The Accomplice

by Joseph Kanon

  “So how do you get him to Germany?” Fritz said. “If you can’t fly?”

  “We get him out of Argentina first. Then we fly. And it so happens he’s planning to get out of Argentina. So we follow him out.” He turned to Aaron. “If we know how he’s going. When. So we stay on her. Close.”

  “Why don’t you just tail him? He goes to Brazil, you’ll know.”

  Nathan nodded. “We have a team on him now. In shifts. One man at a time. But that only works if he stays put. Once he’s loose, one man can’t cover it. You need a whole operation. Otherwise, one slip and he’s gone. And I don’t have a whole operation. Yet. So, he comes out, we need to know where he’s going. Let’s hope he’s not in a hurry. We need a little time.”

  “Why not just break the story?” Fritz said. “Once we have the pictures, we have him. Lazarus. Back from the dead. Everybody’ll pick it up.”

  “But they’ll never extradite him. They can’t. Too many protected him. He’ll disappear again. A phantom. Like Mengele. Then all you have are rumors. He’s in Paraguay. He’s in Bolivia. And he never testifies. But in Brazil, we have a chance. Don’t worry,” he said to Fritz. “Get him to Germany and you’ve got headlines. For days. They can’t ignore him—he’s on German soil. They have to do something.” He turned to Aaron. “And Max gets his trial.”

  “If the Brazilians—”

  Nathan shook his head. “The Brazilians won’t know. You tell them, it could take forever. Even if they end up doing the right thing. Remember Eichmann? We need to do something like that. Right under their noses. A quick transfer. But it takes people. So let’s hope he gives us a few more days.”

  “They’re not going to be happy about this. The Brazilians.”

  “And that’s my job? To make them happy? I told you, back in Hamburg, it’s not nice, this work. You have to have the stomach for it. To cut a few corners.”

  “A few corners.”

  “And you’re not? With her?” He turned to Goldfarb. “Did you get the coroner’s report? For Helmut Braun?”

  Goldfarb nodded.

  “Any mention of the tattoo? The SS ID?”

  “Bildener mentioned it,” Fritz said. “It’s one way they identified him as Schramm. That, and the dental records.”

  “And tattoos don’t lie. If they’re there.” Again, to Goldfarb. “But the coroner doesn’t mention it?”

  “No.”

  “Odd, yes? A tattoo he doesn’t see.”

  “Mengele doesn’t have one,” Goldfarb said. “It made it easier for him, after the war.”

  “But Schramm did. And Bildener sees it, but not the coroner.” He looked at Fritz. “So it’s another story. Something else for Bildener to answer.”

  He looked at his watch, as if he were setting an operation into action, all business.

  “What else? We don’t want to be too long. Goldfarb has a business to run.” A sly smile to him. “But you’ll keep checking on Kruger, yes? Fritz, you get the pictures. See what else we can pick up in Mar del Plata. That’s going to embarrass the hell out of the Argentines. I’ll get more men. Meanwhile, we track his movements, get his routine. Maybe he’s like Eichmann, home every day the same time, like clockwork.” He looked over at Aaron. “What?”

  “Nothing. It’s just—to wait like this, when we have him. What if—?”

  “We don’t have him. You’re like Max. He could find them—there was nobody like him for that. But you know, when you hunt, that’s the first part. You find him. Then you have to bring him down.”

  * * *

  She put on a slip afterward, covering herself.

  “Why bother?”

  “It’s not decent.”

  He grinned. “But that is,” he said, nodding toward the slip.

  “It makes me feel better. Anyway, it’s harder for you, to look,” she said, playful, handing him her lighted cigarette.

  “So Rosas was right. A good girl. Nothing to confess.”

  “Not to him.”

  “You never had impure thoughts?”

  She smiled. “Imagine if I had said that to him?” She took the cigarette back. “How many Hail Marys. No, not then. The thoughts came later.”

  “I’m glad.”

  “Yes, and now what?” she said, stubbing out the cigarette. “Are you really going to Bariloche or is that one of your stories?”

  “I got sidetracked,” he said, stroking her arm. “Why don’t you come?”

  “To Bariloche? It’s too German for me. Those funny hats. Strudel.”

  “It’s supposed to be beautiful.”

  “It is. I told you, my father—” She stopped, then turned to him. “What happened to your friend with the book? Or did you make him up?”

  “No, he’d still like to talk to you. I just thought you’d—rather not.”

  “Oh, rather not. Well. And when does that change anything?”

  “All right. Just tell me when and I’ll set it up.”

  She looked down. “Markus says I shouldn’t do it. It’s some plan you and Jamie have.”

  “To do what?”

  “I don’t know. It’s Markus.” A smile. “He said you were rude to him.”

  “I was.”

  “He’s not used to that. He thinks you want to make trouble for me.” She took a breath. “Do you?”

  “No.” He put his hand up to her head. “Is that what you think?”

  She looked at him for a moment. “I don’t know. What happens now?”

  “We go to Bariloche. We go hiking. Or we don’t go hiking.”

  She smiled. “And what do I tell Markus?”

  “Why tell him anything? What business is it of his?”

  “He acts like my father now. They were close. In Gemany. They worked together. So he thinks that gives him the right—”

  “Worked together. During the war?”

  “You mean at Auschwitz. No, Markus was too high up for that. He was back in Berlin. In Dahlem. The Institut fur Rassenbiologische und Anthropologische Forschungen,” she said, the words flowing out in a perfectly accented stream, the German Hanna. He glanced over, in bed with someone else, but then she was back, her real voice. “He kept measurements. That’s what he says anyway. My father sent him reports. From his experiments. So they knew each other.”

  “Measurements.”

  “From Mengele, on the twins. From my father, I don’t know what. I never asked. What could they be? Something terrible. Listen to us. We talk about this as if it was some ordinary crime, a robbery. And Markus says ‘measurements,’ something innocent. My father says ‘exaggerations.’ Both of them pretending it was something else. Doctors. How can doctors do things like that?”

  “Bildener was a doctor?”

  “All of them. It had to have a scientific basis, what they were doing there. Someone in a white coat, how could it be wrong? And after, do they change how they think? They come here, a new name, but nothing else changes.”

  “Who was he before? Bildener.”

  “I don’t know. You didn’t ask. We were Braun. He was Bildener.”

  “Is he—wanted?”

  “In Germany, you mean? No, he was never at Auschwitz. Only at the Institute. So he was never accused. The bosses always get away, no? Anyway, it’s too late. Who could testify against him? The victims are dead. There was only my father and he would never—” She stopped. “And now he’s dead too.” The body identified, a stamped death certificate. “So Markus is safe.” She looked out from the bed. “You think it’s over and now here’s Markus, another crazy man to be my father.”

  “But he’s not.”

  “No. You know the difference? He never loved me. My father did. So who cares what Markus says?” She glanced at him, trying to smile. “What do you think? Should I talk to your friend? Will that make him go away? Bury him?”

  “Who, Markus?”

  “No, my father.”

  Aaron looked at her. “I don’t know. I’m not a professional. Ask Dr. Ortiz.” Waitin
g.

  “Ouf. In del Plata. They all go to the beach in the summer. When you need them. Everybody leaves Buenos Aires.” She put her hand up to his cheek. “Do you really want to go away? Not Bariloche. We could keep going, all the way down to Ushuaia. I’ve always wanted to go there—where the boats leave for Antarctica. The end of the world. Nobody would ever find us there.”

  “Nobody’s looking for us.”

  “No, that’s right.” She laughed a little. “So maybe Bariloche’s far enough. Warmer. To hell with Markus.” She looked at him, straight into his eyes, trying to see inside. “Maybe I should listen to him.”

  He leaned forward, kissing her. “But he’s crazy.”

  “Anyway, by that time—”

  “What?”

  “By the time we leave. Next week.”

  “Why next week?” he said, kissing her again.

  “I have something to do. But then I’ll be free.”

  “Why not tomorrow?” he said, trying it.

  “No, next week. I can’t leave yet. You can wait a few days. Then we can go anywhere. I’ll be free.”

  * * *

  “You’re sure it’s this week?” Nathan said.

  Aaron nodded.

  “Then we have to move. We can’t wait.”

  They were sitting in Goldfarb’s office again, the sewing machines humming outside, the desk covered with photographs Fritz had taken—Otto in his Panama hat, drinking in the café, getting into a taxi. A new man, Ari, had been introduced but had said nothing, studying their faces, a professional. Nathan turned to Goldfarb.

  “We’re going to need a safe house. Can you do it? Fast?”

  Goldfarb opened his hands.

  “I thought we were going to follow him out,” Aaron said. “To Brazil.”

  “Maybe sit next to him on the plane?” Nathan said. “We don’t have enough men. Here or there. We’ll lose him.”

  “But you have enough for a grab? Then to guard him?”

  “We don’t have a choice. Let’s say he’s flying to São Paulo. Let’s say we even find out the plane. Your girlfriend slips something. Or we track him to the gate. We still need a team to pick him up when he lands and I don’t have it yet. So we have to move here.”

  “We do that and everyone who’s helping him will know,” Aaron said. “Then he doesn’t fly at all. And we still have to get him out.”

  “I know that. I didn’t say it was ideal. You work with what you have. And right now we have someone ready to fly this week. If you’re right.”

  Aaron nodded again. “It’s this week.”

  “I still say, let’s just run the pictures,” Fritz said. “Then everybody’s in on it. Schramm’s alive. They can’t walk away from that. It would be a scandal.”

  “So the Germans request him. And the Argentines lose him. Checkmate. But we already have him. The Germans aren’t going to put him on trial unless they can’t do anything else. Unless he’s there. So, Ari, what do we have? There’s a routine?”

  “Yes and no. What you saw,” he said, turning to Aaron, “was unusual. Following her out. He waits an hour, another session, different people in the street. Then he comes out. Sometimes the café where you saw him. An early dinner. Or he takes a taxi. Another café, up by the cemetery. Tourists. Where it doesn’t matter you eat early. Nobody notices.”

  “The same one?”

  “So far. Alone. He reads a newspaper. A cigar with coffee.”

  “And a taxi home?”

  “To the square, not the door.”

  “He never walks?”

  “Not to dinner. Once a little walk after in Palermo Viejo. Half an hour maybe, no more.”

  “So?”

  “The taxi’s our best bet. There’s a rank on the square, but if he sees one on the way, he hails it. So we make sure he sees one. Down Charcas, like always. We stop for the light at Bulnes, somebody else hops in. Off we go.”

  Aaron frowned, trying to picture it. “There’s a café at Bulnes.”

  “So what does anybody see? A man getting into a taxi.”

  “And a man inside fighting him. What’s Schramm going to do? Nothing?”

  “Not after he sees the gun in my hand,” Ari said. “It usually quiets them down.”

  “A gun? Then it’s kidnapping,” Aaron said.

  “And what’s your plan?” Nathan said.

  Aaron ran the film clip in his head, the taxi pulling up, the man leaping in, the screech of tires as it drove off. He shook his head. “It’s too public.”

  “You think we haven’t done this before?” Ari said, annoyed now. He turned to Nathan. “The taxi’s our best bet. Two men, me and the driver. Nobody sees. And then we’re at the safe house, wherever that is. Goldfarb?”

  “Montevideo. Near Córdoba. From tomorrow.”

  But Nathan was looking at Aaron. “So?”

  Aaron said nothing for a minute, thinking, then looked up.

  “He’s already in a safe house. We just need to make it our safe house.”

  Nathan peered at him. “Go on.”

  “He’s already in hiding. So let’s keep him hidden. With a guard. We don’t have to snatch him. In public. We have him and nobody knows where.”

  “Except the daughter.”

  Aaron nodded. “Except her. And she doesn’t want anything to happen to him, or why would she be doing this? So she does what you say. If anybody else knows he’s there, comes looking for him, then they’re part of Fritz’s story. Pictures and all. Ortiz? If he comes back early? Not the best publicity, hiding a war criminal. But I don’t think anyone knows.”

  “Except her.”

  “And you’ve got a gun on him.”

  “After we break down the door. Which the neighbors will love.”

  “There aren’t any neighbors. We haven’t seen anyone else come out.”

  “You ever break down a door?” Ari said, a slight sneer.

  Aaron shook his head. “We just knock. Right after she leaves. So he thinks it’s her. She forgot something. We have somebody in the street. Not me, somebody she won’t recognize. You, maybe,” he said to Ari. “The minute she hits the corner, you’re at the door. He doesn’t open, try this.” He took the passkey out of his pocket. “Fritz here likes to sneak around. It works—you’d be surprised. No noise.”

  For a minute no one said anything.

  “We might have to keep her there too,” Nathan said finally.

  Aaron nodded. “Let’s see how she takes it. I don’t think she wants any trouble. And she’s probably the only one who can talk sense to him at this point.”

  “And when he doesn’t show? For the plane. And his friends start wondering what happened?”

  “But he does show,” Aaron said. “As soon as you have your people in place at the other end. Then it’s up to you. Maybe you get the Brazilians to fly him out for you. Maybe not. But he’s there, not here.”

  “And he goes. Just like that.”

  “With somebody sitting next to him. To keep him company.”

  “When?”

  “She sees him tomorrow—sees Ortiz—but I think that’s too soon. She said she’d be ready next week, so I think it’s the end of this week. Thursday. Her other day.”

  “Although it could be any time.”

  “It could.”

  “But you think Thursday.”

  “Does that give you enough time?”

  Nathan looked at him. “Just a knock on the door. I like that.”

  “There’s less risk.”

  “You sit at a desk, there’s never any risk.”

  He reached into his pocket and handed Aaron a gun.

  “What’s this for?”

  “We’ll babysit in shifts. Make him think you’d use it.”

  * * *

  She was late coming out. The 3:50 change had already begun, patients heading toward the plaza, the taxi rank, and she was still inside. Aaron watched the door through binoculars, the air still, just waiting. Fritz was fiddling with the te
lephoto lens, focusing on Ortiz’s building. In the street, Goldfarb was circling in an off-duty cab, Nathan’s backup plan, just in case.

  “So where is she?” Fritz said.

  “She’ll be there.”

  “I want to get her coming out of the building.”

  “No, get Ari going in. Leave her out of it.”

  Fritz glanced over at him. “She’s part of it. The story.”

  “She doesn’t have to be.”

  Ari and Nathan were crossing the street from the square, entering stage right, the scene beginning. In a second everyone would be in motion, the extras melting into the café behind, the principals passing each other at the streetlight, but right now everything felt suspended, stopped in time, waiting for the music. Where was she? Aaron glanced up and down Charcas, the street emptying, the four o’clock patients already inside. A sleepy afternoon. A handful of people in the cafés. Witnesses. It had been easier with Eichmann. The walk from the bus stop down a dimly lit street, deserted. A stalled car on the side of the road, hood up, someone working on the engine. “Un momentito, señor.” And caught. Thrown into the car, a fast drive in the dark, blindfolded. Someone who didn’t come home. Days before his family reported him missing.

  The camera clicked as she started coming through the door.

  “No. Wait for Ari.”

  Fritz lowered the camera an inch.

  She was in a light summer dress and sandals, a full skirt that moved with her as she walked. No hesitation, no looking up and down, just heading toward Plaza Güemes as if she had heard the downbeat and had begun her steps. The rest came to life, Ari and Nathan passing her without looking at her, Goldfarb’s cab turning the corner, starting to circle the block to be back on Charcas if he was needed. She walked across to the café, and for a second Aaron thought she would sit down, ruin everything just by being there, but she kept going, heading up to Santa Fe, no longer part of it.