The Accidental Agent

by Andrew Rosenheim

  He stopped to think. If there were an intruder, would he be armed? Only if he had come to kill Fermi. But a hired killer would have forced his way downstairs by now. And if instead he was a burglar, he wouldn’t bring a gun, not unless he wanted triple the sentence if he got caught.

  The more he considered it, the odder it seemed. Finally, out of sheer impatience, he walked to the door and flung it open, while he stood to one side, out of the line of fire.

  Feeling a sudden blast of cold, he reached around the door frame and touched the Bakelite light switch. He pushed it on, simultaneously moving through the doorway, his gun held level in both hands. Quantico training.

  There was no one there. The room was barely furnished: an iron bed against the far wall, a naked mattress on the springs; a single light bulb, in a papier-mâché lampshade that hung by a wire cord from the ceiling. There was also an old divan with a missing leg, a couple of side tables covered in dust, and a broken plate on the floor, which must have been knocked off one of the tables. The floor consisted of bare wooden boards, except for the centre of the room underneath the light, where two worn oriental rugs had been laid. One of them had a corner doubled up, exposing the boards beneath.

  On the front side of the house a tall sash window was open a good ten inches at the bottom. He realised that was why the room was so cold. He walked to the window, pulled the upper half down and stuck his head outside. Looking up, he saw that the roof overhung the house, but no one could come down that way without falling off. Looking down, he saw it was a ten-foot drop from the window to the porch’s gable below; a tricky jump at the best of times, impossible with the snow packed on the porch’s roof. And that was just the way down; to climb up to the window would have required an acrobat of Olympic calibre, and a trampoline.

  He pulled back into the room and closed the window. There was a sudden scratching noise not far from his feet, and he started in surprise, then looked down and found himself staring into two yellow eyes, big as marbles. They belonged to a massive tabby cat, as fat as a county-fair cabbage. It looked tetchily at Nessheim, who was satisfied now that he had identified the mysterious intruder: the cat must have nipped through the open window and roamed around the room, with a thump here (the plate), and a scratch there (the turned-up rug). Making enough racket on the resonant wooden floor to alert a nervy Laura Fermi to its presence.

  Nessheim went and checked the other rooms, but found nothing there, other than a few empty suitcases and a packing crate. He went back to the room with the cat, who followed him as he opened the window again and then stood clear. After a moment’s hesitation, the cat suddenly leaped on to the sill, then jumped. Seconds later, as Nessheim closed the window for good, he saw it, lit by a street lamp, scamper across Woodlawn Avenue.

  He headed towards the door, stopping to flip the ruffled rug back with his foot. As he stepped on to one of the exposed boards, its far end suddenly sprang up like a see-saw. In the cavity exposed beneath, between the underlying joists, he saw something red and green. Kneeling, he reached down and brought it out. It was a chamois pouch, the size of a baseball mitt, tied shut by a leather string. Untying the string, he turned the pouch upside down and shook out its contents.

  Four wads of paper landed in succession on the floorboards. Each was bound by a gutta-percha band. He riffled all four; they were fifty-dollar bills, divided into equal stacks. He counted two hundred notes in one stack. That was ten grand. Times four and you had forty thousand dollars. Jesus Christ, he thought as he holstered his gun, that was a lot of dough for a working physicist.

  Downstairs the two children were sitting at the kitchen table, drinking mugs of hot milk, while Laura Fermi and Stacey stood tensely by the stove.

  As Nessheim came into the room he said, ‘I didn’t find anyone up there. Just a cat that must have come through the window. It had made a bit of a mess.’

  ‘Un gatto?’

  When he nodded Laura clapped her hands in relief.

  ‘The kids can go back to bed now,’ he said. ‘It’s safe.’

  ‘I’ll help you,’ Stacey said to Laura, and the two women herded the children upstairs. When they came back down a few minutes later, Nessheim was waiting in the kitchen. Laura said, laughing, ‘I cannot believe all this was caused by one large cat.’

  ‘I did find something else.’

  Nessheim put the pouch down on the kitchen table. Laura stared at it, as if a feared enemy had returned unexpectedly. Then she burst into tears.

  Stacey looked mystified. ‘What have you found?’

  He shook his head and waited for Laura to stop crying. ‘What is it?’ Stacey kept asking, until finally Laura wiped her eyes and looked at Nessheim.

  He said, ‘I need to know where this came from.’

  Stacey looked at him as if he were crazy, so he gestured at the pouch. ‘Go ahead – open it.’ She untied the leather string and reached in, then gasped as she extracted the first stack of bills.

  ‘I need to know where this came from,’ repeated Nessheim. ‘I’m just trying to do my job.’

  Laura wiped her eyes with her fist. She said angrily, ‘That is what the man in Rome said when they confiscated my family’s properties because of the Jewish laws. I had known this man since I was tiny, but he said to me, “I am only doing my job. It is the law.” And we then left Italy with nothing. So now you say the same thing, and the government will say that too and take the money if they put us away.’

  ‘What do you mean, put you away?’

  ‘They put the Japanese in camps, and now some Germans and Italians too. Why not us?’

  ‘Because your husband is helping the United States.’

  She gave this short shrift. ‘And if he cannot help? If he is sick and cannot work? So they put him on some small island with other Italians. What happens to this money then?’

  ‘If it’s your money then it would still be yours. But keeping it under the floorboards doesn’t seem the smartest thing to do. What if there had been a burglar and he’d found it?’

  ‘Enrico said it was safer than a bank.’

  ‘All right,’ he said, unwilling to argue, ‘but where did you get it from? You said you left Italy with nothing. This is a lot of money.’

  Stacey had been listening quietly but now she said sharply to Laura, ‘You don’t have to answer that. It’s none of his business.’ She turned to him. ‘You’re not the IRS.’

  He said firmly, ‘Why don’t you go check on the children, Stacey, and let me do my job?’

  ‘Why don’t you check on them instead?’ she said fiercely. ‘Look how upset she is. Stop bullying her.’

  ‘I’m not,’ he protested.

  ‘Is this part of your training? Softening up the suspects.’ He ignored her, saying to Laura, ‘I need to know where this comes from.’

  ‘Why –’ Stacey started to say, but Laura held her hand up. ‘It’s okay, I will tell you. The money is from the prize.’

  ‘What prize?’

  Stacey interjected, ‘The Nobel Prize, you horse’s ass.’

  Laura continued, ‘We collected the money in Stockholm, but did not return to Italy. The cheque was in kronor. When we got to New York, Enrico had it changed into dollars – and then into cash. He said it was our safe money. If something bad happened or we had to flee again, there was this money to use. He did not want anyone to know about it – he was scared it would be taken away from us.’

  ‘Why didn’t you say so right away?’

  ‘Because she was scared, Nessheim,’ said Stacey, as if Laura wasn’t standing there.

  ‘Scared of me?’

  ‘Scared of everything. They got out, but most people didn’t. You need to remember that.’

  28

  ON THE WAY home they walked in silence until they reached Kimbark Avenue. Finally Nessheim sighed and said, ‘I didn’t know the Nobel Prize was worth that kind of money. Or that Fermi was so worried about his status here. He shouldn’t be – Zinn told me that General Groves t
hinks Fermi’s almost God.’ When Stacey didn’t reply, he said, ‘Are you mad at me, Madison?’

  ‘No, Nessheim. Are you mad at me?’

  ‘Not at all. I just feel bad about that scene with Mrs Fermi. I wasn’t trying to upset her, but I needed to know.’

  ‘I wasn’t trying to interfere.’

  ‘Sure you were,’ he said.

  She laughed. ‘Just trying to keep you on your toes, Jim. I’d like everybody in the FBI to have these reminders. I think anyone with power should be aware of when they’re using it. I’m on the side of the Laura Fermis of this world. They feel powerless, you know. And they’re scared.’

  ‘You’re not.’

  ‘How do you know?’ she said seriously. ‘I just put up a good front. But tell me,’ she said quickly, ‘does anyone keep J. Edgar Hoover on his toes?’

  Nessheim thought for a minute. ‘Not really. In principle, the President could, but I happen to know he doesn’t. Hoover’s got more on him than the other way round. Believe it or not, Guttman’s gone the distance with Hoover a couple of times, and somehow managed a draw.’

  ‘How do you draw with J. Edgar Hoover?’

  ‘That’s simple – you keep your job even though he wants to get rid of you. Guttman’s done it twice.’

  They were on Kimbark now, getting close to home. Stacey looped her arm through his. ‘Why didn’t you tell me at the beginning you were still working for the FBI?’

  ‘Partly because I wasn’t sure I was. You’d have to meet Guttman to understand – a short, wide sloppy guy, nothing to look at, but sharp. He’s unorthodox, and what I’m doing for him isn’t official. It never is. But don’t think it’s a bigger job than it is. I’m just helping to make sure that nothing disrupts the work Fermi and his people are doing.’

  They were inside now, and climbing the flight of stairs to his apartment. As he unlocked the door, she said, ‘What’s the other reason? You said “partly”.’

  Never any flies on her, not ever. He would have to play his best just to stay in the game with her. He said, ‘I worried you wouldn’t like my working for the Bureau, officially or not.’

  ‘Nothing to do with me,’ she said, following him in. She seemed suddenly distant. ‘I knew anyway,’ she said shortly. When he seemed surprised she added, ‘Otherwise why the gun? And why the vigilance all the time? You probably aren’t even aware of it, but when we go out you grow another set of eyes in the back of your head. I figured you were looking for a spy.’

  ‘Why did you think that?’ He hoped his voice sounded mildly interested and no more.

  ‘You’re playing with me again.’

  ‘What do you mean?’ he said, trying to sound aggrieved.

  ‘ “Why did you think that?” ’ she said, mimicking him with extravagant innocence. ‘I know you’ve been looking for a spy. Enrico told Laura and she told me. She assumed you would have told me already. Italian couples have no secrets from each other, unlike salt-of-the-earth Midwesterners.’

  They got ready for bed, but even when Nessheim was lying under the covers Stacey stayed up, standing by the window, smoking a cigarette. He said casually, ‘What are you doing at Christmas?’

  She shrugged. ‘Not sure.’

  ‘Your mother’s?’

  ‘Not a chance. She’s at the gin before we open the Christmas stockings.’

  It sounded sad rather than astringent. ‘So where will you go? Your friend at Carson Pirie Scott?’

  She shook her head. ‘Christmas is the one time Diane does see her parents.’

  He waited a moment, then said lightly, ‘I had an idea.’

  ‘Yeah?’ She kept herself sideways to him so he couldn’t see her expression.

  ‘Come to Wisconsin with me.’

  ‘You mean it?’

  ‘You’ll have to sleep in my sister’s room.’

  ‘Fine. As long as you sleep there, too.’

  ‘I’m serious,’ he said, trying not laugh. ‘And you have to act like I’m God’s gift to mankind. Otherwise my mother won’t like you.’

  ‘And you want her to like me?’

  This surprised him. ‘Sure. It will make life easier while we’re there. But I’m not through yet. You’ll have to bring your own booze – my mother doesn’t drink.’

  ‘I’ll manage – I got through Prohibition.’ He could see her sly smile now.

  ‘You were underage during Prohibition.’

  ‘Only part of it, pal, and since when did that stop me? Anyway, that can’t be what’s worrying you.’

  ‘You may not like it up there – that’s what’s worrying me.’

  ‘I’ll like it fine. Except for booze, it’s got everything a girl could want. I’ve thought a lot about it.’

  ‘How’s that?’ he asked, interested that she had thought about it at all.

  ‘I can see my life there.’

  ‘You’d go nuts after three months.’

  Stacey shook her head. ‘Nope. I’d have a big farmhouse with forty acres of hay-bearing fields and an orchard and a horse. Plus four kids to raise, two of them with freckles.’

  ‘You make it sound like some Aryan paradigm.’

  ‘You wouldn’t have used that word before you went to law school. But you’re wrong. It just happens their father’s blood falls that way.’ She looked at him appraisingly. ‘You can’t blame people for what they inherit. So don’t “Aryan” me.’

  ‘You’d still get bored.’

  ‘I’ve been thinking about that. I’d be busy enough – those kids, and the house, the chickens, and three or four milk cows. Though let’s be realistic – I’d let a local lady make the cheese.’

  ‘What if I got bored?’

  ‘You wouldn’t have time. You’re going to be a pillar of the community. Run for District Attorney. I’ve got your campaign slogan ready – “This Time, Vote for Nessheim”.’

  He groaned but was disconcerted by how inviting she made it sound. A lot better than his hazy plan of hanging up his shingle, with an office doubling as his bachelor rooms. Above the local drugstore, say, accessible by an outside staircase of pine slats rubbed grey by the elements rather than by the minimal footfall of clients.

  She said, ‘But this is only when the war is over.’

  ‘That could be a long wait. What am I supposed to do in the meantime, other than finish law school?’

  ‘I’ve been thinking about that a lot. You’re not doing justice to yourself, Nessheim. You’ve been hiding.’ She said this without criticism in her voice, but clinically nonetheless.

  ‘I told you I tried to enlist. Twice.’

  ‘You don’t have to be on a landing beach in the Pacific to do your bit.’

  ‘What else should I do?’

  ‘You should keep working for Guttman. He sounds okay.’

  ‘I didn’t plan on joining the FBI, you know. It wasn’t some boyhood dream of mine or anything. I fell into it when I had to leave college. After my injury. It’s all happened by accident.’

  ‘So what? Whose life isn’t an accident? Since when did life go according to plan?’

  ‘The Bureau’s not clean as the driven snow. It may not be the bogeyman your Trotskyist friends say it is, but it’s done some pretty dubious things.’

  ‘I know that – they helped put the head of the SWP away for no good reason, and they persecuted those poor bastards who fought in Spain. But with the war on, there’s nothing wrong with working for the Bureau – what you’re doing is important. The problems will come later when the Bureau gets too big for its boots.’

  ‘Hoover’s already too big for his,’ said Nessheim. ‘But whether it’s the Bureau or being a small town DA, you’d better understand one thing – I’m never going to be rich.’

  ‘That’s all right. I already am.’

  ‘You know what I mean.’

  ‘No.’ She shook her head. ‘I truly don’t. All it means is that you’d never have to keep me. And I’ll be more than willing to let you keep yourself. It’s just
that there’d be a grown-up version of a kid’s cookie-jar money, which we could use every now and then to get away. Maybe to Chicago, just to see a show or two and have somebody else change the sheets. Once in a blue moon, when winter came and there wasn’t much doing on the farm, we’d go get warm in Florida or California.’

  ‘Or Mexico?’ he asked, remembering Fielding’s mention of her trip there. She was startled; he could tell. He added, ‘Speaking of which –’

  ‘Let’s not and say we did,’ she said tersely.

  ‘How come?’

  ‘You’re spoiling this,’ she warned him, and it was hard to tell if this bothered him or her the most.

  ‘I wasn’t trying to.’

  ‘Maybe not. You’re such a mix of innocent and realist.’ Momentarily she looked morose, then seemed to perk up. She said, ‘Mind you, until the war’s over, this is just a dream.’

  ‘Damn.’

  ‘But that’s okay. You’ve got to dream a bit, Nessheim. There’s nothing wrong with that. Believe me – no dream, no life.’

  29

  SOMETHING ABOUT THE protest meeting made Nessheim nervous. He couldn’t tell why, since it wasn’t as if Stacey and her cadre were marching against the war – when those demonstrations took place, pacifist protestors were often beaten up; and there were literally thousands of soldiers and sailors around, as well as a populace which, though relegated to an observer’s role, were itching to enact their vicarious fantasies.

  When Stacey hadn’t come back after an hour and a half, Nessheim went out to find her. Halfway down the block he realised he hadn’t taken his gun and holster, but it was Stacey’s safety he was worried about, not his own. He didn’t think anyone was going to try to bump him off in the middle of a protest about segregated housing.

  Mandel Hall seemed a strange venue for a protest meeting, since its owner, the university, was the main target. When he got there, he found only a janitor mopping the floor and two female students talking, their arms laden with books. ‘I thought there was a meeting going on here,’ he said.