Pursuit (2 page)

“And are these important names aware that certain officers in the army have their own plans?”

Despite himself the major could not help but look about to see if von Schraeder might possibly have been overheard. With an effort he tried to erase the look of alarm that had instantly crossed his face.

“Helmut! For God's sake!”

“Smile,” von Schraeder said quietly, and did so himself.
Gruss Gott
! If the army plot was in the hands of men as nervous as Gehrmann, he couldn't picture it being successful! “Smile; I just told you a very funny joke. And asked you a question.”

“No,” Gehrmann said, and managed a weak smirk; it looked like a rictus. “No, they have no idea of our plans. They not only don't know, but they would be the last people on earth to be told. They're loyal, you know, at least in their fashion.”

“I suppose so.” Von Schraeder didn't sound as if he considered this a particular virtue, or the big names particularly virtuous. In fact, he honestly considered them little better than shopkeepers. Rich, certainly, and shopkeepers on a grand scale, but still not Junkers, not gentlemen. “Of course, the army maintains if their plan works there would be no need for any other plans. Incidentally, speaking of plans, when is the Valkyrie plan supposed to be put into effect?” He suddenly laughed aloud. “Get that look off your face. We're just telling funny stories. I asked you, what is the schedule for von Stauffenberg and Valkyrie?”

Willi did his best to smile but it was a ghastly effort.

“July the twentieth, at Rastenburg. We don't speak of this. Let's drop it, for God's sake!”

“All right,” von Schraeder said easily. “Now, that wasn't so hard, was it?” He raised his glass in a small gesture of a toast, drained it, and dabbed at his lips with a handkerchief taken from his sleeve. “Well, drink up and let's get to that meeting. Let's find out why such important names want such unimportant people as Major Gehrmann or Colonel von Schraeder, trusted or not, to attend their precious secret meeting.”

They sat around a large rectangular table, some thirty of the most important people of Nazi Germany's industrial machine, speaking with a frankness that had been unknown in the country for many years. Beyond the circle of the chosen ones at the table were observers, of whom Gehrmann and von Schraeder were two; these sat on hard wooden chairs along the walls of the room. The meeting had been going on for several hours, the room was filled with blue smoke from thick cigars, and von Schraeder had the beginnings of a headache. At his side Major Gehrmann sat silently, leaning forward a bit, listening intently as speaker after speaker gave his views. And then, at long last, there was a brief intermission during which those at the table conferred quietly, scribbling notes. When the meeting was called back to order, the chairman came to his feet.

“Gentlemen—”

The room slowly settled back to silence, chairs scraped and were raised to be moved more quietly, someone shut a window that had been opened for ventilation during the intermission. Von Schraeder bit back a yawn and tried to find a more comfortable position on the hard chair. He sincerely hoped the statement would be short. If he wanted to reach Lublin during daylight hours the following day, he would have to leave Strasbourg soon. If he made Munich by nightfall, he would be all right; if they drove a while longer and got as far as Salzburg, all the better. The chairman cleared his throat and bent down, making reference to the paper in his hand. He straightened up.

“Gentlemen, let us try and summarize our discussions. If we have differed today it has only been in degree, not in substance. We are in substantial agreement on the following points—that Germany has lost the war and that German industry must prepare for the postwar economic campaign. Each of us here—and others in industry who will be contacted who we know are in agreement with us—must seek contacts with firms abroad without creating attention. We must be prepared to finance the Party, which will be forced to go underground for some time. We will establish appropriate committees to select the countries where money must be invested, and by whom and how much. The first step in our program, of course, is to see that no funds, deposits, blueprints of new weapons or designs of new equipment or information on new processes fall into the hands of the Allies.”

He paused to sip from a glass of water. Even von Schraeder had to admire the detail that had gone into the planning for the meeting, and the detail with which the meeting planned for the future. But then von Schraeder had always admired planning. The chairman continued.

“We must also expect, from the continuing Allied threats, that there will be war-crimes trials and that some of our members will be convicted as war criminals. Therefore, preparations must be made
now
to see that as many of those members of the Nazi Party, particularly the SS, who find themselves in that position, be given means of escaping from Germany when the proper time comes, as well as the financial assistance they will require. It is why we are here. We shall call ourselves ODESSA. It stands for Organisation der SS-Angehorigen. Those members we help can be useful in our foreign enterprises; in many spheres.”

His eyes left those around the table to sweep over the observers on the hard chairs along the walls. The hard stare touched on von Schraeder in passing, took in Gehrmann and the others, and then came back to the table.

“Some of the younger members present today fall into this category. They will be expected to take advantage of this offer, and to carry out any decisions of this meeting or of future meetings with the full devotion of loyal and dedicated Party members. A committee will be established to study escape routes and to arrange safe-houses along those routes, as well as permanent refuge in certain selected foreign countries. Preparations are also under way, also through ODESSA, to—”

There was the harsh sound of a chair being scraped back, and two men were heard to argue in subdued tones from a place beyond the table of the chosen, somewhere along the wall. The chairman frowned impatiently in the direction of the disturbance.

“Yes? What is the problem? Is there a question?”

One of the two men threw off the arm of the other and came to his feet.

“You keep talking about the Party. I just want to know if these plans, these preparations, have the authority of the Fuehrer and the other top Party officials?”

There was a moment's silence. Then the chairman spoke quietly.

“These preparations are being made in the best interests of the Fuehrer, of Germany, of the Nazi Party—”

“That doesn't answer my question.”

The chairman's heavy jaw tightened. “That's the best answer I can give you.”

Von Schraeder stared through the gloom of the room at the stupid person who had asked the stupid question, as someone near the man pulled him back into his seat. Stupidity, to von Schraeder, was the unforgivable sin. Someone would undoubtedly talk to that man in depth—as well as to the person who invited him to the meeting—and if he didn't get the message he would probably end up in a ditch. Which was where stupid people belonged.

The chairman was continuing.

“As I was saying, preparations are already under way to locate and destroy the fingerprint records of members who might be—in the eyes of the Allies only, I hasten to add—in the category of war criminals, wherever these records might exist. Some of the members will have to establish completely new identities—”

Von Schraeder smiled to himself sardonically. There would be war-crimes trials unless Valkyrie was successful, and probably even then; that he was sure of. But he was equally sure that no Krupp von Bohlen nor any Georg von Schnitzler would ever dangle at the end of a rope. Nor would they have their fingerprint records destroyed, nor their identities changed one iota.

Carry out the decisions of the meeting and of future meetings? What they meant, of course, was that the dirty work, the risks, would be done and taken by the “younger” members, while the “older,” “safer” members would collect whatever reward was to be garnered in these foreign endeavors. And if these “younger” members were ever caught, he knew they could count on blessed little help from the Group. No, the Group would depend upon their silence and loyalty, even to the gallows.

And that “financial” help that had been offered, together with an escape route? If he knew anything at all about the banking brains seated at the table, any war criminal who made it to safety abroad through the sponsorship of the Group would have complete records kept of every pfennig he received, so that he could never deny having received them. And fingerprints or no fingerprints, and new identities or no new identities, those financial geniuses at the table could trace a man through his bank account better than any security department could through his prints or the name on his identity card.

To be saved by the Group, in short, meant to become enslaved by the Group. No, that road was not for Helmut von Schraeder.

And as for their considered opinion that the war was lost; well, that was a conclusion he had reached a long time before, when these shopkeepers were making fortunes and were still inept enough to lose the war. He had known the war was lost when Stalingrad fell, when Hamburg had been blasted into rubble by Allied bombers and Goering's vaunted air force and Hamburg's scientifically advanced air defenses—the model for all German air defenses—had been meaningless. And he had started his own plans then, not waited for an invitation to a meeting of the Strasbourg Group to save his skin for their own ends.

The chairman had finished speaking; the meeting was breaking up. A small group was gathered about the man who had raised the question of the meeting's legitimacy; he seemed to be arguing volubly. A suicide, von Schraeder thought disdainfully, and joined Willi, leaving the room and walking down the broad, carpeted stairs to the main lobby. They saw the bar was filling rapidly, and walked outside. The two uniformed men walked to the curb and von Schraeder raised his arm to signal his driver, but Willi quickly pulled it down.

“Let's talk a bit first,” he said. “You have time, I'm sure. Let's take a short walk and talk.” He started off and von Schraeder, after a glance over his shoulder, followed. Behind him his driver was coming from the parking area and the colonel knew the man would keep the car exactly five paces behind him as he walked.

Willi turned in the direction of the river; ahead of them the spires of the cathedral were outlined against a cloudless summer sky. The major turned to look up at his taller companion.

“Well? What do you think?”

“It sounded very good,” von Schraeder said, his voice sounding quite sincere.

“Especially for you,” Willi said. “I saw the pictures of you being decorated by Himmler not so long ago. And I've been reading about you; Eichmann seems to hold you in high regard.” He tried to sound objective but there was a slight touch of envy in his voice, as if being a candidate for a war-crimes trial and almost certain execution were somehow to be desired, if only in the abstract as building reputation. He glanced at von Schraeder. “That's the sort of record I imagine it would be well to escape from, once the war is over.”

“I couldn't agree more,” von Schraeder said, and smiled genially.

“Of course,” Willi went on, “if Klaus Stauffenberg is successful, we'll be demanding total amnesty in return for an instant surrender. The Allies certainly should be willing to forgo what really amounts to petty revenge on a few men, in return for the Allied lives that would be saved if the war should continue, don't you think?”

“It makes sense,” von Schraeder said noncommittally, and thought what an optimistic idiot Willi Gehrmann was, indeed! If Valkyrie was successful, if Klaus Stauffenberg did his job, would it really make any great difference as far as he and the others in his position were concerned? Of course it would do no harm to wait and see the outcome of the Valkyrie plan, but in general he suspected it was an idle dream. If the Allies were offered a total surrender with the condition of total amnesty, and countered with an acceptance of the surrender, but still demanded their pound of flesh, would Beck, or Olbricht, or Goerdeler hesitate for one split second to accept? Would they jeopardize a peace they felt essential in order to save the lives of SS officers they themselves would have been happy to hang? It was insanity to think so for a moment.

Willi was speaking a bit more rapidly, as he felt he was losing the attention of his audience.

“In any event, there is always the plan the Group proposed today.” He looked up at von Schraeder. “You know, your fingerprint file and records were among the first to be dug out and destroyed. We've gotten them all, I'm sure.” His glance traveled to von Schraeder's bare hands, and he grinned. “So if you rob a bank, be sure and wear your gloves.”

Von Schraeder gave the required smile. “I shall do that.” He stopped and held up his hand; his car drew up instantly, his driver out of his seat in a moment, holding open the door. “I really must go, Willi. I have a long drive ahead of me both today and tomorrow.”

Willi leaned in the open window as the driver climbed back into his seat. The stocky major spoke in a low voice, sure that the sergeant could not hear him through the glass partition.

“But in any event there's no need to worry, Helmut,” he said quietly. “Between Valkyrie and the Group here today, we—you've—two strings to your bow.” He stepped back, gave a half salute, and watched as the car pulled away.

In the rear seat of the car, von Schraeder leaned back, fitting a cigarette into his holder, smiling to himself.
One
string, he thought with satisfaction; only one string to my bow, but it is neither as frayed as the Strasbourg Group, nor as gossamer as Valkyrie. It is my own string, which, in any event, is the only string anyone can ever depend upon.