The Eighth Dwarf (6 page)

Ploscaru used a carafe of water to mix two drinks and handed one to Jackson, who was sitting in an armchair. The dwarf hopped up onto the bed and wriggled back. “How'd he get on to you—Baker-Bates?” Ploscaru tried to make it a casual question and almost succeeded.

“He wants the assassin.”

“Assassin? What assassin?”

“What assassin? Why, the one that slipped your mind, Nick. The one you forgot to mention. The one you described as being just a lost boy strayed from home whose kinfolk would pay us a little money to see if we could get him back. Kurt Oppenheimer. That assassin.”

“I know nothing of it. Nothing.”

“Come off it, Nick.”

The dwarf shrugged. “I may have heard some wild rumor. Idle gossip, perhaps. But—phht.” He shrugged again—an eloquent Balkan shrug that dismissed the notion. “How was your meeting with the Oppenheimers?”

Jackson took the envelope from his pocket and tossed it to Ploscaru, who caught it with one hand. “Your cut's in there,” Jackson said, “along with Leah Oppenheimer's schoolgirl version of her brother, the brave underground hero. Read it and I'll tell you how our meeting went.”

“Tell me now,” the dwarf said, counting the money. “I can read and listen at the same time. I have that kind of mind.”

As a matter of fact, he did. By the time Jackson had described his meeting with the Oppenheimers, Ploscaru had read Leah Oppenheimer's essay twice, counted the money three times, and made a careful study of the four snapshots.

“And Baker-Bates?”

“He picked me up outside the hotel. We went to a bar and had a drink and talked about you. He doesn't like you.”

“No,” Ploscaru murmured, “I suppose he doesn't.”

“He called you names.”

Ploscaru nodded sadly. “Yes, he probably would. How did he look, poor chap—a trifle seedy?”

Jackson stared at him. “A little.”

“A bit down on his luck?”

“He paid for the drinks.”

“Still claiming to be with the old firm?”

“He implied as much.”

Ploscaru sighed—a long, breathy sigh full of sorrowful commiseration. “He's not, you know. They cashiered him back in—let's see—early '44, I believe it was.”

“Why—because of you?”

The dwarf smiled unpleasantly. “Not really. It was a number of things—although I may have been the last straw. He must be free-lancing now, poor old dear. He's seen the Oppenheimers, of course.”

“Once.”

The dwarf nodded thoughtfully. “They wouldn't talk to him,” he said, more to himself than to Jackson. “His bona fides are all wrong.” Ploscaru brightened. “What else did he tell you?”

“He told me about all the people Kurt Oppenheimer supposedly killed during the war—and afterwards.”

Ploscaru sipped his drink. “Probably mentioned the SS major general and the Bavarian Gauleiter.”

“I thought you didn't know anything about it.”

“I told you I'd heard rumors—most of them a bit fanciful. What else did he say?”

“That the British don't want him in Palestine. Oppenheimer.”

The dwarf seemed to turn that information over in his mind for several moments, sorting it out, estimating its worth, probing its validity. He nodded then, a number of times, as though satisfied, and said, “An interesting point. Very interesting. It could lead to all kinds of speculation.”

“Yes, it could, couldn't it?”

Ploscaru made his eyebrows go up to form a silent question.

“I mean,” Jackson said, “that's there's a possibility that we're not being paid by a retired zipper king, but by the Zionists.”

“I should make it a point never to underestimate you, Minor. Sometimes you're most refreshing. Would that bother you, if it were true—the Zionist thing?”

Jackson raised his glass in a small, indifferent toast. “Up the Israelites.”

The dwarf smiled happily. “We're very much alike in many ways, aren't we?”

“I'm taller,” Jackson said.

“Yes, I suppose that's true.” The dwarf gazed up at the ceiling. “You know what's really going on out there, don't you?”

“Where?”

“In the Middle East.”

“A power struggle.”

“Exactly. Between Russia and Britain.”

“That's not exactly new.”

Ploscaru nodded. “No, but there is a new government in Britain.”

“But not one that's dedicated to the liquidation of the British Empire.”

“No, of course not. So Britain has got to keep some kind of physical grip on the Middle East. Russia's still nibbling away at Turkey and Iran, and Britain's either going to pull out or be kicked out of Egypt and Iraq.”

“So that leaves Palestine.”

“And Trans-Jordan, but Palestine mostly. Palestine is key. So if Britain is going to keep on being a world power, which means keeping the Russians out of the Mideast, then it must have a base. Palestine will do quite nicely, especially if the Jews and the Arabs are at each other's throats. It would be easier to control. It always has been—except for one thing.”

“The Jews have started knocking off the British.”

“Exactly,” the dwarf said. “A rather interesting situation, don't you think? But to get back to poor old Baker-Bates. What else did he say?”

“He said that both the Americans and the British are after Oppenheimer.”

“The French?”

“He didn't say.”

“Probably not. The French are so practical.”

“But the ones who want him most of all are the Russians.”

“Well, now. Did he say why?”

“He said it's because they want to hire him. He also said to tell you that.”

“Yes,” Ploscaru said as, without thinking, he clasped the glass between his knees so that he could slowly dust his hands off. “Yes, I'm very glad that you did.”

Two days later, at six o'clock in the morning of the day that he and the dwarf were to leave for Washington, Jackson finally met Winona Wilson. There had been a farewell party somewhere the night before, and Jackson awoke with a mild hangover and the slightly blurred vision of a tall blond woman of about twenty-six who stood looking down at him, her hands on her hips.

Jackson blinked his eyes rapidly to clear his vision and said, “Good morning.”

“Somebody's been sleeping in my bed,” she said. “I think that's what I'm supposed to say, according to the book.”

“I think I've read that one.”

“Your name's not Goldilocks, though, is it?” she said. “No, not with that hair. I actually used to know a Goldilocks, although he spelled it with an x. Old Sam Goldilox over in Pasadena.”

“You must be Winona Wilson,” Jackson said. “How's your mother, Winona?”

“Stingy. Tightfisted. Parsimonious. Who're you, a friend of Nick's?”

“Uh-huh. One Minor Jackson. Where is he, Nick?”

She nodded toward the bedroom door. “Asleep. I've just made a quick tour—counting the spoons, stuff like that. You've kept it very neat. I'm surprised.”

“We had a maid in yesterday.”

“When're you leaving?”

“What time is it now?”

She looked at her watch. “Six. A little after.”

“Christ. About nine. Okay?”

“No rush,” she said, and sat down on the edge of the bed and started unbuttoning her blouse. When she had it off, she turned toward him and said, “When I first saw you lying there, I thought you were about sixty. The hair.”

“It's gray.”

“I know,” she said as she removed her skirt and tossed it on a chair. “I bet it turned that way overnight.”

“As a matter of fact, it did,” Jackson said as he watched her shed the rest of her clothes. She had unusually fine breasts and long, lean legs that some might have thought too thin, although Jackson thought they were fine. She turned and paused as though to give him a full view, and Jackson noticed that her eyes were blue. Periwinkle blue, he thought, but realized that he wasn't really quite sure whether a periwinkle was a fish or a flower or both. He resolved to look it up.

“Tell me about it,” she said as she slipped underneath the covers next to him. “Tell me about how your hair turned gray overnight.”

“All right,” Jackson said.

It was about eight when Ploscaru wandered into the bedroom holding a saucer and a cup of coffee. He took a sip, nodded pleasantly at Jackson and Winona Wilson, said, “I see you two have met,” and wandered out. Winona Wilson giggled.

Their departure from the house in the Hollywood hills was delayed nearly an hour because of the Grand Canyon, Yellowstone National Park, and New Orleans. Ploscaru wanted to visit all of them on the way to Washington. It was only after a bitter debate, with Winona Wilson siding with the dwarf, that a compromise of sorts was reached. Yellowstone was out, but both the Grand Canyon and New Orleans were in.

“It's still about a thousand miles out of the way,” Jackson said grumpily as he studied the oil-company map that he had spread on the hood of the Plymouth.

“But well worth both the time and expense,” Ploscaru said. He jumped up on the convertible's running board, took Winona Wilson's hand, and brushed his lips against it with a bit of a flourish. “Winona, you have, as always, been more than generous.”

“Anytime, Nick,” she said as she smiled, leaned over, and kissed him on the top of his head.

Jackson folded the map, stuck it in his jacket pocket, moved over to the tall blond woman, put an arm around her, and kissed her lightly on the mouth. “You're the best thing that's happened in a long time. Thanks.”

She smiled. “If you're ever out here again, Slim, stop by. You can tell me more war stories.”

“Sure,” Jackson said. “I'll do that.”

6

His papers said that he was a journeyman printer. The papers were tightly wrapped in yellow oilskin tied with stout string and were now pressed against his lean stomach by his belt. The papers also said that his name was Otto Bodden, that he had been born in Berlin thirty-nine years before, and that his political preference was the Social Democratic party, a preference which had cost him five years in the concentration camp at Belsen.

He had been a printer. That much was true. And he had been born in Berlin and grown up there. That was not only true, but also necessary, because the people around Lübeck distrusted Berliners—despised them, really—and could recognize them in a second by their gab as well as by their figuratively big noses which they were always poking into places that didn't concern them. Berliners were Prussians. Wisecracking Prussians, perhaps, but still Prussians.

As for the name, well, Otto Bodden would serve as well as any. There had been many names since he had taken his first alias thirteen years before. He tried to remember what that first one had been. It came to him after a second or two. Klaus Kalkbrenner. His lips twitched into a smile as he crouched in the trees and studied the three early-morning anglers across the canal. Young Klaus Kalkbrenner, he remembered, had been something of an idiot.

He had no watch, so he had to depend on the sun. He turned to examine it. It was already up, but not quite enough. It would be a few more minutes until the patrol came along. He turned back to continue his study of the fishermen across the canal. One of them had caught something; not a bad-sized fish; a carp perhaps, although Bodden wasn't at all sure whether carp swam in the Elbe-Trave Canal.

He adjusted the rucksack on his back which contained his one coat and the shirt and trousers he would change into once he made it across the canal. They too were all wrapped up in oilskin. No spare shoes or socks, though. That would have been overdoing it, because no refugee printer would have an extra pair of shoes. He would have sold them by now, or traded them for something to eat.

He turned for another look at the sun. Ten more minutes, he estimated. Turning back, he fished out his last cigarette. It was an American cigarette, a Camel. They had given him a pack of them in Berlin a week before, and he carefully had made them last until now. American cigarettes were another thing a refugee printer wouldn't have. He wondered what the black-market price for an American cigarette was in Lübeck: three Reichsmarks; four? It had been five in Berlin.

He took a match from one of the three left in the small waterproof steel canister and struck it against the sole of his shoe. He lit the cigarette and pulled the smoke down into his lungs. He liked American cigarettes. He liked their names, too: Camels, Lucky Strikes, Old Golds, Chesterfields, Wings. For some reason, Wings didn't bring as good a price on the Berlin black market. He wasn't sure why. He pulled in another lungful of smoke, held it down, and then luxuriously blew it out. It was his first smoke in three days, and he could feel it—a slight, pleasant, dizzying sensation.

Someone had once told him that the Americans used treacle to cure their tobacco. He wondered if that was true. He also wondered how good his English really was. He had learned it in Belsen from a Pole. The Pole had been a very funny fellow who had claimed to have once lived in Cleveland and had assured Bodden that the English he was being taught was the American kind. The Pole had had a lot of amusing theories. One of them was that Poles made the world's best fighter pilots. That's the problem with us Poles, he had once told Bodden. All our politicians should really have been fighter pilots.

There wasn't much left to his cigarette now. A few centimeters. Regretfully, Bodden took one last puff and ground it into the dirt with his shoe. He heard them then, the patrol. One of them was whistling. That was how it was supposed to be.

Well, here goes nothing, he said to himself in English. That had been one of the Pole's favorite phrases, which he had also guaranteed to be proper American usage. In fact, it was the last thing he had ever said to Bodden that April morning in 1944 when they had led the Pole away to be shot or hanged. Hanged probably, Bodden decided. They wouldn't have wasted a bullet on a Pole. Gniadkiewicz. That had been the Pole's name, Bodden remembered. Roman Gniadkiewicz. A very funny fellow.