Shark and Octopus Read online

  From the sidewalk he heard Saif describing his most recent mother-driven date:

  “She was as wide as she was tall.”

  Bobby’s response was, “But isn’t it the inner beauty that counts?” to which Saif replied, “Not exclusively.”

  Griffin joined them on the porch.

  “Since nobody placed a specific order,” he began, reaching into the bag, “I ordered dinners I thought matched that person’s personality.”

  “Why is that a bit scary?” Kit asked.

  “Let us see. Here’s rice and dhal with okra, for Annie. Who made a New Year’s resolution to eat more vegetables.”

  “Griffin, it’s June,” she pointed out.

  “Better late than never.”

  He reached into the bag for a second dinner.

  “Some Mahi-Mahi for Saif-Saif.”

  “Thank you, thank you.”

  “For Kit.” Out came a third dinner. “Pulled pork sliders. I have no idea why I picked that, except it sounds like something you could say suggestively to a woman.

  “For Bobby, coo-coo and dumplings.”

  “Coo-coo to you, too.”

  “And, for me, baked goat cheese. Since I’m the goat dragging you through this chase for the key, which is leading us to we have no idea where.”

  Half hour later, the Caribbean dinners done, Griffin announced, “Everyone? Let’s go inside, see where we are.”

  *

  Once they settled into the living room, Griffin said, “Bobby? I choose you.”

  From the couch Bobby said, “You asked me to call the Spanish embassy in Washington.”

  “And?”

  “And, amigo, my phone performance today took even my breath away. I gushed. And gushed some more. I begged. Pleaded. I cried. I kept this poor woman, her name was Ms. Iglesias, at the Spanish embassy on the phone for the better part of an hour. She tried to track down the brave, selfless, gallant – did I mention brave? – Spaniard who supposedly saved my life at the museum fundraiser. I had Ms. Iglesias in tears. No luck. Nada. Total washout.”

  “No surprise. As we agreed, it was a long shot, maybe a no shot. At least we can be fairly certain the man in white’s not a diplomat or a dignitary visiting from Spain. But thanks for trying.”

  Griffin stifled, though not completely, a belch. The goat cheese promised an active digestive evening.

  “Annie and Kit? You looked at the Future-Ride financial information. Anything?”

  “Quite possibly. For this, we need to go into the dining room.”

  As they went there, Annie continued speaking. “Saif was good enough to help us with this on the computer.”

  Saif took a seat in front of his laptop resting on the dining room table.

  “First,” he cautioned, “Annie and Kit need to explain what they found.”

  “Griffin?” This was Kit. Griffin noticed how red-rimmed and tired Kit’s eyes were. He’d worked hard today, clearly. Griffin felt a burst of gratitude for his oldest friend. “We looked into the German companies Future-Ride worked with, like you suggested. Future-Ride worked with eleven companies in Germany. We found they clustered.”

  “Clustered?”

  “Best way to explain this is to see what the eleven German companies Future-Ride worked with over the past three years do not have in common.”

  “Okay, Kit. What don’t they have in common?”

  “They aren’t near Berlin or Frankfurt, the political and financial capitals of Germany. They’re not in the same industries – one company manufactures pajamas and another provides tax advice. One makes computer software; one provides domestics to clean houses. Some are large corporations, some fairly smallish firms. Some are publicly traded on their stock exchange, others are not. There are no individuals in common in any of the companies’ executives or their boards of directors.”

  “What do they have in common, then?” Griffin wondered.

  “Saif?” Annie said.

  Saif crossed his arms like a genie. Then, in a quick move he tapped the Enter key on the keyboard. He did so with a bit of Watch this! flair. Griffin could tell Saif was enjoying his role.

  “What they have in common,” Kit concluded, “is geography.”

  Saif pointed at the computer screen. The others had seen this already; Griffin was playing catch up.

  On the computer screen was a map of Germany. There were two clusters – that was indeed the right word – of red circles. One cluster was in the north and the other in the south of the country, toward the border with Austria.

  “Each red circle on the screen represents one German company Future-Ride worked with. Let me enlarge and split the screen so you can see where the clusters are.”

  Saif made a few more taps on the keyboard. The pattern was now obvious, undeniable. In the north were five red circles in and around the city of Hamburg. In the south were six circles outside the smaller city of Ulm.

  “Well played, everyone,” Griffin said, staring at the screen. He began pacing. “This outcome cannot possibly be a random result. It has got to be unrandom. Is unrandom a word? Whatever. This is a definite pattern, all the companies Future-Ride acquired clustering in two places. Now, for the question all this is leading up to: What do these two places have in common?”

  “We were discussing that very question while waiting for you to show up with dinner,” Kit said.

  “Well?” Griffin said. “Might as well tell me.”

  “Well,” Annie said. “We’re hoping you might know.”

  Griffin stared at the screen a long while. He stifled a small belch. He stopped pacing long enough to touch the screen with a tentative fingertip.

  “Well,” he said at last. “I have no idea.”

  *

  The goat cheese complained to Griffin again. This belch he tried to disguise behind a cough. He managed a passable imitation, though he suspected Annie was not fooled.

  Post-belch/cough, Griffin said to Saif, “Did you get the chance to look into Hans Baeder’s war record online? Do we know anything more about Hans than we did this morning?”

  “A bit more. Did you know Hans Baeder was wounded in the war?”

  “I did,” Griffin replied. “Hans lost his pinkie finger and half his ring finger of his left hand.” Griffin recounted the rest of his conversation with Mel Morton at Bow Saw Construction that morning. “But Mel had no idea where or when Hans was wounded.”

  “That I can tell you. It was in Bavaria. And I can tell you when. The morning of August 17, 1944. In an Allied bombing raid on a German railroad line. He – Hans Baeder – was awarded their equivalent of the Purple Heart. And can you guess where in Germany Hans was wounded?”

  “Where?”

  “Ulm,” Saif answered. “Hans Baeder was wounded outside the town of Ulm. Which more tightly ties him to Future-Ride. They have worked with six different companies in Ulm, which is a fairly small place. Though of course Future-Ride worked with these companies decades after Hans was wounded.

  “But, Griffin? I couldn’t find out what unit he was with. Or why Hans joined the Nazi Party. The two questions you asked me to answer I couldn’t answer. I tried, believe me, I tried.”

  Saif slapped the table with both palms. It wasn’t a loud or notably angry slap. But by the standard of Saif’s always mannerly behavior – in high school everyone’s parents wanted to know why their child couldn’t be as well behaved as Saif Venkatesan – Saif’s slap was the attention-grabbing equivalent of a shotgun blast.

  “Simmadown, Saif. What you got today paints in the background some.”

  Saif seemed as surprised by his outburst as everyone else. After tucking his hands in his lap, he resumed. “I did learn one detail about the young Hans today. It’s not too surprising, considering what you and Kit saw on the bedroom wall of the house on Gist Avenue. You sent me the pictures you took.”

  “Speaking of that house,” Griffin said. He started pacing. “I found out today that 5722 Gist was burglarized during Hans’
funeral last summer.” Griffin summarized the questioning of Timothy Dean by Officer Fernandez. “The as-yet unidentified Dude was looking for something in Hans’ house. He was furious when he didn’t find it and wrecked the place. But I interrupted you, Saif. What did you learn about the young Hans today?”

  “Hans Baeder was a child prodigy.”

  Griffin began pacing faster. “Violin?”

  “Yes. Studied at a conservatory in Dresden, Germany. The school and all its records were destroyed in the Allied firebombing of Dresden at the end of the war. I did find online an article in Hans’ hometown newspaper from 1935 when he won a scholarship to the conservatory at age eight. The article includes a quote from the conservatory’s headmaster, a man named Shurzdach, about Hans’ gifts as a young violinist.”

  Abruptly Griffin stopped pacing, muttered, “Our problem is…” and everyone leaned forward to hear what their problem was.

  But Griffin said nothing more and everyone leaned back again.

  The pacing resumed, and Griffin mumbled “What we don’t know yet is …” and everyone leaned forward once more to find out what it was they didn’t yet know.

  Finally, Griffin said, “What?”

  “What what?” Bobby said back.

  “What did they want?”

  “What did who want?” This was Annie. She instructed Griffin, “Stop pacing. Take a deep breath.” He did so. “Good. Now, going step by step and speaking slowly, tell us what you’re thinking.”

  *

  “Hans Baeder’s house was burglarized during his funeral. That we know from today’s interrogation of Timothy Dean by a Baltimore County policewoman. The man Timothy Dean knew as Dude likely did the breaking in of Hans’ house. What was he after? Dude? That’s the question at the core of all this. He wasn’t after money; couldn’t be. Hans Baeder was a carpenter. He never made much money. Kit and I have seen his house at 5722 Gist. This isn’t about money.” Without meaning to, Griffin quoted the man in white. “So what was Dude after?”

  “Something to do with Hans’ music,” Saif suggested.

  “Must be,” Griffin agreed. “But what?”

  No one said anything. Without the clomping of Griffin’s pacing, the silence sounded preposterously loud. He looked out the dining room window directly into the setting sun. He couldn’t see anything of the world outside, which seemed appropriate. The goat cheese acted up again, but this time he made no effort to hide the belch.

  “Here’s another question floating around in all this. Why is Hans Baeder, a former child prodigy on the violin, weakened terribly from pleurisy, made a member of the Nazi Party at the ripe old age of 15? As I understand it, very few real soldiers joined the Nazis. They were just soldiers. Why force some 15 year old violinist – a sickly one at that – who never rose about private to join the Party?”

  Griffin closed his eyes. The warmth of the sun was surprisingly pleasing.

  “One last question. Who ordered the break in of Hans Baeder’s house? A Future-Ride business card was found in the glove compartment of the car Timothy Dean was driving. Was it one of the Future-Ride women who ordered the break in? Why in the world would an investment company executive do that? And, as Saif, Kit and Annie have so convincingly demonstrated tonight, Future-Ride has some unrandom and unexplained interest in two places – and nowhere else - in Germany. Hamburg and Ulm. Why?”

  “That’s a lot more than one question,” Annie pointed out.

  Griffin turned to look at the others in the dining room. Then he talked on.

  “Or did the man in white order the break in? The 5722 Gist Avenue address was written on the back of the card in the European style. Could well be from a Spaniard. Maybe the Baltimore County PD handwriting analysis will tell us whether the writing on the back of the business card is by a woman or a man. That should resolve the issue.

  “I will boldly say it all comes back to: What did someone want from Hans Baeder? Of all the questions, that for me is the question. We can’t very well ask Andrea Webb or De-BOR-ah Miller. We have no idea where the man in white is or even who he is. Only way we can find out what someone wanted from poor Hans is to find out more about him. Poor Hans is right. Mel Morton, his old boss, clearly thinks the world of him. I’m starting to like him too. How could he be a Nazi? How do we find out more about Hans? Maybe learning about that Ulm air raid might help. Any ideas?”

  It was Saif, still apologetic about his outburst a few minutes before, who spoke:

  “Can I help with that?”

  TWENTY

  June 17

  9:09 am

  “This is Billy Williams? Who you?”

  “Mr. Williams, this is Griffin Gilmore. I’m calling from Baltimore. Mr. Williams, I have a friend named Saif Vankatesan. He’s a statistics professor at Johns Hopkins University here in Baltimore. One of the professors on his doctoral defense panel is an historian, who recommended I call you. The Air Force Historical Agency agreed you’re the man to call. I understand you might be able to help me.”

  “Depends on what you want help with,” Billy Williams announced, in a voice loud enough the telephone seemed superfluous.

  Griffin feared that the man, whose age he knew to be 93, might be hard of hearing. Accordingly, he shouted into the phone.

  “Mr. Williams! I need to ask you a couple of questions! About an Air Force raid in Germany!”

  “Son, you don’t have to shout. My hearing is still fine. My hip’s been replaced once and my right knee twice. I assume you don’t care to hear about problems in my sex life.”

  “No, sir,” Griffin replied, quietly but quickly, before Billy Williams could change his mind about sharing his sex life. “Mr. Williams, I need to find out whatever you can tell me about an Air Force raid during the last year of the Second World War. I understand you’re the expert.”

  “That’s what I figured you were calling about when I saw an area code I didn’t recognize on the caller ID. Not too many folks call me about my 35 years selling compressors. My territory was the whole Midwest. Retired to Tampa 30 years ago. I’m still here! Who’d a thunk it? But you didn’t call long distance to hear any of that, did you?”

  Griffin jumped into the sliver of silence before the freight train that was Billy Williams’ voice started rolling again.

  “About the raid, Mr. Williams?”

  “You got a place and date, son?”

  “Yes, sir. Ulm, Germany. August 17, 1944. The planes hit a railroad line.”

  “Let me go on my computer here. That surprise you? A man born when Calvin Coolidge was President using a computer?”

  “Never gave it much thought,” Griffin answered honestly. It wasn’t hard to see why Billy Williams had been so good at selling compressors, Griffin decided. The man must have verbally bludgeoned prospective buyers into sales.

  “I do appreciate your time, Mr. Williams.”

  “Thing of it is, Griffin? If I didn’t have calls like yours from time to time, I do believe I’d be in Peaceful Rest Cemetery at the end of my street long ago. But death isn’t a club I’m ready to join just yet. And call me Billy,” he insisted.

  Had they been together, Griffin knew they’d be shaking hands at this moment. Billy Williams’s handshake, he was certain, would be enthusiastic to the point of bone-crushing. Having this conversation several states apart struck Griffin as a wise precaution.

  “There’s someplace I got to be in a few minutes, Griffin. Until then, I’ll do what I can for you.”

  “Appreciate it, sir.”

  “Billy! Go ahead, call me Billy! Won’t kill you.”

  “Thanks, Billy.”

  Griffin listened to the tapping of keystrokes.

  “Just so you know, Griffin. I’ve worked with the Air Force to put together my database. A lot of the squadrons have their own websites; I have that information as well.” He continued to type. “I can get you the basic information on most Air Force missions in the European Theater during the war. Can I ask why you’re interes
ted?”

  He didn’t even consider lying to Billy.

  “I know someone – of him at least – who was wounded in the raid.”

  “Here we go.” The typing stopped. When Billy spoke again it was in an uncharacteristically subdued voice. “If you’re telling me the truth about knowing someone wounded in the raid-”

  “I am, Billy.”

  “That someone you know who was wounded in the raid was German. There were no American casualties.”

  “That’s right, Billy,” Griffin said, wondering if his admission would cause Billy to slam down the phone. “The person I’m calling about was German. His name was Hans.”

  *

  To Griffin’s gratitude Billy did not slam down the phone. Instead, still speaking in a subdued voice, Billy Williams told him, “The older I get, the more time I spend thinking about those folks on the ground. Back then, they were the enemy. I can’t quite see them that way anymore.

  “Here we go. August 17, 1944. Our planes took off for Ulm at 5:45 in the morning. From Pianosa Airfield on an island near Sicily. Visibility is listed as excellent. Weather conditions also excellent. Twelve planes participated in the raid. This was a planned raid. By that I mean they hit the target which had been identified before takeoff. The railroad line in Ulm was the target, which you knew. The raid is described as ‘partially successful’”

  “Which means what?”

  “Which means the target was struck and maybe destroyed and maybe not.”

  “Is there is no way of knowing now, Billy?”

  “None.”

  Griffin exhaled, and said, “But I interrupted you.”

  “All planes returned from the raid safely. No flak. That’s anti-aircraft fire. No German fighter planes. By this point in the war there weren’t many left.” Billy Williams’ voice had none of its former salesman’s bluster. Replacing it was a voice unexpectedly youthful, but softer, a voice still a bit surprised by its survival. “The planes on the raid were B-24s, Liberators. The B-24 was twin engine, carried a crew of six. I was bombardier on a B-24 myself, Griffin. Sat by myself in the glass nose of the plane. Any mission without anti-aircraft or fighters, we called that a milk run. Course it wasn’t a milk run until you touched down back at base.