Ice Reich (26 page)

"Owen!" Kohl greeted hoarsely. "Back from the dead!" Hart sat down and Kohl hesitantly followed. The German looked older, his hair grayer, and yet the war seemed not to have treated him badly. Well fed. "Just back from Antarctica, Otto. The ship didn't wait."

Kohl bobbed his head anxiously. "Yes. Obviously not. But then the report was that you'd died in a heroic aerial rescue attempt. It's a miracle— my finding you alive like this. Fortune is curious, no?"

"Not half as curious as I am." So, the ship
had
definitely survived. He stared at Kohl, remembering the dinner at Karinhall, Greta in the firelight. "What in hell are you doing here?"

Kohl nodded excitedly. "Exactly! Exactly the right question! I've been telling my captors for weeks that I have no military connections, that I'm simply a businessman, a government facilitator, a minor functionary! I don't belong in a cage. I should be employed in reconstruction, in reconciliation, where I can help people. It's a tragic waste, my being here."

Hart appeared to consider this. Then he opened his folder. "It says here you looted half the Loire Valley."

"That's an outrageous interpretation! I simply served as an import-export link to Germany."

"That you had a château there and a town house in Paris. That you cut a social swath in Occupation and Vichy circles. That you wore a swastika in your lapel by day and haunted the cabarets at night. That you were a black market profiteer. A womanizer. That you arranged the transshipment of slave labor."

"No!" Kohl shook his head vigorously, anxiously. "No, no, no. Reports spread by the jealous, by my enemies, by captives anxious to save their own skin by spreading false stories— all with no basis in fact. I was simply directed to help with the economic integration of Germany and France. When my presence in Washington became impossible."

Hart said nothing.

"I've tried to explain to your supervisors that I'm a man of business, Owen. A man of vision. A man of science. I cited the Antarctica expedition. That was the true Otto Kohl! Organizing expeditions to explore the natural world! I'd even included an American, I said. An international effort! And then one of your interrogators, a Colonel Cathcart, mentioned you. He said that you'd referred to such an expedition and that you were here, alive, in France. And it was electric, revelatory! A bolt of lightning! I couldn't believe it! And so of course I asked for you: Owen Hart, my old friend, the man who could identify me for what I really am!"

Hart studied the German dubiously. "I could learn nothing about the expedition after its return."

"Yes, it was kept confidential."

"Not even word of my own fate. It was as if I'd vanished. No mention. No credit. No reward."

"Do you think that didn't trouble me? To have recruited you and then such a cruel illness: it was a tragedy. And we wanted, of course, to send your back pay but there were no relatives, no address— "

"How did you know that?"

"But then the entire Antarctic expedition had gone seriously awry and— "

"How did you
know
that, Otto?"

He stopped. "Know what?"

"That I died of an illness? Earlier you said I died in a heroic aerial rescue attempt."

He frowned. "Did I say that? Did I say illness? I meant that was my assumption, our assumption, it was the natural— "

"We were in Antarctica, not Panama. There are no illnesses there— except perhaps frostbite. So: what
did
they tell you of my death?"

Kohl appeared to be doing an inner calculus, weighing what Owen wanted to hear. "Well, there was talk of a discovery— a dread new disease. You were one of the casualties. People felt very bad about your death. Drexler declared his intention to return the following season to perform more cutting-edge research. Except..."

"Except?"

"The war. The British navy was blocking the way."

Hart stood, restless, and paced around the small room, Kohl's eyes nervously following. Five years of questions were bubbling in the pilot's mind. He stopped and studied the German narrowly. "So you know of no weapons program arising from the expedition?"

"Absolutely not. I simply met the ship and learned you were missing along with some other crew members. Heiden told me they'd escaped from this disease and crazy whalers, there was damage... it was very bewildering."

"Other crew members? Who else was missing?"

"Well... no one, really. That I knew. Soldiers, I guess. Certainly, the important people were all there: Heiden, Drexler..."

"Greta?"

There was a pause. Kohl gave his interrogator a careful look. "No..."

Hart's spirits sank.

"Not at
first
, not at the docking. But she came up afterward with Drexler. She seemed quiet, subdued. Hustled off to the station rather quickly. Probably couldn't wait to get off the ship."

Hart leaned forward. "Where did she go?"

Kohl bit his lip, considering. "Don't get me wrong, Owen. I'm hesitating only because of what I heard. There was talk on the ship that... that you and Greta were more than simply colleagues. More than friends. Is this true?"

"Where did she go, dammit?"

"So you
were
lovers?"

Hart was quiet, looking at the calculating Kohl. Then he leaned slowly forward again, his voice tight. "Why ask questions when you know the answers?"

Kohl leaned away from the American. He was sweating despite the room's chill, and wiped his forehead with his sleeve. "It's funny how our positions have reversed, isn't it, Owen?"

"Why did you want to see me, Otto?"

Kohl automatically glanced about— Fritz's German glance, instinctive after more than a decade in the Third Reich— and leaned forward himself. His own voice fell to a whisper. "I can help you."

Hart sat back. "That's rich. How can
you
help me?"

"I have information you want."

"Always the salesman," Hart said, making no effort to hide his contempt. "So, what are your wares?"

"I can help you get Greta out."

Hart went rigid. "What?"

"Get her out. Of the Reich. Germany is losing the war, Owen. Everyone can see that. The noose is tightening. But you—
we
— could get her out. You and me. Before it's too late."

Hart felt unsteady. "Why?" he managed. "Why would we do that?"

"Because, even though she believes you're dead, she's never stopped loving you. She
would
escape with you. I'm sure of it. My idea... well, my
plan
is that you and I will contact her, and then you'll fly us both to safety.
That's
why I asked for you."

"You can find her?"

"Oh, yes."

"Why should I believe you?"

"Believe it. I know the exact address."

"No. The part about her still loving me. Why would she confide such feelings to
you?
"

"Because Greta Heinz is my daughter," Kohl said.

Hart jerked, as if struck.

"And," he continued, "Jürgen Drexler is my son-in-law."

Like a wilderness lit by lightning, Germany was a dark, flickering void at night. The necessary wartime blackout robbed it of the illumination of civilization, turning its nocturnal hours as opaque as those of the Middle Ages. From the air where Hart and Kohl flew in a light plane, only far horizons blinked. Artillery and antiaircraft fire, distant flames, the searchlights of probing air defenses— these were the signs that the Third Reich remained inhabited. Somewhere in the abyss below Greta still lived.

Hart had simply left. It was a necessity. The American air force would never permit him to go behind enemy lines to look for a woman. So he'd taken a plane and risked the loss of one empty life in a gamble for another.

Kohl had thought their scheme through. The pair commandeered a jeep, telling Hart's superiors that the wily German was going to lead Owen to a cache of stolen art near Paris in return for the American's plea for leniency. But instead of hunting for Impressionist loot, Hart accompanied Kohl to a forger who supplied them with Reich papers in return for all the dollars he could extort from the American's savings. This was followed by the borrowing of a light plane to allegedly fly the informant Otto Kohl, reputed vessel of critical strategic information, to Third Army headquarters.

"It will work if we move quickly enough," Kohl promised. And it had. Once the fugitives were aloft they turned and streaked low in the night for Berlin, skimming treetops to stay off radar screens. "They'll presume you're shot down and missing," Kohl explained. "If it soothes your conscience, you can play the spy. Your superiors would gladly give up a light plane to get a ground observation of conditions in Berlin."

"How do we get back?"

Kohl exuded confidence. "I have a farm on the outskirts of the capital. We hide the airplane there, contact Greta, then fly to Switzerland. I have access to money— enough to grease the proper palms. The Swiss will help us invent new lives, and we'll go on to wherever we want to go."

"And Greta will come with us?"

"That's up to you, of course."

Hart had gambled everything she would. And yet, he couldn't help wondering about her marriage to Drexler. Should he believe Otto's assurances that it was a loveless union, that Greta carried a torch for her so-far-as-
she-
knew dead American pilot?
Was
the relationship that of two people leading parallel but separate lives? He questioned the German more closely. "I never quite understood the hold Jürgen seemed to have on her," he said. "What is the basis of it?"

Kohl stared somberly out the cockpit window, seeming to pluck memories from the inky darkness. "Even before Jürgen," he began, "there was a man. A husband, in fact. An older German biologist at the University of Hamburg. In retrospect, the attraction wasn't entirely surprising: Greta's mother had died in childbirth, and I... well, I was abroad a lot. The girl was raised in convent and boarding schools."

Kohl shook his head wearily. "Her childhood was lonely, Owen. That was my fault, of course."

He went on to explain that the awkward union abruptly ended when Professor Heinz died in an automobile accident. For Greta, it was a crushing blow, and not just because of the loss of his security. She'd curtailed her own studies for the marriage. Its end meant her career as an unproven female biologist in a male-dominated profession suddenly held meager promise. Both her mentor and her academic momentum were gone.

Kohl had come back to Germany from Washington, D.C., to help his daughter decide her future and improve his own connections to the Reich government. He quickly decided she must find a new husband: some bright young official likely to emerge at the top of the new regime, a man who would prove as useful to him as to her.

And so he'd cultivated Drexler, the poster-boy Nazi, who in turn saw Kohl as a quick-witted advisor with friends and connections.

Kohl took Greta to a party celebrating the Führer's birthday and persuaded Drexler to be there too. The young Nazi was clearly smitten; a moth to a flame. Yet she was hesitant. Yes, he was handsome, bright, and ambitious. Yes, his vision of Germany's future was heady, even thrilling. And he campaigned for her doggedly: it was flattering. Women thought him gorgeous.

"He's just a bit cold, Papa," she confided. "I mean preoccupied. I suspect he's already married— to his career."

"All successful men have the mistress of their work! That man could be your future.
Our
future! He'll open doors for you."

She sighed. "I know. He's an... amazing person. But he doesn't always seem to see what I see, care for what I care for. Sometimes we run out of things to talk about. He's actually a bit awkward."

"With women, perhaps. Not with the people in power."

Then Drexler let slip the coming Antarctic expedition, boasting that he'd been picked to represent its political side. Göring himself was the power behind it! Those who accompanied it would become heroes. And the science team for the voyage was being assembled.

For Kohl, the expedition was an answer to a prayer. It just so happened that he had a brilliant young biologist to suggest for the ship's company. And while her presence as a woman was unusual for a Reich sea voyage, it would give Drexler the time to really get to know her.

Greta was uncertain. What if she and Jürgen fell out? But she was also thrilled. Antarctica! She'd be the first German woman to visit the place. It was heady, momentous. The biologist felt her abilities merited a second chance to establish her professional reputation. She asked the young Nazi if he was recruiting her as a capable scientist or as a woman.

"I'm recruiting the best person I can find," Drexler replied.

The memory of the day Greta received confirmation she'd been accepted for the expedition came back to Kohl now as a gust of wind buffeted the plane. "You should have been there, Owen," the German said. "She was delirious. Never had I seen her so radiant." Suddenly, his face darkened. "The exact opposite of the girl who was returned to me three months later when the
Schwabenland
tied up at the Hamburg docks."

Hart continued staring straight ahead, though his fingers were beginning to feel moist and clammy on the controls. "She told you about... about
us
?"

Kohl nodded. "Through her tears. After her narration of the events leading... well, to your death, she went back to being numb. I wasn't sure quite how to deal with her, what to say. But Jürgen was— what's your American term? Johnny-on-the-spot. He made it his mission to distract Greta from her grief. I tell you, the man was a force of nature. He would not be denied. And in time, Greta relented. She had no momentum of her own, no direction. And Jürgen, he
is
direction." Kohl smiled bitterly. "Myself, I thought: this is the best thing for her."

"But it wasn't?" said Hart. His eyes lowered to check the compass heading. Still on course.

"Jürgen is very complex. Admirable in so many ways, but also, I've come to realize,
undeveloped
. He is like a child who battles for a toy, only to tire of it once it ceases to be an object of contention. I have no doubt that, were someone to try to wrest away his plunder, he would show his claws, but it is
not
because he derives much enjoyment from it. My daughter's loneliness is profound."