He left Bavaria and headed almost immediately for Frankfurt, carrying with him only the carefully culled records of 100 former inmates of the camp; all of them dead, but with their deaths unrecorded; all of them political opponents to one degree or another of the former regime; all of them from the eastern reaches of Germany where the Russians were; and all of them, of course, Aryan by birth. And that was how Damm had acquired his house. He had traded its former owner, a minor and yet-undetected war criminal, a new identity for it. Word had got around — quietly, of course; very quietly — and now Damm was doing an extremely profitable, but extremely discreet business. He also dabbled a bit in the black market. Cigarettes mostly.
Damm was one of the few Germans in 1946 who had to watch their weight. With his newly found prosperity, he had made the mistake of gorging himself on a diet that some days had gone as high as 6,000 calories. Now he was on a self-imposed diet of 1,000 calories a day, which was just enough to keep an idle man alive and allow an active man to starve slowly. It was also just 48 calories less than the official ration in the British Zone.
At forty-three, Damm was a sleek-looking man of average height, carrying perhaps twenty-five too many pounds, which were now draped in an English tweed suit that he had acquired from a once-wealthy client, a former resident of Hamburg, whom the British were especially anxious to get their hands on. The client was now enjoying his new identity and living quietly near Saarbrücken, in the French Zone.
Damm looked at his watch, saw that it was nearly 5, and set out some glasses, water, and a bottle of Johnnie Walker Scotch. Because of his diet he permitted himself only one drink a day, and the Scotch was mostly to impress his new business associate, the American Captain who called himself Bill Schmidt. Damm didn’t for one second believe that that was the Captain’s real name, but the Schmidt served to explain why the American spoke such fluent German. Schmidt’s German had an American accent, but it was detectable only to a good ear, which Damm prided himself on having.
At a minute or two after 5, Damm heard the jeep drive up. He looked out the window and watched Captain Bill Schmidt lift its hood and remove the distributor cap Damm was mildly displeased to discover that the Captain thought that his jeep might be stolen in Damm’s neighborhood.
When the Captain came in, they shook hands and the Captain said in German, “How goes it, K.H.?” Damm had long since resigned himself to being called by his forenames’ initials, which he assumed was one of those weird American customs.
“Very well, Captain, and you?” Although less than an hour after they had first met, the Captain had started addressing Damm with the familiar du, Damm still clung to the formal mode of address. The Captain didn’t seem to notice.
Captain Schmidt took off his hat and sailed it onto a couch. He then spied the Johnnie Walker and said, “My God, Scotch.”
Damm smiled, quite pleased. “I have my several sources,” he said, not seeing much use in being modest.
Damm moved over to the bottle and mixed two drinks, handing one to Schmidt. After they had toasted each other. Schmidt sprawled into an easy chair, stuck his long legs out in front of him, and said, “What have you got for me, K.H.? What have you got that’s worth twelve cases of cigarettes?”
Damm waved an admonishing forefinger. “No more Kools, though, Captain. I have a very difficult time disposing of that last case. People think they are being cheated when you trade them Kools.”
Schmidt shrugged. “They’re not supposed to smoke them. They’re currency. Smoking one is like smoking a dollar bill. Who cares what they taste like?”
“Nevertheless, no more Kools.”
“All right. No more Kools. Now what have you got?”
Damm raised his eyebrows. It gave him an arch look. “Diamonds?” he said. “What would you say to diamonds?”
“I’d say that I’d have to see them first.”
Damm reached into the pocket of his tweed suit and brought out a small drawstring bag made of leather. He handed it to Schmidt. The Captain put his drink down on a table and dumped the bag’s contents into the palm of his hand. There were twenty-four cut diamonds, none less than a carat in size.
While Schmidt inspected each diamond carefully, Damm picked up the Captain’s drink and slid a small porcelain tray under it.
“How much are you really asking, K.H.?” Schmidt said, dumping the diamonds back into the bag. Damm watched carefully to make sure that none was palmed.
“Twenty-four cases.”
“You’re crazy.”
Damm shrugged. “I must have them.”
“You know how many cigarettes there are in one case?”
“Sixty cartons to a case, two hundred cigarettes to a carton. Twelve thousand cigarettes.”
“At a dollar a cigarette.”
“That’s retail. You and I, my dear Captain, are wholesalers.”
“I’ll give you ten cases.”
“Twenty.”
“My last offer is thirteen cases.”
“And mine is seventeen,” Damm said.
“All right. Fifteen.”
“All Camels.”
“Half Camels,” the Captain said. “Half Luckies.”
“Done.”
“That’s a hell of a bargain you just made, K.H.”
“And you, my friend, have not done badly either. Currency is no longer of any use to you. You can’t send it home anymore. But diamonds. Well, diamonds are probably the most portable form of wealth. You can conceal a fortune of them in a packet of cigarettes. What else could be more valuable?”
Schmidt leaned forward in his chair. In his left hand he held the bag of diamonds. He tossed them up a few inches and caught them as his right hand moved slowly back to his hip pocket.
“Well, one thing I could think of, K.H., would be a new identity.”
Damm grew very still. For a few moments he didn’t breathe. He felt suddenly cold, and then the flush started. He could feel it spreading over his face. He knew the American could see it. There was a harsh sound, and he realized with some surprise that it had come from him. It had been a sigh — a long, sad, bitter one. Damm forced his mind to work. It was a quick mind, a facile one. He. had used it often enough before to extricate himself from more difficult positions than this. This was nothing. He made himself smile, although he knew the smile must look ghastly.
“But not for yourself, of course.”
“No, of course not,” Schmidt said. “I’m quite content with being who I am.”
He doesn’t talk the same, Damm thought. There’s no more American accent, none at all. He licked his lips. “For a friend, then?” he said. “Perhaps a relative?”
The Captain took the Walther out and pointed it at Damm. “I want the records. All of them.”
“We could share, of course,” Damm said quickly. “There is enough for all, and besides, I’ve been thinking of taking in a partner. An American partner would be perfect.”
“You don’t understand.”
“No?”
“I want the records that you keep yourself. I want the real names and current addresses of those to whom you’ve furnished new identities. And their new names too, of course.”
The first thing Damm thought was blackmail. It wouldn’t be the first time it had occurred to him, but until now he had been content to wait until his prospective victims could attain a level of prosperity that would make it worthwhile. But perhaps the American was right. Perhaps the time for blackmail had already arrived.
“It would be perfect,” he said, speaking rapidly. “I furnish the records and you make the approach. It could be quite profitable.”