“They’re involved in this somehow, that’s for sure—” now mumbling to himself as well as the lieutenant. “Those Mauser rounds don’t come from anything we’ve got.”
The words to Auprès de ma blonde had abandoned Nico, and he wondered if his luck would leave him, as well. Gestapo on the way. The lieutenant was still on the phone, his carefully-chosen words unmistakably deferential. When the call was finished, the chief inspector took the rolled diagrams under his arm, signaled to his subordinate to follow, and headed out to oversee the opening of the crates. Nico exhaled.
Once the lieutenant had left the office, Marc lit up again, and Nico knew they faced a very long day.
CHAPTER TWO
Paris, Occupied France
27 August 1941
Ed had reminded him that hotel rooms assigned to foreigners were likely wired by the Gestapo and their phone lines tapped, especially those given to Americans now that FDR had further troubled the uneasy relationship with the Reich. So a public meeting place such as the discrete bar of L’Hôtel Paris on the Left Bank seemed advisable. Ryan arrived promptly at six to find Ed already at a corner table and deep into a bowl of crackers. An empty martini glass spoke to his early arrival. With few other patrons at that hour, there was little fear of eavesdropping.
Ed skipped any greetings as he rose to welcome his prodigal brother. “Just what the hell were you thinking, Ryan?” His voice carried a gravelly edge. “You promised close contact—you do remember that, right? Agreed more than once, I recall?”
“Yes, Mother.” Ryan flashed a wry smile. He summoned the bartender with a wave. Ed ordered a second gin martini as the man removed his empty. “But things got a bit out of hand, so settle down long enough to hear me out.” Ryan summarized his latest trials and successes, pausing only long enough to sample his whiskey. Ed listened intently, amazement in his eyes, his drink untouched. When Ryan came at last to the fateful encounter with von Kredow and his goons in the Nantes warehouse, Ed released a long breath. “So you finally finished off the asshole.” Ed eased back on the banquette, draining his glass and signaling for a third. “You’re one lucky bastard, you know. No disrespect to our parentage, brother.”
“Quite an end to this thing, right?” Ryan couldn’t hide his satisfaction. “A certain symmetry to it all—I’m forced to eat one stinking rat in Tours, then dispatch a second in that Nantes warehouse.” He rubbed his right arm, still sore from the pounding he gave Horst. “And no worse the wear for either.”
When he heard how Kohl and von Kredow had played them both for fools since 1938, Ed shook his head in disbelief. “Those sons-of-bitches!” His words slurred as he wrapped his mind around his brother’s shoot-out with the French cops. “Just how hot are you now, brother? Should you be in hiding, or at least in disguise?”
“With von Kredow out of the picture, there’s really no one to place me there or know my face, so I should be in the clear. I’m ready to take on whatever COI wants next.” Ryan wrapped up the last loose end by explaining how he, René and Erika had settled the matter of looking after his son Leo.
Ed obviously had something of his own to share. “Glad those friends of yours are all doing fine now…no longer your top priority, because I’ve a bit of news, myself.”
“Spill it! You get Grace pregnant again, or some new development in Washington?”
“Neither—the intrigue’s right here on our Parisian doorstep. While you were traipsing across France on vacation, one of your old Berlin acquaintances insisted on making mine…a certain Rolf von Haldheim.” Ryan’s brow furrowed as Ed handed over the calling card. “He sends you his best, by the way, and wants to get together with you real soon.”
Ryan scanned the elegantly embossed card and returned it to his brother. “That good ol’ libertine, Rolf von Haldheim? You’re sure about this?”
“Tall, lanky, almost too debonair? Impeccable manners.”
“The one and only—what a character!”
“Believe it or not, your ‘character’ wants to do business with us.”
“With us? What kind of business? Rolf was one of the early Nazi recruits from the upper crust, about ’31 or so. In ‘38 he tried to warn his parents they were targeted by the SS. According to Erika back then, Rolf was still a regular at SS parties in Berlin. In fact, he was the one to clue her in on my return to the capital.”
“Struck me as too fine a dresser to go for lightning bolts on his collar.”
“Appearances can fool, brother. And I sure as hell plan to stay clear of the Sicherheitsdienst, given their open line to the Gestapo.” Ryan considered what to make of Rolf’s reappearance. “So how the hell did he run you down?”
“Not as big a problem as it might seem. I’m on both consulate and embassy rosters through Special War Problems. Claims he spotted our distinctive family name and thought of the good times you two once shared. Given German intelligence, you know damned well they have a who’s who and who’s where of everyone officially here in France.”
Ryan bought the possibility. Lemmon was a rare enough surname and Rolf might have recalled his mention of an older brother during those long nights carousing in the underbelly of Berlin. “So what’s he proposing?”
“He spoke of finding common ground, you know, between his people and ours...and the Brits. All very hush-hush until we signal our interest. I met him in private on Isle-Saint-Louis.” Ed reached for the last cracker. “He does know his wine, by the way.”
“What did your embassy bosses say?”
“My “neutrality-first” desk chief wouldn’t touch it—said to leave it to you and COI and keep my distance—but I rummaged around a bit on my own and learned that von Haldheim now works for Admiral Canaris.”
“Rolf jumped ship to the Abwehr?” Ed was too dulled by the gin to catch the nautical pun, so Ryan let it slide. “Word back at COI was that Himmler hates Canaris’ guts, but the Abwehr chief’s simply too powerful for the SS to touch. Canaris seems to have the goods on all the Reich big shots, so his military intelligence operation is pretty much off limits to Himmler’s boys in black.”
Ed seemed uncertain of the next step. “So, do you intend to reach out to him?”
“Let’s stick to channels on this one.” Ed arched a brow, knowing that sticking to channels was never his brother’s forte, and his odd look caused Ryan to laugh before continuing. “Find out how Bruce and Donovan want it handled, and then I’ll move on it if COI give a thumbs-up. If Canaris really wants to talk with our boys, this could be major, especially if they’re really seeking an intermediary to broker peace with the Allies…or even just an armistice.” Ryan took a slug of his whiskey. Gullibility had recently nearly cost him his life and those of his friends. “But all this might be just some trap to test our American “neutrality.” He sighed and emptied his glass. “So, how do we reach our remarkable Herr von Haldheim?”
Ed slid over the calling card again and Ryan memorized the number. “So you’ll wait here in Paris until I hear back from Washington?” Ed asked. “You had me on pins and needles holding nothing but that enigmatic postcard from Gascony. And now it seems I should have worried even more.”
“Sorry, Ed. Who could have known von Kredow was manipulating everything from way back in ‘The Group’ days, and afterwards things took on a momentum of their own. Might never have made it without that Nicole. More than a bit disturbed after all that bastard put her through, but a helluva brave gal, and quite a looker.”
Ed shook his head. “Don’t you ever learn? You always go for the beauties who nearly cost you your life. Let’s see, there was that brunette in Berlin dragging you into street fights and dives. Then your Erika, the dangerous blonde and mother of your kid. And now this unstable Nicole. Let me guess—a raven-haired knockout?”
“More kind of chestnut. Damned fine bouncing pony-tail.”
“We need to find you a stable wife, not another femme fatale, no matter how cute the tail.”
“Not surprising advice, c
oming from a happily enslaved married man. God knows, I do need some down time.” Ryan searched in vain for a cracker from the now empty bowl. “But I did put my hands on something to make you feel better after all that worry, something our Washington friends and the Brits should appreciate.” He handed over the thin manila envelope.
Ed read the caption aloud, carefully enunciating past the gin buzz: Proposals for Reform in French Secondary Education. He dropped the report on the table, not bothering with the dozen or so pages. “Yeah, this is sure to delight Donovan and Company. About as exciting as warm milk.”
“What did I just say about judging based on appearances? You never know what’s hiding in plain sight.” Ryan slipped the papers back in the envelope and stuffed it into Ed’s inside breast pocket. “Courier only. What’s hidden here is more valuable than you’d imagine, and will keep our paychecks rolling in. Which does remind me, high time to replenish operating funds. I’d lost what little I still had by the time I landed in that Tours jail.”
“First things first, how about a change of clothes? Those duds are too small-town for the big city, and—brother to brother—could stand a good cleaning.” Ed’s shoe found the leather valise parked beneath the table and scooted it toward Ryan. “You’ll find what you need in there. Once you’ve changed, let’s grab a bite to eat. And replace whatever ID you’re carrying with what’s there, and quickly.”
“Done. You pick the spot for supper, Ed, but I’ve got something on for later this evening. Marita doesn’t know I’m back in town.”
“Ah yes, I left your little Marita off the list, didn’t I? Another brunette, as I recall. I see my sage advice to avoid femmes fatales still falls on deaf ears.”
Ed shook a Lucky from the pack, lit up, then caught the bartender’s attention and scrawled his signature in the air. The man immediately delivered the check to the table. “And incidentally,” Ed pulled a small fabric sack from his side pocket, “here’s a welcome home gift.”
Ryan smiled at the sight of a new briar pipe. “Was I eyeing your smokes?”
Ed gave a throaty laugh. “And you’ll need this, as well.” Ed handed over a bulging leather pouch. “Virginia’s best, because who can smoke the crap they’re selling here now?”
Ryan reached over and clapped Ed on the shoulder. “Very thoughtful—you must have read my mind.” Then the smile faded. “But one more thing, Ed.”
Edward lifted an eyebrow, waiting. “Go on.”
“Kohl.”
“A dangerous bastard who’s conspired to kill you, I know. But what can we do about it? He’s high SD and Gestapo, and well outside our purview.”
Ryan tamped tobacco into the pipe, giving a trial run to season the bowl. He lit a match. “You’ll be seeing him again?”
“No doubt, he’s local Kraut liaison for War Problems. And believe me, I’ll have a devil of a time remaining civil and pretending to know nothing.” Ed tried to add some levity. “But that’s why they call us civil servants, right?”
Ryan, no longer in a joking mood, didn’t look up. He only shook out the match once the flame reached his fingertips. “Mark my words—that son-of-a-bitch has to go, even if I track him down myself. They were a team, Kohl and von Kredow, both equally responsible for all those deaths. And now our war has turned real—”
“We’re still neutrals, Ryan. Don’t start America’s war for her.”
“As long as he’s out there, he’s a threat—to me, to you, to my friends. Damn it, Ed, he’s a threat to our country. That’s something you still don’t get—it’s not just personal. Yes, I’ve been bloodied, and now I’ve taken a couple of lives. And whether we accept it or not, we aren’t going to turn our backs on this Nazi insanity much longer.”
His cheeks burned with anger and he turned aside, rubbing the smooth bowl of the pipe with a thumb, admiring the glow of the briarwood in the soft light of the bar. He knocked the ashes into the tray and returned the still-warm pipe to its sleeve, then stood and squeezed Ed’s shoulder. “Listen, Ed, we both have work to do. I’ll let it ride for now, see where my next assignment takes me. In the meantime, the next time you see our friend Kohl, go ahead and be the swell, easy-going guy your Foreign Service demands. Just be aware that the bastard’s in my sights. This is something I won’t just forget.”
The bluish glow of street lamps guided Ryan out of the subway. Against a sky of burnished steel the last rainclouds moved eastward. Some pedestrians carried flashlights masked by colored tissue paper to negotiate the dark and haze-filled streets of Montmartre. Others optimistically took their chances with the hard-to-spot curbstones and dimly lit street crossings. The neon signage of brasseries and nightspots remained shielded since the Occupation expected British bombers to appear any night in those metallic skies above.
The neighborhood pulsed to the musical beat of bars, clubs, and cabarets. Following Rue Pigalle toward Marita’s club, Ryan overtook a group of late-evening revelers. With arms linked, the drunken celebrants sang Lili Marleen, the ballad of a soldier’s faithful girlfriend. Listening to the rich voices, Ryan found himself back in 1934 Marburg, the tabletops smoothed by generations of steins and spilled beer, the easy camaraderie of fellow students toasting good health and eternal friendship. Then he thought of Erika’s dazzling smile, the moonlit fog rising from the river into the Altstadt, and her demanding hips pressed to his, their excitement barely contained.
My God, he thought, let it go and move on, Lemmon!
Overtaking the rowdy group, he scanned their faces. For all he knew, one of the drunken men might have been an old university drinking buddy, but he saw only younger men with cheeks ruddy from alcohol and enthusiastic Kameradschaft. One officer eyed the American’s stare with growing suspicion, so Ryan turned away and strode on. His nostalgia quickly disappeared as the strong voices joined in praise for the “swastika full of hope,” and “a day of freedom dawning.”
How hypocritical this Nazi Europe had become! He saw again the bloodied von Kredow struggling against the cyanide pill. Having rid the Reich of one sadist, the next should come more easily. At least so he hoped. The voices faded as he turned off Rue Pigalle. He decided to set aside such ugliness in anticipation of his reunion with Marita.
Over a decade earlier her sensual dancing and intriguing smile from the stage of the Folies Bergère had stolen his heart, or so he believed in the shared enthusiasm of the audience. For several nights he waited in the alley outside the club, the traditional Stage-door Johnny with bouquet of flowers. Dark hair slickly pomaded and blue eyes filled with humor, he happily endured the teasing jibes of the departing dancers. By the third night they all knew him by name, and two of the showgirls even volunteered to take Marita’s place. But Ryan only had eyes for nineteen-year-old Marita Lesney, who left the club at closing with her older sister and fellow dancer Marie. Marita repeatedly declined his requests to speak in private, yet each time she accepted his flowers with a fleeting smile.
On the fourth night and at the urging of her sister, Marita had finally relented. Ryan and the stunning beauty spent the dark hours of early morning at a small café bordering the wholesale market of Les Halles. The scene was loud and lively: good-natured butchers in red-stained aprons shouldering massive slabs of beef, vendors hawking fresh produce to early-rising shop owners, and persistent cats fussing at the feet of the fishmongers waiting for hand-outs. But none of that mattered to Ryan. He focused solely on the young woman, inviting her with words and looks to surrender to his infatuation, and his interest proved contagious.
Several nights later, carried away by the sheer excitement of that victorious moment, he embarrassed himself by coming too soon in the warm embrace of the beautiful dancer. Thankfully, it never happened again.
Their romance had been short-lived, for he fell victim to a self-confessed addiction to new countries and new and willing girls. Marita’s feelings for him however were far more true and long-lasting, with letters of love and concern trailing him across Europe and back to Americ
a. Occasionally he would respond, his words sincere but always noncommittal. At other times, her floral-scented envelopes disappeared unanswered between the pages of his journals, each missive well-creased from frequent readings.
In 1938 she welcomed him back to Paris. When he appeared at her doorstep buried in self-recrimination for having failed to rescue his friends, Marita buoyed him up at his lowest point and encouraged him to see beyond failure. But he knew he was the former lover holding a place forever in her heart but no longer in her bed.
Now he stood outside her club again, the lively music spilling across the sidewalk. He stopped long enough to remove his new hat and slick back his hair with a comb, then entered the smoke-filled lobby of la Chatte bottée. A revival of that decade-long friendship was all he would ask of her. If she offered more, he would gladly accept.
CHAPTER THREE
Paris, Occupied France
27 August 1941
The exotic dancers circled through the audience, their flowing scarves of gossamer silk giving teasing glimpses of breasts and swaying derrières. The audience marked time to the beat of the raucous orchestra. Most Boche patrons were already deep in their cups and rowdy after hours of salacious stage comedy and visual stimulation. As the dancers wound sinuously across the club floor, a remark from one officer brought a sassy reply from the showgirl. The Wehrmacht major attempted to pull her to his lap, missed his target and tumbled to the floor. She patted his balding head in faux concern, her hips never missing a beat before she strutted on. His comrades laughed uproariously at the involuntary slapstick. Almost lost in that sea of uniforms, the few business suits marked entrepreneurs and city officials enjoying one of the numerous privileges of collaboration.
Fulcrum of Malice Page 2
