Fear Itself

by Andrew Rosenheim

  Sag dem Dreiländer er soll zuschlagen!

  It couldn’t be clearer: Tell the Dreiländer to strike now!

  But these weren’t Heydrich’s words. Schellenberg looked with awe at the signature at the bottom of the page, signed in ink the colour of deep carmine:

  Adolph Hitler

  28

  Late May 1940

  Washington D.C.

  NESSHEIM HAD SPENT the rest of the day wondering when he would be fired. He told himself he would reinstate the plans he had made after the Armory raid in New York. Back he’d go to Wisconsin, then out West to collect his car and personal possessions before … what? He wondered. He supposed with several years at the Bureau under his belt he could become a policeman in some small town, but contemplating a life spent issuing speeding tickets and sending drunken teenagers home was enough to lower his spirits. He realised that for all his disaffection from his run-in with the Bund, he had enjoyed coming back to work for the Bureau.

  At the White House the next morning as he parked his car he saw Fedora leaving from the west gate. He stayed in his car until he saw the other agent reach Pennsylvania Avenue, since he didn’t want a second bust-up which would give Guttman another reason to fire him. But Nessheim wondered what Fedora was doing there, especially when Nessheim entered the Executive Wing office and found Mueller in inexplic-ably high spirits, talking almost manically as the other agents arrived for work.

  Nessheim spent the morning in the Mansion, reviewing the presidential schedule with Missy Le Hand and Miss Tully, glad to be away from Mueller. When he returned to his cubicle he found a message from the switchboard to call Guttman. He dialled the Bureau HQ and got Marie, Guttman’s secretary.

  ‘Mr Guttman wants to see you.’

  ‘When?’ he said warily.

  ‘This evening.’

  ‘At his office?’ he asked, thinking he’d rather quit than get summoned to be fired.

  ‘No, he wants to see you at home. Let me give you the address. It’s in Virginia.’

  Christ, he thought as he scribbled down the address Marie read over the phone. She added, ‘Mr Guttman asked that you keep this meeting confidential.’

  ‘Understood,’ said Nessheim, but he didn’t.

  Guttman’s house was on a street of ranch houses on the edge of Arlington. They were brick residences, single storey and recently built, and the neighbourhood seemed well-heeled – there were good cars in most of the driveways, and even at dusk Nessheim could see the lawns were tended, the trim on the houses neatly painted. Yet the development ended abruptly next to several empty lots; the developers must have run out of cash. He parked there, away from the houses – he had a sixth sense that something wasn’t right.

  Guttman answered the door, wearing corduroy trousers and an open-necked shirt. He looked tired, his face pale under its five o’clock shadow.

  ‘Come on in,’ he said, and Nessheim entered a little foyer, and followed Guttman into the sitting room. It consisted of three armchairs, tidily arranged, and a sofa the colour of chartreuse, with big stuffed cushions. There were a few prints on the wall, and a framed photograph of the Empire State Building.

  Guttman moved over to a maple credenza by the window. ‘Drink?’ he asked, and before Nessheim could reply, he took out a bottle and poured two stiff shorts into stubby glasses. ‘Water?’ he asked again, and when Nessheim nodded he took the glasses into the kitchen next door.

  Nessheim followed him; an overhead bulb with a yellow shade cast a liverish light on the dim linoleum floor. Nessheim was impressed to find a refrigerator humming in one corner, but the sink was a low ceramic basin, and the cupboards were warped. Through the kitchen was a small dining alcove, with a small plaster Jesus on a wooden cross in the corner that Nessheim couldn’t help staring at.

  ‘My wife’s Catholic,’ Guttman said.

  ‘Sorry,’ said Nessheim, dumbfounded.

  ‘What, sorry that she’s Catholic, or sorry that I caught you looking?’ Guttman said with a tired laugh. ‘You Catholic?’ he asked.

  ‘Lutheran.’

  ‘My wife’s a Polish gal,’ Guttman said. ‘My own people were Poles, so we had that in common. Just not our religions.’

  ‘Where is she now?’ asked Nessheim.

  ‘She’s right through there.’ He jerked his thumb at the wall. ‘I hope she’s asleep.’

  They went back to the living room and sat down, Nessheim taking the couch.

  ‘Good whisky,’ he said, taking a sip.

  ‘A present from the Director himself – Johnnie Walker Black,’ said Guttman. He added as a sour afterthought, ‘Back when I was in favour.’

  ‘Why, what’s happened?’

  ‘You haven’t heard?’ Guttman seemed genuinely surprised. ‘I thought word would have got around. I’ve been suspended.’

  ‘What for?’

  ‘I’ll come to that,’ said Guttman. But before he could go on, there was a thud from another room. Guttman got up and hurried to the back of the house. Following him discreetly, Nessheim found his erstwhile boss kneeling down in the bedroom. His wife appeared to have fallen out of bed.

  ‘Can I help?’ asked Nessheim.

  Guttman glared at him, then his face relented. ‘If you wouldn’t mind,’ he mumbled.

  Mrs Guttman was a bird, small with arms like fragile wings sticking out from her cotton peignoir. Her eyes were closed as Nessheim bent down and gently helped Guttman lift her onto the bed, where Guttman hastily covered her with the sheet and blanket. It was only as her husband tucked a pillow under her head that she opened her eyes, and finding Nessheim in her field of vision, they widened. She had been a pretty woman once, Nessheim thought, and her eyes still held a twinkle. She said distinctly, ‘Thank you.’ Then her face creased into a smile.

  Back in the kitchen, Guttman opened the icebox and took out a half-eaten tube of liver sausage, then retrieved a heel of bread from a covered crock. ‘Hungry?’ he asked, and Nessheim shook his head. Guttman smeared the pâté-like sausage on the bread with a butter knife and took a big bite. With his mouth half full he said, ‘My wife isn’t very well.’ He stopped chewing. ‘She’s got multiple sclerosis – what they used to call “creeping paralysis”.’

  ‘I’m sorry,’ said Nessheim. He was at a loss to say anything else, so he was quiet for a moment, then continued, ‘You were saying you’ve been suspended.’

  Guttman nodded as he chewed. ‘They escorted me from the building without so much as a by-your-leave.’

  ‘Who do your people report to now?’

  ‘The Justice staff report to Louis B. Nichols; Mueller keeps the White House bunch.’

  ‘What about me? I could be either.’

  ‘Yes,’ Guttman said, close-mouthed as a poker player drawing only one card.

  ‘Do I get a choice?’

  ‘Why choose?’ Guttman’s expression had gone into neutral. Nessheim suddenly understood. ‘I could hide between the pair of them, couldn’t I?’

  ‘For a while. It might be long enough.’

  Long enough for what?

  Guttman went on, ‘I can only operate by proxy now.’

  Nessheim was suddenly conscious that the dynamic between them had changed. Guttman was in no position to give orders any more; he was asking Nessheim for help.

  Nessheim said, ‘What is it you want me to do?’

  ‘Let’s go sit down. This may take a while.’

  When he left Guttman’s house it was dark. Here in Virginia the stars dotted the sky like fairy lights on a Christmas tree, but there was no moon and the street was black as fresh tar. The pool car – a Ford that had been serviced the month before – was reliable, and started up with a low roar, and the headlights were brighter than those of his own pickup truck, still sitting in California. He hoped Devereux was looking after it, though he doubted he was going to see it again any time soon.

  For the first time Nessheim had felt Guttman was levelling with him, especially when Guttman told him what he
really thought was going on. Nessheim welcomed the confidence, not having had it before. And as he listened to the man he had found himself starting to share Guttman’s sense of urgency. By the time the older agent had finished talking, Nessheim made it clear that he would do what he could to help – though there was a tricky moment when, feeling obliged to reciprocate Guttman’s new openness, he told him about President Roosevelt’s secret rendezvous with Mrs Rutherford. Fortunately, after some initial astonishment, Guttman had seemed to forgive Nessheim his failure to report this news before. Not that Guttman was in any position to do otherwise; Nessheim was the last string he had left to pull.

  With Guttman suspended, Nessheim was the only one in a position to find the Dreiländer.

  I have no choice, thought Nessheim. Like it or not, it was up to him.

  29

  WHEN NESSHEIM ENTERED the Executive Wing office the next morning, Dinah greeted him breezily. There was no sign of Mueller. Nessheim worked desultorily until eleven o’clock examining the recent logbooks of the White House Mansion; it was impossible to concentrate. Then he phoned Marie.

  ‘Mr Nichols was asking after you,’ she said.

  ‘Oh?’

  ‘I explained you were working for Mr Mueller now.’ She sounded as if someone else was in the room with her.

  ‘Right,’ he said. ‘Listen, Marie, I need to come over and check some files for Mr Guttman. If I came by at five, do you think that would be okay?’

  ‘Of course, Mr Finsterwald,’ she said. Finsterwald? Someone was in the room with her. ‘If you could come an hour later, that would be ideal.’

  ‘See you at six, Marie.’ He looked at his watch. If he got moving he should be just in time for his earlier appointment. Not that it was scheduled.

  He was just getting up to leave when Mueller walked in. ‘You,’ Mueller said, pointing a finger. ‘I want a word.’

  They went out in the corridor. Mueller asked, ‘So what’s the story with the Hopeless Hebrew?’

  ‘What do you mean?’

  Mueller frowned. ‘Don’t play hayseed with me, Nessheim. If I’ve heard the news so have you – your boss is no longer your boss.’

  Nessheim shrugged. Suddenly Mueller started to sing, to a tune from The Wizard of Oz: ‘Ding dong, the Heeb is dead/ The useless Heeb, the Heeb is dead.’

  He stopped suddenly, and looked at Nessheim. ‘What I can’t understand is why you’re not reporting to me.’

  ‘I don’t know,’ Nessheim said blandly.

  ‘Who are you reporting to?’

  ‘Louis B. Nichols,’ he said, confident that Mueller wouldn’t challenge this – Nichols was an assistant director.

  ‘It doesn’t make much sense – with you over here most of the time.’ He sounded angry. ‘I wouldn’t count on its lasting, pal. In the meantime I’m keeping an eye on you.’

  Nessheim shrugged again, but his stomach was churning. The last thing he needed was to have Mueller checking up on him. ‘Anything else, Mule?’ he said, trying not to bait the man, or to show the fear he felt.

  He made it seem pure coincidence, and she bought it. She would have picked up little Jeff from nursery school twenty minutes before, and he managed to time his arrival at the corner of Wisconsin Avenue perfectly. Nessheim didn’t look in her direction, but he didn’t need to.

  ‘Jimmy!’ Annie called out.

  His face was a pantomime of surprise as he turned to find her standing, holding Jeff’s hand, only 50 feet down the sidewalk.

  ‘Hi!’ he said, sounding surprised. I should be in Hollywood with Purvis, he thought without pride. Jeff let go of his mother’s hand and scooted towards him, beaming.

  ‘Hey, sailor,’ he said, bending down and ruffling the little boy’s hair.

  ‘We’re on our way home,’ said Annie. ‘But what are you doing here? Shouldn’t you be at work protecting the rest of us?’

  ‘I was conducting a gunfight in the neighbourhood.’

  ‘Did you plug him?’ asked the little boy.

  ‘Jeff! What a way to talk,’ said Annie.

  Nessheim laughed. ‘How do you know it was a him? Ma Barker was as tough as any man.’

  ‘Which way are you going?’ asked Annie. She was wearing a pale blue dress and clutch coat that highlighted her dark hair.

  ‘Beats me,’ confessed Nessheim. ‘I was through for the day and just taking a walk.’

  ‘Walk with us then,’ said Annie, and they set off. While Jeff babbled on about robbers and guns, Nessheim talked with Annie – it was small talk, about where Frank was (in Montana, talking to the owners of silver mines), and about Justice Frankfurter’s cold, and then, briefly but gloomily, about Europe, where the German advance was now engulfing western Europe – France was falling, the British Army was being pushed back on every front.

  When they reached the gates of Belvedere, he stopped. Jeff piped up, ‘Aren’t you coming home with us?’

  Perfect, thought Nessheim. ‘Well …’

  ‘Mom, please,’ the boy pleaded.

  ‘Why don’t you come in?’ she said. ‘Sally’s at Five Forks today.’

  ‘We got cake,’ said Jeff.

  ‘Cake?’ said Nessheim with mock-astonishment. ‘What are we waiting for?’

  With Sally Cummings in Virginia, the staff were also away, except for Mrs O’Neill, who whisked Jeff off to have cake and a mug of milk in the empty kitchen, while Annie and Nessheim went upstairs. She had put china cups and saucers and a full teapot on a tray with a strainer, and Nessheim dutifully carried it up to the landing. Next to the newly installed lift, the door to the adjacent bedroom was open, and looking in he saw Shaker-style furniture and a two-poster bed.

  They went into Annie’s study next door, where she took the tray and put it down on her desk, motioning him to sit on the small settee against the wall. She seemed in such a good mood that he hesitated before spoiling it. But there was never going to be a good time for this. So he plunged in as soon as she had poured out the tea and sat down behind her desk.

  ‘Annie, you know at the FBI I’m what they call a special agent.’

  ‘Yes, Jimmy,’ she said like an indulgent mother. She added with a laugh, ‘We call you “The G-Man” behind your back.’

  ‘I bet you do. But you probably don’t know that I work in counter-espionage.’

  ‘For Mr Guttman, right? The man who came to see the Justice.’

  ‘That’s right. You know what counter-espionage is.’

  She gave him a look. ‘I saw The Lady Vanishes, Jimmy. I hope your work is not quite that exciting.’

  ‘Hitchcock has nothing on us. The thing is, I’m working on detecting Nazis who may be here in the States.’ He was keeping it vague; there was no point alarming her yet – that would come soon enough.

  ‘Okay,’ she said equably.

  He paused, unsure how to proceed. ‘Some of them are in contact with other sympathisers – by letter, I mean. The people receiving these letters may be entirely innocent, but we have to make sure.’

  There was still a half-smile on her face but she seemed to sense his seriousness. ‘Okay,’ she said again, slowly.

  ‘Your aunt is one of these people receiving letters.’

  ‘Are you trying to tell me Aunt Sally is a Nazi spy?’ she asked, laughing a little nervously.

  ‘Of course not. But we think an Englishwoman she corresponds with may be.’

  ‘And who’s this English lady, Jimmy?’

  ‘Her name is Lady Dove.’

  She stared at him with a look of incredulity. ‘Are you serious? Lady Dove a spy? Justice Frankfurter, and Doobs and Frank – anyone who’s been to Oxford knows Lady Dove. She’s no spy – at least not for the Nazis! God, Jimmy, her husband is a Socialist.’

  ‘I’m not thinking of Sir Henry Dove,’ Nessheim said, and he found his voice sounding shaky even to himself. ‘Her first husband is now a major figure in the British Fascist movement – people call him Oswald Mosley’s right-hand man. And we have evidenc
e that Lady Dove’s sympathies are also with Hitler.’

  ‘Believe me,’ he said, trying to sound soothing, ‘we’re not saying your aunt’s doing anything wrong. But we do think she might be being used by Lady Dove. And unless we know what Lady Dove is telling her, we won’t be able to help.’

  Annie considered this for a moment, then said briskly, ‘I see – you want to read her letters. Lady Dove’s to Aunt Sally. That’s what you’re asking, isn’t it?’

  He didn’t want to look her in the face. She went on, with almost analytic detachment, ‘Yes, that’s what you’re asking for. And since Aunt Sally’s not about to grant such a request – you know as well as I do what she’d think of that – you’ve decided to sidle up to her niece instead.’

  ‘Hey now …’ he began, wanting to pre-empt the anger he sensed behind the precision in her voice.

  ‘Come off it,’ she said, suddenly impatient. ‘Though why you think I’d actually help you spy on my aunt is incomprehensible.’

  She said this so definitively that he waited, hoping she might add some softening words. She sat there, looking at him, as if seeing him afresh for the bastard he was starting to feel he was.

  But he had no choice. ‘Part of my job involves reviewing security arrangements, and that means checking into people who know the President.’

  His tone must have been a giveaway, for she looked alert again, viewing him with wary eyes. ‘And …?’ she asked.

  ‘It means we learn all sorts of stuff about people. Most of it is completely irrelevant, but we hear about it all the same. That makes it kind of tough.’

  ‘Makes what kind of tough?’ she asked.

  ‘In my case, learning things about people I actually know. That’s unusual – normally, it’s just a file, you can’t even put a face to it.’