Mark Frost - The Second Objective

Bernie glanced at Grannit before answering. “No, sir, I’m not.”

“I ask to satisfy my personal curiosity.” Massou lit his pipe and studied Bernie as he spoke. “To the untrained eye it may seem that what we do, our methods, differ from those we pursue by only a matter of degree. Our authority may be sanctioned by law, but it can seem as harsh as these savages we hunt.” He kept looking at Bernie, but the rest seemed directed at Grannit. “In certain instances, perhaps your own, which depend on the judgment of others, there are laws of nature that on occasion supersede those of men. I wish you well.”

Massou tipped his hat. As he walked to a waiting car, a military police jeep drove up and the MP on board handed something off to a CID man, who walked it to Grannit.

“Addressed to you, sir,” said the officer, handing over an envelope. “Came over in the pouch from London.”

Grannit opened the envelope and found a manila folder insider. He opened it and turned on the flashlight. It contained a few clipped and weathered articles from London newspapers. Stories from the mid-thirties about the dismissal of a high-ranking diplomat named Carl Von Leinsdorf from the German embassy. There was a photograph of the man and his wife and teenaged son. Bernie could see Erich’s face in the boy, smiling and untroubled. A briefer article, accompanied by a photograph of the father, mentioned the man’s suicide in Stockholm a few months later.

“Is that him?” asked Grannit, nodding to the photograph.

“Yes.”

“Doesn’t mention why his father lost the job.”

“From what I heard,” said Bernie, putting it together, “I think they found out the father was Jewish.”

“Don’t know why they make such a big deal out of it.” Grannit took the folder back. “So am I.”

Bernie took a moment to register that.

“We stopped him, anyway. That’s what matters.”

“I gotta take you in, Bernie.”

“I know.”

“We could wait till morning.”

“Let’s get it over with.”

SHAEF Headquarters, Paris

DECEMBER 21, 11:00 P.M.

They rode in the backseat as the same police driver steered them through the night streets toward SHAEF headquarters in the Place Vendôme.

“I’d like to try and write my parents,” said Bernie. “Would you let me do that before…?”

The rest of his question hung between them.

“Where are they?”

“I don’t know. I don’t even know if they’re still alive. They live in Frankfurt, at least they did a couple months ago. I’d like to let ’ em know I tried to help. Help the Americans.”

Grannit looked at him. “We can do that.”

“Always thought I’d see the neighborhood again. I dream about Park Slope all the time, you know? That’s where I always go. Think that means I’m really an American, deep down, if I dream that way?”

“Maybe so, kid.”

“That’s something, anyway,” said Bernie, watching the city go by out the window. “Beautiful place, isn’t it? Doesn’t even look like anybody lives in it.”

“It’ll outlive all of us.”

“You have to put cuffs on me when we go in, Earl?”

Grannit thought about it. “No.”

“I’d appreciate that.”

They pulled up outside of SHAEF headquarters, a ponderous bank building fronted by massive columns, commandeered after the Liberation. Grannit gestured for Bernie to get out first, then followed him, tipped his hat to the driver, and the police car sped off. Grannit took Bernie by the arm and they walked up the steps to the entrance. A heavily armed detail of MPs patrolled the front.

“Don’t say anything,” said Grannit. “I’ll lay it out for ’em and do the best I can. When they weigh in your cooperation, we can get some-”

“Don’t make any promises,” said Bernie. “I appreciate it, but I know it’s not up to you. I’ll take whatever’s coming.”

When they reached the top of the stairs, Grannit showed his badge to the guards at the door. “I need to talk to the CO, whoever’s got the watch.”

“What’s this regarding, sir?”

“The 150th Panzer Brigade.”

“Follow me.”

They entered the dimly lit lobby and waited while the MP went into the offices. Stripped of decoration, windows blacked out, the cold marble of the massive room extended to the edge of their vision. They stood under one of the columns and waited. Civilian aides and junior officers trafficked through the room, still bustling near midnight. They all wore the familiar blue SHAEF pass on a chain around their neck.

Bernie felt a cold chill run down his neck. A shaking started in the pit of his stomach and spread outward. He blinked, having trouble seeing. His mind raced, involuntarily calculating how many days and hours he had left to live. Von Leinsdorf had been right about that, too: It was worse knowing when you were going to die.

He noticed Grannit’s back suddenly straighten. Grannit pulled a charred piece of blue paper from his pocket and looked at it, then moved out to one of the junior officers crossing the room. Grannit stopped him, took the man’s blue SHAEF pass in his hand, and examined it.

The letters e and a in “headquarters” were transposed.

Grannit stopped another person crossing, to look at his pass, then another and another. Bernie went to him as the last person moved off. He looked stunned.

“What’s wrong?” asked Bernie.

“There is a mistake on the passes. But the army never corrected it.”

“The blue one?”

“Did they give you one of these?”

“Yeah, and we got new ones in Belgium from the Abwehr -”

“After you came across?”

“Von Leinsdorf said their forgers didn’t notice the mistake in time to fix it. He said these were the ones we were supposed to use.”

“And they were spelled correctly.”

“That’s right.”

“But Schmidt’s wasn’t corrected,” said Grannit.

“Then you must have caught him before he could pick them up.”

“God damn it, that’s what Ole was trying to tell me. The fucking passes.”

“What about them?”

“How many squads did Von Leinsdorf tell you were working on this?”

“Five.”

“The men who took Von Leinsdorf had the corrected passes,” said Grannit. “We only caught four teams.”

“You’re saying that MP, those guys from Counter Intelligence-”

“They’re the fifth squad.”

A young lieutenant came out to escort them into the CO’s office. Grannit grabbed him by the arms.

“Has a suspect in the Skorzeny case been brought in during the last hour?” asked Grannit.

“I don’t know-”

“Well, how fast can you fucking find out?”

The young lieutenant ran back toward his office. He returned at a trot leading his CO, a dyspeptic captain, who assured them that if any German operative in the Skorzeny case had been brought in, he would’ve been the first to hear about it.

“Is there anywhere else they would’ve taken him?”

“Maybe the SHAEF offices in Versailles.”

“I need to use your phone,” said Grannit.

Invalides Metro, Paris

DECEMBER 21, 11:00 P.M.

Ververt’s two men had been parked outside the Invalides metro station in an empty bakery truck for an hour when a black sedan with U.S. military plates pulled up alongside. Two men climbed out, one in the uniform of an MP, the other in civilian clothes, who brought along a suitcase he lifted from the trunk of the car. One of Ververt’s men opened the back panel door and they climbed inside. The black sedan sped off. Once the back panel of the truck rolled shut, the driver headed west toward the highway along the river, out of the city.

Paris City Morgue