“For Christ’s sake, Nick,” Jackson said.
“He’ll walk in an hour or two. Over the years, through necessity, I’ve become quite an expert on kneecaps.” Ploscaru turned to the tall man. “Now, Mircea,” he said in Romanian, “you can load your truck.”
Mircea Ulescu, the ex-policeman turned thief, grinned broadly, and his soft gray eyes shone. “Ah, Nicolae, it is like old times, no?” He turned quickly and snapped orders at the other five men in Polish. They hurried over to the cases of cigarettes and started carrying them up the cellar steps.
“So, Mircea, you are speaking Polish now,” Ploscaru said.
The big man shrugged. “What could I do, Nicolae? They would not learn German. They are such a stubborn race, the Poles.”
Jackson looked at the submachine gun that he was still holding in his hands, frowned at it with something like mild distaste, put it down on the stone floor, and moved over to Bodden. Jackson stared down for a moment at the man, whose lips were still stretched back in a grimace of pain. Then he knelt down beside him and brought out a package of cigarettes and some matches.
“Do you smoke?” he asked.
“I... also... drink,” Bodden said with an effort. He managed to accept a cigarette and a light.
“Let’s see if the tenant left anything behind,” Jackson rose, opened the footlocker in which Oppenheimer had kept his tea things, found a bottle of bourbon and two teacups. He moved back over to Bodden and poured both teacups nearly full.
“Here” he said, “some American painkiller.”
Bodden took a swallow. “An acquired taste, I’d say.”
“Quickly acquired,” Jackson said, raising his own cup. “Who are you, friend?”
Bodden turned his grimace into a smile of sorts. “Nobody.”
Jackson nodded, almost sympathetically. “But not the landlord.”
“No. Not the landlord.”
“A friend of the tenant’s — or rather, the former tenant?”
“Maybe.”
“And maybe not.”
“And maybe not,” Bodden agreed. He took another swallow of the bourbon, sighed, and said, “Your little friend — he’s a bit treacherous, isn’t he?”
“A bit.”
“The next time — well, the next time I’ll not be quite so trusting.”
“When’s this next time going to happen?”
Bodden studied Jackson for a moment. “Soon. I’d say quite soon, wouldn’t you, Mr. Jackson?”
Jackson didn’t bother to try to hide his surprise at the mention of his name. “You’ve got me at a disadvantage there, friend.”
“A small one, but still the only one I seem to have. However, if you need a name to go with my face, I’ll be happy to oblige.”
“Don’t bother.”
“Good. I won’t.”
“Let me guess something,” Jackson said.
“Of course — but first, perhaps, another drop of your American Schnapps. As you say, it’s a taste quickly acquired.”
Jackson filled Bodden’s teacup again. “If you happen to find the former tenant, where will you encourage him to go — East?”
“Why East?”
“As I said, it’s only a guess.”
“We’ll let it remain that. But I’ll give you some advice, Mr. Jackson. Not free advice, which is usually worthless, but advice in exchange for the painkiller, which is already beginning to work a little. My advice is this: when you begin to believe that you can trust your little colleague over there — don’t.”
Jackson grinned. “You hand out good advice, friend.”
“I try, Mr. Jackson, I try.”
They both looked over at Ploscaru, into whose outstretched palm the big Romanian was counting some bills. There were a lot of them, German marks, and every once in a while the big Romanian would wet his finger to aid the accuracy of his count.
The huge cellar was stripped by now. Nothing remained except for the footlocker of weapons. Even the neatly made cot had been removed by the five Poles. Two of them now came back down into the cellar to make the final check. They seemed to be arguing with each other about something. One of them addressed a question in Polish to the big Romanian.
Ulescu silenced them with a quick frown and went on with his counting. When he was through, he smiled and said, “Well, Nicolae, a profitable morning for us both.” Ploscaru nodded and tucked the bills away into a coat pocket. Ulescu turned toward the two Poles and said something to them in their own language. He listened to their reply and then turned back to the dwarf.
“There is a bicycle outside,” he said. “Is it yours?”
“No.”
“They wish to take it.”
Ploscaru shrugged. “Let them.”
Jackson rose. “The bicycle stays,” he said.
Ulescu looked first at Jackson and then at Ploscaru. The dwarf examined Jackson for a moment, then smiled slightly, shrugged again, and said, “As he says, the bicycle stays.”
Ulescu gave the Poles the news and, before they could argue, waved them away with a big hand.
Jackson turned back to Bodden. He took the cigarettes from his pocket and tossed them down to the injured man, who nodded his thanks.
“Your compassion might get you into trouble someday, Mr. Jackson.”
Jackson grinned. “Don’t count on it, friend.”
“No,” Bodden said, “I won’t.”
Ploscaru walked over to the remaining footlocker, opened its lid again, and looked inside as though studying the contents. Finally, he reached in and brought out the .38 pistol. He checked to see that it was loaded and walked over to where Jackson stood. In his right hand he still held the .45 automatic. The dwarf stared for several moments at Bodden, then handed the .38 pistol to Jackson.
“If we don’t kill him,” Ploscaru said, “we’ll be making a mistake.”
“We don’t kill him,” Jackson said.
“All right,” the dwarf said, turned, and walked away.
So, printer, you live a while longer, Bodden thought, and looked up at the American. “Auf Wiedersehen, Mr. Jackson.”
Jackson nodded. “Auf Wiedersehen, friend.”
26
The 1946 Ford sedan that was parked in front of the big house near the Frankfurt zoo was olive drab in color and had a white star and U.S. Army markings. It also had wooden bumpers, because there had still been a shortage of chrome steel when it was manufactured in January of that year. Behind the sedan’s wheel was a bored Army corporal. Next to him was Lt. LaFollette Meyer.
The Corporal, a car lover, perked up a little when the big Mercedes roadster turned into the driveway. Lieutenant Meyer got out of the sedan and leaned against its front fender. He stared curiously at the dwarf who followed Jackson down the drive.
“We have to talk,” Lieutenant Meyer said when Jackson drew near.
Jackson nodded. “I don’t think you’ve met—”
Lieutenant Meyer interrupted. “I talk to you; not to him.”
Ploscaru stared up at Meyer for a moment, smiled slightly, shrugged, and turned away, heading for the big house.
“Let’s walk,” Meyer said.
“All right,” Jackson said, and fell in beside him.
“I’m trying to make up my mind about something,” Lieutenant Meyer said.
“What?”
“About whether I’m a Zionist or not”
“Which way are you leaning?”
Meyer seemed to think about it for a few moments. “I’m not sure,” he said finally. “In a way, if the Zionists have their way it will mean he won.”
“Who?”
“Hitler.”
“Oh.”