“So that was what you were after,” Darius said, his eyes still watchful.
“It was handled as a routine inquiry. I asked for a crew list of the U-19. I also contacted an old friend in Munich — a World War I aviation buff — and asked him if he knew of any flyer by the name of Bruno von Till. The replies were most interesting. A von Till actually flew for the German Imperial Air Service all right But you claimed to have flown with Kurt Heibert in Jasta 73 out of the Xanthi aerodrome in Macedonia. The real von Till flew with Jasta in France from the summer of 1917 until the Armistice in November of 1918; he never left the Western Front. The next intriguing tid-bit was the first name on the U-19’s crew roster — a Commander Erich Heibert. Being an Inquisitive cuss, I didn’t stop there. I radioed Berlin again, this time from the ship, and asked them to send all available information on Erich Heibert. That did it — I couldn’t have created a bigger stir with the German authorities If I’d resurrected Hider, Goering and Himmler all in one swoop.”
“Sheer babble — he’s delirious.” The shrewd, Calculating Fu Manchu look had returned to the old German’s face. “No one in their right mind would believe such a ridiculous fairytale. A model submarine — hardly a valid connection between me and Heibert.”
“I don’t have to prove anything. The facts speak for themselves. When Hitler took power you became his devoted follower. In return for your loyalty, and in recognition of your previous valuable combat experience, he promoted you to Officer Commanding Transportation Fleet; a title you held throughout the war until just before Germany’s surrender when you seem to have vanished.”
“That has nothing to do with me,” von Till said angrily.
“You’re wrong,” Pitt returned. “The real Bruno von Till married the daughter of a wealthy Bavarian businessman who, among other interests, owned a small fleet of merchant ships — ships that sailed under the flag of Greece. Von Till knew a good thing when he saw it He took out Greek citizenship papers and became Managing Director of Minerva Lines. Financially the company was a loser, but he built it into a first class carrier fleet by smuggling arms and essential war materials into Germany in direct violation of the Versailles Treaty.
That’s how you knew him, you helped engineer the operation. You both had a good thing going, but von Till was no mental retard. He figured the Axis powers would lose in the end. So he threw his lot with the Allies early in the war.”
“You fail to make a connection,” Darius said. Pitt had his interest, but it could just as easily fade at any moment.
“Now comes the good part. Your boss, Darius, isn’t a man to leave anything to chance. A less clever man would have simply tried to vanish Not Admiral Erich Heibert He was much too cunning Somehow he made his way through the Allied line. to England, where the bonafide von Till was living, murdered him and took his place.”
"How was it possible,” Darius demanded.
“It wasn’t only possible,” Pitt said to Darius, “it was accomplished to the letter. They were both roughly the same size and build. A few alterations here and there by a skilled surgeon, a few gestures and speech mannerisms, practiced until perfect and the man who stands before you became a dead ringer for the original Bruno von Till. Why not? There were no close friends, von Till was sort of a loner, no one knew him well. His wife had died childless. There was. however, a nephew who had been born and raised in Greece. Even he didn’t catch on to the switch till years later Then it cost him his life. Mere child’s play for a professional killer like Heibert The nephew and his wife were murdered in a faked boating accident Teri, their young daughter, was spared No benevolence on Heibert’s part I assure you. The public image of a considerate and protective grand uncle was too good to pass by.”
Pitt stole another encompassing look at the guards, the tunnel and the Japanese I-Boat. Then he turned back to von Till.
“After the switch, smuggling was merely a sideline for you. Heibert. The inventive creation of a submarine attached to the keel of a ship came natural for an old U-Boat commander. To the outside world, Heibert, alias von Till, had it made. Minerva Lines was thriving, the money was rolling in. But you were worried, things were going too well The more prominent you became, the better your chances of being exposed. So you moved to Thasos, rebuilt the villa and played the role of an eccentric millionaire recluse. Business as usual was no problem. A high-power short-wave radio was installed so you could operate Minerva Lines without ever setting foot on the mainland of Europe. But your perverted past was too strong. You let the company fleet run down. to a fourth rate freight hauler, and turned your talents almost entirely to smuggling—”
“Where is all this talk leading?” Darius interrupted.
“The fait accompli — the pay-off,” Pitt explained. “It seems that Admiral Heibert here was conspicuous by his absence at the Nuremberg War Trials. His name is right up there next to Martin Bormann on the wanted war criminals list. A real sweetheart this one. While Eichmann was burning the Jews, Heibert was emptying the POW camps by driving Allied prisoners into the holds of old merchant vessels and setting them adrift in the North Sea, trusting to British and American bombers to do the Nazi’s own dirty work.
In spite of the fact that he had disappeared at the end of the war, he knew what was in store if he stayed in Germany. He was convicted in absentia by the International Military Tribunal at Nuremberg and sentenced to death. It’s a pity he wasn’t hung before now, still it’s better late than never.”
Pitt had played his last card. There was nothing left for him but to hope, he could stall no more.
“Well there you have it. A few facts, a few educated guesses. The story’s a bit sketchy I admit. The Germans could only radio a brief outline of the information they had in their files. The exact details may never become known. No matter, you’re a dead man Heibert”
Von Till looked at Pitt in cold speculation. “Pay no attention to the Major, Darius. His whole make-believe talk is nothing but the clever stall of a desperate man—”
Von Tin paused, listening. At first the sound was faint — it seemed like an eerie thumping. Then Pitt recognized it as the heavy tread of hobnail boots moving closer along the wooden deck. The mist was back, and its moist atmosphere cloaked any shape or form, while at the same time it amplified the approaching footsteps into a kettledrum beat. It sounded as though the unseen noisemaker was lifting his feet and dropping them with much more force than necessary. Then a ghostly and faceless figure, dressed in the uniform of von Till’s bodyguards, grew out of the mist. Barely discernible, the figure stopped several feet back and clicked his heels.
“The Queen Jocasta has dropped anchor, sir.” The voice spoke in a low guttural tone.
“You idiot!” von Till snapped, angry at the interruption. “Return to your post.”
“No more delays,” Darius snarled. “Just one bullet in the Major’s groin so he can linger in agony.” The Luger’s muzzle fell to Pitt's lower torso.
“Whatever’s fair,” Pitt said quietly. He had a strange expressionless stare that was more disturbing to von Till than any show of fear ever could have been.
Von Till arched forward in a curt precise bow.
“I’m sorry. Major,” the old German said slowly and very deliberately. “Our interesting little chat has come to an end. Please forgive me if I fall to provide the traditional blindfold and last cigarette.” He said nothing more, the evil, venomous smirk on his face spoke for him, and Pitt braced himself for the almost certain blast from Darius’ gun.
18
A gun roared: not the sharp bark of a Luger, but the heavy, ear-stunning roar of a big bore, forty-five Colt automatic Darius shouted in pain as the Luger flew from his hand into the water. Giordino, in a uniform at least two sizes too large. nimbly leaped off the dock onto the sub deck and shoved the Colt into von Till’s left ear. Then he turned to admire his marksmanship.