Safe Houses

by Dan Fesperman

  “Miss Kurz’s friends, such as they are, did not know a name for any such lover. That theory, which the newspaper and your colleague Mr. Statler seemed to accept, was solely because of Mr. Delacroix’s account. He said he heard the suspect shouting just before he ran into the hallway from the apartment. ‘You bitch, sleeping with everyone.’ Spoken in German, he said.”

  “What else do you have?”

  “Nothing.”

  Schnapp shrugged, almost blasé, and it pissed her off.

  “So you’re just going to let this one fall through the cracks?”

  “The cracks, Miss Abell? You speak as if we have these sorts of murders flowing like a liquid, like there is some sort of spree of crime here in Berlin. I am not your TV Kojak with a lollipop in his jaw and too many bodies to keep track of, yes?”

  “Who said anything about Kojak?” Although she had watched it—the New York detective with a head like a bowling ball. She had even seen episodes here—dubbed, of course. Who loves ya, baby? wasn’t half as catchy in German.

  “My point, Miss Abell, is that this is not New York. Nor is it even Chicago or L.A. At most we will have fifty murders in the city this year. That is fewer than one each week, and of course not all of them occur in this district. So I can assure you that my attention to this matter will be…” He paused, searching for the right word.

  “Undivided?”

  “Yes. Undivided. But for the moment the simple truth is that there are not enough leads to keep me busy.”

  “What about next of kin?”

  “For the girl?”

  “Yes. Maybe they would know something.”

  He sighed and flipped through his notebook.

  “I have not yet been able to find anything to tell me of a previous address, or of any family. She has been registered as a resident of Berlin for only a year and nine months. But she had no job, and she was not a student.”

  “She said something to me about Braunschweig.”

  He raised his eyebrows.

  “You knew her?”

  “I met her only once, and for only a few minutes.”

  “Yes?” He waited for more.

  “She was in a hurry to leave.”

  “Yet she had time to tell you she was from Braunschweig? Where was this meeting? On what day, and at what hour?”

  “I’m afraid I’m not at liberty to say.”

  “I see. Yet, I am the one to blame for not working hard enough.”

  For a moment she was tempted to tell him everything. About the rape, the confrontation with Gilley at the safe house, the girl’s plea for silence and her disappearance into a rainy night. Schnapp nodded, as if to encourage her. But Helen’s resolve failed, and she remained silent, the good employee, unwilling to go any further in her defiance of the Agency.

  “What will you do next, then?” she asked, the question sounding feeble.

  “There is nothing that I can do, or not at this time of day. These sorts of people tend to live mostly in the later hours, and mostly in places where a policeman is not typically welcome.”

  “The club scene?”

  He nodded.

  “Punks, I believe they are calling themselves now, with all of that loud and pointless music. Plus all of the anarchists, or Autonomen, as they call themselves. Hoodlums, that’s what you’d call them in America. They believe in nothing but destruction. They all dress as she did, and also in the way of our American witness, Mr. Delacroix.”

  He stood, signaling the end to their meeting.

  “If you decide that you have more to tell me, Miss Abell, then I hope you will call.”

  He handed her a business card. She nodded as she took it, and then lowered her head.

  “Yes,” she said meekly. “I will.”

  “Should I inform your office of the satisfactory nature of your visit?”

  “That won’t be necessary.”

  “I guessed as much.”

  He smiled, and she felt his eyes on her all the way to the stairwell.

  16

  Helen waited until midnight to go looking for Delacroix. She picked up one of the free weeklies to scout their listings of night spots for the local punk scene. The two likeliest places seemed to be Dschungel and SO36, which didn’t close until the last patrons stumbled out the door at daybreak.

  She pondered what to wear. At twenty-four she was young enough to fit in, but clothes were another matter. She didn’t own a shred of black leather, nor any makeup that could possibly make her look as pale or ghostly as the countless anarcho-punks she’d seen on the subway and S-Bahn.

  One fashion quirk she’d noticed was a preference for safety pins as earrings, so she spent the next ten minutes looking for one, only to conclude that she wouldn’t be fooling a soul. Achieving the right look would require a makeover worthy of Hollywood, not to mention an attitude she didn’t possess. So instead she threw on her black jeans, blue cotton T-shirt, and brown fisherman’s sweater—the very getup she’d rejected that morning. At worst she’d be seen as an uncool older sister, a naïf, or maybe a tourist. At best she’d be invisible. Most of the people where she was going, she assumed, would be too drunk or stoned to care.

  She realized her mistake not long after arriving at Dschungel, where, to her surprise, there was a strict door policy and a long line of people hoping to get in. She suspected the exclusivity had something to do with its location, only a few blocks off the prosperous shopping district along the Ku’damm. A stout, bearded troll seemed to be in charge of selecting those worthy of entry. He sat on a folding chair by the door, keeping the line moving by muttering either a bored and dour, “Nein,” which happened in most cases, or by leaping to his feet for a hug and a slap on the back, followed by the shouting of a name. “Jorg! Komm rein!” “Ulrike! Willkommen!”

  He needed less than a second to pass judgment on Helen, who, despite mustering the most sullen possible pout, merited yet another “Nein.” She lingered a while longer to size up the people waiting behind her. None matched the description for Delacroix.

  SO36 was grungier and more freewheeling, a perfect match for its environs on Oranienstrasse in Kreuzberg, a few blocks south of the Wall. Helen paid a cover charge and entered a miasma of smoke and noise. The place was packed. A band named Katapult was banging out a song called “Angst.” Half the people were bouncing up and down. The rest were either free-form dancing or, like Helen, eyeing the scene. The only offstage lighting was a strobing spotlight directed at a glitter ball dangling from the ceiling, like the ones in disco clubs. It cast out whirling beads of light, which gave the room a frenetic feel.

  To Helen’s dismay, roughly half the young men had long, stringy hair and were wearing black leather. Trying to find Delacroix here based on Schnapp’s description would be like searching a beehive for a male with a striped belly.

  She decided it would be better to proceed by ear, which became possible as soon as the band moved offstage for a break. Jostling through the crowd, she listened closely for anyone speaking English, male or female, or even German with an American accent. The moment she heard either, she zoomed in to ask, without preamble, “Have you seen Delacroix?”

  Her first attempt was greeted by a puzzled look from a short young woman with a Midwestern accent and purple bangs. Her second, to a fellow who would have looked like a surfer boy if not for his shredded leather jacket, produced a quick shake of the head and a terse “No, man. Fuck off.” The third, directed at another woman, also produced a “Fuck off.” She was about to try for a fourth time when she felt a tap on her shoulder just as someone shouted, “Miss Abell!”

  She turned to see Otto Schnapp, who, despite being clad in jeans and a gray sweatshirt, fit in far better than Helen. Maybe it was the buzz cut, or those unwavering eyes.

  “You will not find him here,” Schnapp said.

 
“Find who?”

  “Delacroix. I have looked myself. He is not here.”

  “Why are you looking for him?”

  Schnapp glanced to either side and nodded toward the door. She followed him into an alley, where it was suddenly and blessedly quiet. Her ears rang, and she smelled of smoke, sweat, and weed, but out here the air was cool and crisp.

  “Your Mr. Statler telephoned me today, not long after you departed.”

  “Oh.”

  That was that, she supposed. She might as well turn in her resignation first thing in the morning.

  “You are not working this case in an official capacity, that much is clear.”

  “Did Statler tell you that?”

  “He did not need to. His interest was in another matter, that of Mr. Delacroix. In fact, from all that he said and did, I surmised that he is far more interested in Mr. Delacroix than in either Miss Kurz or the so-called suspect.”

  “So-called?”

  “Mr. Statler suggested strongly that I refrain from any further contact with Mr. Delacroix. Only twice before in my nine years as a detective has your employer asked me to have no further contact with someone, and in each case do you know why they made this request?”

  Helen shook her head.

  “It was because those people were employees.”

  “I see.”

  “I am sure that you do. Except this time your Mr. Statler made no such admission to me, even when I asked.”

  “I wish you would stop calling him my Mr. Statler.”

  “As you wish. But his behavior is why I decided to look for Mr. Delacroix again. Just in case. It is also why, in speaking with…with Mr. Statler, I neglected to tell him of your visit to my office.”

  She sagged in relief. No resignation necessary. Not yet, anyway.

  “Thank you.”

  “Do not thank me, Miss Abell. I suspect that what I should really be doing is discouraging you from further involvement. You saw what became of Miss Kurz.”

  “That’s a reason to keep going. Besides, you’re not exactly taking your own advice. I doubt that policemen who spy on spies get very far in this town.”

  “I am a lifelong Berliner, Miss Abell. For us, some behaviors are second nature.”

  “I bow to your local expertise, and apologize for my hubris.”

  “Then you are a rare American.” He offered a half smile and eyed her a bit longer, as if weighing whether to say more. “I do have a few items more of information concerning Mr. Delacroix, items that I had planned to put into a supplemental report until Mr. Statler asked me not to. But you are an Agency employee, so I suppose it is only proper that you know them, yes?”

  “Yes.”

  “He is a student. Tufts University, in the state of Massachusetts. His parents are Jill and Walter Delacroix. They live in Bethesda, Maryland.”

  She took a pen and a notepad from her bag and wrote it down.

  “Anything else?”

  “Nothing. Which is why I would like to find him. I think he would be a person of interest to me. Not on the Kurz matter, perhaps, since that is now closed to me. But for future reference.”

  “I understand.”

  “Good. Then my secret will be as safe with you as yours is with me?”

  “Absolutely, Detective Schnapp.”

  She scribbled the phone number for her apartment and gave it to him.

  “Will you let me know if you find him?”

  “I think we both know that is unlikely. I suspect by now that Mr. Delacroix, as your Kojak would say, is in the wind, yes?”

  “Yes.”

  They locked eyes for a moment. Finally he nodded.

  “Take care with yourself, Miss Abell.”

  He headed off into the night.

  Thirty minutes later, Helen was pressing the buzzer for Baucom’s apartment. It took more than a minute for him to answer on the squawk box.

  “It’s me. I’m coming up.” She tried to sound as forceful as possible, but there was still a long pause before he buzzed her in.

  Baucom lived in Charlottenberg, one of the few neighborhoods of West Berlin that had retained most of its Old World charm after the Trümmerfrauen cleared the rubble of 1945, brick by brick. He lived on the third floor of a grand old building with a marbled foyer and high ceilings, in a spacious apartment with old rugs and a huge porcelain furnace in the middle of a living room with bookcases on every wall. The windows across the front stretched almost from floor to ceiling.

  Helen knew she was imposing on him. He didn’t like surprise visitors, and he wouldn’t like her plans to stay for the night. She had been there once before, for drinks only, and even that brief stopover had made him uneasy. He had darted to and fro the entire time, retrieving napkins, emptying ice trays, setting out coasters. His dictum was that of many an older spy: Always sleep elsewhere when you take a lover. Your lair is your own.

  Yet, here she was, ignoring all that in search of counsel and solace, her footsteps echoing like rim shots as she mounted the cavernous stairwell. At least she hadn’t come by taxi, which would have infuriated him—a colleague giving out his address, and then stopping right out front as a convenience to anyone who might be following her.

  Baucom answered the door in a bathrobe, cigarette in hand, like Robert Mitchum in cranky PI mode.

  “Rough night?”

  “The worst.” He took her in his arms, ashes crumbling onto her shoulder.

  “Light me one of those.”

  “You’ll need more than a smoke, I’m afraid. By sundown you were quite the topic of conversation around a few select people at the office. Word was that you’d strayed off the reservation. Under cover of a sick day, no less.”

  “About Frieda, you mean? The agent who was killed?”

  “That was the story.”

  “Shit!”

  Schnapp must have lied to her. How else would they have found out?

  “Fortunately, the damage appears to be limited. Herrington is not among those in the know. As of now, anyway. But you should have come to me first. About the girl, I mean, and Robert.”

  “I thought I already had?”

  “Only in the vaguest of terms.”

  “Because you told me to drop it. A helluva lot of help that was. Besides, whatever happened to your ‘need to know’ philosophy? Shouldn’t you just have let me find out all this for myself?”

  “If that’s how you want to play it, then why are you here at two in the morning? I’ve got a 7 a.m. flight to Vienna, by the way, so there’s that, too.”

  “Fine. I’ll go.”

  He sighed and took her by the arm.

  “Grab a seat on the couch. I’ve got just the tonic.”

  She considered plopping onto the easy chair instead, then decided that would be churlish, so she curled up at one end of his creased leather sofa and pulled a blanket across her knees. His suitcase was already packed and standing by the door, with a fold-up umbrella hanging from the handle. She felt bad about keeping him up, but Baucom was her last remaining ally in Berlin, especially if Schnapp had turned on her. Had she misread the cop? Or were her own employers tailing her now?

  She stood and went over to a window, where she pulled back the heavy curtain just enough to glance at the sidewalk below. Bare trees that couldn’t have hidden anyone. No one was lurking in a doorway, or by the shuttered storefront of a camera shop across the street. Nothing but the shadows of the lampposts, the flutter of fallen leaves along the curb.

  “Come away from there.”

  Helen joined him on the couch. He had returned with two snifters and a dusty bottle of something that, on first sip, revealed itself to be almost as fine and restorative as the brandy Lehmann had brought up from his cellar.

  “Thank you.”

  “You needed it
.”

  She took another swallow and waited a few seconds before speaking again.

  “So I suppose I’m ‘for the chop,’ as our British friends would say.”

  “I’m not so sure.”

  “No?”

  “You’ve got more defenders than you realize.” The same thing Walters had said, making her wonder who they were talking about. He sniffed at her shoulder and wrinkled his nose. “Good lord, where have you been?”

  “To another world and back. A very loud world, and I’ve returned empty-handed.”

  “Well, my dear. All I can say is that first thing tomorrow you’d better make a full and penitent confession to that gasbag Herrington, in the clearest possible language.”

  “Even though I still have a card to play?”

  “You’re hopelessly overmatched.”

  “You wouldn’t say that if you knew what was on that tape. I know Gilley is well connected, but—”

  “Helen!”

  He took away her glass and set it on an end table. Then he leaned closer, held her hand, and lowered his voice.

  “Listen to me. And listen well, because this will be my final word on the subject of Kevin Gilley.” Baucom’s tone had turned imperious, a roll of thunder from deep within. No more euphemisms or “my dears” to soften the blow. This was someone preparing to deliver the gospel from on high, a man in a pulpit—just like her goddamn father.

  “Okay,” she said, not daring to move lest she set off some random noise that would remind her of the creak of a pew, the cough of a parishioner. Baucom nodded solemnly and squeezed her hand, and for a moment or two he seemed to rumble, as if the words were still forming.

  “It is not his connections, per se, that make him untouchable. Don’t you see that by now? It is the nature of his work, the things he does and arranges for the Agency.”

  “Sorcery, you said before.”

  “You’re damn right it is! Vanishings and disappearing acts. People who are there one minute, gone the next—with all of it appearing to be oh-so-random or accidental. Seeming acts of fate that are weeks or even months in the making, courtesy of our careful illusionist, Mr. Gilley. And, believe me, he never leaves a single footprint, no trace at all.”