‘Not then. Why do you think she went to Mexico?’
Why indeed? He’d assumed she’d moved on to another man. That was standard procedure for the Stacey he had known years ago. He started to say as much, but Diane cut him off. ‘She wasn’t Trotsky’s lover if that’s what you’re thinking. She loved him only in the way a Baptist girl loves Jesus. She thought he could save the movement Stalin had betrayed – it was as simple as that.’
‘Did she see him down there?’
‘Yes. Often.’
He didn’t know what to say. Diane was looking at him without suspicion now. She could see that Nessheim was feeling overwhelmed by what he was learning.
He asked, ‘Was she there when Trotsky was murdered?’
‘No. She left months before that.’
‘Why did she leave?’
Diane looked thoughtful. ‘You know, most people are looking to be loved, but Stacey was always looking for someone to love. She told me Trotsky was a good man, but completely unrealistic. She said that given the choice between theorising about an ideal world and actually trying to make a better one, Trotsky would always go for nirvana. She said she woke up one morning in Mexico City and decided that he might be making a contribution to political theory, but none at all to history.’
Nessheim said, ‘So she went back to LA, where she was unhappy with Tweedy and didn’t like his friends. That doesn’t explain why she came back to Chicago, or why she enrolled in law school.’ For the first time Diane looked hesitant. Nessheim said, ‘Her mother thought it was on account of some guy, but that couldn’t have been me. I don’t think she even knew I was here.’
‘She knew, all right.’
‘But she hadn’t seen me in years.’
Diane said emphatically, ‘She came back because of you.’
‘Why? She didn’t know me any more. She wasn’t a fantasist.’
‘I didn’t say she was. But she was scared.’
‘Of what? The Communists?’
Diane nodded.
Nessheim said, ‘Why would they want to hurt her? She wasn’t any threat to them.’ He paused momentarily. ‘Unless she helped them.’
‘What do you mean?’
‘You know, helped them get to Trotsky.’
Diane was shaking her head.
Nessheim pressed her. ‘I was told that Stacey rejoined the Party while she was in LA. If she were scared of the Soviets, that wouldn’t have happened.’
‘It wouldn’t have happened because it didn’t happen. Whoever told you that is lying. It’s bullshit.’
‘So why was she scared?’
‘Because she knew something she wasn’t supposed to know.’ Diane hesitated, then saw Nessheim’s stricken face and continued. ‘The man who killed Trotsky calls himself Jacques Mornard. Most people think he was acting on Stalin’s orders and that Mornard is an alias. But nobody knows who Mornard really is.’
‘Except the Russians,’ said Nessheim.
Diane said quietly, ‘And Stacey.’
It took a second to sink in. ‘What?’
He was the agitated one now, as Diane began to talk calmly, like a patient teacher talking to an ignorant class.
It seemed that when Stacey was in Paris she’d made friends with a fellow Trotskyist named Sylvia Ageloff. Both cut glamorous figures and both knew this; they leavened their socialist principles with a taste for the high life. Stacey was seeing George Tweedy, the wealthy heir to a vast canning-company fortune. Sylvia Ageloff, by contrast, fancied fiery types for her lovers, though she had an equal weakness for the well-heeled ones. Among the latter was a Belgian named Jacques Mornard, a good-looking upper-class man who in a less politicised time would have been a playboy.
Stacey hadn’t liked Mornard. She didn’t know why, she later explained to Diane, but something about him didn’t ring true. She’d found him smarmy, in authentic and untrustworthy. She avoided him as much as possible, which was difficult given her friendship with Sylvia; to make matters even trickier, Mornard befriended Tweedy, who was flattered to be taken up by this dashing Continental type.
Stacey’s suspicions of Mornard would never have been confirmed if it hadn’t been for a chance occurrence. Among the Fourth International’s attendees were Republican veterans of the Spanish Civil War, some of them American, including a former U of C student named Harry Glazer whom Stacey had known when they were both undergraduates. Running into each other at the Congress, which was held in a suburb of Paris, they agreed to meet for lunch the next day at a café near the city’s Luxembourg Gardens.
When Glazer arrived at the café he seemed strangely shaken. Stacey asked what was wrong, and he explained that he felt as if he’d seen a ghost. Passing through the gardens he had found himself walking towards a Spanish man he’d last seen when they’d been fighting on the Aragon front. During the fiercest battle, they found themselves side by side in a dugout, holding a forward position for the Republican side. The Spaniard, whose name was Ramón Mercader, had been shot in the arm by a sniper just as the Francoist forces were starting to retreat, and he had been put on a stretcher and eventually shipped back to a hospital in Barcelona. That was the last time Glazer had seen the man – until ten minutes ago.
When he’d gone up to greet his old comrade in arms, however, to Glazer’s astonishment the man had denied being Mercader, and insisted he was a Belgian named Jacques Mornard. Glazer initially thought it was a joke, but when he pressed him, the man grew angry and threatened to call a policeman if Glazer didn’t leave him alone. When Stacey asked Glazer whether he could have been mistaken about the man’s identity, he said that would normally have been perfectly possible. But this ‘Belgian’ had a small shaving scar on his chin – in the exact place where Mercader had had a scar as well.
The congress ended shortly thereafter, and Stacey moved to LA with George Tweedy. She lost touch with Sylvia Ageloff, and would probably have forgotten all about Jacques Mornard, if she hadn’t gone to Mexico.
Growing disaffected there, Stacey had decided to leave when one day who should show up but Sylvia Ageloff, with Jacques Mornard in tow. Stacey only talked to them briefly – they were rushing off to meet the Great Man and she was getting ready to leave the country – but they seemed happy enough to see her.
Then four months later Stacey looked at the Los Angeles Times at the breakfast table and saw that Trotsky had been murdered. The assassin had been arrested at once: it was Jacques Mornard. Now sitting in a Mexican prison, the killer continued to insist he was Mornard, and claimed to have killed Trotsky in a fit of rage when Trotsky didn’t approve of his plans to marry Sylvia Ageloff. Everyone was sure that Mornard had been acting on Stalin’s orders, but nothing could be proved when no one knew who Mornard really was.
Nessheim interjected then, pointing out again that Stacey had left Mexico months before Trotsky’s murder. Why would the Russians think she knew anything about it?
Because, Diane said, Stacey had done something very stupid: she had confided in her husband, since she thought that, with all his money, he could protect her. But Tweedy thrived on gossip; he liked to show he was in the know. So Stacey’s secret didn’t stay secret for long.
Nessheim asked, ‘Did Stacey know that Tweedy blabbed about it?’
‘Not at first. But then someone tried to run her car off the road on the Cajon Pass. She said it was a miracle she wasn’t killed.’
‘The coupé?’
‘That’s right. Fire-engine red. She drove it here from California.’
Nessheim sat back, trying to make sense of her story. ‘Okay, but we’re back to square one. Why did Stacey come here? Her mother wasn’t going to protect her.’
‘No, you were.’
‘Me?’
‘Yes. Stacey had always carried a torch for you – you were the only man she regretted giving the heave-ho. But she wasn’t being sentimental. She wasn’t coming here because she was in love, but because she was scared. She said you wouldn’t be scared of the Russ
ians. It sounded like bravado to me – I didn’t realise you were a G-Man.’
‘So I was her cover then, her muscle.’ It wasn’t really a question, and he could not hide his dismay.
‘At first. But that all changed. That’s why she came to see me. She was so excited she didn’t know what to do. She told me it was completely unexpected.’
‘What was?’
‘Her feelings. She said she’d suddenly found herself falling in love with you. I’m not sure she’d ever felt that way before. She told me you two were going to live in Wisconsin after the lousy war ends.’ She gave a little snort. ‘Stacey in an apron with four kids. I never thought I’d live to see it, but then I never thought Stacey wouldn’t either …’ She faltered, trying to check her emotions.
Nessheim was warmed by the thought that Stacey’s dream of life with him had been sincere, but he also felt jealous of Diane’s superior knowledge of Stacey’s life.
She seemed to sense his ambivalence. ‘I wasn’t her best pal, you know. Our worlds were too different for that. But I was her oldest friend. In third grade I pulled her hair and made her cry.’
Diane’s own eyes were openly teary now. She said, ‘I wasn’t telling you the truth before, when I said I joined the Party to meet guys.’
‘Oh?’
‘No. I joined because Stacey did. To make sure I would get to see her.’ Her eyes dipped briefly, then rose to meet his.
‘And that’s why when she left Chicago, you …’
‘I left the Party. Yes.’ She sighed. ‘You’re the one person who will know how I feel right now. I hope you don’t think less of me for that.’
He was unwilling to share Stacey with anyone just yet; he forced himself to remember Stacey’s fondness for her friend. As warmly as he could, he said, ‘I loved Stacey, Diane. How could I think less of anyone who loved her too?’
36
IT WAS DUSK when he reached Hyde Park, and dark by the time he parked Stacey’s car discreetly under the elms by the Oriental Institute on 58th Street. He walked the block to the Quadrangle Club and stopped at reception for his room key. A young woman with a short blonde bob stood behind the counter in a smart black suit and white blouse. When he gave the number of his room she said, ‘Excuse me, sir, are you Mr Nessheim?’
‘I am.’
‘There’s a message for you from Mr Guttman.’ She handed him a pink phone slip on which Guttman had scribbled, ‘Stay put. See you at 6 in the bar. H.’
The woman said, ‘Will you be seeing Mr Guttman any time soon?’
He looked at his watch. ‘Is an hour soon enough?’
She didn’t smile, but looked relieved. ‘Could you give him this then, please? It just arrived – special delivery.’ And she handed him a large Manila envelope. It was carefully taped, and as he went up the stairs he saw the return address was ‘The British Passport Office, 30 Rockefeller Plaza, New York City’.
Upstairs he changed out of his suit and had a lukewarm shower since apparently the club didn’t like to spoil its guests with too much hot water. He wanted to lie down and sleep until daybreak, but told himself he had to keep going. Stacey had been clear that dreams of forty acres and an apple orchard would have to wait.
He was trying not to think too much. His grief had briefly abated from learning that Stacey had not been working for the Russians, but it was quickly replaced by guilt. Why had he doubted her so readily? Guttman, sour and cynical, had persuaded him almost right away that he should not trust his feelings for Stacey, but needed to face facts. Is that why he had so easily accepted Guttman’s contention that she was setting him up? The fact was, she hadn’t been spying on him at all; the fact was, she had loved him. There had been no failure of love on his part – he knew he had loved Stacey – but instead an inability to accept that she had loved him too. He felt a terrible sadness now, and a growing anger – with Guttman for getting it so wrong; with himself for accepting Guttman’s ‘evidence’ so easily.
At six he went downstairs in a blazer and grey flannel trousers and found Guttman on a stool at the dark mahogany bar. Behind them a pair of professorial types were playing billiards, in a space separated from the bar room by a waist-high wall of brick.
When the barman went to pour Nessheim a bourbon on the rocks, Guttman said, ‘I’ve got some news. They found the old lady from Stacey’s apartment building. Or rather I found her. Her name is Mrs Flint, and she confirmed your story about the scream.’
‘Do the cops know that?’
‘Not yet. There’s something else. When you arrived, the doorman had gone to hail a cab on the Drive. When he was walking back he saw two guys shoot out of the building, then a minute later he saw them driving away.’
‘In a dark green sedan?’
‘Yep. So I phoned Palborg but he wasn’t there. We’re due to talk in the morning so this is no time for you to get arrested.’
Nessheim nodded.
Guttman said, ‘Did you find the people you wanted to talk to?’
‘I did.’ He took a big swallow. The bourbon burnt his throat but warmed him, even with the ice. ‘The Russians killed her. And no, Stacey wasn’t working for them.’
‘Then why did they –’
Nessheim cut him off. ‘She knew a secret they don’t want to get out.’ And he told Guttman about Diane’s account of Stacey’s past few years. When he got to Trotsky in Mexico, Guttman’s eyes widened, and when he explained what Stacey had known about Trotsky’s killer, the eyes widened even more.
‘So they had a reason to kill her,’ said Nessheim. ‘The last thing Stacey would have done was to jump out a window.’
Guttman exhaled involuntarily. He held his glass with both hands but instead of drinking he just stared moodily at it. ‘I’ll take your word for that.’
‘That’s big of you,’ said Nessheim sharply.
Guttman ignored him. ‘I’ll talk to the police and ask them to look for the sedan and the two guys. But they’ll be long gone. They would have made tracks as soon as Stacey –’ Guttman stopped, mortified by what he’d been about to say.
They sat in awkward silence for a minute. Finally Nessheim said, ‘You got it wrong, Harry. Completely wrong.’ His voice was raised, and the barman looked over. Nessheim saw one of the billiard players raise his cue and glance at the bar. ‘You said I was being taken for a ride, but it was you who was duped.’
His voice was still loud, and he got off his bar stool and stood next to Guttman. The barman hesitated, as if uncertain whether to intervene, especially when he saw the look in Nessheim’s eyes. Nessheim sensed that he was close to losing control; that at any moment he might snap. But he didn’t care. Right now if Guttman objected or protested, Nessheim would knock him off his bar stool.
But Guttman didn’t even look at him. He sat with his shoulders hunched, both hands around his glass, and said quietly, ‘I’m sorry, Jim. Truly sorry.’
And after a moment when his reaction hung in the balance, Nessheim suddenly felt himself step back from the edge. The bartender was still looking concerned, so he raised his hand to show that things were okay. He got back on his stool. ‘I’m sorry, too, Harry. Sorry for believing you.’
After another long silence, Nessheim said, ‘Tell me something – and I want you to level with me. Who told you Stacey had been a Communist? Who set that particular ball rolling?’
‘Tatie,’ said Guttman without hesitation.
‘Tatie?’ Nessheim stared at Guttman, who nodded vigorously.
Why would she have done that? Had she really felt so slighted by Stacey’s rudeness in the Palmer House? It seemed a year ago, but was just a matter of a month or so. He tried to make sense of this, then said, ‘Tatie couldn’t have compiled all that info on her own.’
Guttman looked taken aback. ‘You’re right. But Tatie knows all the Records people in the Bureau. It’s a kind of network of its own – between them, they know where all the dead bodies are buried in the files.’
‘That doesn’t ri
ng true. Somebody must have instigated this.’
‘Maybe.’ Guttman paused. ‘You know that I’ve been convinced that we’ve got a problem at the Bureau.’ He looked around him carefully, but the bartender was reading at the end of the bar and the only people within earshot were the billiard players. He said, ‘Tolson’s got an assistant I’m worried about. A young guy named Adams – they call him T.A. He’s been hanging around Marie a lot lately, and there’s something fishy about him. I got some old friends to check him out for me – just in case. It turns out he’s been banging girls in a flop motel down by the Potomac. One of these broads was on my train when I left here last time; she took a big spang at me when I was in my compartment.’ He looked at Nessheim defensively. ‘No is the answer …
‘Anyway, it’s too big a coincidence. I think either T.A. is trying to set me up for a fall, probably on Tolson’s orders, or it’s something different – and worse. I don’t know what relates to what any more, but something smells. I’m still mystified how you were found out here – and who it was who did the finding. I don’t think it was the Bund and neither do you.’
Guttman shook the ice cubes that were all that was left of his drink, then continued. ‘I got tailed when I was in New York, and when I got home Annie said there’d been somebody snooping around my house. If it was the Russians, how did they get the info on me and on you? It could only have come from inside the Bureau.’
He stopped suddenly, self-conscious that he had been talking for so long. Nessheim said, ‘So we’ve got a complicated situation.’
‘Yes, but right now, we have to leave it all aside. Our focus has to be on Kalvin and the project. Fermi says he thinks it will “go critical” tomorrow. Do you know what that means?’ he asked uncertainly.
‘I think so,’ Nessheim said, watching the bartender filling bowls of peanuts ten feet away. He said carefully, ‘If it works tomorrow, it means they can build what they want to build.’
‘Got it,’ said Guttman. ‘I’ve checked and rechecked the security at Stagg. It’s tighter than a drum. Kalvin won’t be there for the final test – Fermi told him this afternoon that he couldn’t be present. He didn’t give the full reasons – he just blamed it on the military being extra-cautious, said there was concern over some of Kalvin’s paperwork. He’s taking him out to dinner tonight to console him, since Kalvin was supposed to be present on the big day.’
The Accidental Agent Page 29
