The refusal camp, p.16
The Refusal Camp, page 16
“We will, I promise. But let’s get moving on this. Tell us your story, and if it sounds good to us, we’ll make the call,” Terrance said.
Irish Tommy agreed and gave them the lowdown. He had worked with Fat Nick directly, been given a list of requirements including the safe houses and several stolen cars. Everything was to have good paperwork. The cars had been registered and the houses rented under false names. Fat Nick hadn’t said what the job was, but Irish Tommy had delivered food and booze to all the houses himself. He’d heard the goons talking and knew they were planning on intercepting a bank truck.
He’d heard a rumor that Jimmy Walsh had skimmed some of the loot and that Fat Nick was on the warpath, but he thought that was just a beef between two guys, not an excuse to whack all the local witnesses.
“That enough?” Irish Tommy asked. It was. “Then get the DA down here. I want signed papers, and I want to talk about relocation.”
It was a few hours before District Attorney Lewis Bailey made his appearance. Arresting Fat Nick Bruccola was worth making a deal with Irish Tommy, especially since Tommy’s crimes were not violent or directly part of the robbery. According to Bailey, a good lawyer could even argue that Tommy had no knowledge of the actual plan, and the charges they could bring against him would be very minor.
“I have no problem granting immunity from prosecution based on your written statement, if it matches what you’ve told these detectives,” Bailey said to Tommy as he opened his briefcase. “I have the paperwork ready to sign. But I can’t do anything about relocating you. That would have to be a federal matter, and this isn’t a federal case.”
“I heard it’s been done,”Tommy said, returning to the arms-folded- across-his-chest position.
“It has,” Bailey said, settling into a professorial tone. “The FBI has on occasion created new identity documents to protect witnesses. The legal basis for this comes under the Ku Klux Klan Act of 1871, which was passed by Congress to protect witnesses who testified against Klan members.”
“Fat Nick is as bad as the Klan,” Daniel said. “Can’t we use that law?”
“No, we can’t,” Bailey said. “But the federal government could. The FBI could.”
“Then bring in the FBI,” Irish Tommy said. “I’ll sign my statement, and we’ll all be on our way.”
“There’s nothing for them here, Tommy,” Terrance said. “Sorry to say, but it’s the hard truth.”
“You know what it’s like, Tommy. Give and take,” Daniel said.
“What if I had something else? Something the feds would definitely be interested in?”
“Definitely?” Bailey said. “I’d like to hear what that is.”
“Wait, wait,” Terrance said. “Before we get ahead of ourselves, why don’t we get our own paperwork signed? I’ve had Tommy’s statement typed up. We’re ready to go.”
“FBI,” Tommy said. “Then we sign.”
Sergeant Brennan brought in sandwiches and coffee while they waited on Special Agent John Sullivan to get there. Irish Tommy kept telling them they’d all be glad to hear what he had to say.
By the time Sullivan got there, the room smelled of stale cigarette smoke, bitter coffee, and corned beef.
“I hope this is good,” Sullivan said, sitting across from Irish Tommy. “I’m not in the market for used furniture.”
“Tommy assures us it’s gold,” Daniel said. “He’s got the goods on Fat Nick but wants to be relocated on top of all the nice things we’re doing for him. That’s your territory.”
“All right, spill it,” Terrance said.
“First, I want you to know that it was only today I heard about those two Nazi spies you guys are looking for,” Irish Tommy said. Special Agent Sullivan sat up a little straighter in his chair. “I keep my ear to the ground, ya know? So I got the description.”
“Okay, Tommy, that’s good,” Daniel said. “What is it you know?”
“I think I know where they are,” Irish Tommy said. “I can lead you right to their door.”
“You think you know?” Sullivan asked.
“I know the place they rented,” Irish Tommy said. “They moved in two days ago.”
“I’m authorized to offer what you’re after, providing the information is correct,” Sullivan said. “If it’s deliberately false, I’ll be arresting you on charges of aiding and abetting the enemy. Think about it very carefully.”
“I don’t have to, my information is solid,” Tommy said. “A guy came to me a few days ago and said these two guys were looking for a place in New York City. That much I tell you for free. The rest, after everything’s signed.”
Another two hours passed as a federal attorney from the US District Court in Boston was brought in. Sullivan used the telephone at Daniel’s desk to make a call. He nodded, smiled, and hung up.
“It’s a deal,” he said. “Let’s get back in there.”
The federal attorney produced a document detailing the protection and relocation package, which Irish Tommy approved. Then he signed the witness statement and received his get-out-of-jail-free card from DA Bailey.
“They’re at Thirty-Nine Beekman Place on the east side of Manhattan,” Irish Tommy said. “I got a brother in the same business as me, down in New York. So when this guy says these two fellows from out of town want to find a place in New York City and keep it on the QT, I call my brother. I give him the requirements, and he comes up with exactly what they want.”
“What were the requirements?” Sullivan asked.
“It had to be a building in Manhattan with no steel-frame construction. No steel beams, ya know?”
“You didn’t think that odd?” Sullivan asked.
“In my business—my old business—you don’t ask questions. You don’t ask why,” Irish Tommy said. “Like I said, I had no idea who these guys were. I just made the contact, got them on the train, and turned ’em over to my brother in Manhattan. He knows even less than I do about them; he just took them to the apartment and gave them the keys.”
“Describe them,” Sullivan asked.
“One guy was real quiet. The other spoke perfect English. Nothing fancy, but like he was from around here. Said his pal was Polish. Thin, dark-haired, just like in your description.”
“What’s the significance of the steel beams?” Bailey asked.
“Steel can inhibit radio transmission,” Sullivan said. “They’re obviously planning on building a radio and sending messages to Germany. Or other agents in the States.”
“Hey, we good here?” Irish Tommy asked.
“Good enough. You’ll be in protective custody until we verify all this,” Sullivan said. “Then we’ll set up your new identity.”
IT HAD BEEN a long night. Armed with a search warrant, Daniel and Terrance had pounded on Fat Nick’s front door at half past midnight as spotlights mounted on police cars illuminated the windows and lit the scene. They waited ten seconds, to be polite, and then let the boys with the battering ram have at it.
They found Fat Nick stumbling around in silk pajamas. That was the easy part. Getting cuffs on his fleshy wrists was harder. They’d brought the largest pair in the station but gave up trying to force Fat Nick’s arms behind his back. Deciding he wasn’t about to break into a run, they cuffed his hands in front.
Daniel told Nick he was under arrest and explained that they’d start tearing up the floorboards on the top floor and work their way downstairs. If they didn’t find the loot, the walls were next.
“I know you and your wife have been married a long time,” Terrance said. “Why leave her with a busted-up house? We’ll not leave a stick of wood standing until we find it.”
Fat Nick cursed for a moment, then caught sight of his dear wife in her nightclothes, crying at the head of the stairs.
“Guest bedroom, upstairs,” he said. “Move the bed and pry up the floorboards.”
Ten minutes later, Sergeant Brennan was leading a line of cops carrying bags of money out the front door, leaving Mrs. Bruccola with an intact house and no husband underfoot. A few hours of paperwork back at the station, and by dawn, Daniel was on a southbound train with Special Agent Sullivan, snoring to the rhythmic sound of steel wheels on the tracks.
“You owe me for this,” Sullivan said as he and Daniel got off the train and walked through Grand Central Terminal into the bright sunlight. “Remember, you’re here as a courtesy. An observer. Behave yourself.”
“Oh, Johnny, don’t forget who served this up on a silver platter to you federal boys. You had no idea where they were, remember?”
“Not a goddamn clue, but you never heard that from me, Danny,” Sullivan said with a grin. They were met by two FBI agents, younger guys, who looked like twin Boy Scouts in their Sunday-best suits. It was a short ride to Beekman Place, where other agents armed with shotguns stood ready at the corner, shielded from view by a utility truck.
Sullivan, Daniel, and their two escorts were assigned the rear of the building. The rest of the men were going in the front door. New York City cops were assigned to block both ends of the short street.
It was over in minutes.
By the time Sullivan led the way up the back stairs, the other agents were handcuffing the two men and bundling them out the front door. Dark-haired and thin, just like the description.
“Look here,” Daniel said, nodding to a table as he holstered his revolver. Coils of copper wire sat on top of an amateur radio handbook. Radio parts were spread out over the table. A large, obviously secondhand radio lay on the floor, the rear panel already removed.
“Well, thank you, Irish Tommy,” Sullivan said, surveying the equipment.
“Who says the Irish are neutral in this war?” Daniel said. “Two Nazi spies captured, not to mention a crime boss brought down, and three murders solved. We need to raise a glass to old Tommy, or whatever his name will be.”
“Several glasses, Danny. The FBI’s paying. We’ve just made J. Edgar Hoover look good. For twenty-four hours, I can do no wrong,” Sullivan said, his voice hushed as he mentioned the director’s name.
“Oh, they have Guinness in New York City, eh?” Daniel said. “Do tell.”
BILLY BOYLE: THE LOST PROLOGUE
BILLY BOYLE, THE first title in the eponymous series of historical crime fiction, was released in 2006. When I submitted the original manuscript to my editor (Soho Press co-founder Laura Hruska), she wisely pointed out that my long prologue, which contained no mention of Billy Boyle, would be an impediment to readers. As with all things editorial, Laura was right. So out it went. I thought I had not retained it in any form, but I recently found a copy and decided it might be of interest to fans of the series. And who knows, reading this might lead a new reader directly into the rest of the book.
NORWAY
April 1940
“DAMNED WIND! I should be sitting in a Berlin café right now, not tramping across this wretched airfield on a fool’s errand!”
Captain Johann Bischoff held his greatcoat collar up with one gloved hand and trudged, head down, holding his service cap in place with the other. Three Junkers Ju 52 tri-motor transport aircraft sat on the tarmac. In the twilight dawn, groups of men huddled next to each plane were highlighted by the faint light from within each plane as the rear doors opened to welcome them.
At precisely the same moment, nine engines roared to life, their combined prop wash adding blasts of cold air to the already frigid Arctic winds sweeping down from the surrounding mountains. Bischoff grimaced as he turned to the man at his side, shooting him a murderous look that would have been accompanied by a string of curses if he could have been heard over the crescendo of natural and man-made noises assaulting them. He leaned into the wind and staggered to the open rear door of the nearest plane as his service cap flew off and danced down the runway, touching ground several times before lifting itself on a gust and disappearing into the low cloud cover. He swore a bitter epithet.
Bischoff grabbed the ladder by the rear cargo door and hauled himself inside. His booted toe caught on the last step, and he tumbled into the aircraft, trying to maintain his dignity—such as it was—by staying up on one knee. He caught sight of twelve seated paratroopers trying to contain their laughter at the sight of a superior officer hat- less, windblown, and obviously quite out of place. The trooper closest to him quickly regained his composure as he stood, delivering a stern glance to the others, quieting them quickly.
“Lieutenant Hauser, sir. I was told to expect someone from the Abwehr,” the paratrooper said.
“Then you were told too much, Lieutenant.” As Bischoff spoke, a figure entered the transport and stood to the rear of the compartment. All eyes turned to him. He was wearing the green-hued overcoat and gear of a Norwegian soldier. He carried a Krag-Jørgensen 6.5mm rifle but wore a Luftwaffe-issue parachute.
Hauser cast a questioning gaze to Bischoff and rested his hand on the handle of his holstered pistol. Bischoff held up his hand, gesturing that there was no need for alarm.
“As you all know,” Bischoff said calmly, “your parachute company is being dropped south of Trondheim to cut off the Norwegians before they can link up with British forces landing on the west coast. Our ski troops are advancing through the mountains and should link up with you soon. This aircraft will take a different route than the others, to deliver this man to a secret drop zone before proceeding to yours. You will not talk to him or refer to his presence, ever.”
“Understood, sir,” said Hauser.
“Good. The pilot will signal when he reaches the first drop zone. After that, forget this ever happened, and for God’s sake say nothing of the Abwehr.” The Abwehr—Germany’s secret service—was involved in military espionage all over the world. Hauser nodded and returned to his seat as the paratroopers returned to their quiet murmurs and waiting.
Bischoff approached the silent man and stood close, putting his arm around his shoulder.
“Well, Karl, your moment has arrived. I hope all goes well, for your sake and your father’s.”
“Johann,” the other man said, smiling gently. “You’ve tried to talk me out of this every day since Canaris approved the plan. I’m glad that today you didn’t; I might have agreed with you.” Admiral Wilhelm Canaris was the head of the Abwehr and had personally approved the operation Karl had proposed.
“Don’t worry, old friend,” Karl continued as he looked deep into Bischoff’s eyes. “Everything will work out as planned.”
“I’ll stand for drinks at the Adlon Hotel back in Berlin in a few weeks if this crazy plan of yours doesn’t work. If it does—”
“If it does,” Karl said, “I’ll be doing my drinking in England.”
Bischoff smiled and shook his friend’s hand. “I will wait for your signal that all is well. Prodigal Son. And I will get your father out of Dachau.” He stepped back and saluted, not the stiff-armed Nazi salute, but the regular military version. Bischoff went to the door without a further word to Karl, glancing back only to give Hauser and his men a final warning. “You have your orders. Remember them.” With that, he vanished into the howling winds.
The Junkers Ju 52 lumbered down the runway and lifted off slowly and laboriously, fighting the wind as well as the weight of men and equipment. Within minutes the plane rose above the churning clouds as the sun began to rise over the distant horizon. Karl ignored the others as he stared at the windblown landscape visible through breaks in the clouds. It was a stern and unforgiving land, but one he knew well. He had grown up there.
Captain Karl Frederiksen was born in Germany but had his share of Norwegian blood on both sides of his family. His father was a German citizen whose own grandparents had immigrated from Norway. His father owned a small shipping line that ran from Hamburg in northern Germany to Oslo, Bergen, and other Norwegian ports. The elder Frederiksen married a Norwegian bride and moved the family to Oslo after the First World War, escaping the destructive political battles and economic paralysis following the German defeat. Karl spent ten years in Norway, speaking the language, skiing, and living the healthy outdoor life of a normal Norwegian boy. When he was twelve, the family moved back to Germany. Karl continued his education, glad to become acquainted with the country of his birth and caught up in youthful adulation of Adolf Hitler and the rise of the Nazi Party. His father disapproved, and they argued constantly over politics, the only issue that divided them. His father told him of his experiences in the Great War, and how important it was for Karl’s generation not to go through another such deadly conflict. But Karl was too young to understand, too certain in his own enthusiasm to comprehend why his father didn’t think Adolf Hitler was the greatest man in the world.
When Karl turned sixteen, his father sent him to work on the Hamburg docks, to learn the shipping business from the ground up. It was hard work, and the rough dockworkers showed little mercy to the young son of a wealthy shipowner. But Karl loved the outdoor work, growing stronger as he took on every tough job he could volunteer for. He learned how to stand his ground when challenged by the older men and when to let them have their fun. And when to throw their fun back at them. He was a shrewd judge of character, and before long the Hamburg dockhands took him in as one of their own.
After a year on the docks, his father arranged to have him signed on as an apprentice seaman on one of his freighters that made the regular Hamburg-Oslo run. The night before he was to ship out, his worker friends took him out for a celebration at a tavern down by the dockyard. It was a known gathering place for Communists and other labor leaders; the men who worked the docks were mostly leftists, some of whom had participated in the 1918 naval mutinies that had helped to end the last war.
Well into the evening, a band of Nazi Brownshirts raided the tavern, pouring in with clubs and fists, outnumbering the dockworkers heavily. Fighting spilled out into the street and the police stood by, watching, as long as the Nazis had the upper hand. As more workers poured in from side streets, the scales began to tip against the Brownshirt thugs. Finally, the police joined in, but only to allow the Nazis to beat a hasty retreat. One of Karl’s friends was killed, and there were many broken bones and arrests. Karl escaped with a black eye and a bruised jaw.
