Spoils of Victory (24 page)

M
ason made Bachofen sit on a pile of boxes still inside the truck, while he and Abrams attacked the boxes unloaded onto the ground. Those boxes contained nothing but roofing tiles, as the labels had claimed, and he began to worry they'd jumped to conclusions. But ten minutes later, buried behind another two dozen boxes inside the truck, they hit pay dirt. Wedged between layers of tiles in one of the boxes, they uncovered a paper-covered bundle the shape and size of a brick.

Mason used his switchblade knife to slice open the package, revealing a compressed white powder. He said to Abrams, “What do you think? Heroin?”

“Can't think of another reason to be hiding it in boxes of tiles,” Abrams said.

“Oh, dear.” Bachofen nearly swooned and fell against the metal wall.

Mason and Abrams left him to his misery as they tackled other boxes, and each yielded the same hidden surprise.

Suddenly Bachofen leapt to his feet. “Please, I was only paid to look the other way. I have nothing to do with this. They call and tell
me in code when a shipment will arrive and whether it will be put in one place or another. Never what's in the shipments.”

Mason and Abrams ignored him, and Bachofen collapsed onto his stack of tiles.

“Go call this in,” Mason said to Abrams.

Abrams jumped off the truck and disappeared. Mason turned to Bachofen. “Who else is receiving shipments?”

“I have no idea.”

“Who calls you about the shipments?”

Bachofen looked up at Mason as if weighing the consequences of his response. “Kessel,” he said weakly.

“Not Major Schaeffer?”

Bachofen shook his head with little conviction behind it.

“Never? It will go a lot easier for you if you tell me the whole truth.”

“I am doomed anyway. An expendable pawn, a fleck of dandruff on the shoulder of power.”

“Have it your way,” Mason said and jumped off the back of the truck. “Don't go anywhere.” After shutting the truck's doors and throwing the latch, he walked up to the truck's cab and climbed in. He checked the glove box, but found only some badly folded maps of Italy and Austria, a pack of cigarettes, and a half-full bottle of schnapps. A search of the floorboards and under the seats yielded nothing, but when he reached behind the seats he pulled out a stack of neatly folded U.S. Army uniforms and several sheets of typewritten paper.

Abrams came up to the driver's door. “The cavalry will be here in a minute. How much you want to bet Densmore will be leading the charge?”

Mason showed him the stack of uniforms. “They had three sets of these stashed behind the seats.” He then held up a sheet of official-looking stationery. “Schaeffer should have hired smarter guys. These bozos left behind written orders that got them across borders. Looks like they had another stop to make.”

Two MP jeeps raced into the yard as if assaulting an enemy encampment.

“That was fast,” Abrams said. “Densmore must have put out an APB.”

Mason slipped the truckers' written orders into his breast pocket, and they met the MPs at their jeeps.

Mason approached an MP sergeant. “The company's owner is locked up inside the truck. Take him to his office and keep an eye on him. And rip out his phone before he has a chance to use it.” He instructed the other MPs to remove and log all the bags of suspected heroin.

Ten minutes later, three more jeeps arrived on the scene, and, as Abrams had predicted, Densmore sat in the lead jeep.

Abrams gave Mason a subtle nudge. “Patton breaking through to Bastogne.”

Mason smiled, then greeted Densmore and ran through the events leading up to finding the suspected drugs. An impressive pile of white bricks had already been stacked on the lip of the truck bed.

“Kessel and Schaeffer's contraband,” Mason said.

“Can you prove it?”

“The company owner gets coded calls from the Casa Carioca about arrivals of shipments. He's inside. He already named Kessel as his key contact, but given some time and persuasion, I'm sure he'll give up Schaeffer.”

A muffled pop came from the building. They all turned at the sound.

“A gunshot,” Mason said.

Mason, Abrams, and Densmore rushed into the building. Inside Bachofen's office they found the MP assigned to guard Bachofen checking the man for a pulse—an unnecessary gesture, as Bachofen had a bullet hole in his temple and his eyes were frozen in death.

The MP looked up with a guilty expression. “I just stepped out for a moment. He was bawling his head off, and, well . . .”

Mason turned away before he said something he'd regret later.

Densmore said, “So much for your witness testifying against Kessel
or
Schaeffer.”

Mason thought for a moment. “We've got the bait. Let's see what we can hook with it.”

*   *   *

M
ason sat in the passenger's seat of the truck. Abrams drove. They both wore the outer jackets and caps found behind the seats. In back were four MPs behind a stack of cargo, which, according to the orders Mason had found, consisted of half the “roof tiles.”

“Do you think they split the load to limit their loss?” Abrams asked.

“That, or the two halves go to different destinations. Sort of relay points for further distribution. No telling how many sites they have operating.”

“This idea of yours may not work. What if one of Bachofen's drivers alerted them?”

“I'm betting they had no contact with the higher-ups in the operation. Bachofen was a pawn, but those guys were even lower than that. Of course, I could be wrong, and a bunch of trigger-happy yahoos with machine guns are waiting for us.”

Abrams fell silent, but his knuckles had turned white.

“Don't pull off the steering wheel,” Mason said. “We might need it.”

They reached their destination, a U.S. Army supply depot in a remote area north of Garmisch. The depot was little used since the U.S. 10th Armored Division had been shipped back to the States. Now it mostly housed mothballed tanks, heavy weapons, and armaments. MPs guarded the gates, but neither Mason nor Abrams recognized them.

One of the MPs examined the orders, then passed them on through.

“Didn't even want to look in the back,” Abrams said.

“Either they're being paid to look the other way or they're not real MPs.”

They passed rows of tanks and howitzer cannons, all kept in top shape in case they had to be used again for a Russian invasion. At the far end of the sprawling depot stood several warehouses of corrugated tin. Most were shut and quiet, but the last in the row had a few men milling around.

Mason knocked on the back wall of the cab. “Almost there. Get ready.”

Abrams took it slow, his back stiff and his breathing shallow.

“Take it easy,” Mason said. “They don't look like they're ready to open fire.”

“They're just waiting until we get in range.”

After some additional encouragement from Mason, Abrams pulled up the truck in front of the warehouse. “What if they recognize us, or realize we're not the guys we're supposed to be?”

“We'll know soon enough. Remember, we're Germans in disguise.”

Three men met the truck. One beefy corporal stormed up to Abrams's door. “Where the fuck have you guys been? You're three hours late.”

Abrams said in German, “Crappy weather. We can't fly over the mountains. And the damned checkpoints—”

“I don't understand that kraut gibberish. Just get down and give us a hand.”

Mason jumped down and moved quickly to the back. He threw the latch and opened the doors. He said in heavily accented English, “Where
ist
Herr Schaeffer. Herr Kessel?”

“What the fuck do you care?” the corporal growled.

Abrams met them at the back, and Mason asked the corporal, “You sure this cargo is for you?”

“You think we stood out here in the freezing cold just to welcome you? Now shut up and start unloading.”

Just then, to Mason's surprise, Sergeant Olsen emerged from the warehouse. They both froze for a split second before Olsen broke into a run.

Mason yelled to the MPs, “Now!”

Mason took off after Olsen. He heard shouts and commands behind him, and hoped the MPs had surprised and overwhelmed the warehouse men, otherwise he just might get a bullet in his back. Olsen had long legs, but he was no sprinter. Mason got within twenty yards, pulled out his gun, and yelled, “Olsen, stop!”

Olsen kept running. Mason pointed his gun in the air and fired once. “The next one's for you.”

Olsen stopped this time. He kept his back to Mason and raised his hands. Mason maintained his gun aimed at Olsen's back as he walked up and patted the man down. Olsen had a nine-millimeter pistol in his belt and a Ka-Bar knife in his boot. “Nine-millimeter,” Mason said. “Not your usual army-issue weapon.” He patted Olsen down once more, just to be safe. “I expected to find your rotting corpse in the woods somewhere, Sergeant.”

“If you don't send me to a stockade far away from here, that still might happen.”

“You could have gotten out of Garmisch scot-free, but you just had to stay and team up with these cutthroats.”

“You go where the money is.”

“I never took you for a bright guy, but that's just plain stupid,” Mason said as he handcuffed Olsen. He led Olsen back to the truck, where Abrams and the four MPs held Olsen's crew at gunpoint.

According to Mason's plan, Densmore and four MPs arrived in their jeeps five minutes later. Densmore did a double take when he saw Olsen. “Well, I'll be damned.”

Mason pointed back toward the front gate. “The two MP guards are probably on Schaeffer's payroll.”

“They aren't MPs. We picked them up. And just for the record, we don't know that Schaeffer's behind this.”

“Why don't we ask Olsen?” Mason asked as they watched the MPs take away Olsen and his crew in handcuffs.

“Let's take a look at what's inside first,” Densmore said.

Mason, Abrams, and Densmore entered the one-hundred-by-three-hundred-foot warehouse. Boxes, barrels, and crates labeled as powdered eggs, condensed milk, flour, sugar, and salt filled the space. A cursory search through the containers proved that most held what they advertised and were probably headed to the black markets all over occupied Germany. However, a number of them stacked in one corner claiming to contain powdered milk, actually held penicillin, amphetamines, medical-grade cocaine, and surgical supplies.

While Abrams and Densmore continued to bust open the containers like it was Christmas morning, Mason opened a wide double door leading to the rear of the building.

“You guys are going to want to see this,” he said.

Abrams and Densmore followed Mason out the back, where two train tracks had been installed for transporting tanks and heavy cannon. Now the two tracks accommodated boxcars, hopper cars, and tankers. It took a few minutes to find a crowbar suitable for breaking the padlocks on the boxcars. That done, they went down the line, breaking the locks, pulling the doors open, and inspecting the contents.

They finally stood back and took in the scene.

Abrams whistled at the sight of it. The thirty cars were filled with petrol, coal, industrial chemicals, potatoes, steel, and aluminum.

Densmore said, “How could they have all this right under the army's nose?”

Mason looked at Densmore with a look that said, “You've got to be kidding.”

“This is too big to move,” Densmore said. “We'll have to post guards until we can sort it all out.”

“Then we post guards on the guards,” Abrams said.

U
dahl was waiting at the entrance to the Sheridan barracks when Mason, Abrams, and Densmore arrived. As he approached the three investigators, a contingent of reporters followed. Mason caught himself looking for Laura among the gaggle.

Udahl directed the two photographers to step behind him. “No pictures of me. It's these men who deserve the credit.” He shook the investigators' hands. “Congratulations, men. Job well done. General Pritchard sends his congratulations as well.”

Udahl made a little speech to the reporters about cleaning up the town, and Mason being a big part of it. He declined to pose with the men, but insisted the photographers get group shots of the three investigators.

Mason finally had enough; he disliked the idea of advertising an ongoing investigation, and he never liked the idea of boasting to the press, especially when the ringleaders were still out there. The bust had taken a bite out of their profits, but there was plenty more where that came from.

“Sir, we'd better get back to work,” Mason said.

“Yes, I understand,” Udahl said. He turned halfway and spoke so
the reporters could overhear, “No rest for the wicked, and even less for those who pursue them.”

Inside the barracks, construction was under way to make it ready for the future expansion of the area's constabulary force. Mason, Abrams, and Densmore went straight to the cell wing, where the two fake MPs and the rest of Olsen's crew shared two cells. Olsen had been put in a cell at the end of the corridor and isolated from the rest. The MP guard unlocked the cell door and stood aside for the three investigators to enter. Once they were all inside, Mason noticed the MP guard hovering too close to the door. “We've got it from here. You can wait at the end of the hall.”

The MP showed his displeasure, but complied, and when the MP was well out of earshot, Mason turned his attention to Olsen.

Olsen occupied the single bunk. He stared at the floor with his elbows on his knees and his head in his hands.

Densmore crossed his arms and exhibited a satisfied smile. “You're facing decades at Leavenworth. How does that feel?”

“I didn't do nothing that'd put me away for decades,” Olsen said bitterly to the floor.

“I'm betting the court-martial judge and jury will see it differently.”

“You know the drill,” Mason said. “We've had this chat before. You give us information, and we'll do our best to see you get a reduced sentence.”

Densmore turned to Mason. “You can't trust this guy. He set you up at the Steinadler.”

“I didn't set him up,” Olsen said, finally looking up. “He was made by that kraut.”

“Volker?” Mason asked. Off Olsen's nod Mason said, “Now, there's a little piece of information you left out the last time we talked.”

“I did what you asked. I risked my life to bring you in there.”

“Strange that you got out alive, while three big-time gangsters and
two bodyguards were executed in the alley behind the bar. How do you explain that?”

“Luck, I guess.”

“Not so lucky now,” Densmore said. “You don't seem to understand how much trouble you're in, Sergeant. A previous bust for narcotics, aggravated assault, and now this . . .”

“I believe you left one out,” Mason said. “Besides the ex-Gestapo goon, Olsen here was the only man to make it out of the back of the Steinadler alive. When I busted him, he was in possession of a nine-millimeter pistol, the same type of weapon used to kill Giessen and the rest. I'd say we can make a case for multiple homicides.”

Olsen sat up straight. “What? I had nothing to do with that!”

“Five pros, all dead, and you without a scratch,” Abrams said.

“Looks pretty damning to me,” Densmore said. “A known thug and narcotics dealer, criminal gang member, and black marketer. Looks like we've got a winner, ladies and gentlemen.”

“Yup,” Abrams said. “Let's go tell Udahl.”

“Wait! You can't pin that on me!”

“Oh, this looks very bad,” Mason said.

“Bad for him,” Abrams said, “but we'll look like heroes. Seems only fair he gets his neck stretched for killing those men in cold blood.”

“You can't do this!”

“We may even be able to connect him to the other murders: Agent Winstone, Hilda Schmidt, Eddie Kantos, and his wife and child.”

“I wanna see a lawyer.”

Densmore threw up his hands in mock exasperation. “Now you've done it. Might as well pin a big sign on your chest, with ‘guilty' in big letters.”

Olsen's face turned red, and he pulled at his hair as if that might revive a few dormant brain cells.

“There's another way,” Mason said. “You can make this all go away. Well, almost all of it. Save you from the gallows, anyway. Maybe shave off a few years at Leavenworth.”

They all fell silent and waited. The only sound was Olsen's heavy breathing.

“Who's calling the shots, Olsen?” Mason demanded. “We want the big names. Not some low-level gunsels.”

Olsen's face suddenly relaxed like a fifteen-watt lightbulb of an idea had gone off in his head. “Kessel,” he blurted out. “Frieder Kessel.”

“That's all you got?” Mason said. “Not good enough. What about Schaeffer? He's the real boss, isn't he?”

“Schaeffer?” Olsen looked back down to the floor. “There's no way . . .”

“There's no way, what? No way you give him up, because you'll get shanked in the stockade?”

“There's no way, because . . . he ain't involved.”

“Bullshit,” Abrams said. “We know he's the guy behind it all. Give him up, or we'll pin every one of those murders on you.”

Olsen's face turned scarlet and he spat saliva as he shouted, “Then you're gonna have to hang me right now, because I only deal with Kessel!”

“What about Lester Abbott?”

Olsen calmed slightly at the subject change. “I've heard of him, but never seen him. Supposed to be some dangerous guy. That's all I know.”

“How about Volker? You know where we can find him?”

“I've only seen him at the Casa. And that was only a couple of times.”

“You're not good for very much, are you?” Densmore said.

“We got a deal or what?”

Mason turned to Abrams. “Ask the guard to bring us a pencil and paper.”

Abrams talked to the guard, and a minute later Mason handed the pencil and paper to Olsen.

“Write down what you did, what Kessel told you, any other guys in charge, how the delivery system works. Everything.”

“Then I won't get hanged?”

“That depends on what you give us.”

“I don't spell too good.”

“You're not applying for college. Just make sure we can read it.”

Olsen went to work, and the three investigators stepped out of the cell.

“I'll supervise Einstein in there,” Densmore said. “You and Abrams go ahead and pick up Kessel.” He looked at his watch. “The club's just getting started, so please, don't go in guns a-blazin'. All right? And take a couple of MPs as backup.”

Before Mason left, he said to Densmore, “Put him on suicide watch. I don't want to lose another witness. And no transfers. He stays here.”

“Get the hell out of here, and go get Kessel.”

*   *   *

T
here were a few early-bird diners at the Casa Carioca when Mason, Abrams, and two MPs entered the club. The maitre d' spotted them and nodded urgently to someone at the bar. He then took extreme interest in his seating chart as Mason and the others passed. Five musicians from the orchestra started playing a Dixieland jazz number. The waiters went through the same routine, stopping what they were doing and following them with hard stares.

When Mason and company reached the bottom of the stairs, they were greeted by the ex-boxer, Hans Weissenegger, and a companion only slightly smaller in bulk. They blocked Mason's way.

“Uh, boys,” Mason said, “you do
not
want to do that. We've already put down one of your buddies at the bookstore.”

“Major Schaeffer ain't here,” Hans said.

“I'm not here for Schaeffer. Not this time, anyway. I want Kessel.”

“He's busy.”

“Look, Hans, I promised my boss I wouldn't create a scene.”

“The only scene you're going to create is you flying out the front door.”

“You saw what happened to Boris when he tried to stop me.”

“Sorry. Orders.”

“You know what? I'm kind of tired. This busting-criminals routine has got me drained.” Mason drew out his pistol in a lightning move, pulled the hammer back, and poked it under Hans's chin. “No fight tonight, Hans. Okay?”

A few of the diners gasped, but the band kept the majority of the clients unaware of the altercation.

“Please, step aside,” Mason said pleasantly. “I like you, Hans, so I don't want to make this an ugly mess.”

Hans stepped aside, prompting his partner to do the same. Mason, Abrams, and the two MPs passed the gatekeepers and mounted the stairs. Mason returned the Colt's hammer to the rest position but kept the gun drawn to dissuade anyone else from impeding his progress. He breached Kessel's office door first. Kessel sat at his desk and was on the phone. He hung up without a word.

“Placing orders for another shipment?” Mason asked.

“Yes, as a matter of fact. We're running low on champagne.”

A quiet moment passed before Kessel rose from his desk, stepped around it, and offered his hands. As he did so, Hans and his partner appeared outside the door. The MPs tried to push them back but with little success.

“We tried to stop them, boss,” Hans said.

“I know you did,” Kessel said. “And I appreciate your restraint. We don't want to disturb the customers, do we?”

Kessel was calm, a vague smile even crossing his face as he looked at Mason. Mason moved forward with his handcuffs out. There was a serenity to Kessel's demeanor, and Mason answered in kind.

“Please, turn around and put your hands behind your back,” Mason said. When Kessel did as instructed, Mason said, “You're not going to ask what the charges are?”

“I'm sure you'll get to that.”

Mason took the hint: Kessel didn't want to talk in the presence
of his men. Mason started to lead Kessel to the door, but stopped. He plucked Kessel's coat off the coatrack and laid it over his shoulders. “Wouldn't want you to catch cold.”

Kessel nodded. “If we could exit the club as unobtrusively as possible, I would greatly appreciate it.”

Mason held out his hand in a formal gesture for Kessel to proceed. When the group gathered in the hallway, Mason asked the MPs to go ahead and wait for them at the bottom of the stairs. “Holster your pistols, and pretend we're one big happy family out for a stroll.”

The two MPs did as Mason had instructed. Hans and his partner started to follow them, but Kessel said, “You two stay here. No need for a parade.”

“What do we do about managing the place?” Hans asked like a lost child.

“The show director will take charge. Do what Mr. Sobel thinks best.”

Mason was about to escort Kessel down the stairs when he heard the door to Schaeffer's office open then close. He turned to the sound. His chest constricted at the sight of Adelle, who had just exited Schaeffer's office. She let out a little gasp when she saw him. They stared at each other for a moment. She then bit her lip and walked up to them, looking at Kessel, not at Mason.

“Frieder, where are they taking you?”

“Don't worry, darling. I'll be fine.”

Kessel's words of affection made Mason's throat lock up. He stared at Adelle, but she avoided his gaze.
Now is not the time, Mason
.
Breathe and start walking.
He muttered to Kessel, “Come on,” and forced himself to turn away.

If any of the club's patrons reacted to them escorting Kessel out of the club, Mason didn't notice. Fortunately, breathing, walking, and arresting bad guys came more or less automatically to him.