XPD (41 page)

Breslow respected Willi Kleiber. He had been a tough, honest soldier who could hold his drink, go days on end without sleep and who was never heard to complain. And yet Breslow’s respect for Kleiber fell far short of admiration. Kleiber’s avowed enjoyment of army life had in peacetime been replaced by his pleasure in hunting and camping trips, always in the hardest and bleakest of environments. Kleiber
liked
shaving in cold water by the light of a gas lamp at four o’clock in the morning inside some icy-cold tent in some god-forsaken part of the world, with the prospect of wading for hours in a cold swamp to shoot a few wretched ducks. Such strenuous pursuit of discomfort seemed childish to Breslow, and he made sure that he did not join such expeditions.

For all these reasons, Breslow was determined not to accept the spartan accommodation that Kleiber had prepared at the house on the lake shore. Breslow had been taken to inspect the bleak little carpeted room at the top of the house. The folding bed covered with two thin blankets and a threadbare cushion to be used as a pillow was not to Breslow’s taste, neither was the chilly bathroom which was one flight of stairs and a long draughty corridor away.

Kleiber was disappointed when Breslow told him that he had already booked a suite at a luxurious downtown hotel. He had keenly looked forward to an evening of cigar smoke and schnapps, as they swapped stories about life at the Führerhauptquartier or discussed intimate details about Kleiber’s latest mistress. He had even put a bottle on ice and bought a box of hand-rolled Havanas from the duty-free shop at the airport.

Max Breslow relented a little. ‘I’ll have a bath and some dinner and come back for a drink,’ he finally offered his friend.

‘That’s good,’ said Kleiber, his disappointment changing suddenly to manifest pleasure. ‘I’ll drink you under the table, Max. Be warned.’

Breslow managed a brave smile, although he dreaded the prospect of such an evening. ‘I mustn’t be too late to bed,’ he mumbled.

‘Nonsense,’ said Kleiber, patting his friend on the back. ‘A Saturday evening in August with the whole town waiting for us – how can you talk of going to bed early? We’ll probably end up in that new striptease club I was telling you about, or we could go across the border to Evian and try our luck at the casino. Or, if it’s girls you are in the mood for …’

It was difficult to counter Kleiber’s persuasive ebullience. ‘I don’t know how you do it, Willi. I really do not.’

Kleiber straightened himself to his full height and smiled to show his pleasure. It was easy to compliment him, thought Max Breslow – one had only to imply that he was a libertine or a rogue to earn his eternal approval.

‘Meet me here at 8.30,’ suggested Kleiber. ‘It will give you time for your preening, and give me time to win a new client. If the new job is what I think it is, Max, the evening is on me.’

‘Something good?’

‘When a man calls long distance every thirty minutes and says he needs to speak to me concerning a matter of great importance, it usually turns out that his wife is jumping into bed with his chauffeur.’

‘Does it, Willi?’

‘Or that his mistress is jumping into bed with his chauffeur,’ said Kleiber. ‘The more they make it sound like it’s a matter of international diplomacy, the more certain I become that it’s a little domestic drama.’

‘I didn’t know your company took on such domestic dramas nowadays.’

Willi smiled again. ‘My staff are very highly paid. They don’t mind if they are guarding the President or recording the whispers of an insatiable wife, and why should they mind? I tell these clients that using my organization will cost them ten times what a small company specializing in divorce would charge. They don’t care, Max. They want to pay more. The elemental fury of vengeance motivates these people; they want to hurt, they want to humble, they want to assault the one who has caused them pain. Lacking the physique or the skills or the temperament to do it directly, they use the only weapon they have – money! They pay, Max, because they want to pay.’ He smacked a fist into an open hand to illustrate the similarity between the act of violence and of payment. ‘Yes, I’ll take on a domestic drama.’

Max Breslow smiled, but the smile was a fixed one. He remembered the terrible arguments between his parents that had woken him as a child. Unable to hear the words, he had understood the hatred in the cadences of their voices. Those duets had climaxed in a harmonic hysteria and the bang of the front door, as one or the other of his parents stormed out of the house.

‘I’ll give this fellow thirty minutes,’ said Willi Kleiber. ‘He’s a wealthy man, he’s come all the way from Dortmund to see me. It will save me seeing him tomorrow morning.’

‘If it develops into something important,’ said Max Breslow, ‘phone me at the hotel and let me know.’ He tried to hide from his voice any suggestion that he would infinitely prefer an evening on his own.

‘Thirty minutes is all he gets,’ said Kleiber. ‘I’ll see you here at 8.30 tonight, and that’s a promise.’

Max Breslow took his leave. He sighed. With a person such as Willi Kleiber one had to be grateful for even a couple of hours off duty. Once back in the hotel, he made phone calls to California. It was Saturday morning in Los Angeles and his production manager was just beginning a day’s work.

The Chancellery set was completed and they were about to take it from the workshops and store it ready to erect in the studio. The Kaiseroda mine-entrance set was being built, the plasterers would begin work on Tuesday morning and it would be ready for Friday. The location manager was excited by an office building near the Music Center. He said it would be suitable for the scene in which General Patton tells Eisenhower about the discovery of the treasures in the mine. Breslow listened to all the details of the production and found little to criticize or change.

Reassured by all that, Breslow took a bath and then ordered a small bottle of burgundy and a grilled steak from room service. He phoned his wife and told her that everything was all right. His wife was nervous about flying, and Breslow had got into the habit of phoning her after every flight, and phoning her every day he was away. It was an extravagance but it all went on to the film production account. They talked about the weather, the price of gasoline, the enormous estimate for repairing the Mercedes. Max listened dutifully. He had never told his wife much about the freeway accident, and certainly not told her that he’d pretended that it was an attempt on his life. Mrs Breslow also made passing mention of Billy Stein. He was still out of town, she said. Mary had become moody and difficult because she had not heard from him. Billy’s father said merely that his son was in Europe on business; Mary had sobbed.

By now, Max Breslow had hoped that his daughter’s infatuation would be waning but his wife said nothing to confirm this hope. On the contrary, Mrs Breslow spoke rather warmly of the Stein boy. So even his own wife was not immune to the Stein kid’s smooth charm and good looks. Perhaps that motivated Breslow to abandon the potato salad, bread, butter and cream untouched on his tray. It influenced him too when later he chose his favourite dark blue worsted suit and knitted tie. Damn it, thought Breslow, perhaps he
would
go with Kleiber across to the casino at Evian. He could afford a small wager at the gambling tables, and who was to say he would not win?

Geneva was not a town that Breslow knew well. He kept to the most obvious route, going to the centre of town and looking for the
autoroute
signs. The lake was beautiful at this time of evening. Tourists crowded the promenade. He stopped his car at a pedestrian crossing where three young girls waited to cross.

One of them, in a see-through top, smiled at him. She had long hair and a round baby face with large eyes, and he was suddenly reminded of a girl he had once known in Dresden, before the war. It was strange how such memories surfaced without warning after being so long forgotten. Were those two pretty girls waiting for a ride to Lausanne … to dinner … to bed? As he pulled away again, the car spluttered. These damned rented cars were all alike – shiny and clean interiors but mechanically always second rate.

Once on the
autoroute
the car’s blocked fuel line cleared and seemed to be all right again. He drove carefully, enjoying the darkening sky and the mountains which looked like the backdrop for grand opera.

He came into the little streets of Coppet very slowly and was looking for the high gates of the house when he noticed two grey Mercedes panel trucks. Two uniformed policemen came out of the gate as he got there. One staggered under the weight of some H & K machine pistols and the second man, an officer, carried a box of smoke grenades. Two of Kleiber’s employees were handcuffed and waiting to get inside the second truck.

Breslow decided to carry on straight past the house. The policemen looked at him with interest and paused for a moment to see which way he would go. Breslow decided it would be better to seem equally surprised. He slowed almost to a stop, turned in his seat and stared at the policemen before continuing slowly down the street.

Without hurrying, Breslow turned up towards the main road. It was not the first time that he had come so near to disaster, he’d known many such close scrapes during the war, and learnt to restrain all temptation to run. It was a wise precaution. At the intersection with the main road, there was another police car waiting. Breslow decided to turn right and continue along the lakeside towards Lausanne. He went to Nyon before turning off to get to the
autoroute
and coming all the way back to Geneva again. It was only when he was back in the busy anonymity of the town centre that he was able to think properly. He decided against phoning either Dr Böttger or his contact in Geneva. Who knew to what extent Operation Siegfried had been penetrated if the Swiss were taking Willi Kleiber’s men into custody. He’d phone only Edward Parker, as Kleiber had requested.

When Max Breslow saw the signs for Geneva airport he moved into the exit lane. He had decided to go home to California.

Chapter 40

Colonel Pitman drove the car after he left Madame Mauring’s cake shop with Stein. Colonel Pitman no longer enjoyed driving, which was why he employed a chauffeur. Driving made him tense, and long journeys affected his bad back. A young man in a red Audi came weaving through the fast traffic carelessly enough to make Pitman brake sharply. He felt the bile rise to his throat, and winced with the pain of indigestion. The anxieties of the last few days had played havoc with his regulated working hours and disrupted his mealtimes. Now there was nothing he would like better than an Alka-Seltzer and a long doze in his favourite armchair. He rubbed his chest, hoping to alleviate the discomfort. He saw Stein looking at him; he smiled, but he couldn’t help wondering why he was chauffeuring his ex-corporal. He should have told Stein to drive the car. Instead, Stein had got into the passenger seat and told him to get going. It had always been like this: Stein giving the orders and Pitman being carried along by his energy and determination. It had been like that the first day he had met Stein, the day Pitman had arrived at the battalion headquarters – a bone-rattling, dusty truck ride from Casablanca. Lieutenant Pitman was straight from the USA, newly assigned to the tank destroyer units that everyone was promising would knock hell out of the Panzers of the Deutsche Afrika Korps.

Pitman was greeted by a snappy salute from the sentry at the gate. He felt important as he carried his kit up the hill to the tent marked ‘Report here’. It was a warm day. The tent smelt of new canvas and the waxy resin used to preserve it. The sun made the light inside the tent bright yellow, and there was the loud buzzing of flies. A middle-aged master sergeant sat at a table with a field telephone and a stateside newspaper. He was reading the sports results aloud, very slowly. Private Stein – plump, red-faced and perspiring – sat on an upturned box and punctuated the sports results with sneers, jeers and snorts. Lieutenant Pitman gave them a moment or two to acknowledge his presence but when they did not do so he said, ‘Sergeant, I’m Lieutenant Pitman. I’m looking for the battalion commander.’

Master Sergeant Vanelli looked up and nodded. He folded his stateside newspaper and laid it on the table with the sort of reverence that such rare documents were given at that time, but he did not get to his feet. Stein, without moving from his position on the upended box, looked the officer up and down from the factory-fresh steel helmet, and the pale skin unused to African sunshine, to the newly issued brown boots. ‘Take my advice, Lieutenant,’ said Stein. ‘You get your leggings and your pistol strapped on and paint your bar on the front of your helmet
before
you see the CO.’

‘Is that your advice?’ said Pitman coldly.

‘This is General Patton’s command: twenty-five-dollar fine for officers without their pistols; and officers without leggings pay fifteen bucks.’ Stein smiled and aimed a smack at a fly which had settled on his arm, but it flew away unharmed.

‘Which is the colonel’s tent?’ Pitman asked, pointedly addressing the sergeant instead of Stein.

‘The one with the rolled tent-sides,’ said Stein. ‘The colonel likes a draught, and don’t mind the sand.’

‘Is this man your mouthpiece, Sergeant?’ Pitman asked him.

‘I guess he is,’ said the sergeant, as though he hadn’t considered it before. ‘Charlie Stein kind of runs things for us up here.’

Lieutenant Pitman looked at the two men, wondering whether to complain about their unsoldierly manner, but decided that it would be an unwise move for a newly assigned officer. He ducked his head to go out of the tent just as Stein called, ‘And ten bucks if you are not wearing a tie.’

Pitman ignored him.

‘Cut the speed a little,’ said Stein. ‘This is no time to get a ticket for speeding.’ Pitman glanced at the fat, balding man sitting beside him. Who would have guessed that their lives and fortunes could have become so interdependent? Stein was twisted round awkwardly as he pushed his brown shoulder bag on to the rear seat. The documents he placed on the floor behind him, and from time to time he reached back to touch them and reassure himself that they were still there.