Authors: Jeffery Deaver
“Now, follow me.” The man picked up the carton. When Paul hesitated he whispered, “Ach, you’re thinking, how can you possibly trust me? You don’t know me at all. But, sir, I would say that under the circumstances the real question is, how can you
not
trust me? Still, it’s your choice. You have about ten seconds to decide.” He laughed. “Doesn’t that always seem to be the way? The more important the decision, the less the time to make it.” He walked to a door, fiddled with a key and unlocked it. He glanced back. Paul followed. They stepped into a storeroom and the German swung the door shut and locked it. Watching through the greasy window, Paul saw the band of Stormtroopers step into the alley, look around, then continue on.
The room was densely packed with boxes and crates, dusty bottles of wine. The man paused, nodding to a carton. “Take that. It will be a prop for our storytelling. And perhaps a profitable one too.”
Paul looked at the man angrily. “I could have left my clothes and the gun in your warehouse here. I didn’t have to throw them out.”
The man jutted out his lower lip. “Ach, yes, except that this isn’t exactly
my
warehouse. Now, that carton. Please, sir, we must hurry.” Paul set the satchel on top, hefted the box and followed. They emerged into a dusty front room. The man glanced out the filthy window. He began to open the door.
“Wait,” Paul said. He touched his cheek; the cut from the brass knuckles was bleeding slightly. He ran his hands over some dirty shelves and pat ted his face, covering the wound, and his jacket and slacks. The smudges would draw less attention than the blood.
“Good,” the German said and pushed the door wide. “You are now a sweaty laborer. And I will be your boss. This way.” He turned directly toward a cluster of three or four Stormtroopers, speaking to a woman who lounged against a street lamp, holding a tiny poodle on a red leash.
Paul hesitated.
“Come on. Don’t slow up.”
They were almost past the Brownshirts when one of them called to the two men, “You there, stop. We will see your papers.” One of his friends joined him and they stepped in front of Paul and the German. Seething that he’d given up his gun, Paul glanced to his side. The man from the alley frowned. “Ach, our cards, yes, yes. I am very sorry, gentlemen. You must understand we’re forced to work today, as you can see.” A nod toward the cartons. “It was unplanned. An urgent delivery.”
“You must carry your card with you at all times.”
Paul said, “We are only going a short way.”
“We are looking for a large man in a gray suit and brown hat. He is armed. Have you seen anyone like that?”
A consulting glance. “No,” Paul said.
The second Brownshirt patted both the German and Paul for weapons then grabbed the satchel and opened it, glanced inside. He lifted out the copy of
Mein Kampf.
Paul could see the bulge where the Russian passport and rubles were hidden.
The German from the alley said quickly, “Nothing of interest in there. But now I recall that we
do
have our identification. Look in my man’s carton.”
The Brownshirts glanced at each other. The one holding Hitler’s book tossed it back inside, set the satchel down and ripped open the top of the carton that Paul held.
“As you can see, we are the Bordeaux Brothers.”
A Brownshirt laughed, and the German continued. “But you can never be too sure. Perhaps you should take two of those with you for verification.”
Several bottles of red wine were lifted out. The Stormtroopers waved the men on. Paul picked up the satchel and they continued up the street.
Two blocks farther on, the German nodded across the street. “In there.” The place he indicated appeared to be a nightclub decorated with Nazi flags. A wooden sign read:
The Aryan Café.
“Are you mad?” Paul asked.
“Have I been right so far, my friend? Please, inside. It’s the safest place to be. Dung-shirts aren’t welcome here, nor can they afford it. As long as you haven’t beaten any SS officers or senior Party officials, you’ll be safe…. You haven’t, have you?”
Paul shook his head. He reluctantly followed the man inside. He saw immediately what the man meant about the price of admission. A sign said:
$20 U.S./40 DM.
Jesus, he thought. The ritziest place he went to in New York, the Debonair Club, had a five-buck cover.
How much dough did he have on him? That was nearly half the money Morgan had given him. But the doorman looked up and recognized the mustachioed German. He nodded the men inside without charging them.
They pushed through a curtain into a small dark bar, cluttered with antiques and artifacts, movie posters, dusty bottles. “Otto!” the bartender called, shaking the man’s hand.
Otto set his carton on the bar and gestured for Paul to do the same with his.
“I thought you were delivering one case only.”
“My comrade here helped me carry a second one, ten bottles only in his. So that makes the total seventy marks now, does it not?”
“I asked for one case. I need only one case. I will pay for only one case.”
As the men dickered, Paul focused on the loud words coming from a large radio behind the bar.
“… modern science has found myriad ways to protect the body from disease and yet if you don’t apply those simple rules of hygiene, you can fall greatly ill. With our foreign visitors in town, it is likely that there may be new strains of infection, so it is vital to keep in mind rules of sanitation.”
Otto finished the negotiation, apparently to his satisfaction, and glanced out the window. “They’re still there, prowling. Let us have a beer. I will let you buy me one.” He noticed Paul looking at the radio, which no one in the bar seemed to be paying attention to, despite the high volume. “Ach, you like the deep voice of our propaganda minister? It’s dramatic, yes? But to see him, he’s a runt. I have contacts all over Wilhelm Street, all the government buildings. They call him ‘Mickey Mouse’ behind his back. Let us go in the back. I can’t stand the droning. Every establishment must have a radio to broadcast the Party leaders’ speeches and must turn the sound up when they are transmitting. It’s illegal not to. Here they keep the radio up front to satisfy the rules. The real club is in the back rooms. Now, do you like men or women?”
“What?”
“Men or women? Which do you prefer?”
“I’m not interested in—”
“I understand, but since we must wait for the Brownshirts to grow tired of their pursuit, please tell me: Which would you rather look at while we have the beer you’ve so generously agreed to buy me? Men dancing as men, men dancing as women or women dancing as themselves?”
“Women.”
“Ach, me too. It’s illegal to be a homosexual in Germany now. But you would be surprised how many National Socialists seem to enjoy one another’s company for reasons other than discussing rightist politics. This way.” He pushed through a blue velvet curtain.
The second room was for men who enjoyed women, it seemed. They sat down at a rickety wicker table in the black-painted room, decorated with Chinese lanterns, paper streamers and animal trophies, as dusty as the Nazi flags hanging from the ceiling.
Paul handed back the canvas cap; it disappeared into the man’s pocket with the others. “Thanks.”
Otto nodded. “Ach, what are friends for?” He looked for a waiter or waitress.
“I’ll be back in a moment.” Paul rose and went to the lavatory. He washed the smudges and blood off his face and combed his hair back with lotion, which shortened and darkened it, making him appear somewhat different from the man the Brownshirts were seeking. His cheek was not badly cut but a bruise had formed around it. He stepped out of the washroom and slipped backstage. He found the dressing room for performers. A man sat at the far end, smoking a cigar and reading a newspaper. He didn’t pay any attention as Paul dipped his finger into a pot of makeup. Returning to the lavatory he smoothed the cosmetic over the bruise. He had some experience with makeup; all good boxers knew the importance of concealing injuries from their opponents.
He returned to the table, where he found Otto gesturing toward the waitress, a pretty, dark-haired young woman. But she was busy and the man sighed in irritation. He turned back, regarding Paul closely. “Now, you are obviously not from here because you know nothing of our ‘culture.’ I’m speaking of the radio. And of the dung-shirts, whom you would not have antagonized by fighting had you been a German. But your language is perfect. The faintest of accents. And not French or Slav or Spanish. What breed of dog are you?”
“I appreciate the help, Otto. But some matters I’ll keep to myself.”
“No matter. I’ve decided you’re American or English. Probably American. I know from your movies—the way you make your sentences… Yes, you are American. Who else would have a troop of dung-shirts after him but a brash American with big balls? You are from the land of heroic cowboys, who take on a tribe of Indians alone. Where
is
that waitress?” He looked about, smoothing his mustache. “Now, introductions. I am presenting myself to you. Otto Wilhelm Friedrich Georg Webber. And you?… But perhaps you wish to keep your name to yourself.”
“I think that’s wiser.”
Webber chuckled. “So you beat up three of them and earned the endless affection of the Brownshirts and the bitch brood?”
“The what?”
“Hitler Youth. The boys scurrying among the legs of the Stormtroopers.” Webber eyed Paul’s red knuckles. “You perhaps enjoy the boxing matches, Mr. Nameless? You look like an athlete. I can get you Olympic tickets. There are none left, as you know. But I can get them. Day seats, good ones.”
“No thanks.”
“Or I can get you into one of the Olympic parties. Max Schmeling will be at some.”
“Schmeling?” Paul raised an eyebrow. He admired Germany’s most successful heavyweight champ and had been in the bleachers at Yankee Stadium just last month to see the bout between Schmeling and Joe Louis. Shocking everyone, Schmeling knocked out the Brown Bomber in the twelfth round. The evening had cost Paul $608, eight for the ticket and the six C-notes for the bum bet.
Webber continued. “He will be there with his wife. She is so beautiful. Anny Ondra. An actress, you know. You will have a truly memorable evening. It would be quite expensive but I can arrange it. You need a dinner jacket, of course. I can provide that too. For a small fee.”
“I’ll pass.”
“Ach,” Webber muttered, as if Paul had made the mistake of his life.
The waitress stopped at their table and she stood close to Paul, smiling down at him. “I am Liesl. Your name is?”
“Hermann,” Paul said.
“You would like what?”
“Beers for us both. A Pschorr for me.”
“Ach,” Webber said, sneering at the choice. “Berlin lager for me. Bottom- fermented. A large.” When she glanced at him her look was cool, as if he’d recently stiffed her on a check.
Liesl gazed into Paul’s eyes a moment longer then offered a flirtatious smile and walked to another table.
“You have an admirer, Mr. Not-Hermann. Pretty, yes?”
“Very.”
Webber winked. “If you like, I can—”
“No,” Paul said firmly.
Webber raised an eyebrow and turned his attention to the stage, where a topless woman gyrated. She had loose disks of breasts and flabby arms, and even from a distance Paul could see creases around her mouth, which kept up a fierce smile as she moved to the scratchy sound of a gramophone.
“There is no live music here now, in the afternoon,” Webber explained. “But at night they have good bands. Brass… I love brass. I have a gramophone disk I play often. The great British bandleader, John Philip Sousa.”
“Sorry to tell you: He’s American.”
“No!”
“It’s true.”
“What a country that must be, America. They have such wonderful cinema and millions of motorcars, I hear. And now I learn they have John Philip Sousa too.”
Paul watched the waitress approach, slim hips rocking back and forth. Liesl set the beers down. She’d put on fresh perfume, it seemed, in the three or four minutes she’d been away. She smiled at Paul and he grinned back then glanced at the check. Not familiar with German currency and not wishing to draw attention to himself fumbling with coins, Paul gave her a five-mark note, which was about two bucks, four bits, he guessed.
Liesl took the difference to be a tip and thanked him heartily, gripping his hand in both of hers. He was afraid she’d kiss him. He didn’t know how to ask for the rest of the money back and decided to put the loss down to a lesson about German customs. With another adoring glance, Liesl left the table then instantly grew sullen at the prospect of waiting on other tables. Webber clinked his stein against Paul’s and both men drank deeply.
Webber eyed Paul closely and said, “So. What kind of cons do you run?”
“Cons?”
“When I first saw you in the alley, with that gun, I thought: Ach, he’s no Soci or Kosi—”
“What?”
“Soci—a Social Democrat. It used to be a big political party until it was outlawed. Kosis are the Communists. They’re not only outlawed; they’re dead. No, I knew you were not an agitator. You were one of us, a con runner, an artist-of-dark-dealings.” He glanced around the room. “Don’t worry. As long as we’re quiet it’s safe to talk. No microphones here. No Party loyalty either, not inside these walls. After all, a man’s dick is always more reliable than his conscience and National Socialists have no consciences to start with.” Webber persisted: “So what kind of cons?”
“I don’t do cons. I came over for the Olympics.”
“You did?” He winked. “There must be a new event this year that I’ve not heard of.”
“I’m a sportswriter.”
“Ach, a writer… yet one who fights Brownshirts, keeps his name to himself, walks around with a peashooter of a Luger, changes clothes to avoid pursuers. And then slicks back his hair and puts on pancake.” Webber tapped his own cheek and smiled knowingly.
“I happened to run into some Stormtroopers attacking this couple. I stopped them. As for the Luger, it was one of theirs. I stole it.”
“Yes, yes, so you say…. Do you know Al Capone?”