A Despicable Profession (25 page)

When we had finished making the rounds I apologized to the Colonel for my rude behavior on the previous visit.

“Gone and forgotten dear boy. And I do appreciate the giggle water.”

“Least I could do Colonel. What's the occasion this evening?”

“No occasion,” said Norwood, surveying the crowd with a jaundiced eye. “Just a group of self-important expats who expect us to drive the Red Army back to Minsk so they can reclaim their positions of power and privilege.”

“Ah. Is that all.”

I tried my bait and switch idea. “Colonel, Klaus Hilde suggests the Red Army is about to head in the other direction.” Norwood hiked one considerable eyebrow half an inch. “I think it's a crock, a cheap ploy to keep us interested. But Hilde says the Committee to Free Berlin is a Soviet front.”

I stopped there. The Colonel waved me on without comment.

“A Soviet front planning an assault on a military target in the Soviet Sector, which the Red Army will use as a pretext to seize the city.”

“First I've heard of it,” said Norwood, “though it does sound like Beria. Devious little bastard, to the cloak and dagger born.” He gave me a brusque once over. “What do you intend to do about it?”

I shrugged, surprised the Colonel hadn't dismissed Hilde's theory. Maybe I could trust the old queen. “We don't have much leverage. The White Russians on the Committee don't trust us for some reason.”

I wanted to do as the CO suggested, throw open the discussion, get the word out to the dignitaries. They were Eastern European anti-Communists. They had to know
somebody who knew somebody on the Committee. Better if Col. Norwood delivered the message, however. The White Russians had a perfectly good reason not to trust us. Most all of their Yankee collaborators had been murdered.

I said it again, louder this time. “I just don't understand why the White Russian freedom fighters don't trust us!”

Heads turned, conversation quieted. The Colonel was off like a shot.

“It's quite a good reason act-tu-ally. You bloody Yanks hold yourselves aloof. We Brits like to jump in up to our nellies, mix it up with the natives and all that. Which is why, as any of these good people can tell you, that we are so universally revered!”

This brought a titter from the starchy group.

“You Americans suffer, if I may say so, from ‘top down' thinking,” said the Colonel with a saucy wink.

“How so?”

“Well, dear fellow, there's a reason the MI6 call American agents bat boys.”

“I assumed it was a baseball reference. You Brits are the sluggers, we Yanks just hand you the bats.”

“It's worse than that I'm afraid.”

I nodded for the Colonel to continue, not that he needed any encouragement.

“It seems that General William Donovan, wartime head of the OSS, once proposed a peculiar plan of sabotage.”

Col. Norwood paused. One of the dignitaries had the bad taste to cough. Norwood paused until order had been restored.

“The General had been informed, incorrectly as it turns out, that the Japanese populace were deathly afraid...of bats. Based on this misinformation the General – they call him Wild Bill – conceived a plan. A plan to sow panic and chaos amongst the enemy. A plan to drop thousands of live bats on the Empire of Japan!”

Uneasy mirth from the dignitaries.

“A test run was arranged. How and where the bats were gathered I am not at liberty to say.”

The Colonel mugged at his guests to indicate that this was a laugh line. They obliged.

“Comes the day. A B-24 holding steady at 20,000 feet above the Arizona Territories, Army Air Force cargo monkeys scrambling to drag the crates into position, the bats keening against the light as the bomb bay doors are breached, the top of their crates prized open with crowbars, then yanked free by fifty foot lanyards when the crates are pitched into the wild blue yonder!”

The Colonel had done a good deal of physical business during this speech, dragging crates, yanking lanyards and such. The dignitaries were right there with him, in the cargo hold of the B-29 high above the Arizona desert. Heck, me too, though I knew that Wild Bill's silly bat scheme never made it past the talking stage.

“The crates are ripped apart, and the captive bats spread their wings in newfound freedom above the parched landscape far below!” The Colonel threw out his arms. “And promptly freeze to death at the high altitude and drop like rocks.”

The dignitaries groaned. They didn't like the sad conclusion to this amusing anecdote. I didn't much care for it myself.

The Colonel changed the subject. “Ladies and gentlemen, our American friend brings word that the Committee to Free Berlin is a Soviet front bent on mischief. Can anyone confirm this?” Shrugs and head shakes all around. “Well, pass it along if you have a mind to.”

I got the distinct impression I was being screwed with. As in,
Anyone care to do the bidding of these balmy Yanks
?

The Colonel kept at it, grabbing a copy of Collier's from the coffee table. “Allen Dulles proposes, in this issue, that Berlin be left for dead as fitting tribute to the Nazi horrors.” Norwoood shook the magazine at me and grinned. “This is wrong thinking!
We need you cheeky Yanks to stem the tide of Communist domination.”

“I agree Colonel,” I said loudly, then leaned in. “Is that why you let us grab Herr Hilde instead of taking him for yourself?”

The Colonel bulled ahead at full volume. “I set you a task old thing! To see if you could track Hilde down, to see if you were worthy. We pitifully outnumbered Brits didn't amass the greatest empire in history by doing all the scutwork ourselves. We selected our allies carefully, then tested them in battle.”

The Colonel turned to the crowd and boomed, “Our friend Hal, you'll be glad to know, passed with flying colors.”

The dignitaries weren't. Glad to know. They were miffed that their concerns were being ignored. The Colonel seemed not to notice, seemed, in fact, pleased as punch. I would have chalked up his erratic behavior to too much Absinthe but he had no scorched purple patches on his cheeks, had nothing showing but plain toothy malevolence.

What the hell?

Sedgewick entered the parlor from the kitchen holding a silver serving tray with both hands. The Colonel made the announcement.

“Fresh picked
Spargel,
ladies and gentlemen. Steamed, chilled and served with lemon and hand-whisked mayonnaise.”

The dignitaries crowded round the tray. I joined them. I was cheesed off nine ways to Sunday but I wasn't about to pass up home-cooked grub.

Spargel
is Kraut for asparagus, that much I knew. It's considered a German delicacy, served up from cans at Christmas and Easter. Why then were the long spears on Sedgewick's silver serving platter white? I grabbed one and slurped it down.

The Colonel appeared at my elbow. “Delightful, aren't they?”

“Very. But I thought asparagus were green.”

“They are. German
Spargel,
however, are white. The master race of asparagi you might say.”

This was some sort of an insult to my Kraut heritage I supposed. The Colonel's flaring brows and licking lips said he was waiting on my response. I stayed patient, stayed sober. Entirely too sober.

“Colonel Norwood,” I said, putting my hand on his shoulder, “I think we need a drink.”

“I thought you'd never ask,” said the Colonel and pulled me through the throng of dignitaries. “Sherry drinkers,” he said under his breath. We shuddered in unison.

Norwood walked me to his bedroom and pushed through the door. Its hydraulic pump pulled it back into place. When the door clicked shut Norwood turned on his heel and backed me up against it. His voice was low, his breath foul.

“I know why you are here Schroeder. You expect me to say the word and set your odious Irishman free from his captivity.”

“Actually I...”

“Shut up!” I did so. The Colonel continued, so close I could count his nose hairs. “I cannot. And I will not.”

“Sorry to hear that,” I replied without pointing out the obvious. If you can't, it doesn't much matter what you won't.

“I have already saved your miserable hides once this month, that should be sufficient largesse on my part.”

“You're coming through loud and clear Colonel. Now, didn't I hear something about a drink?”

“Of course,” said Norwood, instantly the genial host.

He was all over the place this evening. Hail fellow, sarcastic wag, snarling attack dog and back again. The Colonel crossed to a black ceramic end table next to the bed. He pushed a button. The top of the table parted like a two-span drawbridge and a spring-loaded cocktail tray rose up and presented itself. Impressive. Very.

“I have gin, vodka and Scotch,” he said, tinkling around in the joy jumble. “And a bottle of that American rot the Whiskey Colonels drink.”

The Colonel held up a bottle of Jack Daniel's Tennessee sippin' whiskey. Holy cats. “A double, on the rocks.”

The Colonel poured mine with great care, using ice tongs to add four cubes, a crystal jigger to measure out three fluid ounces. Then he glugged a big splash of gin into a highball glass, no ice, no tonic, rimmed the glass with a wedge of lime, placed the wedge in his mouth and noisily sucked it dry.

I hadn't spent much time with aristocrats. Were they all this goofy?

We drank, I noodled. Norwood said he'd already saved our miserable hides once this month. True enough. It was the second part, the ‘that should be sufficient largesse' part that kept burping up like the taste of Dinty Moore stew. Real allies don't ration their largesse when a life is at stake.

When our glasses were empty and Norwood was refilling them I asked a question that I shouldn't have, not if I was here to recruit the Colonel to help free Ambrose. Norwood had made it plain he wasn't in a co-operative frame of mind, but we were knocking back cocktails in his boudoir. His mood figured to improve. So I should have kept my yap shut maybe, done what I had to do to save Ambrose. But a spy's first allegiance is to the truth.

“How did you make the Russian platoon go away that time you drove up in your Rolls?”

Norwood sipped gin and looked offended. “Winston Churchill has a fond adage that you might find instructive.”

“I'm all ears.”

“No one asks hard questions of good fortune.”

I nodded and smiled and kept my powder dry. If Churchill did say that saying the Colonel had misunderstood it. Churchill wasn't saying one shouldn't ask hard questions of good fortune, just that no one bothered to.

I asked my question again. Norwood answered, grudgingly.

“Sheer luck. I knew their commanding officer. Knew him, and his vices, rather better than he cared me to, if you take my
meaning. If it had been another squad, or the Blue Caps, you and your Hibernian would now be dead. Or worse.”

I offered my thanks and gathered my wits about me. Col. Norwood had already rung up two coincidences to his account. One of his ladies just happened to know Herr Hilde's address. And Norwood just happened to have that male prostitute handy when Ambrose and I confronted him about how he knew we'd be at the loading dock. Two coincidences are suspicious, three are a conspiracy. I now had three. Col. Norwood just happened to know the big Russian commander.

“Here's how I see it, Colonel.” I took a bite of Jack and plunged ahead.

“Your rescue was an elaborate charade you arranged with your Russian friend to win our trust and gratitude and that of Victor Jacobson. And Bill Donovan. When I returned to your salon to answer your question about which fugitive we were chasing you couldn't be bothered. That made me trust you all the more. But could be you already knew the name of the fugitive. Could be Leonid told you. Like he called to alert you to our surprise visit, so you could arrange more playacting, by your queer young man. After Ambrose and I slinked off you returned Leonid's call, told him to monitor our conversation, listen in to our speculation about the identity of the traitor, now that the good Colonel had been cleared.”

I took a good pull, swishing it around like mouthwash before I swallowed. That the Colonel hadn't laughed in my face or slapped me silly by now told me all I needed to know. “Any truth to that?”

“Preposterous dear boy.”

“Really.”

“Yes, as you say, really. Now I have guests to attend.”

I remained standing in front of the door. “I want Ambrose. By morning. Or I have a talk with General Donovan. He arrives tomorrow.”

This was news to Norwood. He cast his eyes about like Leonid in his hidden office, wondering what had happened to his snug little world. He recovered nicely however.

“Talk to him all you like. I know the General personally, squired him about Bletchley Park in ‘42. A crazy Harp but aren't they all?” The Colonel drained his glass. Patches of scalded purple brightened his cheeks. “You have nothing but speculation to present to him. Dear boy.”

I didn't say different, just stood there and looked like I knew more than I was letting on. Norwood remained calm, unruffled, not one to be intimidated by the likes of me.

“It shouldn't be difficult,” I said, pleasantly. “Now that Leonid's been blown the Blue Caps won't care to keep Ambrose. He was Leonid's prize, not theirs.”

“Just as you say,” said the Colonel. “But they will want an exchange, Leonid for Ambrose.”

“I don't think so. Swapping a kidnapped Yank for a Russian spy? That would be an admission of dirty doings by our stalwart allies.”

The Colonel paid attention to his gin and no tonic.

I didn't have anything solid on him, just as he said. I had a dim glim of an idea how to get that something but it would have to wait. Col. Norwood prized one thing above all, his status as Berlin's well-connected all-knowing salon keeper. And I held the key to something he coveted. A sociable visit to the Norwood salon by the legendary Wild Bill Donovan.