Jonathan Rabb - The Second Son

Hoffner felt Mila’s grip tighten, and he said, “I’m not sure I like it that you’re on my side. Either of you.”

“Actually, you do,” said Wilson. “You just don’t understand why. Twelve days ago Georg was missing, Franco was losing precious time in Morocco, and the anarchists were on the verge of beating back the rebellion. The rest of us were agreeing not to get involved.”

“I’m aware of all that.”

“Good. Then you’ll know it wasn’t true. The Germans were looking to find a way to get their guns and tanks in. The Americans at Texaco were working out how they could supply oil for the fascists and make their money. The Russians were shipping over what they could to keep the Reds afloat. And the French were doing what they always do-slipping into their turtle shell and hoping no one noticed that they lie directly on the road between Berlin and Madrid.”

“So much for a straight answer,” said Hoffner. “You’ve left out your English, by the way.”

“Yes,” said Wilson, “I have. There has to be someone who steps back and sees what’s really happening.”

“And that is?”

Wilson blinked several times. The sweat had caught in his eyelashes. He wiped it away, and said, “Can’t you see it, Inspector? We’re simply not ready to call the Nazis’ bluff. We’re not all that eager to see if they’ll pull back. It’s not Franco and Mola we have to worry about. If they destroy Spain-unsavory a choice as that might be-so be it. We can debate ethics another time. But if we start exposing gun routes and secret companies and drop-off points, we humiliate our German friends and everyone starts posturing. Then it’s Europe that hangs in the balance.”

Hoffner was tasting the bile in his throat. “And it’s only in the last twelve days that you’ve realized you have this ethical dilemma?”

Wilson’s jaw momentarily tightened. “I wouldn’t play that card, Inspector. You’re the ones who elected these people three years ago. I think we’re well beyond questions of ethics. You want me to admit it, fine. Our fighter bombers aren’t up to par just yet. We haven’t the stomach to dive back into full-on war quite so soon. So it’s the practical dilemmas we worry about. Twelve days ago the word came down from the Admiralty to step back. Do nothing to embarrass our German friends. The Admiralty knew Georg was in. They knew he’d taken a camera, and they were very insistent that nothing on that film find the light of day. So they needed someone to bring him back.”

This last bit seemed laughable. “And I just happened to walk into your office?”

For the first time Wilson showed confusion. Just as quickly his expression turned to muted amusement.

“You?” he said. “You think we would have crossed our fingers and hoped you knew what you were doing? I think Herr Vollman here was a slightly better candidate, don’t you?”

It took Hoffner a moment to let this sink in. He looked at Vollman. The man was crushing his cigarette against the leg of the table. He dropped it and brushed off his hands.

Hoffner said, “You really are working nicely together, aren’t you?”

Vollman said, “Our aeroplanes and tanks aren’t quite up to standard yet, either. The anarchists are going to find that out very soon.”

Hoffner tried to forget that Mila was hearing every word of this.

Wilson said, “We knew the Russians had sent Vollman in. We knew he was looking for the same things we had sent Georg to find-German guns. And we knew the two of them had made contact in Barcelona. So we approached the Russians and told them it would be best if their man found Georg and pulled him out. And while we were waiting for their response, you walked into my office.”

Hoffner would have liked to have had some booze in his glass. “And yet you sent me in after him anyway.”

“Yes,” said Wilson. “I did.”

Hoffner knew there was only one reason for it. He turned to Vollman and motioned for a cigarette. Vollman handed him one and lit it. Hoffner felt the smoke at the back of his throat.

“I was the decoy,” Hoffner said.

Wilson had the bottle and was pouring out another two glasses. “Yes. You were.”

“You send me in. If anyone is interested in Georg, they start following me, leaving Vollman here free to do what he wants.”

There was no need to answer. Wilson handed the glasses to Mila and Hoffner.

Hoffner said, “And what if I hadn’t figured it out in your office-you and the Admiralty?”

Wilson finished pouring for himself, then Vollman. “You really think that was going to happen? I’m surprised it took you so long to come to me in the first place.” He handed Vollman his whiskey. “To tell the truth, I never imagined you’d be as good at this as you were. Spanish and Catalan. And links to Gardenyes and his crew. Who knew? And then finding the Hisma outposts.” He raised his glass. “Well done.” Wilson drank.

Hoffner hated Wilson for his glibness. “So you knew about Hisma-knew that it was a company-even before I left Berlin.”

“We had an inkling. We found it through Langenheim.” He lit a cigarette.

Langenheim, thought Hoffner. The one name in Georg’s wire Hoffner had never figured out.

As if reading his thoughts, Wilson said, “Langenheim heads the Ausland Organization in Morocco. Consul general of sorts in those parts. He eats well and promotes the Reich. Always hardest to track down an obscure bureaucrat. That’s a piece I don’t think you had.”

It was time for Wilson to show how clever he was. Hoffner hadn’t the strength to stop him. “The Ausland reports to the SS,” Hoffner said.

“Yes.”

“So Bernhardt is SS?”

Wilson shook his head. “Bernhardt’s a businessman. He’s just after the money. About ten days ago he and Langenheim flew from Morocco to Bayreuth to meet with Deputy Fuhrer Rudolf Hess. It’s where they presented the bare bones of their idea for the dummy corporation to ship in the guns. We knew that Bernhardt had been a personal acquaintance of Franco’s for some time. He’s also chummy with several of the other Spanish generals. Obviously, Hess was impressed. He took Bernhardt and Langenheim to see Hitler himself-between curtains of the Meistersinger , I hear-and they signed the agreement. Hitler gets to send his guns to Franco without ruffling any international feathers. The Spaniards sign over most of their raw materials to Hitler as thanks for the guns. And Bernhardt and Langenheim make a great deal of money. It’s all rather ingenious.”

“And the nephew?”

“Little Bernhardt?” Wilson gave a mocking smile as he took a long pull on the cigarette. “Not so ingenious choosing a heroin addict and his Chinese friends to ship in guns and ammunition. I imagine two weeks ago that made sense. Apparently your Nazis are learning as they go.” He took a last pull and let the cigarette fall to the floor. “The nephew’s dead. The SS took care of that themselves. I don’t imagine Bernhardt Senior was too terribly put out by it. But what you managed to do by compromising those outposts”-again Wilson raised his glass in genuine admiration-“that was a little tougher for them to swallow.” He drank.

Hoffner drank as well. Things were coming clearer by the minute. “So the Hisma outposts in Cuenca and Tarancon-”

“And the one in Toledo?” Wilson nodded. “Bit difficult to ship in guns when there’s no one there to receive them. Amazing how you managed that. I hear Franco was rather upset. We, of course, were delighted.” He noticed the cigarette still lit on the floor and crushed it out under his boot. “You’ve slowed them down. Franco is actually going to have to earn this, which will keep our Nazi friends occupied for a bit longer and give us some time to work on our own aeroplanes and tanks.”