A Despicable Profession (32 page)

Patrick thunk himself cross-eyed. “I do?”

Anna was standing on the sidewalk, watching Sean deposit a rolled-up corpse at the curb with one eye and looking a question to me with the other. I stifled a yawn. Not to worry.

“You're the key to this operation, Patrick. When Sean and I go upstairs to spring Ambrose you, Patrick Mooney, are the last line of defense. It's a big job. Can you handle it?”

Patrick grinned, jauntily. “Damn straight.”

I squeezed his arm. “Good. I knew I could count on you. The Mooney brothers are stand up guys. Each and every one of you.”

What the hell was Sean doing, saying a Requiem Mass? I was running out of bullshit.

“Have you got your .38?”

“Yes sir,” said Patrick, craning his neck, itching to go see what his brother was up to.

“You know your duties and responsibilities?”

“Yes sir.”

I was about to ask if he had donned clean socks and underwear when I heard the blessed rattle of the truck gate closing. “Okay, time to go.”

I pulled Patrick into the cab. He jumped into the back to join his brother. I leaned over and opened the door for Anna. She
climbed in and sat erect in the passenger's seat, her hands folded primly in her lap.

I lit the truck, let the pistons and motor oil get reacquainted and said, as I geared into reverse, “We're off. Off to show Joe Stalin and the Communist Party what a group of can-do Yanks can do!”

The Mooney's war whoops covered the sound I felt through the soles of my feet. A sickening crunch, a snap. I pictured clearly what I had backed over. The old man's ankles dangling from the curb. Had I severed his feet from his legs? Or were they still connected by mangled tendons and shattered bones? If so they wouldn't be for long. I had to pull forward to get this adventure underway.

“What was that?” said Patrick as I pulled away from the curb with another crunching thud. No one had the heart to tell him.

My old man was a melancholy German, the polar opposite of his jolly brother Jorg. But he could surprise you. He gave me a book for my fourteenth birthday. “The Power of Positive Thinking” by Norman Vincent Peale. It was hokey but I read it cover to cover. And was glad I did.

“That was just a bump in the road Patrick. Look to the future, think happy thoughts. That's my philosophy boys and girls. Accentuate the positive, e-liminate the negative, and don't mess with Mister In-between!”

We had smooth sailing as we drove north on
Bundesallee.
The streets were empty at the late hour, electric power stations shut down for the night. The only sign of life the occasional candle flickering in a dirty window, three floors up. I kept thinking about the old man with the crushed ankles despite myself. A happy portent for the night ahead.

We drove in silence, Anna next to me in the passenger's seat, the boys standing in the back, hanging onto angle-iron brackets where the delivery truck's shelf racks used to be.

I turned east on a side street, no sense parading down the Kudamm. Shadowy figures who were stripping a panel truck melted into the darkness as we rumbled by. I rolled down my window to make sure I was hearing what I heard. The far off
hoo hah, hoo hah
of a siren. An ambulance or a fire truck, no cause for alarm.

I said so aloud and plowed east toward the Soviet Sector, dodging rubble and bucking through bomb craters, looking for a way back to the Ku-damm, not wanting to blow a tire on this ill-advised detour. I am, it must be acknowledged, one hellaciously bad commanding officer. I hadn't determined if we had a functional spare.

I found my way north to
der Kurfürstendamm
and stopped. Something was up. Two sirens were sounding now, in counterpoint, one near, one far. I looked out the windshield for signs of a fiery glow on the horizon. Sean and Patrick were clustered behind me now. Anna leaned forward. The Berlin sky was black.

I drove east on the Ku-damm, nervous as a tick. Not good. A strong leader radiates confidence at all times. Say something, Schroeder. Lighten the mood.

“Good news, gentlemen, Anna and I made a baby. And not the way you're thinking. Show the boys our bundle of joy dearheart.”

Anna put her hand to her mouth. “Oh!”

“You don't have him? You forgot Hal Jr.?”

Anna tittered at my wide-eyed panic. She hooked her thumb. “Hal is in back.” She put her cheek to her palm. “Sleeping.”

Oh,
ha.
A hook and ladder truck, siren blaring, sped past. I relaxed my death grip on the steering wheel.

“Okay, listen up.”

I checked the side view mirror, caught a pair of headlights a block or two back. Now what?

“We're listening Chief,” said Sean.

“Hard,” said Patrick.

I curbed the truck and turned to face them and waited for the wash of headlights and the whoosh of tires. The trailing car passed without slowing.

“Okay, once we have the booth guard in hand Patrick hides himself in a setback to the right of the booth, by the staircase door.”

“What am I looking for?”

“Ignore any routine comings and goings, which should be few at this hour. But if a buncha Russian soldiers come running, give us a shout.”

“And what's my assignment?” said Sean.

“Keep your mouth shut and follow me around. Any questions?”

None. I shoved the truck in gear and headed east. The Kudamm took us south of the Zoo Garten then swung southeast to Potsdammer Platz, where we crossed the Soviet checkpoint without incident. Nobody home. I noticed something different in
the Soviet Sector. Streetlights. The Reds had round-the-clock juice.

I turned northeast and down a hill, toward the narrow Muhlendamm Bridge over the Spree. The truck's fuel gauge dropped from half a tank to almost empty somewhere along in there. Great.

We crossed the bridge, drove north for a dozen blocks and turned left on a two-lane boulevard that had been recently renamed. I knew that because the street sign read
Karl Marx Allee.
We were north of the Armory now.

I drove west till I found
Blummenstraße
and nudged the truck southward down the side street with the grassy median overgrown with shrubs. The Soviet Armory was on the other side of the block. I chugged fifty yards past the entry gate, parked the truck and killed the engine.

“Patrick, front and center.”

He stuck his head in the cab.

“Go hide behind that clump of bushes back there, on the median. Watch the sentry booth. If the guard's sleeping it off report back immediately. If he's awake observe him for one minute to determine how alert he is. Watch for any signs of activity in the quadrangle. Repeat what I just told you.”

Patrick did so. “Good. Now go.”

I opened the door and stood on the running board. Patrick climbed past me and scampered to his observation point with shoulders hunched and head swiveling, just as I had done a thousand times behind enemy lines.

I got back in and ran details with Sean. He was to snap the pictures of whatever machine gun emplacements had been put in place to welcome the Committee to Free Berlin. He wasn't to fire his weapon unless I was dead. I showed him how to work the camera.

A breathless Patrick appeared at my elbow. “There's no one there.”

“At the booth?”

“Yes. Nobody!”

“Probably in the can. Resume your post and report back in five”

“Yes sir.”

He took orders well, the tall redhead, tripping back to his clump of shrubs like a kid at scout camp. Would his brother do likewise? Patrick was dumb and reckless, which was fine. Big brother Ambrose was smart and reckless. Even better. But middle brother Sean, he was thoughtful. Not what you look for in a soldier.

Patrick appeared at my elbow in five minutes time. “The booth's empty, the quadrangle's empty. Not a bleedin' soul.”

This wasn't good news. The guard was more asset than liability. I wanted his key ring, I wanted him as a hostage going in.

“Return to your post. Give it another three, give me a wave if he shows.”

“Yes sir.”

“What's it mean Chief?” said Sean, crouched behind my shoulder.

“Damned if I know.”

“You smell a trap?”

“I don't see how.”

“Then shouldn't we, you know, go now?”

“I'll do the thinking Sean.”

Smart people are such a pain in the ass. He was right of course. I could jimmy the door while the boys kept watch, get the drop on the jailer and use his cell door key. It was better than sitting here waiting for Russian MPs to jeep by and give us a cold once over.

Dammit all to hell, why does it never, under any circumstances, work out as planned!? I watched Patrick watching the sentry booth as two minutes ticked into three. The booth guard didn't show.

“Anna,” I said, wagging the steering wheel to and fro, “can you drive a truck?”

“I can drive tractor.”

“Close enough. What time do you have?” I pointed to her wristwatch. She showed me. 0355. I pointed to the six on her watch face.

“If we have not returned by this time, four-thirty, drive to Dahlem and tell Victor Jacobson what has happened. Do you understand?”

“Four-thirty, Dahlem” said Anna coolly, just the slightest flicker of fear in her eyes. “Victor Jacobson.”

“That's right, that's good.”

Patrick appeared at my elbow again, his face sheathed in sweat. “No one, nobody.”

“Anna, lock the doors and hide in back. And crack open your window so the windshield doesn't fog.”

I demonstrated on the driver's side window. She did the same on her side, and mustered a smile both brave and sad. It was a moment I would remember. Anna didn't know what the hell was going on, yet she was game for what came and hang the consequence. I leaned over and kissed her on the lips. Hard.

My kiss was welcomed. But when I puckered up to say something she put her fine fingers to my lips. She knew the rules better than I did. Tender sentiment before combat is bad luck.

I jacked open the truck door and stepped out. “Guns in your pockets gentlemen. Walk don't run.”

We stopped at the clump of bushes and took a look. No sign of life. I fished out my pick set. “Make yourselves small, wait for my signal. If you spot someone coming toss a rock at me.”

I crossed the street and checked the glass booth. A half drunk mug of tea sat on a small desk next to a spread-eagled newspaper. I surveyed the quadrangle. No one in the courtyard but all the upstairs windows were lit. The ones on the north side,
the barracks windows. What the hell? Not even Marines rolled out at 0400.

I moved to the setback and attacked the door to the staircase and the detention cells upstairs. It had a key knob lockset that surrendered without a fight. Also a rim lock, a deadbolt separate from the doorknob. The rim lock was not engaged. The door opened.

I waved the Mooney brothers over. Patrick crossed in a hurry, Sean paused to dust himself off. I showed Patrick his spot in front of the set back door.

“On your mush, bo.” Patrick got down on his belly to peer around the corner at the courtyard. “Sean, follow me.”

He did so, dragging a raggedy trail of unasked questions up the dark concrete staircase. Why was the guard booth empty? Why are the barrack's windows lit? Why wasn't the door bolted shut? I had no answers for him.

I stopped two steps shy of the second floor corridor. It was dimly lit. I leaned forward, put my left cheek to the gritty floor, saw no one. The jailer's station stood at the far end of the hall – a high desk with a crook neck reading lamp, still lit. I turned my head the other direction. We were alone and unsupervised. Things were going far too well.

I got my Walther in hand and stood up. Sean and I scuttled right, down the corridor, past the machine gun emplacements in the south-facing windows, mounts and sand bags in place, guns absent. Sean stopped to snap pictures.

I checked the detention cells on the north side of the corridor. They wouldn't keep Ambrose in a cell that faced the street. The first two were empty. The third held a sleeping heavyset man who stank of vomit.

I approached the fourth and last cell on the balls of my feet, barely breathing, sick to death. I had scarcely given Ambrose a passing thought in the mad run-up to this moment. No time, didn't want to. There would be time enough for guilt. A lifetime
of guilt and mortification of the flesh if Ambrose wasn't alive and kicking in the next cell.

He wasn't.

Or was he? I shone my penlight again. It must be a talent peculiar to the Mooney brothers, the ability to burrow into a cot and disappear. I saw only the back of a coppery head of hair.

“Ambrose,” I hissed, my pulse thudding against my temples. “Ambrose!”

He didn't stir. I dug out my pick set and set to work on the cell door, which was something like trying to pry open a drawbridge with a toothpick. My folding knife didn't work any better. Damn lock was medieval.

“This might help,” said Sean.

He was standing behind me, the smartass, holding the ring of keys I should have looked for at the jailer's station.

“Good thinking.” I took the ring of keys and got lucky on the third try.

I pushed in, eager to rouse Ambrose and get him down the stairs. But Sean put a finger to his lips and crept closer to his brother, who was snugged down into the mattress like a hot dog in a bun. Sean sat a haunch on the cot's thin railing and smiled down at the sleeping figure.

“Get your lazy arse down to the sacristy!” he said in a lilting high-pitched voice. “Father Macahey can't celebrate Mass all by himself, now can he?”

No response. Sean shook his shoulder. “Ambey? You okay?”

Ambrose didn't move. Sean turned to me, his face ashen. I played along, looked stricken. When Sean turned back his brother was sitting up. He was pale and hollow-cheeked but his eyes were bright.