‘It wouldn’t, Mr Portisch. Which I suppose is my point.’ He looked up. ‘So where did you go? Where did you take him?’
Stefan described the Saturday afternoon. This was before the war started. Germany was still at peace. They’d walked the canals of Hammerbeck. Fed the ducks on scraps of black bread. Afterwards, they’d gone into the city, and eaten at a cheap Bierkeller Stefan knew down by the Elbe. The major noted the name of the place. The colonel wanted to know what they’d talked about.
‘Each other, but me mostly. Sol was like a second father. He was sixteen years older than me. That made a big difference. He wanted to know about my sailing, how I’d learned on the Alster with all the other kids, what the Olympics had been like, the races up in Kiel, and then he wanted to know about the Navy, and what I expected once the war came along.’
‘And his own life? You asked him about that?’
‘Of course.’
‘And what did he tell you?’
‘He told me about his wife. I got the impression they couldn’t have children but that’s not something I asked him. Maybe that’s one of the reasons he wrote to my mother in the first place. To have someone much younger in his family.’
‘And his work?’
‘I didn’t know anything about it. I got the impression he was clever, very clever. He said he was a scientist. He worked in a big institute in Berlin. That’s all.’
‘Weren’t you curious? Did you want to find out more?’
‘Not really. I was happy talking about my own life. He was so interested in everything I’d done. That doesn’t happen very often.’
‘And I understand he wrote to you. From America.’
‘Yes. He wrote three or four times.’
‘Which address?’
‘To our flat. In Hammerbeck.’
‘Why not to you direct? Wouldn’t your mother have preferred that? Sparing your father’s feelings?’
‘Writing to me direct would have been foolish. The man was a Jew. And he’d gone over to the enemy.’
‘This was when?’
‘ Nineteen forty. Nineteen forty-one.’
‘But America wasn’t the enemy. You weren’t at war with them. Not until Pearl Harbor.’
‘You don’t think so?’ Stefan was smiling now. ‘You don’t think we were sinking American shipping? Avoiding American patrols? Is that something you do to your friends?’
The colonel sat back in his chair, steepling his fingers. For once, thought Stefan, he’s not sure about me. Maybe I’m lying. But maybe I’m not.
‘And these letters from America? They’ve gone too? Up in smoke?’
‘I’m afraid so.’
‘What did they say?’
‘Not very much. Sol was working in Chicago in some kind of lab. There were lots of other scientists from Europe and he knew some of them. He and his wife had found a place of their own. He loved America. There was so much of everything and no one knocking at your door at four in the morning. He felt safe. I think he was happy.’
‘So much of everything? I understand there was rationing.’
‘He told me they had everything they could ever want. Maybe rationing came in after Pearl Harbor. I don’t know. I’m just answering your questions.’
‘And after Pearl Harbor?’
‘Nothing. The letters stopped.’
‘And was he writing to anyone else at this time? To your knowledge?’
‘Yes.’
‘Who?’
‘I don’t know their names. I think they were colleagues from Berlin, scientists I expect. People he’d been working with. People he counted as friends.’
‘On the same project?’
‘I don’t know. I imagine so.’
‘And do you know what that project might have been?’
‘I’ve no idea. He never said.’
‘Never?’
‘Never. I wish I could help you, Colonel, but …’ Stefan shrugged, ‘… I’m afraid I can’t.’
*
Gómez awoke to the sound of someone tapping at the door. It was the receptionist. She had a man on the phone for him. Gómez followed her down the corridor, rubbing the sleep from his eyes before checking his watch. Mid-afternoon.
‘Gómez,’ he grunted.
‘This is Frank Donovan.’ He sounded tense, nervous.
‘Nice to hear you, Frank. Thanks for the call. We get to meet some place?’
‘Tonight. This evening. You’ve got a pen?’
‘Sure.’ Gómez gestured for a pen. ‘Shoot.’
Donovan gave him the name of a road down by the Rio Grande. It was like an industrial area, plenty of factories. He should be looking for an outfit called Fábrica Hortensia. They had a big fenced area out front. The gate would be open. Trucks parked up there sometimes. After dark, the place was deserted. Ten o’clock?
‘Give me a clue here, Frank. What am I looking for?’
‘Me.’
‘In a vehicle?’
‘Sure.’
‘Like what?’
‘Guess. Bring lots of money.’ The line went dead.
*
Stefan was returned to his shared cell in the barracks in the early afternoon. By now his cellmate had volunteered a name. Hans-Dietrich Schwemmer. Recently of U-452. When Stefan stepped into the room, he was standing at the barred window, staring out. The moment the escort shut the door, he turned round and put his finger to his lips then gestured up at the ceiling.
Stefan followed his pointing finger then mimed bewilderment. What’s going on? Hans had a scrap of paper and he had found a stub of pencil somewhere, which he held at the ready. He pointed to a single word he must have scrawled earlier, then nodded up towards the ceiling. Mikro. Microphone.
Stefan nodded, said he understood. The cell was wired for sound. Hans was back on his bed, hugging his knees. He was a small man, wiry, with a shock of blond hair and a deep scar that ran the length of one cheek. He told Stefan that his submarine had been forced to the surface after an attack by British corvettes working in pairs. Two of the crew had already died and a handful more were seriously injured. One of the corvettes had stopped to hoist them aboard and they’d spent an uncomfortable week at sea as the convoy wallowed towards Liverpool. Since then, he’d been here at das Scheisshaus, under interrogation.
Stefan knew about U-452. It was one of the old Type VII boats. A friend of his on the same voyage had been one of the men who hadn’t made it. U-452 had gone down more than a year ago. Spending all that time since in a place like this made no sense at all.
Hans wrote a question on the other side of the scrap of paper. You’re Kapitän Portisch? Stefan nodded. Hans looked up at him for a moment. Then he was on his bare feet between the beds, his arm erect in the Hitler salute. Embarrassed, Stefan gestured for him to sit down. When Hans extended a hand, he shook it. Stefan wanted the pencil. Was geht ab? What’s up? Hans put his hand over his heart, mimed a sad clown. He wanted to say sorry. Quite why, Stefan didn’t know. Then came another scribbled message. Ich bin hier um Sie zu sprechen zu bringen. I’m here to make you talk.
Stefan nodded and settled on the other bed. He’d heard about this trick before. The British routinely planted prisoners like these alongside newcomers. They’d act as stool-pigeons, trying to open doors that had remained locked during formal interrogations, teasing out useful confidences. For all he knew, the Germans probably did the same. Trusting a fellow countryman, went the theory, often resulted in all kinds of windfall intelligence. The British called it ‘pillow talk’, and like everything else it went straight into a prisoner’s dossier.
Stefan was trying to work out ways of turning this ruse to his own advantage. For a while, they swapped stories. Stefan saw no point in not talking about what had happened to U-2553. He described the night of the storm and how he’d been ordered to kill a senior SS officer. He talked about Eva, and her dying father. And then he mentioned the latest interview with the colonel.
‘You know this m
an? The one with the monocle?’
‘Sure. Be careful. That man knows everything.’
‘Then why does he ask so many questions about my half-brother? Someone I haven’t seen for more than five years?’
‘He’ll have a reason. He always does.’
‘You think he’ll tell me if I ask him next time?’
‘I doubt it. Who is this person?’
Stefan explained about Sol Fiedler. He was a scientist. He was very clever. One day Stefan was going to get to America and track him down. Once the war was over they’d all be living in a different world.
‘I agree, Kapitän. Next time round there won’t be a war like this. Next time round we’ll be able to blow each other up at the touch of a button.’
‘You believe that?’
‘I do. The Führer has plans. Everyone knows that.’
Stefan nodded, feeling a little jolt of pleasure that he’d managed to get the issue of a super-weapon on the tape. Not because he’d raised it himself but because it showed that he hadn’t made the slightest connection in this regard to Sol Fiedler. Sol was his precious half-brother, so happily discovered, so briefly enjoyed. And that’s as far as his interest extended.
He reached for the pencil again. How come you knew my name? This time, Hans didn’t bother with the subterfuge.
‘You’re a legend, Herr Kapitän,’ he said. ‘It’s a pleasure to have you here.’
*
Gómez walked the mile to the industrial zone. He’d shared the address with the woman behind reception who’d drawn him a map. The area, she said, was almost within sight of the river. The cheaper whores used it when they turned tricks in punters’ cars. It offered reasonable privacy but little else. Gómez, who’d been wondering how Donovan had discovered this part of town, was amused. Whatever else happened tonight, he told himself, he wouldn’t be the one getting screwed.
He set off after nine, walking slowly, taking it easy. There was little traffic around but downtown was less than easy on the eye: flat, desolate, a wasteland of cheap hotels, garish bars and drunken Indians. No wonder so many wetbacks risked the river and swam away to a better life.
He thought about Donovan. The guy would probably be armed. If he had any sense he’d also have someone else along, maybe hidden in the shadows, riding shotgun on this abrupt encounter. What was Gómez supposed to say? What kind of money would persuade Donovan to point his precious car north and volunteer for a conversation with the likes of O’Flaherty? If he said no, if it came to violence, if there was no alternative to knocking the man cold and shipping him over the border, would Gómez really emerge intact? This was a violent country. Donovan had almost certainly killed already. Adding Gómez to the score would be the work of a second.
He was in the industrial area now, long, low buildings, piles of building materials, a go-go economy catching its breath for the night. There were feral cats everywhere, tiny movements in the shadows, and a whisper of wind off the river. Further away, on the American side, he could hear the clank-clank of rolling stock in the marshalling yards, and the low, mournful blare of an approaching train.
He thought briefly about Yolanda. He’d trusted this woman on sight, ever since he’d met her in the Alexandria diner, and that had never happened to him in his life. She had presence and a sense of humour. She seemed to expect very little from other people and so obviously believed in making her own luck. She was also an angel in the sack, totally uninhibited, taking a raw pleasure from an extensive repertoire of tricks. He tried to imagine the impact she’d have on the FBI guys across the river, her face in theirs, Gómez’s envoy from the madness back in Mexico. My man’s taking care of it, she’d tell them. Better believe me.
Fábrica Hortensia. He’d arrived. Beyond the chain-link fence and the potholed parking area he could see the low rise of the factory itself. There were no lights burning, and no trucks. He walked on, careful now, wishing yet again that he had a weapon. This was no country to walk naked into an ambush. Moments later, he was at the main entrance. The gates, as promised, were open. He stepped inside, following what he took to be a pair of tyre tracks in the dust. No sign of the Caddy. Fifty yards took him to the factory. Not a factory at all but some kind of warehouse: sliding doors big enough to accommodate trucks, fatter tyre marks in the dust, the lingering stench of diesel oil and spent exhaust.
He paused in the darkness, on the balls of his feet, every nerve tuned to the next moment and the moment after that. Was Donovan late? Had he decided to nix the rendezvous? Or was this a set-up of some other kind? Gómez had no idea and no means of finding out except by looking. He followed the line of the building around the corner. Still no sign of life. A pile of discarded tyres lay beside the fence. He could hear the steady dripping of water. More cats. He walked on, hugging the shadow of the building until he reached the next corner. Very slowly, he peered round.
The fence was much closer here, ten yards from the back of the warehouse, and the strip of land formed a long alley disappearing into the darkness. At the end of the alley was a car, a big car. All Gómez could see was the back of it. It could be a Cadillac. Easily. One indicator was winking, on-off, on-off. Weird, he thought. Be very careful.
He approached slowly and as he did so he realised that the trunk was open. He was close now. There was no way of figuring out the colour, even with the splashes of orange from the indicator light, but it was definitely a Caddy. He paused, looking round, trying to plot the areas of opportunity, the spots he’d pick himself if he was here on bad business. Nothing obvious. Maybe nothing at all.
By the driver’s door, he froze. He could see a body slumped sideways behind the wheel. Something dark was seeping slowly on to the long bench seat. With great care, he opened the door. There was a vanity light over the rear-view mirror. He glanced round again, checking for movement, for anything that might suggest a set-up, then he reached inside until his fingers found the switch on the light. One final check outside. What the hell. He flicked the switch.
It was Donovan. His face was resting against the squab of the seat and most of the back of his head had ceased to exist. The big shotgun lay beside him, inches from the limpness of his hand. No note, Gómez thought, turning the light off and closing the door. He removed his jacket, then his shirt, laying them carefully over the long hood. Then he walked round to the rear of the car and checked the trunk. It was empty. Back beside the car, he hauled Donovan’s body out by the armpits and dragged him around to the open trunk.
Donovan was dressed in combat trousers and a T-shirt, now soaked in blood. Gómez got his breath back and then lifted Donovan’s body and tipped it into the yawning trunk before returning for the shotgun. He lifted it carefully and laid it beside the body. In the darkness, fumbling in the back of the trunk, he found a couple of old towels. His chest and arms were covered in Donovan’s blood and he did his best to wipe himself clean before slamming the trunk down and retrieving his shirt and jacket from the hood. The last thing he needed was a stop at the border.
The keys were still in the ignition. Dressed again, he quickly cleaned up the blood and brains on the upholstery and then fired up the big old engine. With the lights on, Gómez was glad to discover that he even had half a tank of gas. He slipped the car into gear, dipped the headlights and followed the alley round the building until he was out front. The gates were still open. He shook his head, not quite believing it. Moments later, he was back on the street, eyes on the rear-view mirror, waiting to be chased down. Again, as if by some miracle, nothing.
At the motel the woman was still behind the reception desk. Gómez had no need to revisit the room. When he asked for the check, the woman told him four dollars. He gave her a five and told her to keep the change.
‘Where you going now?’ She was looking at the Cadillac parked outside.
‘Home,’ he said.
*
The FBI office at El Paso was in a quiet downtown block beside a funeral parlour. The station chief was a long-term
Bureau staffer by the name of Halliday. Gómez had never met him but knew the man had spent a busy decade trying to carve his private niche in J. Edgar Hoover’s heart. Rumours of anything major about to break, and Richmond Halliday would be all over it. Tonight was no exception.
Lights were burning on the first floor when Gómez parked the Caddy across the street. He’d cruised slowly through the checkpoints on both sides of the border, attracting barely a glance from officials. Now he pressed the after-hours button beside the reinforced steel door. Did it a second time. Then a third. Finally the door opened. Gómez peered at the guy’s ID. Richmond Halliday.
‘Who are you?’
‘Gómez.’ The name didn’t register. ‘Lady called Yolanda? Guy called Raymond O’Flaherty? Any chance I can come in?’
‘This is FBI property.’
‘So am I, buddy.’
‘Buddy’ didn’t sit well with Halliday, though at last he appeared to recognise Gómez’s name.
‘You the guy from Mexico?’
‘I am. You’ve talked to O’Flaherty?’
Halliday didn’t answer. His hand was out. He wanted ID.
‘I haven’t got any.’
‘Everybody’s got ID, Mr Gómez. No ID, prohibida la entrada.’
Gómez studied him for a long moment. Halliday looked like a bank clerk or an insurance broker: thin, pale, impatient, a study in self-importance.
‘I need to know about O’Flaherty,’ Gómez said slowly. ‘I need to know that you have the documentation I sent across this morning. I need to be sure that you passed the word up the line. If O’Flaherty isn’t on a plane already then someone hasn’t done their job. And that, Mr Halliday, will have consequences.’
It was beginning to dawn on Halliday that this rough Hispanic on his precious doorstep might have friends in DC.
‘He’s due in tomorrow morning,’ Halliday said. ‘I’ll be out at Biggs to meet him.’ Biggs Army Airfield served the city of El Paso.
‘You talked to him yourself?’
‘I did.’
‘And?’
‘Like I say, he’ll be with us tomorrow morning. We’ll brief at eleven. According to O’Flaherty, Mr Hoover is taking a personal interest.’
Finisterre Page 32
