Spoils of Victory (3 page)

“We'll get footprint castings in the snow,” Abrams said. “But other than that and those shell casings, we don't have much to go on.”

“We'll see what the canvassing turns up.”

“Chief Warrant Officer Collins?” a voice inquired from the front door.

Mason looked up to see two men in matching black overcoats and equally black suits standing inside the door. He knew them as U.S. agents with the Counter Intelligence Corps, or CIC, but neither was American. Their names were Werner and Hans, but Mason called them Frick and Frack after the famous comedy ice-skating team, though there was nothing jolly about their stony expressions. They were both former German army intelligence officers, who now worked for the Americans.

Hans said, “Special Agent Winstone would like to have a word with you.”

“If you two haven't noticed, we're busy investigating a crime scene at the moment. Tell him I'll see him later.”

“I'm afraid he insists.”

“Well, you tell him he can shove it where the sun don't shine.”

The two agents took a moment to try to process this. Finally Werner said, “He said you just screwed an old friend. He is outside. It will only take a few minutes.”

Mason stopped, wondering how he could have possibly screwed Winstone. Shaking his head, he followed the pair out of the bar and down the street.

It had become too common, in Mason's opinion, for the CIC to recruit Germans for the expanding task of investigating the growing presence of Russian spy networks, hunting down Nazi war criminals, and searching for the missing Nazi gold. Mason understood why: They were better than their American counterparts at using the locals to sniff out hiding places, potential Nazi fanatics, and Germans now working for the Russians. Still, Mason didn't like the idea of the American army employing German ex-intelligence and ex-Gestapo goons, glossing over their Nazi pasts for the sake of solving cases. Times were already changing, the Russians being the new
threat, but Mason still had a hard time moving on after all he'd seen in the war.

Frick and Frack finally stopped at a long black Mercedes 320 Stromlinien-Limousine parked at the curb.

“Does everything have to be black with you guys?” Mason said.

Werner's expression remained frozen as he opened the car's back door. Mason got in. Agent John Winstone waited for him in the backseat. He was in his late thirties, with a round face emphasized by his deep, receding hairline. He was in great shape, though, and had the kind of tan a skier gets from spending hours on the slopes. He wore a tailored blue suit and a gold Swiss watch.

Mason barely settled in before saying, “I don't like being summoned. Even by a friend.”

“Who
does
do your tailoring?” Winstone asked sarcastically. “You'll have to give me his name.”

“What do you want? I've got a crime scene to search.”

“You screwed up my investigation, buddy. I want to know what you were doing in there in the first place.”

“Your investigation?”

“I've been watching Giessen and his cronies for months.”

“Since when does the CIC investigate black marketers? Aren't you guys busy enough with war criminals and spies?”

“Those gang leaders, or some of the men under their control, were running a ratline helping Nazi war criminals escape out of Germany.”

“A ratline? I've been investigating them for two months and haven't heard about them running a ratline. And maybe if the CIC would share information we might have avoided this situation. We've known each other for three years. Since when did we become rivals?”

Mason had gotten to know Agent Winstone when they worked together at the army's G2 intelligence branch during the war. Winstone had supervised a team of analysts, while Mason had been a field operative for the “human intelligence” section, gathering local
agents, conducting interviews of German POWs, and estimating frontline enemy assets. They'd become friends during that time, but Mason had lost track of Winstone after the war when he joined the CID and was transferred to Munich. Then they bumped into each other shortly after Mason had been reassigned to Garmisch. Winstone had changed from those earlier days; once an intelligent, unassuming guy, he had become a little too self-important and aloof for Mason's tastes. They'd made plans to get together a few times, but it had never worked out, and Mason had cited his need to remain low-key for his undercover work.

“Ever thought to check with us?” Winstone said.

“I don't recall the CID having to check in with you boys when it comes to black market activity and murder.”

Winstone studied Mason for a moment. “It seems strange that you meet with Giessen at the very time and place that he and his cronies are assassinated.”

“And here you are, moments after it all happened, in your custom-tailored suit, with your fancy car and two German goons. Should I be looking at you for this?”

Winstone paused and smiled. “Looks like we were working at cross purposes.”

“Looks like it, but it doesn't matter anymore. The three leaders are dead, and the ones we didn't pick up will go underground.”

“They'll rise to the surface again,” Winstone said and looked at Mason's head wound. “What happened in there?”

“I was trying to infiltrate. I had it all set up, but someone blew my cover. You wouldn't happen to know anything about an ex-Gestapo major named Ernst Volker, would you?”

“No, but if he's ex-Gestapo, then he's probably using an alias.”

“Tall, thin, gray haired, with a chiseled chin and pointed nose?”

Mason thought he saw a spark of recognition in Winstone's eyes, then his focus shifted inward as if in deep thought.

“He isn't working for the CIC, is he?” Mason asked. “Another ex-Nazi now spying for our team, who just blew my cover?”

“Mason, I don't know this Volker character, and all our German agents have been cleared after a thorough vetting process. And many of them have been very effective. I'm not saying forget what we fought for, but there's another war on the horizon.”

“I can't forget everything that easily.” Just saying that elicited a flash of images to course through his consciousness. “Is that why you joined the CIC? The other horizon?”

“There hasn't been as much of a need for my specialty in German military intelligence since the end of the war. Plus, I thought I could do more good in the CIC fighting against the threat of Russian aggression.”

“In Garmisch? Nothing I've turned up has anything to do with Russian spies. I could see Berlin or Frankfurt, even Munich, but not Garmisch.”

“You might be surprised. Another team picked up a group of Russians trying to sneak across the border. The Reds are turning out German agents and double agents in the thousands while we're still struggling to establish a democracy. You're an excellent investigator. Why don't you come work with us? With the Russians grabbing up eastern Europe and sending battalions of spies at us, we could use you.”

“Mike Forester already tried to recruit me. I'm a cop. It's who I am.”

“Well, if Mike couldn't convince you . . .” Winstone's expression turned dark, and he glanced out the window as if making sure no one was watching. “I agree the rivalry between the CID and CIC should stop. And in that spirit, why don't we share information? I have some items that might interest you, and vice versa.”

“Nothing I've turned up has anything to do with ratlines or Russian spies.”

“Any other names come up in your investigations besides Ernst Volker?”

“Other than the three merry henchmen, Giessen, Bachmann, and Plöbsch?” Mason shook his head. “None who are above midlevel thug. But, right now, I'm trying to figure out how a Gestapo major, who tortured American soldiers, is still running around loose. There seem to be a bunch of Germans out there who should be locked up for war crimes.”

Winstone paused to consider something. “In my digging around, I did hear stories of new leadership coming into town. Somehow the organization running the ratline is connected to the new leadership. Whoever they are, they're slowly taking over and the other gangs are running scared. I have a few informants on the inside. Like you, we weren't able to penetrate the group, but we did get inside a couple of operations, and what I learned shocked me.”

“Like what?”

“I'm not prepared to throw anything out there without substantial proof.”

“You give me what you have, and I'll work it from my end. I'll get the proof.”

“I'm not prepared to do that, either.”

“What happened to the spirit of cooperation? If it's a criminal matter, then you need to hand your information over.”

Winstone suddenly had difficulty looking at Mason and turned his attention to the window again. “I'll tell you when the time is right. Only I and General Pritchard know the contents of the files I've collected.”

“What's the deputy military governor of Bavaria have to do with a CIC investigation?”

“When I started seeing a connection between the ratlines and the gang activity, I was told by command to coordinate anything related to crime activity directly through General Pritchard. He's taken a personal interest in cleaning up the mess down here.”

Mason merely nodded, letting Winstone talk. He knew General Pritchard, but decided not to mention that to Winstone. He studied
the man's face and the way he held himself. For his part, Winstone remained as detached and unmoving as a statue.

Winstone continued, “Until I can verify the information, it stays in my hands. There are other issues involved besides local criminal activity. I've just uncovered some things that could shake the army to its core. Undermine everything we're trying to do here in Germany.” He held up his hands before Mason could probe deeper. “Look, I can't say any more. I
can
promise that by the end of the week, I'll have what I need, and I'll pass it on to you. That is, if you're really ready to handle a live grenade.”

“That's my specialty.”

Winstone tried to produce a confident smile, but it failed.

“I'd better get back to it,” Mason said and made a move to leave.

“Why don't we catch up?” Winstone said, turning cheery all of a sudden. “How about dinner tonight? You can meet my girl. We're going to the Blue Parrot around eight.”

Another thing that had changed in Winstone: Once a devoted husband and father when Mason knew him during the war, now he had a German mistress.

“Thanks. Maybe another time. My girl's coming in by train this evening. I haven't seen her in over two months.”

“Bring her along. We'll make it a foursome.”

Mason smiled and nodded. “If things go as planned, I'll be busy tonight.”

W
hen Mason and Abrams arrived at the Rathaus, the sun sat low behind the snow-laden mountains. Church bells announced the five o'clock hour, the sound immediate and sonorous in the dense, frigid air. The Rathaus, or city hall, sat on a large open square in the middle of town, appropriately called Rathausplatz. It had served as the seat of Garmisch-Partenkirchen's local government, but it now housed the local U.S. military government offices and the military police and CID detachment headquarters. The four-story rectangular main building sported an entrance of stone arches supporting ocher walls with painted geometric designs, capped by a pitched roof, with a cupola as the cherry on top.

Mason and Abrams headed for the three-story annex building that sat perpendicular to the city hall proper. The first and second floors served as the principal MP station, with Garmisch's small contingent of CID investigators tucked away in a corner of the third floor. On the front steps, Abrams peeled off to talk to an MP buddy of his, and Mason continued into the building.

“Do you love your country, son?”

Mason hesitated, not because of the question, but because the Garmisch area's provost marshal, Major Robert “Bronco Bob” Gamin,
had asked it. The major stood just inside the entrance, handing out playing cards with the pledge of allegiance printed on the back.

“Uh, yes, sir, I do,” Mason finally said.

Bronco Bob Gamin handed Mason a card. “Keep that in your breast pocket, close to your heart. Commies can't stand to do that. That way we'll know.” He gave Mason a wink, then finally gave Mason a thorough look. “What are you doing out of uniform? You look like a damn kraut.”

“I'm CID, sir. I was working undercover—”

Mason stopped, as Major Gamin had already turned to the next man coming in the door.

As he started to walk away, Gamin called after him, “You're the new CID investigator. Correct?”

“Well, yes, sir. Going on two months now. We've met on several—”

Gamin had turned away again to question Abrams, who looked more flummoxed than Mason. Once Abrams could break away, he joined Mason. They met their CID supervising officer, Patrick Densmore, by the base of the stairs. A former St. Louis police detective, Densmore stood tall and lean. Proud of his Oklahoma roots, he exaggerated his long drawl and spun endless yarns like a cowboy fresh off a cattle drive. At every opportunity he stood with his thumbs in his belt and habitually squinted as if he'd spent too much time gazing into the vast horizons of the sun-baked plains. Mason and Densmore had the same rank, chief warrant officer 4, but Densmore had been with the detachment since August 1945, making him the most senior criminal investigator. There were only four CID investigators based in Garmisch, with investigators sent down from Munich if they became overloaded with cases. Between the fifty MPs and the four investigators, the entire police detachment felt like a town-sized force taking on a city-sized crime wave.

“What's with the major?” Mason asked Densmore.

“You haven't been around during one of his crazy spells?”

When Mason shook his head, Densmore said, “He's a fine officer,
a good administrator, but he goes off the deep end from time to time. Some say it started when his plane crashed during Operation Market Garden and he banged his head pretty bad. Some say he had a stroke. Whatever the reason, he gets on these jags about Commie conspiracies.”

Mason glanced back down the stairs at Gamin, who looked like one of those blood-and-guts marines with the steely blue eyes, buzz haircut, and prickly mustache. Mason shook his head again.

Densmore continued as they climbed the stairs, “Because he was a war hero, the army—in its infinite wisdom—put him here as a reward for his service, just to give him something to do. He'll come out of it in a couple of days and be meaner than a hornet. Has he asked you to look into a conspiracy to steal American flags?”

“Nope.”

“He will.”

They reached the third-floor landing, which serviced two hallways leading to a series of offices. They took the hallway to the right, and Densmore stopped them halfway down. Playing nice was over; his expression had turned grim. He turned to Abrams. “Why don't you start writing up the report? Mr. Collins and I are going to have a few words.”

Abrams headed for his office, and Mason followed Densmore down the hall in silence. Densmore tried to emulate the tough-but-sage commander, but those qualities never seemed to gel for the man. This walk of silence was meant to instill a little humility and contrition, like a student being walked to the principal's office, but humility and contrition were not among Mason's strong suits.

They entered a large office with a window overlooking the north end of town and the mountains in the background. It contained a large oak desk, with file cabinets lining one wall. Oversized maps dominated another wall: one of postwar Germany divided into its four zones of occupation—American, British, French, and Russian;
one of the American zone, which included Bavaria; and finally a city map of Garmisch-Partenkirchen.

Squeezed between picturesque mountains of the Bavarian Alps, Garmisch-Partenkirchen had been untouched by bombs and surrendered without firing a shot. Her streets were still graced by buildings painted with religious or pastoral scenes and trimmed in carved wood like icing on a wedding cake—neighborhoods of gingerbread houses on Hansel-and-Gretel lanes, as if the town had been lifted out of a fairy tale. But this wasn't a fairy-tale town in some faraway land. It lay within the American occupation zone in defeated Nazi Germany. The vestiges of the 1936 Winter Olympics still stood as monuments to Hitler's dream of a thousand-year empire, but gone were the sea of Nazi banners, the signs saying: “Jews Not Welcome,” the elite Gebirgsjäger soldiers, the shouts of
“Heil Hitler,”
and the swastika flag–waving fanatics. Göring had come there to be treated for a bullet wound after Hitler's failed putsch and was given honorary citizen status by the city's leaders. Hitler had wanted to buy farmland there for his mountain retreat, but the farmer wouldn't sell, and Adolf ended up building his Eagle's Nest in Berchtesgaden. A veritable who's who of Nazis had called Garmisch their home away from home. Under the ice and snow, under the pale blue sky of a low winter sun, the town hid its Nazi past well.

The Garmisch-Partenkirchen assignment had been designed to be Mason's punishment, a backwater post where he was to reflect on his reckless behavior and gross insubordination during a turbulent murder case in Munich. That had suited Mason just fine. He'd spent most of his postwar time in the blackened ruins of Frankfurt and Munich, so a posting at a renowned army playground seemed more like reward than punishment. Then he arrived . . .

Compared to the urban wasteland of those two cities, Garmisch was a clashing, jarring, incongruous place.

As the Third Reich collapsed, the city had become the stem of a
funnel of fleeing wealthy Germans and Nazi government heavyweights, SS and Wehrmacht divisions, all bringing with them vast quantities of the Nazis' stolen art masterpieces, the Reichsbank's gold and currency reserves, diamonds, precious stones, and uranium from the failed atomic bomb experiments, all now hidden away or available for purchase on the black market. With millions of dollars to be made, murder, extortion, bribery, and corruption were the norm. Tens of thousands of displaced persons and concentration camp survivors, ex-POWs, arriving by circumstance or purpose, swelled the city to six times the wartime population Adding to this volatile brew, tens of thousands of bored U.S. Army soldiers ripe for corruption, tempted by wickedness and greed. Criminal gangs thrived, and everyone seemed to look the other way.

So much for a backwater posting. . . .

Densmore leaned against his desk and crossed his arms. Mason ignored Densmore's attempt at cutting an authoritative figure and feigned interest in the wall maps.

“I ought to charge you with insubordination,” Densmore said.

“And that would prove what, exactly?”

“That you can't ignore my authority and try this infiltration bullshit without clearing it with me. Why do I only hear the details of this scheme when the thing goes south? Plus, you put yourself and Abrams in danger. If I had known about this stunt of yours, I'd have made sure, first, that you wouldn't have done it, and, second, that if I had approved it, you'd have proper backup.”

“I got the impression that you felt better off not knowing. No one seems to give a damn about the gangs operating openly in this town. Everywhere I turn, I see Polish DPs and German ex-soldiers who've just come out of prisoner-of-war camps driving around in sports cars and wearing gold watches. American GIs and military government employees living like royalty. No one gets busted and no one seems to give a damn.”

“So you're the sheriff riding into Tombstone to clean up the town?”

“Maybe.”

“Good luck with that. I guess the Germans shooting at you in the war wasn't enough.”

Mason said nothing.

“As long as I'm your supervising officer, you will limit yourself to the cases at hand. I heard from the CID boys in Munich about you disobeying numerous direct orders in pursuit of that killer. They also said that you thought of yourself as some kind of modern-day Lone Ranger and charged into dangerous situations that almost got several of your fellow investigators killed. You go off the reservation here and I'll have your hide.”

Mason decided not to tell Densmore that he'd heard those kinds of threats before from another commanding officer, that he considered direct orders optional if the situation warranted it. He always intended to toe the line, and after the firestorm he'd created in Munich, he had made a promise to stay out of trouble, but sometimes he just couldn't help it.

Densmore must have read his mind. “You told me when you first got here that you wanted to keep a low profile. Stay out of the spotlight after all the shit you got into in Munich. Just fly under the radar until your time is up with the army and you go back to the States.”

“That's the thing about me: Just trying to put one foot in front of the other, I manage to step in the biggest pile of manure.”

Densmore seemed to be finished with his reprimand, as he let out a sigh and sat at his desk to rifle through a stack of papers.

Mason asked him, “You've been in Garmisch how long?”

“Seven months. Why?”

“It's a small city. You've gotten to know how things work around here. How many MPs or MG officials are taking bribes or just looking the other way to make a few bucks?”

“MG” stood for “military government.”

“Hell, everyone in this town is trying to make a few extra bucks.”

“That include you?”

Densmore jerked his head up to glare at Mason. “Goddamn, buddy, who the hell do you think you are? I make a few bucks with the cigarettes, try to make life a little cushier. But I don't do anything that would compromise me as a CID investigator.”

“I don't care what you do with your cigarettes. I mainly asked to see how much you know about the crime networks around here.”

“If I knew something relevant, I'd tell you. So back off.”

They fell silent a moment, then Densmore asked, “What did you find in your search of the crime scene?”

“Not much in the bar. The Turk who runs the place knew how to keep it clean. We lifted fingerprints and shoe impressions from the mud in the alley, but I don't expect much concrete evidence to come of it. The canvass turned up nothing. We did pick up the shell casings near the bodies. Looks like two nine-millimeters. I figure they had some kind of sound suppressors since no one heard gunshots. We'll get the shell casings analyzed and see if we can get the type.”

“No line on where Olsen went?”

“None of the residents saw anything. Or at least they claimed not to. I'm betting his body will turn up in the forest once the snow melts—whenever
that
is around here. I'll have Abrams put out a missing-persons bulletin for all the MP patrols to be on the lookout for him.”

Densmore took a moment to light a cigarette, then pointed it at Mason. “Next time you walk into a lion's den, you bring enough backup. Besides me, you're the only other investigator with any real experience. Now, get out of those rags and shave, then we'll go at your prisoners.”