed one tough cookie.
Chapter Twelve
Bern looked like a nice old burg, and not only because no one was dropping bombs on it or shooting its citizens in the street. In the medieval heart of the city, around which the River Aare ran in an oxbow curve, orange-tiled buildings stood above narrow streets decorated with overflowing window boxes, fountains, and statues. Maureen led us on a short walk from the train station to the Golden Eagle Hotel, where rooms had been booked for two junior economic attachés from the consular office in Zürich. We dropped off our luggage and followed her back down the street, along sidewalks protected from the weather by elegant vaulted archways.
“Allen’s office is close by,” she said, as we weaved our way through the flow of pedestrians.
“Allen who?” I asked.
“Dulles. He has some fancy title, special assistant to the American ambassador, something like that. But he works out of his apartment. More hush-hush,” she said, whispering the last part. “He’s a brilliant man.” There was real admiration in her voice. I had t
o agree. A guy who got himself a job working out of his own home in neutral Switzerland while war ravaged the rest of Europe had to be pretty damn sharp.
Maureen pointed out the landmarks so we could find our way back to the hotel. We turned at a cathedral, its spire rising above all the other buildings. From there, we crossed the Herrengasse, the street where Dulles had his place. But instead of taking the sidewalk, she took us down a path that led along the river, through a small vineyard set on the sloping ground. In any other city cultivated grapes would have been an odd sight, but in Bern’s quaint old town neighborhood, they looked right at home.
“The rear entrance is more convenient,” Maureen said, leading us up stone steps to a recessed doorway, completely shielded from view.
“As well as discreet,” Kaz said while she worked the key.
“This is a city of spies. Nazis, Allied, Swiss, not to mention the freelance types of all nationalities. Everyone watches everyone else,” Maureen said. “That’s where you come in. More eyes on the Swiss bankers and Georg Hannes.” We followed her up the wide basement steps to the main floor of the four-story building, entering a hallway that ran the length of the apartment.
“Maureen,” a voice called out from the end of the hallway, echoing against the marble floor. A man in a striped three-piece suit stepped out of a room, his hand still on the door. He was in his fifties, his white hair and mustache neatly groomed. Not yet grandfatherly or gone to seed, he stood up straight, adjusted his rimless spectacles, and eyed Kaz and me. “These the fellows you’ve been waiting for? Good, bring them into the office.”
As we passed through the double doors, I glanced into the room he’d come out of. It was a bedroom, unremarkable except for the rumpled sheets and a woman applying lipstick in front of the mirror. Dark-haired, perhaps the same age as Maureen, and a looker. Allen Dulles was a busy man. Maureen caught my eye and raised an eyebrow, a business-as-usual gesture, which told me the woman was someone other than Mrs. Dulles.
In Dulles’s office, Maureen handled the introductions after we’d hung up our coats. Dulles sat behind an oak desk, a large map of Europe on the wall at his back while he fiddled with his pipe, leafing through a file of papers. About us, evidently. We took seats in front of his desk and Maureen landed on a couch near the windows. She glanced outside, checking for guys in trench coats with fedoras pulled down over their faces. Guys like us, but with German accents.
“Baron, it will be quite useful if you can gain the confidence of your bankers,” Dulles began. “It’s fortunate you have your funds spread out over several institutions. Smart, as well.”
“That was entirely my father’s doing,” Kaz said. “He was an astute businessman.”
“Excellent. I can tell you from my time on Wall Street, you want to keep bankers hungry. If they have all your money they tend to take you for granted,” Dulles said, firing up his pipe and turning his attention to me. “Are you really Eisenhower’s nephew, Captain Boyle?”
“We’re distant cousins on my mother’s side,” I said. “But since he’s older, it’s always been Uncle Ike.” He nodded, puffing away, and I could see him file that tidbit away for later use, if needed. “Is there anything else you can tell us about our assignment, Mr. Dulles? It’s hard to believe meeting bankers is going to help win the war.”
He sighed, as if preparing himself to explain the obvious to a dullard schoolboy. “There’s still a lot of war to be fought, but now that we’re on the Continent, and the Russians are approaching East Prussia, the defeat of Germany is certain. When that happens, we don’t want Hitler and his cronies taking off for parts unknown,” Dulles said. “Our analysts doubt Hitler would, actually. He’s more likely to fight until the end. But Goering, Himmler, and the rest of the top Nazis are another story. Tell these fellows about von Ribbentrop, Maureen.”
“First, you have to understand that Swiss society is very insular. They’re not big on outsiders, and conversely, they tend to place a great deal of trust in each other,” she said.
“It is a small nation, surrounded by larger ones,” Kaz said. “That makes sense.”
“One of the ways that plays out is that their diplomatic service doesn’t use official couriers. They entrust diplomatic pouches to private individuals traveling on business. Which makes it easier for us to intercept and inspect the pouches,” she said, with a pleased smile. “We recently found one Swiss diplomatic pouch stuffed with half a million American dollars, earmarked for the private account of Nazi foreign minister Joachim von Ribbentrop in a Buenos Aires bank.”
“Rats jumping a sinking ship,” I said.
“Preparing to,” Dulles said. “That was just one deposit we happened upon. You can bet there are plenty of others for the SS, Gestapo, and Nazi Party leaders. We need to hold these men responsible, and not allow them to escape the hangman with stolen riches.”
“Safehaven will do that?” I asked.
“If the Germans don’t get wind of it,” Dulles said. “That’s why we need new faces talking to the bankers, and watching German agents like Georg Hannes.”
“What about the Swiss? If they’re helping von Ribbentrop smuggle dough out of the country, won’t they tip off their Nazi pals?” I asked.
“Such smuggling is unofficial, handled by conservative bankers and government officials who are sympathetic to the Nazi ideology,” Dulles said, waving his hand in the air as if dismissing the foolishness of such men. “We need the Safehaven negotiations to proceed quietly, so as to not arouse their suspicions. Once we have an agreement in place to seize Nazi assets when the war is over, the Germans will have a hard time moving their funds to any other neutral country.”
“If Switzerland agrees to Safehaven,” Kaz said, “others will see the handwriting on the wall.”
“Exactly, Baron. I’m not saying it will be easy, but the longer we keep the Nazis ignorant, the better our chances are,” Dulles said, as a knock sounded at the office door. “Ah, that must be Hyde.”
“Victor,” Maureen said, rising from the couch as the door opened. “Come meet our new friends.” She took Hyde by the arm, introducing me and Kaz. Victor Hyde was a snappy dresser, outfitted in a black overcoat and a charcoal gray suit. His shirt was gleaming white, his tie burgundy, with matching wine-colored cuff links. His hairline was receding, which made him look a little older than he probably was. Maybe twenty-five or so. Dark eyes, broad cheekbones, and thin pink lips filled out the picture.
“Victor is a financial specialist, on loan from the embassy,” Dulles said. “He’s our contact with the banking community here for Safehaven. Those who are sympathetic, that is.”
“It’s our job to provide Victor with intelligence on what the Germans and their Swiss bankers are up to,” Maureen said. “He puts it all together in secret files that will form the basis for the Safehaven protocols we’ll establish with the Swiss. Have I got that right, darling?” Maureen said, patting the couch for him to sit next to her.
“Nail on the head, as usual,” Victor said, giving Maureen a bright smile and a brush of his hand on her arm. “But now I need to take the baron and Captain Boyle away from you. There’s been a development in that Credit Suisse situation. Could you call Emil Escher, Allen, and tell him we’ll be at police headquarters?”
“A positive development?” Dulles said, reaching for the telephone.
“Ask him to meet us at the morgue,” Victor said, by way of an answer. Dulles frowned as he dialed.
“What’s going on?” I asked as we stood to leave.
“I’ll explain on the way,” Victor said, waiting as Dulles spoke a few quick sentences into the phone before he hung up.
“He’ll be there in ten minutes,” Dulles said, setting aside his pipe and opening a file. We were dismissed, Maureen ushering us out and closing the door. We pulled on our coats and made for the back hall, Victor telling us that it was a short walk to the police
morgue. Kaz donned his hat, and I realized I’d left my fedora in Dulles’s office.
“Hang on,” I said, heading back. I opened the office door and took a quick step to the hat rack in the corner, not wanting to distract Dulles.
But it was Maureen who was distracting him. Seated on his desk, her legs crossed provocatively, she leaned in, whispering, close enough for her breath to warm his cheek. She turned and eyed me. Dulles didn’t take his eyes off her, a pen in one hand still poised over a file on his desk, the other on her thigh. When did this guy get any work done? I slammed the hat on my head and pulled the brim down to keep from gawking as I made my retreat.
Kaz shot me a glance as we descended the stairs, making for the back door. I guess I still had a surprised look on my face, and tried to lose it. If Victor thought he and Maureen were an item, there was no reason to tell tales out of school. It wasn’t that I cared so much about hurt feelings; it was that I didn’t want a jealous spat to get in the way of our job.
We worked our way through the vineyard path and took a series of steep steps leading down to a walkway along the river. The Aare was in full current, the spring melt waters from the Alps churning along the riverbank as it took a sharp turn around the old city. Victor checked the other pedestrians, apparently satisfied that we weren’t under surveillance. It was a sunny day, but the breeze was lifting a chill from the rushing water, and everyone was moving at a good clip, hands stuffed in pockets.
“We had word that Georg Hannes was bringing in a Jew from Germany to withdraw a large amount from an account at Credit Suisse. You’ve been told about him?” Victor said.
“Maureen told us he’s a Gestapo man who’s good at getting people to hand over their money in exchange for their lives,” I said.
“And in getting bankers to reveal information,” Kaz said. “I thought the Swiss were thought to be paragons of secrecy.”
“When it benefits them,” Victor said. “But it works both ways, on occasion. I had word from a junior bank officer that Hannes was testing the waters at Credit Suisse, trying to locate an account.”
