The Second Objective (29 page)

“Take ’em down,” said Grannit. “If they draw a weapon, shoot ’em.”

Grannit followed them downstairs. The fog had grown so thick he could no longer make out any faces from the window.

The American deserter William Sharper had spotted the MPs at a border post, abandoned the jeep, and led his squad into France the previous night on foot. After spending the night in a barn, they hitched a ride that morning with a middle-aged French farmer, who seemed thrilled to lend a hand to the American war effort. Before they reached the main highway, Sharper strangled the man and dumped his body in a field. Sharper put on the farmer’s clothes, took his wallet and agricultural road pass, and drove his load of chickens into Reims. His other three men hid in the back with the birds. Sharper knew the city well enough to get them to the farmer’s market, where they abandoned the truck and blended into the city.

By mid-day, Sharper had found the cinema that he’d suggested for their rallying point. Taking his men to a nearby brothel, he instructed them to play the part of randy soldiers on leave from the front, their easiest assignment yet. He paid for eight hours’ time with the four girls in the house and the squad spent the rest of the day upstairs, getting laid, resting, and sleeping. Sharper put so much American cash on the table the madam agreed to wash their uniforms while they relaxed. She thought it odd that the Americans didn’t ask for any wine or liquor, but dollars had a way of easing her curiosity.

At eight-thirty, Sharper and his men set out for the cinema, less than three blocks away, in their freshly laundered uniforms.

26

Reims

DECEMBER 19, 8:40
P.M.

V
on Leinsdorf walked slowly to the middle of the square outside the theater, on the edge of the gathering crowd. He took out a cigarette and scanned ahead for any unusual police presence. The fog thickened near the waterfront as soldiers lined up in front of the theater box office. Two MPs stood near the entrance to the lobby, but didn’t look out of place. An American soldier materialized out of the fog, suddenly standing next to him, and offered a light for his smoke.

“Another Judy Garland picture,” the man said, nodding toward the theater. “Louis B. Mayer’s working her like a sled dog. You know she’s not even five feet tall?”

“I might have read it somewhere.”

“Just my size. A hot little number, if you like a babe with no waist and the ass of a ten-year-old boy. She do anything for you, Sarge?”

“She’s no Marlene Dietrich,” said Von Leinsdorf.

“Are you kidding me? Marlene Dietrich’d eat her like a chicken leg, spit out the bone.”

Von Leinsdorf moved forward, trying to shake the man, but he fell into step alongside, holding out a hand. Short and fidgety, the man wore a corporal’s stripes and pounded a wad of gum while he smoked.

“Eddie Bennings, Corporal Eddie Bennings, how you doing to night?”

“Fine, thanks.”

“A free night in France, fresh air, no bullets in the forecast, what could be so bad? I see you’re with the quartermaster corps.”

“That’s right.”

Looking ahead through the fog, Von Leinsdorf spotted William Sharper leading his three men into the theater lobby past the MP at the door.

“My line, too. Came in today from Belgium. Makes you appreciate the peace and quiet down here,” said Bennings. Then, lowering his voice to a conspiratorial level: “My battalion does a lot of business with the quartermaster corps.”

“Is that a fact?”

“And we’re always looking for a good man to do business with—you going in to see the picture?”

“Yes.”

“Let me spring for the tickets, my treat—you shouldn’t have to stand on line, Sarge.”

The persistent little man was starting to attract Von Leinsdorf’s interest. “What sort of business?”

“I’ll get the tickets, we’ll have a chat. See if you’re interested. Meet you in two shakes.”

Von Leinsdorf moved on to the front lobby doors and waited as Bennings jumped the ticket line.

Bernie opened his eyes to a cat rubbing its face on his chin and purring. When he started awake, the animal vaulted off his chest into the kitchen. The room spun violently when he tried to stand. He lurched forward, tumbling over a table and vomiting as he hit the floor. Rolling onto his back, he took deep breaths, opening and closing his eyes, waiting for the ceiling to stabilize. As his fractured thoughts reassembled and he remembered where he was, he raised his watch into view and waited for the hands to float into position. 8:40.

“Shit.”

He pulled himself to his feet, made his way into the kitchen, stuck his head under the faucet in the sink, and ran cold water over his neck until his head began to clear. Taking a quick look around the apartment, he spotted Von Leinsdorf’s GI field greens lying in a heap on the bedroom floor. The khaki dress uniform that had been hanging in the woman’s closet was gone.

He remembered that Von Leinsdorf had mentioned the movie house was near the canal. A memory of the city map swam to the surface. He headed for the door.

Eddie Bennings handed Von Leinsdorf his ticket and they entered the lobby, blending into the crowd.

“Looking for somebody?” asked Bennings.

“Thought I saw someone I knew.”

“You want a soda, popcorn or anything, Sarge?”

“No thanks.”

“I never got your name.”

“Dick Connelly.”

“Okay, Dick. You want to talk about my proposition before the picture or after?”

“Now’s fine,” said Von Leinsdorf, scanning the lobby over the man’s shoulder.

“As I was saying, we work with a lot of guys in the quartermaster corps. It’s a first-class arrangement.”

“Can you be slightly more specific?”

Bennings lowered his voice again and talked out of the side of his mouth, like a gangster.

He’s seen too many Jimmy Cagney pictures,
thought Von Leinsdorf.

“In the area of surplus supply and demand. Daily necessities. A drink, a smoke, a taste of home, whatever. We scratch their back, they scratch ours; everybody gets healthy, including the average GI who all he’s looking for is a little relief.”

Von Leinsdorf spotted Sharper standing near a door to the theater, his three men walking in just ahead of him.

“You want me to set it to music for you?” asked Bennings impatiently.

“I think I get the idea,” he said. “Would you excuse me for a moment, Eddie? I want to say hi to my friend.”

“Hope I haven’t offended you, Sarge.”

“You’ve got a little larceny in your heart, don’t you, Eddie?” said Von Leinsdorf with an admiring smile.

“Troubled times. Is that such a terrible thing?”

“On the contrary. It’s a character reference. I’ll be right back.”

Von Leinsdorf took one step toward Sharper, when Bennings grabbed him by the arm.

“Oh shit. Hang on a second. Don’t move, Sarge.”

Bennings turned away from the doors, then took another glance.

“It is him. Fuck. I had a run-in with that guy recently. He’s a cop.”

“Which one?”

Bennings nodded toward a man near the lobby doors, looking at his watch. A charge of adrenaline shot through Von Leinsdorf. It was the soldier he’d seen near Mallory’s bed in the field hospital—the one who chased them.

Von Leinsdorf surveyed the lobby with new eyes, aware of half a dozen other men, in and out of uniform, with that same hard-eyed look. He turned his back to the doors fronting the street. Although he was sure the American wouldn’t see through the alterations he’d made at a glance, that might change if their eyes happened to meet.

“If I had to guess, I’d say he’s looking for me,” said Bennings.

“Why is that?”

“Don’t really have time for that story right now.”

Music blared from the auditorium and the house lights started to dim. Von Leinsdorf saw Sharper head into the theater, unaware of either his or the Allied police’s presence. On the side of the lobby nearest to them, he saw one of the uniformed MPs enter the men’s room.

“Go to the bathroom,” said Von Leinsdorf. “Wait in one of the stalls.”

“What for?”

“I think I know him, too. Scratch my back, Eddie, I’ll scratch yours.”

Eddie headed toward the bathroom, turning his face away from the lobby doors.

Outside, out of breath, Bernie Oster ran up and joined the line at the box office window.

Ole Carlson came out of the auditorium to meet Grannit just after he entered the lobby.

“Think any of ’em showed?” he asked.

Grannit looked around. “We’ll find out. You see your guy about the passes?”

“Yeah, got one here. Still doesn’t add up, let me show you—”

Grannit looked at his watch. “Talk about it later. Everyone in place?”

Carlson picked up a walkie-talkie. “I’ll double-check in back.”

He moved into the auditorium just as the music started inside and the last GIs headed for their seats.

Von Leinsdorf entered the men’s room, used the urinal, and then walked to a row of sinks to wash his hands. The MP was washing his hands in the next sink over. A muted swell of music reached into the room.

“Sounds like the show’s starting,” said Von Leinsdorf.

The only other soldier in the room finished drying his hands and exited. As the MP reached for a towel, Von Leinsdorf slid behind him and slipped a piano wire garrote around the man’s throat. Yanking hard with both hands, he lifted the man off the ground, then walked him back into one of the stalls. The MP’s heels kicked and dragged as he clawed at his throat. His helmet fell off and hit the ground. The stall door banged shut behind them. Von Leinsdorf could anticipate the letting go down to the second. He counted in his head, and as he reached ten, the man went slack.

When the door swung slowly open, Eddie Bennings stood there staring wide-eyed at Von Leinsdorf. The MP’s dead body slumped onto the toilet as Von Leinsdorf slipped off the garrote and dropped it into his pocket. He’d pulled so hard the wire had sliced the dead man’s throat, a line of blood trickling down his neck.

“Holy shit,” said Bennings.

Von Leinsdorf grabbed Bennings and pulled him into the stall. “If you want to get out of here alive, you need to do exactly as I tell you, Eddie. Do you have a problem following orders?”

“Not to night.”

Bernie Oster handed his ticket to the usher at the door and entered the lobby, one of the last men through the doors before they closed. The auditorium doors were still open; he could see the show had started and a newsreel was playing. As he hurried across the lobby, he noticed a number of MPs moving toward the doors behind him from outside, not quite in a line but organized, grouped around a tall officer in the middle of the lobby.

I know that guy,
thought Bernie, trying to place him.

He moved to the concession stand and ordered a soda, keeping his back to the tall man. The line of MPs moved in to cover every door out of the lobby.

They found my note. They set a trap.

His eye caught two men walking out of the bathroom to his right toward the auditorium. A soldier followed by an MP in helmet and armbands, nudging the shorter man ahead of him with the butt of his nightstick.

“Let’s go, pal, back to your seat,” he said.

Von Leinsdorf.

The two men moved into the auditorium. Bernie followed. Entering the darkness, he was momentarily blinded by the illuminated screen, black-and-white war time footage: destroyers at sea, fighters streaming overhead. Framed against the moving images, two men’s silhouettes stood out as they walked down the aisle toward the front of the theater. Bernie waited for his eyes to adjust to the light. His fingers found the syringe in his pocket.

Get close to him. Use the syringe. Slip out in the confusion. MPs are here, they’ll take care of the rest.

William Sharper, sitting on the right aisle near the middle of the theater, noticed Erich Von Leinsdorf walk past him. A few moments later he whispered to one of his men to stay in their seats, and got up to follow him.

Grannit waited in the lobby for his MPs to reach their positions at the doors. He looked at his watch again. Three minutes until they stopped the film. His men should be in place by now. He picked up his walkie-talkie to check with Carlson when he overheard a nearby conversation.

“Where the hell’s Whitey?” one of the MPs asked another.

“Still in the can,” said another, glancing at his watch.

“What’s taking him so long?”

Grannit looked toward the bathroom door. Sudden instinct propelled him through the door. The room was empty. He bent down and saw legs in one of the toilet stalls, a man’s pants bunched around the ankles. He drew his gun and moved closer. The stall door swung open on a rusty hinge.

Ole Carlson reached the back of the theater stage, directly behind the screen, and put the beam of his gooseneck flashlight on the wall. A small rear door there had been left unlocked and unguarded, inside and out.