“We don’t get to decide that, John—they do.” He ticked his head over his shoulder, the sort of gesture only someone standing next to you will notice.
Himmel might have laughed when I said, “Once in, you never leave,” but only because he knew it was true. If I’d tried to break free when I first wanted to, the Reds would have sacrificed me and Michael, staging it so that our separate deaths looked like accidents. No one would ever know we’d been spies or that we’d even known one another.
I steered the rowboat alongside the retaining wall by the Jefferson Memorial and tossed the anchor onto the grass. No one around, but I had to hurry. The construction might not deter a passerby, a dogwalker might happen along. Hopped the fence, heaved two large stones over; they thumped into the soft ground. Cut a length of rope from a tarp stretched over sacks of mortar mix and put it and the stones into the boat. Now the hardest part: dragging Himmel’s body to the boat, getting it in. If I rolled the corpse over the gunwales, the thud would carry loud and clear across the Tidal Basin. There was a naval barracks in West Potomac Park, a guard might investigate, flashlight in hand. But how else to do it? I peeled the tarp off, set it and the rope in the boat’s bow. Thought: he’s not dead, he’s drunk, too soused to stand. How would someone manage that? Scrambled over to the body, crouched, and reached behind me. Grabbed the arms and wrapped them tight around my shoulders, trying not to shudder. Carefully, taking deep breaths, I stood slowly, grunting with the effort—Jesus, he was heavy. Crab-walked to the water’s edge, rolled him to the grass, then pulled him to a sitting position, legs draped over the retaining wall, shoes dangling over the dark water. The body listed but didn’t fall. I slipped into the boat, moved the port oar out of the way, and tucked the tarp between the boat and wall, to muffle the impact I couldn’t avoid. Staying seated to keep the boat stable, I reached for a foot, placed it over the gunwale, reached for the other foot. Leaning forward, I grabbed a fistful of shirt, ignored my pounding heart. No way to know if my plan would work unless—
I sprang to my feet, yanking the body toward me with all my strength. The boat dipped, the portside slammed into the retaining wall, the tarp thankfully absorbing most of the noise. Bear-hugging the body, I fell back, my rump just catching the center thwart. Waves spread, the oars rattled, I was panting into a dead man’s face; but I’d gotten Himmel aboard.
Let go of the body, lowered it. Dragged the anchor aboard and pushed off, mounting the port oar as I drifted. Dipped, pulled hard, pointed the bow toward the river. Once I was on the Potomac, I could wrap the body and stones in the tarp, lash it tight. The current would carry me to the Long Bridge, where I could briefly tie up. Then, so long, Henry Himmel, a.k.a. Pavel Nevelskoi, a.k.a. unknown.
HIMMEL HAD CONTACTED ME THREE WEEKS EARLIER, THOUGH OF course I didn’t know who he was then. A classified had summoned me. Lost: silver pocket watch, inside cover engraved K.B.L. to F.R.W., on April 20 near Judiciary Square, reward. I’d been promoted from beagle to watch. We met in a diner on F Street. What I’d been told was, the morning after I saw the ad, I should be in a booth along the west wall, order a Denver omelet, and set a folded Times-Herald next to my plate. The city’s conservative daily, funny.
“We have a favor to ask,” Himmel said as soon as he sat down. He studied me, taking my measure.
I took a bite of omelet, waited. He probably knew more about me than my parents now did. Where I lived, what I did off-duty, how many spoonfuls of sugar I stirred into my coffee every morning.
“A friend is moving, I can’t be there to see him off,” he said. “Could you go in my place?”
“Permanent move?”
“Yes.”
“When?”
“Wednesday night.” Watching me closely now.
Couldn’t answer quickly, couldn’t hesitate long. “You’ll introduce us beforehand?” I decided to ask.
“Of course. At the usual place.”
My last bite of omelet went down like a stone, I took a long drink of water to keep from choking. “I’ll be there.”
“Good.” And with that, he left.
Protocol was, give the contact plenty of time. Finish your food, read the paper, drink another cup of coffee—you’re just a joe getting a late breakfast, better look like it, don’t act like a commie agent who’s just been ordered to kill someone.
I wiped my mouth, dropped the wadded paper napkin on my plate, and walked at a leisurely pace to the men’s room. Went into the stall, puked up the omelet, the hash browns, the coffee. No one else in there, I was able to wash up and pull myself together. But I didn’t sleep a wink that night.
“The usual place” meant the dead drop Michael and I used. Locker 4-A, Union Station, we both had keys. The next morning, I retrieved a canvas bag with a single sheet of paper and a thirty-eight wrapped in a cloth. On the sheet, a description of the man I was supposed to kill, the site, the time, nothing more. Himmel had referred to the mark as a friend, codeword for a fellow Red, but nothing in the description flagged him as Logan Skerrill. White, 26 years of age, five feet, eleven inches tall, 155 pounds, brown hair and eyes, will answer to William.
“William?”
The man turned, shoes whisking on the alley’s cobblestones. He wore tan slacks, white shirt, no tie, hands thrust into the pockets of his windbreaker. I was gauging his height and weight, just noticing that his hair was curly, a little long in the bangs. Shoot now! But his face looked familiar, I’d seen him before, I slipped the weapon back—
“Jesus Christ, is that you, Voigt?” He strode forward, coming closer; I checked the urge to run. How the hell did the mark know my name, what was—
“Skerrill!”
We faced each other, only a few feet apart, no one else around, the alley dwellings dark. He had taken his hands out of his pockets and tensed his arms.
“Oh, this is rich, this is too much to believe—they recruited you? Good ol’ earnest Ellis Voigt, working class schmuck from Chicago, barely making it through the Funhouse”—pull the gun, do it now!—“you’re the one I’m s’posed to meet?”
I’d squandered my second chance—he came up with the answer to his own question, instantly understanding why I was there. Logan Skerrill, Boy Wonder, always one step ahead of everyone else. He sprang forward, turning his shoulder, using his forearm to knock me off balance, trying to drop me. No punches, just as we’d both been trained: get your opponent to the ground, break an arm, smash his hands. I twisted my torso, his forearm glanced off my chest, but he reached for my right wrist as he planted his left leg behind me, now trying to flip me on my back. I broke free, reached into the left pocket of my jacket and gripped the roll of pennies I’d brought along, just in case, swung a roundhouse from my waist right up to his jaw. The blow staggered him, put him back on his heels—he’d been expecting me to counter with a move we’d been taught. But I wasn’t going to beat Skerrill using our training—he was better than me. In the streets, in the alleys, anything goes, and fighting dirty was the only way I’d win.
The rest of our fight happened just as the coroner had guessed, except that the punch to Skerrill’s abdomen was my second one and I missed the solar plexus. He didn’t double over, instead started backing away, looking around for a weapon—a board, a rock, anything. I closed in, feinted a left jab as I delivered a straight punch to his nose, the pennies clutched in my right fist. Crack of bone, blood sprayed. Right roundhouse, again to the nose. Unnecessary, but I wanted to inflict pain. Two jabs, left-right, cut his cheek—I’d forgotten to take off the ring Delphine had given me—and then the left hook to the chin. My hands ached, I dropped the pennies into my pocket, reached for the thirty-eight. Skerrill was still on his feet, still looking for a weapon. Saw a broken cobblestone, somehow managed to pick it up without falling over. I aimed for his chest, missed wide, my hands shaky, the bullet hitting his left thigh. He grunted and fell to his knees as I strode forward, firing two more shots, one below the rib cage, the other to his heart. Bang, bang—just
like the coroner had said.
I dropped the gun into my pocket and ran—lights were coming on, someone had come out on his porch. I darted into a dark passageway between two alley dwellings, hopped a fence, raced across M Street, zigging and zagging my way out of the neighborhood. Somewhere in my flight, I wrenched the ring off and dropped it down a drain. Silver and amethyst, with a firebird spreading its wings over the band. Wasn’t expensive, sentimental value only, thank God I’d never worn it on duty—I’d only slipped it on that night for luck. Probably could have kept it, hidden it. Didn’t even think about the thirty-eight till I got home. Keeping the weapon was reckless, risky, stupid—but it saved my skin. Just ask Philip Greene.
WHY HAD HIMMEL PICKED THE ALLEY NEAR THE NAVY YARD? AS I finished tying the rope around his tarp-wrapped body, I wondered: Did he use that alley because he knew it belonged to the Navy, because he wanted O.N.I.—he wanted me—to get the investigation? I would find out in the morning—but only if I finished the task at hand.
Approaching the Long Bridge, I steered toward a pier, quickly tied a tautline hitch to the wooden buffer. I pulled the body aft, checked my knots, slid his legs over the sternsheets. Lifted his torso, pushed him into the water, released. For a heartstopping moment, the shrouded body drifted, rolling slightly, not sinking—I flashed on it floating right up on the Tourist Camp shore, people gawking and buzzing as I rowed up. But the dead don’t bleed—they don’t swim, either. A release of air bubbles as the stones won the battle of gravity, the tarp disappeared. Would the body stay down, buried in the muck of the Potomac’s bottom? Probably not, it would dislodge eventually, wash up miles downriver, cause a stir. But that would take months, and decomposition would prevent an identification. They’d try to match the teeth to the dental records of missing persons, but the Russians sure as hell weren’t going to file a report when they realized Himmel had disappeared.
I tossed the gun into the black water, untied the boat, rowed back to the camp. What I’d just done didn’t release me from the grip of the Reds, it didn’t make me safe. The N.K.V.D. had special sections, counterintelligence units that forayed across the States like a pack of wolves: never seen, seldom heard, littering hardscrabble landscapes with the carcasses of their victims. They’d trace every one of Himmel’s last steps to find out what had happened to him. Not out of loyalty, or justice, or even retribution—the Reds would want to know if they’d been compromised. I had no doubt the N.K.V.D. would find me. Killing Himmel didn’t protect me, it just bought me enough time to figure out what I’d do when the Russians came for me.
CHAPTER 40
MY BASEMENT FLAT WASN’T MUCH OF A HOME, BUT THAT NIGHT it felt like a castle. Peeled off my clothes, stuffed them in a bag to dump the next morning. Hid the cash I’d taken from my bank box and the envelope with the schematic. No sign of Franklin D., I’d been gone too long, he’d given up on me. Returned to the alley, roamed to another block—wherever he’d gone, I hoped he could survive on the streets again if no one took him in. Just before I fell asleep, I remembered my broken promise to Miriam to meet her that night and wondered what she’d done when I never showed. Let a guy on the make bed her? Returned to her abusive foster brother Kenny? Another stray I’d taken in and abandoned, Miriam.
I thought putting my uniform on in the morning might feel strange, like I was dressing for a masquerade party, but it didn’t. The uniform fit nicely, it was clean and pressed, I knew exactly who I was supposed to be when I wore it. No time for breakfast, only a Danish from a bakery on U Street. I got off the bus a few blocks from the Navy Building and thrust the bag with my bloody shirt and jacket into a trash can behind a haberdashery.
Terrance had fallen asleep at his desk, his head resting on his forearms. He stirred, looked up blearily, wincing at the cricks in his neck and back. Didn’t speak a word, just lit a cigarette and inhaled, glaring at me. He’d been there all night, looked like hell.
I sat down, lit up, and said, “Reason I didn’t call in is—”
“Save it, you got a bigger problem brewing right now.”
Not we, you. Bad sign. “Like what?” I asked, trying for unconcerned.
He picked up a sheet of paper, studied it, still blinking the sleep from his eyes. “D’you know a Lavinia Burling?”
“No.”
“Guess she goes by the name ‘Liv,’ whatever the hell that means, works as a typist at the Office of War Information—”
“Liv? Liv! How do you know about her?”
“So you do know her?”
“She’s a gal I date now and then.” Trying to reel back my surprise.
“Uh-huh. But you don’t know her full name? Even though she’s your gal?”
“She’s not my girl, Terrance—just a broad I bang every now and then.” Trying not to wince at my words.
“Uh-huh.” Still not believing me.
“Why’re you asking about her?”
“Because your buddies from the Bureau are in the commander’s office asking about her, and I’m supposed to—”
I sprang from my chair and raced to the door, didn’t hear what Terrance shouted after me. Probably that I was supposed to sit tight till I was summoned. But doing what I was told wasn’t going to help me, not now.
Paslett’s door was closed; I could hear raised voices. Checked the urge to barge in, knocked like a dutiful junior officer.
“I said no disturbances, goddammit!” Paslett thundered.
“Lieutenant Voigt, sir. Requesting permission to enter.”
Long pause, then, “All right.”
Seated in front of the commander’s desk, Agents Slater and Reid, cigarettes in hand, both men turning to look at me. Ignored them, staying at attention till Paslett nodded. Caught Reid’s smirk as I dropped the salute. As if he and his partner didn’t yessir John Edgar and stand ramrod straight every time they entered his sanctum.
Paslett glowered at me, didn’t speak.
I said, “Lieutenant Daley tried to stop me, sir, but I didn’t listen.”
“There’s a surprise,” Reid chortled.
“What happened to your accent, Barston?” Slater asked sarcastically.
Paslett turned the glare on them. “You two wanna make jokes, you can slink back to the Justice Building now.”
That wiped the smiles right off their faces. No defense of me, that whipcrack, just Paslett reminding them whose office they were sitting in.
“Agents Slater and Reid were just telling me about a girlfriend of yours, Voigt.” The commander picked up a copy of the document Terrance had. “Lavinia Burling, a typist—seems you were out with her two nights ago. Excuse me—Ted Barston was out with this gal.”
“Not Ted Barston, sir, me. Liv—Lavinia—only knows me as myself.”
“And why were you out with her when you were undercover?”
“I broke cover, sir. To go on a date.” Sugarcoating that fuck-up wouldn’t help, I had to play it straight.
“Do you always telegram your girls to ask ’em out? When you’re supposed to be undercover?”
“No, sir.” Standing stock-still, taking it.
“In addition to fouling up your investigation, commander, Voigt cost us a lotta time and effort,” Reid said. “Four men on the street just to find out where he’d been, which is how we got the telegram. On top of that, he caused a traffic accident on the Taft Bridge so he could throw boxes of clippings onto the parkway—it took us several hours to collect all those papers!”
“Then we had to track down the girl,” Slater chimed in. “If it hadn’t been for V-E, we’d a’had ahold of her then and there, but they ran out the back of a club and got lost in the crowds.”
“Save your excuses for Hoover,” Paslett growled, “and finish what you came to say.”
“All right, commander. When this gal finally told us who Voigt was, we had to scramble to check her out—what you have there”—Reid motioned at the document—“is just the preliminaries. So far, this Burling looks clean, but we can only
know for sure after we carry out a thorough investigation.”
When this gal finally told us who Voigt was. Liv had held out as long as she could, but I should’ve known she didn’t stand a chance against the Bureau. Slater and Reid had bullied her, told her she’d be fired from her government job, threatened her with prosecution under the Espionage Act, all the while demanding she give them my name. Just his name, that’s all, then we’ll leave you alone. And when she couldn’t take it anymore: Ellis. She didn’t know my last name, didn’t matter—they would’ve forced her to say she knew I was in the Navy. A naval officer working undercover, first name Ellis; it hadn’t taxed the Bureau’s resources to identify me.
Slater and Reid were trying to bury me and cover up the operation they’d run with Skerrill. Couldn’t blame them, couldn’t get angry—you play with scorpions, you risk getting stung. As they were about to find out.
“Sir, have they told you about their little game with Skerrill?”
“Game?”
“Now hold on”—“Goddammit,” Slater and Reid sputtered, but I cut them off.
“Skerrill was a Red, just like you figured, sir. He confessed all to the Bureau, which decided to run him as a mole to penetrate the spy ring at the clipping service.” I smiled at the two agents. The office was awful small, but their eyefuck was a thousand yards long. “Did he come to you, or did you just get lucky and stumble across him?”
“Is this true?” Paslett asked them, an ice-cutter edge to his voice.
“With all due respect, commander, you’re not authorized for briefings on that ongoing investigation,” Reid said.
“Lieutenant Skerrill’s dead, Agent Reid,” Paslett bore down. “Did the Bureau hire a soothsayer to talk to his ghost? Is that what I’m not authorized to hear?”
Dumb play, trying to pull rank on a naval commander in the Navy Building, but the two had no choice—Hoover would skin them alive if they admitted they’d had Skerrill on a string.
The Dead Don't Bleed: A Novel Page 31
