Spoils of Victory (16 page)

M
ason had the accelerator pinned to the floorboard and shifted gears like a race car driver, but try as he might the jeep was no match for the supercharged, two-hundred-horsepower Mercedes. Laura had a quarter-mile lead, and was continuing to widen the gap, when she took a sharp turn and disappeared from view.

Abrams checked his pistol as if expecting trouble. “Who are we chasing? How many guys?”

“It's my ex-girlfriend,” Mason said.

Abrams stopped what he was doing, looked at Mason, and holstered his pistol. “If you've got a beef with your ex, can you please settle it when you're off duty?”

Mason took the same sharp turn as Laura. The road straightened with a clear view ahead, but Laura was no longer in sight. Mason slowed the jeep and peered down each side street they passed.

“What the hell was she doing at the Kantos place?” Abrams asked.

“That's what I intend to ask once I catch up to her. She looked upset, whatever the reason.”

“Admit it, you lost her. Now, if you'd have let me drive—”

Laura's car came out of nowhere and swerved in front of them, the tires squealing as it did so. Mason gripped the steering wheel
and raced up on her tail, but Laura surged ahead. The two cars sped through the winding curves of Promenadestrasse, then Burgstrasse, heading north and toward the edge of town.

Mason shook his head. “If she wants me to follow her somewhere, she could have just said so.”

“She can drive; I'll give her that. I haven't met her yet, and I already like her.”

Laura made a hairpin turn onto a narrow street and took several more quick turns before pulling into the small parking lot of the Partenkirchen cemetery. She got out of the car, walked past the chapel, and headed for the cemetery park before Mason had a chance to come to a stop. There were no other cars in the lot, and the only other person in sight was an old woman trying to sweep away snow gathering under the chapel's portico.

Mason parked the jeep next to Laura's Mercedes, and they climbed out. As they walked across the parking lot, Abrams pulled his coat tight against the bitter wind that blew up the valley and scattered snow flurries that had started to fall. The two investigators entered a cemetery park divided into small squares and shallow rectangles and dotted with random clumps of trees.

Laura waited on a footpath to their right. She wore a tweed pantsuit under a beige wool overcoat.

“Secret Agent McKinnon,” Mason said, “this is my partner, Gil Abrams.”

Laura ignored the crack and held out her hand. Abrams shook it while sporting a grin big enough to dislocate his jaw.

“Okay, talk to me,” Mason said to Laura.

“You like to get right to the point, don't you?” Laura said.

“Laura.”

“Nothing to say about how I lost you then picked you up again?”

Abrams interjected, “I thought it was some pretty nifty driving, and I said so.”

Mason silenced Abrams with a stern look, then turned back to
Laura. “What were you doing at the Kantos house? How did you know about the murders?”

Laura suddenly looked past them to a man dressed in a black coat and hat who had just entered the cemetery. They all watched as the man headed down a footpath taking him to an area of bare-limbed trees. He stopped at a gravestone and bowed his head. Laura turned and walked in the opposite direction, prompting Mason and Abrams to follow her.

After a few steps, Laura said, “I was visiting some reporter friends of mine at the army press office when the call came in about the shooting at a residence on Hausbergstrasse.”

“And you suspected it was Eddie Kantos's house.”

Laura looked straight ahead as she nodded and chose another path at random.

“How do you know Kantos, and where he lived?” Mason asked.

“I told you I've spent months investigating the black market trade between Germany and Italy. That I disguised myself as an Italian and a Jewish refugee as a way of learning about the smuggling routes. Bolzano is one of the main points of distribution in Italy for smuggled goods and refugees. Most of the smugglers go through there at one time or another, and that's where I met Kantos through another contact.”

“Met him, meaning what?”

“I'd heard that Kantos was a big operator in the black market, arranging and coordinating smuggling routes through the French and British zones of Austria to Italy, and I wanted to interview him. I also heard he was helping the Jewish Brigade smuggle Jewish refugees to Palestine.”

“What's the Jewish Brigade?” Abrams asked.

Mason said, “They're Palestinian Jews who fought in the British Army, but a lot of them stayed on after the war to help smuggle Jewish refugees into Palestine.”

Laura nodded. “That's right. So, to get to Kantos, I posed as a
Palestinian Jewish journalist doing a story about non-Jews helping refugees reach Palestine. Kantos was a pretty fascinating guy.” She turned wistful. “He was a rugged, handsome man, a real-life adventurer: ruthless, dangerous, but with a soft spot for the Jewish refugee plight.”

Mason said to Abrams, “There's one thing you have to understand about Laura: She looks for ways to put her life on the line.” He turned back to Laura and said, “So, do tell us more about the wild desperado with a heart of gold. He must have made your heart go pitter-patter.”

Laura glanced at Mason and smiled, amused at his hint of jealousy. “Kantos was a major in the SOE, the British Army's Special Operations Executive. It was a clandestine espionage unit and conducted sabotage and raiding operations during the war. Kantos also participated in operations with French units of the SOE, and he was awarded medals by both countries. He used his hero status to gain special privileges from both the Brits and the French: travel passes, identity cards, even military escorts. And what he couldn't obtain through favors, he got through bribes or extortion.”

“How did you know where he lived in Garmisch if you only met him once in Italy?”

Laura said nothing as they walked around the maintenance building situated in the center of the cemetery.

“Did you learn it from the same man who introduced you to Kantos?” Mason asked.

“What difference does it make? The reason I brought you here and I'm telling you this is to warn you. I'm scared for you, and I'm scared for me. If they got to the Giessen gang
and
Kantos, then no one is safe, including you.”

“Then tell me who your source is. If he has a connection to any of these victims, then he could have important information. We need to talk to him.”

“I remember giving you my source in Munich, and he wound up dead.”

“If your source is associated with Kantos, then he's already a target. And if they can get to Kantos, they sure as hell can get to your man.”

Laura sighed and looked at the ground as they walked. “I should say no on principle, but the man is a creep. Willy Laufs. He runs a local small-time gang dealing in narcotics and prostitution.”

Abrams seemed enthralled with Laura, his eyes widening with each revelation of her story. “And you were able to find this guy and talk to him?”

“He approached me. A sucker for a nice pair of legs.” Laura stole a glance at Mason. “Don't worry, I was able to keep him at arm's length. He prefers adolescents, anyway. Of both sexes. He reportedly runs a brothel for high-end clients who share in his perverted tastes. I don't know where it is, but you shouldn't have any trouble finding it; some fancy villa on the west side of town.”

“We'll find it,” Abrams said.

Laura continued, “Willy's real value is his connections to the Sicilian mafia, mostly narcotics. He was a diplomat in the Nazis' Office of Foreign Affairs in Sicily, and that's where he made friends with the main crime families.”

Mason said to Abrams, “Laufs must have been the one to bring up the Italian who put a gun to my head at the Steinadler.”

Abrams whistled in amazement. “Then he works with Lucky Luciano's crew.”

Laura stopped when the idea sank in. “Who put a gun to your head?” she asked Mason. “And how many times does that make it now?”

“Don't worry about it,” Mason said. “Keep going.”

Laura shrugged and began walking again. “Willy's been a go-between for the crime families and Kantos and Giessen, not only for narcotics, but for every kind of black market commodity you can think of. He also facilitated the smuggling routes through Italy for Nazi war criminals.”

“Damn, Laura,” Mason said and shook his head. “You have a real death wish. Tell me those days are over.”

Laura stopped and put her hands on her hips. “How incredibly patronizing of you. Yes, I'm finished with this particular investigation, but that doesn't mean I'm tying on an apron and running barefoot in the kitchen. I'm not going to swear off my career just for your peace of mind.”

Mason and she had argued like this before, and he knew her better than she thought. “Bullshit. You're still not done putting your life at risk, despite telling me you're scared. You need the excitement. You're addicted to the thrills. That's why you just
happened
to decide on Garmisch to write up your articles.”

Laura's expression softened as she looked at him for a moment. “Maybe.” She smiled. “Here we are again. In the thick of it, you and I. You must know that's why I found you so attractive.”

“Laura, this isn't a game.”

“You let me worry about that. I've taken some big risks in my time—”

“Yes, I know. . . . You've crossed glaciers and ridden in open bombers at twenty thousand feet.”

“Let's talk about you for a second. Let's talk about how
you
love to put your life at risk. You charge in like an enraged bull, even if it means putting the people who love you in danger.” Laura stepped around him and headed for the cemetery exit. Mason remained behind as he absorbed Laura's words.

Abrams caught up to her. “Do you have any idea who killed Kantos or Giessen?”

“No,” Laura said. “Do you?”

“All we can figure is they knew each other, because the killers got the drop on the bodyguards and Kantos.”

Mason charged forward and said to Abrams, “Radio in and have some MPs pick up Laufs. Tell them to sit on him until we get back to HQ.”

Abrams quickened his pace and headed for the jeep. Mason stepped in front of Laura again to stop her. “For your sake, stop nosing around.
Anyone even suspected of having the wrong information dies. Go home. Type up your articles and keep out of sight. I don't know who's next on the list.”

Laura acted more excited than fearful at that prospect. “Mason, you've got to let me in on this. I promise I won't stick my neck out too far, but I'm going to stay involved with or without you. If it's with you, then we both have a better chance of getting what we want.” She waited. “Well?”

Mason resisted parsing her words about getting what they both want. He looked in her eyes and saw reflected back the same feeling of excitement that drove him to the edge—the thrill of the chase. The very thing that had brought them together and pushed them apart. There was no way he could stop her. She would do exactly what she wanted. Finally he said, “So far, it's more questions than answers, conjecture, innuendos.” He then told her about Winstone and Hilda, what he'd found out about them while probing into the circumstances of their murders, about Kessel, Schaeffer, and the secretive Abbott. He told her about what Winstone had told him, how he'd claimed there were documents that could shake the army's very foundations. “I suspect the Casa Carioca is being used as a base of operations. I believe some ex-SS officers and a few of the Polish waitstaff are part of the hit squad with Kessel and Schaeffer at the head of it. It's all related: Winstone, Giessen, Kantos, their murders, and this group based out of the Casa Carioca.”

Laura was writing down everything in her notepad and seemed to get more excited with each new detail.

Mason said, “I want you to promise me you won't throw out accusations, headline your stories with question marks, without facts to back them up—”

“I don't do that kind of journalism. At least not if I know I can get the real scoop from a reliable source.”

“Good, because if you put out this story before I can get all the facts, you could blow the investigation. They'll just cover their tracks
and run for cover. That is, after they get their hands on
you
. You have to promise me you'll wait for me to bust whoever's involved before you publish anything.”

She touched his arm in her excitement, and Mason almost recoiled from the electrical charge that it elicited. The sensation made Mason snap at her. “I'm not exaggerating about keeping out of sight. Where are you staying?”

She smiled as if realizing the effect her touch had on him. “A house in the Breitenau district. It's called the Alpenrose, in the foothills.”

“Good. That's isolated enough. Stay home except to buy groceries. Tell no one what you're doing. I don't know Richard, so it's up to you whether you trust he can keep his mouth shut.”

“You called him Richard.”

“What?”

“I said you called him Richard. Did you have a change of heart about him?”

“Laura, I'm being serious. You want an incentive?” Mason asked and swept his hand toward the gravestones. “Just look around you.”

“I get it. Don't worry.”

“Oh, I'm going to worry, all right.”

M
ason and Abrams sat in a German DKW sedan parked in front of a line of warehouses situated two hundred yards from the train station. Several trucks and wagons were parked along the narrow street, but the investigators still had an unobstructed view of the activity around the warehouses. It was a little after four
P.M.
, and the sun had already dropped behind the mountains. Though they were both attired in civilian overcoats, wool suits, and homburg hats, the temperature still felt like it had plunged twenty degrees.

Abrams wrapped his coat tightly around his chest. “How about we start up the car and get some heat in here?”

“Two guys sitting in a parked car attracts enough attention without letting the motor run.”

“We've been here for an hour. It's going to get dark pretty soon,” Abrams said, and he looked up at the leaden sky. “Looks like it's going to snow.”

“You wanted to be a detective. You'd better get used to cold and boring stakeouts.”

Mason and Abrams had spent the last two hours hitting all the known black market spots, circulating among the vendors, showing Yaakov's mug shot and asking about his whereabouts. The black
market vendors, suspicious by necessity, considered the two healthy, clean-cut fellows flashing a mug shot doubly suspicious, and, despite offers of cigarettes in exchange for information, they returned only blank stares or adamant denials.

Finally one old man selling piglets hidden in a baby carriage gave them information for two packs of cigarettes. According to the man, a group of enterprising souls had set up a black market venue in two disused, interconnected warehouses, providing the vendors and customers a welcome chance to do business indoors and out of the cold. Yaakov, he had said, could be seen there frequently in the afternoons. The two investigators had already made a thorough search of the two warehouses, but no Yaakov. Despite zero assurances that Yaakov would show up, or that the purchased information was reliable, Mason had insisted they sit on the place. This was their last option on a very short list.

Abrams shivered. “Aren't you cold?”

“My feet are screaming, my side aches where I was shot, and my butt's sore, but then I think back to being a POW and nearly dying on a death march in the worst winter—”

“Oh, here we go again: old war-dog talk.”

Mason chuckled at Abrams calling him an “old war dog” less than a year after the war had ended. “Get out and walk around if you're that cold.”

Abrams got out of the car and stomped his feet, but only a moment later he jerked open the door. “He just went into the second warehouse.”

Mason got out of the car. “You take the first one to cut him off, and I'll go in the second.”

Mason quickened his pace and entered the bustling warehouse. The place had the air of a flea market in chaos. People had set up their wares on whatever space was unoccupied: coatracks of fine clothes and furs, furniture, handcarts containing makeshift displays of jewelry, cameras, phonographs, even the entire contents of households, all competing for attention with vendors selling wood brought down
from the mountains and farmers selling eggs, half-rotten apples, salt-cured pork, and handmade lye soap. Soldiers and citizens mingled together, bartering and haggling.

Mason scanned the area as he skirted the street-side wall. A few people eyed him warily, including several U.S. soldiers. He even recognized a couple of MPs from headquarters, but they were too busy flirting with one of the farm girls to notice him. Then, on the opposite side of the building, he spotted Yaakov talking to a woman selling something out of an open steamer trunk.

Mason moved for him, but for whatever reason, Yaakov chose that time to check his surroundings. His face widened in shock when he saw Mason. He yelped and bolted for the middle door connecting the two warehouses. Mason ran for the door to intercept Yaakov, pushing through the shoppers and dodging vendors' displays. The commotion attracted the attention of the two MPs, and they blocked Mason's path before Mason could catch Yaakov.

They pulled out their nightsticks, and one MP grabbed his arm. “What's the rush, buddy? You steal something?”

Mason pulled out his badge and yelled, “CID! Back off now, or I'll have you arrested for black market activities.”

The MPs released him, but Yaakov had already crossed into the other warehouse. Mason hoped Abrams was on his toes, because at the pace Yaakov was running, they would lose him for sure. Mason burst through the connecting door. There were fewer people in this warehouse, and Mason could clearly see Yaakov hurtling for a back exit with Abrams in hot pursuit.

Despite Yaakov's speed, Abrams had a longer stride, and just as Yaakov breached the exit door, Abrams caught Yaakov by the coat collar. Abrams struggled to reel in a squirming Yaakov, and just as Mason arrived, Yaakov slipped out of his coat and took off again.

Abrams cursed and threw down the coat. Mason blew through the door and spotted Yaakov sprinting across an open field. Hunks of rusted metal and discarded railroad equipment lay like forgotten
gravestones, and it was one of those relics buried under snow that became Yaakov's foil. With another yelp, Yaakov tumbled to the ground. This time, Mason got there first and seized Yaakov by both arms as he jumped to his feet.

Yaakov writhed and kicked. “I don't know anything! I didn't do anything. Leave me alone!”

“Calm down,” Mason said and pinned Yaakov's arms behind his back. “We're not going to arrest you.”

Abrams ran up and stood in front of Yaakov to cut off any further escape. Breathless, Yaakov gave up his struggle.

Between gulps of air, Mason said, “Jesus Christ, Yaakov, we're trying to save your scrawny hide.”

“I'm the only one who can save me,” Yaakov said as he tried to jerk free.

“Not this time,” Mason said.

Abrams said, “They killed Eddie Kantos and his family.”

Yaakov stopped his struggling and slowly looked up at Abrams. “His wife and child?”

Abrams nodded.

Yaakov became limp in Mason's hands. “I had nothing to do with that. I swear.”

“That's not why we were looking for you,” Mason said.

“Then what do you want?”

Mason loosened his grip and turned Yaakov to face him. “Yaakov, we know you were an informant for Agent Winstone.”

Yaakov exploded out of Mason's grasp and took off running again.

“Goddamn it!” Mason yelled as the two investigators chased after him.

Yaakov made fifty yards before Abrams overtook him and tackled him. “He's as slippery as an eel,” Abrams said as he held Yaakov to the ground.

Mason came up an instant later and kneeled next to Yaakov. “Sorry, but I have to do this.” He handcuffed Yaakov's left hand to
his right. He then lifted Yaakov off the ground and planted his feet firmly on the ground. “Are you done?” he asked as he tried in vain to brush away the wet snow and mud with his free hand.

Yaakov nodded.

“All we want to do is ask you a few questions,” Mason said.

“Aha! Now you change from saying you want to save me to interrogating me.”

“Because you ran away from us like a madman. And I noticed you didn't ask why we would want to save you. Pretty suspicious to me.” He pulled Yaakov toward the street. “Come on, we're taking you into headquarters.”

“Wait,” Yaakov said and dug his heels in the ground. “Ask me what you want, but don't take me there. Please.”

Mason stopped. “Winstone was killed because of what he discovered. And I'm positive some of that information came from you.”

“Please, I beg you, don't ask me to get involved any further. If it gets back to them that I revealed information . . . I have more than myself to worry about. My family depends on me.”

“Yaakov,” Abrams said, “whoever killed all those people is probably after you. Give us their names, any information that can help us. That's the best way to assure your family's safety.”

Mason said, “If you willingly withhold information, we'll be forced to take you in for impeding an investigation. You will be held and interrogated—”

“I survived three concentration camps,” Yaakov said in anger. “I was beaten, starved, forced into slave labor, while most of my family was either gassed or shot in mass graves. I endured everything the Nazis did to me. I can resist your interrogations.”

“That's not what Mr. Collins meant,” Abrams said. “If you're detained, you won't be able to protect your family. The killings will go on, and the murderers will remain free. We're sure you have vital information that could help bring them to justice. We want to help you and your family, but we need
your
help to do that.”

“We can protect you,” Mason said. “I suggested this before, but we can make sure you're safely transported to the Jewish DP camp at Feldafing. It's far enough away from here to be safe. You'll have shelter, food, and a dozen aid organizations to help you and your family.”

“We could rot in a camp for years, waiting in line for a chance to emigrate, with no guarantees it will be Palestine. I do not want my child born on German soil. I will earn the money to bribe the British or pay smugglers to take us. Besides, the men who want me dead can find out which camp I am in and kill me there.”

“Meaning American officers who are members of the gang?” Mason said.

“Yes. You see? You cannot protect me.”

“Yaakov,” Abrams said, “they're after you whether you help us or not. And if we can find you this easily, then how long do you think it's going to take them to do the same? You have a better chance working with us than going it alone. Trust us. Please.”

Yaakov thought for a long moment as he trembled from the cold. He'd discarded his coat in the chase and his clothes were soaked from the snow and mud.

“Let's take you somewhere and get you warmed up,” Mason said.

Yaakov looked from Mason to Abrams, as he considered the offer. Finally, he nodded and said, “My place. If we are to help and trust each other, it is important to me that you meet my family.”

Mason and Abrams led him to their car. Mason took off the handcuffs and had him sit in the passenger's seat with the heat on full blast. Someone had already pilfered Yaakov's coat, but he refused Mason's and Abrams's offer to take one of theirs. On the way, they talked little except for Yaakov giving Mason directions. They drove parallel to the Partnach River then headed south. Finally Yaakov had Mason park the car on Klammstrasse, and then they walked to a small commercial district not far from the city park.

Yaakov led them into an alley. Fifty feet farther on, he opened a reinforced door, which turned out to be the rear entrance to a clothing
store selling traditional Bavarian outfits, ironically run by a Jewish couple. Yaakov tipped his hat to the man minding the counter as they passed through the store and exited. They crossed a small street and entered a bookstore. Yaakov tipped his hat again, saying,
“Shalom aleichem.”
They passed through a curtain and mounted a staircase.

Yaakov knocked four times at a door facing the stairs before unlocking it. They entered a small living room with an open kitchen. A pregnant woman in her late twenties sat at a small kitchen table and played with a boy of no more than a year old. Next to her, on another chair, a woman mended a girl's dress. A girl in her late teens read a book to three other children as they sat near the empty fireplace in the living room.

Yaakov introduced the two investigators, then gestured toward the pregnant woman. “This is Helena, my wife.” Pointing to the others, he said, “Olga is my brother's new wife, and the boy with Helena is their son. The three young children near the fireplace are Olga's cousins, and the older girl is the daughter of a good friend of mine, who is no longer with us. My brother, Berko, works as a ski-lift operator for pennies. He is a professor of literature, with a specialty in English literature. He lost his previous wife in Sobibor. Our parents at Auschwitz. Also aunts, uncles, cousins. We are all that is left. They all depend on me.”

As they all said their hellos, Mason scanned their faces, especially the children. Four of them had already lost their parents, but were fortunate to have found good people to take them in. But Yaakov was one wrong step away from dead. And the killers had displayed no remorse in killing Kantos's wife and child. He pulled Abrams and Yaakov aside. “Yaakov, you can't stay here.”

“I'm not going to a camp. You can't force me.”

“Yes, I can. I can arrest you and have your family taken to a camp.”

Abrams looked at Mason as if he'd threatened to kill Yaakov himself. “You can't.”

Mason turned to Abrams. “They can't stay here, and they can't stay with one of us. It's too cold to go to something like an empty
warehouse or cabin. Unless you have any bright ideas, I can't think of a place they could go that someone in the army wouldn't find out where they were. The only option is to give you new names with fake identity papers and get you to Feldafing.”

“I am not taking my family to this camp!” Yaakov said.

Abrams said to Mason, “Even if Yaakov was willing to go, where are we going to come up with the fake documents?”

“I've a got a good friend in the CIC in Munich. He could do it in a couple of days.”

Yaakov looked back at Helena, who appeared upset at the tone of the conversation. He then gestured toward a battered dining table. “We will discuss this later. Let us sit now, and I will tell you what I can.”

Yaakov asked Helena to make coffee, and they settled into chairs around the table.

“How did you know Kantos?” Abrams asked.

Yaakov looked down and picked at a splinter of wood protruding from the tabletop.

“Yaakov . . .” Mason said.

“I lied to you gentlemen before. The day of the Steinadler raid. You were both kind to me, and I don't forget acts of kindness.” Yaakov succeeded in removing the splinter then rotated it in his fingers. “I
did
work for Kantos . . . and Giessen.”