A Despicable Profession (8 page)

“Go test the merchandise, Captain,” said Ambrose with a friendly clap on the back. “We'll be back tomorrow at ten.”

I translated his remarks as Ambrose put the crate in the back of the truck and climbed in the cab.

“What the hell you do that for?” I said when we pulled away from the loading dock. “He tosses that grenade under the truck and the whole crate goes up and us with it.”

“He won't,” said Ambrose.

I checked the side view mirror. Schultouer was climbing down from the loading dock, the grenade clutched to his chest. I watched him cross the alley with small quick steps. Ambrose stared straight ahead. He wasn't going to look.

“I don't know,” I said and lugged into third, slowing our progress. I pretended to study the side view mirror. “Our Gestapo Captain is rearing back with that grenade like Bob Waterfield looking to go deep.”

Ambrose stiffened ever so slightly. I downshifted and stalled out. Ambrose shot me a panicked look. I cranked the ignition without depressing the clutch.

“Push the feckin' pedal!”

I nodded dumbly and pushed the feckin' pedal. It would happen right...about...KA-BLAMMO!

Ambrose bent over and covered his head with his arms and kissed his ass goodbye. I engaged the clutch and drove on, whistling a little tune.

The Irishman's head popped up, he checked his side view. I watched what he watched. An abandoned Volkswagen spewing smoke and flame.

“Guess he changed his mind about where to toss that grenade.”

“I owe you one arsehole,” said Ambrose in reply.

We returned to the Soviet checkpoint the following morning in the delivery truck. It was raining again. Hard. Sideways. And me with no coat. The windshield wiper on the driver's side didn't work so Ambrose was acting as my seeing eye dog.
Slow down. Turn here.
Like that.

We had the same crate of grenades in the truck bed. Also a few trade samples to further whet Schultouer's appetite. A Browning automatic rifle, light and heavy mortars, even a 3.5 inch armor-piercing bazooka. All boxed and crated. All new, all clean.

The guardhouse at the checkpoint wasn't empty this time. A sentry with a rifle slung over his shoulder stepped out as we pulled up. Not what I wanted to see. Ambrose rolled down his window.

“We're delivering groceries,” he said and gave the address of the grocery store.

The sentry didn't understand. He did know one word of English however. “Passports!”

I breathed a sigh of relief. This wasn't an inspection it was a shakedown. Berlin was still an open city, governed by the four powers. We were not crossing an international border, a passport was not required. I slipped a five dollar bill into mine and handed it to Ambrose to hand to the sentry.

The sentry opened the passport, pocketed the five and handed it back. He wore three watches on his wrist. One bore the likeness of a popular cartoon mouse. I started to drive off. The sentry jumped on the running board and said something angry.

I stopped the truck. “Show him your passport Ambrose.”

“Don't have one.”

“Then how did you...never mind.”

I tried using Deutsch to explain that my colleague had left his passport at home. I tried hand gestures. I tried another fin. Nothing doing.

“Passport!”

That we didn't need passports to enter was beside the point. “Give him your wristwatch Ambrose.”

“Bloody hell!”

“Give it to him.”

“It's a family heirloom!”

“It's brand new.”

“Cost me ten quid!”

“Give it to him.”

Ambrose unpeeled the braided leather wristband furiously. It was a nice piece, rimmed in gold. He tossed it to the sidewalk in disgust. The sentry scrambled after it as we drove into the Soviet Sector in a sideways rain. Harold and Ambrose, the timeless twins.

Ambrose guide-dogged me down the narrow streets of the Soviet Sector, stewing about his watch, jaw muscles clenching.

“If you're thinkin' that this meet might be a good time to get me back for yesterday, think again,” I said. “This is too important.”

“Slow down and turn right. You just passed the market.”

I turned right, and right again, down the cluttered alleyway. We passed the burnt out VW. The grocery store loading dock took shape beyond the rainy windshield. I pulled up and tooted the horn. No one appeared. I leaned on the horn. Likewise.

Had we cheesed off Herr Schultouer by handing him a live grenade as a going away present? You bet. Enough to keep the former Gestapo Captain from taking us up on our once-in-a-lifetime offer? Not likely.

I sounded the horn again and got a very prompt response. Two tarp-covered troop trucks flying Red Army flags approached from both ends of the alley.

“What now Chief?”

“Not sure.”

The troop trucks closed in at a stately pace. Why not? We had no escape route. One question blurred across the rainy windshield. Why would Horst Schultouer, a Red-hating Nazi, rat us out?

I considered our options. They were two. Make a run for it through the back door of the grocery store that was doubtless locked and bolted or sit tight and attempt to explain to the Red Army why our grocery truck was carrying an armor-piercing bazooka.

Our options, more accurately, were zero. Poor Ambrose. He hadn't been properly introduced to the game. I had given him the basic lay but he wouldn't be prepared for this. He wouldn't understand why I had to shoot him in the head before I ate my gun.

My fault. My fault entirely.

The Red Army troop trucks stopped in front and in back of us, a hundred feet away. A man in full combat dress climbed out of the truck in front. He was a large man, it took him a while. Soldiers piled out of the trucks and stood behind him. Lots of soldiers. The big man strode forward in a deliberate manner. His troops followed.

I waited for inspiration to strike. I am well known for my ability to improvise a solution to a crisis at the last possible moment, famous even. So where the hell was it? The only sad shred of a plan I could glim was...I came to at the sound of a crowbar prying wood.

Ambrose jumped back into the cab a moment later with an armful of grenades. He dumped some in my lap, dumped more onto the floorboard in front of him and pulled the pins on the two in his hands.

“Hard to argue with a live grenade,” he said with a grin.

Well. So much for Ambrose not being prepared. His suggestion wasn't the sadass plan I'd been mulling – take the
big man hostage somehow, try to back out of the Soviet Sector. His suggestion was clear and clean. Go out, flags flying, in a blaze of glory.

“Who is this now?” said Ambrose.

I followed his look to see a big white fancy car, a Rolls Royce or a Bentley, honking its way up the alley, a Union Jack flying from its radio antenna. The big man and his soldiers turned to look.

It was a Rolls not a Bentley, the big white car that squeezed past the troop truck in front of us. The Soviet soldiers raised their bolt-action carbines but their superior barked a command and they stood down. The Rolls Royce came to a stop.

The man at the wheel wore a chauffeur's cap. The rear deck of the land yacht had darkened windows. Time crawled to a standstill as we waited for its occupant to make an appearance. The chauffeur climbed out, opened an umbrella and opened the rear door. The rain slackened, right on cue.

A puff of smoke preceded him. A tall raffish pipe-smoking gent of middle years stood to his feet. He wore a brightly striped tie. He wore other clothes too – Navy blue blazer with an emblem on the pocket, pleated slacks – but the tie was what you noticed.

He looked at Ambrose and me and gave us a cheery wave. I waved back.

The tall Brit greeted the big Soviet commander like a long lost friend. They shared a laugh. The Brit whipped out a stack of tickets of some kind. Soldiers clustered around. The Brit held the ducats above his head against their outstretched arms like Father Christmas with a fistful of candy canes.

Ambrose and I turned to one another, and shrugged.

The tall Brit handed the stack of tickets to the big Russian and headed in our direction. I looked down at the grenades in my lap, the cluster on the floorboard and the two in the hands of Ambrose, pins pulled. Too late for housekeeping. We were at the mercy of this pipe-smoking Brit who chugged up to our delivery truck like an ore train, a puff of smoke at every step.

He leaned into the driver's side window and showed no reaction to the mess of pineapples strewn about.

“Colonel John Norwood, pleasure to make your acquaintance.” He addressed Ambrose. “I'd shake hands but I see you're otherwise occupied.” He took a puff of pipe tobacco. “Follow me out. Stay close.”

Colonel Norwood returned to the Russian commander and held a brief intense conversation. The Russian looked stern, unconvinced. Ambrose and I held our collective breath. The Colonel leaned into the Russian with a whispered comment. The big Russian's face froze.

Norwood patted the commander on the shoulder, gave the troops a regal wave and resumed his hand-stitched leather seat in the only Rolls Royce I had ever seen outside the pages of
AutoCar.

And then we drove away, Ambrose and I. Drove away from the puny grocery store loading dock in the Soviet Sector, site of our certain and gruesome demise. I can't say for certain that the clouds parted and the sun shone at that particular moment, but that's the way I remember it.

We followed the Rolls west toward the British Sector. The chauffeur took pity on us, driving slowly as I nursed the delivery truck along in fits and starts. The fuel gauge said half-f but it felt like we were cruising on fumes. We stopped at a red light at the intersection of
Spandauer
and
Unter den Linden,
the main drag. The beat down, blown up Berlin Cathedral was a block to our left.

“Throw it in neutral and floor it,” said Ambrose.

“Why's that?”

“I smell gas. Could be a clogged fuel line. You need to blow it out.”

I did as instructed. The truck revved and shuddered and farted a fat black cloud out the tailpipe, then settled back into a steady thrum. I pulled out at the green. We were about to cross the Spree and enter the British Sector when Ambrose, hefting
the live grenades he held in either hand, asked a pertinent question.

“What should I do with these?”

I waited till we were on the bridge. The cab of the truck was a good vantage point. No pedestrians, no boats in the river. “Toss ‘em!”

Ambrose tossed the grenade in his right hand into the river where it exploded with a muffled
whomp.

He glanced ahead. “Slow down, you'll rear end him!”

I braked and returned my eyes to the road. Braked too hard apparently because Ambrose pitched forward with a live grenade still in his left hand.

And then it wasn't.

It was rattling around on the floorboard amidst the nest of other grenades.
Jesus H. Christ on a crutch
I thought as I watched Ambrose frantically sorting through the pineapples that were about to blow us all to kingdom come,
a silly end to a stupid life!

Ambrose finally dug out the live grenade and cocked his arm to pitch it out the window.

But he did not. He made a face and said, “Ow. My arm is sore.”

The grenade he held had its pin in place.

Ha ha. Very funny. I floored the delivery truck to catch up to the disappearing Rolls. Ambrose had tossed the second grenade when I was tromping on the brakes.

“And now we're even. Arsehole.”

Ambrose settled back with a smug smile. We followed the Rolls west, then north through the central city. We left the British Sector and entered the French. The neighborhood got gritty, industrial. I would have followed the Colonel to the Arctic Circle at this point but it seemed an odd way to go.

“Where the feck are we?” said Ambrose. “I figured this toff for a big mansion on a hill.”

The Rolls signaled a right turn on
Ernststraße,
a brick street of machine shops on one side and modest homes on the other. We drove a quarter mile and then slowed before a two story chalet on a double lot with a high hedge in front. We followed the Rolls down a short gravel driveway with an ivy-covered arbor overhead. The lot was deep, with another two story building in back, sheltered by trees.

The Rolls Royce came to a stop. Colonel Norwood opened his own door. The chauffeur opened the door of the one-car garage. I put the truck in park.

“Come up, dear boys, come up,” called the Colonel as he pounded up the steep wooden staircase at the rear of the chalet.

We did so. Leaving behind a delivery truck littered with enough weaponry to overthrow a Balkan republic.

Colonel Norwood's chalet was full to bursting. Oriental carpets topped with throw rugs, portraits of British royalty hung next to Arab tapestries, a cactus plant in an orange pot sitting on a cracked leather ottoman next to a jade Buddha atop a display cabinet that held a bullet-riddled cavalry canteen, a rusty bayonet, a yellowed
Citation of Merit,
a cut glass crystal bowl inscribed with the royal seal on a purple display pillow and, on the top shelf of the cabinet, a cedar humidor with a gold plate that bore the initials W.L.S.C. A lot of stuff to haul to a foreign posting. It looked like the Colonel planned to stay awhile.

“Recognize the initials?” said the Colonel off the humidor.

“No sir.”

“Winston Leonard Spencer Churchill. A going away memento,” said Norwood, seating himself on a chesterfield loosely covered with a hunk of Chinese silk. Brocade I think they call it, red and gold dragons. He smushed the silk cover into the corners of the couch and tapped out his pipe on a stray saucer on the coffee table.

“Where's your friend?”