CHAPTER TWELVE

The Good Doctor (Part 2)

The line went dead, and for a moment Bond thought that the connection was lost. Then Moneypenny came on. "James, are you there?"

"Barely," he said. "They'd do better with two tin cans and a length of string."

"Well, I hear you just fine. That letter."

"What letter?"

"In Hebrew. You found it in ⸺"

"In Miss St. Odine's baggage," Bond remembered. "Yes."

"Nothing special as far as we can tell. It's just a conversational letter."

"About?"

"Family stuff, mostly. Aunt Beryl is sick with the flu. Cousin Hymie is now studying at NYU. That kind of thing."

"No hidden code?"

"Not as far as we can tell. Colloquial Hebrew, written in hand. Bic pen. Common-grade paper. The address is an apartment block in Tel Aviv."

"Addressed to her?"

"Well, to a Larry St. Odine."

"That's her," Bond said. "No hidden messages? No invisible ink or microdots or little messages hidden behind the stamp or anything like that?"

"No, nothing special. Other than it's written in Hebrew."

Bond thought for a moment. But nothing came of it. "White Citroën DS 19," he reminded her.

"Yes," she said as if suddenly remembering as well. "Belongs to a Dr. Lukas Hagedorn. Some information here on height and appearance and such."

"Those I know. What's his background?"

"There's not a lot. Born in Leipzig in 1921, qualified as a doctor of medicine in 1941. That same year, he was inducted into the German Army. No combat experience, but he served in base hospitals. After the war, he served as a witness at Nurnberg, then was released to work in hospitals in the British sector of Berlin. Let's see, he's worked part-time as a sales representative for a radium therapy machinery company. Moved to Northern Spain in 1950, qualified as a doctor. Looks like he owns property along the North Spanish coast."

"What kind of property?"

"Houses, lots, farms. Mixed bag." A moment of quiet. "James are you still there?"

"Yes."

"All right. Let's see. Married a Spanish citizen in 1953, became a naturalized Spanish citizen himself in 1955. Two children."

"All rather mundane," Bond said.

"It makes no sense that France would not allow him in."

"I wonder if the SDECE has a different paper on him."

"Could be," Moneypenny agreed.

# # #

Bond was back in Berlin by early evening, in time for a light dinner before cocktails with Devereaux and Coombes at a bar on the Ku-Damm.

Der Luau Haus was the German variant on a typical California tiki bar. Not large, its ceiling was defined by rough-hewn beams wrapped in hemp rope, glass fishing buoys in net, and blowfish shellacked into spiny spheres. Casks filled the corners and supported hurricane lanterns, and mats covered the walls. Low-wattage bulbs burned under grass shades that were probably a fire hazard, and the wall behind the bar consisted mostly of different grades of rum and tequila. A pretty Chinese hausfrau in sarong with a plastic flower in her hair led Bond to a back table watched over by a statue of Lono screwed to a supporting beam.

Coombes and Devereaux, in their suits and ties, looked as out of place as Bond felt. Both looked up from large ceramic mugs shaped like dancing wahine and guarded by paper umbrellas, wedges of fruit and colorful swizzle sticks.

She asked, "Kann ich dir einen Maitai besorgen?"

"Haben Sie schottischen Whisky?"

"Nein, tut mir leid."

"Dann was auch immer sie haben."

She left behind menus and sashayed back to the bar. "What are you drinking?" Bond asked as an afterthought.

"Hell if I know," said Devereaux glumly. The exotic sounds of Martin Denny played on the bar's speakers over an underscore of tropical bird sounds, and the environment was mutely festive, but Devereaux looked as though he were attending the funeral of a favorite aunt.

"I had a message at my hotel that you were after me."

Devereaux turned it over to Coombes, who answered, "I wished to inform you that everything is ready on our end."

"What is ready?"

"Everything is set. Kronsteen will come through. We have a safe house in Zehlendorf. He'll go there for a few days and then progress on under a new name. He will be papered up good enough to clear Customs. Enter any port you want safe and secure." Coombes' voice trailed off.

"Yes?" Bond prompted.

"So we need a final destination."

"These things will be attended to," Bond assured him.

"We need them to complete things."

"And I said they will be attended to."

Devereaux said, "Your department will look like absolute fools with Kronsteen on the deck of a cross-Channel ferry holding a passport stamped 'refused entry.'"

"I don't have a destination yet," Bond explained.

He stopped when another ceramic wahine appeared at the table. "Haben Sie sich für etwas zu essen entschieden?"

Coombes grumbled something, but Bond asked her to check back.

When she was gone, Bond said, "You're in a sour mood, Coombes."

"This whole thing is proving more difficult than I had supposed. We're not going to make any money on this venture."

"It's that damned Ackermann," said Devereaux. "Just up and disappeared. No good reason."

"Oh, Theodor," said Bond lightly. "He's in Hendaye, last I saw."

They looked at each other ⸺ Hendaye meant something to them. Coombes asked, "What was he doing there?"

"Truthfully, I don't know," Bond lied. "Why?"

"Nothing."

"Come on, Coombes. Give over. Is there something I should know?"

Coombes and Devereaux looked at each other again, sullen.

"Oh, come on," said Bond. "Ackermann was in Hendaye where he met a fellow named Hagedorn. They departed to the Spanish border, and Hagedorn was refused entry." He decided to leave out the events surrounding Shiri Ritchfield to see if they would fill it in for him.

"You know that?" Coombes asked.

"Moreover, both Hagedorn and Ackermann come from Leipzig. And that's where Kronsteen starts his journey. This is too large of a coincidence to be a coincidence. Now give, or I cancel everything and walk away."

"Where did they meet?" Coombes asked.

"Hagedorn picked him up in Hendaye."

"He's not allowed in France," said Devereaux. "If he enters France, he runs the risk of being arrested."

"On what charge?"

"War crimes."

"That's a broad and vague category, Devereaux, try and narrow it down some."

Coombes said, "He murdered a member of the Vichy Government."

"Why?"

"On orders of the F.T.P."

"The Francs-Tireurs et Partisans?"

"Yes," said Devreaux. "The French resistance network organized by the Communist Party. It was a political assassination. He was arrested by the Vichy militia in Colmar in 1943. He claimed to be a German citizen and was sent for trial to Germany. We have no record of any of that, of course."

"The Allies," Coombes clarified. "That's all in Stasi files now. But we understand he got a rather light prison term. Seems the Germans weren't too upset over who got killed or why."

"Ackermann works for you," said Devereaux, "but Dr. Hagedorn?" He shrugged.

"Wait a minute. My information is that Dr. Hagedorn was in the Wehrmacht. Why would he commit a political assassination for the Communists?"

"That's the question," Coombes said. "Which side does he work for?"

"You're telling me that Dr. Hagedorn was a German soldier who was also a Communist and that he killed a member of the Vichy Government?"

"He was a German doctor, Mr. Neydermeier, not a soldier."

"His papers were good enough to get him across the frontier and to pick up Ackermann, but not good enough to bring him back."

"Perhaps they soured over that time."

Devereaux added, "What difference does it make who this Dr. Hagedorn is or what he did in the war? Our task is to move Kronsteen from East Germany to West Berlin, and from there to the destination of your choice."

"Ackermann went to a lot of trouble ⸺ secret trouble, mind you ⸺ to meet with this Dr. Hagedorn in private," Bond observed. "This speaks to how reliable is Ackermann, to what extent we can trust him if something serious blows up, and what games he's playing, if any."

"You don't trust Ackermann?" Coombes asked.

"Let me put it this way ⸺ no."