Spoils of Victory (22 page)

M
ason ordered the family back upstairs, but Berko came down a moment later carrying an old shotgun. “I will help,” he said.

“You know how to use that thing?”

Berko nodded as he panted with fear.

“Then stay on the bottom step and cover us,” Mason said. “They could come from the front or back, so be ready.”

They descended the stairs into the narrow hall that led to the front of the shop, an office, and the back door. Mason had Abrams watch the back door, using the office doorway for cover. Mason had Berko stand on the last step of the stairs and crouch behind the return wall. He then crept up to the curtain dividing the hallway from the front of the shop and peered through the gap. The bookshelves obscured a full view of the front shop window, but looking between the tops of the books and the bottom of the shelves, he could make out two men dressed in black moving toward the alley.

Mason looked at Abrams and signaled that one or two were heading toward the back. He then bent low, slipped through the curtain, and slid behind the first row of bookshelves. From there, he had a better view of what was going on outside.

Two men with black stocking caps pulled down over their faces
stood by the front door and right-side window. Mason guessed they were waiting for the other two to get into position, with the plan to rush in at the same time. This portion of the street contained stores that had closed at seven
P.M.
, so there was little traffic. The men could enter with little worry of witnesses.

Mason figured the two men going around back would notice the army sedan and take a few moments to check it out. He hoped the presence of the vehicle would be enough to discourage them, but in that same instant, the men in front pulled out submachine guns from their long coats and glanced around one last time.

Mason aimed his .45 at the one standing by the window. “Military police! Drop your weapons and put your hands up. My gun is trained on you.”

The man jumped aside, using the door frame as a block. Mason held his fire so as not to reveal his position. He aimed at the door. That was when the two opened fire, blindly spraying the room.

From the other side of the curtain, Mason heard someone kicking in the back door. Then two gunshots in rapid succession. He knew the sound well: a .45 Colt automatic—Abrams's gun. A man cried out in pain. The second man in the back opened fire with an automatic pistol.

That exchange prompted the two men in front to charge. But instead of going through the door, one leapt through the window. Mason fired and missed the first man, but when the second attempted the same thing, Mason was ready. He fired again, hitting the man's thigh. The man jerked in midair and wailed in pain, then landed hard on the sidewalk.

Mason raced to the opposite shelf, just as the first man fired at his previous position. Books exploded. The wooden shelf splintered. Book pages, ripped to shreds, floated in the air.

Mason stayed low and moved to the far end of the shelf. The first man stopped firing, and a moment of silence passed before another round of firing came from the back. A deafening boom followed—Berko's shotgun.

In front, the wounded man continued to wail in pain, and his companion yelled in English for him to shut up—American English.

Abrams came out noisily from the back.

“Get down!” Mason yelled.

A burst of machine gun fire erupted from the front. Wood, glass, and paper sprayed out like mini explosions. Mason went up on his knees to see if Abrams was hurt, but the movement gave his position away. Immediately, the shooter brought his machine gun fire to bear on Mason. Bullets buzzed narrowly over his head.

A moment later the firing ceased, followed by the sound of footsteps on broken glass. The men were making their escape. With one last spray from the machine gun, the men ran for their car.

Mason and Abrams rushed to the front as the assailants' car sped away. Mason checked Abrams and saw blood on his coat. “Were you hit?”

“That's the other guy's blood.”

Mason sighed with relief. “We only have a few minutes before the MPs arrive. Let's go.” He pulled a breathless Abrams toward the curtain.

“Aren't we going to wait for them?”

“I don't want anyone to see this family or have any idea where we're going.”

Mason picked up his spent shells and instructed Abrams to do the same. When he entered the back hallway, he saw Abrams staring at the dead assailant.

“I shot him,” Abrams said in a weak voice.

Mason gently urged Abrams toward the stairs. “Come on. You did the right thing. These men were coming to kill Yaakov's family.”

Berko was already up in the apartment barking orders at the shocked and weeping women and children. Once again they gathered the bundles and hurried down the stairs. It took some urging to get them past the dead man. Mason made sure everyone, including Abrams, was settled in the car before returning to the hallway. Isaac
sat on the stairs in shock. Mason turned the corpse on its back, pulled up the black ski mask, and shined his flashlight on the face. Just as Mason thought: one of the Poles from the Casa Carioca. “I'm sorry for all this,” Mason said to Isaac. “The MPs will arrive in a few minutes. Say nothing about us or Yaakov's family being here. Just tell them to search the hospitals for a man with a gunshot wound in his thigh. You saw nothing else.”

Isaac nodded.

*   *   *

W
hat do you want?” Richard was not happy. Not happy to answer the door after eleven
P.M.
Not happy to answer it in his bathrobe. And sure as hell not happy to see Mason there, let alone Abrams and eight apparent refugees.

“Sir—” Abrams was cut off when Laura spoke behind him.

“Richard, what is it?”

Richard stepped aside to let Laura have a look for herself. “What is all this?”

Mason shrugged as an apology. “I know you offered Gil and me safe shelter, but this family needs your help.”

“Of course,” Laura said. “Come in.”

Richard grumbled, “Laura . . .”

Laura ignored Richard's protest and stepped aside. Mason ushered the family indoors, while Richard fixed his stare on Mason. In any other circumstances, Mason would have met the glare with equal contempt, but for the sake of the family, and Laura, he kept his eyes on the family as they gathered in the living room.

The men removed their hats and faced Laura. With one last sigh of exasperation, Richard disappeared down the hallway leading to the bedrooms. The baby started to cry, but the rest remained silent. In the car, Mason had told the family about Otto's body and the note indicating that the killers had probably abducted Yaakov. Helena could have thrown a tantrum, blaming Mason, blaming all
Americans for putting Yaakov in harm's way, and though her eyes had conveyed that message, she had remained silent. Mason couldn't blame her; he had, perhaps, pushed Yaakov too hard, or underestimated the ruthlessness of the killers.

Laura smiled at the children and asked Mason, “Is this the family you asked me to help?”

Mason nodded and introduced them all, telling Berko and Helena that Laura was the person who would try to contact someone in the Jewish Brigade. They nodded their heads and softly expressed their gratitude. Mason then explained to Laura why he had brought them there. “I know this is going to be hard on you,” Mason said, “but we had no other choice.” Mason said to Berko, “I have no delicate way of saying this, but you will only be able to stay here a few days at most. If Laura is unable to make contact within that time, I think you should reconsider going to the Jewish DP camp in Feldafing.”

“What has changed?” Berko asked. “Is it not as likely that they will find us there? I am determined to carry out Yaakov's dream for us all to go to Palestine. He has sacrificed everything for that. Thank you, but we will take our chances. I will find another place.”

Berko turned to Laura. “We promise not to be a burden. And we can help around the house. Helena and Olga are excellent cooks. I can do repairs. Whatever you need.”

“Don't worry about that now,” Laura said. “I'm glad to help out. You all must be exhausted and in shock. Fortunately we have two extra bedrooms you can use. Let me show you.”

Mason and Abrams waited in the living room while Laura helped the family settle in for the night. A few minutes later, Laura came back to join them.

“I know you told me we should keep our distance. . . .” Mason shrugged. “Sorry about all this. I hope it's not going to cause a problem with Richard.”

“He's slowly getting used to my form of insanity,” Laura said and looked at Mason with a tender expression he hadn't seen since their
affair in Munich. “You'll never cease to amaze me. Just like helping those orphans in Munich. You're whacking someone over the head one moment, and the next moment, this.”

They held each other's gaze for a moment, until Abrams cleared his throat.

“I promise they'll only be here a few days,” Mason said.

“They can stay as long as they need,” Laura said.

“I told Yaakov's wife and brother that Yaakov has been taken by the killers, and that, chances are, he's not coming back. It's the same people, Laura. I told Yaakov to stay put, but he went out, and they found him, just like that. As hard as it might be, the family has to stay inside and out of sight. You, too.”

She nodded. “Find them, Mason. Find them, and if there's no other way, put them in a deep, dark hole.”

M
ason and Abrams left Laura's and descended the hill into town. Abrams had fallen silent. Mason knew why. “Have you shot anyone before?”

Abrams took a moment as if coming out of a deep thought. “Once. Maybe. Our squad of MPs entered a German village ahead of the regular troops. The town had surrendered without a fight, but there was a sniper in the church bell tower. We all fired at him, and someone got him, but no one really knew who.”

“It's different when the man is right in front of you.”

“I'm fine, okay? Let's leave it at that.”

“You shot because you had to. Period. I don't want you brooding over this, because the next time you might hesitate, and you'll be the one on the ground.”

“Did you ever shoot anyone up close?”

“A few times. Then there were a few times I should have and didn't. Right now, I regret those more.” He said the last sentence with force, and he turned a hard left on the steering wheel.

“Where are we going?” Abrams asked. “The bookshop is the other way.”

“No more regrets.”

“What is that supposed to mean?”

“I should have shot Volker and Schaeffer last night in Schaeffer's office. Right there where they sat, right in the teeth of their smart-assed smiles.”

“You're insane, you know that?”

“For some time now.”

“Pull your shit together. You're not going to march in there and kill Schaeffer. All that's going to accomplish is putting your neck in a noose. Whatever guilt you feel about Yaakov is not going to be solved by gunning down that scumbag. There's still a slim chance that Yaakov got away, or we can track them down in time to save him. Turn the car around, and go back to the bookshop.”

“You said it yourself: You want to kill whoever took Yaakov. Now here's your chance.”

“Turn the damn car around!”

“You giving a superior officer an order?”

“Damn right I am. When you're acting like a crazed fool. We get the evidence, and we watch them hang.”

Mason eased the accelerator, bringing the sedan back down to normal speed, but he stayed on course. He looked at Abrams: still green, still so young, not hammered by war and loss. It was like looking at a mirror that reflected Mason's own youth, a time before. . . . Maybe he could still hold on to some of those qualities. Maybe he could rein in some of the rage and remember his humanity. At that moment, he was glad Abrams sat across from him.

Mason turned the car around and headed back to the center of town.

They pulled up to Isaac's bookshop ten minutes later. Two jeeps, an ambulance, and an olive-drab sedan sat at odd angles in front of the shattered shop window. A bevy of MPs stood around in a circle and stared at something on the pavement. The headlights of the vehicles cut through the darkness and were aimed at the same spot.

A few flashbulbs went off. The MPs talked excitedly, but no one
seemed to be in a hurry to rush the victim off to the hospital. Whoever the ambulance had come for no longer needed emergency aid.

“A lot of activity for a dead gunman,” Mason said.

“Oh, God,” Abrams said and jumped out of the car.

Mason ran to catch up, and they stopped next to the group of MPs. “Who is it?” Mason asked, though he felt he knew the answer to that question.

The MP sergeant said, “There's not much left to identify. Looks like he was tortured before they killed him.”

Mason and Abrams stepped through the MPs and stopped at the victim's naked feet. Mason almost recoiled from the sight. Abrams cried out and turned away. Through the bloody and swollen face, beneath the cuts and bruises, the man was barely recognizable, but Mason, like Abrams, could still tell who it was. Yaakov.

Mason felt his chest tighten from a wave of guilt and sorrow. He squatted near Yaakov's face and mouthed a silent apology.

“You two know this guy?” the MP asked.

Mason nodded and turned to Abrams, whose face was twisted with the same emotions that Mason had internalized. Abrams walked away. Mason watched him for a moment, then turned back to Yaakov. There were rope burns on his wrists. A wire was still embedded in his neck. He'd been strangled with it so forcefully that it had cut deep into his throat. He was shirtless, which showed he'd suffered severe blows and cigarette burns all over his torso. Yaakov must have held out for quite a while, as he also had burn marks on his earlobes, where electrodes had been attached. Torture by electrocution, on top of the severe beating.

One of the two medics asked if everyone was done, then they put Yaakov's broken body onto a stretcher. Mason watched as the medics covered Yaakov with a blanket then lifted the stretcher. The jostling made Yaakov's bare arm fall out from beneath the blanket. It was the first time Mason had seen Yaakov's concentration camp tattoo. The tragedy of it all hit him like a blow, and he knew that image was now permanently burned into his mind.

“A tattoo on his arm,” the MP sergeant said. “A Jewish DP, an ex–concentration camp inmate. Survived all that just to be killed in Garmisch.”

Mason nodded and walked away. He scanned the area for Abrams and found him standing next to their sedan, with his face to the black sky.

“Come on,” Mason said. “We've got work to do. There'll be time to grieve later.”

Abrams nodded and fell in line next to Mason as they entered the bookstore. Isaac stood in the middle of the wreckage, the broken glass, books, and shattered shelves. He looked up at Mason with a sad expression.

“You're a good man, Isaac,” Mason said. “You helped save an entire family. We'll help you as much as we can.”

As they walked to the back, Abrams said, “How are we going to get enough cash to do that?”

“I'm going to persuade Schaeffer to pitch in . . . as soon as I wrench the cash from his dead hands.”

Abrams slowed at the curtain, as if reluctant to gaze upon the man he had killed. Mason hesitated with him, then drew back the curtain. The back hallway was empty; the body had already been taken to the morgue.

Densmore came down the stairs and met them. “Where have you two been?”

“Working our case,” Abrams said.

“Who's the victim outside?”

“A man named Yaakov Lubetkin.”

“So where's the family?”

Apparently Isaac had broken down and told all. “Somewhere safe,” Mason said. “What about your search of Winstone's villa? Did you find the documents?”

Densmore shook his head. “We had the servants point out every square inch of Winstone's renovations, and we spent hours tearing
up every goddamned spot. Nothing.” He rubbed his head. “I'm tired, Mason. I really am. So why don't you give me the rundown, and then we can all go home and get some sleep. Unless, of course, you have some other people you want to shoot tonight.”

Mason motioned for Densmore and Abrams to follow him out the back door and away from the crime scene techs. “We didn't want to tell you, because we don't know who to trust.”

“According to you, nobody.”

“That's right, but I'm going to tell you anyway. Yaakov Lubetkin was an informant for Winstone, reporting on Giessen and Kantos, while he worked for them. Yaakov and his family are Jewish survivors, and we had worked out a deal to help smuggle him and his family to Palestine in exchange for information.”

“That didn't work out so well, did it?” Densmore said.

“You want to hear the rest or not?” When Densmore answered with silence, Mason told him about what Yaakov had discovered, that Kantos and Giessen had a partnership running everything on the black market from apples to zinc, and salt to heroin, by the truckload. About Hilda's relationship with Giessen and Kantos, then her falling in love with Winstone. That Schaeffer and Volker, plus the unknown Abbott, were the ringleaders behind the violent takeover.

As Mason went on, Densmore became so tight with stress that his body seemed to shrink. Finally he held out his hands to stop Mason. “I don't want to hear any more—”

“Patrick, the body you pulled out of here was one of the waiters from the Casa Carioca.”

“That doesn't prove anything. He could have been working as a hired gun on the side.”

“I also wounded one of the assailants, and I heard his partner talking to him in American English.”

Densmore shook his head as if warding off any more bad news.
“I'm a cop, but I never claimed to be a hero. I advise you to let it all go. Put in for a transfer, and take Abrams with you. Nothing good will come out of this.”

“You think this will all go away if I leave? And who's going to step up and put these bastards down? You? Gamin? I've got a personal stake in this, and I'm already a target.”

Densmore turned to Abrams. “I'm putting you in for a transfer. Whether you like it or not.”

“That's what I advise,” Mason said to Abrams.

“Sirs, I'm not backing out of this. I could never live with myself if I didn't help. Please don't do that to me.”

Densmore gave Abrams a stern look but said nothing.

“I need for you to keep this quiet,” Mason said to Densmore. “I still don't know who all is involved.”

Densmore nodded. “I'll run interference for you, but don't ask me to get in any deeper than that.”

“Whoever got to Yaakov got to Otto, too. We found him hung in a widow's villa with a note nailed to his chest.”

Densmore grimaced, more from the weight of bad news than any sympathy for Otto. “Write it all up tomorrow. I don't want to hear any more. I'm getting out of here and see if I can get some sleep.” He turned on his heels and strode off.

Mason said to Abrams, “I want you to check into a hotel tonight. Don't go back to your billet. Just go straight to a hotel, and make it one run by Germans.”

“And what about you?”

“I'll do the same thing, but after I get Adelle out of there. I should have done that two nights ago.”

“I'm going with you. I won't sleep unless I know you and she are safe.”

“You going to make sure I brush my teeth and tuck me in, too?”

“If that's what it takes.”

*   *   *

A
brams stopped the car down the street from Mason's house, and as before, they surveyed the area. As it was past midnight, no lights shone in any of the houses, including Mason's.

“We go on foot from here,” Mason said as he drew out his .45. “You enter by the back, and I'll take the front.”

“This is getting to be an annoying habit. Have you always lived like this?”

Mason ignored the remark and exited the car. Abrams did the same, and they wordlessly moved down the street. Abrams hopped the low fence of a neighbor's yard to approach Mason's house by the backyard. Mason tried moving quietly, but his footsteps crunched through the frozen crust of snow. On the front porch, he unlocked the door and gently pushed it open.

The sound of a spring released under tension came first—a sound Mason knew too well, and one that made every nerve in his body fire at once. The next instant something heavy and solid hit the living room floor and rolled along the parquet.

“Gil! Grenade!” Mason yelled toward the back of the house. He jumped off the front porch and dived behind the porch's concrete riser.

At that same instant the grenade exploded, lighting up the snow in a hellish orange. The two front windows blew out. Glass sprayed onto the porch and rained down on Mason. He rushed onto the porch, kicked open the door, and entered the living room still full of acrid smoke.

“Gil!”

“Here!” Abrams yelled and stepped out from the back hallway.

Mason ran up to Abrams and checked for wounds. “Are you all right?”

“I can't hear too good,” Abrams said, a little stunned. He tried
to wave away the lingering smoke. “Goddamn, these people! This is fucked up!”

Mason rushed through the rest of the house looking for Adelle. She was gone, but so was the small bag of clothes she'd brought with her from her apartment. She must have figured out for herself that Mason's billet was no longer safe. Mason hoped she'd left town, far away from Garmisch, long before the would-be assassins had arrived.

Mason rejoined Abrams in the living room, and they both examined the area with their flashlights. The grenade had rolled to the center of the room and exploded, pushing the sofa toward the fireplace and turning two chairs to splinters. The grenade's shrapnel had ripped into the upholstery, shredded the area rug, and disintegrated the floor lamp. Beyond the blast radius there were obvious signs that the intruders had torn the place apart: books pulled off the shelves, the contents of a cabinet emptied onto the floor, and the previous owner's record collection strewn across the floor.

Then Mason noticed a white piece of paper nailed to the inside of the front door. He walked up and aimed his flashlight on it. It was torn in places and blackened at the edges, but he could easily make out the message . . .
BOOM!

Abrams came up to Mason and growled when he read the message. “We have
got
to put these people down!”

Mason felt proud of Abrams at that moment. The potent warning had not scared him, but made him more resolute. After this latest stunt, Mason might have considered giving up and moving on, as Densmore had suggested. The force they were up against seemed too powerful and too clever, but Abrams's guileless remark had put it all in perspective.

Mason retrieved Hilda's note that he'd hidden behind the bathroom shelf, then quickly packed up a few clothes. Outside, a few neighbors had stepped out from their houses to see what had happened. An MP jeep and army ambulance pulled up a minute later.
A medic cornered Abrams and insisted on examining him. Mason took the MP corporal inside and gave him a report of the incident. He kept the details vague, only heightening the corporal's suspicion that Mason was involved in something nefarious. Obviously, the corporal was not on Schaeffer's payroll, and Mason mentally added the man to his list of MPs he could trust.