The Accomplice

by Joseph Kanon

  She was moving past da Silva now, into the larger party, her head turned toward her escort, listening. A waiter offering champagne broke into the sight line, then another couple, so that she was close to him, a few feet, when she looked up and finally saw him, surprised, then flustered, caught off guard. Her escort had turned to greet some other people, so they had a second alone, the others busy.

  “What are you doing here?” she said, the thought just coming out, unfiltered.

  “Jamie brought me.”

  “Here?”

  “I wanted to see you.”

  “Oh,” she said, an involuntary sound, a skip on a record, not expecting this, her eyes suddenly bright, pleased.

  He looked at her, not saying anything, eyes talking instead, a private second. Her reaction unmistakable before she had time to think, the way a woman looks when she’s happy to see you.

  And then the second was over, the others turning to them, and she was flustered again, as if his being here was not only unexpected but inconvenient, ill-timed. She put her hand up to brush her hair back, a gesture to buy a minute, the charm bracelet dangling, just the way he’d imagined.

  “Ricardo, Aaron Wiley, a friend from New York.” Explaining him again. “Ricardo Moreno.”

  Moreno dipped his head, an abbreviated bow. “You’re here with the embassy?”

  “Just visiting.”

  “Ah.”

  “I had no idea he was here,” Hanna said. “We bumped into each other at the Alvear bar.”

  “You were close friends in New York?” Moreno said tentatively, not quite sure how to ask, and Aaron saw that he was going to be jealous, protective, unless Aaron defused it.

  “It was really my wife you knew,” he said smoothly. “I don’t even remember how you two met.” Over to you.

  “A friend of Tommy’s. We were office widows—Aaron always working. And Tommy— But we managed without you both.”

  “Perhaps you’ll see more of each other here.”

  “I’m only here a few days, I’m afraid.” He turned to her, social. “When are you coming back to New York? Don’t you miss it?”

  “But it’s the best time of year here,” Moreno said, still looking at Aaron.

  “If you play polo,” Hanna said pleasantly. “Ricardo loves it. I still don’t see why you won’t play in the Open. You’re good enough.”

  “But not young enough. Do you play?” A testing question, measuring.

  “I’ve never even seen a match. But I know it’s popular here.”

  “Once the season starts, people don’t do anything else,” Hanna said. “It’s a ghost town.”

  Moreno smiled. “With parties every night. After each match.” He turned to Aaron. “You mustn’t listen to her. You really should think about staying on.” A question, still testing, but gentler now.

  “Oh god, there’s Emil. Be an angel, will you, and run interference for a few minutes? I want to catch up with Aaron. You won’t know anybody we’re talking about, so think how boring. I’ll come rescue you, promise.”

  Moreno, apparently easy now, gave another of his nods.

  “He’s jealous about you,” Aaron said, watching him head over to a tall gray-haired man with Wilhelmine posture.

  “He has no reason to be.” She looked up. “Neither do you. Men.”

  “ ‘Office widow’ was a nice touch. Why the little charade?”

  “It’s easier. Anyway, what could I say? That I don’t know what you’re doing here? Is that what you want?”

  “I want to see you again.”

  She looked away. “I don’t think that’s a good idea.”

  “Yes, it is. I’ll buy you a steak. We could just—go. The ambassador would never know.”

  “I can’t.”

  “It’s just a party.”

  “Really, I can’t. Don’t.” She looked back up at him. “That’s why you came? To see me? How did you know I—?”

  “Bildener reminded you. I figured you wouldn’t miss it.”

  “Bildener,” she said, her voice edgier, nervous. “Oh. At the Alvear. Yes. You could have called.”

  “This is more fun. Besides, you can’t hang up.”

  “No, there are people. So we pretend we knew each other in New York.”

  “It worked,” he said, glancing toward Moreno. “I guess that’s our story now. How did my wife know Tommy?”

  “How did anybody?”

  “Oh. Not really very nice for me. Did I know or was I the last to know?”

  “The last.” A small smile. “Your innocent nature.”

  “Did I ever make a pass?” He nodded to the room. “He’ll ask.”

  “No, you’re not that kind of man.”

  “I must have been crazy.”

  She looked at him, her face pink, flushed.

  “Come with me.”

  “I can’t. I can’t leave here. Not yet.”

  “Is there a checklist? Five people you have to see? I’ll do two, you do three, and then you’re done.” He paused. “I can’t stop thinking about you.” Knowing it was true the moment he said it. Following her blonde head in a crowd.

  “Don’t say that. Careful. Here’s Markus.”

  Aaron looked up to see Markus Bildener and his wife coming, glasses in hand.

  “Why careful?”

  “He thinks he’s my father. Protecting me.”

  “From what?”

  “You. Anyone. A fortune hunter.” She looked up at him. “Are you?”

  “No. Are you rich?”

  She smiled a little. “I mean it, be careful. He thinks you’re with Jamie. Up to something.”

  “I am,” he said.

  She turned. “Trude, how nice. Markus.”

  “Gnädige Frau,” Markus said, a hand-kissing deference. “Mr. Willis, isn’t it? Forgive me.”

  “Wiley.” A nod to Trude. “Frau Bildener.”

  “So. Our Hanna is showing you Buenos Aires?”

  “No, no, we just ran into each other,” Hanna said. “I’m here with Ricardo.”

  “And his horse?” His idea of a joke. “A coincidence then, to find each other here. You know Ambassador da Silva?” he said to Aaron.

  “No, a friend brought me.”

  “Ah,” Bildener said. “Well, da Silva’s parties… But I thought you were going to the mountains.”

  “I am. But there’s more to see in Buenos Aires than I thought.”

  “Well, for young people everywhere is interesting. Me, I find it melancholy.”

  “Markus,” Hanna said.

  “Yes, it’s true. You don’t find it so sometime?” He faced Aaron. “Look at the centro, the Haussmann streets. They built a capital for an empire, but there was no empire. There never will be. They say Vienna is like that now, a capital without an empire. Thank god I’m not there to see it.”

  “You’re Viennese?” Aaron said.

  Bildener dipped his head. “But now a porteño. Be careful you don’t stay too long. Like me.”

  “How long have you been here?”

  “Since the war. Another empire lost. But history is like that, no? Rise and fall. Mistakes are made. And then you have to survive. So, a porteño, why not?”

  “Markus, such talk,” Trude said. “We were grateful to find a home here.”

  “Yes, yes, very welcoming. Maybe not so much now, with the Americans running everything.” He raised his eyebrow at Aaron, testing his reaction to this. “But then, certainly. Europe was in ruins and we were eating. So yes, we were grateful. How could we not be? All the same, it’s not—Vienna. You miss that.”

  “That’s all in the past,” Trude said.

  “Yes, and here we are drinking champagne. So. I’m glad you could come,” he said to Hanna.

  “I promised I would,” she said, looking away.

  “It’s good for you to get out. And you know he’s fond of you, da Silva.” He turned to Aaron. “The Argentines, they always look a little down their noses at the Brazilians. A m
ixed race. But of course with Hanna there’s none of that.”

  “No?”

  “She doesn’t believe in race theory. A source of argument with—the older generation. So we wait a few years and then we see who was right.”

  “What would be the proof?”

  Bildener looked at him, but didn’t answer. “And meanwhile she charms the Brazilians. Da Silva said there was someone he wanted you to meet.”

  “Yes, all right.”

  “We shouldn’t monopolize you then,” Aaron said. “Maybe we’ll run into each other at another party.”

  “Yes, that would be nice. Shall we have Markus introduce you to some people or will you be OK on your own?”

  “Oh, I’ll be fine.” He looked at his watch. “I have to go soon anyway.”

  “You came with—Mr. Campbell?” Bildener said, wanting to know.

  “Yes, that’s right. Jamie. Do you know him?”

  Bildener smiled. “We’ve met. A great interest in local politics. Not like the other Americans.”

  “Jamie?”

  “Yes, you’re surprised. It’s like a hobby with him, keeping track, how the parties come and go, one minister after another. But not a Perónist, I think.”

  “Is anyone now?”

  “Millions. You would be surprised how many long for his return.”

  “Is that likely? He’s in exile.”

  “But not dead, Mr. Wiley.”

  “Perón was very kind to us,” Trude said.

  Bildener shot her a glance.

  “And here we are talking politics and you have all of Buenos Aires to meet. Well, at least all of Barrio Norte. Hanna, you won’t forget da Silva—?”

  “No, of course not.” She turned to Aaron. “I’ve got to go sing for my supper. I hope you enjoy the party. If you see Ricardo— Oh, there he is, I’ll tell him myself. Trude, Markus—”

  But as she said it, the name was repeated behind them, a booming echo. “Markus, my good Herr Bildener,” the voice said, followed by a stream of Spanish.

  Aaron looked up. A priest in a black cassock and pectoral cross, plump, a genial, florid face. On his head, incongruously, a zucchetto looking just like a Jewish skullcap, as if the religions had finally agreed on something.

  “And Hanna, my dear child, what a pleasure.” This in accented German.

  “Excellency,” Bildener said. A bishop then, the church hierarchy and its titles still vague to Aaron.

  “English, please,” Hanna said, taking his hand and nodding toward Aaron.

  “Ah, an American? I should say North American. We’re Americans here too.”

  “But still German,” Bildener said, something important to him.

  The bishop wagged a scolding finger. “Is that pride? A venal sin, you know. What difference could it possibly make? We are all children of God, surely.” He grinned mischievously. “Even the Germans.”

  He laughed, the words bubbling out of him.

  “Monsignor Rosas,” Bildener said, introducing him.

  “Luis Rosas?” Aaron said, blurting it out, not thinking. A name in Max’s folders, a step on the ratline, lending Otto a helping hand.

  Hanna glanced at him, surprised.

  “I’m known to you then?” Rosas said, pleased, used to being recognized.

  “Forgive me,” Aaron said, backpedaling. “I heard the name but I can’t remember where. Maybe it was someone else.”

  Rosas sighed. “Probably not. After the Catholic Alliance it was impossible to go anywhere. People would hear the name and think, aha, that one, the Catholic Alliance. Not the face, I didn’t allow that to be used, but the name they knew.”

  “Ah,” Aaron said, as if this answered it.

  Rosas smiled. “Not a very popular group with your embassy. Why? I don’t know. A mutual interest, stopping the Communists. But the Americans, the North Americans, like to do things on their own. They never saw the special role Argentina could play, a Christian nation, untouched by the war. This loyal daughter of the Church. Who better to save Europe?”

  By forging landing permits for Otto and the others, now Christian warriors, their sins absolved by the threat of the Church’s true enemy. Aaron looked at him again. Not a pinched executioner’s face, another Otto, but a jovial Friar Tuck figure, breezy, enjoying himself, a world away from the Auschwitz siding, the selection. But he must have seen it, that freeze frame of stopped time when everything had been morally clear, before it was an exaggeration.

  “Monsignor, not another speech,” Bildener said, a friendly tease. “Have some champagne.”

  “I must say, da Silva’s parties. But look at you,” Rosas said, taking Hanna’s hands and holding them. “All grown up.”

  “I’ve been grown up for years now.”

  “And very lovely too, but to me— Still that little girl. Always wanting to confess. With nothing to confess. Good as gold.”

  Hanna flushed, embarrassed by this. “I didn’t tell you everything.”

  “Then you can tell me now. When’s the last time—?”

  “I wouldn’t dare,” she said, smiling.

  “I doubt it. You were such a good girl. People don’t change.”

  She looked away, uncomfortable.

  “Ah, still wearing your trinkets,” he said, looking down at the bracelet. “I remember the little dog—no, it’s different.”

  She moved her hands away, out of sight.

  “It’s a new one. Bigger.” Uncomfortable again.

  “Well, what isn’t?” Rosas said, patting his stomach. “We’re all getting—” He turned to Bildener. “You should see Jorge. So heavy, at his age. I had no idea he was here. In São Paulo, I thought. Nobody tells me anything. I said, how can you come to Buenos Aires and not let me know?”

  Bildener had looked at him in a kind of alarm, then over at Hanna, who looked back, a moment between them, so that Aaron had the sense of missing something, distracted by Rosas’s easy flow.

  “Who?” Aaron said.

  “Jorge Martínez,” Rosas said simply, Bildener now looking at Aaron, reading his face. “An old friend. Some business here, he said,” Rosas said to Bildener. “What business? Just in and out. When I think, in the old days, how we all—”

  “Luis. Excellency,” Bildener interrupted. “I’m sorry, I promised da Silva—” He reached for Hanna’s arm.

  “Ah, a higher authority.”

  Bildener stopped, realizing that if he took Hanna away he would leave Aaron with the priest. Aaron watched his body stall, then pivot, his thoughts being visibly acted out.

  “I said I would introduce Mr. Wiley to some of our friends,” Bildener finished, now taking Aaron’s arm. “You’ll be all right?” he said to Hanna.

  She bowed to Rosas, a leave-taking. “It was lovely to see you.”

  “I never said. I was so sorry about—”

  She patted his hand. “I know. Soon. It’s been too long.”

  And then, before he could say anything else, she was gone, melting into the crowd, Bildener’s eyes following her, a kind of tracking.

  “Such a pity,” Rosas said. “To lose a parent so young.”

  Aaron looked at him. Did he know? Otto’s old helper.

  “Her father, you mean,” he said. “You knew him.”

  “As Helmut Braun. A very pleasant man. Of course, it was a shock—I think to everybody,” he said, including Bildener. “Well, but who are we to judge? Only God does that.”

  Aaron thought of several responses to this but was too taken aback to offer any of them. What would be the point? The lie as effortless as breathing. A man who’d helped murderers, happy to leave everything else to God.

  “Ah, but here’s my chance. Look at da Silva. Stuck with the dullest man in the room.” Rosas giggled. “It would be a mercy to rescue him, no? Shall we do that, Trude? Enjoy your stay,” he said to Aaron. “I hope we meet again.” His nod like a benediction.

  Aaron watched them go. “A man of the cloth,” he said.

  Bild
ener smiled a little. “His whole family was like that. Very social. The night before he entered the seminary, he threw a party for his friends. At a milanga in San Telmo. Cases of champagne. People still talk about it.” He paused. “It’s interesting that you knew him. His name.”

  “I still don’t know how. Not the Catholic Alliance. I never heard of it. What is it, anyway?”

  “A group against the Communists. Started after Poland fell. Now I think it’s difficult for them. Perón supported them, so now they’re Perónist. Out of favor. Luis was close to him. They say he arranged the papal visit. For Evita. But everyone takes credit for that, so who knows?” Another pause. “Maybe you take an interest in local politics too. Like your friend Campbell.”

  “No, I’m just passing through.”

  Bildener looked at him, skeptical, Aaron already part of a different story he’d made up. “But you knew Luis. Maybe it was that business with Eichmann. You were interested in that?”

  “Eichmann?”

  “The trial. Luis was mentioned. As someone who had helped him. Of course, not true. How would Luis know such a person? Another lie. Trial. If you can call it a trial. Everyone knew they would kill him. There was never any doubt about that.”

  “No,” Aaron said.

  “They just—take people. German people. Who knows what they did? Or didn’t do? But do you think the Israelis care about that? Another German to put on trial, that’s what they want. And the government here— Of course, this wouldn’t happen before. Perón would never stand for that. On Argentine territory? Never. But now—you can’t help but worry, if you’re German.”

  “You don’t think Eichmann was a special case?”

  “We’re all special cases to them. At least Otto’s out of it now.”

  “But it must have been hard for her. Hanna.” Looking up as he said it, her head visible across the room. She was talking to a small group, a clutch bag in one hand and a glass in the other, the Spanish Hanna now, not the one he knew. Bildener looked across with him.