The Accidental Agent

by Andrew Rosenheim

  Guttman said now, ‘We’ve both got work in the morning. I’d better get some sleep in case Tolson calls me back again.’ He gave a faint-hearted laugh, and noticed that her movement his way on the couch had stopped.

  She said, ‘Are you sure?’

  They both knew what she meant. He said quietly, ‘I’m sure, Marie.’ He paused for a moment. ‘Sorry,’ he said. That was as close as he wanted to come to addressing this awkward situation.

  ‘It’s okay, Harry.’

  ‘Maybe another time,’ he said gently.

  She nodded. ‘Sure, that would be great. I’ll cook something other than pork chops.’ But her smile was doleful; Harry could see she was trying to mask her disappointment. She got up, brushing a crumb off her skirt. ‘I’ll get your coat.’

  21

  ONCE HOME HE suddenly realised how tired he was. When the phone rang he was half-asleep on the sofa, with the radio playing from Radio City Music Hall in New York. It was Nessheim, finally calling back.

  ‘About time,’ said Guttman crossly. ‘Didn’t you get my message from your room-mate?’

  ‘I don’t have a room-mate.’

  ‘She sure sounded like one.’

  ‘I thought my personal life was my own, Harry.’

  ‘It is,’ he said grudgingly.

  ‘That’s big of you. Thanks.’

  Guttman suppressed a sigh. The last thing he needed was a quarrel with Nessheim right now. ‘So, anything to report?’ he asked.

  But Nessheim had little news, other than to say that the project at Stagg Field was progressing quickly, and that Fermi was now hoping for a result well before his previous deadline of New Year’s.

  When he’d finished telling this, Guttman said, ‘There are a couple things I want you to check.’ He explained them, while Nessheim listened in silence. Finally Guttman said, ‘You still there?’

  ‘Just writing it all down. Bergen at Fort Sheridan and Fermi about Grant. Anything else?’

  ‘That’s it. But ASAP.’

  ‘I’m on the case.’

  Guttman hung up, annoyed and wondering why he felt that way. Was he cross with Nessheim for not being with Annie? No. So what was it? And then he realised: Nessheim was happy. Like a child who wasn’t, Guttman didn’t think this was fair. At the office in the morning, Marie was cheerful, polite, demurely dressed and slightly aloof. His heart sank as her conversation touched on every topic under the sun except that of the night before. Oh, Marie, Guttman thought, why couldn’t you have left things as they were – my work confidante, my doorkeeper?

  He had to say something. When she came into his office again he was about to speak, but something in the set of her lips stopped him. He decided he would wait a minute and then try, but Marie was already talking. She handed over an envelope, saying, ‘This is from the Chicago Field Office, but by registered mail. Highly confidential.’ She sounded simultaneously sceptical and cross. ‘Not by telex,’ she added significantly. Normally anything urgent from the office there would come that way. She looked at Guttman. ‘You want to tell me what’s going on?’

  ‘Nothing’s going on.’

  ‘Then why do you keep sneaking in and out of the office? Why are you making mysterious calls and receiving confidential letters? And why did Tolson want you up in his office?’

  ‘Honest, nothing’s going on,’ he said plaintively.

  ‘Okay, don’t tell me if you don’t want to,’ she said with a sigh, and retreated to the anteroom, closing the door behind her.

  What the hell, he thought. He picked up the envelope, noticing the embossed Chicago Field Office address on its back flap, and wondering why they were communicating this way. He occasionally received the odd loony missive, easily dismissed, not even filed, but had never had one forwarded from a field office.

  He extracted a single page and saw that it was typed on letterhead. Looking down, he found the signature of Eloise Tate, aka Tatie, and when he read what she had to say he thought his blood would turn cold.

  Oh, Nessheim, he thought bitterly, how could you do this to me? The questions that had been plaguing him were starting to have answers, but there was little consolation in that. Nessheim had fallen for the oldest trick in the book, and he had taken Guttman with him.

  Part Five

  22

  NESSHEIM KNOCKED FIRMLY, just made out a muttered come in¸ and opened the door. Professor Fielding had been Dean of the School before his retirement, and since his successor occupied his old quarters, Fielding had been given this large office on the third floor of Stuart Hall, overlooking the Quadrangle. Oak panelling, a mahogany cabinet bookcase, walls plastered with a slight handmade warp, and mullioned windows with black iron handles – like the outside campus, the interiors of its perimeter buildings were designed to mimic medieval Oxford rather than the Midwest prairie on which they were set.

  Fielding was working at his rolltop desk at the far end of the room. ‘Yes,’ he said wearily from his books, without looking up.

  Nessheim explained that he’d missed the class when exams had been returned. Still writing, Fielding reached blindly with his other hand for the small stack of blue books on a corner of the desk. ‘Name?’ he asked curtly.

  ‘Nessheim.’

  Fielding put down his pen and went through the blue books. ‘Burgess, Merrick, Symonds, and here we are – Nessheim.’ He studied the exam book, which had the grade on the cover, then looked up. He seemed surprised. ‘You’re Mr Nessheim? Or are you collecting it on his behalf?’

  ‘No, I’m Nessheim all right.’

  ‘I see.’ Fielding didn’t sound convinced. ‘Tell me, have you been in law school somewhere else?’

  ‘No. This is my first year.’

  ‘Hmm. Where did you take your BA?’

  ‘I didn’t. I left Northwestern before graduating.’

  ‘What have you been doing since then?’

  ‘I was with the Federal Bureau of Investigation.’

  ‘Is that what they’re calling it now?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘I take it you’re exempt from military service?’ It was clear both that the question was rhetorical and what he already thought of the answer. ‘So now?’

  ‘I’m in law school,’ said Nessheim mildly. He did not want to be drawn into the subject of his deferment.

  Picking up the blue book, Fielding waved it as if in reprimand. ‘Well, I have to say this is outstanding work.’

  ‘Thank you.’ He felt almost childishly pleased by Fielding’s praise.

  ‘It’s the best exam I’ve had this year. If it hadn’t been taken under supervision, I’d be suspicious you’d had assistance.’ He gave a thin malicious laugh as he handed back the exam.

  Nessheim said, ‘I’m as surprised as you. I don’t find Torts easy.’ This seemed to allay Fielding’s scepticism. Had Fielding really thought he was a cheat, and too stupid to do well legitimately? Nessheim was about to leave, but Fielding wasn’t through. ‘I’ve seen you in class, Mr Nessheim.’

  ‘I hope so, Professor. This was my first absence,’ he said drily.

  ‘You sit with Miss Madison. Is she a friend of yours?’

  Nessheim was too old to be coy. ‘Yes. A good friend.’

  ‘Ah.’ Was this a check to the old boy’s hopes? Fielding said, ‘I don’t know if she’s mentioned it, but I was an acquaintance of her late father’s.’

  ‘I see,’ said Nessheim neutrally.

  Fielding brought a hand to his mouth and coughed. He cleared his throat and said, ‘That girl is trouble.’

  ‘Trouble?’ asked Nessheim, surprised.

  ‘I said troubled.’

  ‘She makes a lot of people happy.’

  ‘I’m sure she does,’ Fielding said, staring at Nessheim. ‘I hope they make her happy too.’ He sighed, then said, ‘People think money solves everything. But she’s not had an easy life. Her father was a very busy man. Businessmen tend to be. Successful ones, anyway.’

  ‘I never met hi
m.’

  ‘He’s been dead some years. He was devoted to Stacey. If he’d lived I doubt she’d have gone off the rails.’

  ‘Did she?’ said Nessheim coolly.

  Fielding nodded, undeterred. ‘Too much money, too little direction. If something could be counted on to shock the staid ladies of Lake Forest, then you name it – Miss Madison did it. She was just plain wild all around. She drank – though she came by that honestly from her mother. She smoked – I wouldn’t be surprised if there weren’t some dope-taking too. She travelled the world like an heiress in a novel by Edith Wharton – Paris one year, Rome the next, then even Mexico. She was rarely alone – she always had men in her sway – and she’s a beautiful girl. You can’t deny that.’

  Nessheim wasn’t about to try, but Fielding was in any case now in full flow. ‘For a while she was pink in her politics. More than pink, in fact – she was positively vermilion. Fortunately she seems to have had most of that political nonsense knocked out of her by her time in Mexico. As I say, her father was devoted to her. Her mother …’ and he sighed to show both that it was sad and that he was being fair, ‘is not a happy woman, but she has always tried her best. She came to see me when her daughter wanted to enrol. I was happy to help, even though it was a late application – very late. I have to say that I don’t think her new-found interest in the law runs very deep.’ He looked at Nessheim, as if he could count on his understanding. ‘Fortunately, she’s a smart girl, even if her previous record here was not what anyone would call outstanding. Still, it seems better for her to be occupied and out of harm’s way than hanging around with a bunch of Jewish Communists in Hollywood. Nice to see you, Mr Nessheim.’

  Nessheim collected his blue book, thanking Fielding. The buoyancy of doing so well in the exam had been punctured by Fielding’s account of Stacey. Leaving the office, Nessheim felt he was the troubled one now.

  23

  SNOW CAME, JUST a sprinkling at first, but accompanied by a blasting icy cold. The temperature sank. There was a thermometer bolted to the outside of the Kimbark living-room window and when it hit minus 5 degrees Fahrenheit outside, its strip of mercury stopped moving and wouldn’t budge. That night four inches of snow fell, then another three on the following day. Winter had begun.

  With the training of a Wisconsin childhood to fall back on, Nessheim put on thick woollen socks, long johns and an extra T-shirt for warmth. His boots were ridged and didn’t slip on the snow. Stacey laughed at the get-up, but she wore heavy boots as well, though characteristically they were fur-lined with the same soft beaver pelt stitched inside her leather gloves.

  At the Lab the foreigners suffered the most, especially the Southern Europeans. Szilard waddled around with a homburg on his head and an oversized black coat that made him look like a snowman crossed with a penguin. He wore two woollen scarves wrapped around his throat, one clockwise and the other counterclockwise; once safely inside, it took him almost a minute to free himself from their snake-like embrace, and for the first time Nessheim saw the lugubrious Nadelhoffer laugh. Their leader, Fermi, had purchased a pair of oversized gloves, a cotton face mask, and black rubber boots with buckles he struggled to undo, since their web-like clips filled with snow during his short walk to work.

  At Stagg Field braziers had been brought in for the guards at the entrance, who got up every few minutes to stand by the coals and rub sensation back into their hands. They were cold even in the racoon-fur coats they had purloined from the abandoned lockers. In the racquets courts, heating was primitive and draughty, the wind whistling through the old concrete stands above, but the pace of the physical work going on meant nobody was truly cold. Knuth, working his saws and lathes, was actually sweating on the morning Nessheim came by.

  He was looking for Fermi, and found him alone with the battery of neutron counters on the balcony ten feet above the court where the Pile was being erected. He was reading a book. When Nessheim looked closer at it, he saw to his surprise that it was Winnie-the-Pooh. Fermi turned his head and met his quizzical look. ‘It helps me improve my English,’ he said with a smile. ‘I call some of the instruments here by names of characters from the stories. This one here,’ he said, pointing to the nearest contraption, ‘is Tigger.’

  Work was progressing fast: even a week before, the wall of graphite brick could have been hurdled by Nessheim; now it was above his head. A small elevator had been brought in, at Groves’s insistence, since on his recent visit (one he had not told Nessheim about), he’d been furious to discover the leading physicists of their generation risking life and limb on wobbly scaffolding used to help build up the graphite Pile.

  ‘How are you, Mr Nessheim?’ said Fermi, shaking hands. ‘Va bene?’

  ‘Si.’

  Fermi smiled. ‘We will make an Italian of you yet. Tell me, how is your friend Miss Madison?’

  ‘Very well. I believe she is having lunch soon with your wife.’ Talking with Fermi, Nessheim found his speech becoming a kind of formal hybrid, like the hero talking to his Spanish girlfriend in For Whom the Bell Tolls.

  Fermi stared down at the men working below. Despite his friendly welcome, there was something impenetrably moody about his gaze, though outwardly he exuded calm. On the floor next to him sat a suitcase, and Fermi was dressed in a smart double-breasted suit with wide lapels and a tie the colour of old blood. Below, several men, dressed in blackening grey overalls, were hard at work heaving the heavy graphite blocks into place. The Pile now was taller than a man, and shaped like a vast honeycomb, made of latticed layers of graphite, braced by a wooden frame of pine boards; Knuth’s handiwork. Nessheim asked, ‘Are you going somewhere, Professor?’

  Fermi nodded. ‘To Washington on the train this afternoon. Meetings tomorrow and Friday, and then back. I do not wish to be away longer than is necessary.’

  ‘But tomorrow is Thanksgiving.’

  Fermi shrugged. ‘Unfortunate, I know. But General Groves does not believe in vacations in wartime.’

  Lucky Mrs Groves, thought Nessheim. ‘It must be important.’

  Fermi said, ‘Everything is important to the General. I am there to report on progress here.’

  ‘Are you happy with things?’

  Fermi nodded. ‘Do not hold me to the promise, but I believe we may arrive soon at the conclusion. Perhaps as soon as next week. Originally, I had predicted we would succeed by New Year, so this is very pleasing. Even General Groves may be satisfied.’ He grimaced at the improbability of this, and Nessheim laughed.

  Fermi said, ‘Professor Lawrence in Berkeley bet Compton that it could not be done this year. He will lose his bet, I am sure.’

  ‘What good news. But I need to ask you something, Professor.’ Fermi looked at him, curious. ‘We understand you interviewed a scientist and offered him a place on your team. Back when you were at Columbia. But he didn’t come, and we were wondering why.’

  ‘Who was that?’ His tone was matter-of-fact, but he had picked up his slide rule and was fiddling with it, so his eyes didn’t meet Nessheim’s.

  ‘His name is Grant. He’s at Princeton.’

  Fermi’s expression changed to a philosophical one, though his eyes remained firmly focused on the slide rule. ‘Professor Perkins and I were both impressed by him. He grasped the potential of graphite as a moderator right away.’

  ‘So you offered him a job?’

  ‘I did. This was after Professor Perkins died. Grant would have been perfect to help set up our prototypes.’

  ‘But he didn’t join.’

  Fermi sighed. ‘I was ordered to withdraw the offer.’

  ‘By whom?’

  Now Fermi was looking unhappily at Nessheim. ‘The military. This was before General Groves was involved. He can be difficult, we all know that, but there is always a reason for his decisions. In this case I could see no such reason. An officer came to see me in New York. He explained that Grant had some … how shall I say it? Unfortunate associates, opposed to America.’

  ‘
The enemy?’ It seemed incredible.

  ‘No,’ Fermi said knowingly. ‘Not the enemy, if you mean the Nazis or the Japanese.’

  ‘The Russians?’

  ‘Closer. It was the native variety of Communists, apparently.’ He said this in almost sing-song fashion, like an advertising jingle. ‘Grant had friends who were members of the Party many years ago. I am sure it was a juvenile mistake. We all do dumb things when we are young, you know.’

  ‘Sure,’ said Nessheim reflexively. ‘So what happened?’

  Fermi shrugged. ‘I had the privilege of writing to this man to say his participation would not be required after all. It was absurd, of course. I did not feel he had strong views about politics at all. And anyway, the Russian Communists are our allies now. Is that not true?’

  ‘In theory,’ said Nessheim, deadpan. From their conversation at the Quadrangle Club, he knew Fermi was no fan of the Russians, but equally he didn’t seem to consider them capable of spying on their allies. Szilard had remarked on Fermi’s political naivety and Nessheim saw why.

  Fermi smiled at Nessheim’s remark. ‘ “In theory” – I like that.’

  ‘Was Grant upset?’

  ‘He must have been. If I felt bad writing the news, he would have felt much worse receiving it. I was not happy about it at all. It did not seem just. But this was soon after Professor Perkins was killed in an accident. Horrible.’ He shook his head at the memory.

  ‘But you still needed someone, didn’t you? If Grant didn’t join your team, who did?’

  ‘Professor Kalvin. He had only just arrived from Portugal. Szilard likes to say he was the last Jew to get out. Certainly he must have been the last scientist.’

  ‘Is he around?’ asked Nessheim.

  ‘No, he’s in New Mexico.’

  ‘New Mexico? What’s he doing there?’

  ‘He and Oppenheimer are –’ Fermi suddenly stopped, looking guilty for his indiscretion.

  Nessheim knew not to press. He said instead, ‘How did you recruit Kalvin?