The Manhattan Deception

by Simon Leighton-Porter

  Cathy rang off and turned to James. ‘Looks like we had a friend at court all along and never knew. Finish your coffee and we can go up to the lab.’ About ten feet below where they stood, a timer was running down steadily and inexorably to the moment when it would allow the mercury tilt switch, the nine volt battery and the two detonators – one for each shaped charge – to communicate with one another.

  As they left the house Cathy was about to set the alarm when James remembered he didn’t have his wallet on him. ‘Nah, leave it,’ said Cathy. ‘We’re only going to the lab and back, you won’t need money. I’ve got some anyway.’ He hesitated by the door but in the end decided not to fetch it. Unusually, for a weekday, the traffic was light and the journey took less time than they’d expected. She turned into the parking lot as the last few seconds on the timer ran down and as she pulled on the handbrake, a tiny click, inaudible to the human ear announced that the circuit was live. Both got out of the car and shut their doors, the vibration sending the mercury jiggling in its curved tube, but as the movement was confined to the car’s lateral axis, by three millimetres, the contact failed to make.

  The lab itself was part of the main hospital complex and while James and Cathy were walking through the sunshine towards the steps, two elderly sisters in a brand-new Honda drove in, selected the parking space behind the light blue Ford and slowed to a halt. Peggy Lester, more used to the foot-operated parking brake on her old Mercedes than the electrical offering on her new Japanese car, reverted instinctively to what she’d done for the last ten years and pressed what she thought was the correct pedal. The Honda shot forward and slammed into the back of the Ford, sending the mercury into the contact and simultaneously detonating both charges.

  James and Cathy spun round in response to the explosion. The entire front of the Ford had been wrecked by the blast and flames shot up through two holes in its roof, created by twin jets of white hot plasma from the pair of shaped charges, each aimed to fire up through the front seats. Fragments of metal rained down around them and a section of gearbox embedded itself in the tarmac a mere ten feet behind where they were standing. Neither of the Lester sisters survived the blast.

  “Two slain in hospital car bomb attack” screamed the headlines. All the TV news feeds ran the story too. The victims weren’t named but unverified sources were claiming that the booby-trapped car belonged to a well-known political journalist who was now listed as missing.

  ***

  Pauli leant over the back of the left-hand seat and the aircraft captain slid off the right earphone of his headset, tilting his head to hear what the senator was saying. ‘Have we got enough gas to make it back to Washington National?’ he asked.

  ‘Yeah, should be ok. Why’s that, sir?’

  ‘Urgent shit. The quicker you can get us there the better.’ Returning to the cabin he called his travel manager forward to join him. The briefing was short and to the point.

  Novak was waiting in his office when he heard Pauli arrive. His retinue, protesting vociferously, were sent about their business while the senator disappeared into his office, banging the door shut behind him. The intercom on Novak’s desk buzzed as expected and he heard Pauli’s voice. ‘Can you come through to my office please, Vince.’ Calmly, he picked up his brief case and, passing through the outer office, tapped on Pauli’s door and let himself in. The senator’s face was pallid and Novak saw that his hands were shaking. ‘Sit down, Vince. You’ve got some explaining to do.’

  ‘Sure, Eric. I told you I’ll have all the stuff you asked for by Monday and I – ’

  ‘It’s not about that, Vince. This is far more serious.’

  ‘Oh, I couldn’t agree more,’ said Novak with an air of confidence that he could tell Pauli wasn’t expecting.

  ‘Arnie Hillman is dead.’

  Novak didn’t even flicker. ‘Yeah, I saw. Who said we couldn’t get lucky twice?’

  Pauli ignored the bait and continued. ‘And Cathy Stenmark’s car was destroyed by a car bomb of a type used by the IRA. Two elderly sisters are dead.’

  He inspected his nails as though bored with the entire conversation. ‘Yeah, I saw that. Guess Miss Stenmark must’ve upset someone.’

  ‘Vince, the Police and the Feds are all over me like a rash. I am about to become the prime suspect in this fucking thing so I strongly suggest you quit screwing around and tell me what the hell you think you’re doing.’

  ‘Simple. Doing what you hired me to do. Making sure you get to be President. You got a problem with that?’

  The senator shook his head in disbelief. ‘So you’re not denying it? None of it? The car, Greenberg, Robert Reiss, the IT guy – ’

  ‘You’re forgetting the Hillmans, Reiss senior and the driving Miss Daisies, Eric.’

  Pauli stared at him in disbelief, his mouth agape. ‘You’re mad, you’re a fucking psychopath. Sorry, Vince, but I’m calling the cops.’ As he stretched out his hand to the telephone, Novak gently restrained him.

  ‘Not a great idea right now, Eric. If you really want to, hey, fine, but there’s one or two things you need to understand before you do.’ And with that he reached down to his briefcase which he placed on his lap and opened the catches. ‘Here, take a look at these suckers. The originals are under lock and key, but I think you’ve been interested in seeing these for quite a while.’ Pauli snatched the manila envelope from him and tore it open. Inside were photocopies of the four identity documents and Novak sat patiently while he watched him gaze at them, motionless, for several minutes. ‘These were with the pictures, just like your dear mama said they’d be,’ said Novak. ‘Definitely worth killing for, I’d say. Particularly if they’re part of what stands between you and the White House.’

  ‘You little bastard,’ said Pauli, through gritted teeth.

  ‘Oh, don’t worry, Eric,’ he replied with a smile. ‘There’s more – you never know, by the time we’ve finished, you may even want to promote me from bastard to motherfucker. Oh, and keep the copies, I’ve got plenty more.’

  Novak opened the lid of the briefcase once more and took out another envelope. ‘Now this baby was the one that started the whole damn thing rolling,’ he said, waving it tantalisingly just out of Pauli’s reach. ‘Patience, Eric. All in good time. This is a letter from Georg Reiss. Good buddy of your old man’s by the look of things and saviour of the Manhattan Project. Waited till he was ninety-four to spill his guts and you’re very lucky that the person he sent it to was such a bad swimmer. Here, it’s a photocopy but take a look – someone might even want to make a movie out of this one day.’

  With trembling hands, Pauli read.

  “Dear Miss Greenberg,

  My name is Georg Reiss. I subscribe to New Horizons and find your articles on the Democratic nomination contest most interesting. It is for that reason that I feel that you, your readers and the nation should know the truth about Senator Eric Pauli. From what I have read and from what I have seen on TV he seems a good man but the truth about his parents, which I believe him to be hiding, must be known.

  As you may know, along with many others, I played a part in the development of the atomic bomb and worked at Oak Ridge, Tennessee, during 1945-6 on the production of fissile materials. Since 1954, I have lived in Princeton, NJ.

  I was born in Austria and from 1941 to March 1945 I worked on the German atomic weapons project under Dr Werner Heisenberg. Later in the war, as the Red Armies approached our borders, the team was dispersed to a number of sites centred on Haigerloch in the Swabian Mountains. In late March, I was taken back to Berlin under armed escort together with a colleague, Dr Max Standfluss, inventor of the nuclear implosion trigger. We were told that the war was going badly for Germany and that it was essential that certain technologies and certain people did not fall into the hands of the Russians.

  Standfluss and I were told that RHSA (intelligence corps) intercepts of Russian signals traffic from their people within the Manhattan Project, showed that the Americans were unabl
e to enrich uranium quickly enough to produce a weapon, and that they had no means of detonating a sub-critical mass of plutonium via implosion. At that time, Germany did not have enough uranium ore to make a bomb. The two of us were offered a choice: we could be shot or we could agree to be “given” to the western allies as a bargaining chip. Not a difficult decision as I am sure you can understand.

  We were taken to Tempelhof airport where we were kept in an underground shelter awaiting further instructions. I took with me some of the centrifuge components I had developed to refine uranium. When we were taken to the surface there were two other passengers waiting: Adolf Hitler and his wife, Eva Braun. Had I not been told, I would not have recognised Hitler – his appearance had been radically changed. We were briefed by Böttger, the commandant of the airport that the Führer, as he was known then, had tricked the allies into sparing his life under an assumed identity, where he would wait until the time was right before restarting the fight-back. Each one of us was given a Red Cross letter of safe transit, signed by Churchill and Roosevelt. Hitler showed me theirs and joked about it – he and Eva Braun were using the identity of a Jewish couple from Breslau, Anton and Emma Pauli, who had been “sent over the border”. We and the rest of the world now know what this phrase meant – at the time I did not. Both of them showed us the tattoos on their arms. I later discovered that prisoners at the Auschwitz-Birkenau camp were tattooed to make their corpses easier to identify if one prisoner had taken another’s clothes.

  The letters were then taken from us and put aboard an aircraft that left just before ours did. Hitler said the letters, along with other valuables, were being sent to Switzerland and if anything was to happen to any of us, his friends there would reveal the subterfuge, thus embarrassing the Allies and certainly causing a war between them and the Russians.

  It was made very clear to us before we left that the Allies would kill both of us if word ever got out concerning these events: the Americans confirmed this message repeatedly after our arrival. This is why I have waited so long to reveal the truth of how I first came to this country, but in the light of recent events I have decided that it is time for the public to know what America was willing to do in order to obtain the atomic bomb.

  It is my firm belief that Senator Eric Pauli is the son of Hitler and Eva Braun – his story, the dates, the names, the places and his parents’ tattoos are too much of a coincidence. In addition, I have seen him speaking German on the television and to this day, he has the Bavarian accent of his mother, rather than the Silesian accent of someone from Breslau. As I told you at the beginning of this letter, I believe the senator knows about his parents and that he is hiding the truth. If he is a decent man, he will reveal their identity and trust the American people to judge him on his own merits and not on what his father did.

  Yours sincerely

  Georg Reiss”

  ‘Now isn’t that a touching story, Eric?’ Novak said with a sneer. ‘Still want to call the cops?’

  Pauli treated him to a glare of undiluted venom. ‘A senile old man’s ramblings and four documents that you’ve had knocked up to look like the ones he mentioned in the letter? You’re going to have to do better than that, Vince.’

  ‘Oh, don’t worry, I can. Our friend the loony waiter. Remember, the one who was so keen to part you from your glass the other night?’

  ‘What about him?’

  ‘I tracked him down. He’s a colleague of Cathy Stenmark’s on New Horizons. She and the English guy, Atkinson, have a sample of your DNA and they’ve got Hillman’s too. You and the late Mr Hillman are first cousins once removed. Isn’t this fun, eh? Just like The Boys From Brazil.’

  ‘You’re bluffing,’ said Pauli, beads of sweat appearing on his forehead.

  ‘Yeah, I might be, I might not. Who knows? But what I do know is that you got the cops to have a quiet word with Atkinson at the airport. Put that together with the murders plus your motive and I reckon you’re the prime suspect, not me.’

  ‘But –’

  ‘Let me finish, Eric. You asked me where that money went – y’know, the money Mason was bitching about? Sure, it went to the BVI but then it came straight back here to protect your sorry ass from these people. Sure, couple of corners got cut and people got hurt – curiosity killed the cat I guess.’ Pauli sat motionless, paralysed with shock, looking up at Novak who had now got to his feet. He placed his hands on the desk and leaned towards the Senator. ‘You do what you like, Eric. But remember, there’s not one scrap of evidence against me and a whole heap against you. Your call.’ With that, he snapped the briefcase shut and left the building.

  Chapter Thirty-seven

  Bitter cold continues and heating not coping. Having to wear hat and coat indoors. Erich off school because of the snow. He at least seems happy. All thoughts of escaping put aside for now – would not survive more than a few hours outdoors. Asked “the jailers” if I could get a job, teaching German maybe, to supplement my allowance. Still waiting to hear.

  *

  When Eric Pauli returned home that evening, one look at his face told Janet that she didn’t have to ask. They talked the problem round in circles until the clock stood at 1 AM and what had been an unopened bottle of Scotch stood at half-empty. For a full minute, they sat staring at one another and then Pauli spoke. ‘Guess I’d better do it then,’ he said. Taking out his cell phone he composed a text message and sent it to Vince Novak. Short and simple it read, “You win. Talk when I get back from Oregon.”

  Tired and with a sense of foreboding, the following morning Pauli climbed into his official car to head for the airport and his delayed campaign trip to the western seaboard. Novak, on the other hand, couldn’t believe his eyes. He’d been vaguely aware of the phone bleeping in the night and had gone straight back to sleep without bothering to look at it. But now, there it was in black and white on the screen: could it really be that easy? he wondered. Just two more pieces to slot into place and life could return to normal – maybe one day after Eric was President and he was…what? He briefly flirted with the idea of Vice President, rejecting it as too much work for too little recognition and practically zero influence. White House Chief of Staff had a good ring to it, Yeah, the perfect role from which to pull the strings that led to the Oval Office. After all, Pauli would have to do as he was told from now on; take the difficult decisions; fend off the criticism; schmooze all those tiresome third-world heads of state, while he, Vince Novak, White House Chief of Staff and de facto Prime Minister, would become the power behind the throne. It was a mouth-watering proposition.

  ***

  When Cathy returned to the office everyone clustered around to find out if she was ok, all of them itching to hear all the gruesome details of the car bomb.

  ‘The police have asked me not to talk to anyone about it,’ was all she would say. ‘And if anybody asks, please don’t let on I’m here – particularly not to any of those bastards from the press.’ That got a laugh and broke the tension a little. Cathy permitted herself a half-hearted smile.

  The media were having a field day with the story and thanks to some of the wilder pieces of speculation; the spectre of 9/11 stalked the land once more. Cathy knew otherwise but continued to say little, having done most of her talking to the police and FBI.

  Later that afternoon, James drove the rental car downtown to collect Cathy from the office but before setting off, he scrupulously checked the underside for anything that looked out of place. Following the instructions they’d been given, James drove slowly up Memorial Drive and turned left at the barriers into the parking lot.

  ‘OK, you ready for this?’ he asked.

  Cathy nodded.

  Retrieving the all-important envelope from the back seat they set off on foot along Roosevelt Drive towards the Arlington Cemetery Amphitheatre, terrified of what lay ahead, both fighting the urge to turn and run. Novak had been quite explicit when he’d spoken to them: Pauli had resumed his campaign programme and FBI agents were w
aiting to arrest him in Portland, Oregon. The only thing that remained now was to get the final proof of the senator’s motive for his crimes: all, according to Novak, committed at Pauli’s behest and paid for with campaign funds diverted through an offshore account in the British Virgin Islands.

  When James suggested handing the evidence direct to the police, Novak cautioned against it. There were concerns, he told them, that Pauli’s influence even extended to the law enforcement community and so it was safer to deliver the DNA results, the final piece in the jigsaw, to him in person. And what could be more innocent than Cathy, taking time off to recover from her recent shock, showing her boyfriend round the tourist sights of DC. He knew Arlington well, he said; he’d show them around and then buy lunch.

  The upslope became steeper as they approached the broad steps leading to the tombs of America’s unknown soldiers, with the marble amphitheatre providing an elegant backdrop behind. A number of tourists were around, some taking photographs, others standing in reverential silence before the tombs. James caught sight of a familiar figure, strolling nonchalantly along the terrace. He tugged nervously at the collar of his shirt. ‘I see him,’ he said. ‘He seems to be alone.’

  Novak stood waiting for them at the top of the steps. ‘Hi, Vince,’ said Cathy.

  ‘Nice to meet you again, Mr Novak,’ said James.

  Novak smiled benevolently, ‘Please call me Vince,’ he said. ‘Have you got what I asked for?’

  ‘Yes,’ said James. ‘You asked us for the DNA results; Senator Pauli’s and Arnie Hillman’s. You said it was essential that you have them. You also said that Pauli had undue influence with the police and FBI.’ He became aware of Novak looking at him oddly. James knew the phrase was stilted but it was for a reason. From the corner of his eye he saw movement: a black-clad figure raising what looked uncomfortably like a weapon to his shoulder.