by Joseph Kanon
“Yes, hard. So unexpected,” he said, watching her. “They were very close, you know.”
“I didn’t. She never talked about him. In New York.”
“Well, she had a different life there,” Bildener said vaguely. He turned to Aaron. “I wonder if I can say something to you without giving offense.”
Aaron waited.
“If I can speak for her father.”
Aaron nodded, not sure where this was going.
“She married a Jew once and it did not go well for her.”
“Tommy wasn’t Jewish.” Still not sure.
“A mix,” Bildener said, waving this off. “Who knows how much blood it takes?”
“And?”
“You have a Jewish look. I know we’re not supposed to say that now. A different time. Maybe it’s a changed name, maybe not. That’s your affair. But another Jew? No. I’m thinking of her, you see. That’s why I say these things to you.”
Aaron stared at him, the words like an icicle on his back, the cold dripping down his skin, Bildener’s eyes hard blue.
“She thinks it doesn’t matter, but it does. You can’t mix blood.”
Nothing changed. This one to the left.
“Go to hell,” Aaron said quietly.
Bildener reared back, genuinely surprised. What had he expected? “I have offended you.” Cocktail party politeness. “So maybe I shouldn’t have said. Since you’re just passing through.” A slight nod, as if he were physically prodding him along.
“No. I mean it. Go to hell. Burn.”
“So. I was right. A Jew.”
“After they put you in a glass box. Like Eichmann. So everybody can see. I’ll be in the front row.”
“At my trial?” An exaggerated irony.
“No, at the freak show. With all the others like you.”
“Stay away from her.”
“Where everybody can see.”
“You can change your name but you can’t—” He stopped, eyes widening, a streak of fear flashing across them, seeing something in Aaron’s face, the adrenaline rushing out of control. Stop. Leave.
Aaron turned and walked away, not toward anything, just away, his hands trembling now, feeling curiously exposed, as if everyone were watching him. What had just happened? An enemy he hadn’t needed to make. A complication. Worse, not controlling it, a rage so close to the surface all Bildener had to do was pull a trigger. Where had that come from? Not from Max, plodding, methodically filling his folders. What good is mad? he’d said. You have to win the case.
He stopped at the bar near the open French doors. The last thing he needed, gas on a fire. He ordered a club soda and stood against the wall, calming down. Men in suits and shiny shoes, women in dresses and diamonds, talking louder now, the party swelling, Spanish and Portuguese and English. Monsignor Rosas had moved on from the ambassador, a ripple of laughter following him. Champagne the night before the seminary. Bildener had moved too, toward the edge of the room. Steady, not at all upset, the moment with Aaron forgotten, or maybe having served its purpose, driving him away. He was talking to a heavyset man whose jowls shook as he spoke, leaning in, intimate. Maybe the faithless Martínez, who’d put on weight, or another soldier in the Catholic Alliance, saving Poland for the Church.
“Sitting this one out?” Jamie, with a square glass and what looked like bourbon.
“It’s more fun to watch.”
“You’re the one who wanted to come. Meet anybody?”
“Monsignor Rosas.”
“The padre? He tell you how he’s taking on the Commies?”
“More or less.”
“Somebody should. We’re not doing so hot.”
“Are they? His group?”
“Marx or the Pope. They think it’s a choice. They’re surprised people don’t make it.”
“I gather he was friends with Perón.”
“Everybody was. When he was Perón. But Madrid’s far away.”
“And we want to keep it that way.”
“We don’t want him back, that’s for sure. What happened to your girlfriend?”
Aaron looked over his shoulder at the crowded room. “She’s around somewhere.”
But not nearby. The jowly man had moved away, heading down the hall toward the business end of the embassy, a row of office doors, closed for the party. Bildener was coming back toward the center of the room when he was intercepted by Ricardo, an awkward meeting neither of them wanted but had to get through. For a second Aaron imagined them talking about the Argentine Open, the boredom cushioned by politeness, but then Hanna was there, handing Ricardo her glass while she moved her purse, the endless juggling of women at cocktail parties, purse, drink, cigarette.
“What about Jorge Martínez?” Aaron said.
Campbell looked up, surprised. “What about him?”
“What do we know?”
“You met him too? You really work a room.”
“No, but he’s here. So who is he?”
“Intelligence Bureau. Or was. A piece of work. Kind of guy makes lots of enemies. But the friends were the right ones. So when they were making—adjustments, after Perón left, they moved him over to the diplomatic corps. Out of the way. God knows what he had on them, but anyway, enough to save his ass. Some cushy job in Brazil. He’s back?”
“Flying visit, in and out. He’s a friend of Bildener’s?”
“Back in the day. Now, I don’t know. You don’t hear much about the Fourth Reich these days.”
Her words too, a sarcastic edge. Now she was handing Ricardo her glass again, apparently asking for a refill, then leaning forward to hear Bildener, close to her ear. Maybe something about the American friend’s behavior. Or more paternal advice. Whatever it was, she barely heard it, distracted, looking around, then moving off down the hall, stopping a waiter to ask a question.
“Why the interest?” Jamie was saying.
Aaron shrugged. “Just curious. The monsignor seemed surprised he was here. So I wondered why.”
“Like I said, he’s a guy who made enemies. The way he made them was torture, whatever nasty was going around. So it’s not a good town for him anymore. People remember.”
“Then why come?”
“He’s Argentine. Maybe he came to see his mother.”
“No,” Aaron said, thinking. “Business. In and out. So what kind of business?”
“You have a suspicious mind.”
She was looking at the doors as she passed down the hall, then evidently found the right brass plate and went in, a darting glance behind her. Where the man with the jowls had gone. Not the ladies’ room.
“Jamie, you know what he looks like?”
“Big guy. I can dig up a picture if you want.”
“You had him under—?”
“A person of interest.”
“Oh?”
“They all were in the Intelligence Bureau. That’s who ran things, so we needed to keep tabs. And one would lead to the other. They took care of each other.”
Suddenly she was back in the hall, looking flustered, as if she had made a mistake and gone through the wrong door, a cover story, hurrying now, back to the party, stopping just for a second to adjust her glove, one of the charms snagged. She looked up, and for a minute Aaron thought she was looking at him, but Ricardo moved away from his group, handing her a glass. A quick smile, a gulp of the drink, back in the party, Aaron still looking over Jamie’s shoulder, not sure what he’d seen, waiting for the man with the jowls to appear. But the hall stayed empty, as if he’d never been there or was busy behind some other door.
“So they ship him off to Brazil. But not to Rio, the embassy.”
“Well, Brasilia now. They’re not exactly lining up to go there.”
“Still, he’s a big guy. He’d want the embassy. But he’s in São Paulo. So what’s there, a consulate? He’d be happy with that?”
“It’s São Paulo, for Christ’s sake. We’re not talking about some place up the Amazon.”<
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Still no one in the hall. The party loud around them.
“Anyway, he’d fit right in there,” Jamie said.
“Why?”
“It’s where the Germans are. The tourists go to Rio, but the Germans go to São Paulo. All the big companies. So he’d have lots of friends. Old home week.”
“Because that’s what he did here.”
Jamie nodded. “Recruit military advisors. Ex-Luftwaffe. To train the air force. All aboveboard, except for a new identity here and there. If they’d been more than pilots. And then the others, the ones the Intelligence Bureau took a special interest in.”
“Like Otto Schramm?”
“Maybe. We don’t know. And now— There may be records somewhere, but I wouldn’t bet the ranch on it. Why don’t you ask her?”
Aaron looked at him.
“Oh, that’s right. She doesn’t know you—” He stopped. “By the way, the tap? Nothing. I said I’d give it a week, but I don’t think you’re going to get anything there. Either she’s careful or she’s not in touch. Or you’ve made a mistake.”
“Give it the week anyway.”
“Nice woman. At least on the phone. Kind of girl you’d think about marrying, except for the family.”
And then there he was, in the hall, closing the door behind him and heading deeper into the embassy, away from the party. Not the men’s room either. The meeting no more than a minute or two, something you’d miss if you blinked. Just enough time to deliver a message. Which meant one of them would have to pass it on to Otto.
“Jamie? Could you put a tail on him? Martínez?”
“More official business? No. And no. You’re out of favors, remember?”
“You have a file on him then?”
“Still no.”
“A quick look. Back in a day.”
“What do you think you’re going to find?”
“I don’t know. A needle in a haystack. If he helped Otto once, he might still be helping him.”
Two people in the meeting. She was moving away, toward the other reception room.
“You know that’s not what we’re here for, right? Looking for Nazis.”
“We should be.”
Out of sight now, in the other room, maybe about to leave.
“I’ll catch you later,” Aaron said, patting his upper arm.
He walked through the crowd, turning sideways to slice between standing groups. She had gone into the opposite hall, the right way to the ladies’ room this time, and he waited at the corner. He put his glass back on a passing tray. A single meeting, no more than a few minutes, maybe not even about Otto. But it must have been. An address, a number. He’d be so happy to see you. No longer strolling on the Jungfernstieg. At home. Somewhere near. Close now. Use anything.
She stopped when she came back into the hall, surprised to see him, a flash of apprehension. She had taken off her gloves and now held them with her purse, more juggling.
“Enjoying yourself?” she said, trying to be casual.
“Not much. I had a fight with Bildener. He tell you?”
She shook her head.
“He wants me to stay away from you. No Jews.”
“Oh,” she said, embarrassed. “That’s about Tommy.”
“I said I wouldn’t.”
She looked up. “Did you?”
“What about you? See everybody you had to see?”
“What do you mean?”
“I thought da Silva wanted—”
“Oh, that. Yes.”
“So we’re free to go. No one will notice.”
“I can’t leave Ricardo. We came together.”
“That’s before you got sick. You don’t want to spend the rest of the evening in there,” he said, nodding toward the ladies’ room.
“Something I ate?” she said.
“Ask him to put you in a cab. That way he’ll know you’re going home alone.”
“And where will you be?”
“Waiting for you. At the hotel.”
She looked over at him, eyes alive now, as if he had touched her.
“Just like that,” she said.
“You’re finished here,” he said, curious to see her reaction, but she answered by looking around the room.
“I have to say good-bye to da Silva. He’ll want to send a doctor. It’s not so easy as you think.”
“Ricardo will make your excuses. He’d be good at it. Just have him put you in a cab.” He looked at her. “We’ll play hooky.”
A question mark, not familiar with the word.
“Never mind,” he said. “I’ll explain it later.”
“You’re so sure I’ll come.”
He took her hand, a good-bye, the skin warm to the touch, and felt her react to it, a reflex, pulling away.
“No. But I’ll wait.” He started to leave, then turned to her. “Come,” he said, looking at her. “I want you to.”
At Posadas he sat in the lobby, pretending to read a newspaper in a club chair near the revolving door, one eye on the street. Early evening, circles of dark under the trees. The desk clerk was busying himself with some papers, eyes down, an exaggerated pose of discretion. Aaron imagined her still at the party, trying to make her excuses, Ricardo hovering. You’re so sure I’ll come. But he wasn’t. He turned the newspaper page, restless. Pictures of men in suits, the minister of this, the minister of that, a whole government he didn’t know. Friends of Jorge, who’d helped Otto once. Maybe landing cards, maybe something more, the Intelligence Bureau impossible to refuse. Meeting with her, away from the party. Think it through. But he couldn’t, Jorge as fuzzy as the men in the newspaper. What if she didn’t come? If he’d overplayed it?
He got up and went over to the window, nervous, a teenager waiting for a date, not knowing what to do with himself. It had to mean something, meeting like that. She’d be careful now. But she’d come before. It’s enough, she’d said, but it wasn’t.
A black-and-yellow taxi pulled up in front, idling while the passenger paid. When the door opened, the long legs came out first, the skirt hiked up as she slid out. He felt an almost giddy sense of relief. Here. A bellboy rushed out to close the door behind her, bowing with deference. Not sneaking in, an arrival. Then she saw him through the window and smiled, some joke between them, knowing she’d come.
“Any problems?”
“No. He didn’t believe me, but he had to save face. So now tell me. What’s hooky?” Talking in a rush, her voice too low for the desk clerk to hear.
“Playing hooky. Not going to school. Doing something you want to do instead.”
“And if you get caught?”
“More school. After hours. But the trick is not getting caught. To get away with it.”
She looked up at him. “Playing hooky,” she said, practicing the phrase.
“Are you hungry? Should we have dinner?”
“After,” she said, her eyes meeting his, so that the word went through him, a shudder, as if a hand were touching his genitals.
They went back to the elevator, and when it left the ground floor he kissed her, pushing her against the metal frame. “Wait,” she said, but kissed him back, ready, her breath coming faster, the only other sound the whine of the iron cage as it rose past the next floor.
In the room, he thought it would be slower, making love to someone you already knew, but it was as before, clothes thrown to the floor, urgent, the hurry of stolen time. When she rolled him over and knelt on top, riding him, her breasts cupped in his hands, she began a gentle rocking motion, almost languid, that for a second seemed to promise a different rhythm, but then she was leaning down, kissing him, and the pleasure came rushing at them again and they went faster and faster to meet it, breathing ragged, making little involuntary sounds, until they were there, unaware of anything else.
Afterward they lay still, their bodies sweaty and warm, letting the breeze dry them. Now what? Ask her what Jorge had wanted? Tell her what he was doing? Feeling like this, his
whole body flushed with well-being, and knowing it was wrong, some violation, not what Max had asked him to do. But how else to do it? He looked over at her, her face relaxed now, eyes closed, and he thought of how he’d felt seeing her get out of the taxi, a little rush of blood rising closer to the skin. I want you to come. And he had wanted it. But she’d met with Jorge, long enough to get a message, which she’d give to Otto. People don’t lie in bed, she’d said. But they did.
She moved, leaning over him. “Is there a shower? I’m so sticky.”
He nodded toward the bathroom, then watched her as she got up and walked across the room, the way the back of her moved, something he knew now. When he heard the water start, he got up to get a cigarette. He looked at the desk, remembering emptying his pockets in the rush to get naked. Wallet, keys landing where they’d been flung. Her charm bracelet. He smiled to himself. Something she’d liked as a girl, according to Rosas. Even the same charms, the dog, the— He stopped, then reached over and picked it up. An empty ring. No key. But there had been one. He remembered seeing it in her apartment. Where he shouldn’t have been. Noticed it because it was smaller than the other pieces. He stared down at the bracelet and saw her coming down the hall at the embassy, adjusting it on her glove, because something had got hooked. An empty ring. Missing the key. Not a charm, a real key. To what? Too small for a door. Thin, the kind you slid in and turned. He looked up. A safety deposit box. A number and a small key, all you needed. Now with Jorge. Not a message, a bribe, a payment. But what had she bought?
He reached over to her bag, listening to the water. The way he’d felt in the apartment, a small tingle of shame, no excuse possible if she walked in now. But she’d bought something. He opened the bag. The usual lipstick and handkerchief and small bills and cosmetics. And an envelope, stiff. He opened it and took out the paper. Folded over, like a book. In Portuguese, but Portuguese even he could understand. A resident visa. For Erich Kruger. He stared at the picture. The same cheekbones, sharp eyes. So this is what Otto looked like now. Like Erich Kruger, heading for Brazil. His future bought and paid for.