Fear Itself

by Andrew Rosenheim

  Stephenson opened a door to a small room that looked like his study. There was a desk with a padded partner’s chair, and a polished side table half-covered by two stacks of files. Books lined the back wall, mainly history Guttman saw, reading their spines. The windows had dark drapes, now pulled back, and the carpet was soft plum.

  Stephenson put his plate on the desk and pulled over a chair from a corner. ‘Have a seat,’ he said.

  ‘I didn’t see the Colonel downstairs,’ said Guttman.

  ‘He’s gone.’

  A British euphemism apparently. ‘I am sorry.’

  ‘Oh, I don’t mean that sort of departure. He’s gone back to England. When war broke out, he booked the first sailing home.’ Stephenson smiled. ‘He acknowledged that his fighting days were over, but was still determined to do his bit. Said he’d be damned if he’d spend the war in a Washington armchair.’

  ‘Well, so far so good,’ said Guttman, thinking of the war. Poland had fallen, of course, but since then the European front had been quiet.

  Stephenson looked at him without his usual calm. ‘It’s the lull before the storm, I assure you. As soon as winter lifts, the Wehrmacht will be on the move. I fear they’ll be in Paris by summer.’

  The mood had turned sombre. Stephenson seemed to want to lighten it, for he reached over and opened a small floor cabinet, and extracted two bottles of Straub beer. He found an opener in the desk drawer and popped the caps off. Handing one to Guttman he said, ‘Helps to wash the ham down, don’t you think?’

  They each drank and then Stephenson said quietly, ‘You were about to tell me about the other so-called suicide.’

  Guttman had made up his mind. So he told Stephenson about his relationship with Bock, simply and without drama. He didn’t discuss his larger worries, and he was careful not to reveal anything simply for the sake of it – he didn’t mention Nessheim, for example, or give any indication that he’d had a man on the ground, inside one corner of the German-American Bund. But what he did come clean about were his own suspicions and where they’d led him – through Bock, to the German-American Bund. There seemed no danger doing that, and anyway, Bock wasn’t around to complain.

  ‘Fascinating,’ said Stephenson. ‘But tell me, did you ever think that Bock might have been playing you off against his masters back in Berlin? Or worse still, that he was working on their orders and only pretending to be working for you?’

  Guttman smiled. ‘Even I got that far.’

  Stephenson tried to look embarrassed. ‘My dear fellow, I wasn’t suggesting—’

  ‘I know,’ said Guttman, waving a hand to show he wasn’t bothered. ‘But you see, that possibility only made me even more suspicious of the Germans. Because if Bock were working for them, then he was under orders to plant a red herring so big that it would keep my attention far from where it ought to be. But if he was on the level – and this is the paradox – it would have the same effect. There isn’t any evidence the Reich was behind the attempt to seize the Armory.’

  Stephenson finished his beer and put the bottle down. ‘So what does it all mean, do you think?’

  ‘I can’t be sure. I only know something is happening – the connections don’t make sense otherwise.’

  ‘We’re not paid to believe in coincidence, I suppose,’ said Stephenson, looking thoughtful.

  ‘No, but equally, I’m not looking to see a conspiracy around every corner.’

  ‘Yes, but let’s think about it. What would this conspiracy consist of?’

  Guttman finished his sandwich and chewed for a minute. He cleared his throat before speaking. ‘It has to help the Nazis, of course, but not be known – why else the secrecy? It’s a “project” all right, but I don’t think it involves saboteurs. We’ve already caught some of those, and we’ve drawn a pretty good bead on the others.’

  ‘And whatever this is mustn’t be known because –?’

  ‘Look at it backwards. I ask myself, what’s the one thing the Nazis want to avoid?’ He realised Stephenson was staring at him. ‘It has to be America’s entry into the war.’

  ‘Agreed.’

  ‘So what could the Nazis do that would ensure America stays out? Something that if it got discovered might precipitate what they’re trying to avoid. So it has to be completely secret.’

  They both looked at each other, hesitant to say out loud what each was thinking. ‘What leads have we got?’ asked Stephenson, seemingly relieved to break the silence. Guttman noticed the ‘we’.

  ‘That’s the problem. Werner’s dead, Bock’s dead, and Schultz won’t talk. That leaves the Cummings connection, which seems to me the weakest link of the bunch.’

  ‘Any progress there?’

  Guttman hesitated only momentarily. To hell with it, he decided. ‘I can’t do the surveillance I’d like. The usual stuff – wiretaps, mail intercepts – is out of the question.’

  Stephenson raised a tactful eyebrow. Guttman explained, ‘She’s very well connected. And as far as the Director goes, the original info came from an untrustworthy source.’

  ‘Who’s that?’ asked Stephenson, looking puzzled.

  ‘You,’ said Guttman.

  To his credit Stephenson laughed.

  ‘And there’s another thing. Mrs Cummings is a friend of the President’s. So it’s not as if you could go over Hoover’s head to the White House, even if you wanted to.’

  Stephenson pondered this for a moment while Guttman stared at the books behind him – T. E. Lawrence’s The Seven Pillars of Wisdom, My Early Life by Winston Churchill, Michael Arlen’s The Green Hat.

  Stephenson said, ‘Still, she’s all we have, isn’t she?’ Seeing assent in Guttman’s eyes he continued, ‘It seems to me we need somebody inside this salon of Mrs C. Not an informant – there’s too little likelihood of finding one in time, at least not one we can trust.’

  ‘What do you mean by “in time” anyway? You have a deadline in mind?’

  ‘Two actually: one unknown, one fixed. The unknown one is how long Britain can hold out. If we make it to next autumn we could have a chance, however gloomy it looks now. But we need a friend in the White House. The fixed one is July.’

  ‘What’s in July?’

  ‘The Democrats Convention. That’s when we’ll know if FDR’s going to run again. But as I was saying, an informant’s unlikely to come our way. We need someone undercover, don’t you think?’

  Guttman suddenly felt as if he’d been pressed against a wall. He said stiffly, ‘The Director has a policy against putting agents in undercover.’

  Stephenson’s eyes widened. ‘But you …’ he started to say, then seemed to think better of it. He said quietly, ‘Just a thought, you know.’ He paused to let it sink in, then said, ‘Why don’t we have coffee downstairs?’

  19

  Late February 1940

  Washington D.C.

  HE WAS STARING dully at the stack of papers on his desk when a voice at the door said, ‘Don’t look so excited,’ and Guttman came into the room.

  It was only Nessheim’s second day, but Guttman had put him to work already, sitting him down in a small room near his own office on the Fourth Floor. It had a desk and an old walnut bookcase that held files stacked sideways. The one window was small, with frosted glass panes which meant there wasn’t any view.

  It was an odd little nest within the FBI headquarters, since in most other respects the floors allocated to the Bureau were just many-times-over versions of the Chicago and San Francisco quarters Nessheim was used to, a series of offices running off corridors, interspersed with larger open spaces for typists and clerks. Drone work (such as the inspection of fingerprint evidence), went on elsewhere, in the Old Southern Railway Building on 13th Street.

  ‘I’m riveted,’ said Nessheim.

  Guttman laughed. ‘You’re such a typical field agent. If you’re not out and about, talking to an informant, carrying a gun, you feel you’re not working. But cheer up: I’ve had a .38 issued to you, and
tomorrow you start your new duties. I’m sending you over to the White House. I’ll still need you over here, but only afternoons, and not every one.’

  ‘What will I be doing?’ asked Nessheim, slightly puzzled. He felt as though he was reverting to the days when Purvis had to teach him how to wipe his nose.

  ‘We need to review the President’s security. I want you to check the credentials of all the people who see the President on a regular basis. Everyone – from his maid to the Secretary of State. I’m afraid it means reading a lot of paper and making phone calls.’

  ‘A desk job in other words.’ That had not been Guttman’s promise when he’d tracked Nessheim down in Wisconsin.

  ‘To you paperwork isn’t real work, but to me, more work gets done with a file than a gun.’

  ‘You said I’d be undercover.’

  ‘You will be.’

  ‘In the White House?’

  ‘That’s only part of your duties. The rest will come in time.’

  Nessheim was willing to challenge Guttman now; after all, he hadn’t wanted to come back in the first place. ‘Who says?’ he asked.

  ‘I say. Since I’ll be the only person who knows what you’re up to.’

  ‘Yeah, yeah. You and Mr Hoover are the only people in the know.’

  ‘I’m the only person in the know.’

  ‘You always say that,’ he began, then stopped short and stared at Guttman. ‘You didn’t mention Mr Hoover this time.’ Guttman was nodding. ‘You mean …?’

  ‘Yeah,’ was all Guttman said. He was pretending to look at papers at his desk.

  ‘Did he know I was at Camp Schneider?’ Nessheim demanded. When Guttman didn’t answer he said, ‘You better level with me, Harry.’ It was the first time he’d used Guttman’s first name, but he felt entitled. ‘If I’m going out on a limb for you, then I think you owe me an explanation.’

  Guttman didn’t answer this, saying instead, ‘If anybody asks what you’re working on, you say you’re working on extremists. Okay? Not Fascists, not Communists. Extremists.’

  ‘Is somebody likely to ask?’

  Guttman shrugged. ‘Who knows? It might be Mr Hoover himself. He’s been known to pop in on the spur of the moment. Keeps us on our toes, I guess.’

  I’ll bet it does, thought Nessheim. One thing he had picked up from his first days in the Chicago bureau was the pervasive influence of its Director. The FBI was like an immense family-owned company, whose patriarch still controlled every aspect of the business.

  Guttman looked at his watch. ‘Let’s go out and grab a beer. Where are you staying?’

  ‘A motel out in Virginia.’

  ‘I live that way myself. I can give you a lift to the trolley in Rosslyn.’

  They drove south to the edge of the Potomac. The small heater inside the Buick blasted out tepid air, which slowly melted the thin glaze of ice on the windshield inch by inch. Moving west along the river bank they reached the industrial end of Georgetown, where an enormous set of smokestacks belched white smoke over the river bluff. A factory shift was ending, men in overalls emerging to shiver after their heated immersion inside.

  Washington was not as Nessheim had expected. The Federal architecture seemed formal and heavy, based on Greek and Roman models that may have made sense to an overwhelmingly rural America in the past, but which now seemed stolid, almost lifeless – at least compared to the vibrancy and free-for-all building styles of Chicago and New York. And there was less grandeur to the rest of the city than he’d dreamed of – actually there seemed no grandeur at all. This time of year Washington was especially stark: a collection of low houses, most on low ground, bordered by a river and basin of muddy water, with blasting winds and few hills for shelter.

  Guttman parked next to an unprepossessing shack overlooking the river, which was only half-frozen here. A sign on the building said Steamers. Nessheim looked at it dubiously.

  ‘Come on,’ said Guttman, hopping out, and Nessheim followed him inside.

  The place looked deserted. It was a greasy spoon with a lunch counter and a short-order grill that turned into a makeshift bar each evening – a holdover from Prohibition days, Guttman explained, when thirty seconds’ warning could have the shot glasses hidden behind the counter and anodyne cups of coffee poured when the cops walked through the door.

  They sat down at a rickety table against the far wall, and after a minute a fat man with a wart the size of a nickel on one cheek came out of the back. ‘What can I get you?’

  ‘Two Huerichs,’ said Guttman. He turned to Nessheim. ‘I assume you like beer?’

  Nessheim nodded as the fat man delivered two bottles and no glasses. He took a pull; it was cold and rich with hops. ‘Not bad,’ he said.

  ‘So where exactly are you staying?’

  ‘A tourist court just outside of McLean.’ It was pretty awful, full of travelling salesmen and truckers. But it was cheap.

  ‘Sounds delightful.’

  ‘I’ve started to look for an apartment. They seem kind of expensive.’

  ‘Housing’s at a real premium in this town these days. Nobody says, ‘Go West young man,’ any more – the world and its aunt seem to be coming here instead. It’s where the gravy train is.’

  He looked at Nessheim. ‘But that doesn’t solve your problem. There comes a point when a guy needs a place of his own.’ He added sympathetically, ‘I bet you’re living on White Tower hamburgers and milkshakes every night. Not that you’re gonna get fat any time soon.’ He looked down regretfully at his own paunch, then drank the rest of his beer in one long swallow. ‘Let me make a call or two.’

  And when Guttman dropped him half an hour later at the trolley stop on the west side of the Potomac, Nessheim realised he still didn’t know what he was really supposed to be doing, undercover or not, or why he had let himself be persuaded to stay in the Federal Bureau of Investigation.

  It took him an hour to get to the White House in the morning, enough time for his excitement to build. He was surprised to find himself feeling this way – ever since he had almost drowned in the Atlantic he had not really looked forward to anything.

  He remembered reading an article in Colliers about people who had survived near-death experiences. They were quick with preachy homilies – It taught me to live to the full, Every day counts, You never take anything for granted again. The odd thing for him, however, was that it had only been after his rescue that he realised what a close call he’d had – when he’d actually been in the water he had refused to contemplate his hopeless situation. And the emotion stirred by this retrospective recognition was not gratitude, but an anger that had simmered during his long stay in the hospital and come to a boil on his release. For when he went back to Wisconsin to convalesce, he hadn’t absolutely decided to kill his Uncle Eric, but he wouldn’t have bet against it. Each time he thought about his miraculous escape from death, the more enraged he felt about his uncle’s betrayal.

  Yet just as Nessheim had cheated death, it seemed now death was cheating him – as soon as he got home he learned that Uncle Eric had little time left to live. The big barrelchested German he had known all his life was wasting away; his 250-pound frame couldn’t have weighed half that on the day Nessheim went to see him.

  Nessheim’s aunt had fixed up a room downstairs, off the parlour, where Eric lay on the bed under a pile of heavy blankets. A lunch tray, soup and a roll, lay untouched on the bedside table. Even with the fire roaring next door, enough to make Nessheim sweat, his uncle was shivering from cold. When Aunt Greta went to fill his water bottle, he looked at Nessheim and smiled weakly.

  ‘So Jimmy, how is the government these days?’

  ‘It’s okay. A job’s a job.’

  ‘Still verking for the Treasury counting honest people’s money?’

  Nessheim tried to smile. ‘Actually, I don’t work there any more, Uncle Eric. I’m with the Federal Bureau of Investigation. You know, the FBI.’

  He watched his uncle’s reaction
carefully, but weak as he was, Uncle Eric still looked absolutely astonished. ‘Really?’ he said, his eyes as big as saucers. He tried to sit up against the pillow propped behind him but couldn’t manage it. ‘Since when?’

  ‘A while back,’ said Nessheim.

  ‘Does your mother know?’ His concern seemed entirely genuine.

  ‘She does now.’

  Uncle Eric nodded. ‘Better she should know and worry, than not know and worry anyway.’ He paused, and took a couple of shallow breaths. ‘You like it there?’

  ‘It’s not too bad,’ he said.

  Uncle Eric sighed. ‘You know my views. I have never been shy about expressing them.’ He smiled wanly. ‘But maybe this is not such a bad thing. My own country after all is at war. I hope to God yours can stay out of it.’ He wriggled a shoulder against the mattress.

  ‘Can I get you something?’ asked Nessheim.

  ‘Nah, it’s just an ache. Plenty more where that came from. You know, I am no friend of the English, but I think they had a point in standing up to Hitler.’

  ‘You do?’

  ‘Like many Germans, I have been pleased to see Germany rise again, proud that we no longer live on our knees. But that doesn’t mean you have always to have your own way. And the pact with Moscow. Bah,’ he said, making a face. ‘Not that it will last. But to get in bed with the Bolsheviks is not something I can excuse, whatever the Führer’s reasoning. To have England as an enemy and Russia as a friend is madness. Who knows where it will lead?’

  ‘More war,’ Nessheim said quietly.

  Uncle Eric nodded. ‘Not that I will have to see it,’ he said, and though he wriggled his shoulder again in obvious pain, he seemed pleased by the thought.

  Uncle Eric died ten days after New Year’s, with Nessheim now confident it wasn’t he who had betrayed him after all.

  At the funeral in the Bremen Lutheran church the local German community was out in force. When the service ended, Nessheim saw his old girlfriend Trudy in the churchyard, holding a toddler by the hand, then noticed a bulge at her belly. Number two on its way. He tried to catch her eye, if only for old times’ sake, but she seemed determined not to catch his. Her husband, Alex Burgmeister, took her by the arm and steered her in the opposite direction.