by Alan Elsner
When I reached my desk, there was a note from Eric asking me to call him. He had received his quota of hatred as well. Maybe now he would finally call the FBI. I was about to rush upstairs, but then I decided to make Eric wait another ten minutes. I phoned George in Berlin first. I wasn't going to let those Nazi bastards control my agenda. I was going to do my job, and right now my job was the Delatrucha case. And I wasn't going to give up my morning coffee for any damned neo-Nazi either.
George was in his hotel room. Reaching for my legal pad, I asked him how far he had gotten with his inquiries. “I was just about to call you,” he said. “It's not going too badly. I located a library where most of the Nazi newspapers are stored. I already started with the Völkischer Beobachter,” he said, citing the official mouthpiece of the Nazi Party.
“Makes sense.”
“Don't get your hopes up too high. It's going to be slow work, and it's going to take a while. I went through the first half of January 1944 this morning, and all I got was a terrible backache.”
“Poor George, excuse me while I get a Kleenex.”
“Not funny, Mark. You're the one who ought to be here. This was your brilliant idea. I had to stop working after a couple of hours when I started seeing double. Plus I'm still getting over the jet lag. And I guess you know by now I told Janet about the trip.”
“That's all sorted out. Don't worry about it. Just keep your mouth shut to anyone else in the department or outside. Report only to me, and I'll make sure everyone who needs to know knows what's happening. I'm assuming you haven't found anything of interest so far.”
“Not yet. I'm working as fast as I can. I know you and Eric are in a huge rush, but you have to take your time and scan every single page. I'm afraid of missing something. The print is so tiny.”
“Ignore what Eric told you about hurrying up. Never mind his deadline; take as much time as you need. Whenever you feel yourself getting tired, take a break. You can't risk missing something. I'd rather you spend an extra few days and do it right. The evidence is there. You just have to find it.”
“You'd be amazed at the amount there is about music in these newspapers. I had no idea how devoted those Nazis were to classical music. They sponsored an enormous number of orchestras and concerts. I read an account of a fantastic performance of Beethoven's Ninth by the Berlin Philharmonic in the middle of 1943 that almost made me want to be there.”
“Doesn't that end with Schiller's ‘Ode to Joy,’ about all men uniting as brothers?”
“Ironic, isn't it? By then, the orchestra had already kicked out all the Jews and sent them to Auschwitz.”
Eric burst through the door. “You look like shit,” he said. “Your home phone isn't working. Why didn't you call me? I need you in my office right now.”
“In a minute,” I told him, gesturing to the phone. “It's George. I'm wrapping up with him.” I looked like shit? His hair was shooting ten different directions, and he had dark moons under his eyes. He stood at the door, fuming.
“It'll only be another minute,” I told him. “I'll be right up.”
He stalked out.
“George, where were we? You were talking about music.”
“The Nazis were always printing articles about German composers and how they upheld the Aryan race. I knew Wagner was an anti-Semite, but according to them even the music of Bach and Beethoven glorified Nazi ideals. Music was very important to their ideology.”
“Interesting, but keep your eye on the ball. Don't get too caught up in the details.”
“I know, I know. Listen, I'm going to take a nap, and then I'll get back to work. Call me early tomorrow, your time. I'll know more by then.”
Eric was in a state of agitation rare even for him. “I suppose this is about all the hate mail you've been getting,” I said, dumping my latest pile of letters on his desk and flopping down onto his couch.
“Every day there seems to be more. Somebody needs to do something,” he said angrily.
“Funny, that's what I've been telling you for weeks.”
“The FBI is finally taking it seriously. They're sending a couple of agents over this afternoon. Four thirty, right here in my office,” he said.
“About time,” I said. “I had nine hate letters in yesterday's mail alone. And one particularly menacing phone call as well.”
“Calls? Here?”
“At home.” I tossed him the mini-cassette I had brought from my answering machine. “You might want to send that over so the FBI can listen to it before the meeting. It's delightful.”
“They're a bunch of sewer rats. I've always known they're out there, crawling around underground, but you don't think about them much because you never see them. And suddenly one day they've come to the surface and they're running around the streets. Well, fuck them! I'm not going to be intimidated!” He swept the pile of letters off his desk. They skidded across the floor, a couple landing near my feet. We sat in silence for a few seconds, staring at them.
“That's not the only reason I asked you up here. Something's come up. We've got to prepare for a meeting on the Hill next Tuesday afternoon. I've been summoned by Mitch Conroy's office. I'll need you to come, too.”
“Surely he's got bigger fish to fry.”
“We'll be meeting with Jack Doneghan, his chief of staff, who is possibly an even bigger putz.”
“What do they want?”
“Conroy has asked Doneghan to examine every budget line of every government department to see what he can cut. That's why I need you. I want you to go through the budget with a fine-toothed comb. I need to be able to justify every item.”
“Our budget is tiny compared to most government departments. The Pentagon spends more on toilets than we do in an entire year. Why us?” John Howard, I thought, but there was no way to prove it.
“It's not a good sign,” Eric said. “We're definitely under attack. On all fronts.”
I spent the afternoon reviewing the figures. At four thirty, I returned to Eric's office for the meeting with the FBI. An attractive woman of about thirty-five wearing an austere black suit was already there, sunk deep into his plush sofa, while a younger man with a buzz cut leaned against the desk. She struggled to her feet. “Agent Teresa Fabrizio,” she said, holding out a perfectly manicured hand for me to shake. Her colleague introduced himself as Agent Steve Bennett.
Fabrizio did all the talking, while Bennett stood there looking rugged and manly. “We've reviewed these letters you've been getting and the phone calls as well. We believe they're the result of the article that was published in the White Patriot newsletter.”
Thank you, Captain Obvious. “What are you going to do about them?” I managed.
“Sir, we've analyzed them, and on the whole we don't think you're in any real danger. They're unpleasant, and we sympathize, but we think they'll decrease over the next few weeks, and things will return to normal.”
“What about the note under my windshield?” I asked. “Someone took the trouble to come to my home to plant it there.” I showed her the “6-6-6,” which finally caught her attention.
“I wasn't aware of this. You say this was under your windshield. Where were you parked?” she asked.
“At home.”
“This is the original?”
“A copy.”
“Where is the original?”
“I sent it to the D.C. police.”
“Why did you do that?”
“Because they discovered a similar message in the pocket of Sophie Reiner, the German tourist who was murdered in the city last November.”
Again she betrayed her surprise. “How do you know about that? That detail was never released to the media.”
“I was trying to help them in the case. Sophie came to visit me the day before she was killed. I was the one who ID'd her after she died.”
Eric intervened to describe how her death had launched us into an investigation of Delatrucha. “What I just told you can't go any further,” he
cautioned. “That investigation is still ongoing.”
Fabrizio nodded, her face expressionless. “And did the paper or the handwriting match?” she asked.
“Not according to the police. Anyway, they've lost interest in the neo-Nazi angle. Lieutenant Reynolds got his man. As far as he's concerned, case closed.”
“We'll see about that. I'll talk to this Lieutenant Reynolds.”
“Good,” I said.
“Mr. Cain, have you seen anyone suspicious around? Maybe someone following you or watching you?” she asked.
“I had a feeling someone was following me the other night, but I can't be sure.”
“Do you feel like you need protection?”
I tried to imagine myself walking around with a protector. Would he move in with me? Would he go out on dates with me and Lynn? I wasn't sure I wanted that. “You're the expert. You tell me,” I said.
“Well, sir, my initial reaction based on what you've described is that it would be a stretch. If we assigned personal bodyguards to every federal employee who ever found a strange piece of paper, the government would soon go broke, and Mitch Conroy would have apoplexy. But let me contact the D.C. police about this Reiner woman. Meantime, here's my card. It has my direct line and a number where they can contact me after hours. If anything even slightly suspicious happens—anything at all—don't hesitate to call me.”
It was Friday, which meant I had to leave by three thirty to make it home in time for Shabbat, which began at sunset. I wanted to spend the evening with Lynn, but she had her weekly shift at the soup kitchen. She invited me to come, but I explained I couldn't do any work on Shabbat.
There were several more letters in the mail. I pitched them into the garbage without opening them. No point sending them over to the FBI.
The foulness of the messages still lingered in the empty apartment like a bad smell. The holiness of the day was defiled. Shabbat is supposed to be a foretaste of paradise, a span of sacred time, set aside from the rest of the week. We rest because God rested, and by doing so we become, if only for a few hours, closer to Him. I hurried out to Friday-night services. The singing cheered me up. Sara Barclay was sitting across the aisle in the women's section, wearing a stylish red beret over her dark hair. After the service, she greeted me. I felt a little awkward about not calling her, but she put me at ease, and we chatted for a couple of minutes.
“Do you have any plans for the rest of the evening?” she asked.
“No, not really.”
“Why don't you come back to my place? I have a chicken roasting.” Observant Jews didn't cook on the Sabbath, but it was permitted if the food was already in the oven before sunset.
I hesitated.
“Don't worry, Mark.” She smiled. “I won't seduce you.”
Sara's apartment was tastefully furnished with sleek Scandinavian furniture, pastel-colored carpets, and delicate impressionistic landscape watercolors on the walls.
“Did you paint those?” I asked.
“I'm afraid so. Make yourself comfortable.”
Everything was beautifully understated and coordinated. The delicious smell of cooking suffused the apartment. She opened a bottle of white wine. The table was set for one, but she quickly added a second place. I said the blessings over the wine and the bread, and we began eating off elegant china. It was all immensely comfortable and civilized. I knew Sara was an intelligent, graceful woman who cared about many of the same things as me. I also sensed that if I tried to kiss her, she wouldn't resist. But there was no snap, crackle, pop the way there was whenever Lynn was near. At the end of the night, I pecked her briefly on each cheek and left.
The next night, just before midnight, the phone rang. “Is this Marek Cain?” It was the same greasy, insinuating voice from the answering machine, like some character out of Tennessee Williams. I imagined a middle-aged, red-faced, paunchy man wearing a grubby white suit.
“This is Cain. Who are you?”
“An American patriot.”
“What did you say, asshole?” Rage gathered in my chest.
“I said, I'm—”
“You're not scaring me. You don't know who you're messing with, scumbag.” Shaking with fury, I slammed the phone down, balled my right hand into a fist, and pummeled the pillow, imagining I was slamming it into his doughy gut. It made me feel better, but then the fear returned.
I paced the apartment for a while, my mind churning. I switched on CNN for five minutes, turned it off, made a cup of cocoa, threw a load of laundry in the machine, ironed a shirt, did twenty five pushups and thirty sit ups, and punched the pillow a couple more times before I went to bed.
At 5:30 a loud knocking woke me up. Fumbling for my glasses, I staggered toward the front door, grabbing the pepper spray on the way. “Get the fuck out of here before I call the police,” I shouted.
“It's your neighbor from 4A,” came a voice. “Your car alarm is going off in the parking lot. Turn it off!”
“Oh,” I said, relieved and embarrassed. “Sorry.” I hurried to the parking lot and turned off the alarm.
Someone had deliberately gashed the paintwork. I was looking at half a swastika.
Since the incident with the jogger, I've been nervous to go out more than I have to. Every time I give way to my impulses, I risk being identified, so I stay in the room working on my Declaration to the American People. I made Clint stay here as well after he came back one morning with a big grin on his face and he tells me, “Shrimp, I done something. I think you're gonna like what I done.” Straight away, I think he's blown our cover and we're busted but he tells me all he's done is scratch a swastika on the Jew's car. “To put a righteous scare into him,” he said.
“Did anyone see you?” I asked.
“No, it was too early. I ran when the alarm went off.”
“From now on, you stay here until it's time to do the job,” I tell him. “Also, I want you to leave that Jew alone. Do you understand?” He says he does. I tell him, “This is an army. We can't have you going off and doing stuff by yourself without telling anybody.” So Clint sits watching soap operas and game shows on TV.
Occasionally I let him go out to Burger King or Taco Bell to bring back food, but still he complains all the time. “Why do we have to stay in here? It's like being in jail.”
“Don't be such a fucking asshole,” I tell him. “It's just for a couple of days. And it's nothing like being in jail.”
Clint asks, “How did you get in jail anyway?” I tell him it was after Waco. I was so broke up and heartsick about those poor people, I wasn't thinking straight. All I wanted was to get as far away as I could. When I reached the Oklahoma state line, my truck broke down and I was out of money. So I did a dumb thing. I tried to borrow a used car. I'm not going to tell him what happened to me the first night, when they put me in a holding cell with Dwayne Robertson. I'll never tell anyone about that. So I just say, “Aw, it wasn't so bad. I got educated in jail. Most of what I know about the world I learned in there.”
“Like what?” he asks.
“Like about the Jews, for one thing. I didn't know nothing about the Jews. There weren't none around where I grew up, and I never met one all the time I was in the army. Now I know why. Jews haven't got no interest in serving the nation. They just suck the blood out of it.”
When you're sitting in jail with nothing to do all day, you read pretty much anything that comes your way. Some of the screws were sympathetic, they knew what Dwayne had done. They could see it in my busted nose and black eyes. The doctors tested me; they even gave me some pills for my headaches. A guard gave me a newsletter from one of the Aryan groups down in Texas. For the first time, I understood what's really happening in America, how the Jews took away power from the white race and gave it to the blacks and the mixed races, how they want to make us all mixed. When I asked him if he had any more, he gave me The Turner Diaries. Easily the best book I'd ever read.
“What's it about?” Clint asked me.
“Imagine a country run by Jews and mixed races where they take away your guns. I mean, just think of it, Clint, a country where you can't go out hunting with your daddy, like you and me did when we were coming up.” I never did go out hunting with my daddy. Anyone who put a hunting rifle in that old drunkard's hands had to be crazy. “Anyway,” I tell Clint, “turns out that taking away our guns is the Jews’ biggest mistake. It's what causes the spark that sets fire to the kindling. Remember how I explained about the spark?” He nods. “Well, in the book there's this huge rebellion and a group of the God-fearing white folk decide to blow up the FBI's computers so they can take back the country.”
“How they do that?”
I tell him, “They use ammonium nitrate mixed with heating oil—thousands of pounds of it—to make a huge bomb. Just like we're gonna do. We're going to make it real.”
His eyes cloud over. “We're gonna do that?”
“We sure are. Burl's already buying it back home. I've been sending him the money. It's gonna be the biggest fucking explosion this goddamn country's ever seen.”
11
The rose said, “I'll prick you
So that you'll always think of me.”
—“HEDGEROSE” BY WOLFGANG VON GOETHE, MUSIC BY FRANZ SCHUBERT
I LOOKED AROUND, but of course there was no one there. No point calling the police now. The hell with it, I decided. I'm going for a run.
I didn't realize how angry I was until I found myself sprinting up a hill at a tremendous pace, overtaking a lone cyclist. Adrenaline was flooding through my body. I almost wished someone would try to accost me. I'd have beaten the shit out of him.
Back home an hour later, I had my number delisted, then phoned Berlin. George was in his hotel room. He sounded drained.
