Where the Bones Lie: Jonas Shaw and Charly Lawrence, #2

By Steve Haberman

A famous American woman journalist goes missing in 1946 post-war Berlin.  Her equally famous lover, a former Winston Churchill spy, sets out in the smashed capital of  Germany to find her.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Steve Haberman
• Release date: Jul 30, 2021
• ISBN: 9798201014391

Steve Haberman

     Steve earned a B. A. Degree from the University of Texas in Austin, majoring in political science and minoring in history. Afterwards he passed his stock broker's exam and worked for a time at a brokerage house before returning to school.  Upon getting his legal assistant certification from UCLA, he worked at a law firm in Los Angeles. Successful stock market investments allowed him to retire early and to pursue two dreams, writing and foreign travel, and he has since traveled extensively and frequently to Europe. He speaks some French, a little less Italian, and four words in German and hopes to expand his fluency in all three languages.        He enjoys the cosmopolitan bustle, sidewalk cafes, the museums of Berlin, Rome, Vienna, London, Budapest, and Paris. Many of these capitals find their way into his stories of intrigue..."Murder Without Pity" (Paris), "The Killing Ploy" (London, Berlin, Paris, and Lugano) and the soon-to-be-released "Darkness and Blood" (London and Paris) and "Winston Churchill's Renegade Spy" (London and Zurich).  He's also researching for a fifth novel, this one to be set in 1946 Berlin.         I          

Book preview

Where the Bones Lie

Jonas Shaw and Charly Lawrence, Volume 2

Steve Haberman

Published by Steve Haberman, 2021.

This is a work of fiction. Similarities to real people, places, or events are entirely coincidental.

WHERE THE BONES LIE

First edition. July 30, 2021.

Copyright © 2021 Steve Haberman.

ISBN: 979-8201014391

Written by Steve Haberman.

Also by Steve Haberman

Jonas Shaw and Charly Lawrence

Where the Bones Lie

The Spy from Palestine

Standalone

The Killing Ploy

Murder Without Pity

Darkness and Blood

Winston Churchill's Renegade Spy

Watch for more at Steve Haberman’s site.

Once more to my parents, Joseph and Ruth Haberman, for their love and their values.

WHERE THE

BONES LIE

By Steve Haberman

A novel of post-World War II Berlin. The sequel to Winston Churchill’s Renegade Spy.

Also by Steve Haberman

Murder Without Pity. A Paris state criminal investigator looks into the bizarre death of a pensioner and finds his life changed forever.

The Killing Ploy. An American spy gets disastrously entangled in a CIA fake news plot to capture a much-wanted terrorist.

Darkness and Blood. The sequel to The Killing Ploy. An ex-American spy and his former CIA boss are on the run in Europe after they discover damaging, top secret government files.

Winston Churchill’s Renegade Spy. Can a prime minister’s fired bodyguard help save the world from evil?

Copyright 2021 by Steve Haberman

For want of a nail, the shoe was lost.

For want of a shoe, the horse was lost.

For want of a horse, the rider was lost.

For want of a rider, the battle was lost.

For want of a battle, the kingdom was lost.

Almost.

TABLE OF CONTENTS

CHAPTER 1

MISSING

CHAPTER 2

THE RIVER KILLER

CHAPTER 3

KOMMANDATURA RUNAROUND

CHAPTER 4

AN OLD YOUNG BERLINER

CHAPTER 5

CONFESSION OF AN AVENGER

CHAPTER 6

A ROOM WITH NO ANSWERS

CHAPTER 7

BLACK MARKET HUNT

CHAPTER 8

THE HIDDEN CITY

CHAPTER 9

A STARRING ROLE

CHAPTER 10

CODE NAME: OPERATION GÖTTERDÄMMERUNG

CHAPTER 11

QUID PRO QUO

CHAPTER 12

LOVERS’ QUARREL

CHAPTER 13

BYGONES AND BYLINES

CHAPTER 14

CHARLY’S MISSION

CHAPTER 15

CAPTAIN JONAS SHAW

CHAPTER 16

POINT BLANK

CHAPTER 17

COMRADE DIMITRI GOES FOR A DRIVE

CHAPTER 18

THE BERLINER NEWSDAY REPORTS...

CHAPTER 19

CRUSADER’S MISSION

CHAPTER 20

CAFÉ RENDEZVOUS

CHAPTER 21

CRUEL NIGHT

CHAPTER 22

DOCTOR CALHOUN HUMBLY SUGGESTS

CHAPTER 23

BRAIN STORMING

CHAPTER 24

BREAK, ENTER, FLEE

CHAPTER 25

AMBUSH

CHAPTER 26

A VERY DETERMINED WOMAN

CHAPTER 27

THE COLONEL IS DISPLEASED

CHAPTER 28

TUESDAY’S FALLBACK

CHAPTER 29

CRISIS at BOB

CHAPTER 30

PANKOW

CHAPTER 31

AN OLD FRIEND

CHAPTER 32

SPECIAL DELIVERY

CHAPTER 33

GLEIWITZ

CHAPTER 34

MIDNIGHT HANDOFF

CHAPTER 35

IN THE DARK

CHAPTER 36

THE WHITE RUSSIAN

CHAPTER 37

CAFÉ SCHMIDT

CHAPTER 38

THE WEREWOLVES

CHAPTER 39

AD HOC at 20:00

CHAPTER 40

AD HOC at 22:00

CHAPTER 41

AD HOC at 23:00

CHAPTER 42

MAY 8

CHAPTER 43

PANIC BOULEVARD

CHAPTER 44

SAVAGE NIGHT

CHAPTER 45

THE MORNING AFTER

CHAPTER 46

A CELEBRATION, OF SORTS

CHAPTER 1

MISSING

The bar in the requisitioned Berlin villa had no welcoming sign and no name. It was a dusty make-shift like much in the destroyed capital after the war. Warnings nailed into the wall over the gilded mirror insisted NO WEAPONS ALLOWED, NO LOOTING TOLERATED. The mansion’s crusty management further reserved the right to throw out any German and insisted all visiting Russians be escorted! But it still drew many an unhappy Berliner and an occasional troubled American.

Think you've had enough of that for the morning, Mr. Shaw? I'm sure your girl will turn up. But if I was you, I'd keep myself clear headed just in case.

Well, you're not me, soldier. So just pour, okay? Jonas glared at the bartender and shook his head. Had he ever looked that young? Johnnie Walker here helps me gather my thoughts. He pulled back the sleeve to his overcoat and checked his wristwatch again. 11: 30. A. M. Charly now gone for over ten hours.

You look pretty busted up. This gal of yours really must be somethin'.

Jonas nodded as he slowly revolved his gold-rimmed glass. We met during the war. He took another long sip. In Zurich.

Gosh, Switzerland. I’ve always wanted to visit there. Say, what about a Coke, huh? The bartender stooped and grunting with effort, hefted up with both hands a wooden crate, which he dropped onto the counter. We got us a brand spanking new shipment in from the States yesterday. It's just the ticket for a good pick-me-upper.

Jonas puckered his lips in thought. A dull ache throbbed at his temples. He lit up another Camel, blew out a stream of smoke toward the coffered ceiling, merely nodded to his empty glass. The kid was right. He had to keep a clear head just in case. He pushed the bottle of Red Label out of reach, as he did so, catching his disheveled, tired appearance in the gold framed mirror. He collected his gloves and scooted over several stools.

When's that C-47 take off from Flughafen-Tempelhof for London? The bartender yanked off the top to a bottle with a pearl handle opener and dribbled it carefully into the tilted gold-rimmed glass. Here we go, just what the doctor ordered. The soft drink fizzled in the silence of the nearly empty bar. Something to wet your whistle.

It's already left. Jonas felt a tingle in his mouth as he sipped. But it didn't make him feel any better. Hours ago.

And your gal wasn't on it?

Jonas slammed his glass down, spilling some Coke. Look son, if she was, think I'd be here in this damn villa? What the hell you think I've doing these last few hours?

The bartender backed away from the counter, smooth palms raised outward, defensive. Okay, okay, Mr. Shaw. Settle down. Just asking, that's all. Just asking.

I just got back from Tempelhof and Gatow Airfields. The Security Police have no record of her boarding. Her suitcase’s still in her room here. So's her typewriter and press credentials. Her bed hasn’t been slept in. Jonas smashed out his barely smoked cigarette on the countertop and tossed it into his glass. I should never have let her come to this goddamn town in the first place.

The bartender used a sleeve of his white uniform to wipe away the spill. These days, women got a mind of their own. The war liberated them, that's what it done. They’re even wearing pants now.

"That's Charly to a T. She marches to her own drumbeat. Too stubborn sometimes for her own good. Jonas briefly eyed him. She wants to make a name for herself. Be the next Lee Miller or Martha Gellhorn."

Good luck with that. If it’s any comfort, Mr. Shaw, Press Haus Villa is in Dahlem. Well within the American sector. She's probably, just as you said, like all the other ambitious reporters, who come here hustling fame and fortune. Chasing some story nearby and forgot the time, that's all. It's easy to do these days in Berlin, what with all that's going on. Maybe sprained an ankle or something.

Yeah, or something. Jonas looked over his shoulder. Two drinkers, in lounge chairs in a smoky corner off to his right, were arguing over Hitler's fate. The Associated Press reporter, sporting a bow tie and suspenders, threw down onto a wooden table next to his Kodak camera a black and white photo of twisted concrete ruins. He was positive the murderous dictator had died in his Fuehrer bunker under his dream palace, the Reich New Chancellery. The CBS man opposite, bald and bespectacled, tossed aside his Berlin Daily Post and yanked a cigarette out of his mouth. He leaned forward and countered that was hogwash. His sources had sworn an aviatrix had flown the tyrant to some distant coast in a Junker 390 four-engine wonder the last days of fighting for the capital. From there he had fled to Argentina in a sub. Nearby a gangly man with round spectacles and in a tweed jacket with elbow patches puffed on a pipe. He ignored their debate and studied back issues of the New York Herald Tribune and the Die Allgemeine Zeitung newspapers folded over sticks on a wooden rack attached to the wall.

Why don't you get some shut-eye, Mr. Shaw. You look like you could use some sleep. I hear anything, I'll let you know on the double.

I'll get some sleep, after I know what the hell’s happened to my girl. Jonas slapped down some English pounds for his drinks on the counter, ensuring enough for a tip. I heard on the Armed Forces Radio the Russians are still raping, soldier. You might want to pass that on to your lady friends. He pocketed his packet of cigarettes, only three left, he noticed, brushed ashes off his wrinkled pants, hand brushed his hair into place as best he could, slid off his stool, and wandered over to the news people, his slouch straightened to a respectable posture. Any of you guys seen a woman with reddish auburn hair. High cheek bones. About five feet seven or so. Looks a little like Katharine Hepburn. He showed a color snapshot of her from his wallet.

The AP man cocked his head up at Jonas. That taken at Coney Island?

Jonas simply nodded, impatient for an answer.

"Mister, a dame built like that in that bathing suit, I'd sure as hell notice. And I tell you, she wouldn't be wandering around for long by her lonesome. No siree Bob." He punctuated his lascivious desire with a chuckle and wink across to his fellow reporter.

His companion returned the chuckle, jiggling his ample stomach, and raised his hand in the direction of the bartender for a refill. You’re one for the books, you dirty devil you. Lucky your Edna's back in Iowa and can't hear you. Then to Jonas. "Some broad you got there. She a cover girl for Vogue Magazine or Glamour?"

A war correspondent.

The journalist frowned disbelief. A war correspondent, her?

Forget it, guys. Jonas felt dirty showing her photo. He pushed his wallet back into his hip pocket.

I say you two, show some consideration. This gentleman simply asked— The spindly man with the English accent had shifted to Jonas and a surprised look registered on his florid face. You look somewhat familiar. Aren't you that Winston Churchill bodyguard chap who caused that scandal during the war?

Jonas shook his head no. He didn't have time for any distraction. You've confused me with someone else. He balled his fists up in the direction of the two seated journalists, then dropped his arms to his sides. He had to get out of the stifling bar with its war calloused complacency before he lost control and gave one of the drinkers a beating he might not regret.

He checked the cork Notice Board next to the former villa’s cloakroom, now Press Haus’s reception across from the bar. Everything looked nearly the same as before. A warning to drink only bottled, not tap water; rotting corpses still polluted the water supply. Another warning, this to be on the lookout for gangs of wild starving children, who would steal anything. A Line A U-Bahn update; it was once again running from the Krumme Lanke Station up to Nollendorfplatz. Cost, still twenty pfennigs. A new advisory not to steal German works of art or jewelry to which someone underneath had written, To the victor goes the spoils! and below that a new scrawl, Some spoils!! But nothing posted from Charly.

The cubbyhole reception office itself was unattended. But a girlish scream of joy behind a black curtain ahead pierced Sinatra pleading to be careful with his heart. Someone was back there at last. Jonas glanced at a Stars and Stripes March edition headline on the desk—RIVER KILLER STRIKES AGAIN!—before pounding the little service bell several times with his palm. Hey, anybody back there.

From behind the cloth partition came whispered voices. Then a brutal scratching of a stylus on a 78 as someone carelessly yanked it off the record. A man with a face as ugly as a bat's, big ears and small beady eyes, stuck his head around the corner of the divide. Yeah, Mac, what do you want? He had a growly New York accent and a New York sneer.

Any messages for a Jonas Shaw from a Frau Charlotte Lawrence? C-h-a-r-l-o-t-t-e L-a-w-r-e-n-c-e. She works for the American Chronicle wire service and is staying here.

Bat Face stepped out from behind the curtain, brushing strands of oily dark hair off his forehead. He advanced toward the desk, smelling of sweat and talcum power. You that Jonas Shaw fella? he asked, zipping up his pants. The one they says been looking for this Lawrence woman?

Yeah, that's me.

"Well, there ain't no message in any way, shape, or form. That's none, n-o-n-e. Nein if you sprechen Deutsch." He tucked his shirt tail into his wrinkled trousers, all the time glaring at Jonas. You’re sure your sweetie pie even checked in here?

Jonas leaned across the desk toward him, all thick neck; muscled, tattooed arms; and not looking very bright. Charlotte Lawrence. Goes by the name of Charly. Flew in three days ago from London. Signed the villa’s logbook March 13. A Wednesday. Checked into room 210 at the top of the stairs, second floor. He gestured down the corridor to the wide stairs that swept up three stories to show familiarity with the villa. Now I’ll ask one more time. See. If. There's. Any. Message. It's important.

"Oh, it’s important, is it? Everything's important these days in Hitler Town. Look, Mac, the late shift warned me you was one nagging bastard. You think you're the only one staying here? We ain't your personal servant. She ain't here, and there ain't no message for you. If there was, I'd know, or someone else manning the desk here would and have left a note. Ask the military police. Maybe they done seen her. Capisce?"

A woman with Betty Boop lips, fluffed blonde Shirley Temple curls, and clutching a sheet to ample breasts stepped out from the black cloth wall. She whispered something in German into his ear, all the time staring at Jonas with a saucy look under heavily made up drowsy eyes.

Katja says try the Kommandatura. They might help locate your sweetie.

The what?

"Jesus fuckin’ Christ, new boy in town's hard of hearing? What’d I just get through sayin'? The Kommandatura, Mac. The Allied Kommandatura. The Big Boys here. Us Americans, the Brits, the Frogs—the French, in case you didn't know, Mr. Shaw—and the big, bad Soviets. The top brass who call the shots. The governing body for Berlin or what's left of it. 16-18 Kaiserswerther Strasse here in Dahlem. Good luck trying to find her in this hell hole. Now if you'll excuse me."

That’s where he’d start. At the top. Not so fast. I'll need a pistol. Whatever you got back there.

Oh, we need a pistol now, do we?

"Yeah, a pistol. And ammo. And a shoulder holster, if you got one. My driver from Tempelhof told me Berlin's still dangerous. An eye-for-an-eye kind of town, he said. From personal experience. He warned I should borrow one for protection."

Berlin's still dangerous all right. Some Krauts don't seem to understand we whipped their ass. Some of them—’specially them SS bastards—are real smirky shits. And don't you get me started on them Russkies. We got us a couple of M1911s laying around here somewhere. New boy in town’s got to leave a deposit. He stared back wordlessly, as if that requirement would deter him.

Jonas caught the minute hand jerk forward on his wristwatch. "Go get one, and you'll be rid of this pain in the ass. Capisce?"

Now there's an idea, getting rid of you. As he moved toward the curtain, he glanced over his shoulder. Think new boy in town can handle it or need a lesson or two?

Jonas felt his face redden. Just get me a goddamn handgun.

One M1911 coming up for new boy in town. He slipped beyond the curtain. There was the sound of boxes being thrown about, a drawer from some desk yanked open, then slammed shut, several giggles, an order from him to shut the fuck up followed by several more curses until at last, You're in luck, mister, I found one. And a leather holster so you can look real tough. He reemerged into the cubbyhole reception area, brandishing both near Jonas's face. Ya sure new boy don’t want me to show ya how to use it? He had replaced the New York sneer with a New York smirk.

Jonas leaned across the desk and snatched the pistol and leather shoulder holster from his hand and the box of bullets on the countertop. Bat Face stared back, his mouth open. His hairy nostrils flared. In surprise or anger, he couldn't tell or care. I’ll settle up my deposit later.

"Mr. Shaw, there you are. You forgot your change; it’ll be in Allied Military Marks. And here’s your Chronicle crossword puzzle page."

Jonas shoved the newspaper into his overcoat pocket, but waved off the change from the bartender. Without saying a word, he hurried toward the villa's steps. Charly was now missing for over twelve hours.

CHAPTER 2

THE RIVER KILLER

A blast of Berlin cold hit him as he paused at the top step that led down to the U-shaped gravel drive. He flipped up his overcoat collar and sank his gloved hands deeply into the pockets. Toward the north east off in the distance, an ominous black cloud dirtied the gray sky. Another war-weakened apartment block or Third Reich ministry must have collapsed in the city center. He shook his head in disbelief. Berlin, a dreamscape of ruin and walking cadavers. Except that the hell was real. He hoped not more humans had died in the crumbled buildings.

A Jeep sped toward the villa's entrance, its two American flags fluttering wildly on the muddy front bumper. In the passenger seat, a young woman slumped forward, her head bouncing around from the rollicking motion. The driver screeched to a halt in front of him, the passenger pitched forward, banging her head on the folding windshield. Help me out with her, will you, sir. Looking agitated, he jumped out, bounded up the steps, and yanked open the tall wooden double doors to the villa's foyer.

I’ve got to—Oh, never mind. Jonas scooped her up in his arms. She was as light as a rag doll and gasped out a moan as her dirty little shoeless feet dangled limply. A gash from hitting her head on the windshield had opened on her feverishly red forehead. Blood trickled down her right cheek. Her pale skin on her rack of protruding ribs made her look ancient. Where do you want me to put her.

This way. The driver hurried ahead down the parquet floor. One of our news sources, he said over his shoulder. She was beaten near the Brandenburg Gate. If she hadn't crawled over to the British side, who knows what the Sovs would have done to her.

You should have put the top up for her, soldier. It’s damn cold out there.

It’s a wonder my Jeep still runs it’s got so many miles on it. He stopped three doors down from the bar. In here. The dining room.

Jonas took a quick glance around—high arched windows, a Gobelin tapestry on the wall ahead, an enormous chandelier, a huge Oriental rug—as the driver swept a heavy candelabra off the dinner table, and it went crashing off to the side. Jonas eased her gently onto the polished table. Get some Aspirin and see if there’s a doctor around. The driver looked suddenly shaken as if he was going to be sick. Don't just stand there, soldier. Get moving. She might have a concussion and who knows what—

The driver dashed into the corridor before Jonas had finished.

Jonas put his fingers on her bony left wrist. A pulse just barely. He bent down close to her head and caressed back strands of tangled, dirty hair that had fallen across her grimy face. Can you hear me, dear? What's your name, girl? he asked, then remembered she probably was a Berliner and in his schoolboy German, "Wie heisst du?"

I'll take over, if ya don't mind.

A gentle southern American accent. Jonas glanced over his shoulder. A big-shouldered man in a white panama suit lumbered up to him, shaking his head, concerned. You're a doctor?

You could say that, son. He hefted up by its tarnished handles a scratched black leather medical bag as proof. Doctor Thaddeus Calhoun at your service. I got me a practice back in a one-horse town in Tennessee you ain't never heard of. But I do practice. I do indeed. I'm here visiting my brother. A stringer for one of them dailies out on the West Coast. I have done my share of practicing here as well, sad to say. Abortions for Berlin women gang raped by vodka-drunk Russian soldiers. Potassium permanganate pills for gonorrhea for frisky American servicemen. Gunshot wounds from someone robbed. The River Killer’s victims. Etc., etc. and since I’m talking about Berlin he-ah, etc. Now what seems to be the problem with this he-ah po' girl? He plunked his medical kit down on a nearby high-backed chair, as though attending just another in a long line of emergencies.

She looks in bad shape. My guess, he continued while the doctor reached into his bag, possible hypothermia and malnutrition. Maybe raped.

Some Kraut hospitals still standin' are mostly blackened walls. He gave Jonas a sideways look of contempt. They ain't worth pig piss from all the bombin' done to 'em. But maybe we can get her into Waldfriede, if they got ‘em a spare bed. He searched inside his black medical bag, patted his pockets, uttered a dad-gummit, then shouted, Little Horst, front and center.

A waif, blue eyes and with a mess of dirty blond hair, stuck his head inside. "Ja, Doktor?"

Quit your sweeping. Go get me my thermometer. It’s in my brown bag in my room.

Horst gazed up open-mouthed at Jonas, looking awed before giving an