The Devouring

by James R Benn

  “Go back!” I shouted. “You’ll kill yourself up here!”

  He stopped a few feet up from the riverbank, hesitating as he grasped how difficult, or impossible, it would be with an injured arm. He jumped down and took aim, again. Even through the rain, I could see his face contorted in a snarl of anger as he steadied his aim and pulled the trigger.

  Another missed shot as the zing of the ricochet echoed beneath the bridge, and I began to worry about getting hit.

  “Stop!” I hollered, then moved on, knowing that Victor wasn’t in a mood to think this through. Not that I could blame him. Hannes was moving as well, the wind snapping at his open raincoat, whipping it around his body. I was soaked through, my hands wet and slippery, water pelting my eyes.

  Another shot. This time Hannes reacted. He went flat again the girder, slumping slightly, then dragged himself on, one leg nearly folding beneath him. He’d been hit. He was still up, but looked wobbly as he took hold of the latticework and made his way on the downward slope.

  Then Hannes slipped. One leg went off the girder and the other nearly did. He hung on and pulled himself up. A dark stain spread down one trouser leg. If only he could make it to the other side, we’d have him, wounded but intact.

  He slipped again, and hung on with both hands, the wounded leg near to collapse. I pulled myself up to the apex and moved toward him, close enough to see the panic in his eyes. One hand slipped and caught on the edge, level with my foot. He hung on with the other, his feet flailing over the churning water.

  “Tell that fool to stop shooting!” Hannes yelled. With me being this close, I hoped nobody needed to tell Victor that.

  “Hang on,” I said.

  “Help me,” Hannes said. “I’ll give you the document. That’s what you want, yes?” He clung to the lattice, his knuckles white as he held on.

  “Sure,” I said, inching closer. “Where is it?”

  “Next to my heart,” Hannes said, giving a sharp laugh that turned to a grimace of pain. “Help me.”

  I had about three feet to go. There was no way I was going to let him escape, not that he had much of a chance with a bullet through his leg. But he was grasping at straws, which was fine with me if it kept him calm. If he suddenly got realistic about his chances, his best bet would be to grab me and take us both into the river.

  “Okay, we have a deal,” I said, sliding my foot closer, working at keeping him focused. “You really have it?”

  “Yes, yes! Hurry.”

  Hurrying wasn’t going to help either of us. I got a firm grip and let my feet slide down the wet metal, almost to Hannes. I released, going for the next handhold, but the soles of my shoes had a life of their own and kept sliding toward Hannes’s hand.

  I grabbed a section of steel and stopped my forward momentum a foot short of his hand. I leaned forward, almost kneeling, my left hand stretching until I got Hannes by the wrist, lifting his arm, guiding him to a better grip. He swung his good leg up, desperate to move his center of gravity higher, onto that narrow four-inch strip that he’d traversed so effortlessly only moments before. He didn’t make it, missing by an inch.

  The bridge began to rattle.

  A steam locomotive whistled in the distance, headed for the station. The engine rumbled closer. I held on to Hannes, my legs shaking with the effort of keeping my own balance and holding on to his wrist. The train was directly overhead, slowing but still thunderously loud as car after car rolled by above our heads. Hannes squeezed his eyes shut and tried again.

  His foot almost reached the edge, then slid off, sending him swinging, a heavy weight suddenly dangling off my left arm. He grabbed onto the girder with his free hand and swung his leg up again, a mighty effort that only made it worse when he missed and fell back, losing his grip, scrambling to grab hold of something, anything, that would stop his body swaying out over open air.

  Every surface he touched was wet and slick. In a panic, he twisted his body, trying to grab onto my arm with both hands. He missed, but I kept my grip on his wrist, feeling the tendons in my arm tremble from the weight. My fingers, tight on the steel strut behind me, felt like they might snap from the pressure.

  I tried to lift him, putting everything I had into it, my forearm shaking as Hannes rose a few inches, then almost a foot. He angled his leg up again, but the momentum was too much and instead his wrist slipped through my hand until all I had were his fingers, tight as a claw, gripping my palm, losing strength every second. He let go and clamped a hold on my foot, nearly pulling me down as he thrashed about. I reached for him, grabbing at one shoulder, working my hand under his arm, worrying all the time he would pull me down with him.

  He yelled, but I couldn’t make out what, or even what language, it was. He arched his head back, eyes wide in terror, heaving himself up almost as if he were climbing on air. I got a firm grip and tried to help, but I couldn’t get his body any higher. His fingers slipped off my foot and I made a last attempt to hold on to him, but the scream was already drawn from his throat even before he lost his last tenuous grasp.

  He waved his hands futilely, attempting one last time to secure a firm grip. Then the weight I held lessened, as I watched him drop slightly, his face obscured by an upturned collar. The sleeves of his raincoat held him in place for one paralyzing second, then released him as his arms slipped through, the weight of his body pulling him down, out of my grasp, sending him head over heels to disappear beneath the churning foam of the swollen Aare River.

  I clutched the sodden raincoat, trying to regain my balance after the sudden shift in weight. I pressed my cheek against the cold steel, closing my eyes for a second, then taking a deep breath. Krauch, dead. Hannes, presumably drowned. The invoice and the treasure Hannes had stolen? Maybe in the raincoat pocket. Maybe not. I didn’t care at that moment. All I wanted was to get off that damned bridge.

  I jumped from the bridge as soon as I could, falling and rolling in soft, wet grass, the raincoat still tightly held to my chest. I stayed like that longer than I want to admit. Finally, I sat up and went through the pockets.

  One key, marked with a brightly painted number. Nice that I was right about something tonight. I was a stone’s throw from a storage locker that would match that key, I was certain.

  One cigarette case. Henri’s case. I held it in my hand, feeling the heavy silver beneath my fingers. Why had Hannes said the invoice was close to his heart? I flipped the case open.

  It was filled with cigarettes. Ever the thief, Hannes had seen even this as loot to be taken.

  If the invoice was in his shirt pocket, near his heart, then it was a gob of pulp and melted ink by now.

  “Damn,” I muttered, cursing my sore muscles as I rose and headed up to the station.

  Damn.

  Chapter Thirty-One

  A puddle formed at my feet as I stood in front of the locker inside the station. I was soaked to the bone, and a chill ran through my body as I waited for Kaz and Victor. We’d come this far together, so I figured I might as well hold off until they arrived. I leaned against the lockers, fighting to stay upright. I was tired. Tired of the Gestapo, tired of Switzerland, tired of duplicity and secrets. Tired of knowing men like Huber slept soundly in expensive houses while using slave labor to make ever greater profits. And tired that they fooled the world doing it.

  Footsteps echoed in the empty corridor. I looked up to see Kaz supporting Victor, who wore my trench coat draped over his shoulders. He looked pale.

  “Hannes is gone,” I said as they drew close.

  “We know,” Kaz said. “We saw him fall. He never came up.”

  “Did he have the invoice in his coat?” Victor said, pointing to the sodden heap on the floor.

  “No,” I said. “He told me it was in his pocket. It went into the river with him. But I did get this.” I handed him the cigarette case. He opened it, his face sagging as he saw the
smokes, as if he’d hoped I was joking. Not that there was anything funny about tonight.

  Then he ran his fingers over the engraved initials. Henri’s initials. His face softened and threatened to crumble. I put my hand on his shoulder.

  “Thank you,” Victor said, clasping the silver case between his hands.

  “I’m sorry,” I said. Sorry that Henri was dead, sorry for Victor’s loss, and sorry that there was less love in the world because of it. With so much hate and sadness surrounding us, loss of love was a tragedy, regardless of who the lovers were. I might not have thought that before, but the grief in Victor’s eyes was proof enough of that simple truth.

  “This means a lot,” Victor said, tucking Henri’s cigarette case in his pocket with a wistful smile.

  “That’s not all,” I said, holding up the key. “Something good may come of this yet.”

  “Right, the key!” Victor said, taking a deep breath and rallying. “Although Krauch being shot dead by one of his own men isn’t too shabby either. Let’s see what’s inside.”

  I gave him the key. He deserved to do the honors.

  He inserted the key in the lock and opened the storage locker. Inside, at about face level, sat one small suitcase. Victor reached in with his good arm and pulled it out. It fell to the floor with a hard thump.

  “The damned thing’s heavy,” Victor said, a smile spreading across his face. None of us dared whisper the word.

  Gold.

  Lasho and Moe picked us up outside the station, and we drove to the hotel. They’d given Fournier his payoff and released his bodyguard. Now everyone was in a hurry to look inside the suitcase, but I wanted to be behind a locked door when we opened it. Kaz urged Victor to get to a doctor, but he wasn’t buying it. The bullet had gone through his lower arm, and Kaz had tied a handkerchief around it. That would have to do, until we found a doctor who wouldn’t ask questions. There was nothing to connect us to Krauch’s shooting or Hannes’s free-form dive from the bridge, and I planned on keeping it that way.

  We trooped into the hotel lobby, feet squishing in waterlogged shoes. I told myself we didn’t look out of place. Too much.

  I unlocked the door to our room, stepping aside to let Kaz enter first with the suitcase.

  The light was on.

  Maureen Conaty sat in the armchair by a small table set with glasses and a bottle of Scotch.

  “Come on in, boys, and have a drink. From what I hear, you deserve it.” She stuck a Lucky Strike between her ruby red lips and lit up. I was sick and tired of a lot of things in Switzerland, but Maureen wasn’t one of them.

  “How’d you know?” I asked, shedding my suit jacket.

  “Don’t you remember our dinner date? When you didn’t show, I started asking around. When I heard about a shooting at the botanical garden, I knew you had to be in on it. Bern is usually a very peaceful place.”

  “Thanks for not calling the police,” I said.

  “Who do you think called me? Inspector Escher is a good friend, and a smart cookie to boot. He can keep things under a lid until tomorrow. By then you’ll be on your way. And poor Victor! You’re hurt. Come, sit by me,” she said. From a satchel at her feet she pulled out a musette bag with a red cross. She’d thought of everything.

  “Does Dulles know?” Moe asked. “I hope this doesn’t affect our Zürich plans.”

  “Do not worry,” Lasho said. “Miss Conaty knows what she is doing. Even if Dulles does not.”

  That summed her up pretty well. She put a proper bandage on Victor’s arm, telling him she’d take him to a doctor on the OSS payroll after we were done here. Then we got to the main event.

  “Krauch is dead,” I said, to get the ball rolling. “Hannes too, we’re certain. He may wash up somewhere downstream. He still had the invoice on him. It’s probably destroyed.”

  “There’s poetic justice at work there. Anyway, the less I know, the better. I see you didn’t come away empty-handed though,” she said, eyeing the suitcase.

  Kaz lifted it up on the bed and worked the snaps. It was locked. Lasho took over, opening his knife and gently working the blade into the small keyhole. With a faint click, it opened.

  Even in the meager light of the hotel room, the gold glistened. Rows of kilobars—two-pound flat rectangles marked with the stamps of various Swiss banks—sparkled and gave off the warm glow of wealth. Credit Suisse, SBC, all the big names were there. Hannes had gotten creative with packing material to keep the bars from clanking against each other. Swiss francs, US dollars, British pounds, and Spanish pesetas kept everything in place. Small denominations, good for bribes, pocket money, whatever Hannes needed to make his way to safety.

  “It’s a goddamn fortune,” Moe said.

  “Get rid of it,” Lasho said. “Neither money nor the devil can remain in peace, my grandfather always said.”

  “Blood money, all of it,” Victor said. “Family fortunes, stolen from the dead.”

  “What can we do with it?” Kaz asked as we stood around the open suitcase, attracted and repelled by the riches Hannes had extorted. “Even if we knew which accounts they came from, the banks can hardly be trusted to return the money to family members.”

  “I heard about the bank asking you for a death certificate,” Moe said. “I’m sorry.”

  “It is absurd,” Kaz said. “For me, a matter of principle more than anything. But for the few who make it out of the camps alive, it will mean survival. And it will be kept from them, based on what we have seen.”

  “I wish we could do something about that,” Maureen said. She stood and poured six drinks. “Maybe Safehaven will help, at least to stop the Nazis from transferring the looted gold out of Switzerland. Who knows? Right now, let’s drink a toast to Henri.” She passed the glasses around.

  “A courageous man,” Kaz said, raising his glass.

  “He did what he thought was right, even when it cost his life,” Victor said. “There’s many in this world who will have much less to offer as an epitaph.”

  “We are all wanderers on this earth,” Lasho said. “Some of us never learn our purpose. Your friend Henri knew his.” He downed his drink in one ferocious gulp, and we all followed suit.

  “I have an idea about the money,” Maureen said, setting down her glass. “Bring it with you tomorrow. Don’t mention it to Allen, okay? He’s a good man, and there are things I don’t want to burden him with.”

  “What’s the idea?” I asked.

  “I’ll explain tomorrow. Right now I want to get Victor patched up. Say your goodbyes, fellas. You’re all going your separate ways, and none too soon,” she said.

  “So long, Billy,” Victor said. “Thanks for finding me, and letting me be part of this.”

  “Give those Swiss bankers hell, Victor,” I said, shaking his good hand. “Make Henri proud.”

  Kaz and Victor embraced, Kaz planting one of those Polish three-cheek kiss routines on him, the sort of thing that always made me nervous no matter who the other person liked to sleep with.

  I wished Moe luck, and pretty much left it at that. If he needed to carry out a hit on a famous German scientist, there was little reason to think he’d make it out alive. Kind of a conversation stopper, so I just told him how much I’d enjoyed watching him catch for the Red Sox, which he accepted with a proud modesty.

  “Latcho drom,” Lasho said, giving me a bear hug that threatened to crack ribs. He engulfed Kaz, who nearly disappeared in the big Sinti’s arms.

  “Safe journey to you as well, my friend,” Kaz said as he was let loose.

  They all filed out, murmuring good nights, leaving Kaz and me with the spoils of war. I closed the suitcase, unable to look at the gold. Gold stolen from nations, gold stolen from the necks and fingers of thousands sent to extermination camps, gold pried from the jaws of the dead. That should have been why I couldn’t bear to set eyes
on it. But the real reason was the temptation that seemed to call out from the shining gold bars.

  As much as I didn’t want to admit it, I felt it, felt the lure of the soft golden glow.

  I pushed the suitcase under the bed.

  Chapter Thirty-Two

  The next morning Kaz and I showed up at Dulles’s office as ordered, suitcases in hand. The one Kaz carried was heavier than mine, which contained our spare clothes, but he hefted it as if it held nothing more than dirty laundry. Maureen shot him a sly wink from her spot on the sofa.

  “I’ve heard reports that the Gestapo was involved in a shooting last night,” Dulles said as soon as we crossed the threshold. “Siegfried Krauch was killed.” He stared us down as we stashed our suitcases by the door and took our seats.

  “Always nice to start off the morning with good news,” I said. “Maybe he was after Hannes and got bushwhacked.”

  “I doubt that,” Dulles said. “The police pulled Hannes’s body from the river an hour ago. You two know anything about that?”

  “Not a thing,” I said. “We had dinner with Maureen and got a good night’s sleep. But good to know about Hannes as well, thanks.”

  Dulles glowered, then glanced at Maureen, who nodded in verification of what I’d claimed.

  “So, how do we take our leave of Switzerland?” Kaz asked, moving the discussion along.

  “A Swiss Air flight to Barcelona, later today,” Dulles said. “We’ve arranged passports for you both, and transit visas that will not be scrutinized too carefully. Miss Conaty will take you to the airport and facilitate your boarding.”

  “I hope the bribes were big enough,” I said.

  “Bigger than any reward a customs official might expect for spotting forged papers,” Maureen said. “No worries there.”

  “Why Barcelona?” I asked. “Why not Lisbon? We can get a flight to England from there.”