The initial sense of achievement began slowly fading. It usually did. The idea of getting in was a challenge, almost fun. But actually snooping through another person’s laundry? That was another thing altogether, distinctly distasteful, even disturbing.
No matter. Carefully noting their position, he drew the leather bags from under the bed. One and two were empty.
A sharp laugh in the hallway. Tensing, he lifted on his toes. The pair of voices passed down the hallway and disappeared. He pulled out his handkerchief to wipe his hands, ears straining for Ludwig’s footsteps while he worked.
Behind the suitcase hid an oblong leather valise, almost like a musical instrument case. The simple locks picked easily. Inside rested a sleek sniper rifle and scope neatly broken down, snug in green plush recesses. A Mauser type bolt action, only devoid of any fancy engraving work or ornamentation. In fact, no maker’s marks at all. Probably a custom job, a magnificent piece. Its elegance came from its perfect balance and exquisite fit and finish, equally a precision instrument as the optics on the matching scope. No infantryman ever saw a gun like this.
He held it up and tested the heft. A custom cheekpiece. Made specially to fit one man alone, like a Savile Row suit. He drew a bead on the window. Didn’t fit. A bigger man. Dieter. Must have brought it in through customs in that damn car. Bugger.
What on earth did Ludwig, or Dieter, plan on doing with this thing? Spies rarely, if ever, actually sought to get involved in killing people. Information and manipulation, that was the real job. And if you had to assassinate an enemy, you did it in controlled circumstances. Gain surreptitious entrance. Or the target’s confidence. But do it out of sight, where you couldn’t be spotted. Close enough to touch.
A sniper rifle implied shooting a man you couldn’t reach any other way. Someone at a distance. Someone protected. Almost a desperation measure. The big question: on exactly whom do they plan to use this thing?
This takes everything to a whole new dimension, he thought. Using American soil to attack Britain, Canada, the Commonwealth, or shipping. That would be one thing. That’s aimed outward, away from the States. Likewise, stealing submarine warfare secrets. That didn’t necessarily have to be about America, either. They could be solely interested in getting a hand up on the war already going on.
But a custom sniper rifle? That wouldn’t be aimed outward. Couldn’t be. It could only hit something—someone—here. The king and queen already came for hot dogs and picnicking at Hyde Park. The British ambassador or consul general? Ridiculous. Nonentities, in the big scheme of things. Accomplish nothing except draw fire on the shooter, enrage the Yanks.
Hawkins uneasily replaced the rifle, drew out the fourth suitcase and got his second big surprise.
-43-
Cased in green plush, the same as the rifle, nestled a complete set of exotic photography equipment.
A kind of microscope? Regular negative film rolled in a slot about two thirds of the way up. A slide at the bottom, where the microscope specimen would normally go, had a space for a very small card. Another small metal plate drew out to expose it. An electric light at the top switched on and off with a timer.
Hawkins plugged it in, flicked it on and off. It produced an extremely small lighted image at the bottom, the size of a pinhead. He shut it off and carefully put it back. Then he examined the rest.
One cubby held a miniature punch. Its rotating head had hollow bits that could cut out round spots as small as the period at the end of a sentence. There was a new packet of small unexposed film cards stuffed in the sides.
Another cubby held a large roll of heavy, opaque airmail stamps along with a jeweler’s loupe and tweezers. The usual zippered darkroom bags, tubs, chemicals and stopwatches were there for the development of both regular negatives and prints.
He rechecked the film cans and packages. All the foil wrappers were unbroken. Dieter probably brought it in with the Mercedes, too. No, probably in the Mercedes, but hidden somewhere.
Behind the suitcases laid the last treasure, a small briefcase. When probed, the simple latches sprang with hardly a wiggle. Several file folders were inside.
In the first file: Ludwig’s speeches. Receipts. Routine business documents. Boring, he thought. Put those back. The second folder contained a quantity of blank stationery. Definitely set that aside. In the third folder, a list of American companies and executives interested in investing in the Reich. Ludwig’s added my name and cover, he thought. Now that’s amusing. Not exactly hard intelligence. Still, the economic warfare section will be glad to have it.
In the fourth folder were pages covered by columns of names and numbers. Ciphers? Maybe. Wait … Orator had been scrawled on one, then Ludwig or someone partially erased it.
No time to sort through this, he thought. Let W or General Houghton and his staff puzzle it out. Not enough light for the Minox, not to photograph print. Have to get the Graflex.
He grabbed his bellows camera from his case in the other room, filling his pockets with the bulky flashbulbs. Laying Ludwig’s papers across the floor, Hawkins straddled them with his feet and photographed each side as swiftly as possible. He bounced the hot used flashbulbs on his fingertips, tossing them back into the other room onto the bed.
When he finished photographing every paper, he fetched a small vial of special marking fluid from his kit. Moving smoothly, he drew an invisible line across each side of every one of Ludwig’s blank envelopes. He blew on them until they dried without a trace. Perfect, he thought. He imagined the little whoops in Bermuda when the streaks fluoresced under the black lights.
Done. Time to report in.
-44-
Tiffany’s summer branch stretched across one side of the lobby, the phone booths, the other. Need three in a row, Hawkins thought. Can’t have anyone overhear. He idly browsed along the glittering display cases, trying to act nonchalant, waiting. Damn this stuff is expensive. Who can afford it? Every few moments he checked the phone booths across the way. Finally. Three in a row empty.
The office operator answered with a simple yes. Hawkins used his new code number.
“This is 48700. I need to speak to 48100 without delay.”
“Hold.”
Forty-eight represented the forty-eight states. W’s organizational number was 100, the chief. He gave Hawkins the highest field number, 700, ergo, Hawkins was 48700. W immediately came on the line.
“Hello there, 48700, how goes it?”
“Brilliant. And very bad.”
“Brilliant first.”
“I secured an extra room next to our target where I can eavesdrop.”
“Excellent.”
“I just searched it, marked his envelopes with fluorescent ink and photoed a large sheaf of papers. Not sure what it all is. No time. I assume it’s coded. Saw the word ‘orator,’ though, written in pencil, then partially erased. I’m sending the film by rail express shortly.”
“Good. And the bad?”
“He’s got a scoped sniper rifle. Also a suitcase full of the damnedest photo-printing equipment I’ve ever seen. Apparently unused. Sort of a microscope, only blows the image down, mind you. And a roll of airmail stamps. It’s pretty clear he’s planning to start pasting small pieces of film under the stamps. But I really don’t like the looks of that rifle. It’s a custom piece, slick. You should see it.”
W’s voice sounded unusually grave. “A sniper rifle? A sniper rifle!” There was a long pause on the phone as it sank in. “Bloody hell—but by Ludwig? He doesn’t seem the type—”
“He’s got a car, now. A big Mercedes, and a chauffeur, too. Rode from the station with him. Says the chauffeur brought the car out with him from Stockholm.”
“Right. Neutral to neutral. All that truck and duffel probably hid in the car. The driver?”
“Young, big bruiser. He’s probably the shooter.”
“Exactly. Ludwig wouldn’t get his hands dirty. Any name?”
“Dieter.”
“Last
?”
“No.”
“Must be figuring to use it. Why bring it otherwise? Merely having it’s risky.” W paused for a long moment. “We’ll get on who this Dieter is. But that photo printer. They must be getting ready to send larger messages out. Under the stamps, you think?”
“Yes. I’ve never seen anything like that printer. You’ll be bowled over when you see the pictures. It can make a print the size of a pencil lead.”
“Great God.”
“You could lift the stamps and those prints are so small you could still miss them if you weren’t careful—might take it for an ink splatter. He’s got a set of jeweler’s loupes and tweezers to handle them.”
“I’ll cable Bermuda immediately. Good thing you marked his envelopes, that’ll help. Anything else?”
“I need the Cord, right away.”
“I’ll have a courier bring the car up by morning. A custom sniper rifle. Son of a bitch! Hardly expected that. You better head for a gun shop, get a piece. Damn good work, Hawkins. That photo printer means they’re getting closer to Steel Seine. They’ll need it for the blueprints. Stick to him. Tight.”
-45-
A long procession of limos rolled up the historic, tree-lined street: Packards, Lincolns, Duesenbergs, Cadillacs, Rolls-Royces. Here and there a wood estate wagon driven by a causal owner playing country squire. The wealthy owners scurried up a brick walkway polished by generations of shoes to a large white Palladian mansion. Hawkins parked the Cord, delivered overnight and freshly washed, and joined them.
A gray-uniformed maid guarded the door. She glanced at Ludwig’s card, took Hawkins’ hat and gestured to the front parlor. He started in, then paused. There was a small cannon at the bottom of the stairs. A date had been cast in the bronze: 1637. The rest was less military: Chippendale chairs, a Georgian brass chandelier, an unusual diamond-shaped coat of arms, black with age. Reminds me of … Oh, yes. Boodles. Of course, he thought. Same aristocratic milieu. Probably built about the same time by the same sort of people.
He turned to a framed case on the opposite wall. Inside hung an ancient parchment document festooned with a row of round lead seals hanging from faded scarlet ribbons. Next to it was a framed clipping from a magazine like Country Life. It showed the document and a picture of a battle-scarred seventeenth-century man in a lobster-back helmet. Elaborate calligraphy covered the ancient document. Seems illegible, he thought. No—it’s Dutch. A really ancient Dutch, not the kind I’m used to. The caption read,
Van Schenck Patent. In 1644 the Estates General of the United Provinces of the Netherlands granted a Patroonship and three million acres in the colony of New Netherlands to Andreas van Schenck in recognition of his heroism in battle under Admiral Maarten Tromp.
As he read Hawkins’ puzzlement grew. A manorial estate in America, before New Netherlands became New York. Who knew? But why are these people renting their home to Ludwig? Must be Nazi sympathizers. Hard to believe such people could possibly need the money. The contents of the place would fill a good half-dozen museum galleries, a classic country seat of an old, extremely rich aristocratic family, untouched by a decorator’s hand.
A motion in the corner of his eye. Hawkins turned from a Staffordshire platter of the house labeled GEN. LIVINGSTON VAN VECHTEN VAN SCHENCK RECEIVES GEN. LAFAYETTE AT … and found himself eye to eye with a tall girl leaning on the opposite doorway.
She had one high-heeled foot pressed against the door casing behind her. Riveting blue eyes. She tipped her head to one side and down and gazed straight at him with a lightly featured face that would’ve credited any Vogue cover. Her very straight long blond hair parted to one side and hung down halfway over one eye. Tall and leggy, maybe a year or two younger than Hawkins. No tan, almost pale. Surprised, he froze for a split second.
Very beautiful. Stunning, actually. Must be one of the family, he thought. What was she like? Did she resemble one of those upper-class youths he’d met on the Continent? Viciously devoid of a sense of noblesse oblige, they so often found Fascism fashionable and exciting.
“You read Dutch?” she said.
“A little.” He glanced back at the patent. “It says the Estates General of the Netherlands declares Andreas van Schenck Patroon. When they ruled New York. Three hundred years ago.”
“Very good! Most people think it’s German.”
“Wouldn’t want that.”
“No?”
“Definitely.”
“I see.”
She had a low, almost whispery voice and spoke with a clearly enunciated American private school accent, long As and dropped Rs, but with the slightly hard, almost gravelly edge common among New York Society.
“I’m Roy Hawkins.”
“Daisy van Schenck.”
“Ah, I rather guessed you were one of the family.” He decided to needle her a bit. “You don’t look like a hard-charging business lady to me.”
She tossed her head back with a small smile. “What does a hard-charging business lady look like?”
“I’m not sure, really.”
“What do I look like, then?”
“I’m still working on that, but it’s pretty good whatever it is.”
The smile broadened, and she showed a wide row of perfect white teeth.
“I see. You don’t look like a Nazi.”
“I’m not. Are you?”
“No.”
“That’s good.”
“It is? Uhmmm. Why are you here then?”
“I’m a businessman. Why are you renting to them?”
Her mouth pulled back a little.
“It was a mix-up. I was going to Newport. So I decided to let out the house. Then I changed my mind. Turned out they only wanted three meetings, and they wanted it in the worst sort of way. So I held out until they made me a great offer. Had no hint who it was.”
“I see. It’s smart business lady knows how to hold out before letting them in.”
“Yes. A real hard-charger doesn’t let on he’s desperate. He just comes on firm and confident. That’s what really impresses a lady.”
“That’s always been my strategy. You have to know how to do your business—and hers.”
“Yes, a woman has to be picky about her business. Are you a hard-charger?”
“I like to think so.”
“That’s good. You hard-charging businessmen better sit down, you’re going to miss your meeting.”
Hawkins heard something over his shoulder. Ludwig was getting ready to speak.
“Thanks.” He lingered a second. “I will see you later.”
She flashed him a big smile as he walked into the large parlor.
-46-
A small group of businessmen were clustered in a semicircle on the rented wooden folding chairs. Every little bit they trained one eye over their shoulders lest their official host hear them.
Hawkins picked up a coffee and cruller and edged over. A tall balding man in his fifties was heatedly discussing something, his sunken eyes ringed with creases of worry and anger. An otherwise calm demeanor barely concealed his confusion and anxiety.
“Nick, we’re more exposed than you are. If I go out and sign a statement on principles, our facilities over there could be expropriated like that.” He softly snapped his fingers.
The man he addressed as Nick sat across from him, face slightly flushed.
“Frank, what are you going to do when they order you to produce military equipment? Don’t you see? Eventually you’re going to find yourself in a position where—”
“Oh, God … Hypothetical! Hypothetical! You can imagine all kinds of things. The war isn’t going to last that long.”
“Aw, whose side do you want to be on, anyway, winners or losers?” a third man said. “Would you bet on a slow horse? Of course not. There’s always going to be winners and losers in this world. You and I are not gonna change that.”
A fourth man jumped in. Hawkins ordinarily would’ve dismissed him as a ne’er-do-well; ther
e was a dull, pinched look in the eyes that signaled a lack of curiosity. The clothes, too, seemed to say simpleton: a crooked fraternity necktie, soup stained. An expensive Brooks Brothers suit speckled with mud. Manure stained brogans. But a fearless, sinuous line curled his lower lip, creating a cruelly lithe smile, giving the sense of only momentarily holding back a withering cut. The others listened deferentially.
“Oh, balls. Who cares! In the long run it’ll probably be easier to run our European affiliates under the Nazis. No strikes, no unrest. I can appreciate that.”
Nick gestured at the fourth man, shaking his head slightly in disbelief.
“Chet, what’s happening to us? What’s this country mean to you?”
“Mean to me? Well …” Chet paused, caught off guard. “It’s the land of opportunity, a nation of go-getters. The people that broke the prairies, put the world on wheels,” he snickered a little bit, “the land of big gushing oil wells.”
“What about life, liberty and the pursuit of happiness?”
That left Chet slightly bewildered. “Happiness? Where does anybody have more?”
“No, for God’s sakes, Jefferson wasn’t talking about making money—”
Ludwig came back in the room. The group instantly broke up and began milling around.
Hawkins eased down on one of the little chairs, mulling at the exchange. Winners and losers. Did they really believe that? The pursuit of happiness—life itself—nothing but getting and sitting, Scrooge-like, on your big heap of whatever?
The disgust Hawkins had first felt in Portugal abruptly resumed, invisibly separating him from the rest of the group. Who are these people? Well, that’s easy, actually. More stupid people, that’s who. Why am I trying to save stupid people from themselves? Let ’em get what they deserve.
New York Station Page 13
