She opened the trunk and tried one. It was locked. She tried another, but it was locked as was the third. Stymied, she examined the locks. They didn't appear to be very sturdy – they looked designed to keep the casual thief away, but no more.
Taking one of the car keys, she slid it underneath one of the clasps and used it like a lever. The point of the key dug into the leather and the clasp began to bend. It broke.
She repeated the process on the other clasp and opened the case. It was full of clothes. She searched every pocket and felt around the satin lining of the case, but found no money. She broke the locks on the second case and opened it.
It was packed solid with cash.
Johanna flipped through the bills. Most were American of every denomination with some Canadian mixed in. She let out a cynical chuckle. That solves that problem.
She pulled a few twenties out and closed the trunk, checking to be sure it was locked.
The motel room smelled like a mix of cigarettes and cleaning solvents, but it suited Johanna's purposes. She brought Hagen's three cases in and put them on the bed, putting the money-filled one aside and opening the other two.
No sooner had she sat on the bed than she felt exhaustion take hold. The clock on the wall showed it was only ten, but the rush of adrenaline at the Garden had taken its toll. She yawned and felt her eyelids get heavy. Leaning back against the headboard, she closed her eyes and slept.
Johanna felt like she was falling off the bed and jolted awake. She looked at the clock – ten thirty. She sighed and rubbed her eyes. The short nap had not refreshed her – images of Freddy filled her dreams. Freddy as a boy and as he was tonight. But there had been someone else, someone standing behind her in her dreams as she shot Freddy over and over.
Her feet hit the floor as she sat up with a start. It was her parents. She had forgotten all about them.
Johanna wondered if they had been told of Freddy's death yet. She thought of how grief-stricken and bewildered they must be, especially if they had been told that she was somehow involved.
She had a sudden, powerful urge to go to them.
As dangerous as New York City might be for her right now, her desire to be with her parents in their moment of grief outweighed any risk.
Besides, it's not like I've actually done anything wrong. I'm one of the victims here. The worst that could happen to me is that I get picked up by the police or the FBI and I have to wait until everything gets sorted out before I can leave.
It was more than just grief that drew her to her parents at this moment – she felt a flash of regret. Regret for the years she had pushed them away, denying them and her own heritage. Perhaps they were simple people, but they had done nothing wrong.
Nor did she want them to grieve also thinking that she was a traitor. She had to see them to tell them the truth.
She gathered up Hagen's suitcases, took them out to the car and drove back to Manhattan.
40
Sitting in their car, Mearah and Alexander were both in quite a funk.
"The ration of shyte we're going to get from Little Bill," Mearah moaned. "I don't even want to think about it."
"Well, what the hell did he think was going to happen?" Alexander replied. "Two of us watching one Nazi bastard in that gigantic crowd? Christ, we're lucky we had our eyes on him for as long as we did."
"I doubt Bill will be much impressed by your argument. If it turns out that our girl was indeed at that goddamned rally, you can bet she met with her brother. To what end, I don't know or care, but Bill'll have our arses just the same." Mearah sighed. "Oh well, no sense crying over spilt whiskey. If we're to be anywhere, here's the best place."
He pointed at the door leading up to the Falcks' apartment.
Alexander grunted.
"He's got to come home sometime." He offered. "Maybe we'll get lucky and spot the blonde to boot."
Mearah tipped his hat forward over his eyes and slouched in the seat.
"Mrs. Johanna Mearah," he said. "Has a ring, wouldn't you say?"
Wexler rubbed his already red eyes and pulled on his jacket.
Enough of this waiting around, he thought.
He decided to pay a visit to Mr. and Mrs. Falck himself, no matter how late the hour.
They raised two Nazi children, now they can get out of bed and answer my questions.
Driving across town to Yorkville, he felt his anger rising.
Roosevelt must be dotty if he's given control over to those amateurs at the COI. 'Coordinator of Intelligence.' So far, all they've coordinated is a goddamned disaster. A double Nazi agent in cahoots with her Bundist brother, two probable Nazi spies and who knows what else. It was all just fine when they were digging their own graves, but now I've got two dead agents because of them.
He slowed down under a streetlight to check the Falck's address in his notebook. There, above the deli. He circled the block to find a place to park, noticing the car parked across the street from the Falcks. Two men appeared to be watching the Falck apartment.
Wexler picked up his radio handset and reached the dispatcher.
"Wexler here. There is a black Plymouth DeLuxe parked on East 89th Street, and I'd like you to run the plates." He read the license plate number before getting out and walking up to the Falcks' building.
He had to ring the buzzer several times, but Klaus Falck eventually came to the door. Wexler showed him his FBI credentials and asked to come in.
Standing in their parlor, looking at the tired and drawn faces of Klaus and Elisabeth Falck sitting on their couch, Wexler began to get a sense of the family dynamic. Not once had either of them asked what this was about. This told him that they were used to authorities coming to talk to them, most likely about their son. Wexler softened a bit and felt bad at having to deliver the news.
"I'm sorry to have to tell you that your son was murdered tonight."
He studied their expressions as he told them. Elisabeth let out a scream, falling into her husband's arms. Klaus furrowed his brow and his lips became a tight line as he consoled his wife. Wexler took note of this. The mother grieved for her dead son; the father felt anger at the boy for the pain he had caused.
He gave them a moment before continuing.
"I know this isn't the best time, but I'd like to ask you a few questions about your daughter."
They both started at the question. Wexler noted this as well.
"We have not seen her nor heard from her since she left for Germany," Klaus replied. His anger began to show now. "We are both good Americans and we are ashamed that our daughter would be spying for the Nazis. We said as much to the men who came by earlier, too."
Elisabeth held her hand to her mouth to stifle her sobs.
"I'm sorry," Wexler interrupted. "What men are you talking about?"
"Two policemen came by this afternoon asking about Johanna also," Klaus answered.
Wexler nodded.
"Can you tell me what these men looked like?" He flipped open his notebook and wrote down the descriptions Klaus gave him.
Wexler put his notebook in his pocket and asked Klaus to come to the window. He pointed at the Plymouth across the street. The man behind the wheel was visible in the streetlight. He asked if that was one of the men from this afternoon. Klaus nodded.
"Alright," Wexler said. "Thank you for your time, and I'm very sorry for your loss."
He put his hat on and went to leave, but stopped.
"Do you mind if I use your bathroom?"
Johanna began to look for a parking spot well down the street from her parents' apartment. She guessed that there may be people watching it, so she chose a dark spot between the yellow pools cast by the street lights. She pulled the kerchief over her hair and drew the collar of the Kriegsmarine overcoat to hide her face.
It was after eleven, but there were still enough people out on a Friday night to hide behind on the sidewalk. She neared the stoop of her parents' building and looked around to check that it was safe
to go in.
She turned to go up the steps when she felt a firm hand on her arm.
"Hello, there Miss Falck," a voice said behind her.
Johanna's head whipped around and she saw the two men who had chased her the other day. Too stunned to speak, she half-turned to run, but the short one tightened his grip.
"Oh no, no more of that, please, luv," he said with a smile.
The tall one pulled off her kerchief and her hair spilled over the collar of her coat.
"Clever attempt at a disguise," he said, "but you are easy to spot."
Washing his hands in the Falcks' sink, Wexler glanced out the window to check on the 'policemen' in the Plymouth. Two men were walking toward the car, a tall blonde between them.
It was Johanna.
One was putting her in the back seat of the car while the other got behind the wheel.
Wexler bolted out of the bathroom and sprinted past the stunned Falcks. He tore open their apartment door and ran down the stairs. Reaching the sidewalk just as the Plymouth was pulling away, he dodged pedestrians on the way to his car.
His hands shaking with adrenaline, he struggled to get the keys in the ignition with one hand as he fumbled the radio handset with the other.
He smoked the tires of his Ford, jamming his foot on the accelerator. Shouting for the dispatcher to get him help, he smiled a maniacal grin.
"Let's see you get away from me now."
Johanna watched the two men as they drove downtown. Both had British accents, although the short one might be Irish. That could only mean one thing.
"May I ask who you are?"
The Irishman in the passenger seat fixed her with a suspicious look before answering.
"BSC."
She nodded. "I thought you might be."
"Yes, well, Mr. Stephenson sends his regards."
Definitely an Irishman.
They rode in silence for a while before the driver spoke.
"I hope your Nazi friends gave you a lot of money or otherwise made this all worth your while."
"Excuse me?" Johanna replied.
"Ah, yes. I'm sure you have no idea what I'm talking about, you're completely appalled at the inference, et cetera et cetera," the driver answered.
She made no response.
That explains it. They think I'm some sort of turncoat. A…what do they call it? A double agent. Working for the Nazis when I'm supposed to be working for the U.S. That explains why they chased me through the streets and why they were staking out the apartment. Well, if anything that's a relief, since I'll be able to explain it away when I get the chance.
Johanna sat back and stared out the window. She didn't bother arguing with the two BSC men. She would save her story for Stephenson or someone from the COI.
She began to rehearse what she would say. Frowning, she stopped and had an unpleasant realization. She didn't want to tell anyone about Hagen and why he had kidnapped her until she knew the whole story. She tried to concoct a version of the story that would dispel the suspicions about her without telling them the whole truth. As they neared RockefellerCenter, she knew it wouldn't work. She needed to get those cases out of Hagen's car, get back to the motel in New Jersey and figure it all out for herself. The only way she would be able to do that was to escape right now.
Her hands deep in the pockets of the Kriegsmarine overcoat, she closed her right hand over Hagen's pistol. Still where she had left it since running out of MadisonSquareGarden, she could feel that the slide remained stuck open.
Johanna had never fired a gun until tonight, but she knew it wouldn't work jammed open like it was. Although she had no intention of shooting either of the BSC men, her threat would be worthless if, with one glance, they could call her bluff.
But how to fix it? She couldn't take the chance of them catching her with it in the car. Trying to figure out how to fix the gun in the dark without attracting their attention was not an option. She had to wait for an opportunity to present itself. She just hoped it would be soon.
She thought the driver was looking at her in the rearview mirror. She glanced away, but then looked back. He was looking through her.
"We're being followed," he announced. He gunned the engine and swerved through the Friday night traffic into the far left lane. He ran a red light and sped down Fifth Avenue, dodging cars and pedestrians.
Wexler maintained a discreet distance from the Plymouth, careful to keep two or three cars between them. Nearing RockefellerCenter, he radioed his position to the three cars that had been dispatched on his orders.
He saw the yellow light up ahead on 52nd street. The cars in front of him slowed, stopping as the light turned red.
Checking his watch, he caught a flash out of the corner of his eye. It was the taillight of the Plymouth speeding through the intersection, running the red light.
"Son of a bitch!" he swore, banging the radio handset on his steering wheel. He screamed at the other cars to intercept and beeped his horn in frustration until the light turned green.
Swerving around the cars in front of him, Wexler got a clear view down Fifth Avenue. He couldn't see the Plymouth anywhere. He clicked on the radio transmitter.
"Wexler here. Tell me one of you has picked them up."
He released the button and listened to the static, waiting for a reply.
"Uh, yeah. This is White. I've got him. He's turning right on 42nd, over."
Wexler pressed the button to transmit.
"Good. Do not lose him, understand me? I don't care if you have to tailgate him, do not lose that car, over."
He waited, listening to the hiss of static.
"Oh, shit."
"What?" Wexler asked, panic now in his voice. "White, was that you? What is it?"
"Um, he just turned his lights off. I couldn't see where he went, um, over."
Wexler threw his handset on the floor and punched the ceiling.
Johanna gripped the door handle with all her strength to keep from sliding across the back seat. They were screeching around corners and weaving through traffic with no headlights.
"Are you insane?" she screamed.
The Irishman, bouncing in his seat, half turned to her and laughed.
"Spend some time driving in blackout conditions, and you'll get the hang of it."
After a few minutes, and several blocks, the driver slowed and turned down another side street.
"They're gone," he said in a matter-of-fact tone, switching the headlights back on.
Johanna tried to take control of her breathing to slow her racing heart. She looked out the window and saw that they were back in front of RockefellerCenter. They had made a big circle.
The driver pulled alongside the curb. Before the car had stopped moving, the Irishman leapt out and opened Johanna's door. With a firm grip on her arm he helped her out.
The three of them walked across the plaza and into the lobby of 630 5th Avenue.
In the elevator, the tall one pressed the button for the 24th floor. They rode in silence, listening to the clank of the elevator cables until the bell rang for their floor.
The Irishman steered her toward the door marked 'Room 3603.'
Johanna saw another marked door and had an idea. She stopped and smiled at the two men.
"Would you mind if I went to the ladies' room?" she asked, pointing to the door around the corner from the elevator.
The two men shared an uneasy look, but she put on her most coquettish smile.
"What am I going to do, jump out the window and fly away? Don't worry, boys, I'm just as eager as you are to talk to Mr. Stephenson and sort this all out." She took a chance and started walking away from them. "I'll just be a minute."
Neither made a move to stop her.
Once inside, Johanna flipped on the lights and rushed into one of the stalls. She latched the door and pulled Hagen's pistol out.
She looked the gun over, trying to figure out how to un-jam it. She remembered seeing Hagen pull back on the slid
e, the part that was stuck, when he was loading or unloading it. She gripped the end and pulled. She could feel a stiff spring resisting inside, but she pulled against it. She let go.
The slide snapped back, but not all the way. It was still stuck. Johanna knew she didn't have much time before the two BSC men would be coming in after her.
Fifth Column Page 25
