The Wolf's Hour (34 page)

“I told him. I’d met Werner last summer. I was in Paris, with another friend. As I said, Werner was a gentleman. A dear gentleman. Ah, well.” He made a despondent motion with his cigarette holder, and then terror flickered across his face. “The Gestapo… they didn’t… I mean, Werner didn’t tell them about me, did he?”

“No, he didn’t.”

Frankewitz sighed with relief. Another cough gurgled up, and he suffered another spasm. “Thank God,” he said when he could speak again. “Thank God. The Gestapo… they do terrible things to people.”

“You said they led you from the airplane to the warehouse. They didn’t drive you?”

“No. It was maybe thirty paces, no more than that.”

Then the warehouse had been part of the airfield, Michael thought. “What else was stored in the warehouse?”

“I didn’t get much of a chance to look around. There was always a guard nearby. I did see some barrels and crates. Oil drums, I think they were, and some machinery. Gears and things.”

“And you overheard the term ‘Iron Fist’? Is that right?”

“Yes. Colonel Blok was talking to a man who came to visit. He called the man Dr. Hildebrand. Blok used that name several times.”

Here was a point that needed clarification. Michael said, “Why did Blok and Hildebrand let you overhear them talking if the security was so tight? You had to be in the same room with them, yes?”

“Of course I was. But I was working, so maybe they thought I wasn’t listening.” Frankewitz blew a plume of smoke toward the ceiling. “Anyway, it wasn’t such a secret. I had to paint them.”

“Paint them? Paint what?”

“The words. Iron Fist. I had to paint them on a piece of metal. Blok showed me how to make the letters, because I don’t read English.”

Michael paused as that sank in. “English? You painted-”

“ ‘Iron Fist’ in English letters,” Frankewitz said. “On the green metal. Olive green to be exact. Very drab. And underneath that I painted the picture.”

“The picture?” Michael shook his head. “I don’t understand.”

“I’ll show you.” Frankewitz went to the easel, sat down in the chair, and arranged a pad of drawing paper in front of him. He picked up a charcoal pencil as Michael came up to stand behind him. Frankewitz spent a moment in silent deliberation, then began to sketch. “This is very rough, you understand. My hand hasn’t been doing what I’ve asked of it lately. It’s the weather, I think. This apartment’s always damp in the springtime.”

Michael watched the drawing take shape. It was a large, disembodied fist, covered with armor plate. The fist was squeezing a figure that had yet to be defined.

“Blok stood and watched over my shoulder, just as you are,” Frankewitz said. The pencil drew skinny legs dangling down from the iron fist. “I had to do the rough sketch five times before he was satisfied with it. Then I painted it on the metal, beneath the lettering. I graduated in the upper third of my class at art school. The professors said I had ‘promise.’ ” He smiled wanly, his hand working as if with a mind of its own. “The bill collectors bother me all the time. I thought you were one of them.” He was drawing a pair of limp arms. “I do my best work in the summer,” he said. “When I can get out in the park, in the sunshine.”

Frankewitz had finished the figure’s body: a cartoonish form, caught in the fist. He started on the head and facial features. “I had a painting in an exhibition once. Before the war. It was a picture of two goldfish swimming in a green pond. I’ve always liked fish; they seem so peaceful.” He drew in a pair of wide, bulging eyeballs and an uptilted slash of a nose. “Do you know who bought that painting? One of Goebbels’s secretaries. Yes. Goebbels himself! That picture might be hanging in the Reich Chancellery, for all I know!” He sketched a sweep of dark hair hanging down over the forehead. “My signature, in the Reich Chancellery. Well, the world is a strange place, isn’t it?” He completed the face with a black square of a mustache, and lifted the pencil. “There. That’s what I painted for Colonel Blok.”

It was a caricature of Adolf Hitler, his eyes popping and his mouth open in an indignant cry as he was squeezed by the iron fist.

Michael was speechless. Wheels were spinning in his brain, but they found no traction. SS Colonel Jerek Blok, a Nazi loyalist, had paid Frankewitz to paint a rather ludicrous caricature of the Reich’s Führer? It made no sense! This was the kind of disrespect that granted a person an appointment with a noose, and it had been authorized by a Hitler fanatic. The bullet holes, the cracked glass, the caricature, the iron fist… what was it all about?

“I asked no questions.” Frankewitz stood up from his chair. “I didn’t want to know. All I wanted was to get home alive. Blok told me they might need me again, to do some more work. He told me it was a special project, and that if I let anyone else know about it the Gestapo would find out and come visit me.” He smoothed the wrinkles in his silk robe, his fingers nervous again. “I don’t know why I told Werner. I knew he was working for the other side.” Frankewitz watched the rain streaming down the windows, his gaunt face streaked with shadows. “I think… I did it because… of the way Blok looked at me. As if I were a dog that could do tricks. It was in his eyes: he loathed me, but he needed me. And perhaps he didn’t kill me because he thought he might need me again. I’m a human being, not a beast. Do you understand that?”

Michael nodded.

“That’s all I know. I can’t help you any more.” Frankewitz’s breathing had gotten hoarse again. He found another match and relit his cigarette, which had gone cold. “Do you have any money?” he asked.

“No, I don’t.” He had a wallet, given to him by his hosts, but there was no money in it. He stared at Frankewitz’s long white fingers, then he took off his kid gloves and said, “Here. These are worth something.”

Frankewitz took them without hesitation. Blue smoke wafted from his lips. “Thank you. You’re a true gentleman. There aren’t many of us left in the world.”

“You’d better destroy that.” Michael motioned toward the Hitler cartoon. He moved to the door and paused to add a final note. “You didn’t have to tell me these things. I appreciate it. But one thing I have to tell you: I can’t say that you’re safe, knowing what you do.”

Frankewitz waved his cigarette holder, leaving a scrawl of smoke in the air. “Is anyone safe in Berlin?” he asked.

For that question Michael had no answer. He began to unlatch the door; the dank room with its narrow, grimy windows had started to suffocate him.

“Will you come visit me again?” Frankewitz had finished his cigarette, and he crushed it in a green onyx ashtray.

“No.”

“For the best, I suppose. I hope you find what it is you’re looking for.”

“Thank you. I do, too.” Michael slipped the final lock, left the apartment, and closed the door behind him. Immediately he heard Theo von Frankewitz relocking the door on the other side; it was a frantic sound, the noise of an animal scurrying in a cage. Frankewitz coughed a few times, his lungs clogged with fluid, and then Michael walked down the corridor to the stairs and descended to the rain-swept street.

Wilhelm pulled the Mercedes smoothly to the curb, and Michael got in. Then the driver started them off again, heading west through the rain.

“You found out what you needed to know?” Mouse asked when Michael volunteered no information.

“It’s a beginning,” he answered. Hitler being crushed by an iron fist. Bullet holes on green-painted metal. Dr. Hildebrand, the researcher of gas warfare. A warehouse, on a landing strip where the air smelled of the sea. A beginning, yes: the entrance to a maze. And the invasion of Europe, poised to take place when the spring’s wild tides eased. The first week of June, Michael thought. Hundreds of thousands of lives in the balance. Live free, he thought, and smiled grimly. The heavy yoke of responsibility had settled around his shoulders. “Where are we going?” he asked Wilhelm after another few minutes.

“To check you in, sir. You’re a new member of the Brimstone Club.”

Michael started to ask what that was, but Wilhelm’s attention was on his driving and the rain was slashing down again. Michael stared at his own gloveless hands, while the questions turned in his mind and the torrent clawed at the windows.

5

“There it is, sir,” Wilhelm said, and both Michael and Mouse saw it through the whirring windshield wipers.

Before them, veiled in the rain and the low-lying mist, a turreted castle rose from an island in the Havel River. Wilhelm had been following a paved road through Berlin’s Grunewald Forest for almost fifteen minutes, and now the pavement ended at the river’s edge. But the road continued: a wooden pontoon bridge that led over the dark water to the castle’s massive granite archway. Entry to the pontoon bridge was blocked by a yellow barricade, and as Wilhelm slowed the car a young man in a maroon uniform, wearing dark blue gloves and carrying an umbrella, stepped out of a small stone checkpoint station. Wilhelm rolled down the window and announced, “The Baron von Fange,” and the young man nodded crisply and returned to his station. Michael could see through a window into the structure, and he watched the young man dialing a telephone. The phone wires crossed the river and went into the castle. In another moment the man reappeared, lifted the barricade, and waved Wilhelm through. The Mercedes crossed the pontoon bridge.

“This is the Reichkronen Hotel,” Wilhelm explained as they neared the archway. “The castle was built in 1733. The Nazis took it over in 1939. It’s for dignitaries and guests of the Reich.”

“Oh, my God,” Mouse whispered as the immense castle loomed above them. He’d seen it before, of course, but never so close. And never had he dreamed he’d be about to enter it. The Reichkronen was reserved for Nazi party leaders, foreign diplomats, high-ranking officers, dukes, earls, and barons-real barons, that is. As the castle grew and its archway awaited like a gray-lipped mouth, Mouse felt very small. His stomach churned. “I don’t… I don’t think 1 can go in there,” he said.

He had no choice. The Mercedes moved through the archway into a large courtyard. A wide set of granite stairs fluted upward to the double front doors, above which were the gilt letters Reichkronen and a swastika. Four young blond-haired men in maroon uniforms emerged from the doors and hurried down the stairs as Wilhelm braked the Mercedes.

“I can’t… I can’t…” Mouse was saying, feeling as if the breath were being squeezed out of him.

Wilhelm speared him with an icy stare. “A good servant,” he said quietly, “does not let his master down.” And then the door was opened for Mouse, an umbrella was held over his head, and he stood dazed as Wilhelm got out and came around to unlock the trunk.

Michael waited for his door to be opened, as befitting a baron. He stepped out of the car and into the protection of an umbrella. His stomach was tight, too, as were the muscles at the back of his neck. But this was no place for hesitation, and if he was going to survive this masquerade, he had to play his part to the hilt. He forced down the alarm of nerves and started up the steps at a brisk clip so the young man with the umbrella would have difficulty keeping up with him. Mouse followed a few paces behind, feeling smaller with every step. Wilhelm and the other two men brought the bags.

Michael walked into the lobby of the Reichkronen, entering the Nazi sanctum. It was a huge chamber, where pools of light from low lamps spilled over dark brown leather furniture and Persian rugs sparkled with golden threads. Above his head was a massive, ornate chandelier where perhaps fifty candles burned. Flames roared from logs in a white marble hearth that could serve as a garage for a Tiger tank; centered over the hearth was a large framed painting of Adolf Hitler, with gilded eagles on either side. Chamber music was playing: a quartet of string musicians, performing a Beethoven piece. And seated in the overstuffed leather chairs and sofas were German officers, most of them with drinks in hand, either engaged in conversation or listening to the music. Other people, among them a number of women, stood in groups, chatting politely. Michael looked around, getting the full impact of the monstrous place, and he heard Mouse give a soft, terrified moan just behind him.

And then, a woman’s voice, as beautiful as a cello: “Frederick!” The voice was familiar. Michael started to turn in its direction, and he heard the woman say, “Frederick! My darling!”

She rushed at him, and her arms went around him. He smelled her scent: cinnamon and leather. She clasped him tightly, her blond curls against his cheek. And then she looked him in the face with eyes the color of champagne, and her crimson lips sought his mouth.

He let them find it. She tasted like a crisp white Moselle. Her body was pressed hard against his, and as the kiss went on Michael put his arms around her body and darted his tongue out to tease her lips. He felt her shiver, wanting to pull away but unable to, and he slowly caressed his tongue back and forth across her mouth. She suddenly seized his tongue with her mouth and sucked on it with a force that almost tore it from its roots. Her teeth clamped down on his tongue, trapping it with none-too-gentle pressure. This was the civilized way to make war, Michael thought. He squeezed her tighter, and she squeezed him with a crush that made his backbone pop. They stood like that for a moment, locked mouth to mouth and teeth to tongue.

“Ahem.” A man cleared his throat. “So this is the lucky Baron von Fange.”

The woman released Michael’s tongue and pulled her head back. Crimson spots seethed in her cheeks, and her beautiful pale brown eyes glittered with anger beneath thick blond brows. But there was a joyous smile on her mouth, and she said with a rush of excitement, “Yes, Harry! Isn’t he beautiful?”

Michael turned his head to the right, and stared at Harry Sandler, who stood perhaps three feet from him.

The big-game hunter, the man who had engineered the murder of the Countess Margritta in Cairo almost two years before, grunted skeptically. “Wild beasts are beautiful, Chesna. Especially when their heads are on my wall. I’m afraid I don’t share your taste, but… it’s a pleasure to finally meet you, Baron.” Sandler thrust out a large hand, and the golden hawk that perched on his leather-trimmed left shoulder spread its wings for balance.

Michael stared at the hand for a few seconds. He could see it gripped around a telephone, ordering Margritta’s murder. He could see it tapping out a radio code to his Nazi masters. He could see it squeezing the trigger of a rifle and sending a bullet through a lion’s skull. Michael took the hand and shook it, keeping a polite smile on his face though his eyes had gone hard. Sandler increased the pressure, trapping Michael’s knuckles. “Chesna’s been boring me to death with stories about you,” Sandler said, his ruddy face grinning. His German was very good. He had dark brown eyes that shed no warmth, and the pressure of his grip on Michael’s hand continued to mount. Michael’s knuckles throbbed. “Thank God you’re here, so she won’t have to tell me any more.”

“Perhaps I’ll bore you to death with stories of my own,” Michael said, his smile broader; he made sure he showed no indication of the fact that his hand was about to break. He stared into Harry Sandler’s eyes, and he felt a message pass between them: survival of the fittest. His knuckles were jammed together, caught in that bear claw of a hand. One more ounce of pressure, and the bones would crack. Michael smiled, and felt sweat crawl down under his arms. He was, for the moment at least, at the mercy of a killer.

Sandler, showing his square white teeth, released Michael’s hand. Blood stung as it rushed through the cramping fingers. “As I said, a pleasure.”

The woman, who wore a dark blue dress that fit her lean body as if it had been poured on, had blond hair that fell in curly ringlets around her shoulders. Her face, with its high, sharp cheekbones and full-lipped mouth, was as striking as a glimpse of the sun through storm clouds. She took Michael’s arm. “Frederick, I hope you won’t mind that I’ve been boasting about you. I’ve told Harry the secret.”

“Oh? Have you?” What next?

“Harry says he’ll give the bride away. Isn’t that right?”

Sandler’s smile slipped a notch, which didn’t matter much since it was false to begin with. “I have to tell you, Baron: you’re in for the fight of your life.”

“Am I?” Michael felt as if the floor had turned to ice, and he was trying to keep from stepping through a thin spot.

“You’re damned right. If you weren’t around, Chesna would be marrying me. So I’m going to do my best to dethrone you.”

The woman laughed. “Oh, my! What a delight! To be fought over by two handsome men!” She glanced at Wilhelm and Mouse, who stood a few feet away. Mouse’s face was tinged with gray, his shoulders slumped under the immense weight of the Reichkronen. The luggage had already disappeared, whisked into an elevator by the bellboys. “You may go to your quarters now,” she said, with the air of someone who was used to giving orders and being obeyed. Wilhelm gave Mouse a firm nudge toward a door marked Treppe-Stairs-but Mouse only went a few paces before he looked at Michael, his expression a mixture of panic and bewilderment. Michael nodded, and the little man followed Wilhelm to the stairway.

“Good servants are so hard to find,” Chesna said, oozing arrogance. “Shall we go to the lounge?” She motioned toward a candlelit enclave on the other side of the lobby, and Michael allowed her to guide him. Sandler walked a few paces behind them, and Michael could sense the man was sizing him up. Of course the woman named Chesna was the agent Michael knew as Echo; but who was she? And how could she mingle so freely with the Reich’s bluebloods? They were almost to the lounge when a pretty young dark-haired girl stepped in their path and said shyly, “Excuse me… but I’ve seen all your pictures. I think you’re wonderful. Might I have your autograph?”

“Of course!” Chesna took the pen and pad the girl offered. “What’s your name?”

“Charlotta.”

Michael watched as Chesna wrote, in large and dramatic letters: To Charlotta, All My Best, Chesna van Dorne. She ended with a flourish and handed the pad back to Charlotta with a dazzling smile. “There you are. I have a new film coming out next month. I hope you’ll look for it.”

“Oh, I will! Thank you!” The girl, obviously thrilled, took her autograph back to where she’d been sitting, on a sofa between two middle-aged Nazi officers.

In the lounge, which was decorated with framed symbols of German infantry and armor divisions, they chose a secluded table. Michael took off his topcoat and hung it on a wall hook nearby. When the waiter came, Chesna ordered a Riesling, Michael asked for the same, and Sandler ordered a whiskey and soda and a platter of chopped meat. The waiter seemed to be used to the request, and he left without comment.

“Harry, must you carry that bird everywhere?” Chesna asked teasingly.

“Not quite everywhere. But Blondi’s my good-luck charm.” He smiled, looking at Michael. The golden hawk-a beautiful creature-stared at Michael, too, and he realized that both the hawk and its master had the same cold eyes. Its talons gripped the patch of leather on the shoulder of Sandler’s expensively tailored tweed jacket. “Do you know anything about birds of prey, Baron?”

“I know enough to avoid them.”

Sandler laughed politely. He had a square-jawed, crudely handsome face with a crooked boxer’s nose. His reddish hair was cropped short on the sides and back, and a small flame-colored wisp of hair fell over his creased forehead. Everything about him exuded haughty confidence and power. He wore a red-striped necktie and a pale blue shirt, and on his lapel there was a small gold swastika. “Smart man,” he said. “I captured Blondi in Africa. It’s taken me three years to train her. Of course she’s not tame, just obedient.” He took a leather glove from inside his coat and worked it onto his left hand. “She’s lovely, isn’t she? Did you know that I could give her a signal and she’d rip your face to shreds within five seconds or so?”

“That’s a comforting thought,” Michael said. His testicles felt as if they’d drawn up.

“I trained her on British prisoners of war,” Sandler went on, taking a step into no-man’s-land. “Smeared some mouse guts on their faces, and Blondi did the rest. Here, girl.” He gave a low, trilling whistle, and offered Blondi the back of his glove. The hawk immediately stepped from Sandler’s shoulder onto the glove, its talons clenching down. “I find nobility in savagery,” Sandler said as he admired the golden hawk. “Maybe that’s why I want Chesna to marry me.”

“Oh, Harry!” She smiled at Michael; the smile had a warning in it. “I never know whether to kiss him or slap him.”

Michael still hadn’t gotten past the remark about the British POWs. He smiled, too, but his face felt in danger of cracking. “I hope you’ll save the kisses for me.”

“I’ve been in love with Chesna ever since I met her. It was on the set of… what movie was that, Chesna?”

“The Flame of Destiny. Heinreid brought you for a visit.”

“Right. I suppose you’re a fan, too, Baron?”

“Her number-one fan,” Michael said, and he placed his hand on top of hers and squeezed it. A film actress, he’d realized she must be. And a highly successful one, at that. He recalled reading something about The Flame of Destiny; it had been a Nazi propaganda film, made in 1938. One of those movies full of Nazi banners, gleeful crowds cheering for Hitler, and idyllic landscapes of Germany.

Their glasses of white wine, the whiskey and soda, and the platter of raw chopped meat arrived. Sandler took a swig of his drink and then began to feed Blondi pieces of the bloody meat. The hawk gobbled them down. Michael smelled the coppery aroma of the blood, and his own mouth watered.

“So, when’s the happy day?” Sandler asked, the fingers of his right hand smeared with crimson.