Spoils of Victory (21 page)

“A Sergeant Hoffman, who was busted for sexual assault a few weeks ago and sent back to the States. Whitney says that even after Hoffman's bust the arrangements never skipped a beat. These guys are good. It's like a cloak-and-dagger outfit.”

“That would fit Schaeffer's OSS background.”

“Oh,” Abrams said, remembering, “the servants from Winstone's villa are back in town.”

Mason nodded. “We'll have a go at them when we're done here. Anything from the other detainees?”

“Most of them were processed and released.”

“Did Willy survive the night?”

“The guards pulled him out of that cell before things got too far out of hand. He spent the morning in the clinic and is recuperating in a separate cell. I hear he's not going to be able to sit down for a while.”

“Let's have a word with him.”

They stepped up to Willy Laufs's cell. An MP guard let them in and closed the metal door behind them. Willy stood at the barred window with his back to the door and his head lying on his crossed arms. The guards had given him a one-piece uniform usually provided for army maintenance crews, as his clothes had been torn to shreds. He turned his head to see who had entered, then whirled around when he saw Mason. He had stitches above his left eye and several bruises on his moon-shaped face. He pleaded with them with eyes that seemed like green marbles pressed in soft dough. He deserved more of the same, as far as Mason was concerned, but Laufs had experienced enough to appease Mason's temper.

“You pick on a poor entrepreneur and let the big fish go free,” Laufs said in German. “Even the Nazis left me alone as long as I cut them in. The bastards took more than their fair share, but at least I stayed out of jail.”

“You got a taste of what's to come when you go to prison,” Mason said. “On the other hand, for the right information, we'll consider leniency.”

“I told your partner, I'm not a rat.”

“Suit yourself,” Mason said and called for the guard.

“Wait,” Laufs said with panic in his eyes. “What are you doing?”

“We're putting you back in that other cell.”

“Can't we negotiate?”

“No.”

The guard came and unlocked the door.

Laufs panicked. “You can't do this! Do you know what they did to me?”

“Tell me who killed Herr Giessen, Bachmann, and Plöbsch, or it's the other cell. And this time, the guards won't pull you out.”

“I don't know. Whoever killed them, I would like to shake their hands. Those three nearly put me out of business.”

Mason motioned for the guard, who came in with his handcuffs at the ready. Laufs pleaded and begged, but the guard continued, then Mason helped the guard pull Laufs into the corridor. Laufs screamed at the top of his lungs.

Mason yelled over him. “Who killed Giessen and his partners?”

“I don't know. I swear to you.”

“We know you were a go-between with the Italian crime families for Giessen and Kantos,” Abrams said.

“We crossed paths, sure, but you could say that about anyone who uses the black market.”

“Did you have anything to do with Giessen's or Kantos's murder?”

Laufs looked at Abrams as if dumbstruck by the question. “No.”

“You have any idea who killed them?”

“No!”

Mason stopped the procession. “Why are you still walking around? They're bumping off anyone who had a connection to Kantos and Giessen.”

“I am a small fish surrounded by sharks. I'm not a threat to them. I keep my head down and my mouth shut. They know this.”

“So, you know who we're talking about.”

Laufs sputtered, unable to speak through his panic. Finally he said, “I don't know who they are. Just that some incredibly powerful men are taking over. Please. I swear.” And he kept repeating, “I swear,” as if his mind might snap at any minute.

“Do you know a Herr Volker?” Abrams asked.

A tic of recognition passed across Laufs's face.

“You know him, don't you?” Mason said.

“Maybe he even threatened you,” Abrams said, “telling you that anyone going against the new leaders would end up like Giessen and his pals.”

“I don't know who you're talking about.”

Mason turned to Abrams. “He's not going to give us anything.” He and the guard began to push Laufs along.

“Wait, wait, wait,” Laufs said in ever-increasing insistence. “Maybe I know Herr Volker a little.”

Mason signaled for them to stop again.

Laufs caught his breath and said, “Volker was working for Giessen, but I heard he betrayed him. That's all I know.”

“Where can we find Volker?” Abrams asked.

“I can't tell you where, because I don't know!”

“That's not good enough,” Mason said and nodded to the guard for them to continue. Laufs dug in his heels and threw himself backward to stop their progress.

“Please, I will tell you all I know,” Laufs said. “Just don't put me in there.”

Mason gestured for them to take Laufs back to his cell. They pushed him in and pinned him against the wall. Mason removed the handcuffs and asked the MP to wait down the hall. Once the MP had closed the cell door and left, Mason faced Laufs. “Start talking.”

Laufs rubbed his wrists and shuddered as he took a few deep breaths. “I swear I don't know who killed Herr Giessen or Herr Kantos, or the American agent for that matter. Yes, I did some deals with the Italians for Herr Giessen at the beginning, but once the contacts were made and business started rolling, they cut me out. But I heard rumors. . . .” His voice trailed off as if unsure whether to continue.

Mason got in Willy's face. “You're about one heartbeat away from hell.”

“Abbott,” Laufs blurted out. “A man named Lester Abbott runs a very powerful gang. He's the boss. Nothing happens without his say.”

“Describe him,” Abrams said.

He looked at Abrams as if Abrams didn't understand. “No one I know has ever seen him.”

“He's not a ghost. Someone must have seen him.”

Laufs only shrugged in response.

“What about Schaeffer or Kessel working out of the Casa Carioca?” Mason asked.

“I've heard of them, but I never dealt with them.”

“Come on, Willy. You want us to believe that with all your dealings with Giessen and Kantos, you've never done any work for Schaeffer or Kessel?”

“Like I said, I was almost put out of business once I gave Giessen his contacts. I've just heard the same things you probably have, that a powerful gang has almost made a complete takeover of the area, and Abbott is the big boss. And not just Garmisch. Their connections run up to Munich and beyond. It's like an entire territory.”

Mason and Abrams exchanged glances. That tidbit had only confirmed their suspicions: Colonels and generals had to be behind that kind of power.

“What about Agent Winstone?” Mason asked Laufs.

“What about him?”

Mason rubbed his forehead in frustration at Laufs's obfuscation. He was sure Laufs knew more and was saying only enough to keep from being thrown into the other cell. At least Laufs was talking, though, and Mason knew they'd get nothing out of him if they actually did shove him in with inmates bent on beating a pedophile to death. He spoke slowly to keep his temper at bay. “Do you know who killed Agent Winstone and Hilda Schmidt?”

“I could think of about five people who would have wanted to murder him, but they're all dead. He apparently had a file on almost everybody that could have put them away for life.” He added quickly,
“Except for me.” His eyes flitted between Mason and Abrams. “The man to ask is Otto Kremmel. Now, there's a grifter if there ever was one. He had Winstone snowed and half the Bavarian aristocracy eating out of his hand.”

“We tried to pick him up this morning,” Abrams said, “but he's disappeared. He's gone, Willy, along with your bargaining chip.”

Laufs shook his head. “You just haven't been looking in the right place. He wouldn't be too far away. He's hoping to find the money Winstone hid away, like everybody else. And the word on the street is that those documents are still out there. There's a big reward for anyone who can find them.”

Abrams looked at Mason then asked Laufs, “Then tell us where we can find Otto.”

“Try a filthy-rich widow who lives alone on an estate called the Stebenheim in Oberau. Otto's been romancing her for some months now. He's always trying to extract money from her, and get her to include him in her will.”

Mason and Abrams exchanged glances again.

Laufs brightened. “I see by the looks on your faces, I gave you some interesting information, no?”

M
ason and Abrams drove up the circular driveway and parked their sedan in front of what could pass for a small-scale French château. It sat on a low hill, overlooking the small town of Oberau, which lay six miles north of Garmisch. The stately Stebenheim mansion showed signs of recent neglect, with its windows shuttered and frozen weeds emerging from the snow on the estate grounds. The sun had set an hour before, leaving only a deep purple dome above the western mountains in an otherwise black sky.

The two investigators climbed the steps of the front, columned portico, with Mason noticing the absence of footprints in the snow as they did so. He knocked on the massive double doors. A crow cawed its displeasure for disturbing the silence.

“I'm surprised some army or MG officer hasn't claimed this as their palace,” Mason said.

“I can see why,” Abrams said as he looked around. “This place gives me the creeps.”

Mason knocked harder this time. “Willy Laufs better not have sent us on a wild-goose chase.”

“I'm still trying to get over the idea that you sent Densmore to
search for Winstone's documents. I mean, after all, we're still not sure whose side he's on.”

“I couldn't order the search without him knowing about it. And it was either having him go on the treasure hunt or coming with us. I want Otto alone for a while.”

Before they'd departed for Oberau, they had gone by headquarters and told Densmore what Laufs had said about the reward for whoever found Winstone's documents. Densmore immediately put a squad together of MPs to do an all-out search of Winstone's villa. On Mason's advice, he also took along Winstone's servants, as they had been present during Winstone's renovations of the villa. The idea being that they could point out every filled crack and replaced floorboard, with the hope that, in one of them, they might find Winstone's documents.

“What if he finds them and turns them over to the bad guys?” Abrams asked.

“All I have to do is take one look at him, and I'll know he's trying to pull a fast one. The man's got the worst poker face of anyone I've ever met.”

Mason decided not to wait any longer for someone to answer the door. He tried the latch. The door opened onto a darkened foyer. The two investigators silently readied their pistols and flashlights, then stepped inside. On their left and right were wide entrances to large rooms, and in front of them a long hallway. A grandfather clock sat silent in a corner of the foyer, and though the pendulum could have stopped swinging just a minute before they entered, Mason had the impression that the clock had ceased measuring time years ago.

Mason signaled for Abrams to take the right entrance and Mason moved toward the left. While listening for movement in the dead silence, he breached the door frame and stopped. With the beam of his flashlight, he swept the room. Elegant furnishings abounded. Religious-themed paintings that looked centuries old and priceless hung on the walls. Halfway across the room Mason's flashlight
beam fell upon an old woman sitting on an intricately carved settee of embroidered silk upholstery. Her silver hair was done up in a bun, and she wore a gray wool pleated skirt and matching jacket.

“Entschuldigung Sie, bitte?”
Mason said, asking her to excuse him for disturbing her.

The woman remained motionless as if she had become petrified at the same moment that the grandfather clock had stopped. To all appearances she had died in that position, but her forlorn eyes darted in their sockets as she stared at some unseen images of horror.

Mason holstered his pistol and moved to the woman's side. He heard Abrams step up to the door as he squatted to see into the woman's face. The woman finally turned to him. Tears formed in her eyes.

“What's happened, ma'am?” Mason asked in German. “Where's Otto Kremmel?”

The woman's eyes lost focus as she relived some horror, then slowly she turned and pointed to a closed door on the other side of the room. Mason stood and signaled for Abrams to follow. Abrams hurried across the room. Mason removed his pistol from his holster, then slowly turned the doorknob. He looked at Abrams, who nodded that he was ready, and Mason pushed open the door. They took two steps into the parlor. The sight made them both freeze for a split second.

Otto hung by his neck from a heavy silk rope in the middle of the room. His hands hung at his sides, his body was still. Mason rushed up to take Otto's weight off the rope, while Abrams went to where the rope had been tied to a marble column of the fireplace. Mason could immediately tell that his efforts were useless. Otto was still warm but lifeless. Abrams untied the rope and helped Mason lower Otto's body to the floor. Mason checked Otto's pulse, just in case. That was when he noticed the bloody message nailed to Otto's chest.

TOO LATE. WE HAVE YOUR LITTLE RAT FRIEND.

“Yaakov!” Mason yelled and ran out the door.

*   *   *

A
brams pounded the steering wheel and cursed as he raced toward town. “We should have hog-tied Yaakov to his bed. How are we going to find him in a town this size?”

“We're not going to find him. Right now we have to get to Yaakov's family before the killers do. Yaakov's probably being tortured as we speak, and could have given away their hiding place by this time. We may already be too late.”

Abrams cursed again as he renewed his assault on the steering wheel. “If Yaakov is dead, I'll kill them all.”

“You sure you're up for this?” Mason said firmly.

Abrams nodded and pressed on the accelerator. Mason gave him directions that took them in a circuitous route, all the time checking the mirrors and looking behind. Satisfied that they weren't being followed, Mason had Abrams park in the alley behind the bookshop.

After a visual sweep of the area, they went to the back door. It took several knocks to persuade the shop's owner, Isaac, to answer. He looked terrified at the sight of two men in uniform until Mason reminded him that they had been with Yaakov the day before. “Is the family still here?” he asked.

Abrams said something in Yiddish, which elicited another terrified look on Isaac's face. He said in German, “Follow me.”

Mason and Abrams followed Isaac up the stairs. Isaac knocked on the door in a code.

The door opened a crack, then fully. A tall man with dark hair and thin beard stood at the doorway. The man was Yaakov's brother, Berko. He displayed the same terrified look as Isaac when he saw Mason and Abrams. Isaac introduced them and said that they had been there to see Yaakov the previous day. Berko let them in. Yaakov's pregnant wife, Helena, let out a soft cry when she saw Mason and Abrams. Berko spoke softly to Helena in Yiddish. The entire family gathered in the small living room and looked expectantly at the two investigators.

“Yaakov has not come home for hours,” Berko said in English. “We urged him not to go out, but he said he had to retrieve the bulk of the money he'd earned on the black markets.” He threw his hands up in worry and frustration. “And he wouldn't tell any of us where that was. Why did he have to do that? We could have gotten along fine without it.”

Mason lowered his voice so the others wouldn't overhear. “Berko, we have to get you and your family out of here quickly. This place is no longer safe.”

“Where is Yaakov?” Helena demanded with rising panic in her voice. “We can't leave without Yaakov.”

Berko spoke to Helena in a reassuring voice, though Mason could tell she sensed the worst had happened. “He can join us later,” Berko said. “We'll make sure he knows where we are.” He issued quiet commands in Yiddish.

The family immediately went to work, gathering clothes hung out to dry, the children's things, a bundle of food. The children looked bewildered but displayed no tears. They were obviously used to being pushed from one place to another, and a few of the children were old enough to remember the war, the fear, and the idea that you ran to stay alive.

Mason turned to Isaac. “Could you please go downstairs and watch the street? Warn us immediately if you see anyone or anything suspicious.”

“How are we going to fit everyone in one car?” Abrams asked.

“We can manage,” Berko said. “We take only what we need.”

“When it's safer, we'll make sure you get the rest of your things,” Mason said.

“Do you already have a place to go?” Abrams asked.

“Yaakov had a plan for this kind of emergency. A small maintenance shed in the mountains.”

“Maintenance shed?” Mason said. “You can't live more than a few days isolated like that. It's snowing up there.”

“It was a last resort,” Berko admitted.

Mason shook his head. “I know a better place.” He noticed Abrams's puzzled expression and said to him, “She said if we needed a safe place . . .”

Abrams smiled and nodded. In ten minutes everyone had a bundle to carry. Helena tried to keep a brave face for the children, encouraging them and making it an adventure—flight took precedence over grief. Mason carried the smallest child and a bundle as he led the way down the stairs. Berko removed the mezuzah from the door frame and put it in his pocket.

Halfway down, Isaac ran up to them. “There are four men out front, and they have guns.”