The Accidental Agent

by Andrew Rosenheim

  ‘Don’t ask.’ He sighed.

  ‘I’m surprised – women like you, Nessheim. You must know that. They see a tall, blue-eyed, good-looking guy, who’s confident enough to treat them well. And yet you manage to suggest vulnerability on your own part – which any woman loves. “A secret wound that only she can heal …” ’ she added facetiously, then seemed to think about this for a moment. ‘Though I have to say, you’ve changed. You’re not the happy-go-lucky guy I used to know.’

  ‘It’s the same me,’ he said, thinking of his feelings for her.

  ‘I don’t think so.’ She sat up and turned on the bedside light, then reached for the pack of cigarettes on the night table. Fishing one out, she lit it, inhaled sharply, then blew out a grey plume of smoke in the room’s warm air. ‘You’re still pretty vulnerable, but I’m not sure you’re still so nice. So, do you want to tell me about her?’

  ‘What?’

  ‘The girl in D.C.’

  ‘Nothing to tell. I thought it might work out but it didn’t.’

  ‘When did you last see her?’

  ‘At the beginning of the summer. I went back to Washington for a while – I was going to work for Guttman, my boss there.’

  ‘What happened?’

  ‘It turned out to be a desk job. Dull and pointless. He was being sidelined – that made me sidelined too.’

  ‘I meant with the girl there. Is that the last time you’ve been to bed with anybody?’

  Nessheim was reluctant to say. ‘It wasn’t like that. We were never … together.’

  ‘You mean you never …?’

  His embarrassment was fully fledged now. ‘Yeah,’ he said huskily.

  She took a deep drag and then crushed out her cigarette on the plate she’d brought over as an ashtray. ‘That’s the problem. It’s bad enough getting rejected, but because you never got to the nitty-gritty, there’s nothing to work on in your mind except fantasies.’

  ‘You talk about rejection like an expert.’

  ‘See, that’s not very nice.’

  He turned towards her under the sheets and slowly drew his hand up along her thigh. ‘I’ll show you nice,’ he said.

  10

  HE WORKED HARD for mid-terms during the next few days, and was glad to find that Stacey did too. Soon they were in a routine – except for Torts they didn’t see each other during the day, but convened in Nessheim’s apartment around six o’clock. One of them would have bought groceries, and Stacey usually cooked since Nessheim’s expertise, she claimed, was limited to ‘greasy food’: hamburgers and pork chops, steaks and bacon and chunks of liver – anything that would fit into a skillet with some lard. Meat like this was hard to find, which accelerated Stacey’s appropriation of the kitchen.

  That was not all she took over. Reading on his bed one afternoon, Nessheim was moved to complain when Stacey came in at the end of a day. ‘Honest, Stacey, how many drawers do you need? At the rate you’re going I’ll have my own clothes in the dining room. Maybe I should get Drusilla in to sort the place out.’

  Stacey blushed.

  ‘Don’t tell me,’ he said. ‘You already have. When was she here?’

  ‘She liked the apartment,’ Stacey said defensively.

  ‘Oh, yeah, I bet. It’s so glamorous compared to your view on South Shore Drive.’

  ‘I’ve never heard class resentment from you before, Nessheim.’

  ‘You still haven’t,’ he said. ‘It’s Drusilla I’m speaking on behalf of. I said a drawer, Stacey. You’ve taken two.’

  She jumped on the end of the bed on all fours and crawled up to him, tickling his stomach as he went. ‘I’m a girl, Nessheim. Come on, girls have clothes, lots of clothes. Girls need space. You have a sister; you should know this.’

  ‘She had her own room,’ he said, trying not to laugh as Stacey tickled him with both hands. ‘You’ve got a luxury apartment. What do you want to move in here for?’

  She stopped tickling him, and swung her leg over until she was straddling him. She leaned over, her hair falling almost to the pillow, and looked down at him, her lips faintly creased in the beginnings of a smile. ‘It’s homey here. I like it, dust and all.’

  ‘I can’t believe it. You’ve got a view people would kill for.’

  ‘View, schmew,’ she said, in what sounded to Nessheim like a terrible approximation of Guttman. ‘It’s like the story my mother told me.’

  ‘What’s that?’ he asked, trying not to sound intrigued. He was having to readjust his picture of her mother with each mention; all he’d known before was that the two had never got on – Stacey was a daddy’s girl through and through, and had in the past talked exclusively about him.

  ‘She told me once that if she could pick one place in the world where she could live, it would be the farmhouse in North Dakota where she spent six months as a girl. Not the North Shore mansion, or the palatial apartment on the Gold Coast – nope, it was the rickety house three miles outside Fargo where she lived for just a little while. But her daddy died and they had to move into town. And then another town, and another town.’

  ‘Like an army kid?’

  ‘Yeah, but without the army. My grandmother had five mouths to feed on her own.’

  ‘How did she get by?’

  ‘She took in sewing. Alterations, repairs – anything she could find.’ Stacey stared at Nessheim, a little defiantly. ‘When there wasn’t enough sewing work she took in men. That’s when they’d have to move to another town.’ She laughed and, clambering off Nessheim and the bed, stood up. ‘I’d better warn you that I used some hangers too.’

  ‘That’s okay.’

  ‘You sure?’ She was looking away from him, her breezy confidence all gone.

  ‘I’m sure. This can be your Dakota,’ he said. For a while anyway, he thought, trying to protect himself.

  On Sunday afternoon they went for a walk, an unpredictable meander through the neighbourhood, with Stacey at the helm, suddenly deciding to turn this way or that. The unpredictability jibed nicely with Nessheim’s new caution, though he didn’t mention it.

  Almost all the trees had shed their leaves now. A bright refractory sun lit the interstices of pavement between them, casting a low bleached flare of irregular light. It would be dark in an hour, and Nessheim wanted to get home, quickening his pace a little until Stacey took his arm and subtly slowed him. Ahead, another couple was approaching, also arm in arm. The man wore a formal overcoat and a brown fedora; there seemed something European in his aspect, and Nessheim realised it was Fermi. The woman next to the Italian was almost his height, with a striking, pretty face and black wavy hair tamed by a short-brimmed red felt hat.

  ‘Professor,’ said Nessheim hesitantly when they were within a few steps of each other.

  Recognising Nessheim, Fermi stopped and smiled; it was the genuine version. ‘Mr Nessheim,’ he said. Then he added formally, ‘My wife, Laura.’ She was wearing smart black gloves and did not offer to shake hands, so Nessheim merely nodded hello and she smiled back shyly.

  ‘This is my friend, Miss Madison,’ Nessheim replied. There was something Continental in the scene: they could all have been on a Sunday promenade in some small Italian town, where you could count on running into people you knew.

  ‘I am honoured,’ said Fermi. He seemed about to introduce his wife to Stacey when suddenly Signora Fermi gave a little cry and stepped forward, opening her arms wide. To Nessheim’s astonishment, the two women embraced while Fermi looked at them, nonplussed.

  Laughing, the women broke off. Laura Fermi turned to her husband. ‘This is the lady I spoke to you about, Enrico.’

  ‘Of course,’ Fermi said weakly.

  ‘Yes,’ his wife insisted. ‘Who helped me in the negozio di alimentari.’

  ‘How nice,’ said Fermi, clearly thinking it was time to move on. But his wife spoke to him in a burst of Italian. He started to reply, but she talked right through him until he nodded obediently. He said to Nessheim, ‘On two Sat
urdays from now we are having a few people from the Met Lab to our house. We would be very privileged if you could come.’ He then added, as if an inducement were required, ‘It would be a good opportunity to meet all my senior colleagues.’

  ‘It would be my pleasure,’ said Nessheim, though it was the last thing he wanted to do. On a Saturday night, he’d much rather take Stacey to the Rhumboogie Club.

  Laura Fermi interjected again in Italian, gesturing towards Stacey with one hand while her other did a conductor’s dance, in time with the rapid-fire tempo of her words. Fermi’s face grew slightly flushed. ‘My wife says to make it clear that you would be most welcome too,’ he said to Stacey.

  ‘Yes,’ said Laura Fermi unequivocally.

  ‘Wonderful,’ said Stacey before Nessheim could speak. ‘Can we bring anything?’

  ‘No,’ said Laura Fermi. ‘Not even olive oil.’

  Relieved to have discharged his wife’s orders, Fermi tipped his hat and moved on, as Laura gave Stacey another hug.

  As they walked on, Nessheim said to Stacey, ‘What was that about? How do you know Fermi’s wife?’

  ‘We met on 57th Street when I was buying us dinner,’ she said crisply. ‘She was trying to buy olive oil.’

  ‘What for?’

  ‘To cook with, you big dope. Italians use it instead of lard. I had to explain she wouldn’t find it in Schumacher’s – she’d have to go to a drugstore. I drove her down to Blackstone and we got some at Sarnat’s. When I dropped her home she asked me in for coffee. She’s very nice.’

  ‘Sure, but I don’t think you want to go to the party.’

  ‘Why not? She’s my friend.’

  ‘She said you only met her a few days ago,’ he protested.

  ‘So what? Are you trying to tell me that you and Enrico go back to grade school in Wisconsin? I don’t think so.’

  ‘I can’t take you with me. Anyway, Winograd said he’s having a party that night.’

  ‘I hope you enjoy it then. I’ll go to the Fermis on my own. You heard the Professor – I’m invited too.’

  ‘But …’ He started to protest, then couldn’t think of an argument that didn’t involve telling Stacey much more than he wanted her to know.

  ‘Are you embarrassed to take me?’ she demanded.

  ‘Yes,’ he said, and savoured the look of shock on her face. It mutated into what he thought was just a sulk, but then he realised it was sadness, a resignation that he was accustomed to seeing on less attractive faces. He took her arm, recognising that he could only get his way through bullying, and he wasn’t that kind of man. ‘You win,’ he said, and saw her spirits lift tentatively. ‘God knows what it will be like. And it’s your job to tell Winograd we got a better invitation.’

  Mid-terms came and mid-terms went, and Nessheim was fairly confident he had done well. He was not an ascetic, and didn’t like studying more than the next man, but he figured that even if he bailed out of law school halfway through he would like to feel he had done himself justice. And if it turned out he liked the law after all, then doing well would be the best way to set him up for work he enjoyed.

  With Stacey it was hard to tell, for though she worked pretty diligently there was a lot to make up – whatever the easiness of her courses. He just hoped she would get through; he realised, as barely an evening went by that they were not together, that he couldn’t bear it if she flunked out – and went away again.

  At the Met Lab work was under way in earnest, with two twelve-hour shifts that left Zinn and Anderson respectively in charge, looking exhausted. Fermi, by contrast, seemed even more energetic than usual, and tried to encourage his colleagues, saying, ‘It won’t be long now,’ again and again.

  There were three more loads of graphite, and each time Nessheim had gone over to guide the trucks through. Timber also arrived in quantity, and soon Zinn transferred the planing and cutting of the boards to the second racquets court, since the graphite had made the locker room start to resemble a car mechanic’s workshop, clogging Knuth’s saws and making the floor oily and dangerously slick.

  Security had been radically tightened within forty-eight hours of Nessheim’s call to Groves. Now, in addition to the sleepy military policeman sitting at a table, there were also two standing soldiers at each entrance, carrying M-1 rifles. Stricter identification protocols were now in force as well, and Nessheim himself had to be photographed in Eckhart Hall and given an ID card. He persuaded Fermi to change the locks on both the racquets courts and the locker room, and though the same people received keys, it reassured him that no others could be floating around.

  The ‘Pile’ itself was growing with each day, though it was still low enough to be added to without ladders or scaffolding. Fermi was present every afternoon to supervise the insertion of cadmium rods into cored-out graphite blocks, and to decide their placement – usually in consultation with Zinn and Anderson. They worked their long hours uncomplainingly, and Zinn was an excellent taskmaster with the Irish stockyard kids when they were needed to move the graphite.

  Nessheim gave Kalvin a wide berth, waiting for Guttman to come back with news of the agent the Pole had met with in the Museum of Science and Industry. Kalvin was rarely at Stagg Field in any case, and they only encountered each other occasionally in the hallways of Eckhart Hall. The scientist seemed to reciprocate Nessheim’s mild aversion, which made it easier for Nessheim to avoid him.

  All in all, the work proceeded with a quiet but professional urgency. There were no setbacks Nessheim was aware of, only the tension of knowing that the work was of critical importance, needed to succeed, and needed to succeed as quickly as possible. If anyone found it possible to be calm in such circumstances, it was Nessheim, who thought the likelihood of a German spy at the Met Lab to be increasingly improbable. His thoughts, unprofessional as he knew this to be, lay mainly elsewhere: he found himself looking forward to the end of each working day, and his return to Kimbark Avenue and Stacey.

  11

  ON THE NIGHT of the Fermis’ party, Stacey took over the bedroom, with her clothes spread out on the bed, three pairs of shoes in the middle of the room and the top of the dresser covered with vials and tins and jars of creams and lotions and powders. Nessheim sat in the living room, reading the Tribune while she moved around in the bedroom, alternately cursing and singing. She came out at one point, barefoot in a sheer pearl slip, holding a hairbrush in her hand. Standing in the doorway she asked, ‘Do you know most of the people who will be there tonight?’

  ‘Not really. But could you do me a favour – and a second one by not asking me why I’m asking?’

  ‘Maybe.’

  ‘Don’t say I’m at the law school with you.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘That’s my second favour – remember?’

  ‘What is this Met Lab anyway?’

  ‘Metallurgical Laboratory. Fermi runs it, and the others work there.’ He said this as if it should have been obvious.

  ‘But Laura Fermi told me her husband was a physicist. He won the Nobel Prize.’

  ‘He did,’ said Nessheim, trying to shut down the conversation.

  ‘That’s not metallurgy.’

  ‘Metallurgy mixes chemistry and physics.’ He was pretty sure this wasn’t true.

  ‘So is it to do with the war effort?’

  ‘Isn’t everything?’

  This seemed to work, until Stacey suddenly said, ‘Okay, but what’s it got to do with you?’

  ‘If I answer your question will you leave it alone?’

  ‘Of course.’ Her eyes lit up.

  ‘Promise?’

  This only made her more eager. ‘Cross my heart and hope to die.’

  ‘It’s got nothing to do with me.’

  And he returned to his book, ignoring the look of frustration spreading across her face. She stomped off to the bedroom, while Nessheim struggled not to laugh.

  Eventually he went into the bedroom to change. Stacey was standing, still in her slip and stocki
ngs, staring down at the bed where two outfits lay spread out.

  ‘Are you sure you want to go to this?’ he said.

  ‘What, you think I’d rather go to Winograd’s instead? Now be a good boy and tell me which one to wear.’

  He stared at the bed. The choice was between a green moiré dress tied with a bow at the waist, or a simple grey wool number that would show off her figure. ‘Go grey,’ he said.

  ‘You sure?’

  ‘I’m sure. It will be a lot more fun to take off later on.’

  ‘Don’t count your chickens, buddy.’

  She pulled on the grey dress, which lived up to expectations. While she went to the bathroom to fix her make-up and hair, Nessheim started to change. He was in boxer shorts and a T-shirt when Stacey came back.

  She said, ‘Nessheim, I’ve been meaning to ask you, what are you going to do? I mean, after law school.’

  ‘I do not know.’ And he didn’t.

  ‘It’s not like you to withdraw.’

  ‘I told you – I tried enlisting but it didn’t take. What should I do instead – sit in Washington helping buff J. Edgar Hoover’s reputation? How’s that going to help the war effort?’

  ‘I know you’ve seen some bad things,’ she said, pursuing her own thoughts – she was relentless that way. ‘Is that what’s got you in the time-out box?’

  He shrugged.

  ‘You got hurt, didn’t you? That’s not an appendix scar on your side.’

  He fingered the long scar reflexively. It had hardened gradually, and no longer gave under his touch. ‘I’m fine now.’

  ‘What about the other guy? Did he get hurt?’

  He nodded.

  ‘Permanently?’

  ‘Yep,’ he said, then threw his hand out dismissively. ‘Can we stop the interrogation now?’

  She went out again and he put on a blue Brooks Brothers shirt and picked out a grey suit which, like all his suits, was one size too big in the jacket to leave room for his gun. He reached into the closet behind his other suits and brought out the holstered .38, hooked it carefully over his left shoulder, then put on his jacket and buttoned it just as Stacey came back into the room. ‘Even tonight?’ she said.