Dry Bones (8 page)

“He made it a practice to note the names and ranks of those he encountered, and the roles and assignments of different units.
Friend, confessor, confidant, and patron to police, civil administrators, railway executives, doctors, contractors, regular army staff, and SS men, noncoms and high-ranking officers, he constantly added to his summary of conversations, tearful confessions, drunken rants, boasts, rumors. What he uncovered was nothing less than industrialized murder.”

Bassante reached into his briefcase and laid on the table a thin, soft-covered report so that the title was visible:
German Extermination Camps—Auschwitz and Birkenau.
“This was published by the War Refugee Board last November. It’s a compilation of several accounts. The Germans have done their best to draw a veil over the effort to exterminate the Jews. But at least among intelligence circles and the Allied leadership, the facts are known. If Schaefer’s records are as exhaustive as he makes out, they’ll add invaluably to our ability to apprehend the perpetrators and their accomplices.”

“Do we know where those records are?” Van Hull tossed the wet, limp match he’d been cleaning his teeth with into the ashtray and pulled a fresh one from a pack.

“They’re with Schaefer.”

“Where’s he?”

“He told Dulles he kept the records in a safe in his villa in Berlin. When he returned there in August, not long after the attempt on Hitler’s life, he sensed his lack of political conviction was no longer deemed innocent idiosyncrasy but suspected as a possible cover for treason. That night he began turning his trove of information into microfiche and burning the originals.

“Several days later, he drove to Prague, then Brünn, and lay low in the countryside, where he has numerous friends. He was incommunicado until he appeared in Banská Bystrica, where he joined the Slovak military rebels and the partisans. They in turn put him in touch with Lieutenant Jahn and his party.”

“Did he give the microfiche to Jahn?” Van Hull continued to glean between his teeth with the match.

“We don’t know. What we do know is by that time the SS was ready to overrun the last rebel strongholds. When it was clear an air rescue wasn’t possible, Jahn and his men set off to join the partisans in the mountains. Schaefer didn’t have the stamina to keep up with them. Instead, he asked that he be roughed up and thrown in a cell, so that it’d look as if he’d been a prisoner of the partisans.”

“Did it work?”

“In the short run, it seems so. He’s well practiced bluffing his way. Last report from the underground in Banská Bystrica indicated that he was seen driving away in his Tatra 77 from the headquarters of the Sicherheitsdienst, the SS security police.”

“Good taste in cars.” Van Hull chewed the paper end of the match. “You think he still has the microfiche?”

“Here’s hoping you’ll provide the answer. If it’s yes, you’ll take both Schaefer and the microfiche under your protection. The Soviets and their agents will be competitors in that regard. They’ve their own reasons for taking control of any materials pertinent to their grand narrative of the ‘Great Patriotic War.’”

Bassante went over the details of their drop. The partisans would meet them with a horse-drawn lumber wagon, load the weapons and supplies on it, and then escort them to a safe house, about ten miles outside Banská Bystrica.

“You’ll be on foot,” Bassante said, “and moving as quickly as possible both to take advantage of the dark and because you’ll want to. The average daytime temperature in the area has been twenty-eight degrees; nighttime, zero to minus five.”

From the safe house, radio contact would be made with Bari. Anton, the partisan leader, ran a bakery. Given Lieutenant Bunde’s proficiency in the language, he’d accompany Anton in his delivery truck for a close look at the Hlinka headquarters where it seemed probable Jahn and his party were being held. Once Bunde felt comfortable with the layout, Anton would bring Van Hull and Dunne
to meet with the underground unit in town. By then, the arms and explosives should have been infiltrated.

“You have to establish whether the prisoners are where we think they are and if the partisans can support a rescue attempt. Here again, Bunde’s familiarity with the language will be important. Once we have some certainty about the fate of Jahn and his party, we’ll make arrangements to get you out.”

“Nothing ever goes according to plan.” Van Hull discarded the match and worked this teeth with the edge of the matchbook cover.”

“You might think about getting a Zippo. They might be useless for purposes of dental hygiene, but they don’t get wet and are more reliable than matches.”

“They need to be refueled and the flints wear out. Matches are a lot easier to replace. Best of all is to know how to start a fire without either.”

“Be prepared. Another Boy Scout skill?”

“The more the merrier.”

Bassante ended with a pep talk of the kind prepared and distributed by one of the morale/propaganda committees run by Lieutenant Colonel Carlton Baxter Bartlett. The boilerplate advice was framed around pitching ace Dizzy Dean’s assertion that he avoided “the fancy stuff,” and stuck to “three simple pitches—curve, fastball, and changeup.”

In this instance, the simple pitches, which Bassante read from an index card, varied from the patently untrue (“Every mission counts”) to the self-evident (“Success depends on teamwork”) to the aspirational (“Keep your wits about you”).

He put down the card. “Depend on the fact that little, if anything, will go according to plan. So let me add one imparted to me by Louie Pohl. ‘The simplest and most necessary of all’ is how Louie describes it: ‘
Pay attention.
’”

* * *

The next day was taken up with final packing and equipment inspection. In the evening, Dunne had just finished writing to Roberta when Bassante stopped by his room. The door was open. “Sorry for barging in. I know you’d like time to yourself before you leave.”

“I never relax the night before a drop.” Dunne was lying on the bed.

Bassante sat at the desk. He stroked his nose with thumb and forefinger. “You need to know something. I’m responsible for you going on this mission.”

“
You?
” Dunne sat up. “General Donovan said he was the guilty party.”

“He decided on the mission. Realist though he is, the general has a romantic streak. He’s read
Henry V
one too many times. When he frames a challenge in terms of noblesse-oblige athleticism—teammates, the old college try, rah-rah—he’s especially vulnerable. You know that old chestnut attributed to the Duke of Wellington—‘The Battle of Waterloo was won on the playing fields of Eton’? Well, it wasn’t won by public school brats, but by English slum dwellers, Irish spalpeens, and Scottish ploughboys.

“When the general directed me to work up this mission, I told him I thought it unnecessary. The odds against it are substantial to insurmountable. He overruled me, as I presumed he would. Van Hull immediately volunteered but was adamant he wanted to go alone. He understood the odds and didn’t want to risk anybody else’s life. I convinced the general it should be a three-man scouting operation and to put off a rescue attempt until we had a better picture of the situation on the ground. I recommended Bunde and you.”

“You chose Bunde, too?”

“His fluency in the language is invaluable. For sure, he’s swayed by the ancestral attachments to the old country typical of
the children of immigrants, but he’s no supporter of the Tiso regime. He’ll work well, I think. He needs guidance, that’s all.”

“Why’d you choose me?”

“Word of mouth led me to read your file. In your career, you’ve been around the block more times than almost anyone else in this organization. It seemed to me you possessed the perfect balance between Van Hull’s valor and Bunde’s inexperience. When I brought up your name, the general jumped on it. ‘Dunne knows how to deal with trouble and how to avoid it, and he can spot what others might miss.’

“I’m not sure about finding Schaefer and his microfiche—it seems about as likely as stumbling across the Abominable Snowman—but if it’s to be done, it will take not only luck but also the instincts of a first-class detective. Call it ‘street smarts’ if you like, the ability to distinguish important from unimportant, even if the difference isn’t apparent at the time. You have it, I’m sure of it.”

“I’m glad you’ve dubbed it Maxwell.”

“Why?”

“Maxwell House Coffee. ‘Good to the last drop.’”

“Ah, yes, that advertising slogan attributed to the first President Roosevelt, who on finishing a cup—or so some huckster claimed—blurted out words to that effect.”

“I’m hoping this is my last drop.”

Bassante abandoned a tentative attempt at smiling. “Subconsciously, I suppose, I chose the name because I grew up in Hoboken. Maxwell’s electric sign watches over the town like the eye of God. But we select code names by going through the alphabet sequentially. This mission landed on
M
and was designated Maxwell. It was luck.”

“Luck is fate’s knuckleball. It has a will of its own.”

“A good team is more important than an occasional knuckleball.”

“Then let’s call it
totiusque
.”

“Say it again.”

“
Totiusque.
It’s from a prayer.”

“The Suscipiat. Bane of every altar boy. I was one, too.”

“It stuck with me. ‘
Totiusque
’ always sounded to me like ‘good luck.’”

“‘Luck’ isn’t a word used in prayers, not Catholic ones. It means ‘and all.’ But for tonight we can pretend it does. Luck by any other name is still luck. So
totiusque
, Dunne.”

Bassante smiled. This time it stuck.

Dr. Gerhard Schaefer is a medical doctor and the chairman and chief executive officer of Aigle, an independent pharmaceutical company headquartered in Brünn, a city of more than 280,000 people. At the end of the Great War, Brünn, formerly a part of the Austro-Hungarian Empire, was incorporated into the newly created state of Czechoslovakia. (The city, referred to as Brno by the Czechs, reverted to German rule with the recent annexation of Bohemia and Moravia.)

Founded by Dr. Schaefer and his former partner, prize-winning chemist Dr. Herschel Cernak, in 1920, Aigle has amassed a record of successful product development and profitability throughout these tumultuous years.

Dr. Schaefer appears to be in his early fifties (he declined to give his age and it does not appear in his official biography). Balding, with a gap-toothed smile redolent of old-fashioned German
gemütlichkeit
, he has a friendly, open manner devoid of the haughty superiority that has become the preferred pose of present-day Germany’s self-styled übermensch. He is widely respected for his scientific knowledge, his business acumen, and his interest in literature and the arts.

Dr. Schaefer attended the Twelfth Annual International Pharmaceutical Convention, which was held in Baltimore, Maryland, from April 12 through 15. An unassuming man who speaks English flawlessly, with little trace of an accent, he graciously consented to a brief interview about the state of the industry and the world with
Pharmaceutical News
.

PN
: You named your company Aigle in honor of the goddess of good health, correct?

GS
: Yes, Aigle, which means “radiance” in Greek, is the daughter of Asclepius, god of medicine, and Epione, goddess of pain relief. A marriage made in heaven, if you will.

PN
:
What effect did the last war have on our industry?

GS
: Major innovations were growing in number well before the turn of the century, but the war added a whole new impetus.

PN
: What has been the impact of the world economic depression?

GS
: As the breakthroughs made during the war came on the commercial market, they helped boost sales. The economic downturn dampened the appetite for research and development, but didn’t reverse it.

PN
: Will it take another war to spur a new age of innovation?

GS
: I was a doctor in the last war. I would hope—though not presume—our species is smarter than that.

PN
: Do you foresee another war in Europe?

GS
: If there is a surer way for a man to make a fool of himself than to predict the future, I don’t know what it is.

PN
: Are you a man of strong political beliefs?

GS
: Skepticism is the faith of the wise.

PN
: Does that mean you don’t share the convictions of your countrymen?

GS
: I avoid convictions. I have questions, interests, and inclinations.

PN
: Doesn’t National Socialism require its citizens to make clear their convictions?

GS
: I am a scientist and a businessman, not a preacher, prophet, or politician. In the work I do, convictions are antithetical to success. To paraphrase the Irish poet Yeats, the best resist all convictions, and the worst are filled with them. The most intelligent of my countrymen understand that, I’m sure.

PN
: Without playing the prophet, can you offer us your view on the areas of greatest promise for the pharmaceutical industry in both the long and short term?

GS
: Near term, I would look to the development of drugs to combat common and fatal infections. Long term, I would hope for new vaccines against acute viral infectious diseases such as infantile paralysis.

The Pharmaceutical News
, May 3, 1939

S
LOVAKIA

“T
IME SET
.” V
AN
H
ULL TAPPED A FINGERNAIL AGAINST THE GLASS FACE
of his wristwatch. “Oh-one-hundred.” Dunne gave thumbs-up. Bunde opened his gloved hand, revealed a gold Miraculous Medal in his shaking palm. Light next to door blushed urgent red. Cargo of weapons and medical supplies went out first, men next, into moonless night—Van Hull, Bunde, Dunne last.