He could feel the sand under his feet becoming more packed, and then becoming almost solid, as he reached the point where grass grew at the foot of the wooden steps leading up to the deck.
Looking around, Koch had hoped—and even half-expected—that he would get lucky and find his 1935 Ford sedan, probably coated white with salt spray and sand particles, parked on one of the crushed oyster shell pads under the cottages, where Stevens often left cars for long-term storage out of direct sunlight.
He was more than a little disappointed, if not somewhat pissed, that it wasn’t there—in fact, that there were no cars around—because it meant that he would have to walk to Pete’s Bar and deal with Stevens at his apartment.
They went up the flight of steps, and, at the top, Koch found the key that he remembered was kept hidden behind a light fixture beside the main door.
He put it in the rusted padlock, opened the stiff lock with some effort, and threw back the clasp. He grabbed the knob, turned it, and pushed.
Nothing happened. The door was stuck.
Damned thing is either swollen or warped, Koch thought, or the whole worthless house is leaning, causing the door to bind in its frame. If I open it, the whole damned place is liable to collapse. Oh, what the hell…
Koch turned the knob and hit the door hard with his shoulder once, then twice, and the door finally swung inward on very noisy hinges.
It was even darker inside the cottage.
Koch flipped the light switch by the door but nothing happened. He realized that it was like Stevens to have had the electrical service turned off to save even a cent; probably the water, too.
He felt someone suddenly standing beside him, and when he looked Grossman switched on his flashlight and swept the room with its beam. The light initially hurt Koch’s eyes, but he adjusted quickly and could see, with all the dust and spiderwebs, that it had been some time since anyone had lived in or even visited the cottage.
They had entered next to the kitchen, which opened onto a main living area that—when the shutters were removed—looked out over the Atlantic. There was a short hallway connecting to two bedrooms and a single bath.
They fanned out, checking that the rest of the cottage was clear, then went into the main living area and put their bags down on the wooden floor.
Koch took his flashlight and went to the kitchen and started going through the cabinets.
They were mostly empty, save for containers of salt and such, but he finally found the candles he remembered being there. He put one on the table and lit it. Then he took from his pocket a pack of Derby cigarettes. Now that they were inside, it was safe to light one up without being seen, and he did.
“First thing after daylight, I’ll go get the car,” Koch said, walking over to the couch. “For now, take your pick of the beds in back. I’ll stand watch first—”
“Sir,” Kurt Bayer said, sitting at the table lit by the candle, “you rest and I’ll take watch.”
He sat down on the couch, positioning his bag right next to him. “No—”
“With respect, sir,” Bayer pursued, “I can rest when you go for the car. Right now, you’re tired, and we all need to be rested.”
Everyone heard Grossman grunt. It sounded derisive, as if Grossman thought the other junior agent was kissing up to his superior.
That attitude bothered Koch, but he found himself smiling in the dark. He was actually grateful he was teamed with someone like Bayer, not Grossman, because the Oberschutz, or chief rifleman, was the coldly ruthless one, a little too quick to cut a throat, or, as he’d done to the young coastguardsman, pistol-whip someone.
“You’re right, Kurt,” Koch said. “Thank you.”
Richard Koch finished his cigarette, stubbed it out, then repositioned a couple of the pillows on the couch, swung his feet up, and shortly, with his pistol in hand and resting on his belly, was snoring.
[ FOUR ]
Neptune Beach, Florida
0810 28 February 1943
Richard Koch, walking at a fast clip down Ocean Drive, pushed the hood of his sweatshirt off his head. He had pulled it up against the morning chill when he had started out from the cottage about an hour ago, but now that he had worked up a light sweat it wasn’t needed. He wore the hooded sweatshirt—a heavy, gray cotton one with the faded orange UF logo—tennis shoes, and black shorts.
Just another local out for his morning walk, he thought, his hands in the sweatshirt pouch below the UF.One packing a Walther P38.
At the next corner, Koch cut across the intersection and started walking south on First Street. He could see the sign for Pete’s Bar and looked at the parking spaces in front of the saloon—and began to worry.
Of the two vehicles parked there, neither was the 1935 Ford touring sedan. One was a pickup—a 1930 Chevy—with garish yellow doors lettered STAN’S PLUMBING and black fenders (the left front one dented) and a rusted metal framework mounted above the cargo area for the carrying of oversized lengths of pipes.
For whatever reason—probably the need for a plumber—it reminded Koch of a drunk he’d once seen in the men’s room at Pete’s, throwing up in a toilet overflowing with a nasty mix of vomitus and other solids.
Koch had grown fond of the Ford. He liked the design, especially its nose—the tall, sleek chrome grille that was raked backward with bullet headlamps mounted on either side, just above the twin horns, and then crowned with the stylized V-8 emblem that was repeated inside on the dash.
It wasn’t Cadillac fancy, but in Koch’s mind it was very nice just the same.
And it has a backseat full of fucking cash.
Koch went around to the back of 117 First Street, to the flight of rusted steel steps that led to the roof and the apartment there. He started up the steps, his shoes making an enormous racket on the steel as he ascended.
If J. Whit Stevens wasn’t awake before, he is now.
The sun-faded black, stamped-tin address numbers nailed to the left of the doorframe read 117-A, although nails at the top and bottom of the A had rusted off and the letter was now nearly upside down, hanging by the remaining nail in its left foot.
No surprise. Looks like he takes the same care of his apartment as he does his rentals.
Koch knocked, and the A rocked on its nail.
He heard movement inside the apartment, then footsteps approaching the door.
“Yes?” an unseen Stevens said from behind the closed door.
“Jay, it’s me, Richard Koch. Look, I apologize for bothering you at this hour on a Sunday. Can we talk?”
After a long moment, there was the sound of the deadbolt lock turning, then the doorknob. The door opened about halfway, and there stood J. Whit Stevens in pajamas and holding a steaming cup of coffee.
“Richard Koch?” he repeated, as he studied him.
“I worked for the Bud distributor,” Koch said. “Remember? And I left my Ford with you.”
Stevens did not seem to register that for a moment, but then his eyes suddenly went wide.
“Oh, that Richard Koch,” he said.
“I’m actually here about the car,” Koch said. He smiled, glad to be remembered finally.
“Come in, come in,” Stevens said in a now-friendly tone while opening the door wide.
As Koch stepped inside, Stevens patted him on the back. “Nice to see you, Richard.”
Koch had never been in Stevens’s apartment. He was surprised.
It was the exact opposite of the bar and the cottages. Clean—spotless, even—and nicely furnished with a big couch, two reclining armchairs, and assorted tables and lamps and nicely framed art. There was an expensive-looking India rug, easily ten by twelve, woven with an intricate patterned design in red, gold, and black. Against the near wall, a cabinet with beveled, cut-glass doors held expensive china and glassware. Next to it, by the kitchen area, was a beautifully finished wooden table. And on the table were a radio softly playing classical music—Vivaldi’s Four Seasons, Koch recognized—and a
coffeepot next to the morning Florida Times-Union paper, which Stevens obviously had been reading when Koch had knocked. He noticed that one headline read: U-BOAT ATTACKS DROP BUT STILL HIGH—300,000 TONS SUNK IN LAST 30 DAYS.
Stevens walked over to the curtain that covered the eastern wall and pulled on the cord system that opened it, revealing a breathtaking view of the ocean and beach, the sun rising low on the horizon, its golden rays fingering through the gaps of the clouds beginning to break up.
Stevens took in the view a moment, then turned and asked, “Can I get you some coffee?”
“I don’t want to impose. This shouldn’t take long.”
“Very well,” Stevens said, nodding. “Have a seat, please.”
“Did you get my letter?” Koch said. He remained standing.
Stevens looked as if he were trying to pick his words with care.
“The one with that interesting twenty-dollar bill?” he said conversationally. “Yes, I did.” He paused. “But—”
“But?”
“But after the fact.”
“What fact? Is it wrecked? Stolen? What?”
Stevens looked at Koch a moment, then said, “If you’ll excuse me a moment, I’ve got something for you.”
He put down his coffee cup on a table next to one of the armchairs, then went across the apartment, back to a door that was on the far side of the kitchen, opened it, and went through it. The door was left ajar, and Koch could see the foot of a bed inside.
What the hell did he mean by “after the fact”?
He shook his head as he walked over to the window. He looked out over the ocean, idly wondering where out there his U-boat was. Koch heard Stevens’s footsteps again, then his voice, now chipper, saying, “Here it is.”
He turned and saw that Stevens held a brown accordion folder and was pulling out an eight-by-ten envelope with R KOCH handwritten on it in black ink.
Stevens extended the envelope to Koch. He took it, squeezed upright the brass clasp holding the flap, opened the envelope, then peered inside. He saw papers—the letter he had sent (it still had the twenty-dollar bill in it), some sort of accounting sheet, and a stack of bills, mostly fifties, bound by rubber band—and pulled them out.
“Eight hundred forty-five dollars, less my commission,” Stevens said proudly as Koch fanned through the money. “More than the blue book’s retail value, even after deducting my fees.”
Koch was now reading the accounting sheet that accompanied the cash.
“You sold my car?” he said, incredulous.
“For a mint!” Stevens replied.
“Who said you could sell my goddamned car?” Koch said. “And what am I going to do now?”
“I didn’t need your permission,” Stevens said somewhat piously. “The law allows for the placing of a lien after failure to make payment on the storage and maintenance of a vehicle—”
“But I paid you in advance!” Koch said, his temper building. He was about to pull out his Walther but stopped himself.
“Not for the full period,” Stevens replied. “Regardless, that’s a mere technicality. I got you a very good deal. You should thank me.”
“I should fucking shoot you,” Koch snapped, then was immediately sorry that he did.
Stevens, his face showing fear, took a step back.
Don’t be stupid, Koch told himself. Think!
Stevens watched with real interest as Koch, nervous as well as agitated, pulled a wrinkled pack of cigarettes from a pocket of his shorts and lit one. The pack had a drawing of a black horse head and the brand name Derby.
Koch ignored the interest, and, after taking a long drag and exhaling, looked again at the accounting form.
Stevens said, “It’s all accounted for there on the sheet. There’s no need to be this way. You were gone quite a long time, longer than you said—”
Koch looked up at him. “Where’s my car?” he said forcefully. “I mean, who bought it?”
Stevens opened his mouth to speak but then closed it without uttering a sound. He thought something over, then shrugged and finally said, “I can get that information—I’m not required to share it—but I’ll have to check my files for it.”
“How long will that take?”
“An hour, maybe less. It’s been sold for at least six months. Getting to the paper could take some digging. Do you have to have it now?”
He’s right. I don’t. Even if I had the information on who bought it, I’d still need to find the guy. Right now, I need wheels.
“I need wheels,” Koch said. “Where can I get another car—and I mean now!”
“I understand,” Stevens said, thinking about it, “but I’m afraid that I don’t have any cars right now.”
“Shit!”
“I’m sorry, Richard—”
Koch then remembered the car that he had seen when he walked up to Pete’s looking for his Ford. “What about what’s parked in front of the bar?”
Stevens thought for a moment. “No car that I own. Must belong to someone who got too drunk last night and left it.” He paused. “How desperate are you?”
Koch didn’t respond. He thought, I could just steal the goddamned car.
“How about a truck?” Stevens said and smiled. “I do have a truck.”
Koch considered that a short moment. “Get me the keys to it.”
“Now, I have to warn you—”
“Just get me the goddamned keys!”
Stevens looked at him a moment.
“Okay. And so there’s no bad feelings about this situation with your car, I’ll give you a deal on the truck.”
“You sure as hell will,” Koch said, and thought, You don’t know how good of one.
“It’s in the safe,” Stevens said, turning for the bedroom. “I’ll be just a moment.”
A moment later when he returned, Stevens held a chrome-plated Smith & Wesson .38 caliber revolver and had it aimed at Koch.
When Koch entered the cottage—passing Rudolf Cremer, who had gone to the door with pistol in hand when he heard the footsteps coming up the stairs—he found that one of the shutters over a window facing east had been pulled back and morning light flooded the main living area.
Rolf Grossman sat at the kitchen table, finishing the field cleaning of his Walther; he had lubricated and reassembled it after getting out the sand that seemed to have collected in its every crack and crevice.
The agents had changed out of their black clothing and now wore the light-colored, casual American-style clothing that they had brought.
Spread out on the floor were the contents of the soft bags: electric blasting caps, two-by-three-inch mechanical time-delay devices (their mechanisms built like a wrist-watch’s, with gears and springs), other slow-fuse devices disguised as pen-and-pencil sets, ampoules of sulfuric acid, boxes of 9mm ammo, bundles of currency, and more.
The men had taken it all out to ensure that it was divided up evenly between teams, then repacked the gear into olive drab canvas duffels that they had packed.
Kurt Bayer was repacking his green duffel when he glanced over at Koch and saw the bloody cloth tied around his left thigh.
“Ach!” Bayer exclaimed. “What the hell happened?”
Koch walked with scarcely a limp toward the couch and sat heavily on it.
“It’s nothing,” he said. He looked at the gear spread out. “How soon before everyone is ready to go?”
Cremer and Grossman were now moving quickly toward Koch.
“Do we need to go immediately?” Cremer said excitedly. He looked toward the cottage door. “Is anyone chasing you?”
Koch shook his head. “Relax. Everything is okay. But we should get going as soon as possible.”
Grossman pointed at the leg and, in an accusatory tone, said, “What the hell did you do?”
Koch looked at him a moment. “Fuck you. I said everything is okay.”
He untied the cloth—what Bayer now recognized had been a white T-shirt—and inspected the woun
d, a small, oozing red pulp hole on the outside of the thigh that reminded Bayer of a very wet, chewed-up pencil eraser.
“It went in,” Koch said matter-of-factly, “and it went out. No serious tissue damage. Bleeding is done. Just need to clean it up.”
Grossman took a close look and repeated, “What the hell did you do?”
When Koch didn’t reply again, Grossman said coldly, “We need to know how this affects what we do after the teams separate.”
“He’s right,” Cremer added. “Who’s going to be looking for us?”
Koch nodded. “All right. Fine. I went to the man who had my car…”
J. Whit Stevens had held the Banker’s Special five-shot revolver in his right hand.
“I had no reservations about selling your car after your letter came with that twenty-dollar bill,” he had said. “I knew then that you were up to something shifty, not just somewhere having fun, overstaying the length of time you said you’d be gone.”
Koch, hands in his sweatshirt pouch, the right one holding the 9mm Walther, looked at Stevens and waited for an opportunity.
Stevens misinterpreted the silence. “You don’t know what I’m talking about, do you?”
Koch shook his head. “No, I don’t. Look, can you put down the gun?”
“I had my suspicions before I saw the twenty you sent. It’s a Series 1928 Gold Certificate. They’ve been out of circulation for years. The size of it—about a third bigger than today’s paper money—is a dead giveaway.”
Koch thought, The fucking Abwehr gave us the wrong money? Christ!
He said, “I don’t know what you’re taking about.”
“Of course not,” Stevens said, coming closer. “But I do.”
He pointed the pistol at Koch’s pants pocket. “Mind if I have a smoke?”
Koch shrugged, then reached into his pants pocket with his left hand and brought out the pack of Derby cigarettes.
Stevens nervously waved the pistol at the pack.
“Nice Kraut brand, Herr Koch.”
Richard Koch stared back but did not respond as he held out the pack.
The Saboteurs Page 11
