Red, White, and the Blues

by Walker, Rysa

  “Maybe she told him the truth?” I say. “He’s probably one of the few people at the Fair that day who might believe someone who claimed to be a time traveler.” I’m joking, sort of. But Jack nods.

  “They could have shown him a picture of his older self. That’s an era before faking photos was especially easy. And . . . they handed him what was pretty clearly a tablet computer. That alone would have argued the case pretty persuasively.”

  “Hold on. I’m going to find out where they went.”

  This stable point, like the vast majority of the ones that Katherine and Richard set, is out in the open, since it’s intended mostly for surveillance. I scroll back to a little after one a.m. and scan around the plaza in front of the building, but I don’t see anyone.

  “What happened to the buddy plan?” Jack asks with a crooked grin.

  “That doesn’t actually apply to me,” I tell him as I set a new stable point on the dock. “Unless you’re plotting to form a new global religion and commit genocide?”

  “Neither of those things are on my calendar at the moment.”

  “I’m just going to set a few stable points and come right back here. Anyway, if I don’t show up back at the apartment at the appointed time, they’ll come looking for me. You can have one of them jump in and tell me I’m making a big mistake.” I give him a quick kiss and then blink in.

  After taking a moment to orient myself, I head over to the steps where Alisa first encountered Einstein. I set stable points in several locations so that I can find out exactly what they showed the man that convinced him he should at least listen to what they had to say. We could probably come up with something on our own, but this isn’t an exam. No reason I shouldn’t peek over Einstein’s shoulder and steal Team Viper’s homework.

  Then I go back down the steps and around the corner of the building. Everything is still brightly lit, and there’s music off in the distance, so maybe there are still a few postmidnight activities going on in the Amusement Zone. On this side of the fairground, however, there are just a handful of people on the street behind the pavilion. Off to the right, I can see the dome of the Perisphere next to the tall needlelike statue behind it, both bathed in a white glow. Off to the left is a tall, red pillar of light, with the statue of a man holding up a glowing red star on top.

  Now that the rain and the crowds are gone, it’s actually kind of nice here. Before today, I’d never been to a World’s Fair. I’m not even sure if they have them anymore. In fact, I had never been to a physical fair at all. There are VR parlors that do an excellent job of simulating carnival rides without the risk and at a tiny fraction of the cost. Nora told me about going to Disney World once when she was a child, but amusement parks were fading already in the mid-21st century. She said most of the rides had been VR even in her day.

  As Jack suspected, there’s a café behind the building. The chairs have all been put away for the night, and the lights are out, but large letters spell out Café Tel Aviv above the entryway of a curved single-story section jutting out of the back of the pavilion. I set a few quick observation points on the patio area, where several tables are scattered about, but the bulk of the seats are inside. Still, if Einstein’s main concern is security, I think he’ll take a seat outside, where there are plenty of people passing by.

  I lean back against the wall of the main building and scroll forward to 9:48, and after a moment, Einstein, Alisa, and the two men come around the building. She’s still talking, and he’s nodding, but he looks a little nervous to me. Most of the patio tables are empty, probably due to the drizzly weather. The table Einstein points them toward is near enough to where I’m standing that it looks like I could reach out and touch him, and I have the feeling that Alex would be having a serious fan moment right now. There are only three chairs, so one of the observers goes off in search of a fourth. Einstein takes the seat where his back is to the wall. As Jack said, he is not a stupid man.

  Unfortunately, that means I need to set another stable point, though, because despite the close proximity, I want to be able to see over his shoulder. I inch my way over until the angle seems right, set another stable point, and then set a few more just to be sure I have all of the perspectives I need. Then I blink back to Skaneateles to spy on their meeting.

  I transfer the new points to Jack’s key so that he can view them, too. It’s annoying that we can’t watch on the same device, because we’re always slightly out of sync.

  “Too bad we can’t just cast it to a wall screen,” I say.

  “Yeah, I don’t think you’d much care for the resolution on the TV in there.”

  The first stable point on the steps is useless because I appear to have set it a few inches too far to the left. It’s completely dark, which leads me to believe that it’s probably inside one of the observers. The second point, however, is behind Einstein, and just to his left. The tablet screen is clearly visible now.

  “And I guessed right about the photographs,” Jack says.

  “You did, indeed.”

  The first image is one we both know well. Einstein with his tongue out, taken on his seventy-second birthday in 1951. The second shows Einstein in a sweater, seated on the steps leading up to the front porch of a light-colored house. One of his legs crossed over the other. There’s nothing remarkable at all about the photograph, aside from the fact that he’s wearing fuzzy slippers.

  “It must be a picture that hasn’t been taken yet,” I say. “But I’m guessing he already has those slippers.”

  We move on to the locations I set at the café. The left side of the new stable point is partially blocked by dark blue broadcloth and a few strands of unruly gray hair, but I have a clear view of the tablet he’s holding and, luckily, of Alisa, who is directly across the table from him. She talks with her hands, which is a little distracting.

  Einstein motions for her to shush as the waitress approaches, and in that moment, I can definitely picture him as a professor. The waitress clearly knows him, and I nearly tell Jack that he must be a regular there, before realizing that even back then most people knew his face. She jots something down on her order pad and turns to the others, who don’t order at first, because she starts to leave. Then Einstein waves her back, and she writes something else down.

  As soon as the waitress leaves, Alisa hands him the computer again. The video is already playing. It’s a mushroom cloud, followed by images of the destruction of Hiroshima and Nagasaki. Alisa doesn’t speak for nearly a minute, allowing the images to do the work for her. And it’s clear that they do. Einstein’s hands begin to shake, and he steadies them by bracing his wrists against the edge of the table.

  “I wish I could read lips,” I say.

  Jack says that he didn’t pick up much, either. “But she definitely says the word Roosevelt,” he adds, “if you go back a bit.”

  I do, and he’s right. But checking was really just a formality. We both saw the video, and we saw Einstein’s reaction. Alisa obviously told him about the letter he’ll sign, along with Leo Szilard. She told him that the bombs in the video and all of those deaths were the eventual result of his actions in persuading Roosevelt to push nuclear weapons research.

  I don’t know if she actually said the words, but her message was simple and clear:

  This is your fault.

  FROM THE NEW YORK DAILY INTREPID

  ESPIONAGE RING BROKEN BY DANISH POLICE

  (Copenhagen, March 11, 1935) Members of a purported espionage ring were arrested today for allegedly plotting with foreign terrorist groups in Moscow. Police claim that several members, including two with Canadian passports, are of Russian origin.

  The spy ring, which includes at least two Americans, Leon Josephson and Adolph Rabinowitz, was in possession of large sums of cash and maintained extensive correspondence, which led authorities to suspect that they were in the employ of a foreign government. Their correspondence revealed, according to Danish police, one plot actively under consideration—the
assassination of German chancellor Adolf Hitler.

  ∞26∞

  TYSON

  NEW YORK, NEW YORK

  DECEMBER 27, 1938

  “Still not entirely sure this is going to be worth the time,” Rich says as we emerge from the stable point at Washington Square Park. “Especially since it’s frickin’ cold.”

  I consider the cold a mixed blessing, since it meant we were able to jump in without startling any couples in the bushes. And while I don’t challenge him on the issue, I’m pretty sure Rich thinks this jump is very much worth thirty minutes or so of our time. We were able to sort out which picture was Leon Josephson by using the stable points that I set inside the club. It was indeed the one that resembled his brother, rather than the Hollywood-handsome guy who was apparently someone he worked with in Europe. Historians jumbled up the pictures with a guy who was his handler with the Soviet intelligence agency. And we were able to pinpoint a time that he was at the club. A night when the band was practicing for the opening, which is scheduled for tomorrow night. And not just the band, but also the vocalist.

  That alone wouldn’t have convinced me, or even Rich, to carve out the time. But watching Leon Josephson through the key couldn’t provide us with several crucial bits of information. First, we don’t even know if he’ll be in the country in September 1939, since he apparently takes on foreign jobs, like attempting to assassinate Hitler, from time to time. We also don’t know if the rumors about him being a spy are even true. J. Edgar Hoover wasn’t above framing people if he didn’t like their politics or their attitude. Or if they just happened to look at him wrong.

  “I don’t know if it’s worth it, either,” I tell Rich. “But if it works, we’ll have a decent idea whether Leon will agree to a side project that’s not handed down through his usual party hierarchy. I just wish I’d remembered to set a stable point outside the club, in addition to the two I set inside. Kind of hard to explain how you were upstairs in the toilet of a place that’s not even open yet.”

  As we exit the park, Rich stares across the street at the sidewalk and says, “Ah, damn. Didn’t realize this was that stable point. You made this jump, right? The one where Rose tells us they’re all dead anyway?”

  “Yeah.”

  “I was glad when Rose retired, because every time I saw her at HQ after that, I’d hear those words in my head. Don’t know about you, but that jump gave me nightmares for days.”

  It was weeks in my case, but then Rich probably didn’t see the girl moving on the sidewalk. And I don’t really see the point in sticking him with that nasty visual, so we continue in silence down Waverly Place toward the club.

  There’s no doorman at the front tonight, but music is playing. I wonder if it’s a recording at first, but then someone misses a note and they roll things back a couple of bars. Rich taps on the door. No one responds, but that’s not too surprising, given that they’re in the basement and a band is practicing.

  He jiggles the knob. It’s unlocked, so we step inside and make our way toward the stairs. I move my hand toward the gun inside my jacket, because this kind of entrance makes me nervous.

  “I’ve got this,” Rich says, tapping his watch gadget. “If we run into trouble, everybody’s going to take a little nap. They won’t understand what happened, but that’s still a hell of a lot better than you shooting people.”

  I move my hand back down to my side because he’s right. I’m still on edge, though, as we head downstairs. It’s almost certainly due to what happened last time I was here, because it’s not like we’re breaking in. The door was unlocked.

  There are several dozen people in the room, some working to get the place ready for the opening, and others apparently just hanging out with the Josephson brothers. From what we observed through the key, the band will continue warming up for about two more minutes, and then Billie Holiday will run through a couple of numbers, including “Strange Fruit.” It’s not a full dress rehearsal—Barney doesn’t cut the lights, and some of the people in the club are still chatting. But Richard seems kind of psyched that he’ll be hearing it prior to the official debut.

  Our first challenge is going to be getting Leon Josephson away from the cluster of men at one of the tables near the back. And then we’ll see if Rich’s idea works.

  We stop at the bar, where Barney is arranging bottles of liquor on the shelves above the inside counter. Rich raps on the wood railing of the bar, which is polished to a high sheen, and Barney turns, giving him an annoyed look. “Sorry. We’re not open yet.”

  Rich nods. “Yeah. We saw the sign. But a friend told me I might be able to find an attorney here. Guy by the name of Leon Josephson. You know him?”

  “Hey, Leon!” Barney calls out. “Good news. Maybe you can skip chasing ambulances tomorrow.”

  Leon laughs and holds up a hand. “Be with you guys in just a minute.”

  “You fellows want a drink?” Barney asks. “Like I said, we’re not open yet, but I’ll still take your money.”

  Rich buys two beers, which must have just been put into the fridge because they’re lukewarm, and we take one of the empty tables.

  By the time Leon joins us, Holiday is singing. I’m a little worried that Rich’s head isn’t going to be in the game, but it’s actually not a bad thing, because Leon notices his distraction and says, “She’s good, isn’t she? I think she’s gonna pull in a crowd. How can I help you, gentlemen?”

  Rich looks away from the stage and offers his hand, along with our first names. “Don’t know if you’ve heard about this nonsense with the Dies Committee,” he says, “but my sister is a clerk with the Federal Theatre Project, and—”

  “I thought the committee wrapped that up. They’ve already accused Euripides and Christopher Marlowe of being Red subversives. Are they looking to incriminate Shakespeare now?”

  Rich snorts. “Could be. I definitely wouldn’t put it past them. Anyway, they already subpoenaed one of her coworkers, and Betsy’s scared half to death that she’s next. Wanted to see if I could get a lawyer lined up for her, just in case, while I’m up from DC.”

  Josephson reaches into his breast pocket and pulls out a card. “Tell her to call me if things develop. Out of curiosity, who gave you my name?”

  “My cousin, Carl. He said you helped his friends get hold of some papers a few weeks ago.”

  When we went over this back in the library, Richard came up with three code names from the writings of Whittaker Chambers, a communist spy who switched sides, and one of the only names in all of this that sounded vaguely familiar to me. Carl was Chambers’s code name. I’d asked Rich what he was going to say if Josephson asked for Cousin Carl’s last name, but he said that wasn’t likely to happen. In fact, giving a last name would be more likely to raise suspicion. And the papers comment is a veiled reference to a heist that Leon supposedly pulled off for the Daily Worker.

  Josephson’s eyes flicker in my direction, and I pretend to be watching the band, hoping to hide the fact that I am out of my element. I’ve been in Klan meetings where every man was armed to the teeth and would have happily shot me if he knew I was a spy, and I didn’t break a sweat. But I only know the vague outlines of this history, so I’m keeping my mouth shut.

  Rich must be right about the first-names-only thing, because Josephson nods and says, “Carl’s a good man. Let me know if there’s anything else I can do for you.”

  “Actually,” Rich says, “there may be something else. Our mutual friend Ulrich may be sending some people this way in September, if you think you’ll be around.”

  Leon laughs wryly. “Got a little problem with my papers, so I won’t be leaving the US anytime soon. Only kind of help I can lend is stateside. Tell them Barney will know how to get in touch.”

  “Good to know,” Rich says. “Keep this on the q.t., though. Ulrich’s got a couple of different circles working this thing, and . . . well, you know the drill.”

  “I do, indeed. Nice making your acquaintance.” He t
akes a few steps toward the bar, then turns back. My first thought is that he’s realized something Rich told him didn’t jibe, and that must be what Rich is thinking, too, because his hand moves toward the button on his Timex. But Leon just grins and nods toward the stage. “You guys should stick around for the next song. It’s a good one.”

  “Thanks for the tip,” Rich says. “We wouldn’t miss it.”

  ∞

  NEW YORK, NEW YORK

  FEBRUARY 21, 1939

  “This would be easier at Madi’s library,” Clio says as she tapes another piece of paper to the living room wall, making a scratch pad that covers most of the surface. “We could put our options up on the wall screen, and Jarvis could delete them and juggle them around. I bet he could even tally our votes, if you weren’t married to the whole secret-ballot concept. He could also look things up for us.”

  “True,” I say. “And that’s actually a good idea. Maybe we can set up Madi’s assistant to comb the news sources and check off our objectives as they’re achieved. But I think we should conserve our energy tonight. We’ve only got fifteen hours. Make a note of anything we need to check, and Madi can ask when she goes to collect the votes from Jack and the rest of the team.”

  “Including Thea?” Rich asks.

  I exchange a look with Madi. We discussed this before the meeting. One of the reasons we were both inclined to make major decisions here in the apartment was a concern that Thea might be a spy. I’m increasingly convinced that she’s an unwitting spy, if so, but I still think we’d be wise to avoid giving her more than the bare-minimum amount of responsibility required by the rules of The Game. Madi agrees. Thea is a wild card. But she’s a member of the team, even if it wasn’t something we planned. She gets a vote, if only to maintain optics.

  “Including Thea,” I say. “And speaking of Thea, did you give Madi the tablet?”

  “It’s on the counter,” Rich says as he heads into the kitchen. “I took it out when I gave Clio the tablet with all of the newspaper articles, but then I forgot.”