He was wearing the ETO (European Theater of Operations) ribbon with a battle star and the ribbon of the Silver Star medal. Hanging from his shoulder was a Thompson machine-pistol, a non-issue weapon.
As he sat down, he rather ostentatiously laid the weapon on the bar stool beside his and, in Arabic, ordered Scotch and water from the Moroccan barman.
He got strange looks from the other officers at the bar, who were young staff officers of one kind or another assigned to the various rear-area support services in Casablanca. Fulmar managed to remind them, Baker saw, that while they might be in uniform, they weren’t really soldiers.
Fulmar, with his Silver Star and parachutist’s wings and Thompson machine-pistol, was a soldier.
Baker stood up from his table, walked to the bar, and slid onto the stool beside him.
” Wie gexts, Eric?” he asked in flawless German. “Was 1st Ios?” That got some attention from the other officers at the bar, too.
It probably wasn’t the smartest thing to do, Baker thought, but on the other hand, he felt sure that Fulmar would somehow already have let the others know that he spoke German.
Fulmar turned to look at him. His eyes were cold. Baker was made a little uncomfortable to be reminded that beneath the facade of self-impressed young parachutist hero, this was a very tough and self-reliant young man.
KWHAT brings you here, Baker?” Fulmar asked. His eyes were contemptuous and wary.
“Westerman,” Baker said.
Fulmar thought that over.
“Westerman, then,” he said.
KWELL, I had to come over here, and I thought I’d say hello,” Baker said.
He saw the chill deepen in Fulmar’s eyes, and quickly added, “I heard about the promotion and the Silver Star. Congratulations.” “Bullshit,” Fulmar said flatly.
KI need a word with you,” Baker said, giving up. He wondered why he had bothered trying to be friendly. It had been necessary, twice, to cause unpleasant things to happen to Eric Fulmar. And Eric Fulmar was not the sort to let bygones be bygones.
Fulmar took a sip of his Scotch, then turned to look at Baker out of his cold blue eyes.
He would have made an SS off ficer to warm the cockles of Hitler’s heart, Baker thought. Blond-haired, blue-eyed, muscular, erect, the perfect Aryan.
KHAVE your word,” Fulmar said.
“Not here,” Baker said. “Can we go to your room?” Fulmar said something to the bartender, who picked up Fulmar’s glass and pushed it into a bed of ice behind the bar. Then Fulmar picked up his machine-pistol and walked out of the bar. Baker followed him.
They rode wordlessly two floors down in an elevator and then walked down a corridor to Fulmar’s suite, a small sitting room and a much larger bedroom with a balcony. The balcony overlooked the Atlantic Ocean and a rather stunning beach.
KI don’t know if this place is secure or not,” Fulmar said.
“It doesn’t matter,” Baker said. “This isn’t going to take long.” He took from the breast pocket of his tunic two 3×8-inch sheets of corrugated paperboard, held together by rubber bands, and then a fountain pen, a large, somewhat ungainly instrument.
“Is that German?” Fulmar asked, his curiosity aroused. Baker nodded his head.
“I used to have one something like it,” Fulmar said. i.
“Sit down, Eric,” Baker said, nodding toward a small writing desk as he removed the rubber bands from the sheets of cardboard.
When Fulmar had seated himself, Baker handed him a postcard and two sheets of paper cut to the same size. Fulmar examined the postcard.
It was a photograph of the Kurhotel in Bad Ems.
“What’s all this?”
“I have only the one postcard,” Baker said. “So we can’t take the risk of fucking this up. What I want you to do is copy the message from the one sheet of paper onto the other sheet of paper. Copy what is written exactly.” Fulmar looked at the piece of paper. The postcard was to be addressed to Herr Joachim Freienstall, 7476 Beerenstrasse, Berlin/Zehlendorf.
The message (in German) was’ Sorry I missed you. Please give my regards to my father and Prof. Dyer. Kindest regards, Willi von K.”