Ahead lay Berlin and Horst and the key to Marita’s rescue. Behind lay a possible loss too horrifying to imagine. Weeks had passed since Edward told him Erika and Leo might have perished in a gun battle in Bayonne. Might have, they both had agreed. Perhaps another deception from von Kredow designed to drive him mad with guilt and fury, or a new manipulation by the equally disturbed Richard Kohl. Or had he simply failed his friends despite his best efforts?
With each passing day his melancholy had worsened. Now he was leaving France in frustrating uncertainty, heading toward the city that harbored his nemesis while distancing himself from determining what really happened with Erika and his son.
First there was the news of their purported deaths along with Kohl’s warning that the Gestapo was again on his trail. Why had Kohl mentioned von Kredow as his “late colleague” if Horst had truly survived the cyanide pill?
He slumped in his seat and stared out at the passing countryside. Over two weeks since his desperate attempt to reach René after receiving the message signed “RG.” Le Masque alive in Berlin. Ryan could clearly picture the sadist’s bloodied face, those distorted lips fighting the cyanide pill, the shuddering convulsions and foaming spittle, those last ragged breaths. The bastard had died at Ryan’s own hands, yet somehow come to life again? What does it take to kill such a man?
Ryan had immediately phoned the Saint-Nazaire number given. A woman answered with the name of the tavern but quickly turned uncommunicative. She denied any knowledge of a Rénard or Héloise and couldn’t explain how he got her number. She finally hung up on him when he persisted. A second call on the heels of the first went unanswered. Next he tried the doctor outside Loire. That line also rang repeatedly until he had finally surrendered in frustration.
Attempts the following day had been equally disappointing. By ten a.m. he found himself on the way to the coast. Le dernier Réfuge was a landmark in Old Town and easy to find, but the initially friendly proprietress clammed up the moment he introduced himself. He saw the fear in her eyes. How should she know he wasn’t Gestapo out to entrap her? He strolled past the bunker compound, seemingly ignoring the monumental structure and the fervent construction activity at the northern end. Nothing suggested sabotage, but what had he expected—a smoldering ruin? On his return trip he detrained at Nantes and took a taxi out to the home of Dr. Ballineux. Black-and-white crime scene stamps with circled swastikas sealed every entrance. Frustrated by questions without answers, he had caught the next train back to Paris.
Now he opened his notebook to Leo’s final gift, the flower already turning brittle, its ghostly impression staining the pages. He thought of all the children whose ethnic “inferiority” condemned them to suffer under Nazi barbarism. Ryan chided himself for the selfish indulgence in personal grief, but his sorrow only intensified. Was grieving for a single child not grieving for all whose fate remained unknown? Across Europe, parents faced daily the uncertainties he now had to endure.
Erika’s strength had protected Leo from a world hardened by hatred and bigotry. She had lost both parents in the process. He pictured her smile and his heart ached with memories of those naïve days before darkness enveloped Germany. Who dares expect happiness, anyway? He might have taken her back to the States in ’34, witnessed Leo’s birth, created a life distant from all this death and destruction. But he hadn’t been ready for such a commitment, and Erika had yet to discover her own strength and will.
He sought distraction in his immediate surroundings. The compartment was worn and shabby, so different from pre-war carriages on this Paris-Berlin route. Half-starved to fund the Reich’s aggression, France could no longer maintain her own railroads. From time to time his train gave priority to troop transports and rolling machines of war. Was it only a few weeks ago that he and Nicole sweltered under canvas as they made their way from Bayonne to Tours. Was she reunited with her child at last, guided there by Leo? Or were they two more victims of a sadist who never should have drawn a first breath?
His finger traced phantom handprints on the window left by bored children. Thinking of Leo, he again cursed the depravity of von Kredow but all the while blamed himself. He should have slit the bastard’s throat, driven the dagger deep into his heaving chest. He should have stayed long enough to bring those Bayonne children to safety. Again, so many regrets. And why no further word from René after that single message of warning?
He willed the tension from his body, breathing slowly and focusing his thoughts on the coming task. He was about to help another beloved friend, one who still might survive her nightmare. Ahead lay tough new challenges with von Kredow alive and in Berlin. He already felt the target weighing heavily on his back. Learning the truth about Erika and Leo would have to wait.
The express clattered over the long girder bridge, the locomotive smoke obscuring the far bank of the Rhine. The river surged below, a broad stretch of gray and silver. Ryan was once again in the Reich.
How welcoming Berlin had once been in those first months and years a decade earlier. He wondered what changes would greet him now, what damning Gestapo file waited to hang him for espionage? Kohl and von Kredow had surely recorded all his “crimes” from the murder of that brutish agent on the train near Koblenz to Pabst’s drowning in the Rhine. And now he’d killed others in the warehouse battle which should have put a final end to von Kredow’s path of vengeance. Surely his foes would have justified their own web of deceit by documenting his offenses as the work of an enemy of the Reich. Rolf von Haldheim was certain his Abwehr could shield Ryan from the SD and Gestapo, but Ryan thought that highly unlikely.
Many questions, but no answers.
Rolf clearly wasn’t authorized to give the name of the man to greet him in the capital. COI suggested that only the enigmatic Wilhelm Canaris, head of German military intelligence, came into question. In fact, David Bruce hoped the overture from the Abwehr would prove to be a covert peace-feeler from the highest levels in the Reich. If Rolf’s man in Berlin wanted a face-to-face, Ryan would accommodate.
Long hours on the train had pushed back that cloud of depression. The uncertainty surrounding the fate of his loved ones fueled new determination as he approached the capital of the Reich. He would do whatever was needed to protect himself and Marita. Once foreign to him, violence was becoming second nature. That realization was unsettling, but he walled off the misgivings. Killing was a necessity of wartime, a tool to protect what was just and right. Once this horror was passed—assuming his survival—he hoped to regain his former self. But for now, steeling himself, he tucked away the doubts in some remote corner of his mind knowing they would resurface the moment they were given a chance.
One thing remained indisputable. Even if Erika and Leo were gone for good, he wasn’t about to lose Marita. She had only to stay alive until he managed to track her down.
The clear sky above the flatlands of Prussia gradually surrendered to a dirty gray. Ryan’s train rumbled into Berlin by late afternoon. At the last few stations his compartment had filled with ill-kempt passengers and the stench of unwashed clothing and neglected personal hygiene forced him into the aisle. He found a place beside an open window. The air tasted of soot and cinders, and Ryan wished for a drink to wash the grit from his teeth. With his bag between his feet, he stared out across a Berlin transformed by two years of war, deprivation and aerial bombardment.
At first, all seemed little changed from the day in ’38 when he and Erika ran from the city with Leo in tow. The freight yards appeared as busy as ever, locomotives taking on coal from hulking supply towers and yard machines shuffling about like so many wind-up toys. But gradually the changes became more apparent. An anti-aircraft battery capped a broad concrete column several stories tall, and soldiers on the turret-mounted flak emplacement swept the sky with field glasses. Ryan scanned the low-hanging clouds himself, spotting only a flock of geese exiting the city. He knew the British bombers came by night, so perhaps the soldiers feigned alertness in anticipation of an im
minent inspection.
The train rolled past several bomb craters, each deep enough to hold a freight car. Twisted and distorted rails ruptured outward from the blast sites. Grime-blackened workers toiled with heavy pry bars and brightly flaring cutting torches. Just beyond the nearest crater sat a railcar holding a three-legged mast, its winch-powered cable draping down to the bomb cavity. A tiny engine idled, waiting to haul away the next load of damaged rail.
The workers bent to their task under the watchful eyes of armed guards. These laborers were likely Polish or Ukrainian Zwangsarbeiter, “forced laborers.” The Ministry of Propaganda preferred the gentler term of Fremdarbeiter, “foreign workers,” a euphemism for the enslaved force which sustained the wartime Reich economy while most German men were away in military service.
Ryan’s anger rose at the sight of the workers. What filthy tasks would wear down Marita’s body and spirit, what “labor” would transform her into a worker drone for the Greater German Reich?
The train entered beneath the massive canopy of Anhalter Bahnhof. Soldiers with machine pistols stood on either side of the track, nearly disappearing in a cloud of cinders and steam. Black smoke assaulted his window. Ryan slammed it shut, grabbed his bag, and joined the queue of passengers already pressing toward the exits. Many dropped to the platform even before the train had come to a full stop.
Across the way a brass band struck up a martial air. He knew immediately the raucous reception wasn’t meant for his express. On the neighboring track young children reached out open carriage windows, exuberantly waving tiny swastikas on sticks and shouting to family members below. Tearful mothers and grandmothers gave encouragement, their voices competing with the metallic oom-pah of the instruments. Adults closest to the rail cars reached up for a last touch of their child’s hand. Many children seemed excited by their new adventure, though Ryan spotted tear-streaked faces, especially among the youngest. It was surely a KLV train, resettling urban children into foster homes in the German countryside far from bombs and collapsing buildings. His heart went out to those mothers trying to hold back tears and to the few sad-eyed youngsters who sensed the gravity of the separation.
Turning away quickly, he forged a path toward the waiting police control. Emotions had surfaced at the thought of Leo. With no time for weakness, he joined the line, and when his turn came, he made a point of snorting into his handkerchief before handing over his passport and visa. “Darned head cold,” he told the agent, explaining away the tears.
The policeman sounded sincere as he cautiously accepted the documents, doing his best to avoid Ryan’s handkerchief. “Quite common these days,” he said. He gave his colleague a wry look and handed over the passport, holding it by the edge. The second agent grimaced and compared Ryan’s face to the photo before jotting something on a clipboard.
The control officer handed back the document. “So, Herr Seffer, what brings another American to Berlin?”
“Business with the Ministry of the Interior.”
“Length of stay?”
Ryan was repulsed by the man’s sour breath. Good dental hygiene was clearly rare in wartime Berlin, given what he’d experienced on the train. “A few days at most, then it’s back to Paris for me.”
The man grunted, already waving him on as he turned to the next in line. Ryan caught a muttered comment to the colleague: “He leaves Paris for this?”
Above the concourse he spotted cracked panes of glass and twisted girders in the vast arch of the ceiling. Souvenirs of British incendiary bombs, he assumed. At ground level nothing remained to remind Berliners of Göring’s promise his Luftwaffe would keep their skies free of enemy bombers. Word on the train was that raids were coming less frequently than earlier in the year, mostly nuisance and leafleting attacks in recent months. Perhaps England really was losing its will to fight, or as Goebbels yammered ad nauseum, the British military collapsing in the face of German might.
Ryan stopped in front of a news kiosk, taking in the headlines as he used the plate glass window to scan the hustle and bustle to his rear. He spotted no tail.
The elevated S-Bahn rumbled across the city. Here and there damaged buildings and piles of rubble caught his attention, the ragged holes in housing blocks revealing random hits. Elsewhere, whole blocks were falling under the onslaught of forced labor and heavy demolition equipment. Germania, Hitler’s newly-minted capital of the world, was soon to rise under the watchful eye of his chief architect Speer, but first whole stretches along the East-West Axis had to go. Ryan’s trainer in Toronto had described this planned rebirth of Berlin. Ancient Rome would pale in comparison to all the monuments destined to glorify both Führer and Reich, but where were the poor citizens driven out of these disappearing neighborhoods?
His train rolled to a stop at Brandenburger Tor. Camouflage netting stretched across the broad square. He walked the short distance to Pariser Platz and entered a Neo-Baroque lobby flanked by monumental square columns. The Adlon Hotel was a luxurious refuge offering an in-house restaurant, a café and bar, and an interior garden retreat serving drinks and light meals. The entry to a bomb shelter for hotel patrons and staff stood alongside the barbershop. Ranks of brightly colored bottles made the bar particularly inviting. Check-in, a quick wash upstairs, and Ryan would return for that much-needed drink.
The hotel drew a clientele of well-dressed Italians and Spaniards, German businessmen and military officers, a few Americans and a small group of Japanese in business suits. Political envoys, perhaps. Ryan knew that international journalists and celebrity guests favored the Adlon. In fact, three men smoking in the lounge were American newsmen remembered from evenings with Isabel at La Taverna, eavesdropping on top-notch foreign correspondents.
The staff hustled under the direction of well-mannered desk clerks in striped waistcoats. Everyone was exceedingly accommodating. First the reception, then the lift operator and finally the bellhop inquired about his plans in the city. Ryan knew hotel personnel were often agents of either the SD or the Abwehr, sometimes both, so he gave only noncommittal replies and pretended weak fluency in German.
His suite was spacious, the furniture primarily Louis XVI. This hotel far exceeded the standard for his prior Berlin visits. The von Haldheim mansion of 1929 came to mind. He assumed the Abwehr was covering the costs, since his own wallet and expense account certainly couldn’t. As the porter demonstrated the drapes, Ryan noted a neatly framed sign warning that all blackout curtains were to remain closed during hours of darkness at risk of financial and criminal penalties. A map gave directions to the cellar bomb shelter. Once the bellhop was convinced Ryan knew how to turn on a radio and draw a bath, he graciously accepted a small gratuity and backed from the room, closing the double doors behind him.
Ryan stood at the window, watching the square below. The new I.G. Farben building across the street was capped by an obvious flak installation. Across the square he recognized the American Embassy, the Stars-and-Stripes floating on a breeze. Daylight was waning and the streets growing dark, a strange sight in a city once so vibrantly lit at night.
Better to stay in the moment than dwell on the past, he thought. His summons would come via a message at the front desk, but he had no idea how long that might take. Once contacted, his orders were to learn all he could about the inner workings of the Abwehr, but what could he possibly offer Reich military intelligence in exchange for Marita’s freedom? What could he do personally for this legendary Admiral Canaris?
He took time to shower and shave, then phoned down to have his travel shirt and underwear picked up for laundering. Housekeeping reported laundry services temporarily suspended due to a shortage of soap. The room phone was certainly bugged, so that would be the extent of its use.
At the newsstand he bought a Berliner Abendzeitung. He took a table at the far wall in the nearly empty bar. An elderly waiter with a badly-curved spine delivered a tiny plate of nuts. “And what is your pleasure, sir?” he asked.
“A gin and tonic s
ounds good.”
“Indeed it does, mein Herr, but sadly, we’re momentarily short of tonic water.” The man nervously adjusted what Ryan could now see was a slightly frayed waistcoat.
“A gimlet, then. Either gin or vodka will do.”
The bartender again expressed regrets. “Sorry, sir, no limes this time of year. An unfortunate state of affairs, but…the war, you know.”
“Of course.” Ryan thought for a moment. “A Scotch will do me fine. A double on the rocks, bitte.” Ryan turned to his newspaper, already considering seeking out a different bar.
The man made another little bow. “Unfortunately, sir, our whiskey supplies are also quite limited.”
Ryan gestured to the backlit bottles that ran the length of the wall behind the bar. “Well, I don’t wish to appear rude, but is anything up there available to a thirsty customer?”
The barman lowered his voice to a whisper. “Only if you have a taste for colored water, sir. But do allow me to offer you a fine Cognac. Or Champagne, perhaps? Our selection from France is quite decent these days.” The man winked, happy to come clean at last. “And I do have a good Berlin beer.”
“A Pilsner then.” Ryan feared for a moment that the man would say they had nothing but Export.
The “Personals” listed a variety of notices from those seeking matrimonial partners or missing family members, but only a few inserts memorialized local sons and brothers “fallen for the Fatherland.” He was surprised that so few mentioned “fallen for the Führer,” as well. He found nothing from Argent, so no news on the Parisian end. Tossing aside the paper, Ryan watched the barman top off his beer. A cool beverage couldn’t come soon enough.
Fulcrum of Malice Page 23
