The Manhattan Deception

by Simon Leighton-Porter

  She made her “whatever” face. ‘Oh, you know, OK I guess.’ In truth she hadn’t seen them for a couple of days. The maid got them up and drove them to school, collected them, cooked their evening meal them and did her best, with her limited English, to make them do their homework. When Novak’s wife came in from the golf club or the gym, she rarely bothered to check up on them. Novak knew but had long ago decided it wasn’t worth the fight that any mention of her parenting skills always provoked. Besides, he had a pretty good idea what the future probably held for them: mediocre SATs; three years at an expensive liberal arts college majoring in something pointless and then he’d be expected to pull strings to get them onto the bottom rung of a suitably tall career ladder, jumping a queue of brighter but less well-connected kids in the process. From then on, as far as he cared, they could sink or swim: very probably the former.

  Novak caught himself just in time to avoid falling asleep in the armchair. Together, they wandered through to the kitchen – downlighters, solid beech, brushed steel fittings and the latest in range cookers – where he micro-waved the goulash the maid had left out. Then bed, sleep, work. At weekends she golfed, he caught up on sleep and then worked: perfunctory and choreographed sex on Saturday if he had the energy, and then, on Monday morning, the carousel would start turning again and he’d jump onto a passing horse. It’ll be worth it in the end when I get there, he reasoned. But how will I know when I have? The question never got asked, because he was already asleep, his wife propped up in bed next to him, reading a magazine.

  Chapter Twenty-two

  More frenzy from our jailers – that’s all they are in reality. A. has received a postcard forwarded from our old address. R. is in Argentina! Says he’ll do his best to visit aunt Hilda next time he’s in the neighbourhood. A. and I very envious: anywhere better than this (except South Dakota). More threats and now we’re not allowed to send or receive any mail, not even postcards. Will need to use our ingenuity in future but think I see a way.

  *

  James fobbed Cuthbertson off with a story about getting an early night and met Cathy at an Italian restaurant in Georgetown. It was tucked away down a back street between M Street and the Chesapeake & Ohio Canal and he was having trouble finding the place until, thanks to the smell of cooking, he was able literally to follow his nose down the steep, cobbled street to the entrance. Inside, the style of the décor had clearly made several trips back and forth across the Atlantic and the owners had finally settled on a pastiche of everyone’s idea of an Italian restaurant. He looked from the chequered tablecloths to the raffia-covered bottles of Chianti and woven tresses of garlic hanging from the beams. He smiled: twenty-four carat kitsch, but it worked.

  She was waiting at the bar and slid elegantly down from her stool to greet him. He was struck once again by how attractive she looked: not overdressed, but everything chosen with care, the dark blue skirt and jacket setting off her pale complexion and blue-grey eyes to great effect.

  ‘Fourth Estate treating you ok?’ she asked after they were seated.

  ‘I think so,’ he replied. ‘I’m new at this so I’ve got nothing to base it on. One or two have been a bit pushy and I’ve had to field a couple of trick questions, but yeah, it’s been ok I suppose.’

  ‘Bet you’ll be glad when it’s over,’ she said, helping herself to a breadstick.

  James laughed. ‘I never knew how much hard work it was. Mick’s packed every single day and I haven’t had a moment to myself. Still, it’s been worth it and it’s stopped me fretting about what you said the other day.’

  ‘Must’ve made you a lot of money. What you need to do now is follow it up with a book.’

  James smiled at the idea. After the waiter had handed them their menus he told her about Bill Todd, the hospice and how he wanted the money to go to them instead.

  ‘Very noble of you,’ she said.

  ‘Not really. Like I told Mick, if I was selling off family heirlooms it would be another matter, but making money for myself out of this wouldn’t feel right. Anyway, last day tomorrow and then I’m going to do some sightseeing.’

  ‘Who’ve you got tomorrow?’ she asked.

  ‘Some TV channel first thing and then I’m having dinner with Senator Pauli. Vince Novak set it up for me.’

  ‘Yeah, Senator Pauli and friends: that’s about where you and I left things, isn’t it?’ Her tone made it clear that the brief interlude of small talk was over. ‘When we spoke last time, you went a nice shade of lime green when I first mentioned Pauli and Reiss. Can I ask why?’

  James looked at her intently for a moment, weighing up his options. ‘I’ve seen those names before that’s all.’

  ‘Where?’

  ‘I know this is a stupid question, but why do you want to know?’

  ‘Because there’s more to what you’ve found than meets the eye and I’m interested in finding out who’s trying to cover it up.’

  Two can play at your game, thought James. ‘In a professional capacity or just curious?’ he said.

  She looked at him warily. ‘Does it matter?’

  ‘Yes it does. If I tell you what I think and it turns out to be true, it could be huge. And if it is, I want the hospice to benefit. I’m not giving it away for free.’

  ‘And if I tell you that I won’t publish anything without your permission, would that influence your decision to give me at least something?’

  ‘Mummy always told me never to trust lawyers or journalists.’

  She smiled and took a sip from her drink. ‘Last time we met it was journalists and policemen. And do you always take mummy’s advice?’

  Their eyes met briefly. ‘Depends how I feel. On occasions I’ve been known to get into cars with strange women.’

  Her face became serious once more. ‘And if I told you that Senator Pauli’s life could be in danger? What then?’

  ‘It’s not something I’d want on my conscience. You also said I could be in danger too.’

  ‘You could be.’

  The conversation was interrupted by the arrival of the waiter. Once he was out of earshot, James continued. ‘Look, I know they say this in the movies, but if I tell you something off the record, will you promise to keep it quiet.’

  ‘I’ve already given you that assurance. Twice,’ she said, with a trace of annoyance. ‘And before you ask, I also protect my sources.’

  ‘I don’t doubt it,’ said James.

  ‘OK, so now we know where we stand, what do you know about Pauli and Reiss?’

  It was still early and the restaurant was only half full. The other couples were deep in their own conversations, oblivious to the drama being played out at the corner table. He took a deep breath. ‘It goes something like this. When I found the paintings there were other documents too and those were two of the names on them.’

  ‘I guessed as much. What documents?’

  ‘Red Cross letters of safe conduct for Pauli’s parents, Anton and Emma, and for two other guys; Standfluss and Reiss.’

  ‘Interesting.’

  ‘Not as interesting as the names of the two people who countersigned them.’

  ‘Go on.’

  He checked again and no one in the restaurant was paying them the slightest attention. James leaned forward and spoke softly none the less. ‘Do the names Churchill and Roosevelt mean anything to you?’

  Cathy stared at him in blank amazement. ‘This is for real, right?’ she asked.

  ‘Believe me, I’ve had all the publicity I can handle for this and the next ten lifetimes. I don’t need to make things up.’

  ‘I believe you,’ she said, regaining her composure. ‘Can you remember any of the other details? This is important.’

  ‘Sure. Anton Pauli’s wife was born Emma Richter in November 1912 in Breslau and then there’s a guy called Max Standfluss, born in Kiel in March 1904. The others, Anton himself and Georg Reiss you already know about.’

  Cathy’s face hid the excitement she felt at heari
ng the names and she pulled a small notepad from her handbag. ‘Do you mind if I write this down? I need to research these guys some more.’

  ‘Go ahead. I seem to remember that Reiss was born in Salzburg in 1917 and Pauli himself was also from Breslau, born in May 1889.’

  ‘Was there anything else?’

  ‘Just identity photos and each one has a fingerprint underneath. That was about it.’

  The first course arrived and they both ate in silence for a moment, Cathy trying to work out how to break the news to James and above all to decide how far she could trust him. She took another sip of her wine. ‘OK, you’ve been straight with me,’ she said. ‘Now it’s my turn. When I phoned you from Newark and I told you about the murders I didn’t tell you about the second phone call I had from Robert Reiss.’

  ‘That was the son, the guy who died in the fire, right?’

  ‘Right. He told me about his father and another scientist called… guess what?’

  ‘Max Standfluss?’

  ‘Correct. Well, Reiss senior and Standfluss left Germany in company with Pauli’s parents which makes sense given what it said in the letters you found. He also said that the paintings left the country at exactly the same time.’

  ‘Except they didn’t. My Uncle Bill found them in Germany.’

  James was aware of her eyes boring into him and for the first time felt a sense of intimidation that was at the same time incredibly attractive. ‘You know where he found them, don’t you, James?’

  ‘You’re fishing.’

  ‘Maybe I am, but if you don’t tell me, then we can’t work this out. And if we don’t and my theory’s correct, a whole bunch of people – including Pauli, you and me – could end up getting hurt.’

  James considered for a moment. He was the first to break eye-contact. ‘We could just walk away and forget about it.’

  She shook her head and a strand of blond hair fell across her face. She swept it away. ‘Too late. You’ve started something you can’t walk away from. Not safely, anyway. So now are you going to tell me where Bill Todd found those paintings?’

  James took a deep breath. ‘In the wreckage of an aircraft,’ he said.

  ‘Where?’

  ‘Near Bad Lauterberg, in the Harz mountains. It’s about a hundred and fifty miles south west of Berlin, not far from Göttingen.’

  Cathy thought for a moment. ‘Well that at least tells us that the paintings and the people weren’t on the same flight, or if they were, that they survived the accident.’

  ‘It definitely can’t have been the same aircraft,’ said James. ‘Bill told me it was a two-seater and completely wrecked. The crash wasn’t survivable.’

  ‘OK, so people go one way, paintings go another. That’s possible. I take it you know who Reiss and Standfluss were?’

  ‘I’ve looked them up on the web and it says they were scientists the Allies grabbed to work on the Manhattan Project. There was a US Army raid on a place called Haigerloch and they shipped them all to the UK: some of them stayed, some went home after the war and some of them, including our two friends, went to America.’

  ‘But we know that’s not true,’ she said, her voice betraying her excitement. ‘If they were picked up during Operation Alsos and then taken to Farm Hall, they couldn’t have been in the US by early April. And they certainly wouldn’t have needed letters of safe passage signed by Churchill and Roosevelt.’

  James looked at her sceptically. ‘Hold on, let’s not get ahead of ourselves. Who says they arrived here in April?’

  ‘Reiss’s son. He also said his father was never at Farm Hall with the others.’

  James paused while he thought over what she’d just told him. ‘Anyway,’ he said. ‘Your food’s getting cold. Eat up.’

  The restaurant began to fill up and the presence of a couple at the next table put an end to their discussion and the topic turned to lighter matters. She told him about her dead-beat boyfriend who’d given up his IT job to play in a band and how she’d thrown him out. In return, he gave her a sketchy overview of his life back in Britain – a life that now seemed to belong to somebody else. They both agreed on their hatred of airline travel and that it would be an excellent idea to order another bottle of wine, the first one having seemingly evaporated without their noticing. So by the time they hit the fresh air and made their way down the street that led down under the freeway to the Waterfront Park, both James and Cathy were feeling light-headed.

  ‘I’ll grant you this,’ he said. ‘That’s one hell of a conspiracy theory you’ve got there.’

  ‘You reckon?’ There was more than a hint of sarcasm in her voice. ‘I don’t think we’ve even scratched the surface. If nothing else, what the hell were two nuclear physicists and a couple of escapees from a concentration camp doing with a priceless art collection that just happened to have belonged to Hitler and Göring?’

  They reached the path and followed the river bank south east towards The Watergate. A chill wind blew in off the Potomac and under cloudless skies, the temperature was dropping quickly.

  ‘I’ve no idea’ he said.

  ‘And another thing,’ said Cathy. ‘Why go to all the trouble of getting those letters of transit and why bring the Paulis along for the ride? They weren’t scientists.’

  James pulled his collar up against the cold as they walked. ‘Trouble is, we don’t know what they were. Even Pauli doesn’t seem to know much about them. Either that or he’s not letting on.’ He laughed and turned to Cathy. ‘See, you’ve got me on the conspiracy kick now.’

  She treated him to a withering look. ‘You didn’t let me finish earlier, did you?’ she said. ‘I know that a whole bunch of people with very unpleasant pasts – people like Werner von Braun, who used slave labour – were brought over here after the war because we needed them, and their pasts got whitewashed. At the time the government kept it quiet, but now it’s ancient history. This has to be different.’

  ‘Worth killing for, you mean?’

  She turned to him and smiled grimly. ‘You’re not as dumb as you look.’

  ‘I’ll take that as a compliment.’

  ‘It’s as near as you’re going to get. When Robert Reiss phoned me he said he didn’t think his father’s death was an accident. Then when I go to see him, I find the house has been torched with him in it.’

  James raised his eyebrows. ‘A bit of a coincidence, I admit.’

  Deep in thought, they carried on in silence, along the board-walk past the boats moored by the Washington Harbor complex, right to the point where the path rejoins the road and turns away from the river by the Swedish Embassy. Cathy nodded towards a bench by the water’s edge. ‘Let’s just sit here a moment. There’s one or two other things you need to know,’ she said. ‘Before you got here, some weird stuff happened. Taken in isolation it didn’t mean anything at the time, but after what Robert Reiss told me I’m worried that other people have been murdered.’ As they sat looking out over the river towards Roosevelt Island she told him about Lisa Greenberg sending her the razor head in the post the day before she died, about the cryptic note that came with it, her inconclusive trip to Arnie Hillman’s store in Cunningham and Robert Reiss’s mention of the letter he’d sent Lisa that had now disappeared. ‘And you know what I think?’ she said, standing up to stretch the cold from her legs, ‘I think Lisa was murdered, Reiss was murdered and we know his son was. And the one name that crops up at every turn is Pauli.’

  James looked at her incredulously. ‘You’re not seriously suggesting that a US senator is going around killing people, are you?’

  ‘No. All I’m saying is that he’s the one common link to everything that’s happened. Now you’re having dinner with him this week, right?’

  ‘Right… now hold on a minute,’ said James. ‘You’re not seriously suggesting that I start grilling him about this are you?’

  Cathy pulled a face. ‘I take it back. You are as dumb as you look. No of course not. Just find out what you can and
we’ll hook up the day after.’

  ‘OK. Do you fancy going on somewhere for a night-cap?’

  ‘Normally I’d love to,’ she said. ‘But I’ve drunk too much already and I’ve got an early start tomorrow.’ She leant over and gave him a chaste peck on the cheek. ‘You can walk me to the Four Seasons and we can both get cabs from there.’

  Chapter Twenty-three

  Happiest I’ve seen A. since we arrived. If R. can get out of the country, then so can we, or so he says. Wish I shared his optimism. Garden coming along nicely – takes my mind off the fact that this is still a prison and among the flowers is the only place we can talk without being overheard. Have managed to hold a conversation with one of the neighbours. Feeling very pleased with myself.

  *

  A different diner, the same three men: one young, scruffily fashionable with a woollen beanie jammed over his long greasy hair and the two others looking every inch like plain-clothes law-enforcement officers.

  ‘So what have you got for us this time?’

  As before, the young man slid a large buff envelope across the table, collecting the coffee spills the waitress had missed. ‘It’s all there,’ he said. ‘Everything you asked for: diary entry print-outs from her calendar and a memory stick with all the articles she’s working on.’

  ‘Any chance there’s off-line stuff you don’t know about?’

  The young man made a gesture of indifference. ‘Could be. She’ll have to sync it up eventually if she wants to file copy.’

  They both looked at him intently. Finally one of them spoke. ‘It’s important. National security, a Federal investigation. Remember that. Agent Wilson and I want you to find out what’s on her home PC.’

  ‘How am I supposed to do that?’

  ‘Hey, you’re the freakin’ IT expert. You tell us. That’s what we’re paying you for.’