Fulcrum of Malice

by Patrick W O'Bryon

  “Of course, Horst.” Kohl felt the suppressed fury in his partner’s words. “No hurry, no hurry at all.” Things had definitely gone sideways. Perhaps a bite of lunch might calm von Kredow. He checked his watch. “I hear the café on the square serves up a decent enough lunch if you’re hungry.”

  “Get me to Le Bourget, and quickly.” Smoke streamed from his narrow lips and nostrils. “No time for idle talk.”

  Bristling at the dismissive tone, Kohl led the way along the front arcade to a waiting sedan on the Place de Rennes. If his colleague was truly about to ride Heydrich’s coattails to the summit of Party power, Kohl needed to stay in Horst’s best graces. Yet he bridled at the thought von Kredow’s career might soon overshadow his own.

  Running the German desk at State had spoiled him, ruling over his own fiefdom, manipulating American foreign policy in favor of Reich and Führer. He had never learned which of Roosevelt’s patsies had pulled the plug on his charade. No charges, just an abrupt dismissal with orders to clear his desk within hours. This current Paris duty was a genuine opportunity to lead again, but this time in the heart of the action. The Special War Problems program made excellent cover as he assembled his personal team of espionage agents to stifle the covert flow of Allied operatives through the city. His secondary assignment was to simultaneously block Abwehr interference in SD intelligence-gathering. Now at last he could shine in field work, the realm where von Kredow had always stolen the limelight.

  The Gestapo driver closed Horst’s door and hurried around to open for Kohl. Pedestrians took one look and moved on, feigning disinterest in the official car and its stern occupants. A squad of soldiers waited for dismissal, ready to explore the city on the Seine. A few trams rattled by. Another black sedan and some gasogène taxis waited curbside for passengers. A troop of soldiers pedaled past on bicycles.

  Once clear of the square the Mercedes headed northeast. Traffic remained relatively light and Horst seemed lost in thought. Kohl wondered what was coursing through his comrade’s mind. He himself would have personal misgivings were he the one summoned back to Berlin after an absence as long as his colleague’s.

  At Le Bourget the driver ignored the busy air terminal and customs buildings and circled around to a side entrance to the airfield. An SS non-com swung open the gate at a signal from the driver and the sedan shot across to the waiting plane. The black swastika on the tail stood proud against the shiny metal of the fuselage. Both engines revved loudly as the pilot tested ailerons and rudder. When the driver reached for his door, Horst ordered him away. He saluted and went to stand under the wash of the nearest propeller, his head bent low, hat pressed to his head with one hand.

  Horst turned to Kohl, his voice without inflection. “You’ve surely gathered that all didn’t go exactly as planned, Richard. No need for details, but suffice to say my primary goal is accomplished—I’m free at last of that Jew-bitch and her spawn.” Horst ran a hand through his hair and put on his hat. “Both dead and gone, but sadly all occurred in my absence. I had special plans for those two, you know.”

  “Still very good news, Horst, and a tremendous relief, I’m sure. It’s been such a long and fruitless pursuit until now.” Kohl took some pleasure in bringing up the years of failure. “And what of the two men you pursued?”

  “The Alsatian’s gone underground with Nantes partisans. They’ve some plan for sabotage in Saint-Nazaire in the works.” Horst removed a dossier from his briefcase. “The fools abandoned maps and diagrams when I sent them packing.”

  “Such incompetence!” Kohl chuckled aloud, wondering how Horst had managed to “send them packing” without eliminating them once and for all. And what was the story behind the new physical damage to his colleague’s face? “And yet they think themselves smart enough to outwit us?”

  “The ineptitude of such inferior minds accrues to our benefit. We can take down all the saboteurs when they make their move.”

  Kohl fussed with his fountain pen, ready to take notes. “That’s the ‘Gesslinger’ fellow, as I recall.”

  Horst handed over the folder. “He’s surely using a nom de guerre for the moment. The full physical description is in here along with a photograph taken in ’34. He’s the big one all done up in dueling kit. He still looks much the same but wears a full beard. After our run-in a few days ago he’ll be the worse for wear, his arm and shoulder possibly in a sling or cast. Those Schmisse on his forehead can’t be hidden, and he favors his left leg. A brute of a man—not a trace of Germanic refinement.”

  “I’ll see to it.” He returned the pen to his breast pocket. “Most important—detain or eliminate?”

  “Alive and back in Berlin. No formal arrest. I intend to peel that asinine grin from his face personally.” Horst appeared distracted before turning his attention back to Kohl. “Sometimes things go awry. If for any reason you must kill him, make sure it’s done slowly and very painfully, verstanden?” Kohl nodded. “And then there’s Ryan Lemmon, your old patsy in Washington. He was somehow involved with that Nantes saboteur group, but now that he thinks me dead he’s likely returned to Paris.”

  A surprise for Kohl. “Thinks you dead?”

  “A very close call, Richard. I only survived thanks to my own quick thinking. I feel like Lazarus. And no thanks to the incompetent Nantes agents tasked with supporting me. Enough to know that the remaining targets believe I’m out of the picture for good. It’ll make them careless.”

  “Lemmon’s still assigned to State and listed with the local consulate, without doubt a cover for espionage activity. He’ll link up with his brother, a fool as naïve as the day I first hired him. He should be grateful his father-in-law’s rich and influential enough to keep him employed in Washington. That being said, a tail on Edward will net us Ryan.”

  “When the son-of-a-bitch pops up, he’s all mine. He’s to believe me dead until this ‘immortal’ Horst von Kredow severs his balls at last. Again, ship him to me in Berlin as quickly as possible. Cut his damned Achilles tendons, if you must—the bastard has a knack for escaping—but keep him otherwise sound, understood? I assure you, when I’m done with him this time, he’ll be singing alto soprano.”

  Kohl laughed. What a feather in his own cap should he finally accomplish the one goal which had eluded Horst for many years. “Will do, my friend. Anything else?”

  “That’s all for now. Don’t disappoint me, stay in touch, and call immediately when you have either man. I trust you can handle this adequately, but I must say I’ve run into nothing but disappointment recently with the caliber of Gestapo support. Our secret police seems to attract nothing but imbeciles of late.”

  The implied incompetence galled him but Kohl hid his true feelings. “You’ve got it, Horst. Smooth flight, and my very best to Heydrich.” He signaled the driver.

  With von Kredow on board and its engines roaring, the plane rumbled toward the runway. Kohl didn’t follow the plane’s progress as it took to the air. Instead he instructed the driver to return directly to the center of the city. Plans to outshine his colleague already formed in his mind. High time for Horst to learn he wasn’t the only one capable of effective action.

  CHAPTER SIXTEEN

  Biarritz, Occupied France

  31 August 1941

  With one hand securing a hat from the de Brassis’ wardrobe, Erika turned to face Agnès and Louise. She kept her back to the stiff breeze off the Bay of Biscay. The four children chased around the dry fountain out front, enjoying their freedom at last. The women had pored over every room in the mansion, determined to keep any trace of their presence out of Gestapo hands. The brothers were now shuttering windows, a major task. Once the group was away, any curious observer would assume the place battened down for the coming winter and its owner off traveling.

  “It’s very lovely country over in Gascony.” Erika still hoped to keep the children together as a family. She had no expectation that their parents would ever be found alive. “And there’s plenty of room on the farm fo
r the two of you, as well.”

  “We thank you for the generous offer, but Louise will hear nothing of abandoning Bayonne—she returns to the townhouse this morning, come what may.” The concierge confirmed with a nod.

  Erika looked up at the rooftop. The brothers had consigned the bodies of Madame de Brassis and Nicole to the basement furnace and the tall chimney released thick braids of smoke into the onshore wind. The memory of lifeless Nicole haunted her, of that ugly wound oozing purple in the pale light. She recalled her own mother’s death and that last embrace before Erika’s train left the Giessen station. A suicide done of love for a doomed husband now mirrored in a young mother’s tragic mistake. Horst’s malice knew no bounds.

  She shook her mind clear and picked up the thread of Louise’s last comment. “But the Gestapo will come to Bayonne looking for Madame de Brassis.”

  “Of course they’ll drop by eventually, my dear. That’s why Louise must remain at her concierge post, feigning ignorance of all that’s happened so they don’t get suspicious.”

  “But you and the children could still come with us to Morlanne, right?”

  Agnès refused to give in. “That would be lovely, but we’ll be safer in Pau. I’ve family connections there and perhaps I can reunite Jacqueline and Robert with their own relatives. They deserve family who’ll love them as much as we do.” Her voice turned hoarse. “Hard enough having just lost Jakob to who-knows-what, and now having to part from little Sophie.” She dabbed at her eyes. “But she and Leo get along so well, and at my age I’m not sure I’ll be up to the challenges of handling one so young for much longer.”

  “All the more reason to join us, and we could certainly use your help.”

  The governess patted Erika’s sleeve. “You three go on to your farm and wait for your man. I’ll just disappear into the city with my young charges.” She squinted into the wind but Erika knew the tears had a different cause. “First we’ll see the three of you off at the bus terminal tomorrow, of course.” Agnès was again all business. “Give me the directions to that farm of yours and I’ll commit them to memory. If things are less than welcoming in Pau we’ll seek you out, d’accord?”

  The soldiers now appeared inside the glassed-in conservatory. They struggled to heft the safe brought down from the upstairs master suite onto the wooden table. The women went in to oversee the operation. The men set to work with sulfuric acid, a machinist’s drill and cold chisels and hammers taken from the work shed. Soon the stench of the acid became nauseating, and the sisters chose to wait outside in the wind. In less than an hour the strongbox finally gave up its small fortune in cash and jewelry. While the brothers cleaned up the mess, Erika laid out each find on the heavy oaken table and Agnès assumed the duty of paymaster.

  Heinrich and Herbert happily took their shares in francs. As they stuffed much of the bundled money into their boots, Erika insisted they also take some of the smaller jewelry for the hazardous trip east. Always good for bribes, she assured them. Erika and Agnès’ shares disappeared within the satin lining of two suitcases, much heavier now for their hidden caches. Louise bundled hers into a dishcloth and placed it at the bottom of a woven bag alongside the package destined for von Kredow in Berlin. Once the treasure was distributed, the battered safe disappeared beneath the sands at the base of the cliff.

  With the safe-cracking tools back in the shed, Herbert drove the motorcycle of the late Monsieur de Brassis into an overgrown ravine near the edge of the estate. Then Heinrich brought the Ford limousine around from the carriage house and all piled in for the short drive north. At the outskirts of Bayonne they pulled over. Louise kissed her sister good-bye, bid the others adieu. Erika watched her lively step fade to the shuffle of a tired crone as she headed away to catch a local bus. “Louise always was the better actress,” Agnès said. The concierge would drop off the “proof of death” at the post office, preserved in de Brassis’ liquor and carefully wrapped for the next airmail delivery to Berlin.

  Sheltered from the harsh onshore wind by the river estuary, Bayonne was rapidly warming. The queue to get through the gate and onto the platforms was long and stationary. Only a gentle breeze off the Adour made the wait tolerable. Now in street clothes, the brothers joked around with the children. They laughed at her mention of the risks involved in deserting. “We’re not actually abandoning our duties, Frau von Kredow,” Herbert explained quietly and with obvious tongue in cheek. “Our orders were to keep an eye on these youngsters, nicht wahr? Well, we can’t watch over the brats if we’re stuck here on the coast, now can we?” The women shook their heads at the brothers’ air of calm. With such casual confidence, perhaps all would actually work out for the best.

  Erika excused herself to use the public phone. The long-distance operator was unsuccessful in reaching Doctor Ballineux outside Nantes. Erika insisted on placing the call again. Both her men needed to know Horst still lived, and the doctor was her sole contact. René knew how to get a message to Ryan’s brother in Paris, who could then pass along this shocking news. Her frustration grew with each distant ring of the doctor’s phone. The operator asked tartly if Erika wished a third attempt. Just then the crowd began working forward toward the checkpoint and she hung up without a response. She would try again from Pau, but knowing the two most important men in her life remained in danger tore at her heart.

  The border control officers moved methodically through the train parked on the neighboring track. From her window Erika watched the men appear and reappear as they moved from compartment to compartment, checking papers, questioning, sometime interrogating, often badgering. The express carrying affluent passengers took natural precedence over Erika’s three-car local, but the many hours on board had not been easy and she wished the Boches would hurry it up, forget worrying about those priority travelers and come harass her and her fellow sufferers instead. Anything to get this over with!

  Tall metal fencing rose out of woods on either side of the double rail bed. A striped barricade arm blocked the vehicle roadway to the right, where uniformed guards periodically depressed the counter-weight to allow the passage of cars, trucks and horse-drawn wagons into and out of Vichy territory. German and French armed soldiers slouched in the oppressive heat, sweat blotching their uniforms, exhaustion souring their faces. Those currently off-duty found shelter beneath the overhanging eaves of the two guard sheds. Less fortunate were the men controlling the vehicle crossing, forced to suffer the full assault of the afternoon sun beneath steel helmets. Fifty meters ahead stood a second barrier manned by the French Douane, whose custom inspections would further delay all travelers.

  The hard wooden benches of third class had become devices of slow torture. Even the upbeat mood of the older children had turned sour in the debilitating heat. A tin of cookies from the de Brassis pantry was all that kept Sophie from her next tantrum, but Erika figured she’d find the time and energy to teach the toddler better manners once this trip was only a bad memory. She wished she too could drop to the floor, kicking and screaming, if only to distract herself from this misery.

  From time to time a caged rooster on an old man’s lap expressed similar aggravation at the delay. Nearby passengers attempting to doze in the oppressive atmosphere bolted instantly awake every time the bird crowed. Despite the open windows the stagnant air betrayed unwashed bodies and unchanged diapers, and a steam pump on the neighboring locomotive recharged its brake lines with monotonous regularity—ka-thump ka-thump—a dull, rhythmic beat echoing the throb in Erika’s head.

  They had purposefully chosen the local rather than an express, anticipating a trip of a few hours at most. A slow train stopping at every waystation seemed far less likely to harbor fugitives seeking escape from the Occupied Zone. Two wicker baskets held foodstuffs from the Biarritz pantry, since neither drinking water nor provisions were available en route. But the women hadn’t counted on many stifling hours side-tracked in a third-class rail car waiting for the arrival of a replacement locomotive when theirs suf
fered some mechanical failure.

  Their suitcases in the overhead rack contained clothing, a few diapers for Sophie, and basic toiletries. Should an inspector ask for a look inside, they intended to lift down the cases themselves, since the added weight of the gold, currency and precious stones could easily betray them. A small fortune traveled along under the most ordinary and trying of conditions. They had agreed to leave behind all pistols rather than risk discovery and unavoidable arrest.

  Erika had chosen a bench close to the rear of the last carriage. Leo and Sophie sat beside her, facing Agnès and her orphans. The two groups pretended to be strangers, but the children began mugging and giggling at secret jokes almost immediately. Leo and Jacqueline were the instigators, and despite her stern reaction, Erika could understand their frustration and boredom. The expected two-hour trip had already consumed much of the day, with both temperature and humidity climbing as the afternoon progressed. Now she secretly longed for a bit of naughty behavior to replace those glum faces and mumbled complaints.

  Agnès’ identification papers would pass any muster, since they confirmed her true profession as a state-licensed nursemaid. A letter from a private pediatric clinic in Toulouse authorized her to accompany displaced orphans moving between Occupied France and the Free Zone.

  Erika’s forged identity card was less convincing. Far from her documented “home” in Nantes, she also carried a few forged letters from “grandparents” requesting she travel to Pau for family medical reasons. Expired ration cards issued at the Morlanne city hall were her one verifiable connection to Gascony. The coupon booklet would leave her handbag only should things get sticky at the border.