The Devouring

by James R Benn

  “Interesting,” Kaz said, standing with his hands in his pockets, rocking back on his heels, letting his brain work as he studied the panorama below us. “Let us consider who the blackout benefits. The Swiss? As you point out, they may have more to gain by lighting their cities. The Allies? The blackout only makes navigation more difficult and increases the chances of accidental intrusions over Swiss territory. The Germans? They have the most to lose if Switzerland turned on the lights. There’s Basel, Schaffhausen, and Zürich, all large cities on the northern border with Germany. Illuminated, they would be excellent navigational aids for British and American bombers. If General Henri Guisan, commander of the Swiss Army, is an SVV member, who knows how far the pro-Nazi sympathies reach?”

  “Before today, I would have said you were off your rocker. But right now, you’re making a whole lot of sense,” I said.

  “Perhaps it is the wine,” Kaz said with a smile as we walked to our hotel, the open arches of the enclosed sidewalks casting eerie shadows into the street. It had been quaint in the daylight. Now, it was faintly sinister. Or maybe that was the wine as well.

  Chapter Fifteen

  In the morning we entered Dulles’s apartment by the front door, just for a change of pace. Victor arrived at the same time and we went in together, finding Maureen and Dulles speaking with a familiar figure.

  “Glad you made it, Lasho,” I said. “Any problems?”

  “It was simple. I went back to where we left the car. I drove it to Lausanne and took a train here. It was far enough from the border that no one checked for identification papers,” Lasho said. “I bought a ticket to Zürich, in case anyone asked about me, but got off here in Bern.”

  “You’d make an excellent agent,” Victor said, with a knowing glance at Maureen. He leaned against a wall, watching Lasho in his seat by Dulles’s desk.

  “Would you like to work for us?” Dulles said. “Unofficially, of course.”

  “What do you think?” Lasho asked Kaz. “You are not American, but you work for them.”

  “I work for a free Poland,” Kaz said. “I am glad to work with anyone if that is a common goal.”

  “What should I work for then?” Lasho asked, looking at the large map of Europe behind Dulles. “What country? What freedom?”

  “We’ve had some reports from the Resistance in France,” Dulles said. “Your people who fight with them have a name for what the Nazis are doing with the Roma. They call it the Baro Porrajmos. What does that mean, Mr. Lasho?” Dulles said it in a calculated manner like the lawyer he was. Whatever the answer, he already knew it and was certain it would work to his benefit.

  “The great devouring,” Lasho said, his voice a whisper.

  “We will help you as best we can,” Dulles said. “I don’t know what we can offer that has any value, except for a chance at revenge.”

  “Don’t listen to him, Lasho,” I said. “They’ll use you and then toss you aside. What they want is too dangerous.”

  Dulles gave me a stare that probably worked well on underlings who cared what he thought of them. Lasho smiled and nodded.

  “Thank you, Billy,” he said. “You are a good friend. But what can I do except take revenge? I have no family, no nation, and no hope. I will let them use me, and see what comes of it. After all, men are like fish; the great ones devour the small.”

  “So you need a big fish on your side,” I said, with an amused glance at Dulles.

  “This is obvious. Mister Dulles, tell me what you want,” Lasho said.

  Dulles looked at Maureen, who withdrew a photograph from a file. He then turned his glare on me, and I have to admit, I felt it.

  “We want you to follow this man,” Maureen said. “Georg Hannes, a Gestapo agent. Here’s a list of the locations where he’s likely to be seen. We don’t know where he lives, but these are his favorite restaurants in Bern, and several banks, as well as the address of the German consulate. Keep your distance from the consulate.”

  “Follow him. Is that all?” Lasho said.

  “For now,” Maureen said. “Be careful. The Germans are bound to notice anyone loitering around their consulate, so don’t be obvious. See if you can find where he stays. Then we’ll decide what to do.”

  “He is Gestapo?” Lasho asked, studying the photograph. “Then I will kill him when you tell me to. Maybe before. You won’t mind?” Lasho smiled, watching Dulles pretend he hadn’t heard the question.

  “Here’s some more money,” Maureen said, following Dulles’s lead. She handed Lasho an envelope stuffed with Swiss francs. “Buy some clothes and whatever you need. We have a room set up for you in the attic. Use the rear entrance and don’t draw attention to yourself.”

  “I will need identity papers,” Lasho said. “The police may stop me no matter how careful I am. Then I will go to prison or be turned over to the Nazis. Either way, you will not get what you want. To find out where this man lives, I mean. And the police will want to know why I am in Bern. It would put me in a difficult position.” Lasho managed to couch his blackmail in the most diplomatic terms. No papers, no dead Gestapo agent. And if they waited too long and he was picked up, he’d sing like a canary. I had to admire his moxie.

  “We’ll see what we can do,” Maureen said. “First, bring us some information.”

  Lasho ignored her and kept his eyes on Dulles, who began to fidget, perhaps remembering this man had been der Zigeuner, the unstoppable scourge of Germans in occupied France.

  “Very well,” Dulles said. “But first, come back with a useful report.”

  “I will,” Lasho said, rising quickly. “In the dark of night, at your back door.”

  He left, leaving a sense of menace lingering in the air.

  “Looks like he has some ideas of his own,” I said to Maureen. “Not exactly a chump, is he?”

  “Listen here, Boyle, you keep your mouth zipped about this, got it?” Dulles said, clenching his pipe between his teeth. “I don’t have time for sentimentality. Don’t you have something to do? Somewhere else?”

  “Yes, we do, Allen,” Victor said, pushing off from his post at the wall and stepping between us. “I’m going to take the baron around to some banks, and then later we have that reception at Huber’s place.”

  “Right. I’ll see you all there tonight. Now get out.”

  We obliged. Maureen followed us into the hall, telling Kaz and me that she was having tuxedos sent to our hotel today. This reception was a fancy-dress shindig, and we had to fit in with the swells. She gave Victor a peck on the cheek, then went back into Dulles’s office. I guess the order to get out didn’t apply to a dame who sat on your desk and showed you her garter belt.

  “You’re staying at the Golden Eagle, I hear? They have a decent jazz band playing on weekends. I’ll have to join you fellows for a drink. I’ve been trying to convert Henri to jazz, but his tastes are more classical,” Victor said as we walked down the hall.

  “A Swiss jazz band, that’d be worth seeing. Now what’s this about a reception?” I asked Victor once we were outside.

  “Max Huber is the president of the International Committee of the Red Cross,” Victor said. “He’s quite renowned in Switzerland, as a lawyer, judge, and businessman, but mainly as the head of the Red Cross. He’s hosting a gathering of influential Swiss businessmen and bankers, which means he’s going to twist their arms for donations. Diplomats are invited as well, for background color, I suppose. And so the wealthy Swiss can show off their good works.”

  “Cynical,” I said, as we stopped beneath the grape vines. It was a warm day, the sky a clear, vivid blue, and the air carried the fragrance of spring.

  “I work in finance, Billy. Probably second only to police work when it comes to seeing the underside of humanity. In any case, this reception will be a good chance to meet and mingle with Bern’s upper crust. Now, which bank should we visit, Baron?”


  “I actually have business at Credit Suisse,” Kaz said. “It was the last account my father set up, and I never received the papers confirming my access.”

  “Good. They’re on the Bundesplatz, near the SNB. I have to see Henri and pick up our invitations, so we can meet afterward.”

  “Huber knows our names?” I asked as we walked by the river.

  “Huber’s people, not the man himself. Henri arranged for the invites,” Victor said. “Since his bank does a lot of business with Alusuisse—Huber’s firm—he was able to arrange it. It’s going to be quite the swanky affair. You’ll be rubbing elbows with a few Germans, so be prepared.”

  “Hannes among them?” Kaz asked, his voice a whisper as we passed a man leaning against the railing, reading a newspaper.

  “No, although the man he reports to is likely to show. The reception is in Kirchenfeld, a high-class neighborhood across the river. Lots of embassies over there, so the ambassadors and their ladies will be out in force. Not to mention spies and informers, so be on your toes.”

  At the Bundesplatz, we went our separate ways, Kaz and I making for the Credit Suisse bank headquarters. It was a massive granite structure, six stories high, decorated with overhanging archways on the ground floor and window boxes filled with geraniums. Inside was gleaming marble and polished wood, and people speaking in hushed tones, as if it were a museum. Kaz gave his name and asked to see someone about his account. In seconds we were whisked upstairs, where the décor was even fancier, as of course it would be for those with numbered accounts. We cooled our heels outside an office for about two minutes, until a young guy with hair so blond it almost matched his starched white shirt showed up with a folder. He rapped on the office door, entered, and was back in seconds, telling us to go right in.

  “Baron Kazimierz, I am Herr Becker. Shall we speak English? My Polish is quite poor.” Becker was a little gnome of a guy, white-haired and short, with reading glasses perched on the end of his nose. “And your companion?”

  I gave a slight shake of the head, wondering how Becker would react to a silent partner at the proceedings. He took it in stride.

  “English will be fine, Herr Becker,” Kaz said, taking an offered seat in front of a large desk with little on it except for the folder. I sat on a sofa along the wall, watching them both, figuring that’s how Georg Hannes would play it.

  “How can I help you?” Becker asked, giving nothing away.

  “I have an account number,” Kaz said. “And a code word.”

  “Please,” Becker said, sliding paper and pen toward Kaz, who wrote out a string of numbers and letters. Becker left with the paper and returned a few minutes later with an expandable file folder tied with red string. He opened it and read through about half a dozen pages of mumbo jumbo before putting it all back.

  “You are Piotr Augustus Kazimierz, correct?” Becker asked, checking the form Kaz had filled out downstairs.

  “Yes, as I told the person in the lobby. I have identification if you’d like to see it,” Kaz said.

  “That is not at all necessary. Because if you are not Rajmund Kanimir Kazimierz, there is nothing I can do,” Becker said.

  “That is my father,” Kaz said. “He gave me the account number and the code word. He was to have sent a form to my bank in London adding me to this account.”

  “Well, he has not. I cannot even officially confirm the existence of an account, even to a relative,” Becker said. “Perhaps you could contact him?”

  “In Poland? Even if he were alive, you know that would be impossible.”

  “My condolences, Baron. If you were to present a death certificate, then perhaps we could help. As it stands, we must protect the privacy of the account holder.”

  “A death certificate? From the Nazis? They murdered my entire family! Do you think they bothered to fill out death certificates?”

  “Baron, please understand,” Becker said, steepling his fingers, as if he were explaining rules to a young child. “Credit Suisse is bound by Swiss banking laws. We are obligated to maintain a sphere of secrecy around our relationship with clients.”

  “If my name was on the account, or if I produced a death certificate from my pocket, you would then give me access to the funds?” Kaz said.

  “If there were such an account, and either of those two requirements were met, then yes, of course,” Becker said, settling back into his seat, happy that Kaz finally understood.

  “Herr Becker, who is that man?” Kaz said, pointing at me.

  “I have no idea. You brought him with you, so that is your affair. Now, I must ask you to leave. You’ve taken enough of my time,” Becker said, closing the folder and tying the red string in a tight knot. He didn’t look up as we left.

  “So much for the sphere of secrecy. You could have been Gestapo for all he cared,” Kaz said as he stormed out of the bank.

  “Yep. Makes you wonder how much dough they’ll keep in their vaults after the war. I don’t know much about numbered accounts, but I always thought just knowing the number would be enough,” I said.

  “That’s probably what a lot of people thought,” Kaz said, stopping to look around the Bundesplatz for Victor. For a second, I thought he spotted him. Instead, he nudged me. “Billy, see the fellow in the black trench coat to our left? Leaning on the façade, reading a newspaper?”

  “Yeah,” I said, giving a quick glance. His head was down, his face covered by a wide-brimmed fedora. “We passed by him, down by the river.”

  “Is it Hannes?” Kaz said. We were both trying hard not to look at him so he wouldn’t know we made him.

  “Can’t tell,” I said, thinking back to the photograph Maureen had shown us, and risking a fast glance at newspaper man. “Big heavy shoes. Cop, spy, or Gestapo. Not banker’s shoes, I’ll tell you that.”

  “Let’s lead him on,” Kaz said. “The Union Bank is next on my list. If he follows us there, perhaps we can arrange a quiet word.”

  “Let’s go,” I said, not wanting to wait around for Victor and spook our tail. We walked across the plaza and past the restaurant where we’d eaten last night. It was a busy tree-lined street with shops open for business and plenty of pedestrians. I stopped at a bakery, trying not to get distracted by the pastries as I checked the reflection for our shadow. No dice. In a couple of blocks I spotted a barber shop. Kaz and I decided we could do with a trim to look our best tonight, which would also put our tail out in the open where we could spot him. Or maybe he was a guy who liked his morning newspaper and he’d be long gone.

  Kaz chatted with the barber and was the first in the chair, which gave me a chance to take a seat and watch the approach to the shop as I leafed through a copy of Signal, the German army propaganda magazine distributed all over Europe. Maybe the barber was pro-Nazi, or maybe he liked free reading material. At least it had a lot of pictures.

  Soon as Kaz had his ears lowered, we switched chairs. The barber blabbered on the way barbers do, the scissors snipping as I ignored him and checked the view out the window. Soon he whisked the hairs from my neck, Kaz paid up, and we donned our coats while scanning the street for a familiar face. The day was growing warmer, and I made a note to find a shoulder holster somewhere. The only reason I was wearing a coat over my suit jacket was to have a place to stuff my Police Special revolver.

  “No sign of him,” Kaz said as we pushed open the door. “Let’s keep walking.” The road led to a small park with a promenade overlooking the river. It was too wide open. If he were still following us, it wouldn’t give him enough cover and he might give up. We walked away from the river and took a street alongside a church, heading for a busy intersection. A row of attached houses ran on one side, with parked cars and leafy trees out front. The other side of the street was fancier, with larger houses, most of them with brass plaques at the door. Lawyers and doctors, maybe. A ritzy neighborhood, judging by the a
rchitecture and the automobiles.

  I knelt to tie my shoe next to a Mercedes-Benz, glancing into the rearview mirror. An obvious ploy, I know, but that was the point. I caught a glimpse of newspaper man ducking behind a car down the block. He’d just turned the corner and was now squatting behind a Hispano-Suiza, the low-slung roadster with its elegant lines barely high enough to hide him.

  I stood and found Kaz mounting the steps to the next building. Three stories of gleaming white stone topped by a gray slate roof, it had a Red Cross sign above the door.

  “It’s the headquarters of the Swiss Red Cross, Billy,” Kaz said. “Perhaps we could spot our pursuer from inside.”

  “And then go out a back door and tail him,” I said. “Can you bluff your way through?”

  “I’ll say I’m looking for a relative, a possible refugee,” he said. “It should be no problem.” We took the last step and I grasped the door handle.

  The crack of a pistol shot sounded from behind us as chips of granite flew past my ear. We both ducked as a second shot sounded, this one hitting the step beneath us and ricocheting off. There was no cover except for a low hedge under the windows, not counting the inside of the building, but bringing a gunfight to the Red Cross was probably not the best way to maintain a low profile.

  “Around,” I said to Kaz, who scurried behind the building as I jumped behind the hedge, hearing another shot smack into the wall behind me. Running low, I made for the back of the building but then darted behind the next one, seeing Kaz do the same on his side. He’d understood. If the shooter wasn’t already hightailing it for home, we’d have him between us.

  Or he’d have one of us in his sights as we came out into the street.