The second man was to be expected under the circumstances. He was Howard
Oliver, Meridian Aircraft’s obese debater of War Department contracts.
‘You’re on time,’ said Walter Kendall curtly, sitting down in an armchair,
reaching for papers in an open, filthy briefcase at his feet.
‘Hello, Jon.’ Oliver approached and offered a short, neutral handshake.
‘Where are the others?’ asked Craft.
‘No one wanted to be here,’ answered Kendall with a furtive glance at
Oliver. ‘Howard has to be, and I’m paid to be. You had one hell of a
meeting with this Swanson.’
‘You’ve read my report?’
‘He’s read it,’ said Oliver, crossing to a copper-topped wheelcart in the
comer on which there were bottles and glasses. ‘He’s got questions.’
‘I made everything perfectly clear …..
‘Those aren’t the questions,’ interrupted Kendall while squeez, ing the tip
of a cigarette before inserting it into his mouth. As he struck a match,
Craft walked to a large velvet chair across from the accountant and sat
down. Oliver had poured himself a whisky and remained standing.
‘If you want a drink, Jon, it’s over there,’ said Oliver.
At the mention of alcohol’, Kendall glanced up at him from his papers with
ferret-like eyes. ‘No thank you,’ Craft replied. ‘I’d like to get this over
with as soon as possible.’
‘Suit yourself,’ Oliver looked at the accountant. ‘Ask your questions.’
Kendall, sucking on his cigarette, spoke as the smoke curled
67
around his nostrils. ‘This Spinelli over at ATCO. Have you talked to him
since you saw SwansonT
‘No. There was nothing to say; nothing Icould say … without instructions.
As you know, I spoke with Howard on the phone. He told me to wait; write a
report and do nothing.’
‘Craft’s the funnel to ATCO,’ said Oliver. ‘I didn’t want him running
scared, trying to smooth things over. It’d look like we were hiding
something.’
‘We are,’ Kendall removed his cigarette, the ash falling on his trousers.
He continued while slowly shuffling the papers on his lap. ‘Let’s go over
Spinelli’s complaints. As Swanson brought them up.’
The accountant touched briefly, concisely on each point raised. They
covered Spinelli’s statements regarding delayed deliveries, pe rsonnel
transfers, blueprint holdups, a dozen other minor grievances. Craft replied
with equal brevity, answering when he could, stating ignorance when he
could not. There was no reason to hide anything.
He had been carrying out instructions, not issuing them.
‘Can Spinelli substantiate these charges? And don’t kid yourselves, these
are charges, not complaints.’
‘What charges?’ Oliver spat out the words. ‘That guinea bastard’s fucked up
everything! Who’s he to make charges?’
6Get off it,’ said Kendall in his rasping voice. ‘Don’t play games. Save
them for a congressional committee, unless I can figure something.’
At Kendall’s words the sharp pain returned to Craft’s stomach. The
prospects of disgrace – even remotely associated – could ruin his life. The
life he expected to lead back in New York. The financial boors, the
merchants, could never understand. ‘That’s going a little far. . . .’
Kendall looked over at Craft. ‘Maybe you didn’t hear Swanson. It’s not
going far enough. You got the Fortress contracts because your projections
said you could do the job.’
‘Just a minute!’ yelled Oliver. ‘We . . .’
‘Screw the legal crap!’ countered Kendall, shouting over Oliver’s
interruption. ‘My firm … me, I… squared those projections. I know what
they say, what they implied. You left the other companies at the gate. They
wouldn’t say what you said. Not Douglas, not Boeing, not Lockheed. You were
hungry and you got the meat and now you’re not delivering…. So what else
68
is new? Let’s go back: can Spinelli substantiater
‘Shit,’ exploded Oliver, heading for the bar.
‘How do you mean … substantiate?’ asked Jonathan Craft, his stomach in
agony.
‘Are there any memorandums floating around,’ Kendall tapped the pages in
his hand, ‘that bear on any of this?’ ,
‘Well . . .’ Craft hesitated; he couldn’t stand the pain in his stomach.’
When personnel transfers were expedited, they were put into interoffice. .
. .’
‘The answer’s yes,’ interrupted Oliver in disgust, pouring himself a drink.
‘What about financial cutbacks?’
Oliver once again replied. ‘We obscured those. Spinelli’s requisitions just
got lost in the paper shuffle.’
‘Didn’t he scream? Didn’t he shoot off memos?’
‘That’s Craft’s department,’ answered Oliver, drinking most of his whisky
in one swallow. ‘Spinelli was his little guinea boy.’
‘Well?’ Kendall looked at Craft.
‘Well … he sent numerous communications.’ Craft leaned forward in the
chair, as much to relieve the pain as to appear confidential. ‘I removed
everything from the files,’ he said softly.
‘Christ,’ exploded Kendall quietly. ‘I don’t give a shit what you removed.
He’s got copies. Dates!
‘Well, I couldn’t say. . . .’
‘He didn’t type the goddamned things himseo, did he? You didn’t take away
the fucking secretaries, too, did you?’
‘There’s no call to be offensive. . . .,
‘Offensivel You’re a funny manl Maybe they’ve got fancy stripes for you in
Leavenworth! The accountant snorted and turned his attention to Howard
Oliver. ‘Swanson’s got a case; he’ll hang you. Nobody has to be a lawyer to
see that. You held back. You figured to use the existing guidance systems!
‘Only because the new gyroscopes couldn’t be developedl Because that guinea
bastard fell so far behind he couldn’t catch UP !,
‘Also it saved you a couple of hundred million. . . . You should have
primed the pumps, not cut off the water. You’re big ducks in a short
gallery; a blind man could knock you off.’
Oliver put his glass down and spoke slowly. ‘We don’t pay you for that kind
of judgment, Walter. You’d better have somo. thing else.’
69
Kendall crushed out his mutilated cigarette, his dirty finger. nails
covered with ash. ‘I do,’ he said. ‘You need company; you’re in the middle
of a very emotional issue. It’ll cost you but you don’t have a choice.
You’ve got to make deals, ring in everybody. Get hold of Sperry Rand, GM,
Chrysler, Lockheed, Douglas, Rolls-Royce, if you have to … every son of
a bitch with an engineering laboratory. A patriotic crash program. Cross.
reference your data, open up everything you’ve got.’
‘They’ll steal us blind!’ roared Oliver. ‘Millions!’
‘Cost you more if you don’t … I’ll prepare supplementary financial stats.
I’ll pack the sheets with so much ice, it’ll take ten years to thaw.
That’ll cost you, too.’ Kendall smirked, baring soiled teeth.
Howard Oliver stared at the unkempt accountant. ‘It’s crazy,’ he said
quietly. ‘We’ll be giving away fortunes for something that can’t be bought
because it doesn’t exist.’
‘But you said it did exist. You told Swanson it existed – at least a hell
of a lot more confidently than anybody else. You sold your great industrial
know-how, and when you couldn’t deliver, you covered up. Swanson’s right.
You’re a menace to the war effort. Maybe you should be shot.
Jonathan Craft watched the filthy, grinning bookkeeper with bad teeth and
wanted to vomit. But he was their only hope.
70
5
SEPTEMBER 25,1943
STUTTGART, GERMANY
Wilhelm. Zangen stood by the window overlooking Stuttgart’s Reichssieg
Platz, holding a handkerchief against his inflamed, perspiring chin. This
outlying section of the city had been spared the bombing; it was
residential, even peaceful. The Neckar River could be seen in the distance,
its waters rolling calmly, oblivious to the destruction that had been
wrought on the other side of the city.
Zangen realized he was expected to speak, to answer von Schnitzler, who
spoke for all of I. G. Farben. The two other men were as anxious to hear
his words as was von Schnitzler. There was no point in procrastinating. He
had to carry out Altmiffler’s orders.
‘The Krupp laboratories have failed. No matter what Essen says, there is no
time for experimentation. The Ministry of Armaments has made that clear;
Altmiffier is resolute. He speaks for Speer.’ Zangen turned and looked at
the three men. ‘He holds you responsible.’
‘How can that beT asked von Schnitzler, his guttural lisp pronounced, his
voice angry. ‘How can we be responsible for something we know nothing
about? It’s illogical. Ridiculousl’
‘Would you wish me to convey that judgment to the ministryT
‘I’ll convey it myself, thank you,’ replied von Schnitzler. ‘Farben is not
involved.’
‘We are all involved,’ said Zangen quietly.
71
‘How can our company beT asked Heinrich Krepps, Direktor of Schreibwaren,
the largest printing complex in Germany. ‘Our work with Peenem0nde has been
practically nothing; and what there was, obscured to the point of
foolishness. Secrecy is one thing; lying to ourselves, something else
again. Do not include us, Herr Zangen.’
:You are included.’
I reject your conclusion. I’ve studied our communications with Peenem0nde.’
‘Perhaps you were not cleared for all the facts.’
‘Asinine!’
‘Quite possibly. Nevertheless . . .
‘Such a condition would hardly apply to me, Herr Reich official,’ said
Johann Dietricht, the middle-aged effeminate son of the Dietricht