Once Departed

“Yeah,” Quint said.

“What does that supposed to mean?”

“It means that something big was supposed to happen at the Dempsey party. And you probably knew what it was. Ronald Brett-Home getting himself killed evidently threw a wrench into the works.” Quint finished off his sausage. “You know, the next time the Spanish police start pestering me about it, I might drop them a few hints about you just to get them off my own back.”

“You wouldn’t do that.”

“Why not?”

“You’re an American. Damn it, Jones, you’ve got some responsibilities to your country.”

The columnist hid his satisfaction. He was getting near to pay dirt. “How do I know that going along with you is to my country’s advantage? For all I know, you’ve sold out to the Russians. Remember? You’re supposed to be an ex-C.I.A. man. Who are you to tell me what my responsibilities are?” He let his voice go slightly heated.

Digby’s face worked angrily for a moment, then he suddenly changed attitude. “Look here, Quentin Jones, I mentioned last night, I admired your articles. I’m going to tell you some things off the record.”

Quint leaned back in his chair. They were in a corner where eavesdropping would have been impractical. “All right.”

The former operative squirmed in his chair. Finally he said, “What do you know about Martin Bormann? Or, for that matter, Heinrich Mueller, or Doktor Stahlecker?”

“Bormann? Hitler’s right hand man, in the final days. Hitler’s secretary for years, and the executor of his final will and testament. Toward the last they made him the Party Minister, the head of the Nazi Party. There was supposed to be some kind of mystery about his death, after Hitler committed suicide and the Red Army stormed Berlin. They never found his body but Arthus Axman, the Hitler Youth leader, claimed he saw it lying under the bridge where the Invalidenstrasse crosses the railroad tracks.” Quint thought. “Heinrich Mueller? He was the head of the Gestapo. There was some stuff about him in the papers not so long ago. When they investigated his grave, it was found to contain the bones of parts of three skeletons—none of which could have been his. I don’t think I’ve ever heard of Doktor whoever-you-said.”

“You’ve got a good memory,” Bart Digby grudged. “The fact of the matter is, it’s never been proven that Bormann, Mueller and Doktor Stahlecker ever died. They were three of the Fuhrer’s most rabid adherents. Had they been tried at Nurenberg, all three would have gotten the noose. It couldn’t have happened to nicer people. All three were with Hitler and Goebbels right to the very end. And after Adolf Hitler killed himself they tried to escape. Okay. Stick a pin there.”

The self professed former C.I.A. man took a deep gulp of his dark beer. “Have you heard of General Reinhard Gehlen?”

The columnist was scowling, wondering where all this historic grubbing was getting them. But he said, “One of Hitler’s former intelligence chiefs. Now head of west German intelligence.”

“That’s right. Look, the usual story is that the Americans and Russians were all buddy-buddy after they defeated the Nazis. And that it came as a great shock to Truman and other American leaders when the commies started pulling tricks. The fact is that both sides began pulling tricks before the war really ended. Tricks against each other. Preparing for the Cold War to come. Our people dashed in like a shot to corral Von Braun and other rocket experts, before the Soviets could get them. We also dashed in and cornered General Gehlen and his organization and put them to work for us—at the same work they had been doing for Hitler, spying on the Russians. After West Germany became a sovereign state in 1955, Gehlen stopped working for Uncle Sam and became head of the German Federal Intelligence Service.”

“What in the devil is all this building up to?” Quint said in irritation.

Bart Digby leaned forward, as though coming to his point. “Quint, world politics are in a delicate balance. One day a new country drops into the Soviet orbit, lines up with the Russkies. Cuba is an example. Another day, one of the other formerly neutral countries lines up with the west. Say, Iran, or Morocco, or wherever. But one hell of a lot of them remain still on the fence. Listening to our propaganda but perhaps not buying it; listening to their propaganda, and not quite buying that either. It’s nip and tuck, Quint.”

Quint Jones said dryly, “This isn’t exactly news to me. I make my living commenting on such things as world affairs.”

The other nodded and his voice was bitter. “I know,” he said. “That’s why you worry me. One of your typical snide columns, dropped into the mess that’s brewing now, could cause all sorts of stink.”

Quint poured the balance of his wine into his glass and sipped it, waiting for the other to finish.

“All right,” Digby said. “One of the current commie propaganda blasts is that the West is encouraging the reemergence of Hitlerism. That West Germany’s government is full of former Nazis such as General Gehlen. That more and more of the old Hitler team are out from cover and slipping into prominent positions. If they could sell the world on this, they’d have made a strong point with liberals and progressives everywhere, and one hell of a lot of liberals are coming to power in these new Asian and African countries, not to speak of Latin America.”

“Okay,” Quint said. “Drop the other shoe.”

Digby looked into his eyes. “Quint, if the commies found Martin Bormann, Hitler’s former right hand man, and put over the story that Bormann was trying to set up a new neo-Nazi group, and that the West Germans—and behind them the United States—were supporting him, the fat would be in the fire.”

Quint chuckled. “That’s quite an if.”

Bart Digby dropped his bomb. “The evidence is that Martin Bormann, and probably Doktor Stahlecker, are somewhere here in Spain.”

Quint stared at him.

The other said emptily, “If so, we’ve got to get to him first. We’ve got to get him and either retry him, or, better still, execute the sentence he was given in absentia. It’s the only way to prove we hate the Nazi dream just as much as anyone else.”

After Bart Digby had left, Quint sat for awhile over Fundador and a cup of black coffee. The other had painted an interesting picture, and the American columnist wondered just how much of it was to be completely believed. He couldn’t quite swallow Digby’s contention that he had resigned from the C.I.A. On the face of it, the man was vitally interested in this possibility of Martin Bormann being in hiding in Spain. And a man without a job doesn’t usually involve himself in such poorly remunerative matters.

Of course, there was also the possibility that Bart Digby had resigned—or been fired, as Mike Woolman had it—from the C.I.A. and was not peddling his services elsewhere. Nobody as yet had mentioned why the Central Intelligence Agency and Bartholomew Digby had parted ways. Was it because his superiors had caught him delving into matters of which they didn’t approve?

If the story he had told about Martin Bormann was correct, there was still another angle. It wasn’t exactly a new idea. In fact, it was sometimes told about Hitler himself. That Hitler had lived, that he had been smuggled out of collapsing Berlin, and by submarine been taken to the Argentine, or some such, where he remained in hiding waiting his chance to regain power. The trouble with that particular bit of fantasy was that immediately before his suicide, Hitler, a badly wounded, mentally shaken man who dragged one foot as he walked, had celebrated his fifty-sixth birthday. Persons who had been present described him as senile, his head and hands shaking continually. Had he escaped, even in this condition, how old would he be in 1968? Seventy-nine years of age. Not exactly the time of life to start regaining an empire. The same applied to Bormann who had probably been somewhere in his forties at the time of his disappearance. He wouldn’t be exactly a young man twenty-five years after.

Quint grimaced and finished his double shot of cognac. He considered another. No, foul it! If he was ever going to get any work done, he’d have to get back to the apartment. He hated to work in the afternoon, particularly after he’d had a few drinks, but he had to get cracking.

He paid his bill, and started back to the car. Traffic was lighter, but already beginning to resume volume. He darted a look at his watch. He’d been in the German restaurant talking to Bart Digby for longer than he had thought. He’d have to get a move on, or the whole day would be shot.

It wasn’t in the cards. When he got back to the parked Renault, it was to find Mike Woolman leaning against it, obviously waiting for him.

Quint said, “Gangway, Buster. I haven’t any time for the likes of you. This downtrodden proletarian has to get back to the sweatshop and get exploited by the bloodsucking capitalists.”