A Righteous Gentile

By Augusto Ferrera

It is the early 1970s when Peter Kramer, a special envoy to the president of the United States, successfully concludes an Arab-Israeli peace treaty. A few weeks before the official signing, Kramers secret past is discovered and threatens to wreck not only the treaty, but also the precarious balance of world peace. It seems Kramer is not who he appears to be.

This startling revelation sets into motion a course of events with roots planted during the Holocaust that now have crept into the highest echelons of international politics and financeand the events seem to be unstoppable unless some of the players are eliminated. Baruch Ben-David, the prime minister of Israel, owes his life to Kramer and is willing to prove his gratitude many times over. Meanwhile, Simon Jensen, the egocentric president of the United States, appears mentally unstable; and Paul Cline, a political assassin, faces his most difficult challenge.

At the center of this deadly paradox stands Peter Kramer himself as he walks a thin moral tightrope between being a traitor to his people or a traitor to himself.

• Language: English
• Publisher: iUniverse
• Release date: Dec 31, 2009
• ISBN: 9781440199202

Augusto Ferrera

Augusto Ferrera was born and raised in California. He and his wife, Greta, a practicing internist, live in Long Beach, California, and have two grown children. He is currently at work on his next novel titled Under the Tyburn Tree.

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A RIGHTEOUS GENTILE

Augusto Ferrera

iUniverse LLC

Bloomington

A Righteous Gentile

Copyright © 2009 by Augusto Ferrera

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced by any means, graphic, electronic, or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, taping or by any information storage retrieval system without the written permission of the publisher except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles and reviews.

This is a work of fiction. All of the characters, names, incidents, organizations, and dialogue in this novel are either the products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously.

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ISBN: 978-1-4401-9919-6 (sc)

ISBN: 978-1-4401-9921-9 (hc)

ISBN: 978-1-4401-9920-2 (ebk)

Library of Congress Control Number: 2009913695

iUniverse rev. date: 06/14/2013

CONTENTS

Prelude

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Chapter Ten

Chapter Eleven

Chapter Twelve

Chapter Thirteen

Chapter Fourteen

Chapter Fifteen

Chapter Sixteen

Chapter Seventeen

Chapter Eighteen

Chapter Nineteen

Chapter Twenty

Chapter Twenty-One

Chapter Twenty-Two

Chapter Twenty-Three

Chapter Twenty-Four

Chapter Twenty-Five

Chapter Twenty-Six

Chapter Twenty-Seven

Chapter Twenty-Eight

Chapter Twenty-Nine

Chapter Thirty

Chapter Thirty-One

Chapter Thirty-Two

Chapter Thirty-Three

Chapter Thirty-Four

Chapter Thirty-Five

Chapter Thirty-Six

Chapter Thirty-Seven

Chapter Thirty-Eight

Chapter Thirty-Nine

Chapter Forty

Chapter Forty-One

Chapter Forty-Two

Interlude

Chapter Forty-Three

Chapter Forty-Four

Chapter Forty-Five

Chapter Forty-Six

Chapter Forty-Seven

Chapter Forty-Eight

Chapter Forty-Nine

Chapter Fifty

Chapter Fifty-One

Chapter Fifty-Two

Chapter Fifty-Three

Chapter Fifty-Four

Chapter Fifty-Five

Chapter Fifty-Six

Chapter Fifty-Seven

Chapter Fifty-Eight

Chapter Fifty-Nine

Chapter Sixty

Chapter Sixty-One

Chapter Sixty-Two

Chapter Sixty-Three

Chapter Sixty-Four

Chapter Sixty-Five

Chapter Sixty-Six

Chapter Sixty-Seven

Chapter Sixty-Eight

Chapter Sixty-Nine

Chapter Seventy

Chapter Seventy-One

Chapter Seventy-Two

Chapter Seventy-Three

Chapter Seventy-Four

Chapter Seventy-Five

Chapter Seventy-Six

Chapter Seventy-Seven

Chapter Seventy-Eight

Chapter Seventy-Nine

Chapter Eighty

Chapter Eighty-One

Chapter Eighty-Two

Chapter Eighty-Three

Chapter Eighty-Four

Chapter Eighty-Five

Chapter Eighty-Six

Chapter Eighty-Seven

Epilogue

Out of Hitler’s war of nihilism, names emerged that have since been placed in the honor rolls of history — Raoul Wallenberg, Oskar Schindler, and more.

Yet there were others who also acted in the name of decency. All over Nazi-occupied Europe, they were there, those nameless heroes. Even in Germany — especially in Germany, that most dangerous of secret arenas of courage — these anonymous men and women risked their lives upholding the dignity of man.

It is these, the unnamed, the unheralded, the righteous Gentiles, to whom I dedicate this book.

PRELUDE

MONTAFON VALLEY, WESTERN AUSTRIA

THE EARLY 1970S — DURING THE COLD WAR

The fat man looks out the window of the chalet and gazes up at a sky turned sullen. Clouds have blocked out the early autumn wash of warming sunshine, and soon the entire valley and the tiny villages nestled within it will vanish. The fat man clucks at the grim foreboding, though not the sudden inclemency of weather, but the problem at hand.

The fat man is Gerd Langfeldt, doctor of economics and kingpin of Swiss banking. Of more import, he heads an association that controls much of the world’s wealth, its politics, indeed its destiny. It could be called a cartel. Its members know it as the Montafon Group, named after the place in which they meet periodically and, as now, in emergency. The nature of the emergency is a set of circumstances that might shift the delicate political axis of the globe, bringing the world to the brink of destruction.

A car appears as it glides up the narrow road, and then is lost from view. It will hold the last of the participants to the meeting he has called; the other six are there already, by the fire, some of them drinking tea with rum, impatient for the extraordinary meeting to begin.

Extraordinary. Yes, he concludes, that says it well.

They meet today not to discuss the Vatican portfolio one of them controls, not to talk about the Texas pipelines and Saudi Arabian oil revenues for which two others are responsible, nor the multinational marine insurance assets on which another has a grip, nor Latin American banking conglomerates, not even covert Mafia investments. No, they will review the options of only one problem: the unbalanced mind of Simon Bolivar Jensen, president of the United States.

CHAPTER ONE

WASHINGTON, DC

THE EARLY 1970S

Peter Kramer thought of the jaw bone of Martin Bormann for the thousandth time since its discovery.

He stood alone on the terrace of the British Embassy sipping champagne, oblivious to the popular song being played by a string quartet and the din of hundreds of voices in dozens of languages. That jaw bone was occupying his waking moments, and sometimes his sleeping ones, more and more of late, especially because of the constant, almost nagging reminders from Erika. Erika, the worrier; Erika, the paranoid; Erika, his beloved.

He lifted the glass to his lips and again visualized a German laborer in blue trousers and jacket, heavy shoes, and a blue peaked cap, tediously digging in that field of rubble in Berlin once known as the Invalidenstrasse, striking a human bone with his spade. The West Germans said the teeth matched Bormann’s reconstructed dental records, and that damage to the collarbone was consistent with an injury Bormann had sustained years before his supposed death. But was it the jawbone of Bormann? Kramer’s instincts told him that it was not.

A raspy voice with a trace of an accent broke his spell. Are you that bored with all this, Peter, or are you scheming your next strategy for the Cairo meeting?

Kramer turned and saw the cheery face of Aleksandr Korsakov, the Soviet ambassador. He smiled at the Russian, a smile that came from an open, honest face that most people liked immediately. Hello, Aleksandr Sergeyevich. No, no strategy planning. My part in the treaty is over. I’d like to get back to my work at the university, which, by the way, is what I was thinking about. All those theses I’ve got to grade. I can’t put it off any longer.

Korsakov grinned wryly. From the ridiculous back to the sublime, eh, Peter? I would be willing to bet you a case of the best Russian vodka against one bottle of Scotch whiskey that your days as a university professor are a thing of the past, at least with Jensen in the White House. They won’t let you go, my friend. There is no one else who can make the peace accord a reality, and that includes Jackson Hetherington and Simon Bolivar Jensen. That is what the diplomatic community says, and I happen to agree.

Well, the diplomatic community is wrong, as usual. This president is committed to peace. Hetherington and his people are superbly qualified. Kramer took a cigarette offered by Korsakov and reached for his lighter.

The Russian blew smoke. Thank you. Just between you and me, Peter, I hate Russian tobacco, but for appearances I have to smoke it at the embassy. Moscow expects me to set a good example! He inhaled the Winston deeply and smiled in satisfaction. Korsakov had spent more years in the United States than in his own country, first as a journalist, then as a diplomat. He turned serious. No, Peter, you will get the call once more. You will see, my friend.

Yes, well, we’ll see, Kramer said, looking back out toward the wooded gardens. Besides, why should you care? I should think the Kremlin would love to see me fall on my face. I don’t think your people are eager for an Arab-Israeli peace. Are you?

Korsakov moved closer and looked around. Peter, I tell you this from the heart. He placed his hand on his breast. For my part, I want you to succeed. Frankly, I like it here in America. I like your cigarettes, your liquor, your thick steaks, your women! I’d be a hypocrite if I said I did not like my job. But that job depends on a cold war, not a hot one. However, if you do not make peace in the Middle East, that madman in Libya will do something to make the United States step in. If that happens, maybe we will have to step in too, and then we will have a hot war that will end my splendid job here, and in the rest of the world as well.

You reduce it all to such simple terms, Kramer said. Is this your own view of things, or does the Kremlin see it that way too?

I do not blame you for being cynical, Peter. The fact is, there are cliques of hotheads and nuclear theorists in the Kremlin — such as you have in your own Pentagon — who want to hit the button before Jensen does, no matter what the consequences. But we also have men of reason, thank God, who know that the world can go on as it has for the past few decades despite all the inflammatory rhetoric and name-calling and saber-rattling. The cold war, my friend, it must go on. It is healthy. Like in a lightning storm, if you can hear the thunder, you are okay. In the cold war, if you hear the sabers rattling, you are okay. It is the silence that is deadly. That is why you must make peace in the Middle East. He smiled at Kramer as he inhaled his American cigarette smoke, pleased with his own assessment.

Kramer drained his glass silently. If only he could be sure of that jaw, he thought. Erika was right. The stakes were too high to take further chances with the ghosts of the past. Korsakov was right too, in everything he said — and those stakes were the highest of all.

Ah, Peter, there you are! Jackson Hetherington joined them, looking the complete diplomat in his white tie and tails, a small line of miniature medals adorning his silk lapel.

Watch out for these Russians, the secretary of state said, glancing at Korsakov. They get more clever with age, especially this one. He and I go back to Yalta, don’t we, Aleksandr Sergeyevich?

Ah, the bad old days, Jack. Did you know I was on Stalin’s shit list? I managed to hide under Molotov’s skirt, and that saved me from the purge. I am a survivor, as I was telling Peter.

Thank God for Molotov, Hetherington said.

Please, Jack, we Communists do not acknowledge the existence of God.

But Alex, Kramer said, smiling, a minute ago you said, ‘Thank God we have men of reason in the Kremlin,’ didn’t you?

Yes, but that was unofficially!

Korsakov walked away as the two Americans laughed, exhaling smoke from yet another Winston.

Hetherington turned to Kramer. Peter, the reason I’m late is due to good news. I just heard from Leslie Pyle in Damascus. The Syrians have agreed to your five points. Leslie tells me they’re ready to finalize this. Naturally, I passed on the news to the president. He wants a meeting with you and me right away, so let’s bid our adieus quickly and get over to the White House. The secretary beamed with enthusiasm. The Syrian delegation had been an obstacle all along, beginning with President Haddad.

Kramer sighed inwardly. He wondered how he could have been so naïve as to think that it was over for him. That’s wonderful news, Mr. Secretary.

CHAPTER TWO

Twenty minutes later Secretary of State Hetherington and Special Ambassador Peter Kramer were being escorted through the Treaty Room in the executive wing of the White House. An aide opened the sliding doors to the president’s study, the Oval Office. The signature blue carpet and its huge presidential seal dominated the room. Seated behind his massive desk, with the national and presidential standards behind him, was Simon Bolivar Jensen, lean, virile, and handsome. With athletic smoothness, he rose and indicated the upholstered chairs around a coffee table.

Thanks for coming, fellas, Jensen said. I hate to pull you away from your party, but now that the Syrians are playing ball, it’s urgent that we maintain game control. We’ve got to get over there now.

I couldn’t agree with you more, Mr. President, Hetherington said, taking the cup of coffee Jensen offered him. The Syrians have tended to be prima donnas in this. They’ve changed their minds over the slightest issue.

That’s my feeling, Jensen said. He looked at Kramer. Do you see it that way too, Pete?

I agree that Haddad is a bit capricious, Kramer said, but we mustn’t lose sight that he is a Sunni Baathist. He won’t want to disappoint his fellow Sunni and Baathist Party supporter, Kämil. Especially considering the political risks Kämil has taken for Haddad with the Copts and the Circassians in Egypt. Kämil is in full accord with the necessity of a treaty. He’ll keep Haddad in line. There should be no problems with him.

Hetherington wagged his finger at Kramer. Astute analysis! That certainly validates your insistence, Mr. President, that Peter Kramer, and no one else, carry the ball. Turning to Kramer, he said, Can you leave in the morning for Cairo, Peter?

Kramer bit his lip. That would be difficult, Mr. Secretary. I’ve neglected my work at the university far longer than I originally expected. For that and other reasons … As I understood it, aside from occasional consultations, my work with the treaty would be terminated by now.

What other reasons? asked the president coolly.

Kramer looked at Jensen’s stony face. Personal ones, Mr. President.

Come now, Peter, Hetherington said, shaking his balding, freckled head. The university will surely understand the import —

Jensen cut off the secretary with a wave of his hand. Ambassador Kramer, he said in measured tones, as you know, this administration is committed to two major goals, goals that got me elected. First, a sound economy, and second, global peace. In the three years and eight months that I’ve been in office, the first of these two goals is well on its way. But I still can’t deliver a balanced budget. For that I need another four years in this place.

Yes, sir, Kramer said.

Jensen was right; he was well on his way. With the help of a cooperative Congress, the youthful and charismatic Jensen had put through some sweeping and revolutionary economic legislation. Jensen’s policies had also changed the image of the United States around the world. Ambassadors, normally wealthy appointees under political patronage, were now selected from the ranks of lifetime Foreign Service officers, men and women who not only spoke the language of the country to where they were assigned, but who were sensitive to the customs, culture, and needs of those countries. Gone were the flashy limousines for the high echelon of the Foreign Service, which did nothing but provoke ill will toward the United States. Gone, too, were the uniformed and armed marine guards at the foreign missions. Security personnel were now inconspicuous in civilian clothes. Jensen’s view was to promote diplomacy overseas, not militarism. Underdeveloped nations were beginning to advance with the help of the Jensen-revitalized Peace Corps, through which nations helped themselves while maintaining their dignity. Global peace was another matter, although the Arab-Israeli peace accord was a giant step toward those goals.

We’ve got to get those fellows to Geneva and sign the damned thing, Jensen continued. The more important of my objectives is world peace. Oh, I don’t mean we’re going to stop every little war that erupts here and there. I mean peace between the big powers, nuclear peace. And that means disarmament. But first, we must defuse that powder keg, the Middle East, and keep it defused. The only way to do that is with me in the White House for another four years. That fellow they’re running against me isn’t going to do it, that’s for sure. Not the way he looks at the Soviet thing. My relations with the Russians are the best of any president since FDR. Maybe better, ’cause Joe Stalin walked all over Roosevelt. Anyway, I need those four years, and I need that peace treaty before November. Jensen looked directly at Kramer. So now that I’ve told you where I place my priorities, where do you place yours?

The question was forceful, the tone sharp. Under the circumstances, Kramer didn’t blame Jensen for using such blunt words. What he didn’t understand, however, was the president’s cold demeanor ever since the start of the meeting. It wasn’t like him. Something had changed in their normally warm relationship.

Mr. President, please be assured that I am totally committed to the goals of this administration, especially as regards the peace accord. As to my … reluctance, perhaps I should have been more candid with you. Aside from my need to get back to my work, I should have told you that I feel, well, inadequate in these stages of the treaty. I recognize the susceptibilities of the accord, and because I consider myself more a theorist than a diplomat, I felt it would be best handled by the secretary of state, who is vastly more experienced than I. I hope you understand, sir.

With your permission, Mr. President, Hetherington said, I should like to respond to that. He turned to Kramer. I appreciate your compliment, Peter, but your humble assessment of your capabilities is inaccurate. All along you have adroitly handled the trickiest issues with these most difficult participants. You have wisely negotiated provisions that had been judged impossible, given the history of both sides. That is true diplomacy. Your book is recognized as promoting the most objective viewpoint of one of the most emotional issues of this century, a viewpoint with which few can argue. And that includes the combatants about whom you write, all of whom have read and respect your book. No, Peter, I judge you are by far the best qualified to successfully conclude the treaty.

The book to which Hetherington referred was Kramer’s thesis, Abraham/Ibrahim — Semite vs. Semite, a study of the crises that had engulfed the Arabs and Jews for most of the twentieth century. Using an in-depth historical and political view of those two peoples, Kramer showed the ethnic and religious parallels between them. It was the book that had brought Kramer to the attention of the State Department and, ultimately, to President Jensen.

All right, I agree with Jack, the president said with a touch of impatience. Are you with me, Pete? The tone, the look in his eyes, the tenseness of his body said the unspoken words: If you’re not with me, you’re against me.

So. In effect, it was a presidential order. Erika would understand. She would have to understand.

I’m with you, Mr. President.

Splendid! Hetherington said.

Jensen nodded. Okay, we’ll close this now and get on to other things. Let’s look at the game plan once more.

The three men discussed the US position in the United Nations’ peacekeeping forces, along with other items of importance to American interests. Finally, close to midnight, the president dismissed Kramer.

After Kramer left, Jensen turned to his secretary of state. What’s his game, Jack? he asked.

Hetherington smiled his confusion at the question. I’m afraid I don’t understand, Mr. President.

Kramer. What’s he after? Anyone else would’ve offered his balls on a platter for the chance he’s getting, and he’s playing hard to get. What’s he after?

Hetherington frowned. The question perplexes me, sir. I don’t know that he’s after anything other than trying to do the best job possible for us — and for you.

I know that’s what it looks like, Jack, but there’s something that bothers me right here. Jensen patted his belly. It’s as if by downplaying his ability, he knows we’ll tell him how good he really is, and then we’ll tell the world how good he is, and suddenly the whole thing’ll be his ball game, not ours. See what I mean?

Hetherington rose wearily from his chair. Deep in thought, he paced in front of the president’s desk. He stopped squarely atop the large presidential seal woven into the carpet, as if to gain insight from the symbol. Straightening his bow tie, which did not need straightening, he looked at Jensen.

Mr. President, I don’t know what to say other than to express in the strongest manner that I disagree with your statements. I have the utmost confidence in Peter Kramer, in his character, in his honor, and above all in his loyalty to you. Further, I would ask you — with due respect, of course — why, if you have even the slightest doubt about, do you entrust Peter Kramer with this most delicate of missions?

I doubt only his motives, Jack, not him, Jensen said dryly. Besides, the Israelis like him, especially Ben-David. But you can bet I’ll watch him.

Hetherington shook his head.

You’re also a little naïve, Jack, the president said sharply. Then he added, in a softer tone, Your problem is that you’re too much of a gentleman. I’m a street fighter. You’ve got to be suspicious with these Krauts. I know what they are. Remember, I fought them in the war.

The secretary stared at Jensen. Did you say ‘Kraut’? Peter Kramer is Swiss, Mr. President!

Yeah, I know. Swiss, Austrian, German, they all have the same Teutonic mentality. When you come down to it, Jack, they’re all Krauts.

Jackson Hetherington, in overcoat, scarf, and hat, walked to his waiting limousine. His shoulders slumped more than normal. He thought of this president and of other presidents he had served since his days as a whiz kid in the Roosevelt administration. He knew that Jensen had done more and had been more effective at home and abroad than any president since Roosevelt. Yet Jensen was the most enigmatic of all. As he settled into the backseat of the car, Hetherington remembered Winston Churchill’s description of the Soviet Union: a riddle wrapped in a mystery inside an enigma. That described this president as well. Jensen vexed him, and he didn’t know why.

CHAPTER THREE

Simon Jensen worried Peter Kramer too. And like the secretary of state, he didn’t know why. That, and having to face Erika, accounted for his moroseness and anxiety as he closed the door to the garage and walked into the kitchen of their Georgetown house.

Hello, he said to Erika, who was preparing hot chocolate.

How did everything go? she asked.

Boring, as usual. It’s just as well you didn’t come. He tried to measure her mood. Also, Hetherington came and got me out of there for a meeting with Jensen. I’ve just come from the White House. The president sends his regards.

Erika looked at her husband for a moment, then asked if he’d eaten. Would you like something? Some hot chocolate?

He knew it was her way of putting off what she didn’t want to hear. No, thank you.

She sipped her drink and said to the window, They want you to go to Cairo. She spoke calmly, quietly.

Yes, he whispered.

And of course you’re going.

I must.

She crashed her cup down on the counter, chocolate spilling from it. You promised! she said in German.

I promised to resist, which I did. Believe me, I did. But it was no use. Jensen, Hetherington, they explained the gravity of it. It’s critical. It means so much. I can’t back out now. Please try to understand.

Oh, but I do understand, Hans-Dieter! You’re telling me it’s your duty, but I say it’s your ego! All along it’s been that, your monumental ego, hasn’t it? They gave you impressive titles. What are you called? Special ambassador to the president, with offices in the White House and your own staff?

Please, Erika. She had called him Hans-Dieter. She never called him Peter, his assumed name, when passions were high. Hans-Dieter was the name by which she loved him — and hated him.

Oh, yes, she went on with even more irony in her voice, "let’s not forget that what was once known as the Jensen Initiative is now called the Kramer Plan. Well, my dear, you can’t say that these wonderful things deflated your ego!"

The press came up with that. You know their penchant for the dramatic. Yet he knew she was right. He did relish the attention, the admiration.

Exactly! Erika said. The press is interested in everything you do, and yet you keep tempting fate!

He was about to argue his case in anger. Instead, he let his expression fill with love. She must have felt the wave of affection, for her eyes softened too. He put his hands on her shoulders.

Erika, I want you to know that I love you more than ever. And I ask you not to worry. Nothing will happen.

But your picture, it was in that magazine! Her anger had transformed to concern.

That was more than three months ago. We would’ve heard by now if anything … Besides, they’re all dead.

But what if —

What if! What if! he chided her gently. We can’t play the ‘what if’ game all our lives. We can’t change what happened. We can only try to make it right. He put his arms around her and held her.

Hans-Dieter, she whispered, ich ängstige mich so!

"Ja," he said. Und ich liebe dich so!

CHAPTER FOUR

EN ROUTE TO PARIS

The president of Egypt kissed him hard on each cheek, black bristles splashed with lavender lightly stinging Kramer’s face. They gripped each other’s hands tightly, each man aware of the momentous event that was on the verge of becoming a reality. Kramer shook hands quickly with the prime minister and the others, and just as quickly boarded the presidential Boeing 707 bound for Paris.

Fifteen minutes later, he gazed at the Mediterranean as the plane climbed slowly. The sea shimmered in tones of blue and green in the bright sun of history. Here and there he thought he distinguished the unique sails of a xebec or some other ancient fishing boat, its occupants probably oblivious to everything but their harvest. For a moment, he envied the fishermen below, the simplicity of their lives, their uncomplicated struggle for existence.

The tinkling of ice in the glass placed in front of him brought him back to the reality of his trip to Cairo. He sipped the cool gin and tonic, thinking things had really gone well this time, even to his own overly cautious mind. The road to Geneva was paved.

The protocols had been drawn up. Minor points had been renegotiated, necessitating final phone calls with Shaban in Jerusalem, the Israeli foreign minister. Then, with the advise and consent of the president of the United States and the chairman of the Presidium of the Supreme Soviet, an accord would be signed in Geneva between the heads of state of Egypt, Jordan, Syria, Lebanon, Saudi Arabia, and Israel.

The Palestine Liberation Organization was invited to attend as a Most Interested Spectator, and its leader, Shaffir Mahamet, had promised Kramer, with little enthusiasm, that he would be there. Kramer had agreed that Mahamet could address the assembly in Geneva for the benefit of his image with the Palestinians. Mahamet’s speech would not condemn the accord, but he would not fully approve it, because of the Left Bank impasse. It was a compromise. Peter Kramer excelled in such compromises and his star had risen as special ambassador on Mideastern affairs accordingly.

He remembered once being cornered at a diplomatic reception in Washington by Korsakov, the Soviet ambassador. Peter, I don’t know what exactly you are doing, he had said, but it must be right! To which Kramer had responded, I simply recognize that every coin, whether shekel or dinar, has two sides.

Kramer sipped his drink; it tasted like limeade. He rang for the air force steward and ordered more gin.

A wave of general discomfort washed through him. He dismissed it as a slight hangover from the previous night’s banquet, in which President Mohammad al-Hakim had presented him with a medal, The Grand Order of the Nile, for his … indefatigable and unswerving friendship toward Egypt and the cause of peace.

But Kramer knew deep inside that the discomfort, now in the form of a swarm of butterflies in his lower intestines, was for another reason — being once again in Paris.

He reached in his pocket for his pipe, packed it with sweet-smelling tobacco, and lit it.

Going to Paris had been his idea. In fact, he had insisted on giving the secretary of state a firsthand account of his accomplishments with the Egyptians, despite the president’s suggestion that Kramer come to Washington to report direct, thereby excluding the secretary from the treaty even more.

He tapped the unsatisfying pipe out in the ashtray and reached for a cigarette.

That Jackson Hetherington’s influence with the president was waning was certainly no secret in Washington, nor were the rumors that Kramer would soon replace Hetherington. What the insiders did not know, however, was that Kramer had no intentions of accepting the post. Only he, his wife, and a handful of intimates knew that that would be impossible.

The butterflies fluttered their wings inside Kramer’s belly once more. He massaged his abdomen, aware that it wasn’t the prospect of seeing Hetherington, his nominal chief and friend, but the thought of Paris itself.

Paris and the beautiful memories, Paris and the horrible memories. He had not been back since then. The pain was too great in the recollections … a thousand years ago.

Kramer gazed absently at the Cyclades below, dotting, interrupting, the sea of Phoenicia and Hellas. He removed a velvet box from his pocket and opened it. The elaborate medal nestled in silk. He fingered the medal, staring bemusedly at the Mediterranean, and he remembered another medal … another time …

CHAPTER FIVE

BERLIN

SPRING, 1941

The gray-green Stoewer Arkona staff car drove across the Moltke Bridge, crossing the Spree where it made its loop at the tip of the Tiergarten. The day was crisp, and the early afternoon sun warmed the two uniformed Waffen-SS officers in the backseat of the open car, enjoying the sights of the most important section of Berlin. They stopped long enough to allow a charabanc to pass. The horse-drawn carriage was full of soldiers on leave, also taking in the impressive monuments and buildings of the great city.

The Stoewer glided past the Ministry of the Interior, which housed Gestapo headquarters, and into the huge circle of the Königsplatz, which divided the area between the Kroll Opera and the massive, overpowering Reichstag.

The two men gaped in awe as they passed the Brandenburg Gate, the triumphant arch with its bronze charioteer whipping his four horses, and continued on to the Unter den Linden, with its abundance of sidewalk cafés and chic boutiques, thick with smartly coiffed women, confident men, and officers, medals and boots gleaming in the afternoon sun.

Turning onto the Voss Strasse, the Stoewer pulled up to the gate of a large, new building from which flew the unique red, black, and gold Swastika flag. The Hakenkreuz, the personal banner of Adolf Hitler, announced that the Führer was in residence. The stone plaques on the entrance façade read:

PRÄSIDIALKANZLEI

DES FÜHRERS

UND

REICHSKANZLERS

The summons for the two officers had originated from here, the Reich Chancellery.

SS-Colonel Hans-Dieter von Bergdorf stepped from the car. He was followed by his aide, SS-Captain Franz Adler.

Two black-helmeted guards in immaculate ebony uniforms and high boots snapped a salute. They were members of the Palace Guard, the Leibstandarte SS Adolf Hitler. Bergdorf noticed the almost identical physical appearance of the two men, and remembered hearing that recruits for the Leibstandarte were selected on the basis of racial purity, Aryan looks, and had to be at least six feet tall. It was a singular honor to belong to this, the first SS unit, born as a small protective squad during the early days of the struggle for power. Its ranks would proudly announce to the world that their word was their honor, and their honor was to give up their lives for their Führer. Bergdorf thought he could see that in their eyes.

Inside, the sergeant of the guard checked their identity cards and the summons. He spoke briefly on the telephone, and then turned to Bergdorf. General Fegelein is expecting you, sir, he said. Please, follow me.

The crack of boots on polished marble floors resounded in the quiet air of the Chancellery, as they followed the sergeant down the so-called Galerie, an immensely long corridor of portraits and statues. Every few feet groups of overstuffed chairs were arranged around large coffee tables on exquisite oriental carpets. The Galerie was one of many features of the imposing palace designed to impress the foreign diplomatic corps and other visitors with the glories of the Third Reich. Hitler himself had provided many of the ideas, and even sketches, for the new Chancellery. It had been completed in less than one year, employing some forty-five hundred workers.

SS-General Hermann Fegelein waited at the end of the long hall, hands clasped behind his back and feet planted wide apart. Bergdorf noticed he was a smallish man who betrayed some impatience in his face and body language.

The two officers saluted Fegelein crisply, right arms extended. In unison, they bellowed, "Heil Hitler!"

The general responded with a casual salute. Welcome, gentlemen, he said, appraising Bergdorf, "welcome to the seat of government. Captain Adler, you will receive a guided tour of the Reichskanzlei from my adjutant, Sergeant Fischer, after which you will enjoy an excellent lunch in the officers’ mess. Bergdorf, your aide will eat better than we, I assure you. The Führer is given to one-pot lunches these days. Bloody dull lunches, but what can one do? He shrugged. Sergeant, show our guest to Major Fischer’s office. Bergdorf, you come with me."

The words struck Bergdorf like a thunderbolt. He hadn’t expected to see Hitler, let alone lunch with him. He knew he was to be presented with the medal at the Chancellery, but by Himmler, he had thought, or even Keitel of 0KW. But this! It made him feel uncomfortable.

True, he knew that to most Germans, Hitler was a mystical force. They didn’t think of him as a mere mortal. To his zealots, he was the font of strength against the Eastern hordes. Indeed, against the world. He was a military genius, a master political tactician. He was Alexander, Barbarossa, Frederick the Great, all wrapped into one. He would succeed where even Napoleon had failed. He was the force that would save Western civilization and restore the Germanic peoples to their rightful places. Perhaps, thought Bergdorf, and quelled the sudden desire wanting to be back with the men of his Panzer regiment and other mere mortals.

He and Fegelein entered a large, square reception hall where several junior officers milled about. They were, for the most part, aides-de-camp, according to the aiguillettes looped through their shoulder straps. Some senior officers and political dignitaries also stood about, smoking and drinking. Fegelein explained that those who were smoking and drinking were reinforcing themselves with their vices before being in the presence of Hitler. Hard liquor and tobacco were forbidden in his company.

They entered another large salon, where a dozen or more men, military and civilian, stood around in small groups.

Fegelein, who was Himmler’s liaison to the Reich Chancellery, led his guest to a massive fireplace, at which two men in black SS uniforms stood.

The first one, the shorter of the two, had the look of a minor functionary in a rural bank. He was of medium height with rather large hips, making him look like a masculine woman in men’s clothing. He had a small mustache over a thin, humorless mouth. His prominent nose that supported pince-nez glasses stood out in dominance over a weak chin. The look on his otherwise expressionless face was that of an anxious student waiting for the headmaster to review his final term paper. Several rings adorned his fleshy fingers.

This was the most feared man in Germany, SS-Reichsführer and chief of the German police, Heinrich Himmler.

In contrast, the other man was dramatic in appearance. Standing a head taller than Himmler, he looked as though he could have been the inspiration for Wagner’s Siegfried. Blond and athletic, he emanated strength and virility. He had a long, straight nose and granite-like chin. His mouth, unless smirking, was slightly turned down, as though he was perpetually offended by the mediocrity around him. Steely, clear eyes set in feline slits gave him a visage of extreme arrogance and infinite cruelty. His long, powerful fingers would have served him well as a pianist, rather than as the accomplished violinist that he was.

On the left sleeve of his uniform tunic was the familiar diamond-shaped patch with the letters SD, which struck fear in the hearts of thousands. The SD, the Sicherheitsdienst, to which even the Gestapo was subordinate, was the security service of the SS, the state within the state. This man, then, creator of the SD, was Hitler’s man of steel, Reinhard Tristan Eugen Heydrich.

Fegelein and Bergdorf stood at a respectful distance, allowing Heydrich to finish his remarks to the Reichsführer. Finally, Himmler interrupted. Excuse me, Herr Heydrich, but it seems the guest of honor has arrived.

Fegelein, taking his cue, introduced Bergdorf to his chief. Himmler started to open his mouth and offer his hand, when Bergdorf took one step back. His right arm shot up and out as he exclaimed, "Heil Hitler!" It was the required salute in the Third Reich, and by Himmler’s own orders. At the Chancellery, however, there was an unwritten abstention of the grandiloquent salute.

Himmler seemed charmed by Bergdorf’s gesture and his face lit up with pride. "Heil Hitler, my dear Bergdorf, he said, smiling paternally and offering a limp handshake. Allow me to present the chief of the SD, General of the Waffen-SS Heydrich."

Bergdorf bowed slightly and briskly, offering his hand to Heydrich, who took it without comment. His eyes, however, bore into Bergdorf’s in deep and intense appraisal.

Himmler continued, "Well, Bergdorf, I can tell you that it is with the greatest of pleasure that I finally meet you, my boy. General List has informed me personally of your glorious successes in Yugoslavia, the taking of the bridge on the Tisza and all the other brave accomplishments of you and your men. You know, Heydrich, it is good, brave soldiers like this that justify the existence of our Waffen-SS. Where else can one find such exemplary fighting spirit and loyalty to the Führer? Ah, but soon you shall have the singular honor of hearing these praises from the Führer’s own lips!

But first. He gestured behind Bergdorf to some approaching photographers. "They’re looking for you to take your picture, Bergdorf. It will be on the cover of Das Schwarze Korps, the official SS magazine."

His picture was taken with Himmler and Heydrich. The photographers left and Himmler looked away. It was over.

Fegelein pointed to a chair. Wait there, Bergdorf. I’ll be back soon. Some phone calls await me.

Bergdorf retreated to a corner of the room and took a seat, looking around the room. Two men in the black uniforms of the Allgemeine-SS were chatting with Himmler and Heydrich. They both held the rank of lieutenant general, which was usually and permissively granted by Himmler to high party officials, even though they never would command a single soldier. Their rank was strictly honorary, and carried with it an implied debt to the Reichsführer, which, inexplicably, he seemed to seldom cash in.

Bergdorf looked beyond the group and studied the room, with its paintings and elegant furniture, the fireplace, the people, everything. It all looked smaller, less impressive, than when he had first entered. The notables appeared less notable. The medals, the braid, the monocles, the boots and spurs, and the armbands. So many armbands, some in golden oak leaves, some with silver borders, some in triangles. They were all there in that room. There was even one armband with a spade on it, the kind with which one digs, he noted. Everyone seemed happy. Bergdorf corrected himself. Everyone was smiling. Yes, that was it. They were smiling, but not with their eyes. Their eyes held fear, he thought. The room was heavy with it. Fear. Not the fear of death from the enemy’s bullet, but the fear of life without their empires within the empire. Judging from their faces, those empires were made of sand.

All of a sudden, as he felt the thickness of the atmosphere in the room where no one smoked or drank — not out of respect, but out of fear — he saw the braid tarnish, the leather crack, and the cloth fray.

The drama was heightened by the ringing voice of an army adjutant who had entered the hall. Gentlemen, the Führer!

All conversation ceased immediately, and all stood rigidly at attention. Bergdorf felt a surge of electrically charged tension fill the room. All gazes shifted as one, from the adjutant to the door through which he had entered, as if the doorway had its own awesome personality. Seconds passed like minutes. The dozen of eyes remained riveted on the doorway as the anticipation mounted to an unbearable pitch.

Bergdorf could hear only the sound of lungs restraining the breath in the deafening silence. He heard thumping heartbeats, and realized it was his own blood pounding in his ears. At long last, though maybe only ten seconds after the announcement, the adjutant left, indicating that he was coming.

Muffled footsteps on carpet preceded the entrance of Field Marshal Keitel and Colonel-General Jodl. A few steps behind, he came, Adolf Hitler, supreme warlord. He was followed by a short, squat man in the party tunic and armband of a party leader.

Reichsführer Himmler seized the opportunity and stepped forward, his arm extended in the ancient German greeting. My Führer! he shouted. The rest of the group picked up the cue, and in unison, cried "Heil!"

Hitler raised his hand, palm showing, nodding solemnly. The tension was broken.

Himmler walked up to Hitler to shake his hand. Several others, trying to look casual, approached the leader. They elbowed for recognition, surrounding him. Bergdorf noticed Himmler speaking close to Hitler’s ear. Hitler looked in Bergdorf’s direction and nodded. The Führer motioned to Keitel, and the group approached Bergdorf. The young baron came to attention and saluted. "Heil, mein Führer!"

Hitler gazed at him appraisingly, a hint of a smile on his lips. He didn’t greet Bergdorf; he merely stood in front of him, his hands clasped rigidly in front, forming a V with his arms. He wore a simple gray-green double-breasted jacket with no belt. On the left sleeve he had the National Socialist eagle emblem. He wore no medals except for his Iron Cross, First Class, which he had earned for his bravery in the trenches of Flanders during the Great War. He wore the gold party badge and a small eagle pin on his black tie. His hair was brushed neatly in place, his brow devoid of the famous forelock. Bergdorf noticed some small nicks on the Führer’s chin, which made him conclude that Hitler shaved himself or that he was very patient with his barber. His mouth was narrow, although his mustache, by its short and bristly configuration, lengthened the lips. Hitler’s nose was much too large for his face, especially since he wasn’t wearing a hat to give it some balance. His nose flared out from top to bottom, forming an unattractive pyramid over his short mustache. His pale blue eyes, however, were penetrating. As the eyes gazed deeply into Bergdorf’s eyes, he felt Hitler could see inside him.

Hitler’s eyes, in fact, were one of his most potent weapons, and he used that weapon often. Now, as Field Marshal Keitel recited Bergdorf’s accomplishments on the field of battle, the Führer’s eyes never left Bergdorf’s.

Keitel droned on, describing Bergdorf’s heroic achievements and those of his men in securing the bridge on the Tisza during Operation Vengeance, the invasion of Yugoslavia and the Balkans. Hitler himself had code — named the attack, prompted by his extreme hatred of the Yugoslavian military men who dared defy him, a defiance he saw as a personal affront.

It had been another demonstration to the world of the invincibility of the German armed forces, this aptly named operation. The Germans had taken the Balkans and kicked the British out of Greece in one lightning swoop.

The former lance corporal, now supreme commander of the mightiest of all war machines, stood gazing into the young baron’s eyes, relishing the recitation by his sycophant field marshal, wishing that he somehow could have been there atop a white charger leading the troops himself.

Finally, the long narrative was over. Colonel General Jodl handed Hitler the case containing the Knight’s Cross of the Iron Cross. The Führer removed the medal and solemnly draped it over Bergdorf’s neck, still gazing at him. Hitler as yet had not uttered one word. He grasped Bergdorf’s hand with both of his and held it for a few seconds. He then gripped Bergdorf’s arm and gave it an affectionate squeeze. As he did, his eyes appeared to moisten, giving Bergdorf the impression that if Hitler didn’t speak, it was because he was too overcome by emotion.

Hitler then slowly walked away, shuffling slightly and staring into the distance. Keitel hastily handed Bergdorf his Führer citation and quickly caught up with Hitler as he left the room.

The short bull-like man in the Party tunic who had arrived with Hitler announced, Gentlemen, due to pressing military matters to which he must attended without delay, the Führer will have to forego lunch as originally scheduled. Accordingly, he extends his regrets. Any of you who have business with the Führer will see me in my office. That will be all.

It was