Flowers From Berlin (23 page)

Prompted by such enticements from an immediate superior, Cochrane took up Wheeler's offer. It was as good a way as any of disappearing for a few hours, then circling back to Bureau headquarters while Wheeler was in the Oval Office on Pennsylvania Avenue.

Cochrane wandered the sixth floor in an ostensibly jovial mood and buttonholed one Bluebird after another, taking them into his confidence. Those he could trust, at least. There was Lanny Slotkin first and then the two house-brand Germans, Roddy Schwarzkopf and Elizabeth Pfeiffer. Then of course there was the Virgin Mary and even Bobby Charles Martin, whom Cochrane found reading an ominous report on Gestapo interrogation techniques.

To each, when drawn aside, he made a grinning offer. "I'd like you to help me in a little intrigue," he said. "Consider it a game. Office politics, really. So don't speak to anyone who's not in on it."

Each accepted the challenge. And each was equally nonplused to learn that the victim of the intrigue was known to all and stood a full, towering forty-six inches tall.

*

Laura lay in bed beside her husband in the bedroom of their home. Stephen's eyes were closed; Laura's were open. He breathed evenly. She could not sleep. Her mind was teeming with the events of the day.

Laura quietly pulled the sheet off and stepped from the bed. The room was cool and she had no clothes on. She reached to the cotton robe and pulled it on. Sometimes when she couldn't sleep, it helped to walk around.

She went to the dormer window of the bedroom and sat on the plum-colored cushions on the bench within the window. Laura loved that view of sleepy Liberty Circle. She could see the stars, the moon, and the trees. The church across the street left a light on all night and a dim streetlight lit the road and walkway.

She looked out and heaved a long sigh. There was no way around it: it was good to be home. Good to be back with Stephen.

He had met her that morning when the French liner
La Normandie
had docked. He had embraced her passionately, handed her a two-pound box of Louis Sherry chocolates, and instantly made her glad that she had avoided the shipboard fling with the Swedish businessman who had been arduously chasing her.

Then Stephen had driven her home. The house had been clean and fresh. Stephen had hired a maid. And the little town was resplendent in the burnt orange of September. Stephen's mood was much more loving than when she had left. He behaved as if some burden had been lifted. He said that his parish had taken to him well and that the neighbors had asked about her. Above all, he said that he had missed her horribly.

He apologized in advance on one matter: the Lutheran Council on the East Coast had taken a shine to him and he would have to take the occasional trip to other parishes or other cities. But he would hurry back.

He would not ignore her again. Things, Stephen promised, would be different.

Then it was evening. Time for an early bed. She undressed with all the excitement of a young woman taking a new lover. And he was just as impassioned.

"I've been starving for you!" he had said to Laura at the moment when he climbed on top of her. And she had been starving for him. He led her and himself to a hurried but robust climax, made all the better by the fact that, to Laura's way of thinking, her husband behaved like a man who hadn't touched another woman since her departure.

Yes, she decided as she lay beside him afterward. Some things were still important. Politics were not. Fidelity was.

Laura was deeply within this line of thought when she realized what she was watching through the dormer windows. Across the street was a man. She couldn't recognize him, and would never have noticed him at all because he was moving carefully within the shadows of trees. But she had happened to be staring at his precise location and she had picked up the movement.

He walked toward the church. Laura looked across the room at the clock. It was past 2 A.M. Every tenet of surveillance that Peter Whiteside had impressed upon her came back.

Details. Details. The man was tall and lean and wore a dark coat. She could not tell age and she could not see the color of his hair. She squinted. She watched the man walk and a hunch was upon her.

For some reason—and she couldn't place the genesis of the reason—the man struck her as foreign. He was neither English nor American. Something about his movement told her that. Or was that part of a 2 A.M. fantasy?

For that matter, was the man a fantasy? She stared again. No, he was real. He entered the church.

Laura held her position for ten minutes, barely blinking. Her heart beat so loudly that she thought Stephen could hear it clear across the room. But he did not budge. No lights changed in the church. Nothing went on or off.

She thought back. A light remained on in the vestry and a very dim light in the pews. The altar was dim and visible at night; so was the cross. The man emerged. He went quickly on his way. Nothing indicated that he was anyone she knew.

Several unhappy visions were upon her all at once: the man was from the American government. They were after Stephen—he was a Communist spy. Or, the man she had seen was part of Stephen's network. A fellow traveler along the red road of Bolshevism. Or, she shuddered, had she seen one of her own countrymen? Had Peter Whiteside dispatched someone to watch her?

Or was it none of these? Was she lost in a wilderness of deceptions that, like the smile of the Cheshire cat, receded as she approached them? Was it all too grand for her to even conceptualize?

She felt the wetness of her palms. She drew a long breath. Then a final thought was upon her. The man who had entered the church was a member of the church. He sought solace with God in the lonely, early dark hours of the morning. Somewhere there was illness. Somewhere there was despair. Somewhere there was a need for spiritual strength and a prayer and that need did not observe the conventional rules of time.

Yes, that was it, she decided: a man had simply felt the need for a prayer at an unorthodox hour. Was that not, in fact, why her husband left the church open?

Now the memory of Peter Whiteside was before her, burning with the intensity of a flare. Peter's account of her husband rang shrilly in her ears.

Turned his eyes eastward. . . offered his services to the Soviet Union and his offer was accepted. .. Made the pilgrimage to the Kremlin, itself. . . .

Suddenly she had to know. She tiptoed from the bedroom and to the stairs. Then she went down to the library, where she turned on the light on her husband's desk. She began to open drawers, riffling through his papers and belongings and shuffling purposefully through his official licenses and documents.

"So this is spying, Peter," she mumbled to herself. She felt disgraced. "I hope you're proud of yourself."

Then she found what she wanted: his United States passport. Her hands trembled slightly as she opened it. She studied his picture and the date and stamp of issue at New York. Then she flipped to the pages that bore travel stamps.

Entry into the United Kingdom via Southampton: April 20, 1935. Departure to France via Calais. Probably the ferry, she thought on May 3 of the same year. Arrival in New York on board the SS America on the thirtieth of May.

Some Communist agent, she thought. Some pilgrimage to Moscow! She flicked through each page of the passport. No other stamps save their Canadian stamps from their honeymoon in 1937. Where, oh where, Peter Whiteside, Laura asked within her soul, is the vaunted pilgrimage to Red Square?

Stephen's own words returned to her: "I was sick from the water in England and the cheese in France, so I came home early." What emerged from his passport was the documentation of a Princeton graduate student seeing the cathedral cities of England and France. Nothing more. His passport was the physical refutation of all that Peter Whiteside had claimed.

Where had Peter come upon such a tale? Who had fabricated it for him?

Laura returned the passport to its drawer. She piled the other papers and documents upon it so it looked undisturbed. She turned off the light in his study. She climbed the stairs and walked through the dark hall to the bedroom.

In her mind, Peter Whiteside was still talking to her: "Facts, Laura, facts! My office deals in facts!"

In her mind, she answered him.

Facts: the man who had entered and left St. Paul's Lutheran Church in Liberty Circle several minutes earlier was tall, angular, had a hint of a foreigner about him, and moved in and out of shadows with considerable ease. Like Marley's ghost, she reckoned, he was not an undigested clot of mustard. He had been there.

More facts, as she entered her bedroom: she loved her husband. She had personally inspected his passport. He had never been to the Soviet Union and it was preposterous that he was a Communist agent.

Laura walked quietly back to the bay window. It was 2:35 A.M. She sat down for a moment and loosened the cotton robe. She looked out the window and all was still.

Sleepily, Stephen spoke. "What are you watching?" he asked.

She looked back to him. "I thought you were asleep," she answered.

"Half asleep. I heard you coming up the stairs. Are you all right?"

She rose and returned to the bed. She untied her sash and slipped out of the robe.

Naked, she stood near the light from the window intentionally so that he could see and admire her. She took care of her body and kept her figure. She wanted Stephen to know it was for him.

She saw his eyes open appreciatively. "What were you watching?" he asked again.

"Someone went into your church," she said. "To say a prayer, I imagine."

There was a slight pause, then he answered, "Happens all the time," he said. "Funny little town. People can't sleep. Get up, take a walk. Church is the only thing open."

Sleep hung heavily in his voice. "They say a prayer, go home, go to bed. St. Paul's is a public service." Another slight pause and: "I love to look at you without your clothes."

He reached to her and slipped his hand between her legs, cupping it behind one trim thigh. He gently pulled her back to him, caressing her from the top of her leg to the buttock.

"As long as we're both awake," he said, "and as long as we're together again . ."

She sat on his side of the bed and then was beside him, her flesh to his, as he kissed her.

"You don't have to talk me into anything," she giggled. “I’m your wife, remember? Saying 'no' isn't allowed."

TWENTY-TWO

Cochrane turned predatory upon tiny Mr. Adam Hay, the archivist in the Bureau's musty attic. It began on Wednesday, shortly after nine when Mr. Hay found Cochrane lounging in the small chair near the east file cabinets. Mr. Hay froze when he saw Cochrane, then turned a sour expression upon him and closed the door.

"Morning, Adam." Cochrane had a knee up, folded into his hands, and was rocking slightly in the only chair in the room.

"What do you want?" Mr. Hay answered.

Cochrane motioned to two cups of hot coffee and a tray of fresh doughnuts. "I thought we'd review old times."

The dwarf looked at the food as if it were poison.

"What do you want?" he asked again.

Cochrane got to his feet and ambled through the room, glancing at a file here, a file there, picking up a document, looking at it and discarding it. Mr. Hay eyed the doughnuts. "I grew nostalgic for the time I spent up here, Adam," Cochrane said. "You know they reassigned me to Baltimore. Banking fraud. Then they brought me back. I have an office downstairs."

"Bully for you."

Cochrane took a doughnut and held the tray out to Mr. Hay. The dwarf selected a doughnut. The dwarf munched.

"I remember certain things from when I worked up here," Cochrane said. "The lively conversation, the way the days passed so quickly, the sheer, unbridled inspiration of dealing with. . . all this." Cochrane motioned toward the files.

"Cochrane, get to the point."

"I remember in particular," Cochrane recalled carefully, "a funny little—you'll excuse the terminology—mannerism of yours. Two, in fact. You used to study the racing form at noon. Hoover goes to the races, too, you know. Were you aware of that?"

"I've seen him at Pimlico. On weekends."

"Then there was that second mannerism of yours," Cochrane said, moving closer. The dwarf slipped into the chair. Cochrane stalked him like a panther. "And this one was the truly endearing one, Adam. When requests came up here for specific files, even those to be redtagged and sealed, you used to open them up, sit there at your desk," Cochrane motioned with his head, "and read them. Start to finish."

Mr. Hay was getting the point. "I don't know what you're talking about," he countered.

"I think you do," Cochrane said. "Further, you have a photographic memory."

"You're wacko, Cochrane. You got your balls slammed in the bank vault once too often."

Cochrane leaned forward onto the arm of Mr. Hay's chair. He menaced the little man. "Otto Mauer," said Cochrane. "The file was requested from this office last week. It got redtagged. I'm betting you looked at it."

"Maybe," fretted the dwarf. "Maybe not."

"Now, you need recall only two things. I want Mauer's new name. And I want his location.”

The dwarf looked petulantly at Cochrane. "Get the file from Lerrick. Or Wheeler. Or ask Hoover, himself," he retorted.

"I want the answers from
you
. You may whisper them in my ear. Or inscribe them on a piece of paper."

Cochrane leaned over the smaller man. Mr. Hay's eyes raged. "Go piss up a rope, Cochrane," Mr. Hay snapped. Then he stamped with all his eighty pounds on Cochrane's left foot, catching the instep cleanly with the heel of his shoe.

A searing pain shot through Cochrane, exploding upward from the foot. The archivist burst from the chair and took up a defensive position on the other side of a table, a letter opener clenched in his paw.

"Don't come near me, Cochrane," Mr. Hay instructed. "Pull my whiskers again and there'll be bloodshed, I swear it to you."

Cochrane held his temper and looked at his adversary. "Obviously," Cochrane concluded, "you need more time to think."

At lunch that same day Mr. Hay fled to a park bench across the street from the White House. The archivist sat undisturbed, opening a liverwurst sandwich and a thermos of iced tea, for a full and glorious minute and a half before Cochrane appeared from nowhere and sat down next to him.

"Mauer's new name, Adam. Plus town and state," Cochrane said simply. "That's all. Then we'll be friends again."

Mr. Hay choked down his sandwich and could barely concentrate on his racing form. He gulped his tea and fled into the noontime crowds on Connecticut Avenue, then was horrified to see, upon his return to his seventh-floor archives, Cochrane lounging again in the small chair.

"The name. The town. The state," Cochrane repeated as if it were a catechism.

The dwarf was rattled, but compensated. "Blow it out your ass, Cochrane!" he yelped.

Cochrane sighed. "If the Chief could hear your language, Adam. . ." Cochrane shook his head in disappointment.

Cochrane brought an hour's worth of work with him, reports from urban police chiefs in the East. He tried, as he ferreted through several dozen homicide cases, to link something with the Billy Pritchard slaying. He found nothing. Then he prowled uneasily through the Bluebirds' reports from previous evenings.

Nothing there again. Nothing from Siegfried. Deciphering drew a similar blank and so did Cryptology. As Cochrane worked, spreading out his tasks before him on Mr. Hay's table, he raised his eyes and stared at the dwarf every few minutes.

"The name. The town. The state," he repeated. "The name. The town. The state." Toward three in the afternoon, Cochrane got to his feet, winked one eye at his nemesis, and strode from the room.

Adam Hay's spirits soared. Alone at last! Then his spirits were quickly crushed with the arrival of Lanny Slotkin, resident cur of the Bluebirds. Mr. Hay had never in his life encountered Lanny Slotkin or anything like him.

"The name. The town. The state," Lanny said, not even certain of what he had been dispatched to inquire. "Cochrane sent me. I'm supposed to stay here until eight o'clock tonight or until I get answers."

Mr. Hay made himself scarce behind a file, working on the lower shelf. But Slotkin was a bulldog, as well as a high priest of rudeness.

"Come on, you little twerp," Slotkin screamed after only ten minutes. "I don't want to stay up here all day! What is it he wants to know?" Slotkin entertained the urge to pick up Mr. Hay and shake him. But he resisted.

Mr. Hay was married to an Indian woman from Bombay. They lived together in a rear apartment on a grim side street in Georgetown. When he returned hone that night, he found Cochrane sitting on the front steps.

"Name. Town. State." The words shot into Mr. Hay's mind faster than Cochrane could mouth them. Mr. Hay bolted up the shabby staircase and scampered in the direction of an apartment door, from behind which emanated pungent smells of Manipur curry and incense.

Adam Hay jammed his key in the lock, turned it, and slammed the door behind him, thinking himself safe within the sanctuary of his own home. His wife appeared in a saffron and purple robe, kissed him, and spoke.

"We have a guest," she said. "A lovely gentlewoman."

The dwarf shuddered. Mr. Hay crept warily into his own living room where he encountered Mary Ryan, the Virgin Mary herself, all eight point two decades of her. She offered him a lined hand.

"This is Mrs. Ryan. From your Bureau," said Mrs. Hay. "I do think," said Mary Ryan, who would go along with any intrigue if it was either work or fun, "that you really ought to tell us the name, the town, and the state."

The dwarf turned crimson. Unfortunately, Mrs. Hay had already invited Mary to stay for dinner. Mary Ryan loved curry.

Friday was no better. Every time Mr. Hay looked up, there was Cochrane or one of his deputies. Among those Bluebirds whom Cochrane could trust, it became a passing parlor game. Go talk to the archivist. Pick the dwarf for information. It could save us months of work, and don't tell Wheeler.

"I'll take the responsibility," Cochrane had told them all. The name, they demanded. The name. The town. The state. Three quick answers would liberate Mr. Hay from all of this, Cochrane reminded him by telephone a few minutes before Friday midnight.

Totally unnerved, Mr. Hay went to the window and stared downward. And there were the Bureau's two Germans, Roddy Schwarzkopf and Elizabeth Pfeiffer from Section Seven. They stared upward from an alleyway, then waved.

Mr. Hay jerked the curtains shut and moaned.

Cochrane spent Saturday morning in Cartography and Central Alien Registry. With the help of Bobby Charles Martin, late of the Ohio State Police, he marshaled a list of every township within the fifty-mile map radius that the Bluebirds had charted in northern New Jersey. Then CAR Division went through their own files and came up with a list of 256 names of German émigrés living within that area. The towns ran from Passaic and Hoboken to little map dots like Bernardsville and Liberty Circle.

"Monday," promised Cochrane, "we get some staff in here from another division. We check out every name." Then a second list was drawn, one comprising immigrants from the other unfriendly nations: Italy and Japan, just in case.

"That's three hundred wops and seventeen Japs," Bobby Charles Martin surmised with his usual egalitarian candor. "Guess those get checked out, too."

"You guess right," said Cochrane, reaching for a jacket and hat. "Let's go watch some horse races."

Mr. Hay was at Arlington Park for all nine races that afternoon. He seemed to wear his own saddle, with Bobby Martin and Bill Cochrane in it. Ditto, Sunday. And late afternoon, the archivist began to crack. But as the ninth race was finished, Adam Hay looked up and they were all gone. Every one of them. No one was breathing down his eleven- inch collar. It was Mr. Hay's custom on Sunday afternoons to relax in the grandstand after the final race. He would peruse the next week's racing card, enjoy the solitude of six thousand empty seats, then amble to his car—an old Ford that rattled in every gear including neutral—which he always parked in the far end of the parking lot.

He thought of many things as he handicapped his ponies that afternoon. Name, town, and state were among them. He studied furlongs, sires, and first quarters, late brushes, jockey changes, and trainers. Name. Town. And state. It was a litany.

He folded the racing form into his pocket a few minutes before six. He walked to his car and, his eyes barely to the height of the window, he unlocked it in the vast, deserted parking lot.

The car door flew open. A human body, strong and powerful, burst upward from low behind the front seat, pushed the seats apart, and rushed from concealment to confront the archivist. The tiny archivist yelped and his eyes went wide as demitasse saucers with two brown marbles at their center.

It was Cochrane! Glaring, menacing, scowling, looking downward with his twenty-four inches of superior height. Cochrane's eyes gleamed. He said nothing. By now the week's catechism spoke for him.

"Name . . . town. . . state . . ." Mr. Hay's heart fluttered somewhere ten feet above his head.

"Otto Mauer is now Henry Naismith," Mr. Hay confessed sullenly. "The town is Ringtown. The state is Pennsylvania. Now leave me alone."