“For that, given what we’ve got to do, twenty bucks is cheap,” I said.
And I went up the first level to stand as high as Hindenburg’s knees and the second to reach his waist. His arms were crossed loosely before him, parallel to the ground, resting on the sword, and I climbed up onto the railing of the scaffold and grabbed his left elbow and hoisted myself up and crawled into his arms and I hammered a golden nail into the center of Field Marshal Paul Ludwig Hans Anton von Beneckendorff und von Hindenburg’s chest.
Applause rose up to me from a gathering of passersby.
When I came down, Jeremy met me at the bottom of the scaffold. He clicked his heels and bowed.
Then we walked away, past the southern edge of the Reichstags-Gebäude, the Hall of the Imperial Parliament, the legislators inside as ornamental as the building’s Italian Renaissance flourishes. We left the Tiergarten and found a café along the Spree and we had our beer and brat and I told him about the scar and my late drink with Stockman and the upcoming interview.
“Have you heard of this guy Haber?” I asked.
“Fertilizer?”
“You have. How?”
Jeremy shrugged. “The German newspapers. It’s been a while. He’s respected. They try to make him a bit of a hero, but fertilizer doesn’t play a big part in the German mythos.”
“So this afternoon Sir Al wants me to mythologize manure for the Americans.”
“German manure.”
“The critical thing is the conversation those two boys will have after they kick me out of the room.”
“Bombs starve without nitrates too,” Jeremy said. “If Stockman’s working on big-scale bombing from Zepps, Haber’s process is critical.”
True enough. But things still didn’t quite add up, a thought I voiced with a “However” that I let stand on its own for a moment. And then I said the thing I couldn’t get straight: “Haber’s active role in nitrates for bombs is long since done with. Why the personal meeting?”
Jeremy nodded. “So how do we listen in?”
Over the rest of lunch, he and I failed to come up with a plan for that. All we could conclude was that more improvisation would be called for.
He did stop me, however, as I turned to leave him outside the café. “Remember this about us,” he said.
He heard himself. Us.
“About the Germans,” he said. “They are difficult to fool. But they are often easy to bluff.”
36
I took the elevator to the lobby of the Adlon a few minutes before four o’clock and emerged next to the front desk. I expected to meet Stockman in the bar, but he was talking to the frock coat at reception. He saw me out of the corner of his eye and glanced my way to wave me over with a little tilt of the head. As I approached, he was giving instructions for the envelope he was holding nose-high between his face and the clerk’s. Both men’s hands were still on it. Stockman hadn’t let go yet, a gesture of emphasis to accompany his wishes.
“I want this delivered to Madam Isabel Cobb at the Lessing Theater. Personally. By hand.” He paused dramatically after the “Personally.” And even, briefly, after each word to follow. No mistakes. Persönlich. Mit der Hand.
“Absolutely,” the clerk said, clicking his heels and bowing.
Stockman released the envelope to him.
“You may rely on the Adlon, Baron Stockman,” the man said, still speaking to the English baronet in German.
The meeting time with Haber must have altered his dinner plans with my mother.
I’d trained myself as a reporter to take in every detail with a fresh eye and ear. Trask and his boys had only sharpened that. But sometimes it took a few details to pile up for me to finally notice. What I’d just witnessed had to do with a delivery. A delivery of something important. And it had to do with the mode of delivery. Stockman’s emphasis clanged again in my head. And again. Mit. Der. Hand. And then I got it. MDH. The box to Kalk, near Cologne, the box to FVFB, was to be delivered personally. With the hand.
Stockman was clicking back at the frock coat. Of course he’d trust the Adlon. Now he turned to me and offered his hand. I shook it. And I wondered: Mit dieser Hand? With this hand? Given his obvious connection to the device in the box, I figured it was likely that the answer was yes. Stockman himself was going to deliver the Zepp bomb to Kalk.
We were soon in a taxi and heading toward Dahlem, a villa colony eight miles southwest of the city center. It was also the home of the Kaiser Wilhelm Society for the Advancement of Science. Four years ago Willie lent his name and gave big money to do a grander Berlin version of the Institut Pasteur in Paris. Instead of just biology and medicine, Willie’s little Gesellschaft was hiring the big dogs—the German ones—to set up separate institutes in all the major sciences, where they could do what they damn well pleased without having to teach students or answer to bureaucrats or politicians or other government operatives. I figured maybe that last principle was getting a little shaky now that Germany was at war, which maybe was why Stockman was having this meeting.
The Tiergarten had barely vanished from the back window of our Daimler taxi when Stockman squared around toward me a little in the seat and said, “There are a few things we should talk about.” He said this in English, the first English we’d spoken in quite a while, I realized. Though the driver’s compartment was separate from the tonneau and the engine noise was loud, the partition window was partly open for the summer heat.
I shifted in my seat to match his angle toward me.
He said, “I am accepting Madam Cobb’s faith in you. But I will be frank. From our conversations I can fully understand that faith.”
He paused. Sober, he had nothing of the sentimental, the vulnerable about him. So I understood that this restrained pause and these somewhat indirect words were significant in Stockman’s unintoxicated range of emotional expression.
“Thank you,” I said.
“Your story with him must regard his process only as a benefit to humanity.”
I heard the command and so I filled the brief silence that followed: “But not to include the benefits to humanity of our quickly ending the war.”
He laughed. “You understand my full meaning.”
“That’s my job,” I said. Indeed. I repressed that thought, however, a reflex sense of irony being a dangerous trait for a spy.
But he heard it the way he needed to. “If only all journalists had that gift,” he said.
“I understand your intended meaning,” I gently corrected. Surely he didn’t want even a trusted journalist to know his full meaning.
He got it. He laughed again. “So if he volunteers anything else . . .”
“I will treat him as I do you,” I said. “Nothing will ever appear in print that would embarrass him or Germany or will reveal anything that will aid Germany’s enemies.”
“I have already given him that assurance,” Stockman said. “Now, a few incidental but problematic things, as you might naturally be inclined innocently to make small talk or to enhance the human elements of your story.”
“As indeed I may,” I said.
“Little more than three months ago, Doctor Haber’s wife took his army-issued revolver into their garden and shot herself to death.”
He said this flatly.
He said no more for a moment.
“So no questions about his family,” I said.
“Best not.”
The Daimler shifted gears and so did Stockman. He said, “Doctor Haber is a Heidelberg man, like yourself. And like yourself he bears a scar on his cheek. But I understand it is not a scar of honor. Forgive me. As the bearer of a true Schmiss, you no doubt would have recognized it for what it is. But I thought I should mention it.”
“Yes, thank you,” I said.
“He is a Jew,” Stockman said.
He let me absorb that for a moment. The haters of Jews—often those who have leaned close and revealed this sotto voce—assumed the following moment of quiet was filled
with an agreement on the subject that needed no further expression.
But Stockman said this as uprightly and flatly as he’d spoken of the suicide of Haber’s wife. I kept my manner and face as neutral as his. I hoped he’d show more of himself now. A man who, in his ignorance, showed his prejudice, about whatever sort of subject, was a man who gave power to others. He showed the way his mind tended to stop working, his sensibility tended to shut out the real world. That was always useful, to a reporter or to a spy.
And Stockman said, “He converted to Christianity more than twenty years ago. So he is a Christian the way I am an Englishman.”
He let me fill in the meaning of that. Clear enough. He was still a Jew.
Stockman said, “He has been a German from birth. As was his father and his father’s father. Do they not bleed? I am one of those who thinks that Shylock was justified in seeking his revenge. And that Shakespeare intended so. But the Jew has his own blood. His people were born to wander. As things are, the Jew who has a legacy like Doctor Haber is certainly a German. He overtly proclaims his strong allegiance to Germany. You and I will take pride for America to learn what this German has done for humanity. Doctor Haber is my stepbrother, Josef. Certainly that. But does one trust a stepbrother as he does his brother by blood?”
Stockman shrugged, as if in answer to his own question.
I did not reply.
Stockman looked away briefly, at the passing shops along the Kaiser-Allée, and then back to me.
“I don’t know what you should make of that,” he said. “Perhaps just to understand the man.”
Once again, he looked beyond the taxi that carried us.
He said, still looking away, “I suppose I trust a loyal German Jew more than any London Christian.”
This ended the conversation between us for the last few miles to Dahlem.
Haber’s Institute for Physical Chemistry was a large but only lightly ornamented four-storey, nine-bay Greek Revival building, its central three-bay section sporting mid-floor Doric columns holding up a bare-bones pediment, which was adorned with nothing but a central, circular window. The one striking feature, however, was hardly classical: a circular tower attached at the building’s northern end with a feldgrau metal dome and a high-spiked spire making the thing look unmistakably like a massive, field-officer Pickelhaube.
The place was surrounded by barbed wire. It had two soldiers, draped with Mauser G98s, flanking the central door beneath the Doric columns. These boys were not features of the institute when it was pursuing the hundred-year quest to pull nitrogen out of the air so the plants could grow.
A soldier led us up the two central flights of marble stairs to Haber’s office. At each floor I glanced right and left and there was a quiet, ardent urgency about the place: white coats flashing, intense words from the end of a hall, a canister rolling on a hand truck with a gray-hair in a three-piece suit hovering over each turn of the wheels.
You walk into an institute of chemistry, especially a bustling one, and you expect the place to bray in your nose from the smells of things whose names are unpronounceable and whose purpose can be understood only in formulas. But the place smelled like a Boston Brahmin boarding school, all floor wax and ozone.
I did not have a chance to walk down one of these laboratory corridors. Immediately at the top of the third-floor staircase we turned into a short hallway back toward the front of the building and were ushered straight into a conference room with windows looking into the tops of the plane trees on the Thiel-Allée. I figured Stockman would get a grander tour when the interview was over and I was beyond the barbed wire.
The room had an oak table for ten and was hung with Holophane reflectors and tungsten lamps, illuminated now, in the afternoon light, for the sake of the wall facing the windows, which held a twelve-foot blackboard festooned with equations. If the corridors of the institute smelled like those in a boarding school, this was the faculty lounge, redolent of chalk dust and tobacco smoke.
Stockman and I sat down next to each other along the lengthwise center of the table, facing the blackboard. The soldier vanished.
We both stared at the equations for a moment, the flow of constants and unknowns, coefficients and parameters. As if on cue we looked at each other.
I said, “We needn’t worry so much about his saying something he shouldn’t. I just hope he says something we can understand.”
Stockman glanced once more at the equations, but only briefly. “I know some basics, from metallurgy,” he said. “But far downstream from this. Far enough so I could make useful things in the world.”
Like milk cans and Zepp bombs, I thought.
We nodded knowingly at each other.
Then we had one of those silently agreed upon shifts in a conversation where the two parties understand there is nothing more to say about the current subject but aren’t ready to stop talking. We had to wait here together, so we consciously turned our minds elsewhere.
In so doing, Stockman’s eyes fell to my lapel. “I meant to say earlier. I admire your pin. I’m sure there’s a story behind it, which I’d like to hear sometime.”
Stockman didn’t know about the Nail Man, or at least about the reward for a big donation, and the Iron Cross was a powerful icon for this country. Good.
“The story’s a simple one,” I said, making it sound like humility masking bravado.
And Fritz Haber strode into the room.
He was a stocky man, wearing a bespoke summer wool suit, a high wing-tip collar, and a necktie knotted tight. He had a round face, with a pince-nez clamped to his nose, and was determinedly bald, having shaved off every last hair, slick as a chemical canister. The scar on his left cheek was of the South Chicago saloon-brawl variety, too short and too severely curled at the end ever to be rendered by a saber stroke.
Stockman and I jumped to our feet.
“Please, gentlemen, please,” he said. “We shall be informal with each other, yes?” Nevertheless, he placed himself across the table from us to reach and shake our hands. “Can I have my assistant get you some coffee?”
Stockman and I declined with thanks and we all sat.
Haber had known from the jump-off to speak German with this Brit and this American.
“It is a pleasure to see you again, Baron,” Haber said to Sir Albert.
“For me it is an honor, Privy Councilor Haber,” Albert said, using the honorific Geheimrat, an open acknowledgment that Haber had the ear of the Kaiser or at least of his high minions.
Haber turned his face to me.
I thought, for just a molecule of a moment, that the mysteries of chemistry were no greater than the mystery of the pince nez hoopspring, which held the damn fool thing in place.
“And Mr. Jäger, I am pleased to meet you,” Haber said. “Baron Stockman has told me very good things about you. That you should find it as preposterous as I do that your country has ignored what we have accomplished here, this is encouraging for me.”
“I have a forum to dispel that ignorance, Privy Councilor Haber,” I said.
He smiled. “I appreciate both of you recognizing my status, but please call me Doctor Haber.”
He said this with a magnanimous flare of the hands, as if he’d just sanctioned Fritzy.
I took out my notebook and my Conklin, and Geheimrat Doktor Fritz began, no initial question necessary. He talked for a while—lectured, more like—about the challenge of the locked nitrogen molecules in the air: the delicate balancing of very high temperatures and very high pressure for extraction; the need for an effective catalyst for the project; the frustrating search for precisely the right one, with Haber eventually moving from osmium, which was good, to uranium, which was more abundantly available, and then, when BASF made an industry out of it, finally arriving at iron, though iron alone was a failure and needed a subtle blend of the oxides of aluminum and potassium and calcium to make it work. He called what he’d done a kind of alchemy, as if he’d figured out how to make gold
from the air. These limitless nitrates meant, after all, that Geheimrat Doktor Fritz had saved the world from starvation.
I took dutiful notes.
And all the while, my mind sought the delicate balance of heat and pressure so as to extract, from the rush of highly charged molecules of air in this room, a fertilizing clue or two about Stockman’s full intentions.
Haber wrapped up his lecture and folded his arms, in satisfaction, upon his chest. “Those are the basics,” he said. “Perhaps you have some questions, knowing better than I what it is that Americans have failed to grasp.”
“Thank you, Doctor Haber,” I said. “What you’ve said is very clear to me and very compelling. Please understand that Americans in general have not even had the chance to grasp any of this. The failure has been among a very small group of Americans. The journalists.”
Haber nodded his head at the validity of my point. To his credit.
“And journalists,” I said, “need a catalyst. They are—on their own—simple iron. May I seek now, for a few minutes, the aluminum, the potassium, the calcium oxides to mix with them?”
Haber smiled and nodded as I appropriated the terms of his mini-lecture for my request, as if he were a teacher and gave a damn about his teaching and a student from the back of the lecture hall had raised his hand and made a smart comment.
I had a fleeting sense of him. Not so much what he was as what he wasn’t. Or didn’t seem to be. In mourning. He was nothing like a man whose wife blew her brains out with his own pistol a couple of months ago. He seemed animated without mitigation. He gave off energy and focus and devotion.
Either this was one hard son of a bitch or his anguish was so strong he’d dug a hole for it and threw it in and all this energy was him shoveling dirt. I hoped for the latter. That would make him even more eager to talk about what was presently preoccupying him.
The Empire of Night: A Christopher Marlowe Cobb Thriller Page 21
