Eagles fly, p.3
Eagles Fly, page 3
“What are you going to do to me … . ?” the girl stammered as Hempel opened the bathroom door and dragged her back into the bedroom.
He could not leave her alive, and yet he could not kill her without a clear motive for the police.
“If you make a sound, I will kill you,” he said softly.
She whimpered.
He shoved her down on the bed and jammed a knee between her legs. She started to cry out, but he clamped his left hand over her mouth, and with his other hand ripped the front of her blouse open and tore off her bra.
Margory struggled wildly against him as he pawed savagely at her breasts, leaving bright red finger marks, but he was too strong for her, and she could do nothing against him.
It was a shame, he told himself. But it was his own fault.
He forced her skirt up over her hips and ripped her panty hose open, then unzipped his trousers, releasing his erection. He entered her quickly and pounded hard against her, coming almost immediately.
Still on top of her, he suddenly twisted her head around with both hands until her neck snapped with a sickening sound of grinding bone and tearing muscle. She stiffened in his grasp, her body convulsing, then she went limp beneath him.
Hempel got to his feet and looked down at the young woman’s body with little or no emotion other than professional interest and a slight feeling of pity that it had to end this way for her.
There would be no doubt why the man from the airplane had killed her.
Working very carefully so that he would make no further mistakes, Hempel changed his clothes and his appearance, flushing the identity papers, contact lenses, and facial solution he had used as Professor Holvig down the toilet.
When he was finished Holvig had disappeared, and the room belonged exclusively and obviously to Wernher Hempel, from 12B first class.
Walter Handel, from Nebraska, paused at the door before he left to catch a train to Paris and looked back at the ruined remains of Margory Cummins.
It was a shame, he told himself. But he would never make that same mistake again.
2
The day was hot. The wind that blew up from the desert was like the breath from a blast furnace in the man’s face, but he did not seem to notice. He used a pair of powerful binoculars to study the Syrian outpost that had come into being this morning a thousand yards below him just across the border. All day half-tracks hauling men, supplies, and two short-range missile launchers had come across the desert from the east. Latrines had been dug, tents had been set up, and at this moment several dozen Syrian troops were eating their noon meal.
For the past ten days similar outposts had sprung up along the area bordering the Israeli-occupied Golan Heights, and Major Levi Asheim supposed it would not be long before the fighting began. Once again he would be asked to take a field command.
He lowered his binoculars and turned to look down at Kibbutz Rafid, which consisted of little more than a dozen prefab buildings and less than an acre of irrigated garden, in time to see two men starting up the long hill toward him.
He raised his binoculars and looked down at them. One of the men was Colonel Yizhak Gurion, a cousin of David Ben-Gurion and assistant chief of Aman, the Israeli Military Intelligence Service. Asheim had worked for him for five years. The other man wore civilian clothes and looked familiar, although he could not place him.
Asheim squatted down on his haunches, letting the binoculars hang loose from the strap around his neck. Neither of the men was in his prime; it was obvious from their difficulty in climbing, and by the time they reached the top of the hill they would be fatigued.
He lit a filter-tipped Time and waited, the Syrian outpost below him at his back, the tiny kibbutz below him to the west.
They were coming to offer him troops who would be moved up to defend the kibbutz, but he was not going to accept it. He would recommend that the tiny settlement be moved out of the way. The Golan Heights was a no-man’s-land. A land in which they had no business. If these two coming now were here to present that proposal, he would make them work for it.
At fifty-five, Asheim was a hard man, tough of body as well as of mind. Back in Tel Aviv his nickname had been “tough old bird.” And his people here at the kibbutz said of him that he was one man who could outdesert an Arab nomad, could outfight a Syrian legion, and who could out-shoot the finest marksman.
But Asheim was also a practical man, and although the defense of the kibbutz and others like it was possible, the Golan Heights was simply not worth the loss of life it would take to hold it. Especially if the Syrians mounted an all-out attack along the entire border.
He had expressed his views at length in Tel Aviv to little or no avail other than to earn him the increasing irritation of his superiors. And when he had been offered the job as kibbutz commander six months ago, he had accepted in disgust.
In 1948 he had fought the British and the Arabs for Israel’s independence, and since that time it seemed like he had fought on every battlefield. He had been wounded seven times, had been one of the team members who kidnapped Adolph Eichmann from South America, and was one of the planners of the raid on the Entebbe Airport.
For almost thirty years he had fought and nearly died for his adopted country, and now they were going to ask him to go into battle again. But he was sick of fighting. Of the killing. Of the dying. He wanted to settle down and enjoy his life with his two married daughters, their husbands, and his five grandchildren. Perhaps he would even find another wife to replace the woman who had left him and returned to the United States in 1953.
Colonel Gurion and the civilian, who carried a briefcase, finally reached the top of the hill, and as they approached, Asheim flipped the cigarette away and stood up. Both of them were winded and were sweating heavily. Both of them seemed grim.
“They said we’d find you up here,” Colonel Gurion said, puffing. He was short and fat. He’d been born in New York City and would have continued in his father’s garment business had he not been caught up with the idea of an independent Jewish state in 1950.
“I’ve been watching our friends setting up their missile launchers. Russian, I think.”
Colonel Gurion did not bother looking that way. “I know,” he said, still trying to catch his breath. “We had a fly-over early this morning and picked them up on infrared.”
“Is that what you’ve come all this way to tell me?” Asheim asked. There was something in Gurion’s eyes that he did not like. It was bothersome.
The colonial shook his head. “I have some rather bad news, I’m afraid. Lev.”
“What is it?” Asheim asked, steeling himself. He had often been the recipient of bad news: when his wife left him; when his father, who had come from San Diego to Israel with him, was killed in a bombing raid; and when his mother died eight years ago of a heart attack.
“Is there someplace we can talk?” Colonel Gurion asked, looking around.
“This is as good a place as any,” Asheim said. “What has happened?”
Colonel Gurion had been a good man to work for. Although he was somewhat soft at times, and often saw things through rose-colored glasses, he was a dedicated man. And he had always defended Asheim, who had the habit of butting heads with the wrong people.
“It’s Benjamin,” Colonel Gurion said gently. “He was hit by a car in Buenos Aires three days ago and killed.”
Asheim’s heart skipped a beat. “What about Deborah and the children?”
“They’re safe. They’ll be coming home in a couple of days.”
Several large troop transport trucks bumped along the dirt road from the town of Rafid three miles away. Asheim watched the dust rise. “I didn’t know my son-in-law was working for you, Yizhak. They never told me a thing.”
He turned to look again at Colonel Gurion. “Was it an accident, or was he murdered?”
“We think he was assassinated.”
“What was he doing for you?” Asheim’s voice turned harsh.
The civilian, a tall, well-dressed man in his early sixties who until this moment had said nothing, spoke up. “Major Asheim, may we go down to your office? There is much we need to discuss with you.”
Asheim glanced at the civilian. “Who is this man?”
“Excuse me,” Colonel Gurion apologized. “I’d like you to meet David Goldmann—”
Asheim interrupted him, suddenly remembering the man. “Mossad. You were the brains behind the Eichmann thing.”
Goldmann nodded. “Your son-in-law was murdered, and we need your help, Major Asheim.”
“A revenge mission?” Asheim spat out the words. “I’m not interested.”
“Not a revenge mission,” Goldmann snapped.
“You’re still fighting Nazis real or imagined?”
“The Nazis are not imagined. They killed your son-in-law.”
“And I’m to replace Benjamin in Buenos Aires and spy on them?”
“I don’t want you to do anything against your will, Major,” Goldmann said, disgusted. “What I did expect, however, was that you would extend me the courtesy of listening to what I have to say. In the last twenty-four hours I’ve had to fight my superior officers all the way up to Dayan and Rabin, and I’m not about to stand on this hilltop arguing with someone who does not care. I will go elsewhere and find another man who will listen to me.”
Conflicting emotions raged inside Asheim, but uppermost in his mind was a grudging respect for Goldmann, who obviously was a fighter. “I’ll listen to you, but I won’t promise any more than that.”
Goldmann smiled. “That’s all I want, Major. Believe me, that’s all I want.”
They started down the hill, Asheim falling into a loping stride that would not tire him out in twenty miles. He was a large man, over six feet, two hundred pounds, with a trim body that made him look and act more like a man of forty. His hair, however, was pure white.
In every way including thinking, he was opposite of what Benjamin had been. And yet over the years that the little man had been married to his daughter, Asheim had come to admire him. Benjamin had been a man who was slow to come to a decision, but once it had been made, nothing could sway him. Deborah and the children had loved him very much.
It had hurt when they left eighteen months ago to open the travel bureau in Buenos Aires. But the hurt, Asheim had to admit, came not so much from the fact they had left Israel but more because they had not explained the real reason behind the move. He had suspected something, but he had never been a doting, meddlesome father, and had merely made them promise to write frequently, which they did, still saying nothing.
Now Benjamin was dead. Deborah and the children were alone. Probably frightened. And certainly grief-stricken.
At the bottom of the hill they entered the kibbutz and started across the central square as the first of the troop transport trucks rolled in and pulled up in front of the administration building.
“Your replacement will be in later this afternoon,” Colonel Gurion said.
Asheim glanced at him.
“If you decide to stay, of course, he will be your second-in-command.”
“You expect fighting soon?” Asheim asked, not breaking stride.
Gurion shrugged. “Anything is possible.”
The first of the troops jumped down from the trucks. Asheim stopped long enough to direct two of his lieutenants to see to their billeting, and then he, Colonel Gurion, and Goldmann entered his office.
“Have a seat, gentlemen,” Asheim said, going behind his desk.
“Will we be disturbed, and can anyone overhear us in here?” Goldmann asked.
Asheim looked at him. “Sit down, Mr. Goldmann. We will not be disturbed.”
Goldmann and Gurion sat down across the desk from Asheim, and for a long moment the three of them were silent. From outside they could hear the shouted commands to troops, and in the orderly room outside Asheim’s office they could hear the sounds of many people coming and going, typewriters clattering, and telephones ringing. The effect was lulling, but Asheim broke the spell.
“What was my son-in-law doing for you in Buenos Aires?”
Goldmann placed his briefcase on his lap but made no move to open it. “Major, what do you know about the SS?”
“The usual,” Asheim said. “But I asked you a question.”
“Which I will answer in my own way.”
Asheim’s eyes narrowed. He was not going to put up with this. “I agreed to listen to you, but I don’t want a sales pitch, Goldmann. Give it to me straight.”
Gurion started to object, but Goldmann held him off. “He is right, Yizhak,” he said, and turned back to Asheim. “Before I tell you what your son-in-law was doing for me, and what I am going to ask you to do for me, I must give you some background information. But I’ll tell you from the start that the attitude about all this that you evidently have is shared by almost every government in the world, including our own.”
“But not by you,” Asheim said dryly.
“Not by me,” Goldmann replied softly. “I’ve been working at it too long.”
Gurion broke in. “David’s wife, his parents, and several aunts and uncles all were murdered at Auschwitz. David managed to escape to fight with the Danish underground. In 1947 he came to Jerusalem.”
“So you hate Germans and are still fighting the war,” Asheim said. He had had enough of this, and he started to rise.
“I have no hate left,” Goldmann said, his voice very soft. “Only fear.”
The comment stopped Asheim, and he sat back down in his chair. Goldmann was no fanatic. He was more like a dedicated man. “I’ll listen.”
Goldmann nodded. “I’ll be brief,” he said, and he paused a moment to organize his thoughts.
Gurion sat back in his chair and lit a cigarette.
Asheim listened, intrigued despite himself, the sounds from outside his office fading as if they had stopped.
In 1925 Adolph Hitler created the SS (Shutzstaffel) as a corps of troops loyal to him personally. But they were nothing more than a ragtag band of thugs until 1929 when Heinrich Himmler, the chicken farmer from the Bavarian village of Waldtrudering, took over command. At that moment the SS had its real, and very terrible, beginning.
Its primary objective, of course, was the extermination of every Jew from the face of the earth. But every facet of Germany’s military-industrial complex had its complement of SS liaison officers.
To a man they were loyal to no one but Hitler and to no belief other than world domination and racial purity.
“But they were not stupid men,” Goldmann said. “As ruthless as they were; they were intelligent. Their ranks were composed of some of Germany’s most brilliant minds.”
As early as 1940, many officers in the SS High Command, however, realized that Hitler was engaging them in a world war that Germany could not possibly win. So they began to hedge their bets.
At first they shipped gold, art objects, and anything else of value that was portable to Switzerland. But as the war deepened, this wealth was shipped in increasing amounts to Argentina, to Portugal, to Egypt, to Mexico, and even to the United States and Canada.
When the war was over, these men reasoned, they would not be able to remain in Germany, but wherever they went, they were determined not to live as poor men.
In 1943 the exodus began. Slowly at first. A colonel changing his identity and slipping into Switzerland. A major who spoke perfect English rowing ashore from a submarine off the coast of North Carolina. A captain abandoning his ship in the Buenos Aires harbor.
All over the world SS officers scattered to rejoin the fortunes they had shipped out of Germany, to escape charges as war criminals, to begin new lives.
“Most of those people were caught, returned to Germany, and hung or imprisoned, I thought,” Asheim said.
“Several thousand of them, mostly enlisted men who were not being sought actively by the War Crimes Commission, did manage to remain free. In addition a number of high-ranking officers, the cream of the crop, eluded capture,” Goldmann said, and he continued with his narrative.
In 1946 a number of those SS officers, all of them wealthy, organized the Odessa with the avowed purpose of protecting its own people, and somehow, someday, reactivating their Fuehrer’s dream of the “Thousand-Year Reich.”
For the next few years the Odessa was a tenuous organization at best. The Americans and British hunted them down, and for a time were quite successful, despite the Odessa’s best efforts to protect its own.
But then something happened. In the United States, Senator McCarthy began hunting communists, and the Americans forgot about the SS. In England they were struggling to rebuild London and somehow pick up the pieces. In Germany itself reconstruction was going on, and everyone wanted to forget the war. And in Israel, the people—many of them survivors of the Holocaust—were again fighting for their survival. Odessa got its foothold. It grew strong. It grew even more wealthy. And even more ruthless in protecting its own people.
“But you have been fighting the Odessa all along,” Asheim said.
“Yes I have, but with less and less support from my own superiors. I am considered a fanatic.”
“It’s been more than thirty years,” Asheim said. “The officers who escaped during the war must be all old men by now.”
“Old, very wealthy, still quite brilliant, and now more than ever because of their age, quite ruthless. When the last of them is dead and gone, the idea of Odessa will crumble and fall.”
Asheim managed a grim smile. “You have these men identified?”
“We believe we’ve identified most of the High Command.”
“Why not just assassinate them and be done with it?”
Goldmann shook his head. “Assassinate a multimillionaire whose factories are the backbone of Portugal? Assassinate the leading citizen of Buenos Aires? Assassinate the largest individual landholder in Mexico?”
