There had not been much noise from downstairs, but then the sound of singing came up to him, bass notes reverberating through the floorboards. It sounded German, a marching song. After each chorus everyone stamped their feet, so hard that even the loft rafters trembled. Jesus, thought Nessheim, glad he hadn’t been put in undercover to join these Bund paramilitaries.
He crawled back to the receiver, and flicked its switch. A tiny red light went on, and in its small glow he could make out a needle moving on the central gauge. The RF bug was transmitting, and he breathed a sigh of relief.
Nessheim waited while downstairs they all sang another marching song, then the low hum of chatter he had heard before resumed. But only momentarily. There was a sharp knocking sound, and he realised someone was calling for attention.
A harsh voice began speaking in German; it must be Schultz. After only twenty seconds or so, it stopped, and was followed by clapping. When the applause died down someone else started speaking. It was Coughlin – in the same compelling, mellifluous voice once heard by millions every Saturday afternoon, travelling up and down the octaves like scales played on a piano. Sitting down on the floor, Nessheim turned on the recorder.
Coughlin spoke for about ten minutes, while Nessheim watched the empty reel on one side slowly begin to fill. He had forty-five minutes’ recording capability, which should be ample he reckoned. He wished there was a way for him to hear the words himself, but the acoustic signal received from the transmitter was unintelligible to human ears, unless played back in recorded form by the tape machine.
When Coughlin finished, Schultz took over again. Curiously, his voice projected better than the priest’s – he half-shouted his words, but they were clearly enunciated, and by straining Nessheim could almost make them out. He noticed a tiny chink of light coming through between the floorboards, nearer to the staircase door. Perhaps if he lay there, ear down, he could make out what Schultz was saying. It seemed worth a try.
He got up very slowly, taking care not to knock over the receiver or jiggle the tape machine. Too much care, in fact, for he felt his back hit one of the trunks stacked behind him. He stopped moving as soon as he made contact, but the trunk, perilously balanced to begin with, started to slide off the stack. Panicked, Nessheim turned around to grab it, but clunked it with an elbow instead. That did it: the trunk fell backwards onto the floor, landing with an enormous bang.
Shit! Nessheim stood there hoping against hope that the noise had gone unremarked downstairs. He could hear nothing from below, but silence was the most ominous noise of all. Then he heard chairs being pushed back and Schultz shouting orders.
Nessheim grabbed the receiver, and with his free hand yanked as hard as he could on its cord. It popped out of the outlet 20 feet away and came flying through the air, hitting him on the ear. It stung, but this was no time to worry about that. He chucked the receiver into Fred’s case, then leaned down, switched the machine off, and lifted the right-hand reel out of its socket. With his teeth he broke off the tape still linked to the other reel, then lifted the machine and dumped it into the big box. Closing it, then hoisting the heavy container with his arms, he set it down amidst a pile of trunks and suitcases. He grabbed the single reel, shoved it under his shirt, and made for the external stairs.
All this had taken no more than thirty seconds, but he was still too late. Voices came from outside the lodge, and they were coming closer; he saw the beam of a flashlight at the corner of the building on the ground below.
There was nothing for it. He turned and moved quickly to the hay opening at the end of the loft. He climbed onto its lower sill and looked down. Even if he didn’t break a leg, he’d be spotted before he had collected himself and run away. And on either side of the opening there was nothing to grab onto – just the flat boards of the lodge.
He looked up, and saw that the roof was only a couple of feet above the top of the big square aperture. He grabbed one of the empty trunks lying near him and pushed it over to the edge of the opening. As he got up and stood balancing on it, he heard footsteps coming up the stairs outside.
He turned with his back to the hay opening, on the very edge of the trunk. For a moment he thought it might tip over under his weight, and send him flying backwards, to land on his head on the ground. But the trunk held steady. He decided he had to move before he became mentally paralysed by calculation of the odds.
Jumping up and out, he timed the swing of his arms, and reached for the edge of the lodge’s roof. Its surface was shingles, probably cedar, and his hands held firm to their wet but scratchy surface. He swung his legs back into the air, then using all his strength pulled himself straight up, until his chest came to roof level and he could hook his elbows over the edge. Then with another massive effort he drew the rest of his body up high enough to swing a leg onto the roof edge. He managed to roll his other leg onto the shingles, just as he heard a voice come from the loft opening below.
‘Heraus!’ shouted a member of the O.D.
Nessheim lay still for a minute, chest heaving, trying to catch his breath as the rain spattered the shingles around him. The men below would have a hard time getting on the roof, but once Schultz knew someone was up here, he could simply surround the building and wait him out.
He climbed to the central gable point of the roof, scrambling up the shingle tiles as fast as he dared. Then he moved along with one hand on the ridge beam to keep from slipping down the steeply angled sides. Halfway along, he let go and slowly slid his way down to the edge of the roof. He turned over, so that his stomach lay flush against the shingles, and slowly let his legs slide over the edge until they dangled in air. Suddenly his descent accelerated as his jacket, slick from the rain, slid like grease on the wet cedar. He grabbed both hands onto the final line of shingles, and hung on, trying to summon the courage to let go.
He felt a faint dizziness, the same vertiginous nausea he’d last had with Danny Ho. He wanted to retch, but was terrified to make a telltale cough. He heard someone at the far end of the lodge, probably at the hay opening, but there was no flashlight beam. The dizziness was growing; sensing he would fall at any moment, he let go, bending both his legs like a parachutist.
It could not have been more than a twelve-foot drop, and the ground had been softened by the rain, but he still landed with a hellish jolt. He sensed nothing was broken, but there was a stabbing pain in one knee. He ignored it and crouched down against the side of the lodge. The rain was heavier now, and the wind had picked up, throwing the drops like pea gravel against the building’s slats.
A dog barked, not far away. Damn, he thought. If they took the German Shepherd upstairs to the loft to catch Nessheim’s scent, then brought him down again, the dog would find him in minutes.
He stood up and moved to the end of the building, then slowly peeked around the corner. Half a dozen men were standing in the rain by the back door of the lodge, illuminated by the lights in the kitchen. He could see Schultz, the shortest of the group, pointing sharply around him. There was a lull in the wind, and he heard the metallic voice clearly. ‘Search the cabins as well. Check them all. Schnell.’
Pulling his head back, Nessheim turned and ran for the safety of the woods, taking care to keep the side of the lodge between him and the men. He had to get back to his cabin before they discovered he was missing.
He moved through a stand of birch nervously, fearing his dark jacket would be easily spotted against the white bark. Moving along he stayed a few yards back from the clearing, heading for the edge of the lake to the point where the semicircle of camper cabins began. If he went deeper into the woods he might get lost in the dark and rain. The woods are lovely, dark and deep, according to Robert Frost, but Nessheim would have kept it at dark and deep.
What should he do? He could head to Schultz’s farmhouse, try and take refuge there. But if he showed up, rain-soaked and bedraggled, God knows whom he would encounter there or what he would say. Maybe he should stick it out, wait until mor
ning, then appear, claiming he’d spent the night in Woodstock. But that wouldn’t wash either. He was never going to dry out by then – no one would believe he hadn’t been skulking in the woods.
His only hope lay in getting back to his cabin, and he moved as fast as he could through the low brush of the forest. Once he tripped on a bramble and fell flat, fortunately onto the soft floor of pine needles. Then disaster almost struck – his left leg suddenly dropped sharply, his right followed, and Nessheim found himself in water up to his thighs. He pulled himself out, soaked through, and realised he had foundered on a little creek.
He was near the edge of the pond, and thus near the first of the cabins. Mine would have to be the furthest away, he thought bitterly, but he hoped there was still time to reach it before he was discovered.
Hope ran out as he started to move behind the first cabin. A flashlight suddenly swept across one of the cabins ahead of him, and the dog barked with the jubilant menace of a canine that had been trained to track. Through the overhanging wisps of birch, Nessheim saw that the O.D. had made it to this side of the pond, and were rapidly spreading out to find their intruder. They were heading away from him, but that was no help – they would be searching the cabin of Kessler and Rossbach first.
He waited, wondering what to do, standing near the outermost cabin at this end of the pond. It was Frances Stockton’s cabin and its light was off.
A flickering flashlight shone in the distance, revealing three or four shadowy figures in the woods. They weren’t moving away, he realised with a start; they were heading in his direction, making sure no one hiding in a cabin could sneak out undetected. Then behind him a twig cracked, and he heard a footstep. Someone was coming, along the same way he had come through the woods. A classic pincer movement. These people were thorough and well-trained; he would soon be completely surrounded.
He could see no way out. Should he wait to be found, or step forward and try to bluff his way out, claiming to be returning from an assignation with a woman, or even from a midnight nature walk by himself? In his heart he knew no story he concocted would be believed.
He moved to hide behind the nearest cabin – Frances’s cabin. Suddenly he stopped at the screen door. He didn’t hesitate. ‘Frances,’ he whispered. There was no reply. ‘Frances,’ he hissed more urgently.
He heard a stirring, then the creak of an iron bed. The screen swung open and Frances stood framed in the doorway. She wore a man’s striped cotton nightshirt, and her black hair, no longer tied back, lay in clustered ebony strands on her shoulders.
‘Chug?’ she said. He heard the dog bark in the distance, and could see flashlights as the men began to work their way through the cabins.
‘Can I come in?’ he said, and Frances stood aside as he sprang up the two steps and entered the cabin.
He went and stood in the dark by her bed. Frances slowly followed him. ‘What’s that?’ she asked. For he had unfastened the top buttons of his shirt and taken out the 9-inch tape reel. He leaned down and put it on the plank flooring, then pushed it slowly with his foot under Frances’s bed.
He took a step towards Frances, visible only by the white of her nightshirt. He could not see her expression, but he had to take the chance.
She said, ‘What’s going on out there?’
‘Just the young Nazis having a party.’
‘But what are you doing here?’ He couldn’t read her tone.
‘I sort of hoped that would be obvious.’ He held out both arms and waited.
At first she didn’t move. Would she slap his face? Shout at him to get out? Even scream?
Then suddenly the white shirt moved forward in the dark and he felt her own arms within his extended ones, encircling him around the chest as her lips moved onto his.
Where they remained, until she broke away to reach down and push back her bedclothes, then moved the two of them onto the bed. She sat next to him there for a moment and sighed. ‘I thought you weren’t interested.’
‘Just shy,’ he said. And then her mouth closed over his again.
15
IN THE MIDDLE of August, Stephenson called late one morning. Guttman hesitated when his secretary said who was on the line. He was up to his eyeballs with work, and was waiting tensely for news from Vermont. He had heard nothing from either of his agents there, and could only pray that Nessheim had managed to record the meeting and smuggle the tapes out. How he wanted to nail these Bund bastards. And Coughlin – if the priest said enough to be prosecuted – would be the perfect icing on the cake.
He finally took the call. Stephenson said, ‘I was thinking that if we’re meant to liaise, we should begin the process. Any chance of lunch?’
‘Golly, it’s a busy time right now.’ He wouldn’t hear from Nessheim until the next day, but he felt too tense for diplomacy right now.
‘How are you fixed tomorrow?’
Tomorrow? You had to admire the guy’s chutzpah, thought Guttman, who’d already been impressed by Stephenson’s coolness in the face of Hoover’s rudeness. Maybe he should get it over with. Besides, there was nothing he could do to help Nessheim by sitting at his desk worrying. ‘Okay. Where would you like to meet?’
‘Why don’t you come to my club? Twelve-thirty if that’s all right. Let me give you the address.’
* * *
He met Stephenson in a large late-Victorian brick house in Georgetown. Guttman drove past it and parked around the corner, wondering what kind of club would have its quarters in this part of town. Georgetown was coming up in the world – doctors, lawyers, even some of the Congressmen were starting to live here now, fixing up the old townhouses that had not been looked after for years. But it was a residential area, and the only clubs Guttman knew of were nearer the institutions of government, and thus nearer the centre of power.
Stephenson was waiting for him outside. He was in a business suit this day, and Guttman was glad Isabel had made him wear a shirt with an unfrayed collar and had found him an unstained tie.
Stephenson said, ‘Delighted you could make it. Let’s go in.’
They walked up a few steps and Stephenson turned the large brass handle on the oak door. Inside at the end of a corridor a servant in a white jacket was polishing a side table, and Guttman caught the faint aroma of beeswax.
‘Morning, Jason,’ said Stephenson. ‘Anybody about?’
The black man shook his head. ‘Just the Colonel, sir.’
Stephenson opened another door and led Guttman into a long sitting room that had dark green wallpaper and a ruby carpet. Over the fireplace hung a large oil painting showing the Hudson River with a Victorian picnic party (boaters and bonnets) in the foreground. Along the walls, floor-to-ceiling bookcases alternated with dark framed engravings; comfortable easy chairs and two-seater sofas were placed in small groupings throughout the room, little convivial islands which suggested this was a club, not a residence.
The room was empty, except for a solitary old man in a pinstripe suit sitting in a wing chair. From his waistcoat a pocket watch dangled from a fob chain, and his lap was halfcovered by a copy of the London Times. The old man was sound asleep, snoring lightly. Stephenson pointed to the far end of the room, where a small table had been laid for lunch. ‘Let’s go down there where we won’t be disturbed.’ He looked down at the Colonel with a faint smile. ‘And he won’t be either.’
As they sat down, Stephenson said, ‘Good of you to come.’
Guttman grunted. ‘What kind of club is this?’
Stephenson chuckled. ‘A rather unorthodox one for Washington. It’s limited to former officers in the British forces. Army, navy, air force – we’re not picky, provided you’ve served.’
Jason arrived, with a barman’s towel over his arm. Stephenson said, ‘What will you have to drink, Mr Guttman? I’m going to have a Sidecar myself – it’s a bit of a speciality here.’
‘I’ll just have a ginger ale, thanks.’
‘Are you sure? I know Mr Hoover’s been known
to have a drink at lunch in the Mayflower Hotel.’
‘You’re well informed. But Mr Hoover doesn’t have to answer to anyone when he does.’
Stephenson laughed. ‘I suppose he’s the Cabot of Washington. What do they say in Boston? The Lowells answer only to Cabots, and the Cabots only answer to God. In this case, is FDR God?’
‘Some people have him down as the Devil.’
‘I guess they do. Where do you stand on FDR?’
‘I think he’s a great man.’ Guttman felt uneasy, not wanting the conversation to slide into politics. That was never a good idea.
Their drinks came and Stephenson waited to reply until Jason had left the menu and gone away. He took a sip of his Sidecar, then said, ‘I happen to agree with you.’
To change the subject, Guttman asked, ‘Were you in the British army then?’
‘Not quite. I started with the Royal Winnipeg, but eventually did a bit of flying with the Royal Flying Squad. What they call the RAF these days. Made me something of an honorary Brit, I suppose.’ He looked a little embarrassed. ‘Now, what would you like to eat?’
The food was excellent – Guttman followed Stephenson’s lead and had the lamb steak – and Stephenson was an excellent conversationalist, asking Guttman questions about himself without prying, telling amusing stories of his own travels, which seemed voluminous. There was no effort to ingratiate, yet nothing standoffish about him either. Guttman for all his wariness found himself liking the man.
It was only over coffee that Stephenson brought up business. ‘They taught me in school to “Beware of Greeks bearing gifts”, but I hope you won’t mind if in order to start our liaison on solid ground, I start with a little gift.’
What did Stephenson have in mind, Guttman wondered? A gold watch, or a case of whiskey, or box seats at a Washington Senators baseball game? Had this man really misread Guttman so badly?
‘Don’t look so horrified, Mr Guttman. Do you mind if I call you Harry? I’m Bill by the way.’
Guttman nodded, but waited apprehensively.
Fear Itself Page 17
