The Shadowboxer Read online

  “Get away with what?”

  “Double-crossing your allies and making a power grab?”

  “Power grab? Are you a history professor?”

  “It doesn’t require much history to know that setting up your own secret postwar German government breaks almost every agreement the United States has made with England and Russia.”

  “I don’t see any promises being broken.”

  “Why not start off with America’s agreement to the postwar military occupation of Germany on a three-zone, three-nation basis?”

  “Sounds promising. I can’t wait for it to happen. Hell, we’re all for it. Fact is, that’s why we’re here. To hurry it along. That’s exactly the purpose of the G. P. G.—the German Propaganda Group. We’ve put together the largest and finest and most expensive printing presses and radio studios you’ll ever see. We brought in hundreds of Germans to run them for us. Why, the first newspaper and broadcast are already waiting to go. We’ve gone to no end of trouble and expense so we can convince the Germans to mend their ways and dump Hitler.”

  “And this proposed Provisional Government,” Spangler said goodhumoredly. “It couldn’t, by any chance, be made up of some of the better-known radio and newspaper personalities? Some of the more stalwart anti-Nazi exiles, like Vetter and the Tolan girl, who might be able to build themselves a following in Germany—with the aid of your newspaper and radio?”

  “You do amaze me,” Kittermaster called down in delight. “You are a singularly bright boy.”

  “How many people know about this room?”

  “No one—officially. Officially it doesn’t exist. Unofficially, I’d say fewer than a dozen.”

  “And if someone were to find out—say a Russian or an Englishman or even the wrong American general or politician—you could claim the Provisional Government is just a promotional device in reserve? Something you’re saving up in case the initial propaganda needs beefing up?”

  “Goddamned if you haven’t hit it again,” Kittermaster boomed. “That’s exactly what I was planning to say if someone comes stumbling along. The Provisional Government is just a slick PR stunt to trick the German people into thinking they’ve got their own politicians they can trust—and that they can trust us to back them.”

  “When in fact it’s your allies whose trust you’re betraying.”

  “Now, that’s not a very neighborly thing to say, friend.”

  “But it’s true.”

  “Truth depends on how you look at it.”

  “And how do you look at it?”

  “Well, kind of opposite from you. I don’t think it’s a question of whether the Russians and English trust us; I figure it boils down to whether we can really trust them. Now, you take that Communist crowd. Do you really believe they’ll let free elections take place in Poland if they think they have a chance of losing?”

  “You’re at war with Germany, not Poland.”

  “Well, then, let’s take the British: if they’re so intent on honoring the postwar zones, how come they’re holding some top German political exiles in isolation without wanting us to know about it? And,” Kittermaster continued, “there’s another and much more important point. If our allies are so true to us, how come there are absolutely no German political exiles to be found anywhere in the world? How come they simply vanished?”

  “Maybe there weren’t any to begin with,” Spangler suggested. “Maybe the Nazis got rid of their political opposition a long time ago.”

  “You don’t want me to believe that out of fifty thousand anti-Nazi politicians, no one escaped?”

  “It’s more like a hundred and fifty thousand political prisoners—and very few got out.”

  “But that’s the point—what happened to those few?”

  “Perhaps,” said Spangler, “if you had been concerned with what happened to the many at the right time, it wouldn’t have happened in the first place.”

  “You one of those atrocity nuts, my friend?”

  “No. I gave that up a long time back. I decided to turn it over to people who could do something about it, like yourself.”

  “Good. Glad to hear it. Glad you’re not part of the rumor-monger clique.”

  “You mean rumors claiming that German political exiles have been secretly picked up by the Russians and the English?”

  “Well, then, bright boy, you tell me where they are. It’s taken us four months to get our hands on seven of them, and we still can’t find one with real influence or stature. What happened to the fat cats?”

  “Maybe de Gaulle’s hiding them.”

  “You bet your ass he is, and so is every other damned Allied country. Well, friend, they’re not going to catch us short this time. We’ve got our own insurance policy right here, to make sure our European buddies play it straight.”

  “And where do I fit into all of this?” said Spangler.

  “Good question, friend, damned good question,” Kittermaster said, sitting at a senatorial desk. “If you count the chairs around that table you’ll see we got eight. Only seven are filled. It’s that last chair that tells the tale. The question is—who’ll come up with the man to fill it, Julie or me?”

  “Why is that so important?”

  “Because Julie and I both miscalculated,” Kittermaster said. “You see, we started off having a little contest on who could bring in the most people. Of the seven we’ve got in hand, the score reads: Julie, five; me, two. Now, that doesn’t look too good for me, because the boys in Washington are very big on figures and statistics. And they might just say, ‘Look what Julie and his espionage fellows did, they whopped old Lamar B. five to two—so let’s give Julie the reins and boot old Kittermaster out along with his politicians, and let the spy-boys take over.’ Well, Mr. Spangler, needless to say, I don’t find that a very gratifying prospect.”

  “If Julian has that much of a lead on you, there’s not much you can do now, is there?”

  “But he isn’t using it, friend, that’s the point. And I’m wondering why not. Believe me, Julie wants to take over. I don’t think the answer’s so hard to come by. What it really boils down to is the eighth chair. Whoever produces the man for it takes the ball game.”

  “And you want me to produce him—for you?”

  “Let’s put it this way: I don’t want you to produce him for Julie. If you switch over to me, you throw a wrench in Julie’s plans: he can’t trade you off to von Schleiben or send you in for the eighth man. That’s going to give you and me a little time to work out a scheme or two.”

  “Like sending me into Germany to bring back the eighth man for you?”

  “You can go along if you like, but it really isn’t necessary. What I’ve got simmering in the back of my brain will knock those boys in Washington right up into the bleachers. Oh yes! They’re really going to see something! So there it is,” Kittermaster concluded, “and I’ll open the bidding for you here and now. Whatever deal Julie made for your services I’ll triple. Triple, hell! You can name your own price.”

  “How about a share of the gravy?”

  “What gravy?”

  “Postwar Germany. That’s what this whole thing is about, isn’t it? Whoever ends up with G. P. G. may very well end up with most of postwar Germany. That means a lot of power and a lot of money for someone. What’s my percentage if it goes your way?”

  “I like you, boy! I certainly do like you.”

  “What’s my percentage?”

  “We’ll work it out—if you say yes.”

  “And if I’m not around to use it, can it be transferred to whomever I say?”

  “As long as there’s a Switzerland.”

  “And von Schleiben? How will you stop Julian from letting von Schleiben know where I am?”

  “No problem at all. You say yes and I’ve got my ways.”

  “Just a simple yes and the world is mine?”

  “You’re damn right.”

  “No questions asked?”

  “I’m barga
ining for your services, not your autobiography—though I wouldn’t mind knowing what gives between you and Julie. Has Julie got something on you?”

  “Maybe. He also thinks I’m insane.”

  “Are you?”

  “I’m not sure.”

  “Then why worry?”

  23

  The white light flashed on.

  “Oop? Do you read me, Oop? This is Sweet Pea calling. Do you read me, Oop?”

  “YEP.”

  “I am beside myself, Oop, utterly beside myself. Beside myself and vexed, Oop—and all because of you. I return to the office this morning after a weekend of fishing, and I am besieged by phone calls from the other members of the Committee. Phone calls about you, Oop. You have brought us to the brink of disaster, Oop, do you realize that?”

  “YEP.”

  “On whose authority did you decide to have a confrontation with Mandrake, Oop? Mandrake has circulated a rumor among the Committee that he had to intercede to keep you from selling one of our agents to the Germans. Do you understand the implications, Oop? He made it sound as if you and I are a pair of white slavers! White slavery doesn’t sit well here on the Potomac, Oop. The Committee is up in arms. Do you realize the implications when the Committee is up in arms, Oop?”

  “YEP.”

  “Just thank the Lord for my quick-wittedness, Oop. I gave the Committee my personal guarantee that the story was confused. Now, listen, Oop, and listen carefully. There is little doubt that Mandrake was referring to Dick Tracy, so I want sworn affidavits from both Dick Tracy and you that it isn’t so! We must make Mandrake out to be a bold-faced liar! Get me those affidavits, Oop. Get them fast. Then move Dick Tracy out of there and away from Mandrake. Dick Tracy should never have been allowed near Mandrake! Do you understand what you have to do, Oop?”

  “IT’S TOO LATE. MANDRAKE HAS ALREADY LIFTED DICK TRACY. I’VE BEEN TRYING TO REACH YOU FOR THREE DAYS TO TELL YOU. I WASN’T ABLE TO FIND YOU. HOW WAS THE FISHING? CATCH ANY BIG ONES?”

  Julian waited for the delay to end.

  “What was that? What was that you just said?”

  “I ASKED HOW THE FISHING WENT. DID YOU CATCH ANY BIG ONES?”

  “Not that,” VFW squealed as the white light went on. “What did you say about Mandrake and Dick Tracy?”

  “MANDRAKE MADE A DEAL WITH DICK TRACY. DICK TRACY HAS MOVED OVER TO MANDRAKE AS HIS PERSONAL ESPIONAGE ADVISER.”

  “God in heaven, Oop, do you realize what you have done? You have made me out a liar, that’s what you have done. I promised the others sworn affidavits denying this whole ridiculous matter. I’m a trapped liar, Oop—all because of you. Do you realize that, Oop? You got me into this. Now you get me out of it. What about Daddy Warbucks? Have we located a Daddy Warbucks? If we could bring him in fast, that might regain control of the situation.”

  “WE MAY HAVE SPOTTED ONE. THERE’S SOME CONFUSION OVER THE EXACT LOCATION. WE THINK HE’S BEING TAKEN TO EITHER A BALTIC ISLAND OR NORTHWESTERN POLAND. WE HOPE TO PINPOINT IT SOON. BUT IF IT IS HIM, I DON’T THINK IT WILL HELP OUR SITUATION MUCH, SINCE IT’S DICK TRACY’S MAN WHO IS ON THE TRAIL.”

  “Oh, my God. That can’t happen, Oop. That simply cannot happen. Oop, suggest something.”

  “WHY NOT LET ME HANDLE MANDRAKE MY OWN WAY?”

  “Don’t be insane. Another incident could wipe us out completely back here. You keep away from Mandrake. I want you to come up with a positive solution.”

  “WHAT ABOUT GIVING UP OUR JURISDICTION TO MANDRAKE? WHY NOT LET HIM BE BOSS OF THE ENTIRE OPERATION? THAT WILL STOP THE MANEUVERING FOR CONTROL AND GIVE US TIME TO THINK.”

  “Absolutely not. Once you give something up, you never get it back. Mandrake is much too clever for that. We have to come up with the unexpected, the flamboyant. Something—Hold it, Oop, hold it. Give me time. I’m having flashes. I’ve got it, Oop. I’ve saved the situation once again. Call a meeting of the Seven.”

  “THAT’S MADNESS, ABSOLUTE MADNESS. YOU KNOW WHO WE HAVE AND WHAT THEY ARE. A MEETING IS THE EXACT THING I’VE BEEN TRYING TO AVOID. YOU’LL BE PLAYING DIRECTLY INTO MANDRAKE’S HAND. THIS IS WHAT HE’S BEEN WAITING FOR. HE KNOWS BETTER THAN ANYONE THAT WITHOUT A DADDY WARBUCKS A MEETING WOULD BE A COMPLETE DISASTER FOR US. ONCE THE COMMITTEE READS THE TRANSCRIPT WE’LL LOOK LIKE THE INCOMPETENTS OF THE CENTURY.”

  “Don’t exaggerate, Oop. The trouble with you and your fellows is congenital exaggeration and a complete lack of political sophistication. I know of what I speak. A bold stroke is half the battle. Rely on the unexpected. Charge the Valley of Death. Trust to my instinct and guile, Oop. Wield the big stick. If Mandrake objects, it makes him out the wilting violet. Trust my years in the Potomac jungle, Oop. I am ordering you to convene the meeting. Do so, posthaste. I won’t abide any dillydallying. This is war.”

  24

  Kittermaster and Spangler seated themselves in the first row, Julian and his aide in the last. The Cipher Chief snapped on a slide projector. “TOLAN AND FIVE UNIDENTIFIED PRISONERS ARRIVED OSITZ BY TRAIN 3 P.M. FEBRUARY 14” flashed on the screen.

  “The problem with this message,” the code expert told his listeners, “is that we simply cannot find a place called Ositz. None of our maps, charts or directories show it. None of our people has ever heard of it. Our first assumption in a situation of this sort is that the transmitting agent, in this case a Jean-Claude, has made an error. Jean-Claude was employing the Triangle Cipher, a rather simple system. The most common cipher mistakes are usually connected with the spelling of foreign names. We believe Ositz is a phonetic attempt to spell a name, but we can’t be certain since we know nothing of Jean-Claude or his message-sending ability.”

  “If it’s any help,” said Spangler, “he’s only a boy. He’s just turned twelve.”

  “How would you evaluate his spelling skills?”

  “Not too highly. He’s had three years of formal schooling and that’s it.”

  “Thank you very much, sir.” The Cipher Chief stepped to the wall map of Europe as the lights went on. “Since Jean-Claude sent his message to St. Olaf’s in Sonderborg, we know he was employing the Death Priority, so our most immediate assumption is that he is out-of-zone, somewhere in this area.” The finger arched from the Baltic coast down through northern Poland. “As I said before, we have come across no location called Ositz, but if I might call Captain Wolsky, another possibility can be examined.”

  Permission was granted, and the stout, balding former University of Chicago Polish historian entered. He walked directly to the rack of maps and pushed two aside. The geography of eastern Germany and western Poland lay exposed.

  “When I was a very young child,” he said, removing his glasses, “I remember being taken to an Austrian Army cavalry training post to visit a great-uncle. He was a bear of a man who insisted on throwing me up in the air and covering me with kisses. It was a very uncomfortable day. I remember passing that way some years later and being delighted to find that the post had been torn down. I imagined that some great avenging hand had reached down from heaven and swept Great-Uncle and all his comrades from the face of the earth. The avenger had done an excellent job. All that was left at the site was a railroad station. Actually it wasn’t even a station, it was just a siding on the Sola River. Yes, here—here is where it was,” he said, pushing a red pin into the map. “You see, it is so insignificant that it isn’t even shown, but it may still exist. In Poland, railroad facilities, no matter how small, are usually preserved. What I remember most specifically about this place was the name it bore after the cavalry post was gone and only the railroad siding remained. It was one of those silly, inconsequential names that sometimes linger in the memories of children. The siding was called Auschwitz.”

  Spangler rose slowly, crossed the room and studied the tiny red pin.

  “I realize it is only a hypothesis,” the ex-professor continued, “but in this entire area it is the only name even vaguely similar to Ositz. It is also a name that is difficult for strangers to
pronounce, let alone spell, but a child might just remember it as I did.”

  “Ever heard of it?” Kittermaster called to Spangler.

  “Yes. It’s one of their newer camps.”

  “Ever been there?”

  “No. I’ve never operated in Poland.”

  “What else do you know about it?”

  “Rumors say it’s big.”

  “How big?”

  “Big.”

  “Political?”

  “No,” said Spangler quietly. “Not exactly political.…”

  25

  United States and G.P.G. flags hung alternately from the gallery rail of the Senate Chamber. Pairs of blue-and-gold-striped helmeted guards with white gloves stood to strict attention at every door. Julian was leaning over the speaker’s rostrum, Kittermaster was seated on the dais above him.

  The wire-recorder operator spoke into a microphone and gave the clearance. Kittermaster looked up toward the hidden observation booth, nodded and pointed in the opposite direction.

  Martin Vetter was the first person ushered into the chamber and given a place at the rectangular table. He sat rigidly and tried not to look around him. Two minutes later Konrad Lottman was seated beside him. Lottman’s attempt at composure was betrayed by his amazement at the room and his recognition of Vetter.

  Thomas Hutch was next to enter the Senate. Two minutes later Reinhard Teller appeared, and two minutes after that Hilka Tolan. Ernst Zahn was followed by Joseph Winder.

  Oswald Nebel was last. He took his place between Hutch and Lottman, smoothed his moustache and leered across at Vetter. Mutual distaste was more than evident.

  “You take it, Julie boy,” Kittermaster said jovially. “It’s your show, Julie. Give these nice folks the pitch.” Kittermaster motioned. The silent guards moved out of the chamber.

  Julian’s speech was short and precise. The seven persons in the room were to be the seven Ministers of the German Provisional Government. The Cabinet of the government in exile. Each would receive an annual salary of twenty-five thousand dollars, plus expenses and maintenance. Payment was retroactive to 1 January 1944. G.P.G. had originally been slated to have an eighth member, a Chancellor to whom the seven Ministers would be responsible, but due to the time factor it had been decided to proceed with the seven people at the table.