‘You’re not suggesting – ’
‘‘The sergeant raised his hands in a gesture of appeasement. ‘I’m not suggesting anything of the sort, sir, but I know how the system works, that’s all.’
‘But this was attempted murder. If it wasn’t for the carbon monoxide detector I’d be dead.’
The sergeant checked to make sure his constable was out of earshot. ‘I agree with you, Mr Atkinson, it probably was attempted murder but I think the chances of my superiors classifying it as such are minimal.’
‘But that doesn’t make sense,’ said James, aghast.
‘I’m afraid it does, sir. I’ll be honest with you. We haven’t a cat’s chance in hell of catching whoever did this. Now, if we classify it as wilful damage, then, when nobody’s caught it goes against the minor crimes clean-up statistics along with all the broken windows and dog-fouling – it won’t even nudge the numbers by a fraction. However, if we don’t clean up an attempted murder, then that’s a far bigger black mark with a statistically significant impact against our performance figures.’
James looked at him aghast. ‘But that’s appallingly cynical,’ he said.
The sergeant shrugged. ‘I couldn’t possibly comment, sir – out of my pay scale I’m afraid. But that’s how things work.’
They took James’s statement, gave him a crime number and within the hour they were gone, leaving him angry and bitter at the institutionalised indifference of the process.
Wincing at the cost while typing in his credit card details to the airline’s website, James managed to get a flight for two days’ time. Next he phoned Mrs H and after a few false starts, caused because she was unaware that such things existed, finally got her to contact a courier firm to deliver the cardboard tube containing the letters to his flat. When they arrived, he added all the printouts that they’d used in their DIY facial geometry attempts and the used a different courier company to send them to Cathy at the New Horizons office, marked “advertising copy artwork”, figuring that was something no one in their right mind would want to steal.
The flight to Dulles was uneventful but as he approached customs, he was surprised to be addressed by name even before he’d handed in his blue and white declaration form. ‘Would you please follow me, Mr Atkinson,’ said the customs officer and James was led away through a frosted glass door marked “Search Area”. This doesn’t look good, he thought.
The process took almost an hour. While they copied the contents of his laptop, every single item of baggage was subjected to minute scrutiny. Some of it they x-rayed, other items were probed, swabbed and tested for heaven knows what. James himself was faced with a barrage of questions about the nature of his visit; who he was visiting, how long he planned to stay, what he planned to do. Having been on the receiving end of US bureaucracy before, he knew that if he didn’t keep his cool, his tormentors would take the greatest delight in making the process as long and unpleasant possible. At worst, he risked being put on the next flight back to the UK. His requests for the return of his mobile phone so that he could call Cathy to explain his absence were met with blank refusal. ‘That’s not authorised under our procedures, sir,’ was the answer to that and every other request that might have allowed him some shred of human dignity. At least they haven’t got the latex gloves out yet, he thought.
Finally, he was released, having signed a form to the effect that he’d been correctly treated and that his human rights hadn’t been infringed. Who says the Americans can’t do irony? he thought as he finally emerged into the departures hall. Cathy was almost the only person there. Running towards him, she threw her arms around his neck. ‘I thought you weren’t coming,’ she said breathlessly after they’d finished kissing. ‘What happened to you?’
‘Pauli again,’ he said grimly. ‘I got taken apart by customs. I’ll tell you about it in the car.’
While James and Cathy were making their way through the DC traffic, Pauli and Novak were sitting in Pauli’s hotel suite in Albany, New York, preparing for that evening’s Democratic fund-raiser at the Hibernian Hall. ‘Calm down, Eric,’ said Novak. ‘There’s no point getting bent out of shape about it. It’s done now.’
Pauli’s tie was at half-mast and his top button undone. A week on the road seemed to have aged him ten years. ‘Yeah, I know, but it’s not what I asked you to do, is it?’ he said, his words dripping with sarcasm.
Novak shrugged. ‘You asked me to keep them off your back, so I did.’
Pauli threw his hands in the air in exasperation. ‘You took an elephant gun to kill a mouse – fucking genius,’ he said. ‘Have you read The Post or The Times today?’
‘Aw to hell with them. That’s just the Republicans bitching again – they’ll get over it.’
‘No they won’t, Vince. Lopez and her people are all over me like a fucking rash and you’ve blown months of hard work by making my campaign look like just another dirty-tricks outfit.’
‘OK, I’ll see what I can do to unwind it.’
Pauli’s voice rose. ‘Unwind it? How the fuck are you going to unwind it? You just carpet-bombed New Horizons – who, in case you hadn’t noticed, were right in behind us until this week – and you effectively accused the Lopez campaign of kerb-crawling for dirt on me.’
‘Yeah, enough already: don’t yell at me.’
‘I’ll yell at who the fuck I like, Vince. Especially when they screw up a simple task. And now Atkinson’s come all the way to DC to console Stenmark. We’re back where we started.’
‘Come all the way to fuck her more likely.’
‘Console, fuck, whatever. Because of yet another of your screw-ups he’s here rather than getting on with his life in London.’
‘I told you, Eric, relax. He’s not a threat.’
‘Course he’s a goddam threat.’
‘I tell you he isn’t. Customs at Dulles took him apart and he was clean.’
Pauli slammed his fist down on the desk and walked angrily over to the window. He spun round to glare at Novak, eyes blazing. ‘I don’t care how you do it but I want the allegations against both of them pulled. You make your peace with Stenmark, we resume normal hostilities with Lopez and from now on we deal with things my way. You got that?’
‘Listen, Eric – ’
‘I said have you fucking got that? Because if you haven’t, you can go find another job. Now get out, I need to think how we deal with those two assholes properly.’
Novak slammed the door behind him and marched down the hotel corridor, his fists balled in fury. After all I’ve done for you, you bastard, he fumed. “Yet another of your screw-ups”. Right. You’ll wish you’d never said that. Fuck you, Eric Pauli. Fuck you to hell.
Chapter Thirty
One disaster follows another. I am pregnant. The doctor says there is no doubt and when I asked him about an abortion, he shouted at me. That wretched woman Higgs refused to help me find somebody – says it’s illegal and against the will of God. What has God got to do with anything? If he existed then this world would be very different. Have not yet summoned up the courage to tell A. my news.
*
Now alone in his hotel room, Pauli mused on how it had come to this. As he did so, his thoughts drifted back to the day of the removals and the finding of his mother’s diaries.
The decision to continue in politics after finding the diaries had not been an easy one. At that time, as a freshman senator he wasn’t too far enmeshed in the Beltway machine to step out and return to his former life in the world of finance, but on the other hand, ambition’s siren call beckoned him onwards and upwards towards the prize he secretly coveted.
For an entire week after the discovery, he and his wife Janet spoke about nothing else, and the arguments for and against were equally compelling. They would go to bed determined that he’d announce his resignation the following morning, but by the time breakfast was finished, they’d decided to carry on.
He thought of how they’d sat on their brand new living-roo
m carpet sorting out the diaries into heaps arranged in chronological order with him repeating over and over: ‘None of this was my doing.’
He read aloud, “March 1945. News bad on all fronts. Rumours that dear Heinrich has been in contact with the British via Admiral Canaris. If true both will be shot.”
They lay on their stomachs, looking at the diary entries for March and April 1945 with Pauli translating as he went. He paused and then read on “News from Canaris. Allies willing to keep A. and me alive in return for as-yet unspecified conditions. Consensus is that they want Germany to surrender to them before the Reds advance any further. Are we willing to talk? A. flew into terrible rage and threatened to shoot Canaris on the spot but C. believes negotiations may buy us time. Fell asleep while they were arguing and didn’t wake till later. A. seemed calmer.”
Pauli nodded in admiration. ‘I’ll say one thing for him, this Canaris guy had balls.’
‘What happened to him?’ asked Janet.
‘Hang on, I’m coming to that.’ “Canaris has agreed to leave Berlin under safe conduct. Flies out this evening. He’s taking a huge risk, enemy aircraft are everywhere. Later: C. has returned with proposal from Allies – not sure I can bring myself to believe it. No mention of surrender terms. All they want are two of Heisenberg’s ‘Uranium Club’ people, Standfluss and Reiss. In return, A. and I can also leave and will be taken to USA under assumed identities – up to us to arrange. A. to undergo facial surgery to ensure not recognised. Twenty-four hours to respond. The will to live and fight on is strong.”
Pauli read on and then continued. ‘OK, now there’s no date on this entry but it must relate to the next day.’ “Canaris has persuaded A. to accept. All agreed that the fight must go on and if the enemy are foolish enough to help us, then we must take advantage of them. Radio message broadcast in clear this morning – some nonsense about coming to a grove near Athens – but that is the signal for our acceptance. All efforts now to agree terms. A. has given C. a list of our requirements so that they cannot trick us. He returns to enemy lines tonight – a dear, loyal and brave man. A. to have surgery tomorrow.”
‘Right, there’s a gap here of almost three weeks – I’m guessing this is when she returned to Munich,’ said Pauli.
‘So when does it pick up again?’
‘Hold on.’ He shuffled through the jumble of papers and exercise books trying to work out the likely date from the content of the diaries. ‘Ah, here we go. This must be the first week of April.’ “Everything is ready. The letters of transit have been signed by the two gangsters, Roosevelt and Churchill. We are Anton and Emma Pauli, two Jews (the indignity of it!) from Breslau. I refused to dye my hair and so will have to wear that same horrible, scratchy black wig that I had my picture taken in. A’s face is still bruised from the operation and he has grown a horrid beard – tickles when he kisses me – and shaved the top of his head. Looks like some ghastly rabbi. C. assures us that there is plenty of film footage and recordings that can be released over the next week to make it look like we are still in Berlin. He has also arranged for “our bodies” to be found by the Russians. Our paintings, those of the traitor Göring, 25kg of gold and the letters will be taken to safety in Switzerland – not only will this give us the funds to start again and continue the fight, but the letters cannot be taken from us. While the letters exist and are in loyal hands, we are safe. The two arch-terrorists will be livid!”
Pauli’s words trailed away as he choked back the emotion. ‘I can’t live with what they did, what my father… that man… all the millions who died because of him,’ he said, his voice trembling.
Janet put her arm around his shoulder. ‘But whatever you do, whatever you say or do now, you can’t change history. Think of the risks that FDR took in agreeing to this, and the lies he had to tell to make it work,’ she said. ‘And look at him, he’s a national hero.’
‘Because he didn’t get caught, that’s all.’
‘No, Eric, that isn’t how it works. It’s what you do that matters, not whether you get caught or not. There’s no Eleventh Commandment, you know that.’
He shook his head and looked downcast. ‘Politics isn’t life, Janet; the rules are different. How it plays in public matters more than any standard of underlying morality – mob justice never forgives.’
Pauli got to his feet and stretched – knees and elbows sore from lying on his front for so long. ‘What worries me,’ he said, ‘is when this shit they sent to Switzerland turns up in a junk shop one day, I’m going to have a lot of explaining to do.’
Janet stood up and put her arms around his neck. ‘Eric, honey, if it was going to turn up it would’ve done so by now. Same goes for anything FDR or Churchill may’ve committed to paper. No one need ever know.’
He turned away from her and paced up and down with his hands behind his back. ‘But I know. That’s the problem.’
‘And what the hell could you have done to stop it? We none of us choose our parents, Eric.’
He paused, deep in thought. ‘Before I make any decisions, I need to talk it over with Vince.’
‘Vince?’ she shouted, recoiling from him, glaring, hands on hips. ‘So my opinions count for so little that you have to talk to precious Vince fucking Novak before you’ll decide? Thanks a bunch, Eric, at least I know where I stand.’
He moved to hold her but she pushed him away. ‘Janet, listen. You’re my rock, my life, everything that really matters. Vince is politics and politics ultimately doesn’t matter – it’s a freakshow disguised as a means to an end. But I owe it to him after all the work he’s done to get me this far and the work he’s going to have to do if I decide to go all the way.’
She put her head on one side and looked at him accusingly. ‘Go all the way where?’
With a sheepish expression on his face he said quietly, ‘The White House.’
Janet spat the words at him, each one finding a painful mark. ‘Are you out of your fucking mind? Do you realise what that would do to you, to me, to our marriage? No, no, no, I absolutely forbid it. If you even think about running, I’ll be out of that door so fast you won’t believe it.’
Pauli raised his hands in mock surrender. ‘OK, you win,’ he said. ‘It’s a crazy idea and it’s a long way off happening – there are plenty of good people ahead of me in the line anyway. Sorry I brought it up.’
Her look of anger faded. ‘And I’m sorry I shouted,’ she said, putting her arms round his neck and kissing him. ‘If you want to tell Vince about this, it’s your decision, I just don’t think it’s the right one, that’s all. And as for the White House, you’re too decent a person to do the things it takes to get nominated, let alone win a general election.’
A half-smile crossed his lips. ‘Guess I should learn from my old man.’
Janet frowned and wagged an admonitory finger under his nose. ‘Eric, don’t even joke about things like that. It’s not funny.’
On the Monday morning of the following week, Pauli called Novak into his office. He remained grim-faced and after his chief of staff had taken a seat, Pauli walked to the door and locked it.
Novak turned round nervously in his chair. ‘Christ, Eric. What have I done?’
For the moment, Pauli made no reply, waiting until he was sitting down behind the desk, eye to eye with him. ‘Nothing. It’s about me and I need to know you’ll never breathe a word of this to another living soul.’
The relief on Novak’s face was palpable. I know what’s coming next, he thought. You old dog, Eric. ‘Hey, what goes in Vegas, stays in Vegas. I don’t have a problem with that,’ he said with a smile.
‘It’s not a woman, Vince, it’s worse than that.’
‘A man? Hey, whatever – ’
‘Vince, please, let me finish will you. I’ve found something about my parents that could kill my political career if it came out. Janet says it’s not my fault and I should carry on and I’m kinda leaning that way too. First, I want your take on it and second, I need to k
now whether you still want to work for me.’
The smile faded from Novak’s face. ‘Go on, I’m listening.’
‘You know my parents were German and that they got out of the country in a big hurry at the end of the war?’
‘Yeah, you told me they’d been in Auschwitz but you didn’t know why.’
‘Well a couple of weeks ago I found my mother’s diaries: they weren’t in Auschwitz at all.’
‘Runaway Nazis, huh? Janet’s right, it’s not your fault.’
Pauli drew a deep breath. ‘Adolf Hitler and Eva Braun.’
A look of relief spread over Novak’s face as he threw his head back and laughed. ‘You bastard,’ he chortled. ‘You had me hook line and sinker – who says you can’t kid a kidder?’ The look on the Senator’s face pulled him up short. ‘You are kidding, right…? Tell me you’re kidding, Eric.’
Pauli shook his head. ‘I wish I were.’
Novak stared at him aghast. ‘But they committed suicide in the bunker, the Russians found the bodies…’
‘The Russians found two bodies that were both burned beyond recognition, but it wasn’t them. Everything’s in the diaries. It was all planned down to the last detail, even the news-reels of him on his birthday, it was all pre-recorded, staged, they’d been out of the country nearly two weeks by then.’
‘But the dental records…’
‘Simple,’ said Pauli. ‘They took the dental records of the guy they shot in Hitler’s place and changed the name on the top of the records. Same for Eva Braun. That’s in there too.’
Novak stood up and walked around the room flapping his arms in agitation. Finally he stopped and turned towards Pauli once more. ‘Eric, I know you don’t want to hear this about your own flesh and blood, but it’s more likely your mother was mentally ill and made the whole thing up.’
‘That’s what Janet and I thought at first but there’s way too much detail – people, names, places – she wasn’t an educated woman and wouldn’t have had access to that kind of information unless she’d been there. Some of this information – particularly the stuff about Los Alamos – was only declassified in the 90s so there’s only one way she could’ve known. It also explains other things.’
The Manhattan Deception Page 27
