Fear Itself

by Andrew Rosenheim

  Stephenson looked taken aback by this. Perhaps he’d been led to believe he would receive a warmer reception, thought Guttman. People often made the mistake of thinking that Hoover was just a big cog in an even bigger wheel. When actually he ran his own wheel with which he brooked no outside interference.

  Stephenson said, stony-faced, ‘I greatly esteem the diversity of your country. My own wife is Tennessee-born and bred. But I don’t think there can be any doubt about the threat that Hitler poses to anyone who believes in democracy, Mr Hoover.’

  Hoover gave a shrug, more condescending than benign. ‘I’m sure we’re all agreed he poses a threat to Great Britain. It’s how that affects us here that’s in question.’

  ‘I’m not here to argue politics with you, sir, or in any way to try and influence the conduct of your affairs. I merely wanted to introduce myself in the hope that your organisation and those of my country could cooperate more closely to counter a threat – one which at least some officials here seem to see as common.’ He looked down pointedly at the second letter he’d given Hoover.

  ‘Of course,’ Hoover said with a brisk smile that conceded nothing.

  ‘In particular,’ Stephenson went on, determined to say his piece, ‘we thought an exchange of information about internal subversion – Fifth Columnists as they’re called nowadays – might be useful. Particularly in those cases where they are receiving assistance from abroad.’

  Tolson spoke up. ‘Our Fascist subversives are of the homegrown variety, Mr Stephenson. It’s the Communists who turn to Moscow for assistance – we have plenty of evidence of that.’

  Stephenson shook his head. ‘They’re not alone, I assure you. We have information indicating financial support for American Fascist groups from German intelligence.’

  Hoover shook his head. ‘I’d like to see it. All our evidence suggests the German government is at pains to disassociate itself from organisations like the German-American Bund. They’ve expressly forbidden their representatives from being in contact with Bund officials, and forbidden German citizens over here from joining. It’s hard to see what more the German government could do to distance itself.’

  It almost sounded as if Hoover were praising Nazi sensitivity, and Tolson must have sensed this, for he said quickly, ‘The Nazis aren’t stupid, Mr Stephenson. They realise that if they’re exposed assisting the Bund it could backfire, and sway opinion even more against them.’

  ‘I have to say I think that’s a very optimistic appraisal of the situation.’

  ‘Yes, but it’s our situation,’ interjected Hoover angrily, dropping his initial air of cordiality. The room was silent. Stephenson was pursing his lips and staring at the table top. Hoover continued. ‘I think you’ll find we have a full command of it as well. There isn’t a Fascist organisation in this country we don’t know about. Our intelligence on domestic subversion is the match of any intelligence service across the world.’

  Stephenson raised a mild eyebrow. ‘I hope that’s not the case, Mr Hoover. If you can match the efficiency of Stalin’s secret police that would be very worrying indeed.’

  Guttman wanted to laugh, but didn’t dare. He liked this man, his calmness coming unarmed into a lion’s den. Hoover was turning puce; for a moment Guttman thought he might explode with rage. He had seen it happen before. But the Director regained his self-control, and Guttman noticed that he had glanced down at the second note again.

  ‘It’s good to meet you, sir, and kind of you to come in,’ Hoover said in the polite monotone which Guttman recognised as his method of disengagement with people he could not be openly rude to. If the door had ever been ajar for this conversation, it was closed tight now. ‘I think a communication flow between your government and this agency might be very valuable indeed. I need to think just who your contact point should be here.’

  Stephenson nodded, seeming to sense the rebuff. He said quietly, ‘You’ll appreciate that time is of the essence as far as we’re concerned, Mr Hoover.’

  ‘Of course. Let me give it some thought, and then I’ll be in touch.’ Spoken like a casting director in Hollywood. Don’t call us; we’ll call you.

  After Stephenson had left, they held an impromptu postmortem. Hoover was seething. Tolson, as was often the case, tried to calm Hoover down with flattery. ‘I thought you handled that exactly right, Director. No point not hearing the man out – he’d just have complained elsewhere. I think it’s right that we cooperate on the surface, without of course giving very much away.’

  ‘Yeah,’ said Hoover sourly, to show he had heard Tolson but was still angry. ‘I don’t know who this prick thinks he is, pushing his way in like that. I won’t have it. In twelve months’ time I won’t give him the time of day – let him show me his letters of reference then.’

  Tolson said, ‘Still, we’d better pick a point man to deal with Stephenson.’

  ‘I’ll do it,’ said Guttman.

  Tolson looked at him curiously. Guttman gave an explanatory shrug. ‘If he’s got anything useful, it’s going to come to me anyway.’ Counter-espionage was his bailiwick after all.

  Hoover thought about this, his lower lip pushed out like a plate for his mouth to rest on. ‘All right,’ he said at last. ‘You deal with the Limeys. I’ll write this jerk and tell him that. But if they try to push you around, I want you to let me know at once. I won’t have it.’

  ‘Yes, sir,’ said Guttman. Getting up, he noticed the second note Stephenson had given Hoover. It was handwritten on headed paper, and Guttman could read the heading clearly:

  Office of the President

  The White House

  1600 Pennsylvania Avenue

  Washington D.C.

  Now he understood Hoover’s grudging politeness to Stephenson, and his outburst once the man had left.

  Although Hoover habitually cited the entire American Nation as the people he was acting for, his foremost loyalty was to the Bureau and, Guttman sometimes thought, to himself. It was certainly not to Roosevelt, which explained Hoover’s reference to twelve months from now, when the Democrats would have nominated a new candidate for President, and Roosevelt would be a lame duck.

  But that was only part of it, Guttman realised. Hoover hated Roosevelt because Roosevelt was in charge of him and his beloved FBI; when push came to shove Roosevelt was not afraid to let Hoover know this. It was FDR who had insisted that Hoover’s obsession with internal dissidents be widened to include Nazis, specifically the Bund, as well as Communists.

  But a new President would need Hoover more than the other way round. Knowing Hoover, Guttman was sure that by the time he was inaugurated the new President would already be the subject of a file in the Director’s office an inch thick. Any peccadillo, any weakness (alcohol, gambling, girls – these were the usual foibles) would be lodged there.

  Guttman happened to know that Roosevelt’s file was minuscule – in an indiscreet moment at the Christmas party, fuelled by two egg nogs, Hoover’s assistant Miss Gandy had allowed as much. Not even a whole page, she’d said, after confessing that she herself was a Roosevelt admirer, unlike her boss. Hoover had nothing of substance on Roosevelt. Guttman knew the Director would give a lot to change that.

  Bock called his office three days later, an unheard-of event. Normally Guttman would have busted his balls for breaking security, but there was something urgent about the German’s tone. They arranged to meet just south of Franklin Park.

  They sat on counter stools at one end of a crowded diner while Guttman ate his new-fangled hamburger and hash browns. His weight had been ballooning from too many hours at his desk, but he justified his calorific lunch on the grounds that an order of cottage cheese would be conspicuous in this greasy spoon.

  He stopped eating long enough to look around the diner for faces he recognised. The customers were all men, mainly construction workers, except for two women who had just come in, probably secretaries from one of the neighbouring office buildings.

  Bock didn’t seem
himself, and he didn’t touch his food – a grilled cheese sandwich sat isolated on his plate, almost begging for a side order. He just sipped from the tumbler of water the waitress splashed down, and spoke as if talking to himself, looking straight ahead at the waist-high mirror that stretched along the wall they faced.

  ‘Listen carefully,’ he said in tones as tense as strung wire. ‘The Michigan men are moving.’

  Guttman struggled to follow him. ‘The Heydeman crew?’ he asked.

  ‘Ja,’ said Bock reflexively He pushed the plate of grilled cheese to the far edge of the counter top, next to the chrome sugar holder and glass salt and pepper shakers. ‘They’re coming east.’

  ‘East is pretty vague,’ said Guttman, feeling pretty vague himself. Sometimes Bock made him feel like a hopeless fisherman, aimlessly throwing line into the water on the principle that a hook never caught anything on dry land.

  ‘Young Rossbach should get ready. People will be arriving there shortly.’

  ‘At Camp Schneider?’

  ‘Why else do you think I told you to place him there?’

  Guttman nodded, but sensed that Bock was very agitated. He signalled the waitress. ‘Gimme a piece of the blueberry pie, will you? And my friend wants a cup of coffee.’ Anything to keep Bock there.

  ‘When is this happening?’ Guttman asked quietly now.

  Bock was looking around the diner suspiciously. ‘In three days,’ he said tersely.

  ‘Drink your coffee,’ said Guttman soothingly. ‘Tell me what else you know about this, okay?’

  Bock’s hands were shaking. ‘I’ve told you all I know,’ he hissed.

  Guttman realised he needed to calm him down. But it was too late: fear seemed to have overwhelmed the German, for Bock suddenly got up and walked out of the diner.

  Goddamn it, thought Guttman. He resisted the temptation to follow Bock. The German must be running very scared to leave like that – Bock couldn’t afford to alienate Guttman if he wanted to stay in America. Bock had asked for the meeting, moreover, so why had he got so frightened? Anyway, it seemed likely that he had told Guttman all he knew, which made the information the more tantalising for its imprecision. It looked as though anything more specific was going to have to come from Vermont.

  Back at headquarters on Pennsylvania Avenue he showed his pass, then joined a couple of agents and a bunch of typists waiting impatiently for the elevator – one of the cars was out of order. At last the door opened, the elevator man slung back the grille and they all got in, Guttman heading for the rear of the car. It was crowded, and they scrunched together until the third floor, where a couple of people got off. As the grille closed again Guttman noticed a woman in front of him. She’d been in the diner, he realised, one of the two women he’d decided were secretaries. Funny place to have lunch with a girlfriend – it was kind of rough and ready, more hard hats than high heels.

  The woman lifted her wrist to check the time, and he noticed the face on her watch was very large – too large to be a lady’s watch. His heart began to thump. When the elevator man stopped at the fourth floor, the woman didn’t move, so Guttman stayed put. At five, she got out with three other women.

  ‘Must have been daydreaming,’ Guttman said to the elevator man. ‘Take me down to four, will ya?’ As the grille closed he noticed that the three others who’d got out had gone left, heading to the typing pool. But the woman with the big watch had gone right. That way there wasn’t a typing pool, or a powder room, or any other kind of room that would explain things and reassure Guttman. The woman with the big watch he’d seen five days before in the Bethesda park as he talked to Bock, was heading for the office suites of Tolson and the Director.

  14

  HEYDEMAN WAS A strong swimmer, but he couldn’t teach. He was too rough with the girls, chucking them about in the water as if they were boys – the man didn’t seem to know his own strength. Powerfully muscled, he could have modelled for a Charles Atlas ad in a magazine, especially if they kept his goofy grin out of the picture. He seemed to Nessheim a little like Lennie, the simpleton in a Steinbeck novel he had read in San Francisco. He had to remind himself that this was someone capable of handling stolen weapons and murdering Eddie Le Saux.

  Guttman had not shared Nessheim’s excitement when Heydeman had appeared. Or at least he hadn’t shown it. ‘Watch him,’ he’d said simply when Nessheim phoned from the Woodstock Inn. ‘But he’s not a Macher.’

  ‘A what?’

  ‘He’s not important in the scheme of things. This is a foot soldier, so make sure you don’t show your hand. I want the officers.’

  Later that week, when Nessheim had brought the girls back from a long walk to Coolidge Hill, he saw Mrs Schultz signalling him from the lodge. He climbed the hill wearily, hoping she wasn’t going to ask him to stand in for Mrs Grumholtz supervising the girls before suppertime.

  ‘You had a phone call, Jimmy, from Chicago. It’s about your aunt – they want you to call them right away.’

  He had told everybody that his parents had died when he was a boy, and he’d been raised by his aunt in Chicago. He tried to look concerned as Mrs Schultz showed him into her husband’s office, which held the solitary phone of the camp. Fortunately, Schultz had gone to Burlington for the day.

  ‘You’ll call collect, won’t you?’ Mrs Schultz asked.

  It was a party line, and a neighbour was on it talking about a tractor. At last the line was free, and the local operator in Woodstock got through to the Chicago number. He could hear Mrs Schultz creeping around outside – the floorboards creaked slightly each time she passed by the door.

  ‘Hello,’ came faintly down the crackly line.

  ‘It’s Jimmy Rossbach here.’

  ‘Oh, Jimmy, it’s Matilda, your aunt’s neighbour.’

  ‘I see,’ he said, though he didn’t know anyone named Matilda.

  ‘I don’t want to alarm you, but your aunt’s had a fall. She’s in Cook County.’

  ‘Is she all right?’

  ‘They say she’ll be fine. They thought she’d broken her hip, but the X-ray looks okay. She said you’re not to come out here.’

  ‘How long is she going to be in for?’ he asked, trying to sound worried about his non-existent aunt.

  ‘They don’t know yet.’ There was a pause. ‘I tell you what, can you phone again tomorrow? Say, five o’clock. I’ll be here then, and I should have more news to tell you.’

  ‘I’ll do that. Thanks for letting me know.’ He hung up. Guttman had made Chicago the phone contact point, which made sense: that was where ‘Rossbach’ came from, and it wouldn’t be hard for Schultz and Co. to bribe someone at the exchange in Woodstock and discover that the call had come from Washington. But Guttman hadn’t told him that he would know the voice on the other end of the line. Now he realised why 1472 N. Kedzie, the address on his driver’s licence, had rung a bell. It, and the voice, belonged to Eloise Tate, known to all as Tatie at the Chicago Bureau of the FBI.

  The next day Nessheim kept the afternoon hike short – too short, perhaps, since both Adele Kugel and the little Schultz girl complained when he made them turn back only halfway along the fern-lined path they usually took to the end and back. Once returned to camp, he went straight to his cabin, where there was no sign of Kessler. He put on a long-sleeved shirt, then slipped out and moved into the woods. Across the lake the campers would be gathering to play before dinner, but under the shade of the trees he was confident no one would spot him.

  It took him twenty minutes to cut at an angle through the dense woods to Route 12, where he emerged at a point where he could see in either direction for almost a mile. No cars were coming, and he sprinted across the road, then moved parallel through the woods to the old forestry track. The second-growth trees were almost all maples – he could see the tap marks on the larger trees – and their high canopies blocked enough sun that the ground cover was sparse and easy to move through.

  He was early for the five o’clock rendezvo
us set by Tatie but already heard the soft throbbing of a car along the overgrown trail. After a minute it stopped where the trail had a large turnaround on one side, constructed as a passing place for the lumber wagons of the old days, almost half a mile in from Route 12.

  He moved as quietly as he could, but the going was slow now; here the forest was largely birch and the ground cover resultantly dense, a mass of thick brambles and ferns that shimmied with each step he took. At last he could see light ahead of him, where the turnaround had been carved out of cover. The chrome of a bumper came into view.

  He wondered if Guttman himself had come. He wouldn’t put it past the man, since as far as Nessheim knew, no one else was privy to his work here. Except Hoover, of course, but however important this was supposed to be, Nessheim didn’t imagine the Director himself was going to step out of the automobile.

  The car’s nose was parked away from Nessheim, pointing into the forest, and it took him a moment to see it was a Dodge. He had entered the small clearing by then, and saw that there was a man in the car. He was lying back against the driver’s seat with his feet up on the dashboard and a fedora was jammed down over his eyes. Beat it – he heard the chilly voice in Milwaukee all over again.

  He’d been set up – someone must have been listening to the call to Tatie. Nessheim started to turn, ready to run, his heart pounding, but the man in the car swung his feet down and in one athletic movement jumped out of his seat and faced him with a pistol in his hand that was pointed directly at Nessheim.

  Nessheim threw both hands straight up in the air. ‘Take it easy. I’m just walking through the woods, buddy. Give me three secs and I’ll be on my way.’

  To his relief, the man lowered the gun, though he still held it firmly in one hand. Nessheim remembered how hard the man had seemed in Milwaukee. Would he kill him, just like that? You bet he will, thought Nessheim. He wondered how to distract him so he could run far enough away to give himself a chance.