‘O’Flaherty’s right. The lady who brought the documentation? Any idea where I find her?’
‘The Super Chief. San Antonio Street. A couple of blocks and you’re there.’ He turned to go, then paused. ‘This guy Donovan. Mr O’Flaherty needs to meet him. You’ll make sure he’s there?’
Gómez shook his head. It had been a long day.
‘I can go one better.’ He nodded at the Caddy across the street and then tossed Halliday the keys. ‘Guy’s in the trunk. Help yourself.’
Part Five
22
The flight from Washington arrived early next morning. Gómez stood in the sunshine watching the silver DC-3 on final approach. Earlier, he’d seen Halliday and another agent in the cafeteria, heads down, deep in conversation. Neither men knew he was there.
The DC-3 taxied to a halt in front of the terminal buildings. Among the first passengers off Gómez recognised faces from the Hill, senior scientists who’d presumably been attending meetings in Washington. One of them, spotting him, raised a hand in greeting. Gómez didn’t respond. Los Alamos was barely half a day away by car but already it felt like a different life.
O’Flaherty was one of the last passengers to make it down the steps. Gómez was glad to see that he’d once again ignored the Bureau’s dress code. If Halliday was expecting a grey suit, white shirt and a quiet tie, he was in for a shock. For O’Flaherty’s sake, Gómez hoped he was carrying ID.
Gómez intercepted him before he had a chance to get inside the terminal. Close up, O’Flaherty looked wrecked and he knew it. Two hours’ sleep before riding the cab to National Airport, then a series of thunderstorms down the spine of the country before they left the Appalachians and flew into the hazy glare of the Deep South.
‘There’s somewhere we can talk?’ O’Flaherty asked.
‘The office is downtown.’
‘I had somewhere closer in mind.’
‘Is there a problem?’
‘Hoover’s involved. There’s always a problem.’
Gómez was steering him towards the cafeteria. The door was blocked by Halliday. He was looking confused. He’d never met O’Flaherty and it showed. Gómez did the introductions. O’Flaherty led the way into the cafeteria and chose a table with a view of the apron outside. Halliday was looking at Gómez. He wanted to know a great deal more about the body in the trunk of the Cadillac.
O’Flaherty ignored the question. He pointed Halliday at the counter. He wanted coffee. Black. Halliday passed the request to his colleague. This was his turf and newcomers played by his rules. The three of them sat down. Now that coffee was coming, mention of a body had put a smile on O’Flaherty’s face.
‘Do we have a name?’ he asked.
‘Donovan,’ Gómez said. ‘I brought him back last night.’
‘From Mexico?’
‘Yeah.’
‘You killed the guy?’
‘I found him dead.’
Gómez described the circumstances: the parked Caddy, the open trunk, Donovan’s body slumped at the wheel, a gun beside him.
O’Flaherty wanted to know whether anyone else had been around.
‘Not that I saw.’ Gómez shook his head.
‘You think he killed himself?’
‘I think it looked that way.’
‘Then we’d need more.’
‘Sure. If it was our jurisdiction.’
Halliday was following this as best he could. Confusion had given way to anger.
‘There are procedures here,’ he said. ‘I have a conference room booked back at the office. Since when did we conduct sensitive business in public?’
O’Flaherty swapped glances with Gómez. The cafeteria was empty. The incoming passengers had gone in search of their bags. O’Flaherty turned to Halliday.
‘You think we’re going to the office?’
‘Of course.’ Halliday was itching to be on his feet.
‘Then you’re wrong.’ He nodded at the DC-3 refuelling on the tarmac outside. ‘We’re booked on the return flight. Leaves in an hour.’
‘We?’
‘Me and Mr Gómez here. Mr Hoover’s orders, buddy, not mine.’
*
There were two new faces at the table for Stefan’s next session. The major was in charge. Of the colonel, to Stefan’s relief, there was no sign. Overnight, he’d lain motionless in the narrow bed, trying to ease the ache in his leg. Hans, who was also carrying an injury, said that England was no place to get better in a hurry. Too damp. Too grey. Too depressing. What convalescents needed was warm sunshine and clean air, not fog thickened with so much smoke that it coiled in your lungs and made breathing something you’d try to avoid.
Stefan could only agree. His final glimpse of the Americas on the last of the transatlantic patrols had been dusk off the island of St Lucia when they’d surfaced to recharge the submarine’s batteries. The horizon had been empty, the sea a lake of gold towards the west, and he remembered the smell of nutmeg and cloves carried by the offshore breeze from the low, dark swell of the island. One day, he’d told himself, I want to come back here. Preferably with a beautiful woman. And preferably for ever.
Now, he was listening to the major. He offered no clues about the newcomers except to imply that he was grateful for their time. They appeared to have been summoned at short notice and one of them – the younger man – was visibly exhausted. In conversation with the major before the interview began, he said he’d been on a train all night, every compartment packed, even the corridors full of sleeping soldiers.
The major invited the younger man to launch the interview. He had thinning sandy hair and what Stefan’s mother had once described as an ‘indoor face’. His voice was low, hesitant, and he didn’t speak German. Stefan said it wouldn’t be a problem. He’d do his best in English.
‘I understand you know Sol Fiedler?’ he said.
‘I do. He’s my half-brother.’
‘What was he like?’
It was the bluntest of questions, full of disbelief, and Stefan frowned, pretending not to have fully understood, desperate to buy himself time. This man might be a scientist, he told himself. He might have worked alongside Sol. He might even have been his friend. Manchester was where Sol and Marta had stayed for a while before taking the boat to Canada, and coming from Manchester, thought Stefan, might explain this man’s overnight train journey.
The newcomer produced a notebook, opened it, and then rephrased his question. He wanted Stefan to tell him what Sol Fiedler looked like. He wanted a physical description.
Stefan nodded. He was trying to visualise the photos Erwin had showed him, Sol and Marta together in their kitchen, presumably in America.
‘He looked old,’ he said. ‘I knew he was thirty-six. That’s what my mother told me. But he looked much older than that.’
‘Older how?’
‘Older up here.’ Stefan touched his hair. ‘And old in the way he behaved. He was a quiet man. He listened rather than talked. I liked that.’
‘His hair was going grey? Is that what you mean?’
‘No. Not when I met him. But it was getting … you know … thin.’
‘Like mine?’
‘Yes. Like yours.’
‘Same colour?’
Stefan hesitated.It had been impossible to tell from the photos. He frowned, knowing whatever he guessed had to be a gamble.
‘No,’ he said.
His questioner nodded. Looking at the notebook, Stefan realised he had a list of prepared questions. He wondered whether he’d written them himself. Or maybe he’d sought the advice of someone else, like the major or the colonel. Trick questions. Questions to trap Onkel Karl’s young Kapitän and turn his story inside out.
‘Did he wear glasses?’
Sol was wearing glasses in the photos. Thick-looking glasses. The kind of glasses that suggested a long-standing problem.
‘Yes,’ Stefan said.
A tiny nod of approval from across the table. Stefan told hi
mself he’d been right. This man had to be a fellow scientist, someone who’d known Sol personally. The thought had alarmed him at first but the deeper they got into this strange conversation the more he was beginning to enjoy it. It was a game. It was like chess. And the fact that he could hide behind his clumsy English was a definite advantage.
‘Did he wear a ring?’
‘Not that I can remember.’
‘Did he smoke?’
‘No. He had no money.’
‘Had he ever smoked? Did you get that impression?’
‘We never discussed it. There was no reason to. I don’t smoke.’
‘Did he tell you about his wife?’
‘A little, yes.’
‘What was her name?’
‘Marta.’
‘She was Jewish?’
‘They both were. That was why they had to leave.’
‘Children?’
‘None.’
‘Because?’
‘Because …’ Stefan shrugged, ‘… it wasn’t happening.’
‘Did you get the impression they were close?’
‘Yes. Very.’
‘Did he have a pet name for her?’
‘I don’t understand.’
‘Something he’d call her in private?’
‘I’ve no idea. I wasn’t there when they were together. Before he came to Hamburg we’d never met before in our lives. He was a lot older than I was. He was very different from me. All we had in common was my mother, and that turned out to be enough, but we only met a couple of times. In some ways the man was a stranger – a nice stranger, a welcome stranger – but that’s the way he stayed.’
‘I see.’ He turned the page. More questions. ‘What did he tell you about his work?’
‘Not much. I knew he was a scientist. I knew he was clever. We talked about me most of the time.’
‘Did he ever describe the projects he was working on?’
‘No.’
‘And you didn’t ask?’
‘No. I was too full of myself. It was an exciting time.’
‘And his colleagues? Back in Berlin? Did you get the impression he had good friends?’
‘Yes.’
‘Did he give you names?’
‘No.’
Another nod. Then a sidelong glance at the major before turning back to Stefan. He wanted to know about the letters Sol had written from Chicago. The fact that he called him ‘Sol’ told Stefan he’d definitely known the man. Maybe he’d had letters himself. Maybe he’d even been over to see him. Careful, Stefan told himself. More traps.
‘Was he happy over there?’
‘I think so. That’s the impression I got.’
‘Where was he living?’
‘In a place called Evanston.’ Another detail from Erwin’s briefing. ‘He gave me the return address.’
‘What was the house like?’
‘Big enough for the two of them. And he told me it was an apartment, not a house.’
‘Did they have cats? Or maybe a dog?’
‘I’ve no idea. He never mentioned anything like that.’
‘Did he talk about the snow?’
‘The letters came in the summer. It didn’t snow then.’
‘Did he have a car? An automobile?’
‘I don’t know. He may have done.’
The exchange was developing into a fencing match, thrust, parry, and Stefan sensed that he was beginning to lose what little advantage he’d had. Too vague, too defensive, not enough detail. The older man at the table had the same impression.
‘Forgive me, Kapitän.’ There was a suspicion of a smile on his face. ‘What did he talk about?’
‘He talked about general things, about what a rich place America was, how different from Europe. And he wrote about his colleagues, too, how kind they were, how helpful. I think he must have loved what he was doing. He was certainly working very hard.’
‘He said that? In so many words?’
‘Yes. Long hours. Lots to do. Lots of problems to solve. But he wasn’t complaining. I don’t think he was that kind of person.’
‘Did he ever send you photographs?’
‘Yes. Once. There were only a few letters. Maybe three. But, yes, once there was a photo.’
The older man glanced at the scientist and then turned back to Stefan.
‘A photo of what?’
‘Of him and Marta.’
‘And what was he wearing?’
‘He had a jacket. And a shirt. She was wearing a dress.’
‘And the background? What did you see there?’
‘Nothing. They were in a kitchen. The refrigerator was huge.’ He frowned. ‘There was a window, too. You could see a cactus outside.’
*
Gómez and O’Flaherty were back in DC by nightfall. An FBI agent was waiting for them at National Airport. He drove them along beside the Potomac and then over the bridge to the Bureau’s downtown headquarters. Expecting to meet Hoover, Gómez and O’Flaherty were taken to the office of Quinn Tamm, the Director’s second-in-command. Hoover, it appeared, had been flown to Hot Springs down in Georgia where the President was enjoying a couple of days’ rest. It was Tamm’s job to debrief Gómez and try and figure out exactly where the developing investigation was headed.
The Assistant Director’s office was, if anything, bigger than Hoover’s. Tamm sat behind an enormous desk, surrounded by telephones. Behind him was a giant map of America covered by pins and lengths of cotton. Gómez had seen something similar in the Chicago field office. A talc overlay in blue indicated the nation’s prime industrial cities while another in red highlighted concentrations of aliens deemed to be potential threats. The fact that these overlays coincided almost exactly was – on the face of it – testament to the Bureau’s reach and efficiency, but both Gómez and O’Flaherty knew different. Far too much of the intelligence was bullshit – either planted by sources with private debts to settle, or pure invention by field agents with targets to meet. Now, though, they appeared to be confronting a threat of an entirely different order.
There was another man sitting to one side in the office, and Gómez quickly realised he was a Brit. Tamm didn’t bother to introduce him but Gómez had seen photos of the man before. His name was Walter Bell, a bluff fiftysomething who served as liaison officer between London and Hoover’s sprawling FBI empire.
Tamm wanted the bare bones of the story to date. Time, he kept emphasising, was tight. O’Flaherty gestured in Gómez’s direction. This is the guy closest to the action, he said. Listen up.
Gómez began to lay out exactly what had happened. First the alleged suicide of Sol Fiedler, and all the doubts that attended it. Then the pressure from his Army G-2 colleagues on the Hill to throttle the enquiry at birth, ship the man out for burial and get on with the job in hand. The Gadget, he explained, trumped every other card. There were thousands of scientists on the Hill, marching in lockstep towards the biggest bang the world had ever known, and nothing – but nothing – was going to stand in their way. Certainly not Sol Fiedler.
‘They told you to drop the enquiry?’ Tamm was making notes. So was Walter Bell.
‘They did.’
‘And what did you do about that?’
‘I carried on asking around. There was stuff that made no sense. Not to people like us.’
‘Give me an example.’
Gómez explained about Fiedler’s hatred of guns, about his passion for his wife, about his lack of enemies, and finally about the typed note found beside his body.
‘There were anomalies in that note. Like how he addressed his wife. That made no sense either.’
‘You think it was a plant?’
‘Yes.’
‘Like how?’
‘Like it might have come from the guy who admitted lending Fiedler the automatic in the first place.’
Gómez told Tamm about Frank Donovan. The man who shot coyotes every Tuesday. The guy who called by Fiedler’s house for coffe
e and jock talk about the Chicago Bears. The husband with a wife and three kids in Santa Fe who’d become – as far as Fiedler and his wife were concerned – a family friend.
‘Except he wasn’t? Is that what you’re telling me?’
‘Exactly, sir. I think he killed him. I think he planted the note. And both those facts would explain why he disappeared pretty soon afterwards.’
O’Flaherty intervened. Intelligence suggested that Donovan might well be over the border in Mexico. Gómez, he said, had been tasked to go down there and find him.
‘And did you?’ Tamm was still looking at Gómez.
‘I did, sir. I traced his wife’s family. I got on the right side of a local cop. In the end that took me back to Ciudad Jaurez.’
‘You also killed a guy. Have I got that right?’
Gómez nodded. ‘You know about that?’
‘We do.’
‘And should I be saying thank you? For getting me out?’
‘Not to us, Mr Gómez. To be frank I have no idea how that happened. Except it involved the President’s wife.’
‘She has pull in Mexico?’
‘Probably not. But the President does. So maybe he’s the guy you should be buying a bunch of flowers.’
Gómez nodded, said nothing. The flowers would go to Yolanda, he thought. And maybe Agard Beaman.
‘So you found Donovan?’
‘I did, sir. I also traced his wife and kids. They were living in the house of a German woman called Lara Müller.’
‘In Ciudad Juarez?’
‘Yes.’
‘She acts as a kind of honorary consul there, sir, representing German interests.’ This from O’Flaherty again. ‘She stays out of the States but we have a file on her. She’s supposed to have the ear of certain elements in Berlin. Chiefly the Himmler organisation.’
‘The SS?’
‘Yes.’ O’Flaherty looked at Gómez. ‘Tell him about the typewriter.’
Gómez explained about the Remington he’d found at Müller’s house. He’d brought back some text samples. O’Flaherty nodded.
‘We had them flown up yesterday, sir,’ he said. ‘We’ve checked them out.’
‘And?’
‘Perfect match. The suicide note was typed on that machine. It was also in German.’
Finisterre Page 33
