Authors: T. E. Cruise
The lounge was windowless and dimly lit. Gold stood in the doorway, waiting for his eyes to adjust. Just by the entrance was
a redwood and brass bar. Three steps led up to a raised, carpeted seating area. Black leather booths and banquettes ringed
the paneled walls beneath electric sconces wired to flicker like candles.
Gold stood with his back to the bar to survey the room. The lounge was busy and noisy. Piped-in, sultry jazz swirled in the
background along with cigarette smoke, the clinking of ice cubes, and the murmur of talk and laughter. He was not surprised
by the number of people having a drink, or their gaiety so early in the day.
There was a general air of giddy high spirits all over the city now that it looked as if the end of the war in Europe was
at hand. The Russians were slowly tightening their “iron ring” around Berlin, and yesterday Russian and American forces had
linked up on the Elbe. Last night’s late radio bulletins from overseas had also brought the news that Goering had been dismissed
as Commander of the Luftwaffe. It made Gold feel great to see the Nazis at each other’s throats in their rage and frustration
over what was now their inevitable defeat. He also took personal satisfaction that Goering, his old nemesis from the First
World War, was finally beginning to experience his long overdue comedown.
America had needed the steady good news coming out of Europe to help the country get over the shock concerning President Roosevelt’s
sudden death. It had been an awful couple of weeks since the President had passed away, a time of national self-doubt and
a crisis of confidence. Whether you had loved or hated FDR, he had been President for so long that it had seemed as if he
would always be in the Oval Office. There had been the inevitable worry that Vice President Truman was not up to the job of
leading the nation as President and Commander in Chief, but the little guy certainly seemed to be rising to the occasion.
From his very first radio address his rational, down-to-earth plain speaking had begun to soothe the panicked country.
“Can I get you something, sir?” the barman asked as Gold was looking around.
“No, thank you,” Gold replied as he climbed the steps to the seating area. “I’m meeting someone.”
“Mr. Gold!”
A tall, thin man had slid out of a corner booth and was now waving at him. Gold went over and shook hands, saying, “You must
be Jack Horton. I hope you weren’t waiting long? As usual, the traffic from Burbank was awful.”
“I just got here a few minutes ago,” Horton said. “Please, sit down. And thank you for agreeing to meet me at such short notice,
Mr. Gold.”
“I’m always looking for an excuse to play hooky from the office,” Gold joked as he slid into the booth across from Horton.
Horton was nodding earnestly. He looked to be about thirty-five. He had short, dark hair parted on the side, and black horn-rimmed
glasses. He was wearing a gray gabardine suit, white shirt, and a black knit tie. He had a military-issue, stainless-steel
watch on an olive-green canvas strap around his left wrist.
Gold thought Horton looked like a monkish young college professor or an accountant. He certainly didn’t look like who he was.
“Anyway, Mr. Horton,” Gold continued. “When Reggie Sutherland called me this morning long-distance from Washington, asking
me to meet with you, there was no way I could refuse him. He’s done a few favors for me in the past.”
Horton was still nodding. “Yes, sir. And General Sutherland was very kind to make the call on our behalf. But then, he was
always been very helpful to the OSS.”
“OSS,” Gold murmured. “That stands for Office of Strategic Services.”
“Yes, sir.”
“That’s something like Army Intelligence, I seem to remember Reggie saying.”
“We work closely with them, yes, sir,” Horton replied. He paused as a waitress came over and placed a bowl of pretzels on
the table.
“A club soda, thank you,” Gold told the waitress.
“And a scotch and soda for me,” Horton said.
Hmm, not such a monk, after all
, Gold thought, nibbling on a pretzel. “I was very intrigued by the air of mystery surrounding Reggie’s call,” Gold said once
the waitress had gone. “I’m not very well versed in matters requiring a cloak and dagger.”
Horton smiled politely. He produced a pack of Chesterfields, offered it first to Gold, who shook his head, and then lit one
for himself with the book of matches in the ashtray.
“Reggie mentioned something about an operation you were working on overseas, but he was vague,” Gold continued. “What exactly
can I do for you and your organization, Mr. Horton?”
“Sir, your company has been instrumental in the war effort. I’d like to talk to you about helping us win another,
secret
war that we’re presently fighting. It’s a war, ironically, with one of our allies, Russia.”
“You boys in intelligence don’t trust our comrades-in-arms, the Soviets?” Gold asked, amused.
“No, sir. Do you?”
Gold shrugged. “I’ve only known one Red in my time. You see, last year my company was authorized to supply some airplane parts
to the Russians. I got to be quite friendly with the Russians’ representative when he came to visit for a tour of our factories.”
He grinned. “You should have seen that guy in L.A. He was like a kid in a candy store.” He paused. “I guess what I’m saying
is that I don’t see how the Reds can do us much harm. They may have the brawn, but we’ve got the brains.”
“We do at the moment,” Horton agreed. “But what if the Reds got themselves some instant—German—brains?”
Gold frowned. “I’m not sure I follow you.”
“Sir, the Nazis located most of their aircraft industry in the east, to put it out of reach of our joint bombing operations
with the British. With the Soviet advance, all of that German aeronautical technology is falling intact into Russian hands.”
“I thought we had some kind of deal with the Reds about sharing that stuff?” Gold asked as the waitress arrived with their
drinks.
Horton waited until the waitress had served them and left. “We did, but last summer we found out the hard way that the Russians
don’t intend to honor their agreement. Ever hear of Blizna?”
“Doesn’t ring a bell,” Gold said.
“Last summer the Reds overran Blizna, a German rocket-launching site in Poland, but when our boys and the British demanded
our right to share in the secrets, the Reds stalled. By the time we got in, the Russians had stripped the place.”
“That’s their style, all right, I guess,” Gold commiserated.
Horton nodded glumly. “When we realized that was how the Russians wanted to play, we initiated ‘Operation Rustler,’ as in
cattle rustling. We intend to rustle away as many as we can of those German brains
before
the Reds can brand them with the hammer and sickle. We
don’t
intend to let Russia leapfrog us in rocket, or airplane design, technology. We’ve got scouts in Germany seeking out and recruiting
German talent, and helping those scientists to evade the Russians until our forces can get to them.”
“But I still don’t understand where I fit into this,” Gold continued.
“You fit into it because of Heiner Froehlig,” Horton replied.
“Froehlig!” Gold blurted, shocked.
Horton was studying him. “Heiner Froehlig—Air Minister Hermann Goering’s deputy in charge of aviation research and development—was
a friend of yours, was he not, Mr. Gold?”
Gold was appalled. “Sure, we were friends during the war—the
first
war,” he quickly added. “But that was over twenty-five years ago, when I was a fighter pilot and Froehlig was the maintenance
crew chief for my airplane.”
“But you
were
good friends?” Horton patiently repeated.
“What is this, an interrogation? Horton, you’re starting to get me angry,” Gold warned. “What the hell is going on here? What
are you implying? I happen to be an American citizen! I’ve never had anything to do with those American Nazi organizations
that were sprouting like weeds before the war.”
Horton held up his hands. “Please, sir, I didn’t mean any disrespect, and I certainly didn’t mean to impugn your patriotism.
Your reputation is spotless.”
Gold leaned back. “Okay, then, I’m sorry for the outburst, but you’d jump to conclusions, too, if you were in my shoes, Mr.
Horton. I’ve been raked over the coals more than once concerning my German heritage.”
“Yes, sir.”
“I am a Jew, you know?”
“Yes, sir, I do know that.”
“All right, then. So you can imagine how I’ve felt in the past when I’ve been subjected to that kind of dim-witted bullshit.”
“Yes, sir.”
“As long as we understand each other,” Gold grumbled, mollified. “Now then, getting back to the matter at hand, I haven’t
seen Heiner Froehlig since—”
“Since 1938, at the Moden International Seaplane Competition held in Venice, Italy,” Horton said, expressionless. “Yes, sir,
we do know that, as well.”
Gold took a sip of his club soda. It was a funny, almost queasy feeling to be sitting across from someone who evidently had
gone through your past with a fine-tooth comb. “Well, Horton, if you know
that
much, then you also ought to know that Froehlig and I didn’t part on friendly terms.”
Horton was nodding. “You mean when Froehlig, in his capacity as a Nazi big shot, unsuccessfully tried to convince you to return
to Germany in order to design and build airplanes for the Reich?”
Gold stared. “How
could
you have found out about that?” he harshly demanded. “
Nobody
knows about that. I didn’t even tell my wife.” He shook his head. “No matter how thorough your investigation, how could you
have known?”
“Sir, if you’ll let me explain—Froehlig told us. Several days ago one of our operatives made contact with Froehlig at the
German Air Ministry in Berlin. The city—or what’s left of it—is in chaos right now. Nobody is getting in or out. The Krauts—”
Horton stopped, blushing. “Sorry, sir. No offense meant.”
“Just get on with it,” Gold grumbled.
“Yes, sir. Well, the crux of the matter is that Froehlig wants to cut a deal to come over to our side.”
Gold scowled. “What do you want him for? He’s not a scientist.”
“We know that, and so does Froehlig,” Horton said. “In order to sweeten the pot, he’s offering us a package deal. He’s got
a half dozen of the Reich’s top aviation engineers in tow. We take Froehlig, and we get the cream of the crop of German jet
designers. There’s an agreement that Roosevelt made with the Soviets that we would hang back and let them take Berlin. When
that happens, Froehlig and his scientists are going to go into hiding in the city until we can get them out.”
“It’s going to be tricky getting them past the Russians,” Gold mused.
“We know that, and so does Froehlig.” Horton nodded. “That’s why he wants you to come and get him, Mr. Gold.”
“Me?” Gold laughed weakly. “Is this a joke?”
“No, sir. Froehlig says that you’re the only American he knows and trusts.”
“What the hell do I know about shepherding some fugitive Nazis past the Russians?” Gold complained.
“You can leave the details of the operation to us, sir,” Horton said quickly.
“What operation?” Gold demanded. “You’ve got some kind of plan to accomplish this?”
“I think that it would be best if we handled this on a need-to-know basis, sir. That’s for your own protection, in case there’s
a problem with the Soviets.”
“In other words, in case this top secret plan of yours falls apart and the Reds grill me before shipping me to Siberia for
the rest of my life?”
“Sir, we think that we have a good plan, but there is always an element of risk in endeavors of this nature,” Horton admitted.
“Let me just add that I myself would be with you every step of the way.”
“That’s very reassuring, Mr. Horton,” Gold said dryly. “But the prospect of you being my roommate in a Soviet work camp does
not sweeten the deal.”
Horton frowned. “I’m going to level with you, Mr. Gold. Your country wouldn’t ask this of you if it weren’t absolutely necessary.
Either due to your past friendship back in the good old days fighting for the Kaiser, or for some other reason, Froehlig has
fixated on you as the only hero who can ride to his rescue. He’s made it clear that if you can’t—or won’t—bring him out, he’ll
cut a deal with the Reds.”
Gold was about to turn Horton down, but then it occurred to him that maybe he could get something out of this for GAT.
Last year Gold had presented GAT’s R&D people with Stoat-Black’s Starstreak commercial jet airliner coventure proposal. Teddy
Quinn and his staff had studied the specs, and then nixed the deal, citing their serious reservations about aspects of Stoat-Black’s
proposed design for the Star-streak’s pressurized cabin. Gold had then tried to get Stoat-Black to modify the design by incorporating
Teddy’s suggestions, but he’d received the brush-off from Hugh Luddy. It seemed that despite all of Luddy’s talk about mutual
cooperation, Stoat-Black expected GAT to come in as a silent partner or not at all. Gold was disappointed, but without input,
there was no way he would invest a fortune and what was left of GAT’s credibility into Stoat-Black’s project. He’d walked
away.
Meanwhile, little progress had been made at GAT in designing a new swept-wing jet fighter. It seemed that Gold and Teddy and
all the rest of GAT’s R&D talent were up against a corporate mental block. What was needed, Gold had long ago decided, was
a healthy dose of fresh, new talent into GAT’s idea pool. To that end, Gold had unsuccessfully tried to raid the R&D staffs
of his industry rivals. He’d had no other idea of where to get new, experienced talent.
Until now.
“Okay, Horton,” Gold began. “I’ll do this for you, but I want something back in return.”
“Sir?” Horton asked warily. “What would that be?”
“I want Froehlig’s boys to work exclusively through GAT. My firm would be the middleman between them and the U.S. military.”
Horton laughed uneasily. “You’re joking, right?”