I may have been the recipient of an award that lauded both my ability to read and write in German and my studies of German literature and history, but I was an American girl, through and through. I loved music and I loved to dance and I loved Hollywood movies—especially the ones with Jimmy Stewart. I loved Coney Island in the summer and Fifth Avenue at Christmastime. And oh, I passionately loved my Brooklyn Dodgers.
I was not just an American, I was a New Yorker—loyal to my borough of the city, down to my very toenails.
My trip was fun—at first.
Days one through three had been filled with visits to my mother’s brothers and sisters in their tiny Black Forest village. Vati—my father—had been an einziges Kind—an only child. He’d come to New York with his father, also a carpenter, after his mother had died when he was quite young. Mutti, my mother, had come as a teenager, to work in the kitchen of the great house in which her aunt was a cook.
She met my father at the Brooklyn German American Club, and the two fell deeply in love. They had me almost immediately. But then my father contracted the mumps, which ensured that I, too, would remain an einziges Kind.
I still often thank those mumps for the opportunities I was able to enjoy as a result of my lack of siblings. Not having a son, my father took me to baseball games with him. He taught me how to frame a wall, how to fix the broken plumbing, how to pour concrete, how to install a lock, how to plant a vegetable garden on our apartment building rooftop. And he and Mutti saved their pennies and nickels to send me to college.
So here I was in Berlin, after winning this wonderful opportunity to see the land of my parents’ birth, the home of Goethe and Bach. I’d met my mother’s younger brothers and sisters—my Tante Marlise was just a few years older than I—in the fairy-tale village in which Mutti had grown up. I met my cousins—more cousins than I’d ever dreamed of—little sweet-faced blond-haired children who stared with wide eyes at my American clothing and shoes.
And then I was brought to Berlin to have an official congratulatory lunch with the spokesmen from the prestigious university, a balding, bespectacled little man named Herr Schmidt.
We spoke at length—or rather, he spoke and I listened, about the glory of the German Fatherland, about the magnificence of the Nazi Regime, of their glorious Reich that was destined to last a thousand years. Was I not impressed with this beautiful country?
I was.
Was I not impressed with Der Fuehrer, Herr Hitler?
Well . . . I diplomatically replied that it seemed as if he’d done much to bring Germany out of the Depression. His Autobahn was certainly going to be quite an achievement. I refrained from mentioning that his Gestapo frightened me, that his policy of ruling through fervor and fear was against everything I believed in as a staunch American, and what I’d heard about Krystalnacht and his attacks on Germany’s Jewish citizens shocked me.
Did I not feel the stirrings of great German pride when I looked on the glory of all that was Deutschland?
Of course I agreed—because it seemed rude not to, like shrugging off a proud grandmother’s photos of her latest grandchild without oohing and ahhing over the dazed and drooling infant.
He talked about duty and honor and pride, and all the time I nodded and smiled and tried to keep him from looking down my blouse.
But then the other shoe dropped.
“You work for Grumman, the American aircraft manufacturer in New York, ja?” Herr Schmidt asked.
I explained that yes, during my first year of college, I got a part-time position as a filing clerk, as an assistant to the secretary of the vice president. It was what we referred to at school as a charity job. The VP was an alumnus, and although he didn’t really need a filing clerk, he enjoyed being a benefactor to the students at his alma mater. I did a little filing, but I mostly studied as I sat behind the receptionist’s desk during her lunch hour, answering the phone when it occasionally rang.
And it didn’t ring that often. We were not the manufacturing division, or even general management. We were R and D—research and development. Which of course, meant we dealt with information that the Nazis were most eager for.
Herr Schmidt offered to pay me quite handsomely to keep him abreast—yes, my pun is intended—of new developments at Grumman. And a lightning bolt of realization charged through me, ripping at my innocence. This man wanted me to be a spy for Nazi Germany.
I played dumb, giving him my best Katherine Mulvaney smile. Kat was one of the girls in my college dorm. She was a physics major, a sheer genius in fact, but she’d learned early on that the boys didn’t appreciate that. So she’d developed a smile that suggested she moved her lips when reading. And sure enough, she had a date every Saturday night.
“Oh, but Mr. Fielding—he’s my boss. I’m afraid he doesn’t let that information go public,” I told Herr Schmidt with that smile. I even batted my eyelashes a little bit.
Unfortunately, Schmidt knew I was smarter than that. “Such industrial secrets should be shared—for the betterment of all mankind. Think of how much easier it would have been had you not had to travel by ship from New York. If Germany had access to this information, we could help make air travel affordable.” He leaned closer and upped the ante. “A girl with your scholastic record would be eligible for a scholarship to the university here in Berlin. After you finish your studies in New York, you would be welcome to further your education here.”
Yes, I was a very smart girl. And I suspected that the Nazis weren’t after mere industrial secrets. They wanted to know what kinds of military planes the Americans were developing.
I later found out that people like me—young, first-generation Americans born to German immigrants—people who belonged to German American clubs, or studied German language and literature in school—were frequently targeted by the Nazis, particularly if they worked, as I did, at places such as Grumman.
This trip to Berlin was an attempt to woo me to their cause.
Somehow I managed to smile. “I’ll certainly consider such a generous offer.” I was lying through my teeth, but all I wanted was to get out of there. To end this luncheon and—
“Did you hear what happened?” Jules came into her office without knocking.
“Go away.” Alyssa didn’t even look up from the book. “I know it doesn’t look like it, but I’m working.”
. . . all I wanted was to get out of there, Rose had written. To end this luncheon and breathe some air that didn’t stink of wrong-doing. Of treason.
Jules came and started reading over her shoulder, which always bugged her, and she closed the book. “Do you mind?”
Of course, her closing the book was exactly what her partner wanted. He hopped up on the edge of her desk, letting his feet dangle. “So this new guy, George, he shows up this morning. Like, here I am, reporting for duty. And Laronda figures, okay, this is nothing new. Max has left her out of the loop again. She’s got no information on any George joining any aspect of the team, but she buzzes Max, tells him George is here. And he goes, George who?”
Jules laughed. “I’m standing there, collecting my phone messages, pretending I’ve got a reason to be there, and George, he’s right next to me, he kind of closes his eyes and says shit about four times, under his breath. Have I mentioned that he’s really good looking?”
“No,” Alyssa said.
“Very Armani ad. Dark blond hair, starting to thin, but gracefully. Nice suit. Italian shoes. Not a thread out of place—it was like he was trying to out-Max Max, except I don’t think it was an act. He’s like a taller, thinner, blonder Max.”
Jules was enjoying himself so much, she almost kept her mouth shut. But she had work to do. “Is there a punchline to all this?”
“I’m not sure I’d call it a punchline, but it definitely gets even more weird,” Jules said. “You’re going to love it. Mysteries abound. But before we go there, aren’t you dying to ask me if George is gay?”
“Actually,” Alyssa said, “his sexual
orientation doesn’t particularly—”
“He’s not.”
“You didn’t ask him . . . ?”
“Yeah, I’ve definitely learned that works really well,” Jules scoffed. “To frighten the hell out of the straight guys who are going to work with me by letting them know at our very first meeting that I think they’re hot?”
“Then . . . ?”
Jules slid down off her desk, did a slow spin like a fashion model on a runway. “Look at me.”
And Alyssa had to laugh, because she knew exactly what he meant. Today he was wearing black jeans that hugged his perfect hips and drool-worthy, subcompact, tiny butt, and a black T-shirt that was molded to his perfect upper body. His hair was back to a more natural shade of dark brown, and cut extremely short the way it was, it accented his dark eyes and classic cheekbones.
On a scale of one to ten in cuteness, Jules was a four million. He could have gone on an audition for a boy band and been signed without even singing a note.
“I’m a Village People fan’s dream come true,” Jules said, “and our new boy George barely even glanced at me.” He hopped back onto her desk. “I’d suggest you try for him—no wedding band I could see—except rumor has it you’re off the market. Word is, you’ve snagged the boss.”
Oh, crap. Alyssa was already shaking her head. “Not true and you know it.”
“Laronda said you kissed him. Why do I always miss things like this?”
“He kissed me,” she explained, “to make Dwayne go away. It was pretend.”
“Yeah, right,” Jules said. “Pretend.” He winked. “Gotcha.”
“You are very close to getting your ass kicked out of here.”
“Okay.” He held up his hands in a gesture of surrender. “I’m sorry.” He went serious on her. “I just . . . well, if it could be true, you know, about you and Max, I think it would be a really good thing for you, sweetie. You know, to help you stop thinking about what’s-his-name.”
Alyssa sighed. “Now would be a really good time for that punchline.”
“Okay, so we have George standing in front of Laronda’s desk, saying—”
“Shit,” Alyssa said. “I got that. And . . . ?”
“And Max comes out of his office.” Jules grinned. “And there they are, face to face. The designer suit twins. And Max just looks at George, you know, with that look. That ‘if you have interrupted me with anything less than information about an impending nuclear attack, you are about to learn the true meaning of pain’ look. And I’m close enough to George to see that even though he’s playing it cool, he’s got this one bead of sweat right by his left ear. And he introduces himself to Max and says, ‘I guess I arrived in advance of the phone call.’
“And Max just waits for him to explain. I would’ve run away, weeping. But George, he just kind of laughs, and says, ‘You’re going to hate this, sir, but I’ve been assigned to your team.’
“And Laronda’s jaw is on the floor, she’s just sitting there staring at George, and she turns to look at Max, probably wondering like me if he’s going to pull his gun on this obvious imposter, because everyone, everyone knows that people don’t get assigned to Max’s team.
“And the phone rings, and Laronda answers it, still watching Max, who’s stone silent, just staring at George. And she puts whoever it is on hold, and says . . .” Jules laughed and imitated Laronda’s husky voice. “ ‘Excuse me, Mr. Bhagat. The president. Of the United States. On line one, sir.’
“And Max just slowly turns and goes back into his office, but before he closes the door behind him, he calls back to George, ‘How long have you known Rose?’
“And George says, ‘She’s my godmother, sir.’
“Max just nods and says, ‘Welcome to the team. I’ll be with you in a minute.’ Sure enough, he’s on the phone for maybe thirty seconds, and then he opens his office door and waves George inside. I look at Laronda, because who the hell is Rose? But she doesn’t know either.”
Alyssa held up her copy of Double Agent, letting him see the cover. “Rose,” she said. “Mystery solved. Former agent. VIP.”
“No shit she’s a VIP,” Jules said, taking the book from her hands and flipping through it. “What’s going on that no one has bothered to tell little ol’ me?”
“Possible kidnapped son,” Alyssa said. “Alexander von Hopf. Businessman traveling in Indonesia, gone AWOL from his hotel. Just to make it more complicated, he’s a diabetic. Max gave me this book last night, told me to read it.”
“After the pretend kiss?” Jules waggled his eyebrows.
“Don’t start.”
He looked at her bookmark. “For an overachiever, you didn’t get very far.”
“Tyra called with an emergency.” Alyssa’s sister was a drama queen whose entire life was in italics followed by multiple exclamation points. “A real one this time. Her father-in-law had a heart attack, and she needed to go to the hospital with Ben. I rushed over to baby-sit Lanora, and like a genius left the book on my kitchen table. Which was probably just as good, since Lanora kicked my ass and ran me ragged the whole time. On her way out the door, Tyra was like, ‘She had a really long nap this afternoon so don’t worry about putting her to bed until she gets tired.’ And then it’s midnight, and we’re not just reading Good Night, Moon for the four thousandth time, we’re acting it out. And I’m thinking, what do they feed this kid and where can I get some, and how long was that nap?”
“Hey,” Jules said, still leafing through the book, “this girl became a double agent when she was only eighteen.”
“Did you hear a single word I said?” Alyssa asked.
“Good night, kittens. Good night, mittens,” Jules said, still buried in the book. “I would’ve loved to have seen that. I bet you were a great mitten. You know, I should write my memoirs.”
She took the book out of his hands. “The book has to come after you retire. Makes it hard to go undercover when your face is in every bookstore in the country.”
“Excellent point. Can I read it after you?”
“Yes. Shut the door on your way out.”
He actually did.
Alyssa opened the book.
After that hideous luncheon, I found myself walking, just walking rapidly through the city, for hours, until it was nearly dark. I was angry and frightened and disgusted that my hosts could think I would be so easily for sale.
I didn’t know what to do.
I wanted desperately to go home, to throw myself into Mutti’s arms, but I had three more days before my ship even set sail for New York. And—God help me—there was another luncheon scheduled for tomorrow. For which I would plead illness, I vowed to myself. I’d stick my finger down my throat if I had to.
Finally, exhausted, and not sure I could find my way back to my hotel, I sat down on the steps of a bakery, the door locked up tight, the owners long since gone home.
The evening air was starting to get chilly, and I didn’t have a sweater. I buried my face in my hands and allowed myself some childish tears of self-pity.
“Are you lost?”
The man standing in front of me on the sidewalk had spoken to me in English. I guess it was obvious to the entire world that I was an American. I quickly wiped my face, embarrassed that a stranger should see me cry.
“This isn’t a particularly good part of town,” he continued. His English was remarkable. It was British accented, with just a trace of Germany in the percussiveness of his ds. Goodt instead of good.
He stood with his hands in his pockets—I realized later that this was intentional, that everything he did was intentional. He’d wanted to appear as nonthreatening as possible because sitting there the way I was, I surely looked utterly pathetic and completely vulnerable.
He was dressed in a baggy pair of trousers and a tweed jacket with patched elbows that made him look like the boys I went to college with. Except he was older than those boys—older than me—by at least ten years.
He had dark blond
hair and hazel eyes and the kind of too-handsome face I’d seen adorning the Nazi propaganda posters that littered the country. A perfect straight Aryan nose. Strong, almost flat, Teutonic cheekbones. An elegantly shaped mouth and a proud chin.
“The first time I came to Berlin,” he told me, “I got hopelessly lost, as well. My parents actually sent out a search party, looking for me.” He smiled. “Of course, I was two years old at the time.”
He had a Prince Charming, fairy-tale smile that lit his face, his eyes, his very soul and made him even more handsome. I had to work very hard not to fall in love with him right there on the spot. Like most eighteen-year-old girls, I was in the habit of quickly falling in love with extraordinarily handsome men.
“I’m a little older than that, I’m afraid,” I told him. I glanced up and down the street—there was no one else out there, just a long line of neatly closed shops and pristine cobblestone.
Troubleshooters 04 Out of Control Page 8
