The Eighth Dwarf

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.”

“At one time, you know, he was thinking of shipping all the Jews to Madagascar. And at one time the British offered them Kenya. Kenya, from what I hear wouldn’t have been at all bad. Good land, good climate. But it wasn’t Palestine. Or Israel. You know what I think Palestine could wind up being?”

“What?”

“The world’s largest ghetto.”

“The Jews will have to get rid of the British first,” Jackson said. “Then they will have to get rid of the Palestinians. If they keep the pressure on, the British will probably pull out. They’re broke. They’re going to be pulling out of a lot of places in the next few years. But the Palestinians haven’t got anyplace to pull out to. The Jews are going to have to fight them.”

“And the Syrians and the Egyptians and the Lebanese and probably the Transjordanians.”

“Probably,” Jackson said.

“I wonder if they could win.”

“The Jews?”

“Yeah.”

Jackson thought about it. “It probably depends upon which way Russia leans. The Zionist lobby is pretty strong in the States, so Washington will probably tilt that way. Which way Russia will go is anybody’s guess.”

Lieutenant Meyer nodded, and they walked on in silence for a moment. Then Meyer said, “Remember that buck general I told you about?”

Jackson nodded. “The one you said wasn’t very bright?”

“Yeah. General Grubbs. Knocker Grubbs. Well, the Knocker’s out and an old friend of yours is in.”

“Who?”

“They brought him up from Munich. They say he’s brilliant. I don’t know, maybe he is. I’ve only talked to him once, and that was this morning. He speaks German, though, and that’s a change. He went to Heidelberg before the war. The Army sent him.”

“Has he got a name, this old friend of mine?”

“Sorry, I thought I’d already mentioned it. Bookbinder. Samuel Bookbinder. He’s Jew, like me. Maybe that’s why he’s still only a colonel.”

“He’s no old friend of mine.”

“You know him, though.”

“We met a couple of times in Italy during the war. That doesn’t make us old friends.”

“Well, maybe he’s an old friend of some of your old friends — those ex-OSS wheels in Washington who think you need special handling. Anyway, the cables have been shooting back and forth between them and Bookbinder. You heard the latest about Oppenheimer?”

Jackson nodded. “I heard.”

“I thought you would. From his sister. Well, it’s a British show now.”

“In Bonn.”

“That’s right, in Bonn. They’re sending me up as liaison. You’re going, I suppose.”

“Yes.”

“Okay. First of all, there’s this.” Lieutenant Meyer took an envelope from his pocket and handed it to Jackson.

“What is it?”

“It’s a kind of laissez-passer,” Lieutenant Meyer said — not doing too badly with the French phrase, Jackson thought. “It’s got a four-star general’s name signed to it. It should keep the British off your back unless you fuck up all over the place.”

“I’ll try not to,” Jackson said, and put the letter away without reading it.

“Okay, that’s one. Now here’s two, and two is the one I don’t much like, although the Army doesn’t care a hell of a lot what its first lieutenants like or don’t like. Except I don’t think this is the Army so much as it is your ex-OSS buddies in Washington.”

“Uh-huh,” Jackson said, because Meyer had paused as though expecting some comment.

“Bookbinder pretty much ran his own show down in Munich. He had to, because the Knocker was so fucking stupid. Well, Bookbinder has all sorts of lines out — to Berlin, to here, and even up to Hamburg where the British are. I don’t know where he got this; maybe it was from the British. But maybe not. Anyway, he’s learned that the Russians have sent someone in.”

“After Oppenheimer?”

“That’s right. He crossed over up north at a place called Lübeck. The British had a tag on him but it fell off, which didn’t make them too happy because they thought he might lead them to Oppenheimer.”

“Has he got a name?”

“No name. All that Bookbinder knows about him is that sometimes he’s called the Printer.”

“When’re you going to get to the part that you don’t like?”

“Now,” Lieutenant Meyer said. “The British don’t want Oppenheimer in Palestine. That means somebody else does, but I’m beginning to wonder who.” He looked searchingly at Jackson, but Jackson only shrugged.

“You got any ideas?” Meyer said.

“The Irgun is almost a sure bet.”

“Besides them?”

“The Russians.”

“What about us?”

Jackson stopped walking, turned, and stared at Meyer. After a long moment he said, “If the war were still going on, I’d say yes. It might be something tricky that the OSS would try to pull. Now, I don’t know. It’s a possibility, I suppose.”

“Bookbinder tells me that the Russians want Oppenheimer real bad. If they can’t track him down themselves, they’re even willing to buy him.”

“From whom?”

“From whoever’s got him for sale.” They had started walking again, but Meyer stopped so that he could stare at Jackson without any liking. “I suppose that means you — and that creepy little pal of yours.”

“I’m working for Leah Oppenheimer.”

“Sure you are.”

“You don’t believe it?”

“I don’t know what to believe about you, buddy, except that I don’t trust you. Or that dwarf. Neither does Bookbinder. Up in Bonn he wants me to ride your ass, and if you start to go sour, I’ve got orders to stop you — even if it means bringing the British in. You understand?”

“I understand.”

“Now we get to the part that I really don’t like. It’s a personal message to you straight from Washington. It’s supposed to be funny, I guess, but I don’t think it’s very funny at all.”

“Go to it.”

“Okay. This is it, and it’s an exact quote: ‘Don’t sell until you hear our final offer.’ You got it?”

“I’ve got it.”

“You understand it?”

“Maybe.”

Lieutenant Meyer nodded coldly. “Yeah, I thought you would.” Then he turned and walked back to the Ford sedan.

Because of bad roads and worse bridges it took them nearly three hours to reach Remagen. The dwarf had sung most of the way, more loudly than usual in order to make himself heard over the old car’s big engine. For the last hour he had been singing German drinking songs. When he hadn’t been singing, the dwarf had recounted the histories of the castles they passed. He seemed to know stories about all of them.

They stopped at Remagen for a glass of wine and because Jackson wanted to see what was left of the bridge that the U.S. Army had used to first cross the Rhine.

“You’ve been along here before, of course,” Ploscaru said as they got back into the car and started off again.

“A long time ago. Before the war.”

“You remember the stories about this region?”

“Some of them.”

“Roland built his castle here in Remagen, you know. He had been courting the fair Hildegunde, who was the daughter of the Count of Drachenfels. But then Roland went off to fight the Moors in Spain, and when he returned he found Hildegunde had become a nun. So he built his castle and sat moping in it until she died and then went off to fight the Moors some more. There it is — over there on your left — the Rolandsbogen. Roland’s Arch.”

“So it is,” Jackson said, not slowing down.

“Now a little farther up we’ll catch our first really good view of the Siebengebirge, the seven mountains.”

“Where Siegfried hung out.”

“Right. After he killed the dragon he bathed in its blood, you remember, which made him immune to any wound — except for a very small spot between his shoulder blades.” Ploscaru sighed. “It’s not a very original myth — almost a direct steal from Achilles and his heel; but then, the Germans never were the most original of people, not even in their mythmaking.”

“As I remember, there were some other folks who’re supposed to be running around up there in the Siebengebirge.”

“Really? Who?”

“Snow White and the Seven Dwarfs.”

Ploscaru smiled slightly, even a little sadly. “And now there’ll be eight, won’t there?”

They encountered the British roadlbock on highway B 9 just as it reached the Bonn suburb of Bad Godesberg. A British sergeant accompanied by two privates approached the car and asked Jackson and Ploscaru for their passports.

“You might also want to look at this, Sergeant,” Jackson said, handing over the laissez-passer. The Sergeant examined the passports first. He took his time, glancing several times back and forth between the passport photos and the occupants of the Mercedes. He then leisurely opened the envelope and read the letter that it contained. If the four-star General’s signature was supposed to impress him, his face didn’t show it. He might have been reading the trolley schedule. He slowly refolded the letter, tucked it carefully back into its envelope, and handed it back along with the passports.

“You’ll be staying in Bonn?” he said.

“Bad Godesberg,” the dwarf said.

“Where?”

“The Godesberg Hotel.”

The Sergeant nodded thoughtfully. “All right, gentlemen. You can go.”

The Sergeant watched as the old Mercedes rolled away. Then he turned to one of the privates and said, “Get on the blower to the Major, Charlie, and tell him that the Yank and the midget will be staying at the Godesberg.”

The Godesberg Hotel was not the best hotel in either Bonn or Bad Godesberg. The best hotel was probably the Dreesen, where Hitler and Neville Chamberlain had met in 1938 just prior to Munich. However, Bonn had never been known for its hotels, but rather for its university and for being the birthplace of Beethoven, who had left as soon as he could for Vienna and the company of Mozart and Haydn, never to return. The war had nearly bypassed Bonn, although allied bombing and artillery had managed to destroy what some claimed was 30 percent of the city, although others charged that this estimate was far too high.

In its first postwar year Bonn remained what it had always been since the Romans founded it in 12 B.C. — sleepy, which was a guidebook euphemism for dull. And if Bonn was sleepy, Bad Godesberg was unconscious.

The Godesberg Hotel was a three-story building on a side street just off the Ringsdorf. Jackson and Ploscaru had only time enough to check in, unpack, and settle down in the dwarf’s room over a drink before someone started knocking at the door.

The dwarf opened it, looked up, and smiled. “Well,” he said, “what a delightful surprise. Do come in, Gilbert — and your friend, too.”

Maj. Gilbert Baker-Bates, dressed, in a tweed jacket and gray trousers, came into the room, followed by the man with yellow hair. Jackson decided that the jacket and trousers were the same that Baker-Bates had worn in Mexico. He tried to remember what the pay of a British major was, but couldn’t. He wondered whether it would be worthwhile finding out, but decided not. The dwarf would know. The dwarf always knew things like that.

Once in the room, Baker-Bates didn’t look at Ploscaru. Instead, he let his gaze wander around. When it reached Jackson he nodded, the way one might nod to a dimly remembered acquaintance at a large but dull cocktail party.

Still not looking at Ploscaru, Baker-Bates said, “How are you, Nick?”

“Well. Quite well, in fact. And you?”

Baker-Bates turned to the yellow-haired man. “This one’s Ploscaru, of course. And that one over there is Jackson. Minor Jackson.”

The yellow-haired man nodded, but only once.

Ploscaru smiled up at him. “I don’t believe I’ve had the pleasure.”

“It’s not going to be one, Nick. His name’s Von Staden. Heinrich von Staden. He’s your new nanny. Where you go, he goes.”

“Von Staden,” Ploscaru murmured. “Von Staden. Yes, I seem to remember now. You were one of Canaris’s bright young men, weren’t you? In Madrid for quite a while, I believe.”

Von Staden said nothing. Instead, he continued to examine the dwarf as if trying to decide whether to add him to some collection.

Rebuffs, however, were Ploscaru’s specialty and had been for a long time. He smiled cheerfully and said, “Let’s all have a drink, Gilbert, and Minor will show you a letter that you should find most interesting.”

“We’ll take the drink, but there’s no need to wave that letter around. I know what’s in it and who signed it, and I’m not impressed. One misstep and we clap you in jail, both of you, and if there’s a fuss, well, we’ll let Berlin sort it out.”

Jackson mixed two drinks. He handed one of them to Von Staden, who accepted it silently. When he handed Baker-Bates his, Jackson nodded toward Von Staden and said, “Doesn’t he ever shut up?”

“He’s a watcher, not a talker. You should’ve taken my advice and stayed away from Ploscaru.” Baker-Bates looked down at the dwarf. “He’s a treacherous little sod — aren’t you, Nick?”

“All Romanians are,” Ploscaru said with another cheerful smile. “It’s in our blood. But let’s talk about what we’re all interested in. Let’s talk about Kurt Oppenheimer. Tell us why you’re really interested in him, Gilbert.”

“You know why,” Baker-Bates said. “Because we bloody well don’t want him in Palestine.”

“I mean your real reason. No need to be shy; we’re all friends here.”

“You just heard it.”

“But that’s the public reason, Gilbert. Now tell us the private one — the one that scarcely anyone knows.”

“There is no private one, as you call it.”

“No? How strange. I thought there was. I mean, one can understand why you wouldn’t want Oppenheimer in Palestine. But with the Empire crumbling all about you, I thought there would be several spots where you could use a man of his peculiar talents. Greece, for example; Malaya; even India. I mean places where a spot of judicious killing might be in order.”

Baker-Bates stared down at the dwarf for several moments and then smiled, but it was a thin, tight-lipped smile without humor or teeth. “I’d almost forgotten how absolutely mad you really are, Nick.”

The dwarf shook his head and smiled reasonably. “No, not really. A trifle neurotic perhaps, but then, I have reason to be. Now, we know for a fact that the Russians want poor Oppenheimer. And the Americans, too. And I assume that both would pay a modest sum to whoever might deliver him into their eager hands. But what about your people, Gilbert? How much would they bid if he were, so to speak, offered up to them on a silver platter?”

“How much?”

“Yes. How much.”

“Nothing,” Baker-Bates said, putting his drink down. “Not a penny.”

“What a shame.”

Baker-Bates shook his head slowly. “Don’t try it, Nick. Don’t try it or we’ll step on you the same way that we’d step on a bug.” He paused. “A small bug.”

He turned and started for the door. Von Staden moved over quickly and opened it. But Baker-Bates turned back to stare for a long moment at Jackson. The Major nodded at the dwarf. “You can’t trust him, you know. You really can’t.”

Jackson smiled. “I know.”