‘No one else’s wife involved?’ Hoover’s contempt for philandering was legendary. Men who stepped outside marriage he called ‘double-yolkers’.
Gómez said he thought Fiedler was clean. Then he added a caveat. The wife of a senior officer on the Hill had made a private allegation about Fiedler exposing himself. Plus he’d wanted her to embark on some kind of affair.
‘He’s got a name, this officer guy?’ Gómez had won Hoover’s complete attention.
‘Arthur Whyte, sir. Spelled with a “y”.’
‘And what’s his role?’
‘Head of G-2.’
‘That’s counter-intelligence.’
‘Yes, sir.’
‘Your boss.’
‘Yes, sir.’
Hoover nodded, almost gleeful, making a note of the name.
‘And you’re thinking what, Mr Gómez?’
‘I’m thinking the woman – the wife – made it up.’
‘Evidence?’
Gómez described Whyte’s visit to the doctor who’d performed the autopsy. He’d wanted to check that Fiedler had been circumcised. Why else would he need information like this except to stand up his wife’s story?
‘You think he put his wife up to this?’ Hoover loved details like these.
‘I think he’s very ambitious, sir. And so is she. He knows the cards to play. The Project takes preference. In everything. Nothing stands in its way.’
‘Not even this guy Fiedler? The fact that he might have been killed? The fact that he was shipping stuff out to the Russians?’
‘The possibilities, sir. Nothing’s proven.’
‘So you’ve been warned off? Sent away? Is that what happened? Is that why you’re here?’
‘Yes, sir.’
‘Thank Christ for that, soldier. At least someone in that goddam place understands his duty.’
Gómez acknowledged the compliment with a nod. ‘Soldier’ was the closest Hoover had come to irony.
‘This man Donovan.’ Hoover was looking at O’Flaherty. ‘We’re talking small-time criminal, right?’
‘Yes, sir.’
‘And you’re telling me he’s back over the border with his Mexican wife?’
‘Yes, sir.’
‘We know where they might be?’
‘She has family in Guaymas. According to the immigration forms.’
Hoover brooded for a moment. Then his head came up. He was still talking to O’Flaherty. Mexico, he said, could be tricky. The FBI had no jurisdiction. The people down there could make life tough. The place was also full of Commies which was no surprise given what Donovan was obviously up to.
‘We need to go after Donovan,’ he said. ‘But we need something else.’
‘Sir?’
‘Deniability. If the shit hits the fan it wasn’t us.’
‘Of course, sir. You’re telling me we send someone down there?’
‘Sure.’ Hoover’s gaze shifted to Gómez. ‘You, my friend. I’m guessing you might speak the language. You certainly look the part. I want you over the border and then I want you up Donovan’s ass. Find the guy. Sweat him a little. Worst case, you get a confession there and then. Best case, you bring him back. Anything happens, you’re with the Army. Happens to be true. I like that. Anything else we can help you with?’ He paused, fiddling with the sapphire ring, then offered Gómez the coldest smile. ‘Soldier?’
Gómez was back at Beaman’s place by early evening. The atmosphere was icy. Gómez was rarely in the business of apologising and saw no point in starting over. His free time was his own. He wasn’t Beaman’s property. If he chose to spend the night with a woman he’d just met then so be it. Consenting adults. So where’s the harm?
‘You think that helps the cause any?’ Beaman was looking sulky.
‘The cause?’ Gómez couldn’t believe his ears.
‘The woman’s married. She tell you that? Three kids? Husband? The whole shtick? She’s a big part of what we do. She has connections on the West Coast you wouldn’t believe. She has access to serious money. She knows some amazing people. We need stuff like that. Stuff like that is what’s gonna make the difference.’
‘She’s also a great lay,’ Gómez pointed out. ‘Does that figure anywhere?’
Beaman stared at him for a moment, then stormed out of the room. Gómez heard the crash of cutlery in the tiny kitchen then the bellow of a radio, turned up to full volume. He’d never seen Beaman this way. The guy was like a child.
He stepped into the kitchen, his sheer bulk trapping Beaman against the corner where the fridge met the sink. Beaman spun round, staring up at him. So pale, Gómez thought. And so delicate. Beaman was expecting a slap. He could see it in his face. Maybe he even wanted to be hit, a fitting climax to this little tantrum. Instead, Gómez laid a huge hand on Beaman’s arm. He could feel the boy shivering beneath his touch.
‘I admire what you do,’ Gómez said softly. ‘I respect your sincerity. You have powerful gifts. You’re gonna make a difference, and believe me that matters. No point winning a war if we lose the peace that’s gonna follow. You agree with any of that?’
‘You’re too kind.’ His lower lip was trembling. ‘I just always thought …’
‘No.’ Gómez shook his head. ‘You just always hoped.’
‘Sure. Is that a sin?’
‘Not in my book. And if you’re asking for forgiveness, there’s no need. I’ve been around a bit. I know the difference between a fake and the real thing. You’re the real thing and you’d better believe it because one day your face is going to be all over Time magazine. You need to be ready for that. And to be ready you need to be a whole lot tougher.’
‘I am tough. I’m tougher than you can ever believe. It’s just that sometimes, not often, I need a little bit of something else. Don’t tell me what it is but you’ve got it.’
‘Protection?’
‘Yeah. Sure. But protection I can buy. It’s more than that.’
‘Love?’
‘Yeah. You got it. Love.’
‘So what makes you think I don’t love you? Not in that way. Not in the way you want. Not in the way you’ve maybe been counting on. But in other ways. You’re an unusual guy. You’re brave, maybe too brave. I can smell greatness on you. What we don’t need is you smashing the crockery. We understand each other?’
Beaman gazed at him. His eyes were shiny with tears.
‘Kiss me?’ he whispered.
Gómez reached out, the gentlest punch on his upper arm, a gesture of affection. Then he shook his head.
‘Dream on,’ he said. ‘I need to find that woman again.’
*
Waiting in vain for Eva, Stefan badly needed to get to the lavatory. Darkness had fallen. The splint was still on the floor where she’d abandoned it. Getting the thing on wouldn’t be simple but he could see the outline of the crutches propped against the wall. With luck, he could make it from the bed. Then all he had to do was somehow get himself to the end of the corridor outside.
Easy. He lay still for a moment, listening to Tomaso coughing down below. He’d no idea whether Eva was with him but he’d heard no movement over the last hour or so and he guessed that the answer had to be no. Maybe she was back at Enrico’s, he thought. Or maybe she was out buying food. The village shop opened in the evening. She’d return any time.
He eyed the crutches again, then told himself his churning guts could wait. The candles had long died but the smell, the lightest scent of thyme, still hung in the air. Stefan shut his eyes. It was all too easy to imagine her back in bed, the shape of her body hanging over him, so deft, so gentle, so patient. He’d slept with a number of women in his life, a couple of them recently in France, and he’d enjoyed them all, but never had he experienced anything like this and what made it all the more puzzling were the odds they had to overcome.
He couldn’t walk properly. Indeed, he could barely turn over. He belonged to a nation she despised. They didn’t share a native language. They cou
ld manage in English but the real communication was by touch, and glance, and gesture. But none of these things – these restraints – mattered because what lay at the very heart of what they’d just experienced was something profoundly instinctive. Very dimly he understood that finding a relationship like this, a coming together, was extremely rare. If you were very, very lucky, it might happen once in a lifetime. If you were like the rest of the human race, it wouldn’t happen at all.
Was that really luck? Or was there some cosmic force that – just occasionally – lent a hand in these matters? He lay still in the bed, chasing the possibilities around his head. Once or twice at sea, faced with a particularly well-organised attack, he remembered standing in the cramped semi-darkness of the control room, listening to the thrum-thrum of the enemy ships overhead. He’d known then that a single depth charge, tumbling down on a certain trajectory, could tear his world to pieces. Death would come slowly. Icy water gushing in through the broken hull, fountains of scalding oil from ruptured pipes, and the bursting pressure in your chest as the precious air they all depended on bubbled out into the icy darkness beyond.
On those occasions, like most of his crew, he’d prayed for deliverance and every time it had worked. They’d made it through the screen of corvettes. And weeks later, acknowledging the cheers from the welcoming committee at the quayside when they returned to Lorient, they’d made light of what had happened. Going to sea in submarines, you were always on nodding terms with an unspeakable death. There was no alternative. Except to trust in luck.
Was that why he’d survived the storm that had killed everyone else? Was that how he’d met Eva? Was it luck that had put her in his way? Was this the end of his journey? The moment when the rest of his life resolved itself into a single face? If raw need was any guide then the answer was yes. Need, and surprise, and a deep, deep yearning that was already beginning to alarm him. He was a rational man, partly because he’d always had to be, but this afternoon, and now, and the prospect of the times to follow, had pushed him beyond the reach of rationality. For any German, unconditional surrender had become an uncomfortable phrase. It meant the Fatherland in ruins. It meant total defeat. For Stefan, on the other hand, unconditional surrender was the perfect description of a place, a destination, a state of mind, he’d never dreamed existed.
He couldn’t wait any longer. He pushed back the blankets and swung his legs out of bed. Two steps would take him to the crutches propped against the wall. For one of those steps he’d have to rely on his injured leg. He steeled himself, shut his mind to pain, took the first step. He could almost touch the nearest crutch. Almost. He steadied himself, then – with an effort of will – thrust his bad leg forwards. To his surprise and delight, it took his weight without protest.
He made his way out into the corridor, headed for the door at the end. His leg was moving well now. It was stiff, and every time it bore his weight he felt another little spasm, but the pain was nothing to his dawn efforts with Agustín and Eva. Whatever had happened since, he told himself, had worked a small miracle. He made it to the lavatory, abandoned the crutches and sank on to the pedestal. Moments later, he heard the door to the street open downstairs. Then came a woman’s voice, calling Tomaso.
Eva, he thought. Deliverance.
*
Gómez met Yolanda in downtown DC. The after-work crowd at Danny G’s had begun to thin and Yolanda grabbed a booth while Gómez made a call from the phone on the bar. By the time he rejoined her, she’d ordered a couple of beers.
‘No bourbon?’
‘Not yet.’
‘Is that a promise?’
‘Depends.’
‘On what? On that husband of yours? On those three lovely kids?’
She was staring at him. Amusement gave way to irritation. Then anger.
‘Mr Agard Beaman?’ She’d lowered her voice. ‘Is that where you got this horseshit?’
‘Tell me he’s wrong.’
‘He’s wrong. The man fantasises. Especially where you’re concerned.’
‘You’re right. More right than you know.’ He paused. ‘Now’s the time to straighten this thing out. You’re not married. You have no kids.’
‘I was married. Twice. I scared the shit out of both husbands and they moved on. One went back to Mexico. The other married someone a whole lot more dainty. Doesn’t stop him lifting the phone, though. For old times’ sake.’
‘What’s he missing?’
Yolanda eyed him again, more fondly this time. ‘If that’s a serious question, Mr Gómez, I could take offence. That was you last night? Emptying your balls all over me? Calling for your mother? I thought men only did that in battle? On the point of death?’
‘Same thing.’ Hector’s hand covered hers. Just the sight of her fingers aroused him. ‘Sorry about the third degree,’ he said. ‘Once a cop …’
‘Sure. And you?’
‘Me?’
‘How many wives?’
‘One. I sent her back. Never matched the picture in the catalogue.’
‘That’s plain nasty. Coming from you.’
‘You think I’m ugly?’
‘I know you’re ugly. Ugly on the outside. Happens I like ugly.’
‘And on the inside?’
‘We’ll see. Early days, Mr Gómez. Good start, though. Thank God I wasn’t in the bedroom next door. I’d have died of envy.’
She lifted her glass, clinked it against his. While they were still sober, she wanted to get something else straight. She and her buddies were serious about Agard Beaman. The guy needed looking after by someone who knew what they were doing.
‘Agard told us you saved his life once. In Detroit.’
‘That’s true. And something else.’
‘What?’
‘I knew what I was doing. You don’t want the details and even if you did I’m not going to tell you but the point was I’d scoped the guy earlier. I knew what was going to happen down the road. How and when wasn’t entirely clear but that didn’t matter. Where I come from you get a feel for the obvious and the not so obvious. Men think they can hide. They can’t. My way you get to stay ahead of the game. It’s called survival.’
‘And Agard?’ Yolanda asked.
‘Agard doesn’t even know the game exists and that’s partly because he’s not interested. That guy lives in the moment. That’s all that matters to him. He’s got the best of intentions and he’s Abe Lincoln on his feet and I guess from where you guys are sitting that makes him pretty important. But you’re right. The boy needs looking after.’
‘By you.’ It was a statement, not a question.
‘No way.’ Gómez shook his head.
‘Why not?’
‘Because just now I have something else I have to take care of. But as it happens, we might manage a trade.’
‘A trade? Between you and me?’ Yolanda looked suddenly confused.
‘Yeah. I guess this is a confession. Maybe not. Either way it’s deeply shameful.’
‘How come?’
‘It’s about last night. I remember most of it but not all of it.’
‘You were good. The best.’
‘Yeah. You, too. But something else. You’ve got a brother, right?’
‘I got three brothers,’ Yolanda said.
‘But one still in Mexico.’
‘All three are still there. That’s the thing about boys. Lazy sons of bitches.’
‘Right …’ Gómez was trying to get to the point. ‘So here’s the thing. One of them – shit, maybe all three – are cops. Yes? No? Or did I imagine it?’
‘One’s a cop. The eldest. Diego. If you ever met him you’d laugh. Skinny as hell, unlike the rest of us. Never got his share of the family gene pool but that mother is the toughest guy you’ll ever meet.’
‘Is he honest?’
‘Yeah. Which I guess is why he never got promotion. Still does six shifts a week, mainly nights. His choice. Are we getting the picture here?’
Gómez n
odded, took another swallow of beer. He wanted to know where Diego lived.
‘City called Ensenada. It’s on the Baja, south of Tijuana.’
‘You still talk to him?’
‘All the time. We shared divorces. Shoulder? Weep? That boy opens up to no one on this planet. Except his kid sister.’
‘You.’
‘Me.’ She was running her fingertip round the rim of her glass. The glass was still frosted from the chiller. She dipped her finger in the beer then reached for Gómez’s mouth. Gómez trapped her hand in his. Business first.
‘You think I can hire him?’
‘Diego? You mean for money? Why would you want to do that?’
‘Because I have some business to transact. Because I need someone who knows the territory.’
‘This is private?’
‘In a way, yes.’
‘What kind of private? What are we talking here?’
Gómez toyed briefly with sharing some of the story from the Hill. Out of the question.
‘You have to trust me,’ he said finally.
‘Big word.’
‘I know.’
She was watching him carefully, making up her mind. This is a woman used to negotiations, Gómez told himself. Tread carefully.
‘This is government business, right?’ she said.
‘Yeah.’
‘Important?’
‘Very.’
‘You like this country? You like this country as much as I do? You want the best for it? After the war? After the fighting?’
‘I do.’ Gómez nodded. ‘In fact I love this country.’
‘Nothing you’d like to change?’
‘I’d like to change plenty.’
‘Are we talking last night? In that restaurant? Reptile Joe’s?’
‘Rattlesnake Joe’s.’ He nodded. ‘We are.’
‘Then we have a deal, Mr Gómez. Give me your hand.’
‘Deal?’
‘I talk to Diego. I tell him you’re a good guy. I get him to say yes. You sort out the business end direct with him. And then, afterwards, you sign up with us to take care of Agard. How does that sound?’
Finisterre Page 18
