“It’s everybody’s fight. You’ll learn that soon enough.”
“Stop preaching. Call in your intelligence chief and lay it off on him.”
“I can’t involve them, damn it!”
“You’re a real case, you are. You can’t get involved because you’re a diplomat. Fuegel can’t get involved because he’s in the immigration service. Reinhardt can’t get involved because he’s on the dodge. But I can get involved because I’m just plain good old Frankie Keegan, rich American sucker, that it?”
“No one would suspect you,” Wallingford said. “We get him out in your car, take him to the airport and he’ll be in Paris before morning. All he needs is a passport.”
“For the last time, I’m not going to get involved in local politics. What’s the matter, don’t you know’ anybody else with an airplane?”
“Nobody that’s here now, no.”
“That’s flattering.”
“Look, we’re not talking about politics here, we’re talking about a man’s life,” Wallingford implored. “You heard what the SA did to his best friend. You know what they’ll do with Reinhardt? They’ll take him over to the basement of Landsberg prison and behead him. Behead him!”
“I don’t believe that.”
“That’s the way they do it these days. I can show you intelligence reports. Last month they beheaded three university students simply for distributing The Berlin Conscience. This guy writes the fucking paper. You wonder why he’s panicked?”
Keegan shook his head.
“Damn it, Keegan!” Wallingford sat down heavily on the secretary’s chair and shook his head. “There isn’t any politics here anymore,” he said wearily. “It’s a one-party situation. There won’t be another election in Get-many until Hitler is dead.”
“Well, there’s your answer,” Keegan said. “Knock off Hitler.”
“You’ve got a lousy sense of humor.’ Wallingford’s shoulders sagged. “I gave you credit for more guts than this.”
“Look,” Keegan answered angrily. ‘Once and for all, I don’t play politics, particularly German politics! The Germans adore Hitler. He drives down the street and everybody’s out heil-ing away, throwing flowers in front of his car. Germany’s in love with him. And Reinhardt’s a traitor to Germany!”
“He’s not a traitor, he’s a writer who is speaking out against things he feels are wrong.”
“One man’s traitor is another man’s patriot.” Keegan tapped Wallingford in the middle of his chest. “Know what I think? You got caught with your pants down on this. You knew this guy was in hot water but you didn’t have a plan. Now FDR wants him smuggled out of the country and you’re up against the wall.”
“I’ll admit I wasn’t prepared for the President’s reaction. Besides, it happened too quickly. Some miserable little Judenjager probably turned Reinhardt and Probst up.”
‘Judenjager?”
“Jewhunters. It’s what they do for a living. Trace family trees, look for a Jewish connection, report rumors to the Gestapo. Sometimes they are Jews themselves trying to stay out of trouble.”
“Stool pigeons.”
“Right. Stool pigeons.”
“Call in your people,” Keegan said, patting Wallingford on the shoulder. “Tell them what the President wants and cut them loose. You don’t have any choice. Hell, I think the plane’s in Paris anyway and even if it wasn’t we couldn’t find a pilot this late at night.” He turned to leave.
“I thought I could count on you,” Wallingford said.
“That’s what you get for thinking, Wally,” Keegan said without turning around. He went back to the other room.
“Good luck, Herr Reinhardt, I’m sorry I can’t help you,” Keegan said to the terrified little man. “1 can do this for you. If you get out, there’ll be ten thousand dollars on deposit in your name at Chase Manhattan Bank in New York to help you get started in America.”
“That’s most kind of you, sir. Thank you.” Reinhardt turned to Wallingford. “Perhaps the Black Lily?” he asked.
“What’s the Black Lily?” Keegan asked.
“You don’t want to be involved,” Wallingford said, “so stay out of it completely.”
“Fair enough,” Keegan nodded, and left the room.
When he got back downstairs, the actress was gone. The little man with the hump on his back was still there, though, and he watched Keegan’s every step as Keegan left the embassy.
In Der Schwarze Stier Verein, Berlin’s most notorious nightclub, nobody paid any attention to Francis Keegan. The downstairs room was nothing more than an elaborate beer hall, a mob scene, crowded, smoky and boisterous, the heat oppressive. Keegan decided he would stay long enough to have a nightcap and hear the singer.
As he weaved through the crowd toward the bar, the manager, Herman Braff, pushed his way through the dancers toward him.
“What an honor, what an honor,” the chubby little sycophant babbled. “I am always flattered when you come, Herr Keegan.” Herman’s tuxedo was a disaster of wrinkles and sweat stains and his shirt was soaked down the front. Rivulets of perspiration dribbled down his face which he dabbed constantly with a handkerchief.
“Looks like a great night for you, Herman,” Keegan said.
“Lots of beautiful ladies.” Braff winked. “Just your type.”
“How about the new singer?”
“Nein, nein, nein.” Herman shook his head vigorously, waving off the idea with his hand. “Not your type at all.”
“I came to hear her sing, Herman, not to propose.”
The German laughed. “Not to propose, that’s a good one,” he said. “Your type is .
He put his two hands out in front of his chest as though he were carrying a large bundle, then rolling one hand across his buttocks in an imaginary parabola.
“Wonderful, Herman, you should be up there on the stage doing impressions.”
Keegan shook his head sadly at the grinning manager and looked around the packed club. Smoke clouded the ceiling, the odor of stale beer was overpowering and the band was loud, dominated by the tuba and drums. There were young couples at most of the tables, some dressed in brown uniforms with swastikas on the arm, most of them thick-necked, blond and garrulous. Stag men stood two and three ‘deep at the bar. The chorus line was dancing furiously on stage as though trying to finish their number as quickly as possible. On the packed dance floor, couples undulated, mauled each other and ignored the stage show.
“How about those two in the corner booth?” Herman pressed on, nudging Keegan’s arms with his elbow. It was important to Herman to impress Keegan for Keegan was a trendsetter. If he liked a place, he would draw others to it, expatriates who spent their American dollars and English pounds freely. “They are Americans. And they’re with two boys. College students I would guess. They look bored.”
“I came to Europe to escape Americans,” Keegan said, squinting his eyes and peering through the swirling haze toward the corner, studying the two women as best he could. Both were brunettes, stunning, perfectly coiffed and dressed to the teeth. One, in a shiny, glittering short formal, her black hair cut in a pageboy, looked absolutely defiant, as if challenging every man in the room to try and pick her up. There was something about her, something familiar. Perhaps he had seen her photograph in the rotos. Perhaps she was an actress. The lack of visibility in the room prevented any real scrutiny.
Vanessa Bromley and Deenie Brookstone were ready to ditch the two American boys who had brought them to the club. Vanessa had tired quickly of their stupid college talk and undergraduate mentality. After all, she had come to Berlin not as a sightseer, but, as she put it, “to raise almighty hell,” which definitely did not include being squired by two Dartmouth boys who knew her parents.