Dimitrov turned back to the file.
“Camp Siegfried, was it? Yaphank, Long Island. A summer camp for American Nazis, the German-American Bund.”
“You people are good,” the American chuckled. “I’ll say that. You’ve burrowed right into the FBI.” He shook his head again. “They confiscated the records, that I knew. So you found my name?”
“Franz Mueller.”
“Just as I told you. I’m an American citizen. Born in Hoboken, New Jersey. My father was born in Munich. Came to the States in 1913. I was born in 1918.”
Dimitrov made a quick calculation. Twenty-seven.
“A quick rise. You might have been a general. Too bad.”
The American shrugged indifferently and took another deep draw on the cigarette.
“And your mother?”
“Why must you know the provenance of potential dead meat?”
“You are a pessimist, Mueller.”
Mueller and Dimitrov exchanged glances. Then Mueller shrugged his obvious submission.
“I was five when she died in a car crash… some bastard Jew drunk. My father never remarried,” Mueller said, blowing out another cloud of smoke, this one in the direction of Dimitrov.
“And now, you are still Franz Mueller. Why did you not change your name?”
Mueller smiled broadly.
“After… well, after….” Mueller hesitated, scratched his neck, and averted his eyes. “I came to Munich in September 1938. My uncle Karl, my father’s brother, took me in. He had a son named Franz, two years younger. We were both named after my grandfather.”
“Two Franz Muellers,” Dimitrov said, amused by the story. “What happened to the other one?”
“Frail bastard. Died of pneumonia that same winter I arrived. I became him. Simple. So, you see, I was born under a lucky star. Besides, I was running, and I needed an authentic identity.”
“Running?”
“Why the hell do you think I left America, General?”
Dimitrov observed him closely, admiring his brass.
“I killed two men.” He mimed a pistol with his fingers. “No big deal these days, call it a vorspeise. It is now a common gesture.”
The man baffled Dimitrov, the way he spoke, so open, so unruffled. He could see why his promotions had been rapid.
“Who were they?”
“Couple of Yids.”
Mueller’s eyes searched for contact with Dimitrov’s, as if he were seeking confirmation of a similar attitude.
Dimitrov cautioned himself. Beria’s sister was married to a Jew, and there were Jews of influence in high places. Stalin’s late wife was Jewish. Trotsky was Jewish. Ilya Ehrenburg was a powerful Jewish writer, a favorite of Stalin, and his articles were considered fiery and patriotic rallying cries. Not that he mourned the Jews that had been destroyed by Hitler. Indeed, he had secretly marveled at the efficiency and scope of the destruction. Not a bad idea, he had thought it.
Nevertheless, he decided not to pursue the ethnic aspect of Mueller’s admission. It seemed irrelevant to his purposes. Besides, a proper SS man was supposed to hate Jews and show them no mercy.
“Were you suspected of these murders?”
“I could never be certain. I didn’t stay around long enough to find out.”
“Why did you kill them?”
“We had this great spot in Long Island, Camp Siegfried. Trains of brown shirts came every weekend. We had brown uniforms, swastika armbands. We sang Nazi songs. The American flag hung side by side with the Nazi flag. It was great fun. We had rifle practice. I was a crack shot. We started a boycott of all the stores in the area. They had to display this certain label that designated that they were supporters, otherwise we wouldn’t go in. The Yids didn’t like that and started a counter boycott. There were two ringleaders, the Finkelstein brothers. Finkelstein.”
He shook his head and chuckled.
“I followed them home one day and shot them.”
He made a gesture as if he were holding a rifle.
“Got them at one hundred yards — bang, bang — right through their Yid heads.”
“Surely, there was an investigation?”
“Of course. But the cops, you see, loved us. We knew how to grease the skids. Problem was the Jews called in the FBI. You know the power they have. Control everything in America. Just like in Germany.”
Dimitrov made no comment. What lingered in his mind was “crack shot.”
“Only my father knew, you see, no one else. This was my own idea. Anyway, when the FBI stuck their nose in, I was shipped to Germany to my father’s brother in Munich.”
“And the investigation?”
“Came to nothing. I was gone. The rifle was at the bottom of the Atlantic. No witnesses. No prints.”
“And you never went back?”
“I got into this, the SS, the real thing. No more playtime like the Bund in America. Hell, General.” He seemed suddenly wistful. “…I loved it. We killed so many fuckin’ Jews.”
He sucked in a deep breath.
“And Russians, Obersturmbannführer,” Dimitrov reminded him.
“Hate to say it, but the Führer fucked up. He should have hit England, left Russia alone. Am I right? Look at us. You’ve got us by the balls. We’re over, General, kaput.”
He curled his lips in a gesture of disgust.
“So why tell me you’re American? What did you hope to gain by such an admission?”
“I’m still alive, aren’t I? And here I am sitting in your office.”
He lifted the nub of his cigarette, held it up like a specimen.
“You give me American cigarettes. Okay, General, I’ve had my jollies. Now, I’m in the survival business. I know what NKVD guys do, you’re the cleanup squad, the executioners. Hitler is over. The SS was fun while it lasted. They catch Himmler, they’ll tear out his balls. Fact is, General, our boys didn’t measure up — all that hailing and goose-stepping, all that ritual. I was one good fucking SS man. I dug the whole thing. I loved it. And I still believe, in the end, we will win. But die for it now? I’m not ready. No, dying is not an option at present. You have a plan to keep me alive. I’ll buy that. But die for it? That’s another matter entirely.”
“You call this loyalty, Mueller?”
This was a man after his own heart, Dimitrov thought, a brave, arrogant bastard with a survival instinct.
Mueller sucked in a last puff, then stamped out the nub before it burnt his fingers.
“You got to know when to hold and when to fold. You guys have been making your way across Eastern Europe and now into Deutschland. Here’s the way I figure it: It’s more than likely your next war will be with the Americans and their European stooges. Wouldn’t be such a bad thing if you won. In America, like in Germany, maybe even like in Russia now, the Yids run everything. That’s my war. Someday, you guys will get the message and start getting rid of your Kikes, like Hitler. Maybe we didn’t finish the job, but someone will. I’m volunteering, General. Besides, it’s my only chance to avoid being dead meat.”
Dimitrov was astonished by the man’s cheek. He admitted that some of the man’s slang baffled him, but he had gotten the gist of it.
“Did your father know you were SS?”
“Proud of it. Only he’s dead now; I’m a fucking orphan.”
“Do you have siblings?”
He shook his head.
“I’m an only child. Poor me.” He looked up. “Got another cigarette?”
Dimitrov offered him another cigarette from the pack of Lucky Strikes and lit it.
“And your uncle? Was there an aunt?”
“They’re still in Munich.”
Dimitrov’s mind began to race with ideas and possibilities.
“Women? A wife? A sweetheart? Children?”