The Accomplice

by Joseph Kanon

  “A word to the wise.”

  “I’m just here to talk to their kids. You can quote that in your report.”

  Jamie looked at him for a moment, then let it go and signaled the waiter. “In that case, ’nuff said, and I’m buying.” Then, a new thought. “You know, anything you write, you’d have to clear it with—”

  “You’ll be the first to know.” He smiled, on the team again. “And thanks for this,” he said, putting the envelope in his pocket.

  “What do you think she’ll say?”

  “Probably what they all say. How nice he was. Devoted family man.”

  “Then what’s the story?” Jamie said, taking the new glass from the waiter.

  “You’re a kid, you believe what you’re told. Mostly. But then you grow up. Turns out Daddy was killing people. Lots of them. How do you feel about him now? You know some of the camp commandants had their families with them. Fritz talked to one son. He remembers playing in the backyard while the prisoners were marched past. Work detail. He never thought anything of it. The way they looked—starving, like skeletons—he thought that was the way they were supposed to look. How things were. Later he finds out what happened to them. Now how does he look at his father?”

  “We don’t get to pick our parents.”

  “Just our friends,” Aaron said, raising his eyes. “The ones we make promises to.”

  Jamie shifted in his chair. “I didn’t make them.”

  “That’s what everybody in Germany says. My friend Fritz thinks, you talk to the children, you’re talking to Germany too. How much did you know? Then, how do you live with it?”

  “You see a shrink twice a week.”

  “That’s one way. Or it never happened. Or it wasn’t him.” He took a breath. “Or it was. Then what? When do you become complicit,” he said, thinking of Max, following Otto in his white coat.

  “Christ, they were kids.”

  “But they didn’t stay kids. Take Otto. He wasn’t just killing, he was enjoying it. Medical experiments on kids. What do you do with someone like him? What if he’s your father?”

  “Well, that took care of itself. Luckily. For her, I mean.”

  “She still sees a shrink.”

  Jamie said nothing for a second, uncomfortable. “You know, all this business, who’s a Nazi, it went away and now since Eichmann it’s starting up again. All of the sudden everybody’s a Wiesenthal, turning over rocks. You can’t live in the past.”

  “It’s not the past if they’re still alive. If they haven’t paid.”

  “But this one’s dead.”

  Aaron nodded, checked.

  “So now who pays?” Jamie said. “The daughter? Bringing it all up again.”

  But she knows, Aaron wanted to shout. They must have gone to the funeral together. Like a getaway driver waiting outside the bank. Aiding and abetting. And the only lead he had to Otto. Worth anything.

  “She’s already talking about it twice a week. Maybe she won’t mind talking a little more. Fritz says the others couldn’t stop, once they started. Some of them, it’s a relief.”

  Jamie hesitated, then tipped his drink in a mock salute. “I still say she’ll throw a glass in your face.”

  Aaron looked past him again. “Here’s your chance to find out. She’s coming.”

  Without thinking, Jamie swiveled to see, the movement catching her attention, so that she was forced to acknowledge him, a small smile. She detached herself from her group and came over.

  “Jamie, isn’t it? Hanna Crane. We met at the Carlsons’.”

  “I remember.”

  “I’ll bet not,” she said, pleasant. “Embassy people never do, but they have to pretend.”

  Her voice was clear, the English distinct, the trace of accent no longer German, just another tone, a verbal garnish.

  “In this case, it would be hard to forget.”

  She laughed. “Aren’t you ashamed? A line like that. Worse than the Argentines. They still act like Talleyrand—or whoever it was that all the diplomats got it from. Was it?”

  “Metternich, I think. But still true.”

  She smiled again. “Well, all right. Then I’m flattered. Satisfied?”

  She had turned toward Aaron, waiting to be introduced. At Ohlsdorf, her head at an angle, he had seen Otto in the sharp cheekbones, the high forehead, but now, facing him, the resemblance was fainter, the cheeks softened by full lips and bright, lively eyes that were taking him in, interested, someone new in town, maybe the way Doro’s had been in the happy years.

  “Ah, Aaron Wiley,” Jamie said, still playing diplomat. “Hanna Crane.”

  “A colleague? You’re at the embassy too?”

  “No, just passing through.”

  “An old school friend,” Jamie said.

  “Passing through to where?” she said, skeptical, enjoying this.

  “Bariloche,” Aaron said. “I want to see the Andes.”

  She looked at him, surprised, then pleased. “Oh. It’s very beautiful this time of year. Empty. Not like ski season. My father—my family used to have a house there.”

  “But not anymore?”

  “No, we sold it. It was really my father who liked to go,” she said, moving away from it. “Some wonderful trails out past Llao Llao. Funny to think of you hiking,” she said to Jamie.

  “I’m not. Just Aaron. But why funny?”

  “I don’t know. I just never imagined you being outdoors.”

  He had been facing Jamie, and now, turning back, he found her staring at him, and for a second he was back at Ohlsdorf, blending into the chairs, finally recognized. But it wasn’t that. A more familiar kind of recognition, how men and women talked, a conversation in a look. What surprised him was the frankness of it, a direct stare, not coy, as clear as her voice. Who are you? Is something going to happen? Do I want something to happen? Jamie’s friend. Which probably means the same work. Already lying. But you were looking before, across the room.

  “But you must know the place so well,” Aaron said, breaking away from the look. “Anything you’d recommend? Restaurants? Anything I should avoid?”

  “Mm. How long are you here? You’re not going right away, I hope. Jamie, you should give a party. People love meeting new people down here. I suppose because there never are any.” She smiled, easy with drink.

  “A few days anyhow. If you think of any restaurants— Can I call you?”

  She looked up at him, eyes laughing now, the line more forward than Aaron had intended.

  “Or just let Jamie know,” he finished.

  “No, call. I’d like that.” Looking straight at him, as if she wanted to see into him, who he was, and Aaron felt a prickling in his scalp, the flirting ritual now unexpectedly charged, not just erotic, duplicitous. I know something you don’t know I know. “Jamie has the number, don’t you, Jamie?”

  “Somewhere.”

  She laughed again. “Jamie has everybody’s number. So to speak.” She turned to Aaron. “Really an old school friend? Of course you wouldn’t say, would you? Never mind. Pablo’s flagging me down,” she said, glancing toward her party. “Nice meeting you. Cognac is good. Wonderful views of the lake.” She smiled at his blank expression. “A restaurant. In Bariloche. You’ll have to call for the others.”

  He watched her pass out of the bar area and into the main lobby, down the carpeted stair to the revolving door, shoulders straight, not looking back.

  “Interesting to see you in action,” Jamie said. “Two minutes and you’re getting her number.”

  “She did most of the work.”

  “Mr. Irresistible. You could have fooled me.”

  “She thinks I’m with the Agency.”

  “You are.”

  “Then why not stay away?” Aaron said, thinking. “Most people get a little shy.”

  “Maybe she likes the idea. Playing with matches.”

  Aaron shook his head. “Not if you’ve got something to hide.”

  “What does s
he have to hide?” Alert again.

  Aaron shrugged, deflecting this. “What does she talk about twice a week?”

  * * *

  He had dinner alone in one of the restaurants across the street from Recoleta Cemetery. The lamps had been turned on along the cemetery’s high walls, wrought iron fixtures that once might have held candles, an eerie effect, but there was still enough natural light left to see the tops of the mausoleums inside, crosses and pyramids, angels and haloed madonnas, crammed together in a miniature city of the dead. Farther along he could make out the white façade of the colonial church—our lady of something. Pilar. The street was busy, a warm evening, the cafés full, his the only table for one. How many evenings had Max spent like this, sitting alone, only his document folders for company? You’re on your own, Nathan had said, and now he felt the doors closing all around him. Mossad, with better things to do. The Agency, too compromised to help. But Max must have felt the same, filling his folders, year after year, the only one who still cared. You could get used to eating alone, maybe even prefer it. He thought of those final tense dinners with Claire, making conversation with nothing to say.

  He refilled his glass, hearing Nathan again. On your own. You’re ready for that? A desk man. Was he? He remembered the field reports he used to analyze, the solitude you could feel on the page. Men keeping secrets. Now him. No one in the noisy café next door knew what he was doing here, who he really was. His great advantage, a hunter whose scent hadn’t yet reached his prey. But it would, and then what? He’d need help. Max had given him names, “well placed in the Jewish community,” and Aaron imagined a line of old men, Maxes, adept at sifting through landing cards and visa files, more desk men. Who, then? Jamie, protecting his flank? Nathan? For the first time, it occurred to him that he might not be able to do it, that the hunt he owed Max might end in another escape. Otto still walking around.

  He took out Jamie’s envelope and opened it. The usual Agency top sheet with routing numbers and file destination, the usual Agency overkill, full bio, source redacted, when all he’d asked for was address and phone. Jamie had included a surveillance report. Aaron glanced at the dates. Just before the accident, her father still alive. He read through the first page, peeking into her life. A week as James had described. Shopping. Lunch at the yacht club. The opera. Dinner with Ricardo and Tina. A short weekend in Mar del Plata. Dr. Ortiz in Villa Freud (an asterisk here, his bona fides checked). Drinks at the Alvear. Dinner Sunday at the Kavanagh Building (cross-reference to Helmut Braun). He looked at the following week. Another Sunday dinner. Obligatory or had she looked forward to seeing him? Aaron imagined the Sunday roast and red cabbage, an evening in Munich. What had they talked about? What did they talk about now?

  He flipped a page. More lunches and parties. Dr. Ortiz. The Brazilian Embassy, then the Chilean, stops on the endless rounds of embassy cocktail receptions, a chance to dress up. A day trip to Tigre. Hairdresser. Pablo. Aaron skimmed down, looking to the bottom. How far had the surveillance gone? Sleeping partners? But not here, a discreet blank at the end of the page. One day like the other, filling time, presumably the life she still lived.

  Except she wasn’t just filling time anymore. The secret must have changed everything, even idle moments now lived in sharp, wary focus. He thought of her at the ceremony at Ohlsdorf, the white of her neck, tense, a deer listening for any snapping sound, ready to dart away. He wondered what a surveillance report would show now. No more Sunday dinners at the Kavanagh. How did they communicate? Why not just call? Unless they didn’t want to take any chances, kept an elaborate radio silence. But why would the police listen in? They wouldn’t. The Agency hadn’t; there was nothing to suggest it. Maybe suspicion became its own reason, a cautious new way of filling time.

  He walked the few blocks home, night now, dark in patches away from the restaurant lights. He stopped at the corner of Avenida Alvear, looking across to the sloping pocket of park with giant ombu trees, the pale gray roots twisting under the black umbrella of leaves, as if they were moving toward him, alive, like the roots at Angkor Wat strangling the temple stones. On this side of the street, modern apartment buildings, some with terraces facing back to the cemetery, the preferred view. She lived in one of these, the address in his pocket, maybe even home now, looking down on him. But more likely drinking a Malbec with Pablo and her friends. Living her father’s lie, telling no one, another field agent working alone.

  He was scarcely through the door when the phone rang, noisy, jarring.

  “I’m putting you through,” the desk clerk said, a borrowed English phrase.

  The radio crackle of a long-distance line.

  “Aaron? Fritz.” Talking quickly, almost gasping.

  “My god, what time is it there?”

  “The rates are cheaper after midnight. But three minutes only, please.”

  “You all right?”

  “The ribs are still taped, but I’m living.”

  “In the hospital?”

  “No. Home. And now a little time in the mountains, to rest.”

  “That’s good.”

  “No, that’s what the office will say. A convalescent. But I am coming to you. That’s why I’m calling.”

  “They’re sending you? I thought they wouldn’t—”

  “I decided I didn’t like being kicked to death. I have some money. If we get him, I’ll have more. Then the paper pays.”

  Aaron smiled to himself, hearing the rumpled swagger in his voice.

  “I met her tonight, the daughter.”

  “Did she recognize you?”

  “No. I don’t think so.”

  “And now?”

  “I get to know her better. She must know where he is. She’s bound to make a slip.”

  A sound of agreement, a gentle grunt. “First, build the trust. That’s how you get the picture. After an accident.”

  Aaron said nothing, uncomfortable, suddenly seeing faces caught by a flashbulb, grieving, stunned.

  “And your—people there?”

  “They think I’m working for you. Lining up interviews for the series.”

  “Well, now it will be true.”

  “You don’t have to do this. You must still be—”

  “He saw my face. So I’m careful. I don’t leave from Germany. Austria. No trace. Nobody knows I’m there.” Voice still rushed, caught up in some melodrama. “So. This telephone costs a fortune. I’ll leave a message.”

  “You sure you can do this? Travel, I mean.”

  “You’re like the doctor. Stay in bed. So now I’m Lazarus. Rising up. That’s right, rising up?”

  “That was a miracle.”

  “Ja, back from the dead. Just like Schramm.” A small laugh. “I want to be there, when we get him. Let him see my face again. So he knows it’s me.”

  “OK,” Aaron said, not knowing what else to say.

  “We help each other. And I get my story. This time, lots of pictures.” Ambulance chasing. But isn’t that what he wanted too? Flashbulbs. Press.

  “OK,” Aaron said again.

  6

  SHE WAS JUST LATE enough to make an entrance, forcing him to stand, waiting for her as she made her way past the deco barrel chairs to the bar. She was wearing a white pencil skirt with a row of pearls at the hem, a soft white cardigan draped over her blouse against the air-conditioning.

  “This all right?” he said, indicating the table.

  “Yes, fine.”

  “You really like the Alvear.”

  “It’s close,” she said, sitting down, smiling at him, someone with her finger on a checker, waiting for the opening move.

  He looked toward the bar, signaling a waiter. “It reminds me of the St. Regis,” he said. “Without the mural.”

  “You know New York. I thought it was Washington somehow.”

  “It is. But I travel.”

  “All the way here,” she said wryly. “Ah, Carlos, buenas tardes.”

  They ordered martinis.

/>   “Were you really at school with Jamie?”

  “No.”

  She looked at him, surprised, the game skipping a turn.

  “I’m afraid I’ve got you here under false pretenses.” Moving a man out.

  “Well, I’ll give you this. You’re the first who’s ever admitted it.”

  She took out a cigarette, leaning forward to his light. “So you don’t work together?”

  “No. I’m here on my own. Not on business. Not his, anyway.”

  “Whose, then?”

  He paused as the drinks arrived.

  “Cheers,” he said, raising his.

  “Cheers. All right, so you get a merit badge for honesty. What are the false pretenses?” She looked at him, playing. “Or do I guess?”

  “Not that either,” he said, slightly disconcerted, not expecting this. “I mean, not not that. But that’s not why I called.” Fumbling, off balance.

  She sat back, amused, and crossed her legs, a faint swish of nylon. “I’m all ears. And I’ve just sat down. Now, how did you manage that?”

  “I’m doing a favor for a friend. A writer. He’d like to interview you—or have me do it—about your father.”

  “My father,” she said flatly, sitting up, the smile gone. “Then you know who he was.”

  Aaron nodded. “He’s doing a series about the sons—” He dipped his head. “And daughters of prominent officials of the Third Reich. What it was like growing up then, how people feel about their parents now. Nobody’s talked to them before. He thinks it’s a book.”

  She drew on the cigarette. “Prominent officials. You mean war criminals. So that’s one false pretense. What are the others?”

  “I’m sorry to be so—clumsy. There’s no other way to ask, really.”

  “I don’t talk about my father. Anyway, he’s dead.”

  He took out a cigarette of his own, giving them a second.

  “The piece isn’t about him. It’s about you. What you think.”

  “What I think. Another false pretense. Nobody cares what I think. You just want me to say terrible things about him.”

  “Were there terrible things?”

  She looked at him. “Why don’t you answer that yourself? Since you already know. Everybody knows. Otto Schramm. Dr. Evil. But now he’s dead, so why talk about it anymore. It’s over.”