A Despicable Profession Read Online Free Page A

this Nazi to ground, dangle these sovereigns under his nose and he still says no?”
    â€œYou’re a very creative young man.”
    I was at that, good at one thing. Backing myself into a corner and then improvising my way out. And I liked the CO’s proposal. It was the antithesis of the bureaucratic by-the-numbers FBI.
    â€œSir, my special kind of cunning is real simple,” I said, leaning forward. “I was doing a decent job in Freiburg and Ulm and Karlsruhe logging troop movements and transmitting weather reports for bomber runs. I figured if I was dead my effectiveness might suffer. And why get croaked carrying out suicide missions dictated by some asshole Case Officer who was snug as a bug in Bern drinking Allen Dulles’ wine cellar dry?”
    â€œI wasn’t,” said Jacobson, “but please continue.”
    Please continue
? They were shorthanded.
    â€œI have only one job requirement sir. Survival.”
    â€œI’ll keep that in mind,” said Jacobson, drier than my swollen tongue.
    My liter of beer had fizzed down to nothing. I pushed it away. Nothing worse than a flat brew. I flagged our skinnyBiermaid for another. It was quick in coming. I raised my stein. My old-new CO did likewise.
    We clanked and drank.

Chapter Three
    I was on the first leg of the Rat Line - the Berlin to Lisbon to Buenos Aires escape route favored by Nazi war criminals - watching the German countryside speed by from the comfort of a first class train compartment. The countryside reminded me of the Ohio Valley, rolling and green. Vegetable gardens were terraced against the hills, fields of barley held forth where the terrain smoothed out and every once in a while you got an eye-smacking acre of the bright yellow flowers they call
Raps.
They grind ‘em up for cooking oil or something.
    Krauts were still Krauts. We rattled past a partially flattened farmhouse, a burnt out barn and a freshly-plowed field with furrows so true they could’ve been drawn with a straight edge.
    I was stretched out in splendid isolation in my compartment, my legs draped over my suitcase. I had the full kit. A drawstring purse full of gold sovereigns, travel documents proclaiming me a reporter for the American military newspaper Stars and Stripes, and three cartons of Lucky Strikes, the local currency at fifteen Reichmarks per. And that’s not per carton, cousin, that’s per cigarette.
    I was already twenty cigs low from stops at Frankfurt and Mannheim. I was going to have to stop playing Santa Claus or my bag of goodies would be empty long before Lisbon. You would think that blocks of cheese or canned hams would be the currency of exchange in food-strapped Deutschland but it was cigarettes people wanted, coffee a close second.
    Coffee and cigarettes, the building blocks of a better tomorrow.
    My Luckies netted me nothing more than a series of head shakes at the photo of Klaus Hilde that the CO had given me.I’m not a gumshoe but showing a five year old photo of a fugitive who had the means to completely remake his appearance is what we in the espionage game call
using your dick for a flashlight.
    It’s a technical term. It means your question risks exposing more than the answer is worth. But I had to try. We didn’t have any intelligence worth spit.
    A conductor passed by. I asked him how long to Karlsruhe. He checked his pocket watch. One hour and thirty-eight minutes, give or take thirty seconds.
    I mountain climbed my way to the dining car, hand to hand along the seat backs, dragging my loot-crammed suitcase behind me. Served me right. The train was wobbling over the rail bed our B-24 Liberators had spent two years pulverizing at my direction.
    I had cleared bombing runs for Karlsruhe as well. I would soon get to see my handiwork close up.
    The dining car was empty, save for an elderly waiter who grabbed up a menu and eyed me hopefully.
    I smiled with my cheeks and found what I was looking for. A