Acres shrugged "Like I said before, son, you still stink."
Jim looked at him, incredulous.
"And that's it?"
"That's it, MarteL Unless you have something else you need to talk about?" Acres inquired dismissively.
Since Acres had never been one for salutes in private, Jim simply stood and headed for the door. Clearly there was no point and considerable risk in continuing to prod this man who not long before he had thought of as a friend
"Martel."
Jim turned back.
"There's no sense in drawing attention to yourself over this. One theory that was kicking around was that you'd get fed some disinformation, that you might even know it was disinformation. If there's going to be a war, all the signs are that the Russians will be getting another dose. Why go out on a thin limb? Cover yourself. Just let it drop."
Jim suddenly realized that Acres's crap about supporting him had been just that—crap. Whoever had gone to bat for him, it hadn't been General Acres. General Acres, it seemed, while he might be brave enough in a fight, was a moral coward. As he closed the door carefully, finally, behind him, Jim felt the original copy of the letter inside his breast pocket. Well, at least he'd tried channels. He strode off briskly towards his future.
After a while he stopped in front of a bank of phones and looked back up the corridor. No one was following. He stepped into a booth and closed the door. He felt a trickle of perspiration going down the back of his neck and half opened the door as if to step back out.
No, damn it, or he'd be no better than his erstwhile "mentor." The note was nearly two weeks old. In another two weeks it would be officially spring. If he didn't do something personally, this whatever-it-was would be over before anyone realized it was coming. He reclosed the door.
He was tempted to call his old man, but he already knew what his answer would be: There were times when a man had to lay his life on the line, and that meant not just his physical life—most servicemen understood and accepted the probability that from time to time they must step in harm's way—but his career as well, which far too many were afraid to risk. It was something he and his dad had often talked about, that men who would not shrink from death itself trembled at the thought of the disapproval of the herd.
Opening a phone book, he looked up the number he wanted, picked up the phone, dropped his nickel in and dialed.
"Capitol Hill, House of Representatives."
"The office of Congressman Brian McDonnell please," he said quietly.
Two hours later Jim was poking nervously at the ice in his drink as he looked around at the customers who filled a restaurant several blocks away from the Capitol Building on Pennsylvania Avenue. Scanning the crowd, some of whom were in uniform, he felt fortunate that he didn't recognize anyone. The rest of the clientele seemed to be mostly congressional staffers. The radio was playing Glenn Miller's newest release, "Persuasion." As he half listened to the tune, he saw McDonnell come through the door and look around.
The congressman walked slowly through the smoke-filled outer room, nodded a couple of hellos, and then stepped into the dining area in the back. Coming up to Jim's table, he took off his coat and draped it over his chair before sitting down.
"Hello, Jim. Long time."
"Yes sir, a very long time." The last time he had spoken with the congressman he had been a middie, home for vacation.
"Ever eaten here before?"
"No, sir."
"Well, let's order what they're known for."
When Martel nodded an assent, McDonnell turned in his chair to motion toward a waitress. When she got to them he ordered up crab cakes and a round of beers.
"How's your dad? I haven't seen him since the heart attack."
"Hanging in there. He's working on his boat and talking about getting it in shape for the season. He wants to sail it up to New England this summer." Jim couldn't keep a certain sadness from his voice.
"Not well, is he?"
Jim sighed. "The doctors say one more like the last will be the last."
"The boat will keep him busy and, who knows? He's a tough old bird. He might outlive us both. Damn, I wish I could break free and go for a sail with him. I served under your dad in the Great War. I was a spoiled know-nothing reserve officer when I joined your dad's staff. He helped me do one hell of a lot of growing up. I didn't love him for it then. I do now."
"I'll be sure to tell him that, sir."
McDonnell laughed softly and shook his head. "Now let's get to the point. What's bothering you?"
"It's got nothing to do with my situation, I want to make that clear."
"That thought hadn't even occurred to me, Jim," McDonnell said gently, but seemed to relax a bit. "Maybe you ought to know that even though you didn't ask, maybe because you didn't ask, I did look into it a little. Since I'm on the Armed Services Committee"—he had just become its chairman—"I have some contacts. The way they told it, you seemed to be caught in a turf fight between the FBI and the Navy and there was precious little I could do. I should add that your dad did give me a call."
Jim smiled and shook his head. "I told him to stay out of it."
"You can't blame him. But by then I'd already looked into the situation. I explained to him that I couldn't push it, that it might have gotten you a better assignment for now, but later on they'd have nailed you. Even though you were as innocent as a driven lamb, a couple of admirals had their noses bent over this flap, and as far as they were concerned you were guilty of bad luck and be damned to you for embarrassing them." McDonnell paused to grin. "Right now they're just grumpy, but any political pushiness might have put you on their permanent shit list. You've most likely been told to let things simmer down a bit. The advice is good. I hear Broderick is okay and he'll give you a good fitrep at the end of the year. And a word or two has been dropped here and there. Keep a low profile for a while and we'll get things straightened out."
Jim thought about how he had stood Broderick up this morning. "Maybe before today he would have. Not now— but that doesn't matter. What matters is this," he said, patting his breast pocket. "This can't wait. I tried to go through channels with it—and ran into a brick wall. That's why I stepped outside the loop."
Jim reached into his breast pocket and pulled out a copy of von Metz's letter and handed it over, explaining as he did so his relationship with Willi, and what the letter meant.
Suddenly, in the midst of Martel's explanation, McDonnell's demeanor subtly changed. "What else do you know?"
Martel looked at him blankly for a moment, then shrugged. "Nothing, I guess. Except that it's genuine. And you know as well as I do that all the talk about them going after Russia again is a crock. Some others will claim that von Metz probably was fed false information to throw us and the Russians off or, worse yet, that the Gestapo already had him, and the letter is a phony. I know Wilhelm von Metz. Willi's not just my cousin, he's like a brother to me. I know how he feels about those maniac swine who have taken over his country. He lost two brothers in Russia. If he had been compromised, we had contingency codes. A mention of my mother, for instance, rather than Dad would have told me he was under immediate duress—and failing to call me 'Old Friend' would have done the same. As for where he got the information, it comes straight from Canaris, head of Abwehr."
"You shouldn't have told me all that," McDonnell said quietly.
"Who should I have told? You're part of the committee as well as an old family friend. If I can't trust you, then who the hell can I trust in this damn town?"
McDonnell smiled. "Very few, very damn few. But don't disclose your sources."
Jim still thought that this time the risk was justified. McDonnell had to be convinced. "Anyhow, that's it This thing is too vital to get lost in channels."
"What are you saying, Jim?"
"I'm saying that I want you to put it on the President's desk."
"That's a lot to ask."
Jim shrugged. "You're an old friend of his
. Cut the tape."
"With your name attached?"
"Yes ..." Jim hesitated a fraction of a second and added, "if need be."
"You know the blow-back it might cause?"
Jim shrugged. "So I'll become a civilian and go teach German and aeronautics in some cow-town college. I'm telling you sir, this is real and it's coming straight at us — and very damned soon."
McDonnell nodded, looked down at the letter, and then back again.
"What do you think the reference to Manhattan is about?" he asked offhandedly.
There was something about the way McDonnell asked the question. He felt as if beneath that one innocuous word there was a dark and bottomless pit. . . "I don't know a thing about 'Manhattan,' whatever it is, but I've been asked that question before."
"By whom?"
"Grierson. The FBI agent who was interrogating me." Jim paused, noticing how intently McDonnell was staring at him. "He asked me if I ever discussed Manhattan with anyone."
"What else did he ask?"
Jim fished back through his memory. "I think there was something about an apartment U on 238th street. Also something about Oak Hill—Oak Ridge, I mean."
McDonnell continued to stare at him.
"Is that it?" Somehow McDonnell no longer seemed the old family friend.
"I think so, sir."
For several seconds McDonnell gazed grimly at Jim. Then he seemed to come to some decision. Taking both copies of the letter, he folded them up and put them in his pocket. "You're not to say a word to anyone about any of this."
He looked around, visibly regretting the public venue. "Listen. This meeting never took place. And if somehow it gets out that we did meet, it was strictly so you could cry on my shoulder."
"Yes, sir."
"Do you have any more copies of this letter?"
"I made one before coming to see you this evening."
"Where is it?"
"I left it in my office."
"When you go back to your office you are to bum it. No one else is to see it. Do you understand me?"
Jim nodded.
"Has anyone else seen it?"
"I did try through channels like I said."
"Who?"
"General Acres, Army Intelligence Office at the Pentagon."
"Christ. Do you think he's shown it to anybody else yet?"
"I doubt it. He won't pass anything up the line with my name on it."
"Thank God for small favors. What do you think of Acres? Is he okay?"
For a moment Martel was at a loss for words, then said, "Yes. He's... okay."
McDonnell looked at him perceptively. "Well, someone will have a talk with him. You might get a call within the next day or so yourself. Just listen to what your caller tells you, and do it. I'm not going to tell you to relax. You've just put your butt into a fire, but you knew it when you did it— and I know I can count on you."
"You mean you believe this is for real?"
"I just wish I didn't."
Jim felt as if he were going to collapse from the sudden release of tension.
McDonnell finished his beer, stood up and fished out a five-dollar bill. "Enjoy my crap cakes," he joked as he tossed the bill on the table and strode out.
❖ ❖ ❖
"Bad day, Lover?"
John Mayhew took the drink Erica proffered, but said nothing.
Playfully, she kissed him lightly on his neck. He turned away.
"What is it?" she asked. "Little Wifey asking questions again?"
He went over to the window and pulled the curtains back so as to look out, then carefully closed them again.
"It's over," he said quietly.
"What do you mean?" Was there a note of real feeling in her voice? How... odd.
He turned back at her, looking hungrily at what he was about to dismiss from his life. His wife was a bore, the children were bores, it was all emptiness. Erika had changed all that. She had granted him eighteen months of paradise—a fool's paradise.
"You heard me. We're finished. Now, tonight."
"Is it your wife? Have you decided that her family's political connections matter more than me?"
He nodded.
She looked at him closely. Her face became still, expressionless. "You're lying."
He said nothing, staring at a point on the wall just past her left shoulder.
"It's something else, isn't it?"
"I don't want to discuss it. It's over with. You can keep the apartment, I'll pay the rent until you make other arrangements."
"I don't want other arrangements. I want you." Fiercely, she grabbed hold of him and forced him to look into her eyes. "You're afraid of something."
"I don't want to talk about it"
"You must," she said quietly, "I insist. What happened today?"
He shook his head. "I'm not going to ... " With a crashing blow she slapped him across the face.
"What happened?"
"The Secret Service," he replied automatically before regaining control of himself. Christ! that had hurt. She really knew how to hurt a guy....
"What about the Secret Service?"
Seeing the look on her face, for a moment he was actually afraid of her, and again found it easier to answer than maintain silence.
The head of the Secret Service visited my office this afternoon. Officially, since I'm Chief of Staff to the President, he was conferring with me, briefing me on a suspected security leak... I was being checked out."
"Were you followed here?" she hissed, forgetting to mask the fear from her voice.
When he heard that fear his suspicion was replaced with certainty. Suddenly, he knew—and knew too the answer to his dilemma. Regrettable perhaps, but at least this course offered a clear resolution to a difficult situation.
"No," he replied after a long pause spent in reflection. "I was careful about that. I went to a bar I know that has a back exit. I left by the alley and caught a taxi on the next street. You're... safe. No one followed me."
She relaxed slightly. "Good. But as for it being over for us, for you, the answer is no."
"What?"
"Just that. No. Spell it out: N-E-I-N. Now do you understand?"
His head rocked back as if she had hit him again.
She smiled at him with a certain sympathy.
"You bitch! You think I'm under your thumb, don't you?"
She smiled and, leaning up, kissed him lightly on the cheek, affectionately. "Yes, lover, I do. You will never be free of me. And to think that when we started I was little more than a throw-away container for your lust. How we have progressed since then." Despite the words, her smile remained soft, almost loving. Much as it had always been.
"You're the leak. Everything I've told you. I started to suspect it months ago! You're a spy for the Nazis!" His voice filled with hysterical menace as he nerved himself for the next act in their little drama.
"It took you long enough," she chuckled throatily, nuzzled his neck, nipped very gently.
He pushed her roughly away, then began to advance on her, death in his eyes.
Still smiling, she slowly backed away.
"Ah, so you would be a murderer as well as a traitor? Such a piece of work you are, my—darling!"
He suddenly realized that it wasn't a sudden decision after all; he had come here to kill her. Even if they couldn't actually prove anything in a court of law, if the FBI and Secret Service ever found out about her it would be the end of everything. The power, the knowing, the surge of exultation every time he walked into the White House. All gone. And in its place? He shuddered. Loathing, humiliation, unending darkness. His very name would enter the national lexicon as an insult.
From the side table he picked up a heavy chrome-plated ashtray, all sharp corners, hefted it, moved to block the door. Still she just stood there, smiling gently, knowingly. Would she smile till the end? he wondered. He moved slowly toward her.
A blow to the back of his neck sent him crashing to the floo
r. The kicks that followed caused no pain. After a brief time a distant voice, Erika's, snapped out a command and the kicks stopped.
Rough hands rolled him over and through a cloudy haze he looked up into a roughly chiseled face filled with savage contempt, and a curiously personal hatred.
Unfortunately the haze was beginning to lift. Pain and awareness returned as one. Sickened John closed his eyes and rolled fetally on his side, struggling, failing to hold back the tears of rage and humiliation. Had they never been alone?
After a few moments he felt a warm hand taking his and a coolness on his forehead. He opened his eyes to see Erika kneeling on the floor beside him, gently stroking his forehead with a moistened towel. His tormentor was gone, or at least behind a door that did not look like a door.
"So, now you know."
He could only jerk his head, unable to speak.
"John ... we could keep things as they have been."
He shook his head.
"No, truly. You can still keep everything: your reputation, your wife's wealth, your job, your power, your reflected glory." She hesitated a moment. "You can even keep me."
John still didn't speak, but some of the tension was leaving him.
She pounced. "Of course I will expect a full weekly report on your White House affairs."
"Go to hell," he whispered.
She laughed softly. "I know where I'm going." There was almost a note of sadness in her voice. "They got me a long time ago. Just as I now have you. What can you do but cooperate? You can't expose me; if you did, you'd lose it all. And what is more, you would disappear into some dark little cell where you'd grow old."
She gazed tenderly at his convulsing form still curled in a fetal ball, gently wiped the tears from his cheek with her finger. "John, we mustn't let that happen to you. You are too good a person to suffer so for such a simple, human mistake."
For a while she silently stroked him. When his breathing slowed she returned to the job at hand. "But there will be new rules. First, I expect you to continue as you are. Tomorrow you'll go back to your office, do your job, soak up all the information you can. Please don't try to hold back or to lie to me. You are not our only... friend in Washington. If you try to cheat us I will learn of it. The first time I would be forced to give you to Joachim, he who so enjoyed kicking you. The second time we would simply expose you in such a way that you would wish that you were dead."
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