The One Man by Andrew Gross Read Free Book Online Page A

in behind the wheel. “Everyone’s waiting. Have you ever been to Estoril?”
    In about forty minutes, they reached the coast and arrived at the posh seaside resort, home to the glamorous casino where the displaced royalty of Europe wagered for exit visas in evening attire, mingling with British and German spies. The car came to a stop in front of a tile-roofed, two-story home facing the sea behind a high iron gate and a stucco outer wall: 114 Rua do Mare. The villa could have belonged to any well-heeled Portuguese family seeking seclusion and a pleasing view of the sea, but, in fact, it was the summer retreat of the Catholic archbishop. The high walls and remote location, far away from the spy nests in Lisbon and before the summer crowds, made it the ideal location for the men Strauss had flown to meet.
    The front gate opened and the Opel came to a stop in the courtyard. A large, Florentine-styled fountain stood in the center. Someone came out to meet him, a short, neatly tailored man with a goatee who introduced himself as Ricardo Oliva, from the International Refugee Committee, and escorted Strauss down a vaulted loggia into the main house. In a large room dominated by a huge stone fireplace and a candled chandelier, a small crowd was waiting for him. The first to greet him was the archbishop’s adjunct, a balding man of about fifty in a black frock and crucifix, who introduced himself as Monsignor Correa.
    â€œThank you for arranging this,” Strauss said, shaking the clergyman’s hand. “And please convey my government’s thanks to His Eminence for offering the privacy of his home.”
    â€œPrivacy is the only weapon we have today,” the monsignor said, nodding, “but soon, it is our hope that such vile business be seen by the world and out in the light of day. In fact, there are some things more pressing than political or religious neutrality. Even in the midst of war.”
    â€œThat is our hope too,” Strauss said to him.
    He went around the room and met various representatives from the refugee groups from Bern and Stockholm, two bearded Orthodox rabbis who spoke no English and whom Strauss greeted with the traditional Hebrew “Shalom, rebi , ” and finally Alexander Katzner of the Jewish World Congress, whose efforts in trying to smuggle Jews out of occupied territory was well known back home. They all seemed to meet Strauss with great anticipation.
    â€œWe are glad you’re here.” Katzner greeted him warmly. “It is time that the world see what we’ve known has been going on for some time.”
    â€œYour president must now see,” one of the refugee committee representatives said, “what we’ve been facing. And then act.”
    â€œPlease, please … Leave our guest to get his bearings. Would you care for something to eat, Captain?” Monsignor Correa took Strauss by the elbow. “I know it’s been a long trip.”
    Strauss thanked him but politely declined. “I’m eager to get going, if it’s all the same.”
    â€œBy all means. I understand. This way, then…” The monsignor opened an adjacent double door and led Strauss into a spacious, formal dining room. “They are waiting for you in here.”
    Seated at the long, wooden table with two large, gold candelabras in the center were Rudolf Vrba and Alfred Wetzler.
    *   *   *
    The two men were dark and thin, dressed in suits that seemed way too baggy, and remained seated as everyone came in the room. They had been out of the camp for only a few weeks and their hair was only beginning to grow in. Wetzler, whom Strauss recognized from photographs, had a small mustache. His Czech compatriot, Vrba, was smoking, seemingly nervously, and remained seated. A Czech member of the War Refugee Committee acted as translator.
    First, Strauss shook their hands and congratulated them on their brave escape. “You both showed