Fear Itself

by Andrew Rosenheim

  ‘You know my face well enough by now, Jimmy.’

  Her lower jaw was moving and she was clicking her teeth nervously. He said, ‘We talk to friends and relatives, and sometimes go back to the person’s home town.’ The words were sticking in his throat like magnets to an iron bar.

  There was a long pause, and then she said, ‘So you know.’

  He nodded.

  ‘He’s just a little boy, Jimmy. I don’t care if my name is mud, but I can’t have it sticking to him.’

  ‘We wouldn’t do anything to hurt him,’ he said urgently. ‘But you’d tell Frank, wouldn’t you? That would ruin everything.’

  ‘Frank doesn’t know?’

  ‘Frank doesn’t know,’ she said dully.

  Nessheim remained silent. Guttman had been right. But how could you marry a man under such a canopy of lies?

  Annie said, ‘I’m glad to know this is official business. I’d hate to think you were acting like such a sleazeball of your own accord.’

  The words hit home. Part of him wanted to make his excuses, tell Guttman that all bets were off, re-tender his resignation, and go and try to make an honest living somewhere else.

  But then he thought of what it was that Guttman feared was really happening, and of the man’s helplessness, confined to his little ranch house on the edge of Arlington with his sick wife. ‘Annie, please, I—’

  ‘You don’t have to be polite, Jimmy. In the circumstances, it would seem more than a little ridiculous. I’ll go get the letters.’

  He nodded dumbly and said nothing; having shown an iron fist, it was too late to hold up a velvet glove.

  ‘Wait here,’ Annie said, and she left the room. He heard her walking down the corridor, towards her aunt’s suite of rooms at the back of the house. He sat there, feeling about as virtuous as a customer in a whorehouse, waiting for the girl he’d picked.

  When Annie came back she was holding a stack of tissue-thin blue writing paper, held together by an oversized paper clip. She handed them over with an expression of distaste.

  ‘Thanks,’ he said. Annie was heading for the door when he said, ‘Please don’t go. I may need you to explain things I don’t understand.’

  She sat down silently. He began reading the letters – there were almost three dozen. The first one began formally:

  Dear Mrs Cummings,

  How nice it was to meet you this past year, and I do hope you will let me know when you are next again in England …

  Sally Cummings must have replied promptly, for the next letter was dated five weeks later and thanked Sally for her reply. After this, the letters came at a rate of roughly every two or three weeks, and very quickly they shed their formality for an established intimacy. The tone of the Dove letters was chatty, high-spirited, and a little naughty, which didn’t alter even when war broke out.

  For this was a correspondence between two society ladies with a shared penchant for people, parties, and prolific gossip. None of the letters was remotely traitorous, and Lady Dove’s sympathies, whatever her unsavoury associations in the past, seemed entirely patriotic, leavened only by a keen eye for the absurd.

  We’re much more hungry than afraid, she wrote pluckily to Sally two months into the conflict, explaining that:

  Louisa the cook discovered that the cat had eaten the bacon ration, so being a practical Polish girl she used the uneaten rinds and powdered eggs to make a quiche for a lunch I was giving (why one’s social life should evaporate because of Herr Hitler is beyond me). Among my guests was the Home Secretary, a grim little Scot named Anderson. He lapped up the quiche without batting an eye, then asked – this is the God’s truth – if he could have the recipe for his wife.

  In the same vein, she recounted how the local war-time bureaucrats had switched round all the Oxford street signs, intending to confuse future German invaders, but succeeding only in getting her new cleaning lady completely lost. Blackouts were in force but the evenings never dull: her friend Jorge the manager of the Mitre reserved a dozen oysters and half a lobster for Lady Dove and her friend Nancy – You’ll remember her, the one with the handsome husband who ran off with a Soho dancer.

  Jorge had produced a bottle of Chablis as well, and later the two ladies had weaved their way down the blacked-out High Street, then sat in the dark in the Principal’s Lodgings, listening to the broadcasts from Berlin:

  Lord Haw-Haw indeed – we laughed until we cried. How Herr Goebbels would have been annoyed at this reaction.

  Yet even in the early letters there was another focus – references to a shared ‘project’ – which slowly came to dominate the correspondence.

  ‘Do you know what she means here?’ he asked Annie at one point, holding up an airmail page.

  ‘I wouldn’t dream of reading her letters without her permission.’

  ‘Don’t you want to know what they say about Frank?’ ‘Not in the slightest. I already know Sally thinks the world of Frank.’

  ‘Oh, she does. But I don’t understand what project he’s helping her with.’

  ‘What do you mean?’ she demanded, as curiosity vied with scruples.

  ‘Just this,’ and he read from one of the letters:

  … I think you’re quite right to think that telling the whole story would not have the desired effect. Honesty is by no means always the best policy. Even the finest men would run a mile, and it would be too cruel if a mistake in early life, however bad, created an immovable obstacle. As well as scare him off the project for good!

  He looked up to find Annie looking uncomfortable. She didn’t say anything, so he read from another:

  How sweet that he has confided in you, little knowing how much you’ve done to steer him in this direction …

  He thought at first that Annie wasn’t listening, for she was looking out the window, as if there was another voice outside which she’d rather hear. But a tear was forming in one of her eyes.

  ‘What’s wrong?’ he asked as gently as he could, though by now he had a good idea.

  She shook her head.

  Then finally he read from a long letter which had been written in March, not long after Nessheim had first visited Belvedere:

  How good he has gone public at last, and it sounds a marvellous occasion – senators, Presidential assistants, even a jewish Justice (you must allow me my little prejudice or two). But seriously, well done you – I’m only miffed this damn war kept me from seeing the fruits of our labour.

  This time when he looked up, he saw tear tracks on both her cheeks. She wiped them with her fingers, leaving her cheek shiny. She said, ‘What do you think she’s talking about, Jimmy?’

  ‘You and Frank – you’re the project.’

  ‘What did you think it was, a big Nazi plot?’

  ‘I’m so sorry,’ he said, sitting back in his chair with the sheaf of letters in his lap.

  ‘So, do you still think my aunt’s a spy?’

  ‘No,’ he said quietly.

  Annie nodded absently, no longer willing to look at him. She said, ‘And I thought you were such a nice guy.’

  ‘You’ve got Frank, and he is a nice guy. He’s got a great future.’

  ‘Sure he does. Shares in Plympton Holdings are always rising.’

  ‘You make it sound like a business decision.’

  She said impatiently, ‘That’s right, Jimmy, just like you – I’m all business. But I’m not the only employee I have to think about. My boy is four years old. He needs more security than I can give him.’

  ‘I hope it’s about more than security.’

  Annie shrugged. ‘I think you’ve got what you wanted, Agent Nessheim. You should go now. You must realise you’re no longer welcome here.’

  30

  NESSHEIM WENT TO see Stephenson the Canadian next, feeling sickened by what he’d forced Annie to do, espe-cially since all it had uncovered was her aunt’s tawdry scheming to marry her off to Frank.

  Guttman hadn’t really briefed him adequately about thi
s meeting in a Georgetown club. ‘Tell him everything you know,’ Guttman had ordered, and when Nessheim had raised an eyebrow, he had said emphatically, ‘He’s one of the good guys, Jimmy.’

  Now upstairs in a small study, Nessheim and Stephenson sat across a desk, gauging each other. Stephenson was probably in his fifties, carefully but casually dressed in a rich blue blazer and tie. Nessheim couldn’t help noticing his hands, which were intertwined on the desktop. They were large and long, with fine fingers that could have gripped a basketball or equally – for the man was hard to place – played a Beethoven sonata.

  ‘Harry said he was sending you in his stead,’ said Stephenson. The voice was North American, but tinged by an English softness.

  ‘That’s right. I report to him.’

  Stephenson looked at him knowingly. ‘You mean you used to report to him. I know what happened.’

  There was something presuming about this which Nessheim didn’t like. Guttman had told him to trust the man, but Nessheim felt uneasy.

  Stephenson went on, ‘He said he’d been suspended. I can’t say I’m surprised; Harry never struck me as a Bureau type.’

  Nessheim stiffened.

  Stephenson unlocked his hands and waved one of them airily. ‘Oh, I don’t mean because he’s a Jew. They’re not my favourite kind of people, to tell you the truth; they do like to look after each other. But that’s neither here nor there. It’s just that you’d have to agree Harry doesn’t really fit the Hoover mould. I know he’s got a law degree, but a night school on the Lower East Side isn’t exactly what the Bureau has in mind, is it?’ His long straight nose crinkled with disapproval.

  ‘I didn’t even graduate from college, Mr Stephenson, so I’m in no position to look down at Mr Guttman’s qualifications.’

  Stephenson was unperturbed. ‘I wouldn’t have thought he was an easy fellow to work for. And the Bureau must have had good reason to suspend him. I’m meeting with Hoover later this week, so I guess I’ll find out then.’

  Nessheim looked at the books on the wall behind Stephenson, growing increasingly angry. Why had Guttman trusted this prick? He was tempted to get up and leave, whatever Guttman’s orders, and he was damned if he’d tell this man anything – even about Lady Dove’s gossipy letters. How he regretted coercing Annie as he had. Had this jerk talked Guttman into that?

  ‘You look uncomfortable, Agent Nessheim,’ said Stephenson. ‘Why’s that?’

  There was no reason not to say. He squared his shoulders. ‘My understanding was that you and Agent Guttman saw things the same way. “Things” being a threat to the security of both our countries – I think you know what I’m talking about. I see now Harry misread that, and by proxy so have I. The fact that you don’t like the man is, in your words, neither here nor there, but the fact that you’ve misled him all along is …’ he searched for a word and finally spluttered, ‘the shittiest thing I’ve seen for a long time.’

  He was disconcerted to find Stephenson smiling. ‘What’s so funny?’ Nessheim demanded, starting to rise to his feet. ‘If you’d like to bring that hyena smile of yours outside I’ll—’

  ‘No, no, no,’ said Stephenson, who was now laughing. ‘Sit down, Agent Nessheim, and I’ll give you a beer. I was testing you, young man. Can’t you see that?’

  Unpersuaded, Nessheim sat down again reluctantly, and Stephenson said, ‘Harry trusts me, you’re right. And I trust him. My only concern was whether I could trust you. If it weren’t so important, it wouldn’t matter, but I had to be sure.’

  ‘Sure of what?’

  ‘Sure of you. Look, your Director does not see eye to eye with Agent Guttman – that’s not exactly a state secret, now is it? Hoover would rather be chasing clapped-out veterans of the Spanish Civil War than digging into Nazi sympathisers who may be plotting to kill the President.’

  Nessheim waited, still leery. Stephenson said, ‘When Harry told me he had been suspended – and what the reason was – I realised someone had it in for him. I had to make sure that this someone wasn’t you – and that you were really on Harry’s side. And unless you’re John Barrymore’s brother, Agent Nessheim, you gave me my answer. I’m not seeing Hoover later this week, by the way; that was a red herring to see if you’d flinch. Now, let me find that beer while you look at this file.’

  The file was named Dubinsky and Nessheim went through it with astonishment, leaving the bottle of beer Stephenson placed on the arm of his chair untouched while he read the contents. When he’d finished he looked up at Stephenson and said, ‘I’ll follow this up right away.’

  Stephenson nodded. Nessheim said, ‘This would fit the bill for the Dreiländer.’

  ‘What?’ The Canadian leaned forward in his chair.

  Nessheim told him about Beringer’s revelation that a Nazi agent had been planted as a boy years before.

  Stephenson said, ‘You know about Werner?’

  ‘Yes. Beringer said he’d taken over contact with the Dreiländer.’

  Stephenson nodded. ‘Then you probably also know that Werner disappeared. Only to turn up dead in Austria, in a region known as Dreiländereck – three lands, after its proximity to three different countries, Italy, Yugoslavia, and Austria. It seems likely the plant may have come from there – since that was the name he was given.

  Nessheim said, ‘But the original contact here wasn’t Werner. A man named Jahnke brought the boy to America—’

  Stephenson interrupted: ‘Do you know who that is?’

  ‘Not really. I gather he was involved in German espionage efforts over here during the last war.’

  ‘He works now with von Ribbentrop, which means the German Foreign Office. He’s linked closely to Heydrich as well – who’s the head of intelligence for the Nazis. And we know a senior German intelligence officer named Schellenberg saw Lady Dove last summer in London. Taken together, it would confirm that this sleeping agent has probably come alive.’

  ‘But we don’t know where Jahnke planted this agent originally. Much less where he is now.’

  ‘I don’t think we can help you there. We don’t have any information about Jahnke when he lived in America.’

  ‘I’m going to find out what we know at the Bureau.’ He said this more in hope than expectation. ‘The other thing I need to tell you is that we’ve seen the other end of the Lady Dove–Sally Cummings correspondence.’

  ‘Well done,’ said Stephenson.

  Nessheim shook his head. ‘I haven’t got good news. Unfortunately, this famous project they kept writing about turns out to be nothing more than a joint effort to get Sally Cummings’s niece married. Lady Dove knows the guy in question.’ He told himself there was no reason to explain Annie Ryerson’s complicated past.

  ‘What a pity,’ Stephenson said. His frustration was obvious, but then he pointed hopefully at the file in Nessheim’s hand. ‘Maybe our answer’s in there.’

  Marie had stayed late for him – it was six-thirty when he made it to the Justice Building. She was a big-shouldered French Canadian woman, rising forty, with reddish hair that wasn’t its original colour, and a feisty manner. Yet right now she looked scared. Nessheim dreaded making his request, since he knew it was going to make her even more frightened. Before he could say anything she came out from her desk and shut the door to the corridor behind him.

  She spoke in a half-whisper. ‘Mr G says if you need to see him tonight, you’re not to come while it’s still light. In fact, it’s best if you go there after midnight.’

  ‘That late?’

  ‘He’ll have a light on in the kitchen – that’s in the rear of the house. The back door will be open.’

  ‘I need your help before then, Marie.’

  She didn’t say anything.

  ‘I need to see a file, but it’s in Records. Here,’ and he handed her a slip of paper with Jahnke’s name on it. ‘It’ll be Historical, Marie, not Active. I’d go myself, but they’d want Harry’s signed okay on the request. I haven’t got that.’

&nb
sp; ‘What makes you think they’d let me have it instead?’

  He didn’t have an answer. ‘Harry told me you’d help, Marie. I’m not trying to get you in trouble.’

  She went over to her desk and brought out a stack of forms – FRs, he realised, File Requests. She took a pen out of a holder and he watched as she wrote in flowing ink Harry Guttman on the signature line. Seeing him look wide-eyed, she said, ‘Relax, I do this all the time. Harry never remembers to sign anything.’ She added sharply, ‘Including your termination request last fall.’

  ‘Won’t Files know he’s been suspended?’

  ‘Yeah. But he’ll have had a backlog of FRs. The Fifth Floor will want to see everything he’s pulled. Don’t look so worried – they will see everything he’s pulled. Except this.’

  Someone was coming down the hall, a heavy tread. ‘Get in there,’ whispered Marie urgently, pointing to Guttman’s own office. He moved quickly and she had half-shut the door behind him when he heard a voice in the anteroom.

  ‘Hello, Marie. You’re working late.’

  ‘Hi, Mr Tolson. Just clearing up a few odds and ends.’ Nessheim stood behind the half-closed door. He stared at Guttman’s desk as he listened. It held a tacky-looking pen set and a stained blotter, but otherwise had been swept clean.

  ‘If it’s for Mr Guttman I’ll need to know what they are.’

  ‘Of course, Mr Tolson. I was making a list, actually, just like you said I should. I’ll bring it up in the morning. It includes his FRs and all the correspondence from field offices.’

  ‘Good. I also want to double-check his direct reports. Would Harry have a list of them on his desk?’

  For an awful moment Nessheim thought that Tolson might come through the door. There wasn’t going to be much he could say to explain his presence.

  Then Marie said, ‘I don’t think so, Mr Tolson. To be honest, if it was anything administrative, I’d have it out here. Mr G tended to prefer it that way.’