Fulcrum of Malice

by Patrick W O'Bryon

  Her icy response encouraged no further discussion, and he felt ashamed of his recent libidinous thoughts. “Fräulein Federer, no justification of any sort is needed. If you knew all I’ve done that counters my true nature, then you’d know I would never judge anyone committed to fighting this evil.” Now he was the one to lay a reassuring hand over hers. “Whatever it takes, nicht wahr? Now, shall we continue? Show me how to get past the guards and find my way into his office,” he held up the Minox and gave his most reassuring grin, “so I can put both key and camera to good use.”

  CHAPTER TEN

  Berlin, Germany

  25 September 1941

  Waiting for von Kredow on the observation terrace at Tempelhof Airfield, Richard Kohl’s nervous stomach had nothing to do with the bumpy flight on the Junkers U-52 just in from Paris. At the end of a phone conversation the previous evening, von Kredow had ordered Kohl immediately back to Berlin. Richard knew his associate was incensed, perhaps rightfully so. Kohl’s attempt to demonstrate espionage acumen had gone awry with the disappearance of both Lemmon and Gesslinger.

  Kohl observed the control officers vetting travelers waiting for boarding. Most moved on through the gate after inspection of papers. Others found themselves cordoned off in a special interrogation area. A female guard took a pregnant woman into custody for a full-body search. The husband loudly insisted on accompanying his wife, and a second agent obliged him by slapping on handcuffs and leading him off. Everyone knew an “expectant” mother could easily hide contraband beneath a maternity dress.

  Von Kredow appeared in the crowd and headed up the staircase. As usual, his distorted face revealed nothing, but Kohl had no expectations of a calm reaction to the unfortunate news about losing the targets. At least the public meeting place should preclude Horst’s turning violent. With his new, higher profile in the Gestapo, von Kredow might well have chosen the rendezvous spot to help keep his temper in check. Kohl slid aside his untouched beer and steadied himself for a verbal assault.

  The oddly cordial greeting raised Kohl’s suspicions. “Richard, it’s good of you to come all this way.” They shook hands. “Please forgive my brusqueness over the phone, but your news took me by surprise and left me a bit bewildered.”

  “Believe me, I also find it most distressing that all hasn’t gone as planned, but I’ve good reasons, as you’ll see soon enough. We can head over to Prinz-Albrecht-Strasse.” He reached for the valise at his feet.

  “Please, Richard, sit back down. This spot will do just fine for now. Tell me where things went wrong and together we’ll remedy the situation.” Horst chose a chair facing the dining area, his back to the railing.

  Kohl breathed slowly to calm himself, knowing Horst might lose control without warning. “Well, first off, I sent agents from Nantes to find Gesslinger in Saint-Nazaire, just as you recommended.” Kohl avoided the word “ordered.” Despite von Kredow’s domineering personality, they held equal rank, and Kohl felt obliged to subtly remind his partner of that parity. “The commandant at the bunker compound assured them his security measures made sabotage impossible. They returned empty-handed.”

  “That warehouse fiasco nearly cost me my life, and would have been a success if not for those Gestapo imbeciles in Nantes. I let their captain know in no uncertain terms what I thought of such incompetence!”

  “That may explain the lack of further cooperation from that office.”

  Von Kredow ignored the comment, causing Kohl even more consternation. He couldn’t quite put a finger on Horst’s unpredictable behavior.

  “Has there been any partisan activity at the submarine compound?” Horst scanned the crowd, his eyes never coming to rest for more than a moment. His face remaining rigid, unreadable. Perhaps his morphine gauge was on empty.

  “A nighttime security drill got the attention of a few locals, but that’s the only excitement reported.” Kohl dreaded the next questions, sure to involve Lemmon.

  Horst absent-mindedly traced the long dueling scar on his cheek. “We’ll let that go for the moment. On to Lemmon.”

  “I had the older brother tailed. He led us directly to the American’s hotel in Paris.”

  “And for some reason you ignored my specific instructions to phone once you’d located him.” A threatening undertone was now clear. “You disobeyed my orders.”

  “Hear me out, Horst. There’s more going on here. I knew you’d first want to know what Lemmon’s up to. I used Edward Lemmon to rattle Ryan’s cage, revealing the deaths of the woman and boy and making obvious that the Gestapo knows Ryan’s covert role.”

  Von Kredow glared. “He still believes me dead, correct.”

  Unable to hold that fierce gaze, Kohl glanced away. “Of course he does. My goal was to destabilize Ryan and thereby expose any others involved. We both know how much he valued that woman and child. I figured the more disturbed he became, the more likely to lose his footing and reveal something or someone of value.”

  “You seem to forget that the Arschloch is of supreme value to me personally.” Von Kredow’s eyes remained impenetrable. “You had him in your sights, yet you let him go.”

  “Of personal importance, yes, but I suspect his espionage activity has meaning for the SD, as well.”

  “In my hands, the bastard would have sung like a bird.”

  “Which might have been too late, Horst. Why not spread a wide net from the beginning and pull in all the conspirators at once?” Kohl found his logic persuasive. “I know we’ve had this argument before, but isn’t it time to set aside your personal vendetta and concentrate on the bigger picture? We may be onto a national security matter of great importance here.”

  Horst appeared to consider the implications. “All right, get on with it. Give me a reason to care about Lemmon’s espionage assignment?”

  “Here’s what we know: Dannecker and his Gestapo boys raided a Montmartre night club last month. The Mischling owner, a woman named Lesney, sent a good friend of theirs into Göring’s meat grinder. It killed a profitable joint business venture. Dannecker is understandably pissed and pulled strings to guarantee her death sentence, but someone high in the Abwehr intervened, quite possibly Canaris himself. Now the bitch is doing forced labor somewhere in the Ruhr.”

  The mention of Canaris grabbed von Kredow’s attention. Sensing movement in his favor, Kohl laid out the rest of his case. “Anyway, I’d already recruited a young driver working for a Canaris spymaster in Paris, a certain Rolf von Haldheim. Turns out that both Lemmon and an agent called Argent are in league with this von Haldheim, and the three are determined to locate that same cabaret owner.”

  Horst seemed intrigued. “I vaguely recollect an effete sort by that name in Berlin SD some years back. Any idea why they’re after this Jewess?”

  “She must know something of importance to Canaris’ people, so that makes her important to us. I put a tail on Lemmon and another on this Argent fellow.”

  “Lemmon first. Where is he now?”

  “That’s why I called last night, Horst. My man Mirabeau was on Lemmon’s trail, night and day. The American met with no one, just wandered around the city on his own and sleeping at the Adlon in an expensive suite under the name ‘Seffer.’ ”

  “Was?”

  “Lemmon’s gone missing. The hotel has no idea where. And I’ve heard nothing from my man in two days.”

  “So you’ve lost them both.”

  “Only for the moment. I was preparing to come here to track them down. That’s why I called.”

  “Of course you were. And why wasn’t I informed that the American bastard was in the city?” Von Kredow crushed out the freshly-lit cigarette.

  Kohl met the dreaded question head-on: “Because you would have done your worst to him and we would have lost the Abwehr connection. Come on, Horst, you know me better than most. I’ve helped you go after personal enemies for years and never said a word in protest. But my commitment to the Party knows no equal. I wasn’t about to risk the biggest c
ase I’ve worked since coming to the Reich simply to give you the pleasure of flaying that American.”

  Horst seemed unappeased. “Everyone eventually talks. I would have his whole story by now.”

  For the first time, Kohl couldn’t restrain a slight smile of satisfaction. “Three years ago he came whining back to me in Washington with a few burns, a broken nose, and a stolen protocol that might have compromised Reich security.”

  Horst ignored the jibe. “Tell me more about this Argent and the woman in the Ruhr?”

  “My man’s still following him and checks in daily. All we know for certain so far is she’s outside of Essen at one of the industrial or munitions plants. It’s taken forever to get an exact location from the Office for Forced Labor.”

  “And your man’s instructions?”

  “Keep her imprisoned, whatever it takes. Dannecker still wants her dead, but figures the Zwangsarbeit should do it in time. He insists she pay for spoiling his retirement plan.”

  “Then I need to get to her first and extract all she knows. Perhaps there’s something on Canaris I can use.”

  “Hold on, Horst. This Lesney matter is my case. That’s already cleared with Heydrich. Ryan Lemmon can be all yours. Use the Adlon connection and you’re sure to find him again. One thing’s for certain—he hasn’t turned up in Essen or my agent would know, so he’s still here in the city. But this Lesney woman is my show. Her interrogation file indicates one tough cookie, so she’ll require more finesse than you’re accustomed to.”

  “Well, well. Finally found your balls, eh?” Horst leaned back in his chair, forcing a lopsided grin. “Congratulations. Good for you.” He snapped his fingers. “So let’s wrap this up.”

  Kohl never saw the two burly agents approaching from his rear. They yanked him to his feet and the cold steel snapped over his wrists. “How dare you?” he shouted, his voice gone shrill. “What’s the meaning of this? You can’t arrest me! I’m your equal and—”

  “And I do whatever I like, my old friend.” Horst rose from the table, towering over Kohl. The arrest caught the attention of the nearby tables. Most witnesses immediately looked away and lapsed into silence. Others gathered up luggage and distanced themselves from the arrest. The waiters withdrew behind the bar, their backs to the disturbance.

  “But Heydrich authorized—”

  “Yes, Heydrich himself has authorized me to root out corruption in our ranks, no matter how far up the rot reaches. And it seems to have reached you.”

  “I am not corrupt and you know that full well! You’re the one who’s always given our mission short shrift with your lust for vengeance!”

  “Please, Richard, accept the reality of your situation. It’s house-cleaning time in Berlin. Heydrich demands a clean slate as he moves up in the Party, and a purge is good practice for Prague.”

  Kohl refused to cooperate as the agents shoved him toward the staircase. “You’ll never get away with this, Horst!”

  Von Kredow’s voice boomed over the now silent cafeteria. “Halt!” The agents turned, Kohl braced between them. “One final word—”

  Kohl hoped he’d changed his mind. Perhaps this had all been simply a gesture of intimidation. “Yes, of course—”

  The back of Horst’s hand sent Kohl’s glasses skidding across the floor. The agents jerked him back to his feet and von Kredow grabbed him by the necktie to hiss in his ear. “You remain my lackey and puppet, just as you’ve always been, you poor excuse for an Aryan. Your parents and grandparents were Jews, for all we know. How dare you think yourself my equal? Just know this, you blubbering fool—you will share all you know of this Parisian matter with no one but me, and once you’re of no further use, I shall kill you personally.” Again that grimace of a smile before he calmed, his voice returning to normal. He straightened Kohl’s tie and adjusted the knot beneath his trembling chin. “But out of respect for years of friendship, I will grant you an easy death. Fair enough?”

  Von Kredow strode away, leaving Kohl to consider his radically altered future.

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  Berlin, Germany

  26 September 1941

  The sedan came for Ryan shortly after eight-thirty. They headed west toward the Spree River. The anonymous driver of the previous day suggested a light breakfast. Ryan agreed to a cup of ersatz coffee at a café before they rolled on through morning traffic toward the Reichsbank administrative offices.

  “You’ll find a briefcase on the floor beside you, sir.” The driver caught Ryan’s eye in the rearview mirror. “Inside are identification documents and files that will pass for authentic. I threw in a writing pad, pencils and pens, just the thing for a bank auditor.” Ryan scanned the paperwork. All appeared in order.

  His nerves were already on edge when he closed the door behind Johannah the previous evening. His dreams had been exhausting. Waking, he’d half-expected daylight would find his cover blown and von Kredow outside his door. But now as they entered the Mitte district and neared the bank, he began to calm in the face of immediate challenges.

  The camera fit neatly beneath the bottom flap in the case. Ryan replaced the papers, confirming the tiny apparatus was undetectable beneath the files. “Please tell the admiral I appreciate the attention to detail by you and all his staff. Will you be picking me up when I’m finished?”

  “Parked nearby and watching for you. As you leave the bank, look to your left and you’ll spot me. Signal all went well by setting the briefcase on the sidewalk and adjusting your necktie. I’ll pick you up. Should things be dicey, immediately head right, then take the second alley on your right. Back-up support will be waiting. Either way, if you have what you’re after, we take you directly to Tempelhof and the admiral’s plane brings you to Switzerland.”

  Within minutes they reached the Haus am Werderschen Markt, a sleek, modern structure across from the old Reichsbank building on Kurstrasse. Prahl’s offices occupied the highest level of this auxiliary building. Ryan received a cordial welcome in the spacious reception area, his cover documents paving the way to the top floor. The layout was just as Johannah had sketched. He casually looked around, hoping to spot her. Instead, an efficient receptionist handed him off to an impeccably-dressed young man. The clerk led him to a private office and asked him to wait. In passing he noted the mahogany doors fronting Prahl’s office. On the left would be Johannah’s workspace, directly across from the office of the personal assistant.

  Ryan tested the leather-on-steel chair behind the sleek table and nervously lit one of the cigarettes thoughtfully provided by the bank. The top floor seemed remarkably quiet for an institution charged with financing all aspects of Hitler’s war. Within moments the clerk returned with a stack of bound files. He carefully arranged them in chronological order. Ryan politely refused his offer of coffee or tea, requesting instead an undisturbed hour to work through the records.

  He started perusing tiresome entries, making meaningless notes on the lined pad, and repeatedly checking his watch. He wondered what was keeping her. Crushing out a second cigarette and wishing for his pipe, he approached the metal-framed windows and caught sight of the black sedan waiting curbside up the street from the massive building. A soft knock quickly returned him to the chair. The door edged open and Johannah stuck in her head, a finger to her lips. A quick nod and she was gone.

  Ryan sprang to his feet. Finding the corridor empty, he moved into the hall and approached the door to Prahl’s office. Johannah appeared to be searching a filing cabinet and didn’t look up as he moved past her half-open door. The assistant’s office remained closed.

  The burnished steel handle gave way silently and the door swung open. Once behind closed doors, he removed the target ledger from the desk drawer. The bank of windows provided excellent lighting and the Minox clicked with the turn of each page. He worked his way backward through a year or more of entries. The names of all those powerful corporations, industries and institutions stunned him. How do these bastards live with themselves
? Each second seemed an eternity.

  With the ledger back in the drawer, he cached the film cartridge in a seam of the Swiss trousers provided by Canaris. He hid the key and camera beneath moss in a potted palm, just as she had instructed. At the door he listened for activity in the foyer but heard nothing. The door closed softly behind him.

  Subdued sounds were coming from her office and he tensed. She was no longer alone, and her door was slightly ajar. He picked up a male voice and her responses. Through the narrow opening, Ryan could see long, stockinged legs encircling Prahl’s bare ass and lunging hips. Trousers pooled at his ankles. The vice-president had clearly missed her in his absence, but she ignored him, her head turned instead toward the door to confirm Ryan’s escape. Their eyes met. Hers held no shame, but rather a fleeting smile of victory. She had averted a catastrophe, allowing Ryan to move on, free.

  A guard examined his briefcase at the administrative reception desk. Another took similar precautions on the ground floor before he left the building. As Ryan stood on the street, watching the dark sedan approach, he felt no elation. Only sadness.

  The silver six-passenger Junkers banked east over the Rhine and prepared to land at a small airfield near Freiburg. The flight from Berlin via Leipzig had gone as smoothly as the bank mission. The other five seats sat empty. His waistband still hid the incriminating film cartridge. How many international corporations would love to destroy proof of their complicity in Hitler’s war? Within hours an Abwehr sedan with diplomatic credentials would ease him through customs and border controls, then it would be on to Geneva. Ed was waiting to bring the cartridge to Washington via diplomatic pouch and a long Clipper flight. Over the weekend, Canaris’ courier would deliver the paperwork needed to free Marita.