Fulcrum of Malice

by Patrick W O'Bryon

  “My new home?”

  “You’ll learn soon enough. Now follow me.”

  The man grabbed Ryan’s valise and a worn satchel, removed a paper bag from the trunk, and unlocked the front door to the apartment house. They climbed to the second landing. Apartment 31B had no nameplate beside the door. Ryan spotted two screw holes at eye level, vestiges of a mezuzah case. A Jew had lived here before “resettlement.” The courier unlocked the flat and handed the key to Ryan. No provision was made for the downstairs entry. He was clearly to stay put until further notice.

  Furnishings were sparse but serviceable—a metal bedframe, several chairs including an old rocker, a battered sofa and a square kitchen table. The mirror over the sink was cracked. Some folded linens lay on the bare mattress. The first rays of the sun cast a milky light across the cracked linoleum of the cooking niche, where Ryan spotted a hotplate with fraying cord beside an icebox. A wall calendar still showed April beneath a photograph of a tropical island. Deep in an unlit alcove squatted a rust-stained toilet. Two windows framed by dusty drapes revealed a facing brick wall and a courtyard below.

  “Better than many,” the courier said, “but certainly no Hotel Adlon.”

  Ryan couldn’t argue. “Just what am I supposed to do here?”

  “Wait and learn.”

  Ryan stared down into the narrow courtyard, his eyes adjusting to the deep shadows. A bent man pounded derelict crates into scrap wood, the blows echoing in dull thuds. An old woman, her hair bound up in a scarf and her skirt dragging on the bricks, searched through a rubbish bin. She periodically shouted something unintelligible to the man making the racket. Two ramshackle privies occupied the far corner of the quadrangle. A line was forming for residents lacking toilet facilities in their rooms or flats. Other residents washed up at standpipes, the spent water seeping down to a centralized drain.

  He turned back to the room. A solitary bulb hung from the ceiling above the table and the tilted shade of a floor lamp hovered over the worn rocker. No newspapers, magazine or books. No radio. “And how long here?”

  The courier seemed anxious to be on his way. “Just sit tight. This will keep you occupied.” He handed Ryan the satchel. A quick review of the documents showed Canaris had planned out every aspect of his infiltration into the bank. Clipped at the top of the sheaf of papers was a roster of the managers and employees he might encounter once inside. He also found a diagram of the management structure, an in-depth description of the inner workings of the organization, and a synopsis of how it coordinated with other central banks through the BIR to hide illicit plunder.

  The man was waiting for his attention before he spoke again. “You’ll hear from us soon enough.”

  “You’ll be back?”

  “No. Someone else. This evening around six, I’m told.” Placing the sack on the table, he offered his first smile as he buttoned up his coat. “A woman. More your style, I’d say.”

  Ryan spent the first hours memorizing Canaris’ materials. By afternoon he was satisfied he could pass any test. He dropped onto the couch. He couldn’t help thinking of the men he had killed—the Gestapo on the night train, the stalker in the alleyway. Those were one-on-one, kill or be killed. But the policemen at the warehouse, they were faceless attackers who threatened those he loved. Could he have found a better way out of Horst’s trap? He caught himself unconsciously rubbing his forehead, trying to stop a nervous itch, and stuffed his hands into his trouser pockets.

  The bag contained bread, cheese and a bottle of beer. He ate as a distraction, finally setting the scraps aside and returning to the couch with the half-empty bottle. He thought of Marita, so close now. And then of Erika and Leo, running to greet him beside the Tiergarten canal. What if they’d stuck to the express for Amsterdam in ’38 rather than turning south? Would things have worked out differently? He tried out the creaking bed, pushing aside the stack of linens and dropping his head to the pillow. He pictured sad Nicole, and wondered again if she’d found her child at last. He fought back the recurrent image of Erika and Leo, dead in Bayonne. Just malicious handiwork of Kohl’s, he told himself, another trick to trouble his mind. His thoughts returned to Marita, slaving in a prison camp just beyond his reach. He prayed she would hold out until he came to her rescue.

  The afternoon dragged on. Footsteps sounded on the landing and he overheard a muted conversation, something about ration coupons. Later a woman called to her young son for a good-bye kiss. A door slammed under a flurry of profanities. Exhausted by introspection and worry over his friends, Ryan feared the long day would never end. At dusk the lines again formed for the privies. His wristwatch read a quarter to six.

  A threadbare hallway runner led to a small window with a view to the street. The anticipated rain had petered out after a few cloudbursts, leaving the pavement glistening. Pedestrians hurried by with mesh sacks of provisions, anxious to reach home before dark. A few minutes after six, a woman in a beret appeared at the head of the street and walked toward his apartment house. She hesitated briefly at the front stoop, looked around, then let herself in without buzzing. He waited at the second landing, watching her move up the staircase.

  Damn, he thought. Here’s the last thing I need right now.

  Her trench coat emphasized a slender waist and full hips, her knock-out looks reminding him of Marita. Long legs teased as she ascended the stairs. Her breasts swayed gently with each step. Such a classy look put the rundown tenement to shame. He tried to ignore his libido and reproached himself for base urges when his life was in such turmoil. And yet, he’d gone months without the touch of a woman. The night with Nicole had been something else entirely. He longed for a caress, soft lips pressed to his, the warmth of someone sharing his bed.

  The young woman caught sight of him and returned his smile, her hazel eyes flashing beneath thick auburn hair and that blue beret. He pictured her head on his pillow, those breasts moving to his urgent thrusts, and he silently cursed his own weakness. Again he pictured Marita. Let it go—there’s too much at stake.

  She introduced herself with a businesslike handshake. Johannah Federer. He surmised Johannah wasn’t her real name. She must have removed gloves in the vestibule, for her hand was still warm and he’d expected the touch of cool flesh. Her cheekbones were high, almost Slavic, and a hint of carmine brightened her lips. Yes, those working at the Reichsbank did well despite the war’s privations, and this attractive woman obviously had good connections.

  He gestured to the open door. “Welcome to paradise, Fräulein.”

  “I’ve seen far worse—” Her voice as warm as her hand as she took in the space before turning back to him. “—and far better.”

  Ryan shut the door and turned the key. “Sorry, but I’ve little to offer a guest.” He gestured toward the kitchen. “Unless stale bread, dry cheese and rusty tap water are appealing.”

  “I’m not here as a guest. I’m to be your tutor.”

  “Then I’m in your hands.” His thoughts refused to behave, this lovely newcomer a welcome relief from his melancholy. “You’ll find me a willing learner.”

  Despite her indulgent smile, Johannah Federer remained all business. She declined his offer to sit beside him on the sofa, gesturing instead to the kitchen table. “Better suited to our immediate business,” her eyes revealing she hadn’t mistaken his frame of mind. “Time is short, and we’ve much to cover.”

  Ryan surrendered. “You work for the Reichsbank, then?”

  “I do.”

  “And also for the Abwehr?”

  “We play many roles these days, if only to survive.”

  He admired her cheekbones and chanced a question. “This flat—it belonged to Jews.”

  “One Jew, at least. Gone now.”

  “To one of the camps? ‘Resettled,’ as they phrase it so neatly?”

  “No, he’s one of the luckier ones.” Her finger traced a line on the dusty tabletop, her thoughts obviously elsewhere. She set down her handbag. “This partic
ular gentleman now works for us abroad.”

  “And the Nazis allow that?” Ryan knew no Jew could hold a government position, much less be involved in espionage for the Reich.

  “Our mutual benefactor holds a unique position vis-à-vis the Führer. The Abwehr enjoys certain exemptions from the Arianization laws.”

  “So I gather we’re safe using this flat?” Rumor and denunciation were mainstays of Gestapo power, yet no one had shown interest in his sudden presence in the apartment. Surely they’d heard his creaking floorboards, his cough, the tap running, the toilet flushing. The walls were thin enough. He’d tested the windows—they opened easily—and scouted out a potential escape via a brick ledge, a rain pipe to the roof, and what appeared to be an easy leap to the neighboring building.

  “As safe as any in Berlin.” She smiled weakly. “The building’s ours, the block warden and concierge specially chosen, and the residents all have something to hide or someone to protect. Everyone keeps quiet in self-defense. We’ve a few safe houses and small hotels scattered around the city.”

  “Another hotel would be nice.” He thought again of that large Adlon bed with its crisply-ironed sheets, and suppressed that vision of auburn hair spread across his pillow. “So much more comfortable there, you know.”

  “Let’s get one thing straight.” Johannah demurely crossed her legs. “No one must ever know of this meeting. The hotels are simply too public. I work quite closely with the Reichsbank’s vice president, and what I share with you can never be linked back to me. Our admiral has people in all the major corporations, at board level in many cases, but I’m lower fruit on the branch,” those full lips softly smiling again, “yet my position is of value to our cause.”

  “So what’s the plan?”

  “I have access to the files which will prove your case to America and England. The internal security is very tight; they’ve so much to hide. Briefcases are controlled at the end of the day, so it will be up to you to spirit out what you need.”

  “You mean actual files?”

  She slid a Minox across the table, a twin to the tiny camera used by Erika a lifetime ago. “You’re familiar with its use?”

  “Very familiar,” he said, memories flooding back.

  She must have noticed his distant look. “Is there a problem?”

  Ryan returned to the present. “No, it’s nothing. Film cartridge?”

  “Already loaded—more than enough exposures for what you’ll need.” She removed a sheet of paper from her handbag and began to sketch, diagramming suites of rooms and offices. “As you know by now, the Reichsbank is under the Führer’s direct control. The man I assist is Gustav Prahl. You’ll have seen him on your list as Managing Director and Vice President of the bank. He’s also on the board of the BIR. You’ll find what you need in his office here.” She pointed to a large square block with two smaller spaces to either side of the entry. The pencil raced across the diagram. “I work as his secretary in this space on the left, and his assistant works across the foyer from me.”

  Ryan quickly memorized the layout. “And how do I reach these offices? There must be other secretaries, guards, that sort of thing.”

  “You’ll present yourself as a BIR auditor assigned to look into the transaction records of the First Federal Bank of Manhattan. They’ll be expecting you on orders from the Führer. I made that arrangement personally.” She smiled shyly. “Your credentials will be perfect, including passport and travel visa showing arrival this week from Basel. Our own documents section guarantees they’ll pass any review. You will carry a letter of introduction from the head of the Bank of International Resolutions, but don’t surrender it. The phone number on the letter will be a secure line answered by our people, in case someone in the bank does due diligence.”

  “And what exactly am I hoping to photograph?” The whole scheme struck him as hit-or-miss.

  “Herr Prahl is obsessive with his books—he insists on having everything within arm’s reach.” Johannah removed her beret, pushing her hair behind her ears as she sketched again. She laid out a precise plan of the president’s office. “The left-hand desk drawer holds a blue ledger in an expanding folder. It records the bank’s direct control over the Basel operations and identifies corporations currently helping fund the Reich’s military operations and launder its ill-gotten gains. Photograph every entry over the last year, the most recent twenty pages or so of the ledger. They document the hoarding of fortunes stolen from conquered countries, as well as…” her matter-of-fact recital faltered and she looked away.

  Ryan’s brow furrowed. “Would you like that glass of water now?”

  She shook her head and resumed: “You will also find verification of a stockpile of gold bullion rendered from wedding rings, jewelry, eyeglass frames and dental work, all ‘confiscated’ in the Reich’s internment camps. They melt it down into nice, pristine gold bars. You’ll see the entries.”

  Ryan sat back abruptly. The von Kredow protocol in operation. “So they’ve begun to kill—”

  “By the thousands, hundreds of thousands, perhaps more.” Johannah had tears in her eyes. “Just look for accounts designated ‘Reinhardtfonds’ or ‘Max Heiliger.” He saw hatred in her eyes. “A little cynical Nazi blasphemy, you see.”

  Ryan understood: “Heilig.” German for “holy.”

  He rose from the table. At the window he looked out into the bleak courtyard. Across the way, a mother on a stiff-backed chair nursed an infant at her breast. Without turning, he spoke again, “Why can’t you photograph this ledger? You’re on the spot, have access to his office, have seen it, and you could get me the film to take to my people.”

  “I’d do it at the drop of a hat, but the risk is too great if I’m to remain in place.” She joined him at the window. “But there’s more to it than that. If we leak it through our English contacts, those making their fortunes from sales to the Reich might get their hands on it first. The corruption goes high up.”

  Ryan nodded, remembering how Kohl had destroyed the evidence of von Kredow’s protocol before it could reach Roosevelt’s eyes.

  “But more important, should we be the ones to leak it—should we be connected in any way to obtaining this information—many powerful Americans will dismiss it as propaganda, a red herring, intended to weaken America’s will for war.” The words came faster. “But if you make it public, you and your “Wild Bill,” it comes from a reputable source and gains the credence needed, don’t you see?”

  “Here’s what I do see. I get proof of this complicity to my people in Washington, they’ll use it as leverage. The American people are already torn between those who want nothing to do with another European war and those who fear for democracy and want to stop Nazi tyranny. The isolationists will say that our financial support for Hitler’s war proves what’s best for the Reich is also best for the United States. They’ll point to the need to keep economic momentum going as things are finally improving after the Great Depression. This would feed right into Nazi hands.”

  “What will the other side do with the information?” Johannah looked worried.

  “It’s a tough call. If this goes public in America and Britain, the outcry against the industrial bigwigs and the politicians who support them might rally the people to throw the bums out. The corporate and financial giants will have to back off to prevent major labor strikes or even a popular revolution, Hitler loses his material support for the military push, and—who knows?—his own generals toss him out on his ear. It’s anybody’s guess how this will play out.” Ryan made no effort to hide his concerns. “Whichever way it goes, we’re going to rattle a lot of cages.”

  “So, are you still up for it?”

  Ryan looked into her eyes, but saw only the suffering of Marita. “I’ve made a commitment.”

  Her smile dazzled. “Just as the admiral says—it’s who you are.” She patted his hand. “So let’s get busy on details. We want you there tomorrow morning, so we’ve little time.”

/>   “What about Prahl? Won’t he be suspicious, since he spends time in Basel?”

  “He’s down there now with his personal assistant for a BIR board meeting, so the coast should be clear.”

  Ryan was all business now. “This desk drawer remains locked, I presume?”

  “Yes.”

  “Day and night?”

  Johannah nodded. “Prahl keeps the key in the coin pocket of his trousers.”

  “I’m supposed to pick his pocket in Basel first?”

  She gave a wry grin. “No need.” She withdrew from her purse a tiny manila envelope and handed it to Ryan.

  He shook a small brass key into his palm. “Won’t he be missing this?”

  “It’s taken from a wax impression. It’ll work, I’ve tested it.”

  A picture formed in his mind, an image he hoped was wrong. “You took it from his trousers?”

  Johannah’s blush was slight, but said it all. “Listen carefully, Herr Seffer. We’ve only just met, but there’s something people in our line of work must accept, something you undoubtedly already know. A covert assignment has few limits, few boundaries. We sacrifice whatever we must for a greater good, even do things which go against our natural inclination.”

  Ryan did understand, but couldn’t hide his concern. “I’m sorry that you’re forced to—“

  She shook her head fiercely, her hair coming loose to frame her face. “No, don’t you dare pity me!” Her glare was uncompromising. “I do what I must to keep this position, and it isn’t always pleasant and I’m not always proud, but I promised my family never to let these monsters win, and if that involves surrendering my reputation, then so be it! Need I say more?”