by Joseph Kanon
“I should go,” she said, moving her hand over his chest.
“No, stay.”
She shook her head. “I sleep at home. It’s a rule.”
“Whose?”
“Mine.”
“That’s what men do. Cut and run.”
“But I’m not a man.”
“No.” He leaned up and kissed her. “So stay.”
“I can’t,” she said, beginning to move.
“Why not?”
She put a finger to his lips, then got up and went to the bathroom. He lay there, listening to the running water, wondering what would happen next, then sat up and lit a cigarette just to do something. When she came back and started dressing, she turned her back to him, suddenly private.
“It’s late,” he said.
“Not for here. People stay up.”
“Should I come?”
“Don’t worry, I’ll be all right.”
“Stay. Why not? We’re both free.”
“Well, free,” she said, a frown, taking the cigarette from his fingers for a puff, then handing it back. She reached down, putting her hand against his cheek. “But it was nice. I’m glad.”
“I’ll call you tomorrow.”
“No. Go to Bariloche. Or wherever you’re going. It’s better like this.”
“Like what?”
“Like this. Something nice. It’s enough.”
“But I want—” he started, getting up, the sheet dropping as he stood.
“Look at you,” she said, amused.
“I want to see you,” he finished, not bothering to cover.
“To ask me more questions? No, it’s enough of that too.”
“Why? You don’t want me to—”
“Not you,” she said, putting a hand on his chest. “It’s me I don’t trust.”
“Trust.”
“I don’t want it to be more than—something nice. I can’t trust myself with that. So.” She reached up and kissed him, a good-bye. “Let’s say it was the wine.”
“I’ll call you.”
She shook her head. “Something nice. Let’s leave it at that. My purse—did you see—?”
“Over there.” He pointed to a clump on the floor.
She smiled. “How did it get there?”
“I don’t remember,” he said, a faint smile back. “You must have dropped it.”
“You see? So careless. I can’t trust myself.”
She turned at the door, another direct look, as if she were holding the moment, then went out. Now that she was gone, too late, he picked up the sheet and covered himself, standing in the middle of the dark room, not sure where to move, which direction, too many things happening at once.
7
SHE DIDN’T COME OUT until eleven. He had been under the big ombu tree since nine, perfect cover, the park benches hidden from her windows by the canopy of leaves. He had brought a newspaper, but it seemed unnecessary—no one took any notice of him. People were expected to sit here, a haven of shade. Her building was at the top of the rise, front door visible from under the tree. He tried to imagine her morning. A shower, coffee and a newspaper in her robe, morning light pouring in through the window. Maybe thinking about last night, whether she’d done the right thing. Getting dressed. A telephone call—to whom? Or maybe none of it. He could only see the door, a window, the rest of it something to pass the time.
She was wearing white again, or off-white, a crisp summer suit, pearls, dressed to meet somebody. He got up to follow. Even Agency desk men were given basic training, a summer course of tradecraft they’d probably never use, and now that he was here, he wasn’t sure he could do it, keep the right distance, fall back, disappear in a crowd, never let her feel his eyes on her back. What if she took a taxi? The hotel with its rank of waiting cabs was a block away. But she walked, down Alvear past the big mansions, then the rows of new apartment buildings studded with air-conditioning units, toward the Plaza San Martín, where he’d walked that first day. Not in a hurry, maybe slowed down by her heels, but not changing pace either, suspicious, turning around. It would have been easier to do this downtown, getting swallowed up in the crowds, invisible, but she seemed unaware of him, and after a while he felt he had receded into the half-empty streets, the way he had at the Ohlsdorf chapel.
She skirted San Martín and started down Calle Florida, finally stopping at the Harrods branch, another piece of Europe. A minute or two at the windows, just looking, Aaron too far away to be reflected. When she went into the store, he held back. Stores were difficult, no crowds to melt into. What would he be doing on the women’s clothing floor? He’d have to chance her coming back out the same entrance. He crossed the street to a bookstore, pretending to browse as he kept watch at the window. An endless wait, afraid he’d lost her. And then there she was, a flash of white, putting on sunglasses against the glare, a Harrods bag now on her arm. And as she reached up with the glasses, he saw her last night, raising her blouse over her head, naked for him. She looked up, and for a minute he wondered if she could feel him watching, be inside his head, some postcoital telepathy, but then she turned and started walking back to San Martín, just someone on the street.
At the corner she went into a bank, a day for errands, then crossed over to the belle epoque hotel at the top of the square and got a taxi. He waited until they’d turned the corner before hopping into one behind. When he told the driver to follow, he heard the absurdity of it, saw the look in the driver’s eyes. Something that happened in the movies on Calle Lavalle, not in a cab rank on San Martín. “Mi esposa,” he said, as if that explained anything, but it seemed to work, a suggestion of infidelity, a chase the driver could understand. A burst of Spanish, probably some knowing street philosophy, then a conspiratorial wink, and he started the meter, heading down toward Retiro Station.
They caught up to her cab at a corner red light, then swung left behind it onto Libertador, heading north, avoiding the railway tracks and, beyond, the working port of cranes and warehouses and the slums squeezed in between. Libertador was broad, what seemed to be at least six lanes in either direction, an American width, flowing past parks and museums and the old rich houses of Barrio Norte. The cabdriver, waving his hands as he spoke, was creating some drama of his own about Hanna that required nothing but an occasional nod from Aaron. Where was she going? One of the embassies? The racetrack? Some apartment in Belgrano where Otto was waiting? And then, just past the entrance to the Botanical Gardens, they headed right, through the park, the way to Aeroparque, the old city airport. But where would she go without a suitcase, just a shopping bag from Harrods? Unless she wasn’t the one going.
They followed the signs for the airport, but once they reached Costanera, the road along the water, her cab slowed, as if they were looking for the right turnoff. Finally, a right signal into the driveway of what looked like a pier, an Argentinian flag flopping in the breeze off the river, some nautical flags below it. “Dos Pescadores,” the cabdriver said. Two Fishermen, maybe some whimsical name for a restaurant, a boat club. But a hopeless dead end. No cabs cruised here. He’d have to call from inside, after she’d gone, losing her. The cabdriver had slowed, watching her get out, and he must have come to the same conclusion because he parked just beyond the pier entrance, in the shade of a scraggly jacaranda tree. He pointed up at the blossoms, as if they were some romantic touch, right for the melodrama. Aaron opened his hands—Now what?—and the driver winked and cut off the meter, sitting back in a slouch. Now we wait, the story evidently worth a lost fare.
Aaron got out and had a cigarette, leaning against the door. She wouldn’t stash Otto here, marooned beyond the docks. Even the airport, seemingly so close, would be too far to walk. The whole city was like that, everything farther than you thought. But maybe Otto wasn’t in the city at all. Why not Bariloche? The sea breezes of Mar del Plata. Mendoza, drinking red wine. Anywhere. But there he’d been on the Binnenalster, in the heart of it all, not run to ground. He’d be here. While s
he had lunch. Maybe used the phone. Just a quick message, with a time and place. And then what? He threw the end of the cigarette on the road. Cloak-and-dagger stuff, how you thought when you had too much time on your hands. Just lunch. Maybe a glass of rosé. An old friend. But not that kind. Nobody lies in bed. He could still hear her, that gasp in his ear, the most erotic sound there was. Something nice. It’s enough. But it wasn’t enough.
Lunch took hours. But then he saw her coming out, two other women with her, all talking on the steps while they waited for their rides. Two taxis arrived, one for the others, one for Hanna. Kisses good-bye. She looked at her watch. Aaron nudged his driver, sliding down out of sight, the driver smiling with excitement. Something to talk about later. They retraced their route down through the park on Sarmiento, all the way to the end and then east on Avenida Santa Fe. There was traffic now, a busy shopping street clogged with buses, and when she stopped at a corner and got out, he assumed she thought she’d make better time on foot. He stopped the cab before they got to the corner, pointing to her, walking now, and handed the driver a wad of pesos. A grateful smile, but the faint hint of disappointment, missing the final act.
Aaron thought she would go into one of the stores, but she turned down a street instead, familiar with it. Calle J. Salguero, whoever he was. No doubt an important victory. Two blocks down, the street opened into a plaza, irregular, streets leading off it in several directions. A church at one end, children’s playground in the middle, cafés on three sides. He saw the white suit heading left, a door just steps off the square. He stopped, taking a seat outdoors at a café, sight line perfect. He checked his watch, 3:50, then noticed a waiter checking his watch too, waiting for something. At first a trickle, one or two people, then more, emptying out of the buildings, several stopping for coffee, a small rush of business. Aaron got up and crossed the square. Plaza Güemes. Another unknown. He made his way to Hanna’s street. Calle Charcas, which meant nothing either. Then the door, brass plaques near the bells. Dr. Ortiz. Of course. What had Jamie called it? Villa Freud. Time up at 3:50, new patients in at 4, a tidal schedule. He went back to the café to wait, watching her building, glancing at the other customers. Not furtive, but keeping to themselves, not talking to each other, maybe thinking about what had been said, not said, in their fifty minutes. What people did here.
And what would she talk about? The man she’d just slept with or the more familiar subject, the tainted genes, the fear that she’d become her mother. Worse, her father. But that was crazy. Except we don’t use that word here. If you were afraid, the fear at least was real. Was she actually lying on a Freudian couch? But people sat in chairs now. Talking about what? Doro, who stopped laughing and went away. A trip halfway around the world, everything new. The big house on Calle Aguado. A magazine article, blowing it up. Looking at him, knowing. What happened to birds when they were wounded, the strange inertia, not being able to fly. Maybe what Dr. Ortiz was helping her to do. Or not. Maybe she wasn’t talking about any of it. Maybe it was just Aaron who wanted to know. Because it wasn’t enough.
When she came out, 4:50 on the dot, she walked down Charcas, a more difficult street for him, residential, so that he was farther behind when she turned back up to Santa Fe and hailed a cab. No choice but to hope she’d gone home and follow her there. In half an hour he was back under the ombu tree, peering up, waiting for a light to go on. For all he knew, she was at the Alvear, hitting her limit with Pablo. But then there was a light in the window, oddly fluorescent, and he realized she’d turned on the television. In for the night. A blameless day. And maybe the next, and the one after that. Which was getting him nowhere. What would Max have done? Use whatever resources he had. Your contacts, he’d called them. Don’t forget who Otto was. Use anything. But Max hadn’t slept with her.
* * *
The American Embassy was across from the Parque 3 de Febrero, so Aaron suggested they meet there.
“What now?” Jamie said. “And what’s wrong with my office?”
“People listen around corners.”
“Tell me you’re kidding.”
“I need a favor.”
“And you have to meet me outside to ask it. So it never happened.”
“So you can say it never happened.”
“All right, I’ll bite. What?”
“I want you to put a tap on her phone. I need to know who she calls.”
For a minute Jamie said nothing, shuffling responses, trying to read Aaron’s face.
“First of all, we don’t do that.”
“Yes, you do. I see the reports.”
“And if we did, I’d need a req from Langley. Official. The Argentines find out, they’d kick my ass out of here.”
“They won’t find out. They’re not looking for this. Just a few days.”
“Do I get to ask why? Or do I just operate blind?”
Aaron hesitated.
“Do you know how crazy this sounds? First you turn up in Buenos Aires, where nobody just turns up, with some airy fairy story and now you’re asking us for a tap? So what the fuck is going on? Is this official?”
“No.”
Jamie looked at Aaron. “You know you could have said it was and it would probably take a few days before—”
“And I’d have the tap. But that would leave you exposed. This way you can cover your ass.”
“Wonderful. I can deny everything. I can also not do it and save myself the trouble. If it’s not official, what is it?”
“A favor. I’ll owe you.”
“No, I mean what do you want it for? You don’t put a tap on somebody just because you have the hots for her. Not in the Agency anyway. Who’s she supposed to be talking to?”
Aaron looked over. “Otto Schramm.”
Jamie stared at him, not moving. “From the beyond.”
“No. Buenos Aires. He’s alive.”
“And she knows where he is.”
“I think so.”
“Funny you didn’t mention this before.”
“I didn’t need the tap before.”
“Sons of the Reich.”
“That part’s true. What would you have done? Put it in your daily? Better to have some proof before you get everybody excited.” He opened his hand. “So the tap.”
“You’re serious about this.”
“He’s here. That’s why I came.”
Jamie looked away for a second, trying to digest this. “That’s quite a situation. Now what?”
“They make contact. We trace the call. I go take his picture. We need to ID him before anything. No mistakes.”
“The Argentines aren’t going to like this. Ever since Eichmann—”
“Let them take the credit this time. Make up for past sins. The Germans have had a warrant out for years. Extradite him and let them handle it.”
“This isn’t what we’re here for. You know that, right? We’re here to keep everybody happy, keep the OAS going.”
“And save the Americas from Communism. I know. We still do all that. This is something else.” He looked at Jamie. “It’s Otto Schramm.”
Jamie met his eyes for a second, then looked down. “I’ll give you a week. And this never happened. You don’t use the trace in evidence. You don’t use it at all.”
Aaron nodded. “You won’t be sorry.”
“I’m sorry already. I don’t even know why I’m doing it.” He glanced up. “That it?”
“One more thing?”
“Only one?”
“There’s a big party at the Brazilian Embassy.”
“And?” Jamie said, surprised.
“Add me to the list.”
“As what?”
“I don’t know. Second secretary, cultural affairs. That could mean anything. New in town.”
Jamie threw him a look.
“Don’t worry. I’ll put on a clean shirt.”
He had left her having lunch in Recoleta and got back in time to see her come out of the restaurant and head do
wn busy Pueyrredón. It was the same as the day before—some errands, lunch, window shopping. She stopped at a bookstore on Santa Fe and talked to the clerk for a while, evidently a regular occurrence, familiar. Now what? He kept her blonde hair in sight in the crowd, fixed on it, wondering where it would go next, and it occurred to him that he wasn’t just following her to find Otto but to find her, to know her life.
She’d been headed in the direction of Villa Freud but now turned right, no Dr. Ortiz today, circling back to Recoleta up Anchorena toward the German hospital. She went into a small office building. Five minutes, no more, and she was back, glancing at her watch, heading north again. Aaron stopped at the office building, checking the directory in the hall. A typical collection of small businesses—a lawyer, a dentist, a travel agency, a jewelry repair. The watch. Any of the others would have taken longer. He stepped back into the street. She was gone. For a second he panicked, cursing, but how far could she have gone? Some shop. And when he passed the hairdresser’s, he caught a glimpse of her through the window. Getting her hair done for the embassy party. It’s very important that you go, Bildener had said. Why? Had she skipped the last one? An old friend of her father’s.
He kept going—people noticed if you stopped—and found a café where he could wait. But he already knew what would happen. The hair appointment, home to dress, maybe the Alvear, a night out. Without Otto, safely put away somewhere. There had to be contact. Now at least he’d know the calls at home. But why not one from the hairdresser’s? Any café? A phone he couldn’t trace. Patience. Max sometimes took years. But he didn’t have years. He felt he was drifting through the days, the way she drifted through hers, both of them waiting. But she wouldn’t just drift. Not her. He was walking just behind her, missing something.
* * *
Fritz left a message to meet at the ABC restaurant downtown in Calle Lavalle, a kitsch re-creation of a Bavarian inn, timbered with a sloping roof, squished between two office buildings. After the sunny glare of the street, the inside seemed dark, the country sconce lighting swallowed up by the paneled walls, a high border of heraldic shields hard to see. Fritz had already started on a beer.