Lieutenant Colonel Joachim Boeckel read a routine copy of a report that had
come through from the Bremen branch, which handled most of the espionage and
general intelligence information from the United States. The report was from a
former Baltic ferry master of the Stettin, Malm", and Copenhagen runs, who,
although he had been living in the New York area for five years now, was still
a loyal Nazi and eager to further the cause. He was still in the sailing
business and had acquired a sizable boat, and Berlin had stayed in touch
because of his knowledge of local waters and potential usefulness in getting
other agents ashore in times to come if the need arose. His name was Walther
Fritsch.
Lately, it seemed, he had run into problems with some criminals who wanted to
use his boat.
Boeckel smiled and looked up to call across to his trim and shapely,
raven-haired secretary, tapping at a battered typewriter behind a paper-strewn
desk in the opposite corner.
"Hey, Hildegarde, listen to this. Do you remember grand-admiral Walther, who
sends us snippets from America?"
Hildegarde stopped typing. "Oh, yes, the one with the boat. What's he done
now?"
"Roosevelt and the Jews must be onto him," Boeckel said. "They've sent in
their underworld to rub him out."
'Are you being serious?"
Boeckel grinned. 'Apparently, some gangster was trying to pressure him into
handing over his boat for some reason or other. Poor Walther got a bit roughed
up. That niece who moved over with him was involved, too."
"Was it bad?"
"Oh, no, he's all right. But he talks here about a mysterious band of
black-clad desperadoes who materialized from nowhere, stormed the house in
which he and the girl were being held, vanquished the villains, and got them
out. It even made the New York papers -- here's a clipping. Ever hear a story
like that before?"
Hildegarde regarded him dubiously from beneath long, black eyelashes. "Lots of
times," she said. "Do you think he's very stable?"
"Oh, it's wildly exaggerated, no doubt of that," Boeckel said. "Probably he
got himself mixed up in a feud between rival gangs or something. But you're
right -- the strain might be getting to him..." He frowned and added absently,
"We might need him for some quite important operations one day. I do hope we
can trust his reliability"
Hildegarde came around her desk to open one of the filing cabinets near
Boeckel. 'American decadence is getting to him," she said as she stooped to
consult a document inside one of the folders.
Boeckel looked approvingly at the curves of her body through her crisp white
blouse and black skirt. He patted her behind and allowed his fingers to linger
lasciviously for a moment.
Hildegarde tutted reproachfully, but didn't move.
"Can I take you to dinner tonight?" Boeckel asked. "Hoeffner's again, maybe?
You liked the band there."
"But not the people."
Boeckel shrugged. "Okay. Then somewhere else."
"Hmm...something tells me that you've more than just dinner in mind."
"What could possibly give you such an idea?"
"Oh, young, handsome lieutenant-colonels are all the same."
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"Never mind."
"Very well, I admit it." Boeckel tossed up his hands. "So, what's wrong with
good, old-
fashioned, German decadence?"
Hildegarde smiled as she went back to her chair and sat down. "I can meet you
after seven," she said. "But don't act so presumptuously. It's not nice to be
taken for granted."
Boeckel initialed the report on his desk and tossed it across to her "What do
you want me to do with it?" Hildegarde asked.
"Well, let's not dismiss it too offhandedly. Put it in the carryforward file
to come out for review, oh, say two months from now. We'll see what else has
happened then. But if you ask me, Hildegarde, I think you're right -- it's the
American culture. Our friend the grand admiral has been reading too many
Superman comics and allowing his imagination to be carried away by them."
CHAPTER 18 [ Pobierz całość w formacie PDF ]