Spoils of Victory (A Mason Collins Novel) - Softcover

Connell, John A.

Softcover

ISBN 10: 0425283399 ISBN 13: 9780425283394

Publisher: Berkley, 2016

Synopsis

From John A. Connell, author of Ruins of War, comes an electrifying novel featuring U.S. Army criminal investigator Mason Collins, set in the chaos of post-World War II Germany.

Garmisch-Partenkirchen is a scenic Alpine ski town that managed to escape the destruction of World War II. It is also a refuge for war criminals, a depository for Nazi stolen riches, and the latest post for army investigator Mason Collins.
 
When a friend who fought alongside Mason tells him about a plot by a group of powerful men, then is killed soon afterward, it’s clear that Mason must make his investigation as quick and quiet as possible. To uncover the truth, Mason plunges into a shadowy labyrinth of coconspirators, including former SS and Gestapo officers, U.S. Army OSS officers, and liberated Polish POWs.
 
But someone is pulling strings to stifle his efforts, and Mason must feel his way in the darkness if he is going to find out who in town has the most to gain—and the most to lose...

About this title

About the Author:

John A. Connell is the author of Ruins of War, and has worked as a cameraman on films such as Jurassic Park and Thelma & Louise and on TV shows, including The Practice and NYPD Blue. He now lives with his wife in Paris, France, where he is at work on his third Mason Collins novel.

Excerpt. © Reprinted by permission. All rights reserved.:

ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

Berkley titles by John A. Connell

Title Page

Copyright

Dedication

Acknowledgments

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

About the Author

ONE

GARMISCH-PARTENKIRCHEN, UPPER BAVARIA

AMERICAN OCCUPIED ZONE OF GERMANY

MARCH 7, 1946

For this particular undercover operation, CID criminal investigator Mason Collins had invented the persona of Kurt Wenger, a down-and-out German citizen who moved with languid steps and the lackluster gaze brought on by hunger and a grim future. He wore a threadbare overcoat previously owned by a Wehrmacht soldier, who no longer required such earthly things, topped by a fedora most likely orphaned by similar fortunes of war. Other than a three-day beard, Mason had no need of a wig or any other visually altering appliances. Transforming into another personality was all about posture and attitude, expression and mannerisms.

The man he tailed, Sergeant Carl Olsen, walked thirty feet ahead. Mason kept tabs on him by peering through the crowd and catching glimpses of his round head of black hair covered by his khaki service cap. At six feet six and 250 pounds, Olsen lumbered into the oncoming crowd like a snowplow, Mason following in his wake—hardly a challenge for Mason’s covert skills, but concealment from Olsen was not his objective. Mason’s main concern was with the men who watched Olsen’s progress from the shadows and strategic positions, men far more dangerous and clever than the sergeant.

Mason’s partner, Specialist Gil Abrams, had a better view of Olsen from across the street. Abrams had come from the military police ranks to act as a CID investigator under Mason’s tutelage. His sharp insight and dogged determination had caught Mason’s eye, but he still had a lot to learn about the subtleties of tailing, especially someone like Olsen, who approached murder and mayhem as impassively as tying his shoe. Nervous excitement drove Abrams to eye Olsen with too much regularity, occasionally bumping into a pedestrian or narrowly avoiding a passing wagon or army jeep. He wore a gray wool suit and long black coat that seemed to hang from his lanky frame. At twenty-two, his body had grown into manhood, but had left his face behind somewhere in cherubic territory; so, despite his adult attire, he reminded Mason of an overgrown kid from a Charles Dickens novel.

Olsen had led them into the poorer and, as a consequence, more sordid part of town, a place that any number of small-time crooks called home and where the black market thrived, where the uninitiated passerby could be bushwhacked for a few Reichsmarks and left lying in the gutter. Makeshift booths of canvas and wood, tents, and lean-tos were crammed along the sidewalks, forcing the throngs of people to spill out onto the streets. Wagons, carts, and bicycles were now the only modes of transportation available to most Germans, and they competed with the pedestrians for space in this part of town, most overloaded with salvaged wood or a family’s meager possessions. Street vendors hawked their wares in a dozen languages: pilfered coal, adulterated flour, or cigarettes made from butts discarded by American soldiers. Men and women walked by and opened their overcoats, displaying watches, cameras, and jewelry, while the occasional woman would open her fur coat advertising a more carnal commodity.

Die Stunde Null, or Zero Hour, was what the Germans called the time in the immediate aftermath of World War Two. In every practical sense, Germany was to start over from nothing. It had been bombed and shelled back to the Middle Ages. Whole cities and towns were wiped out, with over six million dead. Disease and malnutrition were killing the very young and very old in numbers unseen for centuries. No food, no crops, no coal, no medicine. Industry and agriculture had come to a standstill. With the German Reichsmark rendered almost worthless, bartering became the only real agency of commerce. The black market flourished, and the American cigarette reigned as the king of currency. It was an auspicious time to be a gangster—or an opportunistic soldier like Sergeant Olsen.

Arrested for manslaughter and grand larceny, Olsen had agreed to be Mason’s ticket into one of the most successful crime rings in Garmisch: a confederation of Germans, ex–Polish army officers, and low-ranking U.S. soldiers, a group that operated so boldly they even had their own logo and letterhead. With its easy access to Austria, Switzerland, and Italy, Garmisch was Germany’s ideal port of entry and exit for every illicit trade, making this picturesque city a vital center for the black market. And while much of the criminal activity was run by a loose confederation of smaller gangs, Hermann Giessen’s organization had been different: well organized, powerful, and operating with seeming immunity—a dangerous combination.

Mason had been investigating the ring for two months, but as audacious as they might be, he only had scant information: rumors, allegations, and the identities of the leaders, those names always mentioned in connection to major crimes, but not a shred of solid evidence that could send them to prison. The only way he could discover more and get the evidence he needed was to infiltrate the gang. He’d spent a month developing Kurt Wenger, using most of this time as the down-and-out gangster, trolling back streets, frequenting notorious bars, and, on occasion, committing petty crimes. That also meant he had to keep out of the limelight as a military policeman. He dressed in civvies for all but formal army occasions—which by regulation he was allowed to do. He avoided the officers’ mess, and instead frequented German restaurants and bars, and being a loner by nature, he was rarely in the company of other soldiers. After he’d spread and cultivated his reputation as a gangster for hire, fortune had shined on Mason by dropping Olsen in his lap. And through Olsen, Mason had finally wrangled an introduction.

In the last couple of weeks, two rival leaders had been savagely murdered, rupturing the fragile truce between the gangs. No one seemed to know the source, though rumors circulated of a brutal new leadership trying to take over. The ensuing revenge killings and spontaneous shoot-outs had left the city’s underworld on high alert. A call for more hired guns had gone out, working to Mason’s advantage, but now a bullet or a blade could come from almost any direction. Precaution dictated that Mason and Olsen remain apart. Similar precautions had obliged the gang leaders to go to ground. Today’s meeting would be the first since the turf war had broken out, and only the leaders knew when and where. Olsen, being a midlevel player, had to walk the streets in this part of town until intercepted by his contact, who would then lead the way.

Abrams caught Mason’s eye and signaled that Olsen had turned left at the intersection. Mason followed suit a few moments later. He figured they must be getting close, as Olsen behaved with increasing nervousness, stopping frequently and looking both ways, only to continue then repeat the process. Mason hoped the sergeant would hold to his side of the bargain, and not get spooked and make a dash for it—or perhaps Olsen was nervous because he’d set them up for an ambush.

Olsen stopped abruptly when a man in a brown homburg hat crossed in front of him and kept on going. Olsen took his time lighting a cigarette. Whether that was a signal of acknowledgment or a way to give his contact a lead, Mason didn’t know, but after tossing the match to the ground, Olsen turned left and disappeared.

Abrams hurried to the far corner, then looked back at Mason with wide-eyed excitement. He was nearly run over by a wagon when he rushed across the street to meet Mason at the corner. “He just went into the Steinadler beer hall.”

“Did you forget everything I taught you?” Mason asked. “Keep cool.” He nodded toward the other side of the street. “You stay out here.”

“I’m supposed to back you up.”

“I changed my mind. I know this bar. They’d grind you up and sell you as sausage on the black market. If I don’t come out in an hour, call in the cavalry.”

“What am I going to do out here for an hour?”

“Wing it.”

Mason watched a frustrated Abrams take up a position on the other side of the street, then entered the bar.

Before the war, the Steinadler had been a cheerful watering hole and, like much of Garmisch, it sported interior walls decorated with frescoes and a long bar of oak carved with intricate details. Now neglect—not to mention its somber clientele—had left it joyless. Due to electrical shortages, gas lanterns and candles had been placed sparsely around the room, providing only a murky light. The clientele probably preferred this, as it was now a favored meeting place for smugglers, thieves, and lower-echelon thugs.

As Mason moved through the room, he noticed two muscled bodyguards standing near the front door, and three more stationed by the rear entrance behind the bar. Mason carried a German pistol, a Sauer 38H with eight rounds in the magazine, but it wouldn’t be enough to shoot his way out of there. The only way he was going to leave alive was if they let him. The barman looked at him warily until Mason produced a wad of U.S. dollars. He ordered a beer then scanned the room. Olsen stood at the other end of the bar talking to the owner, Kasim Aslan, a Turk who’d been accused of everything but convicted of nothing. The patrons were mostly German, but there was also a mix of Polish and Russian ex-POWs, Italians, and a handful of American GIs. All here for the purpose of illicit commerce. They talked in hushed tones, some playing cards, some standing at the bar, while others sat at tables placed at discreet distances for deals to be made without the attention of curious neighbors.

Back in a quiet corner, a blond man with an overly developed forehead played chess with a partner whose back was to Mason. The man’s name was Anton Plöbsch, the third man on the ring’s totem pole. A former major in the Wehrmacht, with vague roots in aristocracy, he was suspected of rape, murder, extortion, and bribery, but now held a “respectable” role as the commander of the gang’s muscle. Purportedly a twisted genius, brilliant but cruel, a highborn henchman.

Plöbsch had glanced at Mason several times. Olsen must have given him a silent signal that Mason—a.k.a. Kurt Wenger—was the man seeking entry into the gang. Plöbsch said something to his dark-haired chess opponent. The dark-haired man rose from the table and moved to the bar, leaving the game half finished. Mason took this as an invitation to join Plöbsch. He crossed the room, feeling the stares of the other patrons as he did so. He stopped at the table. With deep-set eyes that seemed to be devoid of all color, Plöbsch looked up to Mason and waited, indifferent.

“He could have had you in six moves,” Mason said in fluent German.

“Ah, then you play chess, Herr Wenger.” He indicated the chair with his open hand. “Then sit, and see if you are correct.”

Mason hung his overcoat over the chair back, sat, and immediately moved his king’s bishop. Neither spoke as they played. Mason felt vulnerable with his back to the room, but he knew that was the intention. Not being sure where etiquette lay when challenging a ruthless and powerful thug, Mason purposefully made two bad moves that lost him his queen.

“Checkmate,” Plöbsch said and smiled. “You let me win, Herr Wenger. I appreciate the gesture, but it could also be a sign of disrespect. A mark against you. We shall play again, but this time you will put forth your best effort.”

Mason reached into his suit jacket pocket and placed two hundred dollars on the table. “Shall we raise the stakes?”

“You don’t look like a man with the means to possess that kind of money. Where did you get it?”

“Playing Ami soldiers.”

Plöbsch chuckled. “Americans are bad chess players. You should have more earnings than that if you consider yourself a worthy opponent.”

“American chess players are conservative bettors.”

“And you hope that I will be more liberal?”

“One has living expenses.”

Plöbsch looked at Mason a moment, then moved his pawn. After a few more moves in silence, Plöbsch said, “I hear a Bavarian accent. I’ve seen you around, and heard of your reputation, but I know little about you. Where are you from?”

“A little town,” Mason said. “Wonneberg.”

“And during the war?”

“Is that important?”

“I like to know the man sitting across from me.”

“Artillery regiment with the 58th Infantry Division . . . until I got into a little trouble.”

“What kind of trouble?”

“We were on the eastern front, and while the commanding staff lived in luxury, we were starving. So, I managed to lighten the staff’s burden for about a month before I was caught.”

“They shot men for less.”

“I guess I got lucky.”

Plöbsch eyed Mason skeptically. The barman came over with two more beers. Mason reached for his money, but Plöbsch said, “It’s on me. I always buy a drink for the loser.”

They continued to play. Plöbsch was very good, but Mason had lost the first game to assess the man’s weaknesses. Plöbsch used the same types of aggressive moves and shrewd tactics as in the first, but Mason had already figured him out.

“What did you do after the war?” Plöbsch asked.

“I was with Rudolph Voss. Out of Munich. Did you know him?”

“Yes . . .” Plöbsch said as he eyed Mason. “It is unfortunate that you ran with an organization that no longer exists. How is one to verify that you are who you claim to be?”

“Yes, Herr Voss is dead, and the organization busted up, but I assure you I am telling the truth. I worked with Captain Wertz cutting penicillin and baby formula, selling snow and H, until he got busted and ratted on us.”

In fact, Mason had known Voss and Wertz during his time as a CID investigator in Munich, and he was the one who had busted Wertz through an informant. Mason had built an entire file around his fictitious character, including having a German detective friend in Munich “leak” Wenger’s arrest record and police file to the Garmisch authorities. Giving the records to the corru...

About this edition

• Publisher: Berkley
• Publication date: 2016
• ISBN 10: 0425283399
• ISBN 13: 9780425283394
• Binding: Paperback
• Number of pages: 432