by James R Benn
“Why would McKittrick care?” Dulles asked. “It’s hardly a BIS matter.”
“Maybe he wants to look good after the war as well,” I said.
“He’s too rich and connected to worry about that,” Maureen said. “Let’s go our separate ways and see if there’s anything else.”
“Billy, one moment,” Henri said as the group split up. He pulled me aside until we weren’t surrounded by partygoers and lowered his voice. “Do you see that bar up on the mezzanine?”
He nodded to the far end of the room, opposite where he’d disappeared with Huber on their way to his office. There were bottles of booze and bubbly set up on a table manned by two busy bartenders.
“Sure,” I said, uncertain what he was after.
“In ten minutes, exactly, could you manage to knock one of those bottles over? Preferably to the floor below, so it will be very loud.”
“I could hurt somebody,” I said, eyeing the setup. It wouldn’t be hard to manage, but there was quite a crowd below.
“Then choose your target well. Or make some sort of scene. I need a distraction.”
“For what?”
“Will you do it, Billy? It’s quite important.” I remembered what Henri had told us yesterday: that he was about to come up with something big, something that would help with Safehaven.
“Why not? I usually have no trouble being clumsy,” I said.
“Thank you,” Henri said, gripping my arm and slipping away. I checked my watch and headed to the bar. I caught Kaz’s eye and motioned him to follow. I filled him in on the plan, such as it was. We checked our watches, agreeing on the exact time for the maneuver. Kaz’s job was to stay below and move any bystanders before I sent the glassware tumbling.
“Oh, I’m glad I found you two,” Maureen said, appearing from a gaggle of brightly colored gowns and French chatter. “See old Kurt von Schroder over there?”
“Yeah. Himmler’s banker and the bag man for IT&T, right?”
“Go to the head of the class. Now the charming man he’s talking to is Siegfried Krauch. He’s a senior man in the Gestapo. Lower than all these old party men, of course. But Krauch is Georg Hannes’s boss. If we’re lucky, he could lead us to Hannes.”
“You want me to tail him when he leaves?”
“You read my mind, darling. You on foot, and Anton in the car. That way we can stay with him no matter how he travels. I had Anton get a look at Krauch’s face when I brought him to the kitchen for something to eat. Oh, look, there’s dreary Dr. Frenkel and his SVV friends. You know, the Swiss fascists.” Maureen sipped champagne, staring at Frenkel and two beefy blond boys who looked like stormtroopers. Bodyguards? Why did Frenkel bring muscle with him to this swanky joint? Maybe he was showing off for the high-rollers in attendance.
“I’ve had the pleasure of attending one of his autopsies,” I said, watching as one of the bully boys pushed past Dr. Wyler, elbowing him hard enough for Wyler to spill his drink. Frenkel smirked as he wound his way through the crowd.
Maureen fluttered off. I checked my watch and began to climb the stairs. I stopped, taking another look at Krauch. A tall fellow, six foot easy, with dark hair slicked back. He looked athletic, broad at the shoulders and thick-necked. Not an easy guy to take down if he spotted me, so I planned to stay a fair distance behind him. He was well-dressed, at ease in his tux, and I wondered if the OSS and the Gestapo used the same tailor.
But I had other business to attend to, and not much time to get into position. I reached the top of the staircase and glanced discreetly at my watch, not wanting to look too obvious about it. As I looked up, I was surprised to see a US Army Air Force officer headed straight for me. A captain in his pink and greens, which for some reason is what the army called the brown uniform jacket and khaki dress pants.
“Hey, you’re a Yank, right? Walt Bowman, glad to meet you,” he said, extending his right hand while gripping a drink in the other. “I heard you talking to that Swiss fellow and thought I’d say hello. Don’t get to see too many new faces these days. American faces, that is.”
“Billy Boyle,” I said, trying to work my way past him. I didn’t want to be rude, but I was on a deadline.
“Come on, Billy, I’ll buy you a drink. You with the embassy?” Bowman wore a big grin under a Clark Gable mustache that he probably cultivated to look older. He had light brown hair and dark eyes, which darted across the room as if he were watching for enemy fighters. Maybe he’d tangled with some of IT&T’s Focke-Wulfs.
“Yes,” I said, realizing I might not have time to ditch Bowman. “You a fighter pilot?”
“I am,” he said, puffing out his chest a bit. “Three kills and one probable. Before flak got my Mustang over Stuttgart. I bailed out close to the Swiss border and managed to get across.”
“Evadee status, then?” I moved with Bowman closer to the bar.
“Yeah. Pretty lucky. They put me up in a hotel and let me out on furlough now and then. The Red Cross got me an invite to this party, but it’s pretty dull, isn’t it?”
“It’s about to get rowdy, Walt. Tell me, are you willing to take a risk?”
“I’m a fighter pilot, Billy. A bored fighter pilot. What do you need?”
“I need you to not ask any questions. Walk over to that bar and when I give you the go-ahead, slug me. Hard enough to make it look like we have a beef, but don’t break my jaw, okay?”
“That’s it? All right, but how will I know when to hit you?”
“You’ll know,” I said, risking another glance at my watch. Sixty seconds. We joined the line at the bar where one bartender was mixing cocktails while the other poured champagne. I counted down silently and edged closer to the champagne table where a new bottle had just come off the ice. I saw Kaz below and nodded. Ten seconds. I turned to speak to Bowman, my back to the chilled bottle.
“Captain, is it true what they say about Mustang pilots running for home whenever they run into a Focke-Wulf?”
Two seconds.
“You bastard!” Bowman yelled, and connected with a punch that grazed my cheekbone. I went flying backward like it was a roundhouse hit from Sugar Ray Robinson. I crashed into the table, making sure that I flung my arm back far enough to guide the bottle over the railing, hoping Kaz was directing traffic below.
I’d never seen a champagne bottle hit a tile floor from a height before. I didn’t actually see the impact, but I sure heard it. And so did everyone else in the joint. A loud, shattering crash and crack of glass was followed by a pop as the cork exploded and sent a spray of champagne into the crowd as Kaz pushed people back, taking the brunt of the bubbly. I hustled Bowman downstairs, watching as some in the crowd began to laugh while others sputtered in indignation. Waiters scurried around with towels and apologies, a few of them pointing out Bowman and whispering among themselves.
Kaz came forward, quietly slipping Swiss franc notes to the waiters, who busied themselves wiping down Kaz’s tux, and apparently forgetting all about who started the rumpus in the first place.
“What the hell was that all about?” Victor demanded as Bowman and I tried to make ourselves inconspicuous. Dulles and Maureen trailed him, and I noticed Dulles’s trousers had taken a soaking. I figured it wasn’t the best time to admit it was intentional.
“We were kidding around, and I bumped into the table, that’s all,” I said. “This is Captain Bowman, an evadee out for a night on the town.”
“Bowman?” Dulles said, looking to Maureen. “I don’t think we’ve debriefed him, have we?”
“No, he’s been on my list,” Maureen said. “We’d love to hear how and where you made it across the border, Captain Bowman. Especially since you’re in town. It saves me a long drive.” Maureen smiled and studied the young pilot. “It gives us so much more time together, darling boy. Where are you staying?”
“At the Schweizerhof. Exactly who a
re you people?” Bowman asked. “You don’t act like diplomats.”
“Thanks for the compliment, Bowman,” Dulles said. “You’re in good hands with Miss Conaty, I assure you. Boyle, keep your eyes on Krauch. That’s your assignment for tonight. Baron Kazimierz, you stay with Mr. Lasho in the car. There’s a chance Krauch may lead one of you to Hannes.”
With those instructions, Dulles left and intercepted Gisevius, guiding the German diplomat by the arm and whispering whatever secrets passed between enemies on neutral ground.
“Okay, Billy,” Victor said, “what’s going on?”
“I too would like to know,” Kaz said, “since my tuxedo was a near casualty of this action.”
“Ask him,” I said, noticing Henri across the room, talking with McKittrick and Schmitz like they were old pals. Of course, he probably knew them from the banking world, but it was still disconcerting. I’d known some killers in my time, but they were all innocent babes compared to the man who sold Zyklon B for a living. Henri broke away and headed in our direction, after chatting with Dulles and Gisevius for a few seconds.
“Henri,” Victor said, his brow creased in worry, “what have you done?”
“Nothing at all,” Henri said. “Simply wandering around the place. There are some fine seventeenth-century paintings upstairs. I heard a lot of noise and came down. What did I miss?”
“A slight mishap with a champagne bottle,” Kaz said. “Which was carried off admirably by Billy with the assistance of Captain Bowman.”
“An evadee, I take it? Glad to meet you, Bowman,” Henri said, introducing himself. “Where were you shot down?” Bowman recounted his story, he and Henri moving on to talk of the ski slopes at Zermatt without missing a beat.
“If Henri doesn’t want to give you a straight answer, it’s hopeless,” Victor said, shaking his head as his friend ignored us and promised Bowman a skiing holiday on his next furlough, handing him his business card.
“Well, are we done here?” Henri asked, coming back into our circle.
“The captain and I will adjourn to the bar at the Hotel Schweizerhof,” Maureen said. “They make divine martinis. We can begin the debriefing there.” Maureen gave us a little wave of her hand and took Bowman’s arm, guiding him away for interrogation. I think I definitely livened up the party for him.
“Well, good for her,” Henri said, watching the couple depart. “I’m glad someone’s having a good time. These soirees become dull very quickly, after the best food has been consumed. I was going to ask for a ride, but Dulles mentioned he’d detailed you to follow a Gestapo man named Krauch.”
“You’re not going to tell us?” Victor asked, ignoring Henri’s patter. Henri simply smiled. “Well, in that case, give me another of your Parisiennes, will you?”
“Sorry, Victor, all out. You’ll have to buy your own,” Henri said. “Billy, is Herr Krauch the broad-shouldered Teutonic type with too much pomade in his hair?”
“Sounds like him,” I said.
“Well, there he goes, heading for the door,” Henri said. “Shouldn’t you follow him?”
Chapter Seventeen
Henri and Victor both decided to call it a night and walked out with us, which helped Kaz and me to blend in with the departing crowd. Even with banker’s hours, a lot of these folks had to wake up early and get to work in the morning, so there was a decent number of Bern’s elite milling around on the sidewalk, waiting for automobiles or doing some last-minute buttonholing.
Krauch was among them. He looked like he was delivering a lecture to a guy in a grubby raincoat. Obviously not a partygoer.
“I think that’s Hannes,” Victor said. I took a few steps to get a better angle. He was right. Now we had two guys to follow.
“Can we help?” Henri said.
“No, but thanks. Tailing a Gestapo officer takes some experience,” I said. “And luck.”
I watched as Henri and Victor departed, keeping an eye on Krauch and his subordinate. Krauch was obviously angry, but it was impossible to know about what. Hannes had the look of an underling who knew he had to wait out the storm until it blew over. Resigned, but not worried is what I guessed.
Our car pulled up. Krauch gave it a glance, probably thinking it was his ride. He gave no sign of recognition when Lasho got out, and went back to jabbing Hannes in the chest with his finger.
“You see?” Lasho said as he joined us, nodding his head slightly in Hannes’s direction. I filled him in on Maureen’s instructions.
“Krauch has led us to Hannes quite easily,” Kaz said. “Should we all tail him?”
“He’ll spot us,” I said. “Lasho, if Krauch leaves in a car, you follow and see where he goes. Kaz and I will split up and follow Hannes on foot if he walks. If not, we all pile in the car and go after him. Okay?”
“Yes,” Lasho said. “He must be an important Gestapo man. Should I kill him?”
“If he goes down a dark alley, be my guest. But otherwise, don’t make a scene. Our main objective is to find out where Hannes hangs his hat without being spotted. Strictly reconnaissance.”
A sleek limousine pulled to the curb, just the thing for ferrying a top Gestapo man around. Without missing a beat, Krauch halted his diatribe and opened the rear door as Kurt von Schroder—Himmler’s banker, if I remembered the cast of nefarious characters correctly—stomped down the stairs and heaved himself inside. Krauch followed, leaving Hannes alone on the sidewalk, the sigh he released visible in the rise and fall of his shoulders.
Lasho went to his car and eased into the flow of traffic, close to Krauch and von Schroder. Kaz and I walked slowly down the stairs as Hannes stuck his hands in his pockets and sauntered away. We trailed him, staying together as we mingled with the other guests strolling in the cool night air. In a few blocks, the pedestrians thinned out, and I told Kaz to cross the street and drop back. Basically, his job now was to tail me as I tailed Hannes. In theory, our quarry wouldn’t spot me, but Kaz would watch my back in case Hannes, or a confederate, doubled back on me.
Theory holds little sway on a dark night in a strange city, following a man schooled in the ways of terror and torture. I followed footsteps, trusting my ears to recognize Hannes’s gumshoe gait.
I didn’t have much going for me. Hannes was in the business of surveillance, and likely to be aware of what was going on around him even without thinking about it. I’d tailed plenty of guys, but never in a tuxedo. It had worked for me as we left the party. Now, if Hannes scanned the darkened sidewalk behind him, I would hardly blend in.
He strolled on, seemingly unconcerned, down a residential street lined with parked automobiles. I darted into the street, keeping him in view with the vehicles between us. Up ahead, he turned right, and I jogged ahead, trying not to slap my shoe leather too loudly on the pavement. At the intersection, I pressed my body against the corner of a building and peered around it, my line of sight blocked by scaffolding and a pile of bricks. I scurried forward, taking advantage of the cover the construction material gave, and saw Hannes crossing the road, pausing for a break in the traffic.
Kirchenfeldstrasse, I saw on the street sign, making a mental note of where Hannes was leading us. I looked back and spotted Kaz, waved him forward, then took my chances crossing the street. There wasn’t a lot of traffic, but with the blackout, it was still a dangerous undertaking. Hannes made it, weaving between oncoming traffic, leaving me stranded on the center median. He must have spotted me. I watched him take the closest side street, probably hoping I’d hurry to catch up.
And walk into his trap. My bet was that he’d be waiting around the corner. With a knife at the ready, or brass knuckles if he were in a peaceful mood. I took a street down the block instead, circling around behind him, trusting that Kaz was keeping up.
I spotted Hannes in a doorway when he edged out to look in the other direction. I glanced around for some sort of weapon, which was
hard to come by in a ritzy city neighborhood. I figured the odds were against sneaking up on him, given that I had no cover and he’d hear my steps on the empty street. So I found my own doorway and stepped into it, hoping to turn the tables when he got tired of waiting.
Then I heard the scream.
It sounded like Kaz calling my name from the direction of Kirchenfeldstrasse. I burst out of the doorway, running as fast as I could past Hannes and his hiding place, hoping the element of surprise would keep him from blocking me as I headed for the shouts echoing off the stone building ahead.
I skidded around the corner, trying to keep my balance and spotted Kaz in the darkness. I saw forms scuffling on the sidewalk, their movements all blurred shadows and angry grunts. I sprinted toward them, wondering if Hannes was at my back and if Kaz could hold off his assailants.
Then I saw two things. The first was that a man was down, writhing on the ground, clutching his knee. The second was the swing of an iron bar, coming in low to the ribs as another man took a wild swing at Kaz, his fist finding only air.
I heard the crack of bones and saw a big guy go to his knees, gasping in pain. Kaz raised the iron bar and gave him a smack in the face, just enough to break his nose. Breathing was going to come hard to this guy, but he’d go on doing it.
“Billy, are you all right?” Kaz asked, winded after his exertions. He held the bar like a walking stick, looking like a dandy out for a late-night stroll.
“Fine,” I said, looking behind me. No trace of Hannes. “I think we lost Hannes, though. Who are these guys?”
“Hansel and Gretel, don’t you recognize them?” It was the two SVV heavyweights from the party. Like many before them, they’d underestimated Kaz, and paid the price. They were both moaning, trying to crawl away from Kaz and not having a lot of luck. “I heard them following me and took the opportunity to arm myself from those construction materials.” Now I saw the iron bar was from the scaffolding.
“What did they want?” I asked.
