The Shadowboxer (11 page)

“The Americans would want to know names.”

“Ernst Hauller, Friedrich Tolan, Thomas Brome, Ludwig von Rausch, Hugo Bengl.”

“They are all alive?”

“Alive, well and ready for shipment.
G. P. G.
can have its pick of one. Well, Father, are you interested?”

The Peppermint Priest considered. “There might be interest in Brome and von Rausch,” he quietly admitted.

“I myself would have thought Bengl or Tolan would have more value. Each still has his own type of following in Germany, but perhaps I have read the situation wrong.”

“And what,” Peppermint asked uneasily, “do you want in return?”

“Complete immunity from any war trials that may result from an Allied victory. The guarantee of political asylum in the United States if I find I must flee Germany before hostilities cease. If the Allies do win—and only their own ineptitude could prevent this—I will also need immediate American citizenship. It will also be necessary for the United States government to allow me to transfer my money to their country without protest or examination.”

“Is that all?”

Von Schleiben swished the champagne about in his glass. “Oh—perhaps the
G. P. G.
plan to bring out Hilka Tolan should be dropped. In fact, it must be dropped.”

“What else?”

“Erik Spangler's life.”

“Spangler again? I told you before, the name is only vaguely familiar.”

“From your expression, Father, I would say you go back much further with Spangler than I first suspected. Was he with you in the beginning, when you first started documenting the camps?”

“You must have him confused with someone else. I cannot place the name.”

“Yes, he was most definitely with you at the start. They are always the hardest to lose. I have never admired loyalty, Peppermint, not in our profession. Even so, I'll ease your burden. Have
G. P. G.
show me what he looks like. Let them provide photographs or a clear description. Have them tell me where he is. I will see to the rest—and you won't have been involved.”

“And if the Americans refuse?”

“How
can
they refuse? I have what they need.”

“They may still refuse.”

Von Schleiben shook his head in disgust. “Should they refuse, then the Russians will be told that
G. P. G.
took Vetter—and why. Not only that, the Russians will further be informed that your real interest lies in the five political prisoners I offered earlier. It will be strongly suggested that if by chance the Russians got to any of the five before
G. P. G.
did, they would not only disrupt American plans, but also put themselves into excellent bargaining position for the return of Vetter.”

Von Schleiben smiled contentedly. “Yes, Peppermint, that is exactly what I'll do if the Americans prove obdurate. I will make a real competition of it—to pay you back for undermining my position with both the Council and Kuprov by sending Spangler to intercept Vetter. I will have those five precious political prisoners moved to new and more secure detention. Then I will sit back and watch the footrace between you and the Russians. It will be grand sport observing which honorable
ally
detects the first prisoner. It will be even more amusing to see if they can free him. Yes, that will be the most amusing way to spend the spring, dear Peppermint—because I have no intention of letting anyone get even near those men. But don't be dejected—at least you have five chances to fail.”

“Is that all?”

“More or less. There is one final item I feel should be included.”

“What?”

“Since you are back to using Spangler, I must assume that Jean-Claude is also involved. Get Jean-Claude out of Europe or the Bubels will have a new playmate. If you are not familiar with the term
Bubel
I suggest you ask Spangler for a definition.

“So there you have it, Father, plain and simple. I suggest the Americans give it their most serious consideration, for my sake as well as theirs. I really wouldn't want to end up in Russia or South America.”

“When do you need your answer?”

“If no one comes after the Tolan girl, I will have my answer.”

The Peppermint Priest stepped across the room and began putting on his slicker.

“Going, Father?”

“You wouldn't want me to miss the tide, would you?”

“But, Peppermint, who knows what eyes are watching? The façade must be complete. You must assist me. Every part must fit. Not a suspicion must be aroused.”

Von Schleiben pulled open the louvered doors. The girls stood expectantly in the doorway. “Whores talk, Father. We must make everything look natural—or at least unnatural. I have promised my energetic young darlings something special; something they have always wanted. That is why they think you are here. We have been talking, Peppermint. I have been convincing you. I am known not to fail. I am known not to disappoint my darlings. They are waiting, Father. They are waiting for a cleric of their own. It might prove embarrassing if you left without fulfilling their expectations. Then, of course, there is my own curiosity—I have never been sure if you really are a priest. Perhaps their findings will answer my question.”

Von Schleiben leaned back against the table and watched the young women enter the room. The two whores stood facing the Peppermint Priest. They smiled enigmatically as their gowns fell open.

The boat floated free of the pilings and started its engine. The Peppermint Priest scrambled down the ladder, pushed into the tiny cabin, stripped off his cassock and took his neatly pressed uniform from the hanger. He had finished dressing and was adjusting his Ben Franklin glasses when the wireless operator stuck his head through the hatch.

“Contact
G. P. G.
Two, Purple Line,” the former priest ordered. “Tell them the Lone Ranger must be delayed. He must not ride. Whatever happens, the Lone Ranger must stay off his horse. Tell them I think I can lay my hands on an Orator.”

The petty officer returned half an hour later. “Major Julian, sir,” he said unhappily, “Purple Line has just replied.”

“And?”

“They received our message and got it through to the Lone Ranger—and, well …”

“What is it?”

“The Lone Ranger told them to fuck off.”

10

At dusk the twelve “isolation” rooms on Floor One, B Barracks, were unlocked and the twelve women escorted out. They formed ranks, marched across Oranienburg and filed into the arrivals building. Each was given new shoes and a new prison dress for the inspection. Each was assigned the number of an office where her physical examination would take place.

Hilka Tolan entered door 11K. The room was dark except for spotlights glaring down on a crude wooden platform. She was ordered to stand at center stage. Three women lined up to her left, four to her right. All were in civilian dress. All had short-cropped haircuts like hers. All were the same height. All slightly resembled her—they were tall, blond, slightly reminiscent of Jean Arthur.

The woman to her immediate right was too fat. The woman second from her left was too thin. Both were dismissed.

Hilka and the five remaining women were ordered to undress. All six bodies bore appendix scars. Hilka was ushered to the left of the stage. In turn each of five companions was placed at her side. The first one's knees were slightly knocked. She was eliminated. The third one did not possess Hilka's high tight breasts. The fourth lacked her flat stomach, thin thighs and long graceful legs.

The second and the fifth were the final choices. They moved back center stage, and Hilka stepped between them.

The cosmeticians and the makeup people moved in. Brush and paint and powder and putty were applied. Within an hour, three beautiful blue-eyed, thin-lipped, oval-faced, ivory-skinned women were on display.

Hilka and the woman to the right stepped forward. The comparison took ten minutes. The woman to the right stood aside, and the woman to the left lined up. The second comparison was slightly shorter. Cosmeticians instituted further adjustments. Another comparison took place. The woman to the right was chosen to impersonate Hilka Tolan.

The lights went out. Hilka was dressed in an SS-Totenkopf greatcoat that fit perfectly and a death's-head several sizes too large. Her mouth was taped. She was pushed out the back door, down the outside steps and into the rear seat of a waiting Mercedes-Benz. Webber slid in beside her. His right wrist was handcuffed to her left. He adjusted his monocle with his free hand and gave an order. The staff car sped out of Oranienburg.

11

The Gestapo's informant's tip had been correct. The stolen Documents Division truck was found concealed near an orchard less than fifteen miles from Berlin. At least fifty newly printed and validated Reich passports were missing. So were uncountable numbers of other official permits.

The loss of the documents was not the only discovery. The truck contained a cache of recently missing goods. Included in the loot were uniforms taken from a Wehrmacht officers' club and many pieces of clothing stolen from three of the better Berlin shops. Two cases of ammunition and a crate of Lugers were also uncovered.

The most curious discovery was found in the front seat of the truck cab. There could be little doubt that it was the clothing locker stolen from von Schleiben in Munich. The General was contacted by phone, and the details of the discovery were painstakingly recounted to him.

A special car raced the locker back to Berlin despite the air raid.

12

The blue-gray elevator cage descended to the fifth level of the underground bunker. Eight delegates to the Council for Extreme Security stepped out, moved quickly through the concrete tunnels and entered the conference room. Von Schleiben was waiting calmly at the head of the table. The time was 2230 hours, 20 February 1944.

“Where is Webber?” the General asked impatiently.

“Seeing to the Tolan woman's new detention, Herr Obergruppenfuehrer,” Platt assured. “He'll be here any moment.” The room shuddered slightly from the bomb explosions above.

“I see.”

Webber had still not arrived by 2400 hours. Platt made a phone call.

“It is a very heavy raid, Herr Obergruppenfuehrer,” he said to the General, hanging up the receiver. “He has probably taken refuge. Perhaps we should proceed without him?”

The meeting began informally. Photographs of Hilka Tolan's impersonator were distributed. Von Schleiben was told that the woman had already taken Hilka's place in Isolation Four, B Barracks. Phone communication with the operations area was established. The six rings of interior security were in place. The exterior rings outside Oranienburg were poised. On orders from the Council the final phase of the Webber Proposition was ready to be put into effect: all outgoing movement in the thirty square miles surrounding Oranienburg would be stopped. Anyone trying to leave the perimeter would be seized. Entry was open. Departure impossible.

“Very much like a lobster trap?” von Schleiben noted.

“Exactly, Herr Obergruppenfuehrer,” Platt replied.

Von Schleiben was full of questions. Was everyone certain that the last stage of the plan should be put into effect? After all, since Gestapo had been elevated to co-sponsor of the operation and almost every police and intelligence agency—with the exception of Abwehr—was deeply involved in it, a failure would be most humiliating: Perhaps they should stop and reassess the situation.

“Herr Obergruppenfuehrer,” Platt rejoined, “the plan, whatever its merits, has been executed to perfection. No one will be able to leave that area.”

“Even so,” von Schleiben said, “I feel a vote should be taken.”

The show of hands in favor of proceeding was unanimous. Von Schleiben smiled and signaled his agreement. Platt called in the order by phone. Confirmation that Webber Proposition was in full initiation was received within ten minutes.

Von Schleiben led the members of the Council to the adjoining underground mess hall, where a lavish champagne supper had been prepared. The officers held up their glasses and waited for a toast from their leader.

Von Schleiben smiled without amusement and snapped his fingers. The provost hoisted the famous locker in front of the General. Von Schleiben lifted the lid, peeked inside and tilted the metal container forward. Webber's decapitated head bounced out and rolled along the table. For some inexplicable reason the monocle over his left eye was still set firmly in place.

PART TWO

The Julian Proposition

13

Goebbels Seduces His Own Twelve-Year-Old Illegitimate Daughter! Hitler Sets Up Special Tribunal!

—Headline from the
German Popular Gazette
,

printed 17 January 1944, for release 6 April 1944

The o.s.s. Lysander liaison aircraft skimmed over the moonlit Channel swell, cleared the English coastline, banked sharply and droned due south.

A melody was heard. Hilka Tolan began to stir. Her lips moistened. Her eyes flickered open and slowly focused on the back of the pilot's neck. She tried to shift position, then looked down. She was strapped into a bucket seat. There was a gentle tug at her left arm. Hilka glanced to the side. A lean man with beret and leather cycle jacket was sitting cross-legged on the cabin floor humming to himself as he filed the steel manacle encasing her wrist.

“Where are we?” she finally asked.

“Aha,” Spangler cried out expansively, looking up, “awake at last! And how does your jaw feel?”

Hilka studied the violet-eyed, sharp-nosed windburned face. The cheekbones were high. The thin lips curled in a tight, curious smile. She found something crudely handsome in him. Something childlike. Something unrevealed and brooding. “Where are you taking me?”

“Excuse the sock in the face, lass. I'm not one to be hitting the ladies. But you
was
kicking up one helluva ruckus back there in Germany—and anyway, I was forced to reach some messy conclusions with that Webber, conclusions you might not have found overly appetizing. But that's all done with and now, as you see, you're safe and snug.”