Fear Itself

by Andrew Rosenheim

  Beringer looked shocked by this idea, then angry. ‘I was fond of Bock,’ he said flatly. ‘There was no reason to kill him. He was loyal to the Reich, I’m sure.’

  Nessheim was not about to disabuse him. He waited. Beringer said, ‘How do I know you will live up to your side of the bargain?’

  ‘You don’t. But we will.’

  Beringer dropped his cigarette on the floor and stubbed it out with his shoe. He seemed to have made up his mind. ‘As I said, I only know a little.’

  As he began to speak, Beringer looked over Nessheim’s shoulder, as if better to remember. ‘It was several years ago in Michigan. I was living in Detroit then, in the same neighbourhood as Schultz. We were both very active in the Bund. One night Werner showed up at Schultz’s house, slightly tipsy. He was looking for Freda, his sister and Schultz’s wife – Werner used to cadge money from her. Small sums; Schultz wouldn’t allow her to give him more.

  ‘This time he wanted a lot of money: he said he was going back to Europe for a visit. Perhaps it was the prospect of his brother-in-law’s departure, but to my surprise Schultz was happy to lend it to him. It was 200 dollars, I believe. Schultz never thought much of Werner, but that night he invited him to join us in the kitchen where we were drinking. Werner had already had a snoutful, but he drank some more. He hadn’t said why he was going back to Europe; I rather assumed he was going to Berlin for the Olympics. Instead he and Schultz started talking about old times. It was then Werner mentioned Jahnke.’

  ‘Jahnke?’ asked Nessheim.

  ‘That’s right,’ said Beringer, too involved in his story to explain. ‘Werner was saying how canny the old boy had been, how Jahnke had brought a secret weapon to America. “Secret weapons” – everybody always talks about secrets weapons. It’s all this Mars nonsense with spaceships. It’s about as real as the Katzenjammer Kids.’

  Nessheim nodded as Beringer continued, ‘Anyway, Schultz asked Werner how a “secret weapon” was going to help the Bund’s cause when Jahnke was back in Germany, thousands of miles away.

  ‘Werner was unfazed. I remember him saying very clearly, “Don’t be so sure. The secret weapon I am talking about is not a device. It’s a man, though he was just a boy when Jahnke brought him over.” Schultz smirked at this, and Werner said crossly, “He’s even got a code name.”’

  ‘Did Werner say what the code name was?’

  ‘He was called Dreiländer.’

  25

  BACK FROM SING Sing, Nessheim was heading for Guttman’s office when he ran into Fedora.

  ‘Anything at the camp?’ Nessheim said.

  Fedora looked at him mockingly. ‘The tape recorder was gone. The locals must have cleared out the loft. Somebody’s got a government-issue machine they won’t know what to do with.’

  Nessheim started to move around him but Fedora put out a restraining hand. ‘I looked into the broad you asked me about.’

  ‘And?’

  ‘Nothing much.’ When Nessheim took another step he said more sharply, ‘Except what she told you is so much bull.’

  ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘Just that this famous dead pilot hero hasn’t ever been her husband.’

  He waited, satisfied that he had Nessheim’s full attention. ‘That’s not all. Mr Martin – who was born “Martini” by the way – isn’t even dead. He may have knocked up your girlfriend, but he didn’t marry her.’ He pulled an index card out of his inner jacket pocket and looked at his scribbled notes. ‘The Wop’s married all right, but his wife’s name is Barbara Castor, born 1916 in Tacoma Washington. That’s where they’re living now, according to latest reports. With two children he’s happy to call his own.’

  He put the card back in his pocket and looked at Nessheim with feigned innocence. ‘What’s the matter, pal? Have you been hoping to put your wick in her wax?’ He gave Nessheim a playful punch on the shoulder. ‘Don’t worry – you’ll get there. You just need to be patient. Sounds like there could be a long line of guys ahead of you.’

  Nessheim grabbed the lapels of Fedora’s chocolate pinstripes and pushed him until he held him against the wall.

  ‘Hey, take it easy, sailor.’ Fedora wasn’t resisting, and he didn’t seem alarmed.

  ‘What the hell’s going on?’ It was Guttman, barking from his doorway down the hall. ‘Nessheim, let him go. And both of you come into my office right now.’

  Reluctantly, Nessheim released his hold on Fedora’s pinstripes, and the man brushed both lapels, as if he were flicking off dust. They trooped down the corridor and followed Guttman into his office, then stood while Guttman faced them from behind his desk.

  ‘Jesus wept, I can’t have agents fighting in the hallway. What’s all this about?’

  Nessheim gestured for Fedora to do the talking, and he did, reporting in clipped tones what he’d discovered in Woodstock while Guttman listened in silence.

  When Fedora had finished Guttman scratched his bald head, pondering. ‘So Martin’s the kid’s daddy?’

  Fedora nodded. ‘That’s right. But he wouldn’t marry her. He went and enlisted – bingo, he’s miles away in boot camp while she’s figuring what to do. She was only seventeen. Her parents are the strict Yankee type. The old man runs a store – the kind where your credit gets cut off if you’re three hours late paying the grocery bill. God knows what they were going to do, except make the kid sweat for her sins. Then she disappears – nobody could tell me what happened, and nobody knew where she’d gone. They said the parents never mention her.’

  The aunt, thought Nessheim. Sally Cummings had stepped in, scooped her up, and brought her down to D.C. along with a cover story of the tragic death of the young father, leaving a poor widowed mother. And it had worked. Until now. I should have left it alone, Nessheim thought.

  The phone on the desk rang, like a shrill announcement. Guttman picked it up and immediately looked tense. ‘Yes, Mr Hoover,’ he said. Fedora stood up to leave, and looking at Nessheim, mouthed three words. Watch your back.

  ‘Yes, sir. Tomorrow at four,’ Guttman said and hung up.

  Nessheim noticed he was sweating. ‘So what was that about out there?’ Guttman demanded, pointing to the hallway.

  ‘He got my goat. I’m sorry.’

  ‘You ought to be.’ He shook a disapproving head. ‘Now tell me about New York.’

  ‘I saw Beringer. He talked.’ He waited for Guttman to react; when he didn’t, he said, ‘He told me there was an agent planted over here. Code name Dreiländer. He came here as a boy. His last contact was this guy Werner, but before that Jahnke was his link with the Nazis – and Jahnke brought him over.’

  ‘Who’s Jahnke?’

  ‘I was hoping you’d tell me.’

  ‘I’ll have Records check him out. There might be something there.’

  Nessheim had expected Guttman to be more excited by his news. He said impatiently, ‘Don’t you see? If we can find out where Jahnke was, that could lead us to Dreiländer. Isn’t that what we’re looking for?’

  Guttman shrugged. ‘Sure,’ he said, but it seemed a token acknowledgement. ‘This Annie woman, how well do you know her?’

  ‘Why are you asking about her?’

  ‘She could be important. I find information more credible when we’ve found it ourselves. I’ll check the files for this Jahnke fellow, but I think the priority should be closer to home. Here in Washington.’

  ‘I don’t understand.’ Why had Guttman sent him to New York if he was going to dismiss his findings out of hand?

  ‘The only lead we have that’s current is this woman Sally Cummings. And we need to see the letters to her from Lady Dove. The problem is the Director would run a mile before he’d let me make an intercept. But I bet her niece can get at them.’

  ‘But if we can find out where Jahnke took—’

  ‘Look, you did well to get the name, and I said I’ll have it checked out. But right now the priority has to be getting a look at these letters.’

 
‘Why would Annie Ryerson agree to rifle through her aunt’s correspondence? I can’t ask her to do that.’

  ‘Not on the basis of friendship – I understand that. But you’ve got better ammo than affection.’

  ‘What do you mean?’ asked Nessheim.

  ‘You’ve said she’s marrying this young buck from the New Deal with future senator written all over him. Does this husband-to-be know that Annie’s dead husband is A) not dead and B) never was her husband? I bet he doesn’t know a thing. A few choice words telling her beau what really happened to Mr Martini and ten years from now Miss Ryerson will be a spinster, with what people politely call an interesting face, still working for two grand a year for Justice Frankfurter.’

  ‘That’s awful rough.’

  Guttman said, ‘Jack was right – you are sweet on her.’

  ‘I barely know her. I just don’t think it’s my job to engage in blackmail.’

  ‘You don’t get to pick your spots, kid.’

  ‘Don’t call me kid,’ said Nessheim, starting to get angry.

  ‘You don’t get to pick your spots,’ Guttman repeated.

  ‘I won’t do it.’

  ‘You won’t do it?’ Guttman asked with feigned astonishment. ‘Anything else you feel disinclined to do? Is your White House office not big enough, Nessheim? Feeling sore because your meals aren’t served on a tray?’

  ‘It’s dirty.’

  ‘Dirty? Yeah, of course it is; so are lots of things we get paid to do. What can I tell you? You want to be a white knight on a charger, join the Red Cross. But don’t ever tell me our motives aren’t clean. The methods may sometimes stink, but never the motives.’

  ‘Is that what you tell yourself when you look in the mirror?’

  ‘Actually, I try not to. You should try shaving in the dark, Nessheim; you don’t see the blood that way. I’m trying to stop something happening that’s a hell of a lot more important than your delicate sensibilities, kid.’ Guttman looked disgusted.

  ‘I won’t do it,’ said Nessheim, and he stood up. He didn’t know what would happen now, and he wasn’t sure he cared.

  26

  WHEN GUTTMAN DID up his tie the following morning, he noticed the fold of skin at the base of his throat just above his collar button, the same small valley he had noted thirty years before in his father. It was another sign of his own ageing, and he wondered dimly what would follow next. Hair in his ears? Hair on his back (well, more hair actually). Stiffness in his joints – forget it, he already had that. He had spent so much time over the last few years tending his invalid wife that he hadn’t paid attention to the creeping signs of his own degeneration. So why was he bothering now?

  Because it’s just not going my way, he decided, and thought of how Nessheim had stalked out of his office. He had been wrong to bring the kid back, he thought, though the reasons for his doubts had changed. He no longer believed Nessheim had an ounce of Bund-ish sentiment in him; instead there was a streak of piety that had no place in the emotional armoury of an agent of the Bureau. Nessheim wanted his work to be a grand vocation, a calling more than a job. Guttman liked to think he was as moral as anyone – his job was going after bad guys – but he would never have worn a white hat. It was not a crusade.

  Since he had a meeting with Hoover that afternoon, Guttman put on his suit jacket carefully, making sure the flaps to his side pockets were out. Now all he had to do was go to his wife, waiting patiently in her wheelchair next door, take her into the bathroom for the extended morning ablutions, get her dressed (a good half-hour some days), make her breakfast (she said she was getting tired of Quaker Oats but he hadn’t found a palatable alternative yet), settle her in the living room with the newspaper and the book of her beloved crosswords, then wait for the day help to arrive. Then he could drive to his office, where other people would say his working day began.

  At eight-thirty, Marie brought him the early post – from within the building, from field offices (Detroit, Albuquerque), and a few bits from what he no longer thought of as the real world. One from this last bunch caught his attention, a card in an envelope marked Private: Harry, could you give me a call? I’ve got something. Bill

  He rang Stephenson at ‘The Club’ but was told the Canadian was out. He would have called him again, later that morning, but an agent had been shot and wounded trying to stop a bank robbery in Kansas, and though this was not part of Guttman’s normal responsibilities, the relevant assistant director was away and he had to stand in. There was national press interest (though Louis B. Nichols would deal with that), but he had to talk with the SAC in the Wichita office, who sounded green and scared on the phone. First Nessheim, then this guy, thought Guttman, who never liked holding someone’s hand. No one had ever held his.

  Lunch was Pastrami on rye which Marie brought in without his asking – ‘You’d have forgotten,’ she said when he seemed surprised at the paper plate, with its dollop of mustard and dill pickle. Then another phone call, from Milwaukee, where the SAC said a local congressman who’d raised questions about the prosecution of a brewing magnate for bribing safety inspectors was threatening to visit the Bureau field office when he was back in Wisconsin for summer recess. Hold him off, Guttman advised, hoping the congressman would forget about it by then.

  And through all this he was trying to prepare mentally for his four o’clock meeting with the Director.

  When the time came and he took the elevator up to the Fifth Floor, he was apprehensive. Then Tolson came up behind him in the hall, striding hard.

  ‘Hi, Clyde,’ he said.

  Tolson, usually affable, just nodded curtly. That was ominous.

  When he entered the Director’s office, Hoover was at his desk. Guttman noticed that the drapes on the windows had been drawn. They looked new – and heavier. Steel-reinforced no doubt.

  Hoover stood up. He was wearing a silk tie with polka dots. Probably a freebie, thought Guttman. He had learned over time that the Director had no compunction about accepting presents. Restaurant meals, hotel rooms (separate suites for him and Tolson), free bets at the track, drinks and meals on the house at the Stork Club during visits to New York, and seemingly half his wardrobe.

  ‘Have a seat at the table, Mr Guttman,’ Hoover said.

  Guttman knew now he was in hot water. Hoover usually called agents by their surnames, in a kind of grown-up adaptation of prep-school practice. The politer prefix of ‘Mr’ spelled trouble.

  Helen Gandy appeared in the doorway. Her hair, Guttman happened to know, was washed and dried every seven days by an Italian woman in Maryland, and each day she wore an identical navy blue dress and low pumps. She was entirely loyal and entirely without initiative; that Hoover hadn’t had to call for her now meant her appearance had been prearranged. Another bad sign.

  ‘Show her in, please, Miss Gandy,’ Hoover instructed gravely.

  The woman who entered the room a moment later had dark shoulder-length hair, and a face that hovered between expectation and experience. She was holding a Manila envelope and on her wrist was a clunky, oversized watch. A man’s watch. Hoover adopted the gentle voice he put on with younger women. ‘Thank you for coming in, Dinah. This is Mr Guttman. Do you recognise him?’

  Her eyes surveilled Guttman impassively then shifted back to Hoover. ‘Yes, sir. This is the man I watched on two occasions in Bethesda and once in a diner near Franklin Park.’

  ‘And he wasn’t alone?’

  ‘No, sir. He was with a man later identified as Emil Bock of the German Embassy.’

  ‘Can I have that, please?’ asked Hoover, and she handed over the envelope. ‘That will be all, Dinah.’

  As she left the room, Guttman wondered what the hell was going on. It was no secret Bock had been his source – did they expect him to have maintained contact by letter?

  Hoover placed the Manila envelope on the table. ‘Mr Guttman, your performance in recent months has been troubling to me. You’ve risen high in the ranks of this organisation and h
ave important responsibilities, so I was willing to overlook some of your recent deficiencies – in particular, your subverting of our campaign to prosecute traitors who went to fight for a foreign power in Spain. I can’t help but think that at least some of the misinformed press coverage of our arrests of these men should be laid at your door.’

  ‘I never talk to journalists, Director,’ said Guttman.

  ‘So you say. In any case, I’ve not asked you here to discuss that. Now, look at this, please.’

  Guttman took the envelope and undid the thin string wrapped around its protruding clasp. Inside were two glossy photographs. Both showed Guttman on a park bench, sitting in bright sun next to Emil Bock. In the first he was handing a slim envelope to Bock; in the second Bock was taking out its contents, a large wad of dollar bills. Twenty-dollar bills actually, thought Guttman.

  He looked up to find Tolson and Hoover staring at him in silence. But he knew it would be fatal to speak first.

  Hoover said, ‘Can you explain what’s going on in the photograph?’

  Just what it looks like, he wanted to reply. He said, ‘I am giving Emil Bock 1,000 dollars, Mr Hoover.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘To hand over to Max Schultz of the German-American Bund.’

  ‘Did he?’

  ‘I hope so – that was the point of it. I wanted him to win the confidence of Schultz.’ He stopped there; it was crucial to keep Nessheim out of this. He could defend giving Bock money, but he couldn’t make a case for Nessheim’s undercover role – not when it had been explicitly forbidden by Hoover.

  Tolson spoke up in his alto tones. ‘Was this the only time you gave money to Bock?’

  Guttman shook his head. ‘I gave him 500 dollars on two other occasions.’

  ‘Were they receipted?’

  ‘By Bock? No.’ Guttman wished he could loosen his tie.

  ‘And you don’t even know for sure that he gave the money to Schultz.’

  ‘Schultz is in Sing Sing, doing twenty-five to thirty-five, so I consider it money well spent.’

  Tolson ignored this. ‘What about internally? Were the payments receipted by you?’