Johnson pursed his lips. His immediate thought was that it must, somehow, be linked to what Nathaniel had been trying somewhat clumsily to communicate the previous day. “Any theories on who did it?”
“They’ve no idea.”
“Did they get the knife?”
“No. There was no sign of it. Forensics is apparently on it, but first signs aren’t promising.”
“My God.” Johnson hesitated. “It was a bit weird, the meeting with him yesterday at the fund-raiser. I was going to contact him today.”
“I know, a strange guy. I had a chat with him after you left. And then, you’re not going to believe this, but after I finished work last night, he followed me, at least I think he did, to a restaurant. Came in and sat down. We had quite a conversation. He was obviously trying to get stuff off his chest.”
Johnson pulled out to pass a truck. “Followed you to a restaurant?”
“Yes, near my apartment,” Fiona said. “He was very off-message, tried hard to paint himself as a kind of black sheep of the family. In the restaurant he came right out with a few comments about the funding for David’s campaign coming from illegal sources. Said he’d been in London visiting his uncle and found out a few things. And then he basically said there was some kind of Nazi connection to the money. Then he wouldn’t say any more and walked out.”
“Really?” Johnson asked. “A Nazi connection?”
“Yes, that’s what he said,” Fiona replied. “I was also going to give him a call to try and have another chat, get a few more details, but then the news came through about the stabbing. I was thinking maybe he’s just a bit of a crank, but now I’m wondering whether there’s more to it.”
Johnson glanced in his rearview mirror. “I also had an odd conversation with him. He talked a bit about it being difficult to raise campaign funds given the economic shitstorm. Then he made some joke about his brother benefiting from a Polish trust fund and a Polish goose laying its golden eggs and drew a kind of swastika symbol in the air. Really bizarre. I thought for a second he was trying to make a joke, then I decided he wasn’t.”
Johnson came to the end of the bridge and turned right down Cottage Road. “I remember he was having an argument with his brother at that fund-raiser,” he continued. “They seemed like they were about to start punching each other at one point.”
“Yeah, I saw that.”
“Right. So there’s a family fight. Then Nathaniel tells you all that stuff, makes a few weird hints to me. Then a few hours later he’s found stabbed to death. That seems like more than a bit of a coincidence?” Johnson asked.
“Dunno. But who would do something like that? Surely not anyone in his family. I can’t see it. Police seem to be ruling out robbery. His laptop and phone were still in his room; his wallet was still full of cash,” Fiona said.
“Hmm. He does seem to have been trying to drop his brother, father, and uncle deep in the crap, that’s for sure. And he did seem like a crank, as you say,” Johnson said. “But another interesting thing was that his father and uncle were both in the same concentration camp as my mother in Poland, or so he said.”
Johnson paused. “I’ll have to go, Fiona. I’ve got a meeting with a client here, starting in a couple of minutes. Are you going to the police, to tell them about your chat with Nathaniel?”
“Dunno,” Fiona said. “Not sure what to do. I might, but I’d definitely like to have a look at the story myself. Might do my own bit of investigating, actually. I’m going to think about it. Look, I’ve got a recording of the conversation I had with Nathaniel in the restaurant, I’ll send it to you so you can hear for yourself. Let’s keep in touch on this. I’ll let you know if there’s more developments. Oh, and let me know when you’re down in D.C. lecturing again. Perhaps we could catch up.”
Johnson drove into the parking lot next to his client’s offices, still struggling to digest this new development. “Okay, will do. I need to run, Fiona. Talk to you soon.”
Chapter Four
Thursday, November 10, 2011
Washington, D.C.
By quarter to eleven, the Inside Track newsroom was humming. Journalists were busy on the phones, meeting rooms were filling up, and the noise level was rising.
Fiona walked up to Des, who was sitting hunched in front of his computer screen, surrounded by piles of books, old press releases, and three dirty coffee cups.
Before she could speak, he said, “Can’t talk. I’ve got a news conference in ten minutes. They’ve brought it forward this morning. Tell me quickly, what have you got for today?”
“Nothing for today, but there is one story I want to chase. David Kudrow—”
“You got a follow-up on his brother’s death? The crime desk’s all over it. Go and talk to them.”
“Well, not on the actual death but on something Nathaniel said to me at that Republican fund-raiser the day before he was stabbed. You know, I mentioned it briefly.”
“Yes, yes, get to the point.”
“Okay, he spoke to me off the record and gave me a clear steer that there’s something weird going on over how his family is funding David’s campaign. Maybe there’s a link to his death in there. Problem is, it’s gonna take some time to investigate and stand it all up. It might involve some work in the U.K. where his uncle lives as well. I think it could be a really great story, though. Is there any chance I could get some time off the diary to have a look at it?”
Des stared at her. “You winding me up? Nice idea, but let’s get real, there’s no bloody chance, Fiona, I’m sorry. You know how busy we are here. The primaries are going to be kicking off before we know it, and there’s a hell of a lot of mainstream stuff going on.”
He drummed his fingers on the desk. “We need you to do probably three big political analysis pieces over the next week or so in addition to the daily stuff. If you think it’s a runner, why don’t you get one of our freelancers to pick it up, someone who’s got more time? We have a decent budget left for that sort of thing. Now I’ve got to get back to this. Conversation over. Okay?”
“I thought you’d say that.” She sighed. “Okay, I’ll think about it. I don’t like the idea of handing over a great story to a freelancer, though.”
Fiona ambled to her desk at the far end of the newsroom, past the photocopier and the watercooler, the piles of paper standing next to the shredder, and the bin overflowing with paper and plastic cups.
She sat down at her desk across from Penny Swanson, her assistant, who had moved with her from The New York Times.
“Any luck, Fiona?”
“Nah, he’s not biting. Didn’t think he would with all this going on. He’s suggesting using a freelancer, but I don’t want to give this one away.”
Fiona pursed her lips. “I was thinking, and you’ll probably laugh at this one, that I’d like to try and get Joe Johnson to have a look at it.”
“Joe, huh? Don’t tell me he’s back on the scene?”
“Well, no, he’s not back on the scene, actually. By coincidence, he was there at the GOP fund-raiser earlier this week when I picked up this story. He got some info too. I spoke to him on the phone this morning. Thing is, it could be just up his alley given this Nazi angle—if it’s true, that is. He’s an investigator; he tracks people down. That’s what he’s good at, finding stuff out. Doesn’t mind getting his hands dirty either: ex-CIA, then the OSI and all that.”
Fiona folded her arms. “I’ve seen how he operates. He seems to have this knack for digging out information and finding people that others just don’t have. Remember when we were both at the Times, how he came up with all that fantastic stuff for me on that U.S. Nazi story, that senator, William Marsh? I got three front pages out of that. You know how he got that? He somehow pinpointed exactly who had the right info, arranged some subterfuge to get into that person’s office, and raided their filing cabinet. Photographed the lot. Risky, but it paid off. I don’t think he ever told his boss how he did it. That was when that SS guy ended u
p getting life at the International Criminal Court. So what I figure is, he can do the hard work, the legwork. Then I can write the story and take the credit.”
Penny chuckled. “Yes, I remember it. You don’t change, Fiona. Sounds like a bit of a long shot—great story if it works though.”
“Yeah, I bet he’ll cooperate. I have a feeling he’s at a loose end up there in Portland.”
Portland, Maine
Johnson felt his calves tighten as he neared the end of his three-and-a-half-mile run around Back Cove, an almost square-shaped inlet off Casco Bay, north of Portland’s city center.
When the sun shone, it was a pleasant run, but not on a drizzly day like today. He felt better for the exercise, though, which had cleared his head.
As usual when out running, he had been able to do some thinking. Today the bizarre circumstances surrounding Nathaniel Kudrow were on his mind.
But apart from that, he found he was having one of those days when he was missing his wife, Kathy. It had been six years since she had finally surrendered to the cancer that had tortured her body.
In October 2006, a year after her death, he had left his role as a senior investigative historian at the OSI and moved the family from Washington, D.C., to his hometown of Portland so that his sister, Amy Wilde, and her husband, Don, could help with the children; they didn’t have any of their own. That had proved a lifesaver, because at the same time he had started his own private investigations business and sometimes needed to be away from home.
But while living in Portland allowed him more flexibility to look after his children, he wrestled with the negative impact it had on his career. The truth was, his work as a freelance investigator in Maine just didn’t have the same buzz as his old Nazi-hunting role with the OSI, or as his time at the CIA, for that matter.
Amy, who was two years younger than him, often asked him what was wrong with just having an ordinary, local job. Maybe she was right. What was wrong with ordinary, exactly?
He struggled to answer the question. What was it with people, with him, that they were so often driven by something, a need to define themselves?
Damn ego, that was the problem.
He stopped running where the trail around Back Cove went past the top of his street, Parsons Road, and walked the remaining distance to his house, a two-story cape with green shutters and a double garage. He took out his key and opened the front door.
Johnson picked up his phone and checked it, relieved there had been no further calls from the assistant principal’s wife. However, there was a text message from an old buddy.
Hey Doc, how goes it? I’m in Portland next Wed interviewing someone. Can you meet? Can’t stay over, I’m on a flight back to D.C. at 4 p.m. Maybe a beer? I’ll bring the smokes. You still allowing yourself the odd one these days?!! Vic
Like many of Johnson’s friends, Vic Walter called him by the nickname “Doc,” in a reference to his doctorate in history from the Freie Universität Berlin. He had been one of Johnson’s closest friends since the two of them worked closely together in Pakistan and Afghanistan for the CIA in the late 1980s.
Vic was still with the Agency, based at the organization’s Langley headquarters just outside Washington, D.C., having worked his way up into a senior supervisor’s role within the Directorate of Operations. A bigger cog in the management machine than he once was, he often joked.
Johnson texted him back, suggesting they meet at his favorite Portland coffee shop, Crema Coffee, on Commercial Street.
Then he remembered he hadn’t checked the mailbox, so he went back outside.
There was a letter from Phillips & Co., one of the main Portland law firms. Strange, he’d had nothing to do with them since his mother had died ten years earlier. What’s this about?, he wondered.
Johnson took a beer from the fridge, then went to his living room and sat in an armchair that faced the garden. He slit open the envelope.
Inside were two sheets of paper. The first was a typewritten letter from John Phillips, the lead partner at the firm.
Several months prior to the death of your mother, Helena Johnson, in 2001, she issued strict instructions to us to pass on the enclosed letter from her to you on the tenth anniversary of her death, at which point, as I believe you are aware, the outstanding $10,000 cash in her trust fund will be transferred to you. As you know, that date falls on November 10, 2011. Therefore, in accordance with her instructions, I am forwarding it to you. If you have any questions, please do not hesitate to call.
Johnson unfolded the second sheet. This was very weird. Ten years since his mother had passed away, yet now he could almost smell her scent and hear her voice again.
It was her final letter, he realized, which was presumably written when she knew her end was near.
As with most of her notes, it was typewritten on her favorite battered old Remington.
Dear Joe,
So, a decade after my passing, here I am again. As you will know from the attorney, I hope, the final $10,000 I left you in my will is now being transferred from my trust fund specifically for the benefit of my grandchildren. I would like it to be used for an educational purpose. Sorry, you will undoubtedly think a letter from the grave a little strange, and you’re right. But I thought it would be nice to leave a note along with the money.
I thought I would also give a gentle reminder, if needed, to continue to do what I used to ask you all those years ago. Remember the story I left with my will? If not, please read it again.
Maybe by now the murderers who were in charge at Gross-Rosen have faced trial or are dead. But if not, please either keep pushing for justice yourself or urge on others.
I managed to forgive those men, as you know. Without that, I couldn’t have continued. Yet for the thousands they murdered, and I was almost one of them, justice must be done—in court, not by the bullet. I think you’ll know exactly what I mean by that.
Don’t give up, Joe boy. These people can run and run, but they can’t hide forever. Your skill lies in finding them. Remember that suffering produces perseverance; perseverance character; and character hope.
All my love,
Mom
The sentiments were typical of his mother: hard and soft-nosed, all combined in a few paragraphs that somehow encapsulated her character.
Don’t give up, Joe boy. How often had he heard her say that when he was growing up?
Johnson’s daughter, Carrie, strolled in, threw her school bag on the floor, and sat on the sofa opposite him, still wearing her navy school blazer and beige pants, her long brown hair tied in braids. Cocoa followed her in and jumped onto the sofa next to her, his ears pricked, and licked her on the chin, as usual.
Carrie stared at her father, fifteen but going on nineteen, as he often told his friends. “Dad, are you all right? You look upset.” She sounded concerned.
Johnson turned away, trying to shake off the emotion that had overwhelmed him. It was that line. Justice must be done—in court, not by the bullet.
Of course he knew what she meant. But why did she need to write that? It felt as if an old wound, dating back to an incident during his time with the CIA in Pakistan and Afghanistan, had suddenly been reopened.
Johnson faced his daughter. “I’m fine,” he said. “So, how was school? Anything good happen? Anything bad?”
Carrie laughed. It was a routine exchange between them. “No, not really, just a bit of hassle from my math teacher again. He keeps picking on me. I don’t know why; I’m getting good enough grades.”
Johnson put the letter down. “Well, I would just concentrate on quietly getting on with your work. If you do that, I don’t think he’ll keep on having words with you.”
She tossed her head and pulled her mouth to one side. “Okay, okay. What about you, anything interesting going on?” she asked.
“Well, I’ve just had this letter from a law firm. They’ve sent me a note that your grandma left for me when she died. A bit strange—she told them to give it
to me on the tenth anniversary of her death, which is today.”
His daughter inclined toward him on the sofa. “A letter? What about?”
“It was mainly about transferring some money from her trust fund, which will benefit you and Peter when you’re both older.”
Carrie nodded. “It’s funny, I was thinking about Grandma the other day when we were talking in school about our earliest memories. I must have been five when she died, but I can remember her somewhat. Little things. Then I thought of her again, because we’re learning about the Holocaust. I know she survived that, though you don’t talk about it much. I’d like to read that memoir of hers that you mentioned a while back. Have you got it somewhere?”
“Yes, I do have it,” Johnson said. “The problem is, it’s extremely upsetting. She was treated very badly in the concentration camp, and she tells exactly what it was like. It was awful. I think it would be better to wait a year or two until you read it, when you’re just a little older.”
Johnson paused. It was always difficult to get the balance right between educating his children on big issues such as human rights while at the same time shielding them from the worst of the gory details.
He looked at his daughter. “Do you understand what I’m saying?”
“Kind of,” Carrie said. “But we are learning about the way the Nazis treated the Jews, anyway. The gas chambers, the tortures, and so on. I do have quite a good idea of what happened. It’s all in the history books.”
Johnson nodded. “I know. But this is different. Reading something like this really hits you hard, especially when it involves someone in your family. It’s not like reading a history book about someone you’ve never known.”
The Last Nazi (A Joe Johnson Thriller, Book 1) Page 4
