Shark and Octopus Read online

  “You could look me up online, if you had a mind to and knew where to look. Williams, comma, William C. I was a sergeant. And I was a member of the Lucky Bastards Club.”

  “The what, Billy?”

  “Anyone who got through 35 missions was in the Lucky Bastards Club. It wasn’t any kind of a club set up by the Air Force. It was just a kind of recognition. The only rule in the club is that when you joined, you were expected to buy everyone drinks the day you got back from your thirty fifth mission. I will always consider the money I spent buying those drinks the best money I ever spent in my life. Might sound funny to you, but I never washed my flight suit that whole time. Why wash away the luck?

  “After 35 missions they rotated you back to the States. Even then I knew it was just luck I got home and so many others didn’t. Their number was up. Mine wasn’t; that’s all.” Then Billy said, “There’s a note here that the planes hit a target of opportunity as well as the rail line at Ulm.”

  “Which means?”

  “The planes bombed something they unexpectedly found at the target that was worth bombing.”

  “Which could be?”

  “Could be anything, Griffin. Maybe tanks or trucks were there. Maybe train cars. The pilots had a standing order to go after any train cars they saw. Could be almost anything.” Billy’s typing resumed. “For the luvva Mike,” he said.

  For the love of Mike? Griffin thought. Last time I heard that expression was from my grandfather, dead now twenty years.

  “What is it, Billy?”

  “Here’s something I can’t explain, Griffin. There is a space on the form that details how the information necessitating the raid was obtained. I’ve seen ‘Reconnaissance’ written in that space and I’ve seen ‘Intelligence.’ Here, the explanation is ‘Classified.’”

  “Seventy years later, it’s still classified?”

  “There was a war on, you know. This record reflects events at the time.”

  “Can you tell me why it’s classified?”

  “I can’t, no. I have records from the war only. You’d need to contact someone who has access to more current information.” That somebody, Griffin knew, would be Grace.

  “Griffin, I’m sorry but I’ve got to go. I’m due at the church in fifteen minutes. A buddy of mine is getting married.”

  The boisterous salesman’s voice returned. In fact, the voice sounded jacked up louder than before.

  “My buddy’s my age! Sandy Heaps, his name is! Walking down the aisle at age 93! Marrying Mrs. Greenblatt, a widow! What can I tell you! He’s robbing the cradle! The bride’s only 77!”

  Within seconds of thanking Billy Williams and saying goodbye, Griffin was calling Grace.

  *

  June 17

  7:02 pm

  Grace returned his call a little after seven that night. Griffin was edging a sidewalk that didn’t really need edging, but he couldn’t sit still.

  “You really are a bright fellow,” she began.

  This from a woman who didn’t part easily with compliments?

  “That goes without saying,” responded Griffin. “So why are you saying it now?”

  “You asked about the raid on the Ulm rail line, August 17, 1944.”

  “Yes.”

  “You want to know why the source of information on the raid’s purpose was listed as Classified.”

  “I do. Do you know?”

  “The information was listed as classified, not to protect the identity of the source – as was usually the case – but to protect the identity of the target.”

  “The rail line at Ulm?”

  Waiting for her reply, Griffin banged the metal edger against the curb. A chunk of dirt dislodged.

  “Not the rail line; that was hardly a secret. But what was on the rail line that March morning was very secret.”

  “What was on the rail line?”

  “A train.”

  “What’s so secret about a train?”

  “This train was used by the Special Task Force for Music. That was a unit in the German army composed entirely of Nazis. Have you heard of the fine folks in the Special Task Force?”

  “Never,” Griffin admitted. He banged the edger against the curb again. The last piece of dirt dropped off. “Should I know about them?”

  “Few people do. I didn’t either.”

  A louder, faster bang of the edger.

  “What can you tell me about them, Grace?”

  “I could tell you amazing things. But I won’t. I know you well enough, Mr. Gilmore, to know that you will want to discover this for yourself. As you research, you’ll be planning your next steps.

  “I’ll get you going. I’ll give you the best sources to check. I’m certain the theft of the Duke’s key is explained by this. I don’t know what else and who else you’ve been looking into, but the Special Task Force has got to be at the starting point for everything that follows, including Future-Ride and your man in white. Somehow. Of that, I am certain. You have stumbled into an extraordinary, hellishly disgraceful, almost unbelievable corner of history.”

  “But you won’t tell me anything now?” Griffin asked. “About this Special Task Force For Music?” When Grace said she wouldn’t he banged the edger against the curb so hard sparks flew.

  TWENTY-ONE

  June 17

  10:10 pm

  Griffin researched the Special Task Force for Music through dinner, which turned out to be macaroni with jalapeno cheese. He ate two helpings and remembered neither. Afterward, he was surprised to learn he’d polished off half a pitcher of lemonade during dinner, which he did not recall either. Griffin stayed at the computer – not counting an astonishing number of bathroom breaks – until midnight. He was back there at six the next morning.

  Kit stopped by at eight o’clock that morning with a “Whattayasay” sent Griffin’s way. Griffin looked up from the computer to find him standing there; for how long, Griffin had no idea.

  “Kit, can you research something for me?”

  “I was planning to go to the Mercedes dealership this morning. See about leasing a car. I stopped by to see if you wanted to join me.

  “Last time I took a test drive at that dealership’” Kit explained, “I got stopped for speeding. The salesman said something about next time bringing a responsible adult with me. Since I don’t know any, I thought I’d bring you.”

  “Why don’t we give the driving citizenry of Baltimore a break this morning, Kit. I want you to look into a charming character, a Nazi named Alfred Rosenberg. Go online, library, whatever works for you. Put together a couple paragraphs on him, if you would. Rosenberg organized something called the Special Task Force For Music. That’s what we’re interested in. We’ll meet tonight here at six. Can you be ready by then?”

  “Don’t see why not.”

  “And can you call Bobby? He’s got an audition this afternoon, a production at a local college. Can you tell him to meet us here at six?”

  “I’m on it.”

  “Thanks,” Griffin said, and turned back toward his computer and the growing stack of pages he’d printed out. He’d already exhausted the sources Grace recommended and was following trails of his own.

  Kit started to leave the dining room, then stopped.

  “Give Me A Word,” Kit said. “Oblivious.”

  Griffin answered, “b,i.i,l,o,o,s,u,” without looking up.

  *

  Forty five minutes later, Sergeant Ahearn called. Annie took the call and handed the phone to Griffin, who hadn’t heard it ring.

  “No ID on ‘Dude’ yet, Mr. Gilmore. And Timothy Dean’s lawyer is fighting us for his client’s counseling records, like I predicted. Doctor-patient privilege, don’t you know. Those counseling records are the only way to get Dude’s real name.”

  “Didn’t Dean say it was court-ordered counseling? Doesn’t that force the doctor to release the records?”

  “You might think so, but no. Our lawyers will fight it out with his lawyer. You
and I stay out of the way. I’ll let you know the outcome.

  “Our hand writing analyst wimped out, as I also predicted. She won’t say if the writing is by a man or a woman. She won’t say if the writing is European or American. She is pretty sure the ink used is blue,” he went on sarcastically. “Past that, she’s not willing to go. I’ll stay in touch.”

  *

  Griffin resumed his research. At 10:30, Mel Morton called.

  “Her name was Miriam Freitag.”

  “Whose name, Mel?” Griffin replied, his attention very much elsewhere.

  “Hans’ Baeder’s girlfriend. Her name was Miriam Freitag. I should have remembered when you were here. I used to call her his Gal Friday. Freitag means-”

  “Friday in German. Thanks, Mel.”

  Griffin was about to hang up when he remembered the blank pad of paper with THINGS TO DO TODAY on Mel’s desk. Griffin forced himself to chat a while.

  An hour or so later, Annie served him chocolate milk and a peanut butter and jelly sandwich, with the crusts cut away, exactly how Griffin liked it.

  “I’ll be at the mall,” she informed him, soundlessly placing the plate on the table. “I need some nails for the new bookcase. And I’ll hang with Miss P if she’s there.”

  Distractedly, Griffin replied, “Thanks. Everyone will be here at six.”

  At ten after one Griffin called Saif in his office.

  “Professor, two items. First is easy- peasy, as you say. Can you get me the phone number and address of a woman named Miriam Freitag? She was Hans Baeder’s girlfriend. She’s probably local.” Griffin hesitated, before admitting, “A terrible thought just hit me.”

  “You’re worried if Miriam is still alive?”

  “I am.”

  “If she is, boss, I promise I’ll get you her name and address. What else?”

  Griffin could hear Saif typing, already at work on the Miriam Freitag assignment.

  “Find out whatever you can about the violin section of the Special Task Force for Music, during the Second World War.”

  “Special Task Force For Music? Never heard of them.”

  “I hadn’t either until last night. I’ve been reading up on them for hours. Can you meet here at six?”

  “It won’t be Caribbean food again, will it? That was a bit spicy for my tastes.”

  “Too spicy! Your parents are from India. Can food be too spicy for someone with your gene pool? Subs and sodas work for you? “ Saif told him that would be fine. Griffin said, “Can you email me Miriam Freitag’s phone number as soon as you get it?”

  Saif promised he would and Griffin returned to his research.

  *

  Just after three o’clock Griffin, with the phone number Saif provided, called Miriam Freitag. As expected she proved to be local, and, as it turned out, very much alive.

  In the phone conversation Griffin reprised his role as a representative for Estate Evaluators, in need of firming up “just a few details” about the estate of Hans Baeder. Miriam Freitag said she was leaving for her cousin’s house in Philadelphia that night, but would be willing to meet him to discuss Hans when she returned.

  When would that be Griffin asked, unable to dampen the urgency in his voice.

  “I’ll be back Friday, late afternoon,” Miriam Freitag told him.

  Miriam was pleasant and polite, speaking in a grandmother’s voice, Griffin thought. But there was an unmistakable undercoating of steel to that voice.

  *

  Soon after, Griffin emailed Grace. He asked her for the exact dimensions of the room at the back of the Arazzo Castle – the room which caused the man in white to be so disappointed.

  Grace quickly emailed back:

  8 FEET DEEP, FIVE FEET WIDE, 7 1/2 FEET HIGH. Griffin did the math in his head: 300 cubic feet. I KNOW BETTER THAN ASK WHY YOU ARE ASKING.

  Griffin emailed his reply:

  YES, YOU DO. BTW – CAN YOU DO A PASSPORT CHECK ON ALEXANDRA WEBB AND DEBORAH MILLER? HAS EITHER BEEN TO GERMANY IN RECENT YEARS? THX.

  *

  Not long after Griffin’s email exchange with Grace, Annie returned. She was carrying a small brown bag.

  “Nails from the mall?” Griffin asked, nodding at the bag. He was stretching in the living room, feeling tight and stale from too many hours blurred together in front of the computer. A fan was going; Annie must have switched it on at some point during the day. His shorts and tee shirt looked slept in. After a moment’s recollection, he realized they had been slept in.

  Sometime later Annie stuck her hand in front of the computer screen, blocking Griffin’s vision and getting his attention that way.

  “It’s after five o’clock,” she cautioned him. “You should go pick up dinner.”

  Annie pushed the button to shut down the computer. Griffin did not complain.

  “You’re right. I’ll get the subs and soda. I’m ready for tonight.”

  *

  They ate dinner in the screened back porch. The porch had no chairs yet, so Griffin carried in the two dining room chairs and three from the front porch.

  “It seems,” Griffin said, placing the subs and sodas on a folding card table. “It seems there has been some grumbling amongst us about my international choice of cuisine last time. Tonight? I’m going as American as possible. Subs for all!” He looked at Annie. “And you, Ms. Knaack, will be happy to note I remembered to bring sodas. We have Italian cold cut, we have ham and cheese, we have tuna fish. We have sundry other choices. Let the feeding frenzy begin!”

  Five minutes later – just before Griffin started his second sub; Kit was on his third – Griffin remarked, “We’ll get down to business later. But, for now, and I’m sure I speak for all of us, Saif. Inquiring minds have got to know: How’s your love life? Any blind dates lately?”

  “Whoa, Griffin,” Saif begged. “Not while I’m eating.”

  “That bad?”

  “Worse. Last date we spent the entire meal discussing the china patterns she wanted once we got married. She actually brought pictures to the restaurant. Keep in mind this is a blind date I met minutes before.”

  Twenty minutes after that Griffin cleared away the plates and trash.

  He wanted to sum up all those hours on the computer with a single sentence. He began, “Now we know why Hans Baeder was a Nazi.”

  TWENTY-TWO

  June 18

  6:36 pm

  “Now we know why Hans Baeder was a Nazi,” Griffin said again, more loudly. Finally he could put a mental check mark through that item on his Questions To Be Answered list. He felt his adrenaline pumping. “It made no sense before. Hans was as far from the Aryan ideal as it was possible for a male to be. He was a sickly fifteen year old, a child prodigy on the violin, in love with Mozart. Why was he a Nazi?

  “Saif and Kit, you two could probably guess about Hans, at least a little. Annie and Bobby, I’ll fill you in.

  “It was Hans’ knowledge of violins that made him a Nazi.” Griffin massaged his eyes. He was suddenly exhausted, totally blasted from the hours of research. “For what it’s worth, I’m glad it was violins that put Hans in the Nazi Party. And not any of the other hideous qualifications the Nazis insisted on for membership. I won’t deny knowing that relieves me greatly.”

  “So why was Hans a Nazi, Griffin?”

  “Kit, Hans was a member of the Nazis’ Special Task Force For Music. I assume everyone in the Special Task Force had to join the Nazi Party. To insure their silence, I suppose.

  “We know Hans Baeder was a member of the Special Task Force For Music because he was wounded in an American bombing raid. Saif got the date of the raid: August 17, 1944. I called an older gentleman in Florida, Billy Williams, about the raid. Billy told me the American planes hit a rail line outside Ulm, Germany. On the railroad tracks that day more than 70 years ago was a train commandeered by the Special Task Force.”

  “What did they do?” Bobby asked, rattling the remaining ice cubes in his cup. “This Special Task Force.
”

  “They looted, Bobby. They stole. They plundered. They seized whatever they wanted. They helped themselves to the spoils of war. Adolph Hitler fancied himself an artist and ordered the artistic treasures of conquered Europe – paintings, sculptures, and musical scores and instruments – stolen. The best was brought back to the Music Office in Berlin.

  “We’re concerned with the stolen musical instruments. No one today will ever know how many musical instruments the Special Task Force For Music grabbed. The loot must have been enormous. Staggering. Simply transporting it must have been a challenge. They were bringing in 200 pianos a week from France alone. Hitler ordered this to happen, but the nuts and bolts of the Special Task Force was the brainchild of a truly twisted character named Alfred Rosenberg. Kit will now tell us about him.”

  *

  Kit jawed down the last of his American cold cut sub, extra hots. He pureed the sub’s contents with a swig of lime aid. He reached into the pocket of his blue blazer, which he wore with navy blue chino shorts, for his notes. When he spoke, Kit’s usual joking tone was nowhere present.

  “The Special Task Force For Music was the evil spawn of a real charmer named Alfred Rosenberg. Rosenberg was one of the original Nazis. He actually joined the Nazi Party months before Adolph Hitler, which I didn’t think was possible. He was the Party leader before Hitler. Rosenberg is the one who selected the swastika as the symbol for the Nazis.