Mark Frost - The Second Objective

“You’re with the 150th Panzer Brigade,” said Grannit. “Your commanding officer’s Otto Skorzeny.”

Bernie opened his eyes.

Grannit took a step closer to him. “Your brigade was sent in to take three bridges over the Meuse. Your squad leader gave you a second objective in France. I’ve got three of your pals we just nailed in that theater ready to ID you. You want to deny any of that to me?”

Bernie shook his head.

“What’s your friend’s name?”

“His name’s Von Leinsdorf. Erich Von Leinsdorf. He’s a lieutenant in the SS,” said Bernie.

“You came across the line with him into Belgium, with two other men, near Elsenborn. You killed three soldiers at the border crossing.”

“He did. And one of ours. He was wounded, Von Leinsdorf shot him.”

“Where’d you put the bodies?” asked Grannit.

“He ordered us to drag them into the woods. One of your men was still alive, a sergeant, so I tried to help him-”

“How?”

“I gave him morphine. Put sulfa and a pressure bandage on his wounds.”

“You did that? Where’d you go from there?”

“We spent the night near Butgenbach. The next day we scouted that bridge-”

“Why were you at that hospital?”

“The fourth man with us got shot. An American convoy came along and took us there.”

“Where Von Leinsdorf killed Sergeant Mallory and your own man.”

“I guess he did-”

“You guess so? You were driving the fucking jeep!”

“He didn’t tell me what he was going to do, and he didn’t tell me after. He never told me anything.”

“Why’d you come to Reims?”

“He said we were going to meet the other squads, at that movie theater. That’s all I know.”

“Where’d you cross the border?” asked Grannit.

“In the mountains this morning. A place called Pont-Colin. He killed the guards. I left a message in the booth to warn somebody, I was trying to stop him-”

Grannit held out a pen and a small notebook.

“Write down your name,” he said.

“Which one?”

“Your real name.”

Bernie did as he was told. Grannit took the notebook back from him and compared it to a sheet of paper he took from his pocket. Then he held up the note he’d taken from Pont-Colin, the words “REIMS” and “MOVIE HOUSE” on it.

“You wrote this,” said Grannit.

“Yes, sir.”

“Why did you come to France, what’s your target?”

“I don’t know.”

“Don’t lie to me, god damn it-”

“I don’t know, I swear to God he never told me. If you know anything, you know more than I do. There’s a second objective, but he never told me what it was-”

“Why?”

“He didn’t trust me.”

Grannit moved closer to him and held up the note again. “Why didn’t he trust you? Why the hell did you write this?”

“Because I’m an American.”

Grannit stared hard at him. They heard multiple vehicles driving up fast outside. Grannit moved to the window, put two fingers in his mouth and gave a sharp whistle, then waved down to the radioman on the street.

Down to my last chance, thought Bernie.

“I am from Brooklyn, I swear to you it’s true, I was born there, I grew up there. My parents are German; they immigrated to New York, then moved back here six years ago. We lived in Frankfurt till they drafted me into their fucking army. I’ve been fixing cars in Berlin, I’ve never been in combat, I never shot at anybody; I got pulled into this because I speak English. They didn’t tell us what it was about and they killed anybody who didn’t go along with it. We didn’t even know where we were going until it happened.”

Grannit walked back toward him. “What neighborhood in Brooklyn?”

“Park Slope North, like I told you. I was born in Brooklyn Hospital on DeKalb. I went to PS 109 on Snyder Avenue, just off Flatbush. Mrs. Quinn was my third grade teacher. I was supposed to start Erasmus Hall the year we moved away. My best friend was Jackie Waldstein from the south side; his dad worked for the Rheingold brewery in Bushwick. We played ball every day in Prospect Park, on the diamonds by the boat house.”

“What was your address?”

“Three seventy-five Union Street. South side of the street, near Sixth. Big white house, two stories, a porch that ran all the way around the front. We’d sit out there summer nights listening to Jack Benny and Fibber McGee. My buddies and me went to the movies Saturday at Loews Palace near Grand Army Plaza. Matinees, all the serials, Red Ryder, Flash Gordon, kids’ stuff. Three times a week I’d take the trolley down Flatbush to Ebbets Field; cost a quarter on Wednesdays for the right-field bleachers. I carved my fucking name in one of ’em with a pen knife. If we didn’t have the dough, we’d watch the game through this gap under the metal gate in right center. I caught a foul ball from Cookie Lavagetto, he signed it for me after the game, my parents still have the damn ball; I can tell you everybody who ever played for ’em.”

Grannit hesitated. “They could’ve taught you all this.”

“They could’ve but they didn’t; I swear to God it’s true; I lived it.”

Bernie heard footsteps entering the building through the open front door down below.

“Where’s the best cheesecake in Brooklyn?”

“Cheesecake? Junior’s, on DeKalb and Flatbush; me and Jackie used to go there after school.”

“Where’d your mother shop?”

“There was a greengrocer on the corner, corner of Polhemus and Garfield; she went over there almost every day-”

“What was it called?”

“Solly’s, Solly’s Produce. There was a Laundromat next door, a radio repair shop, then a coffee shop run by two brothers, they were Greek, a long name, lots of vowels in it. My dad used to get that sticky pastry they’d make on his way to work, what do they call it, baklava?”

“There was a candy store across the street.”

“I know it, I know it, Foppiano’s, this nice old Italian guy, had a big mustache, wore an old worn-out gray sweater every day, kept everything in glass jars behind the counter. Root beer sticks, Houten’s chocolates, Black Crows, those little licorice deals? That’s where I bought comic books-and it wasn’t right across from Solly’s, it was diagonal.”

“Tell me something that happened on that street. Something you’d only know if you were living there.”

Bernie thought frantically. “When I was a little kid-I don’t know, maybe six or seven?-there was a robbery at an Esso station. A girl got shot, I think she was a teenager. I remember it real clear; police were all over the place. I saw them put her in the ambulance, taking her away. Shook me up bad. There was blood on the sidewalk for a couple days.”

Grannit looked as if he’d been slapped, and Bernie knew he remembered it, too. He could hear footsteps on the landing below. The other men would reach the apartment in less than a minute.

“You’re from the neighborhood,” said Bernie. “You are, aren’t you? You’re from Park Slope.”

Grannit said nothing, but his look confirmed it.

“Jesus Christ, you know I’m telling the truth, what else do you need to hear?”

“I don’t know what else.”

“Please. I know you don’t have to believe me, but I want to help you.”

He waited. Grannit just stared at him.

“I’m sorry he killed your partner; I’m sorry he killed anybody, but he’s not finished yet, and whatever’s coming is going to be worse. Mister, I got reasons to want him dead every bit as bad as you. I’ve known this guy since he joined the brigade; I know a lot about him, I know how he thinks. If there’s anybody in this whole fucking war who can help you stop him, it’s me.”