“Meaning?” she asked.
“Freely translated as “dirty jews.” Those are our Nazis all right. You know, I am beginning to enjoy this job.”
“I can see that. But we were talking about our wedding.”
He put his glass down and came over to her, took her in his arms and kissed her warmly.
“You’ll have the biggest and best wedding in the world as soon as this is over. I promise. Only I have to finish this job first. I’m sorry to see you mixed up in it, and I’m sorry the wedding had to be postponed — really! But I am just glad as hell that there is something I can do to help out the boot to these people. This is no longer abstract. That’s the enemy in there. They are up to no good and I am going to help find out what it is and watch while something is done about it.”
“My hero,” she said, and kissed him. She had meant it to sound funny, light, and it was. But there was more than a tone of seriousness in her voice and Hank heard it and understood it. He kissed her back with warmth and passion.
“I hope that I don’t have to be a hero, but after meeting that kraut creep and hearing his frank opinion of us, I am ready for it if I must.” There was suddenly anger as well as passion in his embrace and Frances gasped.
“Easy, caveman darling, save that for Nazis like Fritz.”
“He’s no Nazi, except by training and desire. The second generation. He’s too young, wasn’t even born until after the Second World War. He must be one of the three men in the suite who could not be identified. At least now we know what he is — if not who he is. But it is the two old ones whom I am really interested in. Hartig and Eitmann. I hope they’ll let something drop about the big fish we are after, Dr. Joachim Wielgus.”
“Is he the one you told me about? The paymaster-general for all the Nazis in hiding?”
“He’s the one. If the anti-Nazi underground in Vienna can lay their hands on him he could lead them to any number of others. Or to their source of funds. Though they say that he is a very hard man. Still, his capture alone would make this entire operation worthwhile.”
Hank reluctantly withdrew from the warm embrace to reach for his drink, which he drained. “I wonder where he is now?” he said, frowning at the wall as though he could see through it and into the minds of the men on the other side. “They know all right. Where is Wielgus?”
11
“The hairdresser is here now, Herr Doktor,” Starke said, coming out onto the balcony where Joachim Wielgus was sprawled out comfortably on the lounge.
“Is it the same poofter as before?”
“The same. But always a good party member, and a major in the Waff en SS on the Eastern Front.”
“All things in his favor, my good General. But a homosexual still, both before and after the war.”
“And a hairdresser before and after the war as well — so we must make allowances. He is a valuable man.”
“Of course he is, Starke! But you must permit an old friend a grumble now and then. We must make do with what we have, of course. Here, let us have another Schinkenhager so I can prepare myself for the ordeal.”
“A fine idea.”
Stark took the chilled schnapps from the ice-bucket and poured full two of the thimble-sized glasses and passed one over to Wielgus. They raised their glasses in a small salute and drained them, smacking their lips in satisfaction. Two old men warming in the afternoon sun of Cuernavaca, staring abstractly at the expansive view of Mexican mountains and sky. Wielgus took a deep breath and rubbed his hands together with resolution.
“Duty calls,” he heaved himself up out of the comfortable lounge. “Just see that you keep the schnapps cold and I’ll be back as soon as I can.”
He still walked like a Prussian; age would never change that. His shoulders were back, erect, and his feet slammed heavily onto the tiled floor with every step, When he opened the door to the hall Klaus was waiting there, snapping to attention, waiting for orders as patiently as he had done for the past thirty-six years.
“Take me to him,” Wielgus said and Klaus led the way, opening the door for him, then closing it after he had gone in. Sonderbar was waiting, looking young, slim and relaxed. Until one got closer and saw the dyed hair and rouged cheeks. There was no trace at all of the former SS major in his stance or attitude. He waved Wielgus to the chair he had set before the large mirror.
“Lovely afternoon, Herr Doktor, but, of course, it’s always lovely in Mexico. Now let’s get this cloth around you — so. Do you have that photograph we took last time? It would make things easier. Thank you.”
Wielgus pushed the cloth down while he dug the wallet from his jacket pocket and took out the polaroid picture. Sonderbar tucked the sheet back into position, then examined the photograph.
“Yes, indeed, a very nice job, if I can be so bold as to say so myself. Everything done to alter your normal features as much as possible. You have been losing your hair for years, not that it doesn’t suit you, of course — you have a nobly shaped skull and displaying it is all for the best. A shame to cover it, but still… and I do believe I have here the wig I made for you last time, how very nice and, see, a perfect fit…. ”
Sonderbar babbled on like this and Wielgus tuned him out of his attention. The man must be suffered in silence; he was too valuable to them all. In the mirror he watched the transformation take place. A pepper-and-salt wig to cover the baldness. Subtle darkening around the eyes to increase the apparent depth of the sockets. Some bits of molded plastic inside his mouth to change
Harry Harrison the shape of his cheeks; foul-tasting but necessary. A moustache glued into position; he had never worn one; and finally the eyeglasses. A stranger looked back at him from the mirror. Close friends might still recognize him, but there was no resemblance to the man in the 1941 photograph his enemies possessed.
“Very good, Major Sonderbar, very good indeed. May I have the photograph back?”
“Of course. How nice of you to say so. I rarely do this sort of thing these days, but it is nice to know one’s hand has never lost its skill. Shall I remain here — or return tomorrow?”
Wielgus looked at his watch. I’ll be back by late afternoon, positively. Is that all right?”
“Absolutely perfect. The good General Starke has an incredible cook and I shall glut myself with luncheon and wine and doze and be fit as a fiddle for your return.”
Wielgus grunted something noncommittal and left. A little of Sonderbar went a long way. Klaus jumped up from the chair in the hall where he had been waiting and snuffed out his cigarette. “What do you think?” Wielgus asked.
“A very good job, sir. Changes your appearance completely.”
“That’s all that is required. Let’s go now. The bank closes at one and I want to get there as close to twelve-thirty as I can. Can you do it?”
“The traffic will be heavy, but there should be no problem as long as Juan stays close.”
“He will — if he knows what is good for him.”
Juan, and the other bodyguard, were leaning against the wall in the shade of the jacaranda, but they got into the Volkswagen as soon as Wielgus appeared. Klaus held the door open in the black Mercedes while he climbed in. Usually they both sat in the front, but today they had different roles to play. Klaus put on his chauffeur’s hat, then started the engine.
From Cuernavaca to Mexico City is close to a hundred kilometers. It took three hours on the old, winding road, but no longer. The toll highway now climbs the hills and dives through tunnels in the mountains, then connects with the freeways through the city itself. Here the traffic jams began and Wielgus ignored them, turning up the air conditioner and reading the Wall Street Journal. When they pulled up in front of the Banco de Commercio it was twenty-five minutes to one. The Mercedes stayed in the no-parking zone in front of the bank, while the Volkswagen parked at a fire hydrant across the street. Wielgus took up the large briefcase and went into the bank.