Mark Frost - The Second Objective

Grannit lowered the gun just as three MPs came through the door. He turned to them.

“Miller was here, before he went to the theater,” he told them, then pointed to the bedroom. “He killed the woman who lived here, body’s in there. Call the police.”

“You really want to get the gendarmes involved?” an MP asked skeptically.

“You stay here and handle it. It was a Kraut killed her, make that clear to ’em, the same guy we’re looking for. He’s an SS lieutenant, Erich Von Leinsdorf. He’s dressed like a GI; he’s one of Skorzeny’s men-get that out on the radio. Make sure these cops know it wasn’t an American did this. And get that old uniform out of there.”

The MP looked at Bernie again. “We got those three guys downstairs. Like you asked. The ones from the theater.”

“Any of ’em talk?”

“Only a little. Two of ’em hardly speakie the English. That sergeant you took out was their squad leader.”

“His name was William Sharper,” said Bernie. “He was an American deserter.”

The lead MP looked at Bernie, even more puzzled, then back at Grannit. “You still want us to bring those Krauts upstairs?”

“No,” said Grannit. “Hand ’em off to Counter Intelligence.”

“So who’s this then?” asked the MP, looking at Bernie again.

“He’s a witness. He saw the hitter up close.”

“Where you going, Lieutenant?”

“I’m going after him,” said Grannit, grabbing Bernie’s arm. “And this one’s coming with me.”

Reims

DECEMBER 20, MIDNIGHT

They left the apartment and climbed into an extra jeep Grannit’s men had left downstairs. Grannit took the wheel. Bernie directed him to the ware house where they’d stashed the French ambulance and told him how they’d made their way into the city. The bodies of the two drivers were still inside, but their weapons and the jerricans holding all their equipment were gone.

“He must’ve come back here,” said Bernie. “After he knocked me out, before he went to the movie house.”

Grannit wanted to know what was in the cans, and Bernie told him about what he’d seen in three of them: supplies, ammunition, German uniforms. There was one can that he’d never looked into that Von Leinsdorf had always protected. Grannit took a radio call from his detail, updates from the theater. Hearing one side of it, Bernie gathered that Von Leinsdorf had avoided capture. Grannit gave the address of the ware house to his men, with orders to check it out, then ended the call.

Grannit lifted a box from the back of the jeep and handed it to Bernie. It held an MP’s blouse, belt, and armband, puttees for his boots, a white-lettered helmet and nightstick.

“Put those on,” he said. “As far as anybody’s concerned, you’re an MP, working with me on special assignment. Use your real name, don’t talk to anybody, don’t answer any questions unless you ask me first.”

“Yes, sir.”

“Don’t leave my sight. If you run, if you touch a weapon, if you make one wrong move, I won’t wait for a firing squad, I’ll kill you where you stand.”

“I understand.”

Grannit waited while Bernie changed.

“What’s your name, sir?” he asked.

“Lieutenant Grannit. That’s all you fucking need to know.”

“Yes, sir.”

When Bernie had finished dressing, Grannit waved him toward the driver’s seat. “They taught you how to handle a jeep. Drive back to the movie house.”

When Erich Von Leinsdorf and Eddie Bennings walked out the back of the theater, the German turned left and led him down an alley. He had scouted the area earlier before going inside. After dumping his MP equipment in an alley that led deeper into the city, where he knew it would be found, they ran three blocks to the west, jumped a fence, and squeezed through a narrow gap between buildings.

“Where we going, Boss?” asked Bennings.

“Don’t talk, Eddie. We’re not out of this yet.”

They emerged from the buildings onto the banks of the Aisne Canal, barely visible through the fog twenty feet below. They heard police whistles blowing, shouts, and men running through the fog behind them. Von Leinsdorf directed Bennings to a rope fixed to an iron ring hanging down a steep concrete wharf. Eddie glanced over the edge and saw that a small flatboat had been tied off on a narrow ledge at the bottom of the rope. Von Leinsdorf followed Bennings down, untied the boat, and they each took an oar. While Grannit’s military detail dropped roadblocks into place on all the side streets feeding into the square, they were in the boat, rowing silently south on the still water.

They stayed close to the shoreline, working their oars without a splash. Unable to see the top of the bank through the fog, they twice heard voices and car engines from above near the edge of the canal. Each time they shipped their oars and drifted until the voices and cars faded away.

They rowed downstream for half a mile, and Von Leinsdorf steered them to the left bank. Another small dock at the base of a quay appeared out of the mist, and he angled toward it, jumped out first, and tied off the boat. A small flight of stairs led up to the top of the bank.

They emerged onto a quiet street under a bridge that spanned the canal and the adjacent river. A single civilian car, a nondescript black Renault, was parked across the street. Von Leinsdorf took out keys and unlocked the trunk. Eddie Bennings had calmed down during the boat ride, impressed by the man’s moves under pressure. He’d known a few guys with this kind of cool back home in Jersey-made men, guys he’d always looked up to-but never anybody in the army.

“I gotta say, Dick, whatever it is they want you for,” said Bennings, “you got me beat by a mile.”

“I didn’t have a chance to tell you. Turns out we’re in the same line.”

“Black market? Can’t say I’m surprised.”

“I had to take out those MPs. They get their hands on me, it’s like this…” He slashed his hand across his throat, then lifted a suitcase out of the trunk. “Don’t know about you, I’m not that interested in firing squads.”

“Brother, I’m picking up your frequency.”

“Maybe they were looking for both of us back there. Doesn’t matter now.”

“Except you saw it coming, set up the boat, left this car here thinking about a way out.”

“Helps to cover the bases, Eddie. We gotta lose the uniforms. Here, help yourself.”

Von Leinsdorf opened a suitcase packed with everyday outfits. Both men picked some out and changed clothes by the side of the car. Eddie noticed a couple of jerricans sitting in the backseat.

“So, Dick, you a deserter?” asked Eddie.

“I am now.” They both laughed. “You?”

“They had my whole battalion in the brig up in Belgium on a black-market beef. The Krauts come across a couple days ago, they tell us we’re off the hook if we’ll go catch a few bullets on the front line. I said hell yeah, why don’t you just fit me for the pine overcoat while you’re at it?”

They laughed again, Eddie in an aggressive, Woody Woodpecker staccato, his mouth contorted like the mask of tragedy.

“It was sayonara suckers before they even knew I was gone. This ain’t my fight; I got no gripe with the Krauts. A freakin’ Chinese fire drill getting down here; I can thank the Krauts for that.”

“Why’d you stop in Reims?”

“That was a neighborhood we used to work; lotta freight moves on that canal. Thought I’d make a pass, see if I could pick up a few bucks.” Eddie tried on a gray fedora, checking out his reflection in the car window. “That guy who came at us in the theater, he’s one of these fellas you were supposed to meet?”