Mason lit a cigarette as he moved down the sidewalk on Hauptstrasse. It was after eleven P.M., but the later hour had done nothing to thin out the crowd of revelers. People still packed the bars and restaurants, or were spilled out onto the sidewalks, and had now spent hours consuming ample quantities of alcohol. Couples or groups of soldiers staggered along, laughing or yelling over each other in drunken competition.
Before Mason returned to the chaos at the Sheridan barracks, he needed time to think. Learning about Adelle’s affair with a Nazi gauleiter weighed on him, but what occupied his mind more was that something puzzled him about the meeting with Pritchard and Udahl. It aggravated him like a buzzing around his ear. Usually he could pick it out right away, but not this time. Maybe he was slipping. Maybe it was because he had the unnerving feeling everyone had been being playing him for a sap—Winstone, Adelle, Densmore, Kessel . . . possibly even Gamin and Udahl—and being played had dulled his senses.
Mason came abruptly out of his thoughts when he had to dodge two army corporals and their German dates stumbling down the sidewalk and oblivious to their surroundings. One couple was so inebriated that they made a dash across the street in front of a moving car. The car screeched to a halt, the sound making Mason turn.
That was when he saw the car’s backseat window roll down just far enough for someone to stick out the barrel of a Thompson submachine gun. Aimed directly at him.
Mason threw himself behind a parked car just as the machine gun fired. Bullets shattered the concrete wall where he’d been standing a split second earlier. The deadly spray followed his leap for cover. Bullets slammed into the car’s metal body and blew out windows.
Mason lay flat against the car’s rear wheel, curling his body for precious cover. Fragments of glass showered down. He could hear bullets, spent from piercing the car’s body, ricochet around the vehicle’s interior. What seemed like minutes had lasted seven seconds. Then the engine roared, and the shooter’s car sped down the street.
Mason leapt to his feet and pulled out his .45. He fired at the car’s back window. The window exploded inward, but the car continued on and disappeared.
Just above the ringing in his ears, he heard a woman screaming, people yelling as they emerged from the various bars and nightclubs.
Mason leaned against the car and noticed his gun hand shaking.
* * *
The skating show was in full swing when Mason blew past the Casa Carioca’s maitre d’. The man sputtered protests, but they were quickly drowned out by the band music. Mason wove through the standing-room-only crowd and between the tables. The waiters spotted him and stopped in their tracks. One of them put his tray down and tried to intercept him, but Mason held up his CID badge with such violence that the waiter hesitated.
Weissenegger, the boxer-turned-bodyguard, met him at the base of the stairs.
“Army business,” Mason said. “I don’t have a quarrel with you. Step out of the way, or I will arrest you.”
Weissenegger glared at Mason as he stepped aside. Mason bounded up the stairs. When he reached the landing, he looked back. None of the waiters or muscle had followed him, and the patrons were all paying attention to their drinks, their dates, or the show. Mason turned and entered the hallway. Kessel and Boris, his bodyguard, came out of Kessel’s office and stood in the middle of the hallway as if to block Mason from going any farther.
“You look upset, Mr. Collins,” Kessel said.
Mason was about to respond when he saw two bodyguards flanking either side of a door at the end of the hallway. He looked back at Kessel and noticed the man looked uneasy and lacked his previous air of superiority. His boss was in the house.
Kessel shifted to block Mason’s view and said, “Why don’t we discuss things in my office?”
Mason pushed Kessel aside and charged down the hallway, but a moment later two baseball mitts for hands grabbed him from behind and pushed him against the wall. Boris ignored Kessel’s orders to release Mason. Mason twirled, using his left arm to break the man’s tenuous hold. But Boris was quick and grabbed Mason by the throat.
With the heel of his boot, Mason thrust his foot down on the tender bones of Boris’s foot. The pain must have been excruciating, and usually it crippled a man, but Boris still took a swing at Mason. The swing lacked power and speed, and Mason deflected the blow. At the same instant, Mason jabbed Boris in the throat with rigid fingers, just above the hyoid bone. Boris’s eyes popped wide. His hands grabbed his own paralyzed throat, and he staggered backward. His face turned red as he strained to take in air.
Mason knew the man would recover . . . eventually. He turned his back on Kessel and burst through the last door without knocking.
Schaeffer sat at his desk with his feet up and a drink in his hand. Mason’s already explosive rage kicked up to full-blown fury when he saw the other man, sitting in a high-backed, red velvet chair like a king on a throne—Ernst Volker, ex-Gestapo major and torturer-in-chief.
Mason balled his fists. In addition to his fury, he felt an instinctual combination of repulsion and fear. He did everything he could to resist charging the man and crushing his neck. “You!” Mason said to Volker.
“We meet again, Herr Collins,” Volker said.
“Shut up and stay where you are. I’ll arrest you as soon as I’m done with Schaeffer.”
“Relax, investigator,” Schaeffer said. “I can vouch for him. Have a seat, and we’ll talk.”
Mason kicked the door closed, slamming it in the faces of Kessel’s muscle. “Waving his falsified denazification papers at me won’t work this time. I can testify that he tortured U.S. soldiers.”
“You’re addressing a superior officer,” Schaeffer said calmly. “You will conduct yourself accordingly. You cannot burst into my office, acting like a crazed man, and threaten a civilian. Sit down and state your case, or I will have you arrested for insubordination.”
“Your boys just shot at me. I don’t like being shot at.”
“Those weren’t my boys, as you put—”
“Bullshit. You’re the only operator with enough clout to order a hit on a CID investigator out in the open. And thanks to your hit squad, there aren’t too many operators left.”
“If I wanted you dead, I wouldn’t have done it in such a clumsy fashion. Maybe whoever it was simply wanted to warn you to back off of your investigation.”
“You’d have to know the details of the shooting to think it was botched.” Mason stepped forward. “I knew arresting every German racketeer in town would flush out the leaders. I know you and Kessel—and this scumbag”—Mason pointed to Volker—“are behind the murders of Agent John Winstone, Hilda Schmidt, Kantos and his family, and the German gang leaders.”
“Those are very serious charges,” Schaeffer said. “Do you have any proof?”
Mason leaned on Schaeffer’s desk. “I’ll get the proof and bring you down. Your warning didn’t work. I won’t stop. And if you do manage to stop me, then there are plenty of people informed of my investigation that’ll be coming after you. You try to harm anyone to get to me, and I’ll be coming for you.” Mason straightened and removed his .45. He turned to Volker. “Get up.”
Schaeffer stood up and picked up a document conveniently placed on his desk as if anticipating this confrontation. “This document states that Herr Volker was cleared by the XII Corps CIC detachment’s commanding officer, Colonel Roberts. He has been officially sanctioned, and he is a valuable asset to the CIC. If you have a problem with Herr Volker, you’d better take that up with the colonel.”
“I will,” Mason said. “They might like to know what this man did in the service of the Third Reich.” He waved his pistol for Volker to move for the door.
Volker obeyed. “Thank you, Herr Schaeffer, for your defense, but Herr Collins and I have some catching up to do. Haven’t we? How you gave me vital troop positions and movements that aided us in capturing entire regiments in the Ardennes. I didn’t torture him, as Herr Collins alleges. He gave it up willingly. I’m sure whoever interrogates me will be interested to hear what I have to say.”
Volker’s perfect English and soft baritone voice brought back those days of torture: the beatings, the electrocutions, the dunkings in tubs of ice water, the sleep deprivation. Mason had never understood the idiom “seeing red with rage,” because his experience of it was like gazing into a black tunnel. Everything around him disappeared except his tormentor’s face.
It was only after Volker’s head snapped back and he crumpled to the floor that Mason realized he’d given Volker a left cross to the jaw. Mason lunged, while vaguely aware of Schaeffer yelling for his guards. He had just enough time to bring his fist back to strike again when four strong hands pinned him and pulled him away. He struggled, but the men held him fast.
Schaeffer calmly walked up to Mason and leaned in. “You’ve got nothing,” he said, elongating the last word to drive the point home. He slowly put his hand on Mason’s gun. “Let me holster this for you before you shoot someone and get into more trouble than you already are.”
Mason tried to free himself. No use. He knew he had to calm down and take the humiliation. He’d make up for it soon enough. He let Schaeffer take his gun. Schaeffer put on the safety and holstered it. He looked at Volker and tilted his head toward the door. Volker hurried out of the office.
Schaeffer turned back to Mason. “While you’ve been checking up on me, I’ve done the same on you. You have some reputation, investigator. It seems no one will mourn your loss. No one. Now, anything that happens next in here, it will be your word against a decorated officer’s.”
Without warning, Schaeffer gut-punched Mason, the fiery blast of agony forcing Mason to slump helplessly in the men’s arms. He struggled to catch his breath.
Schaeffer grabbed Mason’s hair and yanked upward. He put his face in Mason’s. “You come busting in here, gun drawn, and threatening me. You screwed up. I could have you put in the stockade for years. Now, unless you have concrete evidence, which I’m sure you never will, then I must insist you never step foot in this club again.”
Mason summoned all the willpower he could muster to control his breathing and stare into Schaeffer’s eyes. “Remember: You hurt anyone I know, and I’m coming after you.”
The two men lifted Mason by the shoulders and dragged him out the door. Kessel stood at his office door and watched as the men pulled him along the hallway. Kessel held up his hand for the men to stop.
He said to Mason, “Are you able to walk out of here on your own? I don’t want you upsetting the patrons.”
Schaeffer was right: Mason knew he had nothing to pin on any of them—for the moment. Plus, he’d let his temper get the best of him and blown military and CID protocol. He had little choice but to make a tactical retreat. He nodded to Kessel. His diaphragm worked again, but he wasn’t so sure about his legs. The men released Mason on Kessel’s gesture. It took Mason a moment to steady himself. Standing upright made his whole torso ache, but he managed. He walked carefully down the stairs. One of the three bodyguards preceded him, partly to make sure he didn’t cascade down the steps. As Mason crossed through the club, he caught sight of someone and nearly stumbled into the escort.
Laura sat at one of the tables with her boyfriend, Richard. Richard’s attention was on the show, but Laura’s eyes flicked wide when she saw Mason and she froze in midbite. Mason subtly shook his head as he passed her table. She understood the silent warning: She said nothing and remembered to chew.