The Accomplice

by Joseph Kanon

  Nathan thought for a moment. “He could do that. Not bad.” Nodding, a professional.

  “Not if he’s in a courtroom in Frankfurt. So what do we do? Can you get the plane?”

  “After I walk on water. Anyway, he’d have to have a passport if he flies. Even private. Which hasn’t been delivered yet. We don’t have enough time to make him a new one. When do your people get here?”

  “Tomorrow, the next day. It won’t take them long to pick up his trail. That’s what they do. Plus, they’ll be all over me, which cuts into guard duty.”

  “So we move him. If we can’t fly him out, we’ll have to drive him out,” he said, working it through as they walked. “That means getting him up the river. First bridge to Uruguay isn’t until Puerto Unzué. It’s a hike, maybe a hundred and fifty miles, but they’re not as fussy about passports on the bridge. Somebody sleeping it off in the back? Any papers. So the first step is move him to Tigre, up in the delta. We could get a boat there or go on, if we drive. Keep our options open.”

  “Uruguay,” Aaron said, as if he were tracing his finger on a map.

  “We can’t operate here. Risk another run-in with Argentina. Tel Aviv orders.”

  “So fly him to Brazil from there? Or straight to Germany? Can you do that?”

  Nathan kept walking for a minute, then took out a handkerchief and wiped his forehead. “Christ, it’s hot.” He turned to Aaron. “Not now. I’d like to, but sometimes things change in the field. There isn’t time now to set up something like that. We’re in a bind. In a few days, whoever’s helping him here knows what’s happened and starts pushing alarm buttons. And we have to guess they have some powerful people they can call, people you don’t want after you. Then your people get here and start pushing their own buttons and my hands are tied because that’s the way it is, we’re not going to take on the Agency. And you need to deny knowing about any of this. Which is why we’re not having this conversation, remember?” He stopped. “There’s not enough time. It’s complicated, getting someone out, getting him to Germany. And now who’s going to help? I told you in Hamburg, sometimes you have to make other choices.”

  Aaron slowed as they turned in to their street, a vise clamping around him, squeezing.

  “You’re going to kill him. That’s why you want him out of Argentina. They’re sensitive, since Eichmann. So, Uruguay. You’re going to kill him there.”

  “What would you do? You wanted to find him. You did. Now what do we do with him? What’s the most useful thing?”

  “That’s what he said, about the children. Useful deaths.”

  “You tell me. What? He starts eavesdropping for the CIA, he doesn’t pay at all. Not even prison time. A nice life. And Otto Schramm stays dead. Instead, now his body’s found. And identified—we make sure. The whole story comes out, everything Fritz has, how Otto did it, how he managed to hide. Everything you wanted him to say on the stand.”

  “Not everything,” Aaron said quietly. “He won’t answer for what he did.”

  “He’ll answer to us.” He met Aaron’s eyes. “Look, we still get the story out. Who helped him, who helped the others. Expose them, finally. And this—what?—execution. Who did it? Nobody knows, but everybody can guess. A powerful message, an execution. It tells the others, no one’s safe, we’re still coming for you. So maybe Mengele gets nervous a little. The people who helped Otto. Even Barbie begins to worry. Who do they target next?” He stopped. “It’s a powerful message.”

  “That’s not what Max wanted.”

  “It’s what we have. There’s no glass box waiting this time. You take the best you can get.”

  “Just bump him off. Otto Schramm.”

  “What’s the punishment for Auschwitz? What would fit? Hang someone six million times?” His voice almost a growl.

  “Just once. In public.”

  Nathan waved his hand. “An auto-da-fé. Except we do the burning.”

  They started walking again.

  “How are you going to—?” Aaron said.

  “I don’t know yet. And you don’t want to know. You’re as surprised as anyone when you hear. But there won’t be any mistake what it is. Not an accident.”

  “And Fritz has his story.”

  “With a few cuts. People who aren’t in it anymore. You, for instance.”

  “And you.”

  “You want to leave a little mystery. But Otto—it’ll all be there. All his crimes. Corroborated by Max’s files. Fritz can work around a few things and still have the story. Maybe he’s getting Schramm to tell him some details right now.” He cocked his head toward the next block. “He’s good at that.”

  “He’s there?”

  “It’s his shift.”

  More planning, working them in odd shifts, so Otto never knew whom to expect. Keep two steps ahead. Planning Fritz’s story. Even planning to use Max’s files. Aaron’s files now. Had Nathan already spoken to Elena, busy back in Hamburg copying? He felt the air go out of him again. He stopped.

  “You were always going to kill him. That was the plan.”

  Nathan looked away, uncomfortable.

  “Nathan.”

  “You’re like all of them. You want to hunt, but not to kill. What do you think happens at the end?”

  “Were you ever going to fly him back? Tell me.”

  Nathan mopped his forehead again, waiting a minute.

  “I told you in Hamburg. I don’t have the resources.”

  “Just the resources for this.”

  “We don’t look for these guys—we can’t afford it. People come to us. With information. Most of the time, it’s ‘I saw Bormann,’ some nonsense. But Max. Max you listen to. And then Fritz. So now it’s serious. We have a chance to catch him. Otto Schramm. And you were the way.”

  “So you lied to me. To get Otto.”

  “And what did you do? With her?” He looked up. “I’m not blaming you,” he said quickly. “You do what you have to do. And it worked. We have him.”

  “There was never going to be a trial.”

  “Would it make Israel safer? Would it make the Arabs hate us less? It’s a question of priorities.”

  “No. What’s right.”

  “What’s right. For the Jews? You want to help? Plant a tree in a kibbutz. Twenty dollars. You’ll feel better and they’ll get a little shade.” He stopped. “I’m sorry.” He wiped his forehead again. “This heat. I know you mean it for the best. I listen to you, I can hear Max. What else matters? Make things right. Hunt them down. And then after? Get someone like me to end it.” He held up his hands. “Not so clean. But this is how it ends.”

  “With my help,” Aaron said, suddenly back in the hospital room, the echo of Max’s scratchy voice. He made me complicit.

  Nathan just looked at him, not sure how to take this.

  “I could go back to the Agency,” Aaron said.

  “And tell them the truth? That you’ve been holding out?” He paused. “What has changed for you? You don’t think he deserves this? Why? Now you talk a little and he’s a sad old man? There were sad old men on the selection line.” A breath. “He’s Otto Schramm. What other ending can there be?”

  Aaron looked down, suddenly seeing the scene, as vivid as film, a building site somewhere outside a city, deserted, Otto being dragged, struggling, a punch thrown, his body flung against a wall, face bloody from before, now holding his hands out as the bullets are fired, the shocked expression, slumping down to the floor, the freshly poured concrete stained with blood, more bullets to make sure, a final kick, the body awkward, twisted, the way it would look in police photos when the half-built house became a crime scene, with flashbulbs and measuring tape and someone covering his face with a sheet.

  “It’s murder,” he said.

  “No, justice,” Nathan said, then checked his watch. “We don’t have time to split hairs. Can you relieve Fritz? I’ll arrange for the car with Ari.” He unlocked the downstairs door.

  “Do you think he believe
s we’ve got the building surrounded?”

  Nathan shook his head, starting up the stairs. “He’s not stupid. You see the same people all the time, you think, so where are the others? But I don’t think he cares. He’s not going anywhere.” He glanced back at Aaron. “He doesn’t know he has a job offer in Madrid.”

  He stopped suddenly on the stairs, hand outstretched, a signal for quiet. Aaron looked over his shoulder to the landing. Nothing. Nathan reached into his pocket, still quiet, pulling out the gun, and took a step, his body tense, listening. Aaron followed, now seeing the door halfway open. Nathan crept along the side of the landing, then stood back to the wall next to the open door, a policeman’s move. Then a creak as he pushed the door gently, opening it wider, moving his head to get a better view, then flinging himself into the doorway, gun held out, ready to fire.

  “Fritz,” he called out.

  More silence. Nathan motioned with his hand for Aaron to cover the other side of the door.

  “Gun,” he whispered, nodding to Aaron’s pocket.

  Another push, the door fully open now, a sharp intake of breath as Nathan looked across the room. Fritz was splayed on the couch, head back, eyes still open, bulging, some grotesque stage effect. His clothes were twisted on him, not his usual untucked carelessness, but gone through, pockets turned inside out, his thick legs stretched out stiffly to the coffee table he had kicked over.

  “Christ,” Nathan said, almost a hiss, then followed training procedures, moving around the room with his gun still out, back to the wall, pushing the bathroom door open, then checking the kitchen area, the bedroom, before he was sure the apartment was empty.

  Aaron stared down at Fritz, the gray skin of the dead. Not every death is the same. He could still see the surprise of it in Fritz’s face, the panic as the air ran out, a big man not used to losing a fight, astonished at his own death, mouth open.

  “His neck,” Aaron said.

  A series of round bruises, purple with blood that had welled up to the surface.

  Nathan looked around the floor, then spotted the flung handcuffs, open now but still paired by the metal chain. He picked them up, then held the chain near Fritz’s neck, matching the links to the bruises.

  “He used these,” Nathan said. “From behind. Bastard probably asked for the bathroom. Goes behind the couch. Then gets the key out of Fritz’s pocket. After he was finished.”

  Reconstructing, something he’d seen in a police movie as assistants put evidence in bags. Aaron barely heard it, his mind numb.

  “Fritz,” he said, in the ambulance again with Max, the hospital, Ohlsdorf.

  “He should have been more careful,” Nathan said, his voice distant.

  Aaron looked up. “He was careful.”

  “We needed two people.”

  Aaron felt the side of Fritz’s neck, as if there might still be a pulse, the skin already cool.

  “Close his eyes,” Nathan said, squeamish.

  Aaron ran his hand down Fritz’s face, putting him to sleep. My fault, he thought, not even sure how. The story of a lifetime. Headlines. What drowning must feel like, gasping for life, Otto pulling the chain with the strength of the desperate, listening to him gargle, make noises, his feet kicking, held in place by the tight chain. Then finally the quiet. Otto killing again. Hadn’t the others been strangled too, climbing over each other to get out of the locked chamber, away from the gas? Aaron reached down and patted Fritz’s pockets, feeling for any bulk, then looked up at Nathan.

  “Otto took his gun.”

  “How long, do you think, is he dead? Do you know about these things?”

  Aaron shook his head. When did rigor mortis set in, the blood pool downwards, drawn by gravity, all those signs he’d read about.

  “An hour?” Nathan said. “Two? So whatever, a head start. To where, though? We should cover him.”

  Aaron looked at Fritz again, then took an afghan off the couch and draped it over the body.

  “I’ll get Goldfarb to move him somewhere. He knows how to do these things.”

  “He can’t just disappear. What about his wife? In Germany.” What was she called? Ilse.

  “Maybe later. Depending on how we tell the story. For now, crime is a serious problem. A risk in coming here.”

  “So she may never know.”

  “What, that he was killed by a Nazi? Not a thief? What’s the difference? He’s dead.” He avoided Aaron’s look, moving over to the window. “So where is he?” he said, peering out, as if Otto might appear at the corner.

  “Anywhere. If he’s had an hour he could take a taxi to the airport. The next plane out.”

  “No passport.”

  “Then domestic. Go to Mendoza. Regroup. He could be anywhere.”

  “No, it’s not useful to think like this. Anywhere. He doesn’t think that way. Where would he be safe?” He looked over at Aaron. “Who would take him in?”

  Aaron met his eye. “He wouldn’t go to her. He keeps her out of it.”

  “But he might. At such a moment.”

  “It’s the first place anyone would look.”

  “Including us. Where else? Not Dr. Ortiz’s In his mind, now Israeli territory.”

  “A hotel somewhere. He could call for help. Anywhere.”

  Nathan made a face, annoyed. “Not anywhere. Somewhere. All right. I’ll get Goldfarb and we’ll clean up here.” He glanced at the body, then back at Aaron. “We’re down a man now. You’ll have to check out her place.”

  “He’s not there. She’s not part of this. A messenger.”

  “You want to keep her out of the story, that’s your business.” Another look at Fritz. “You get to write it now. But you can’t change who she is.”

  Aaron said nothing.

  “If he’s there, find a phone somewhere and call. If he’s not, meet back at Goldfarb’s.” He moved to the door. “Leave separately, just in case. Five minutes. You all right?”

  Aaron nodded.

  A last look back at Fritz. “I’m sorry. These things happen,” Nathan said, his voice flat.

  “He should have been more careful,” Aaron said, matching the tone, an echo from before, but Nathan missed it, already on his way out.

  When he was gone, the room seemed utterly still, a mausoleum quiet. Aaron looked down at Fritz’s draped body, then leaned over to pull back the afghan from his face. Not sleeping. Dead. These things happen. But they weren’t supposed to, hadn’t even been imagined when Aaron met him at the Alsterpavillon with a newspaper under his arm. How many more? And too late now to stop, with Otto loose, wondering when his luck would run out, when they’d tire him, panting in some hole, finally caught.

  But running where? Who knew he was alive? Bildener? Who identified the body and now had to keep his distance, so careful he had Hanna get the visa. Corrupt Martínez? Probably back in São Paulo, arranging more visas. Monsignor Rosas, hiding him again in the folds of his cassock? Who else? He heard Nathan’s blunt, gravelly voice. You can’t change who she is. The faithful messenger, twice a week, wishing he were elsewhere, but showing up for her session. Who else would he turn to? Blood.

  He caught a taxi on Montevideo and took it up the long hill to Recoleta, getting out at the Alvear, then walking the last block to the park. The day had turned cloudy again, an early dusk, so there were a few lights on in the building, but her windows were dark. He looked at his watch. She’d be home soon from wherever she was. A shower and a change for dinner, new jewelry, the usual. Ready to go to Bariloche next week, when she’d be free. One more meeting, then getting him on the plane. Or would she say good-bye at Ortiz’s, handing him the ticket, all checked in?

  Another light came on, not hers. Maybe Otto was already here, sitting in the dark, waiting. Except he wasn’t. Trust your instinct. The first place anyone would look. A man who’d been hiding. He’d want to move fast. No long drives up to the delta. Get out. Which meant a plane. There were two airports. Ezeiza, where Ari would look, but old Newberry, the Aeropa
rque, was closer in, a quick taxi. But he’d still need a passport. And Hanna wouldn’t come until Thursday, his lifeline. Aaron stopped. The only one? Hanna couldn’t go to the airport, not with a dead man. They were too careful for that. She’d wait for word that he’d got off safely, but someone else would give him the passport, not Thursday, maybe even now, why he’d chanced an escape, killed for it. Maybe it was already too late. Where was she?

  And then, as if thinking about her had conjured her into being, she was at the corner, the familiar walk, not hurrying, not meeting anybody, lost in thought. About Otto, almost gone? About him, a trip to the mountains? He sat up, the whole street alive with her, and moved down the bench, deeper into the shade. She was wearing a skirt and silk blouse, pearls, the way she had looked when they first met at the Alvear, and for a second he was there again, the swish of nylon as she crossed her legs, the ironic look, not sure what he wanted, the light behind her on her hair, before anything had happened between them. Even now, watching her, hiding, he felt an unexpected light-headedness, happy to see her, wishing they could talk. No, wishing they could start over, back at the Alvear, Jamie introducing them, this time without Otto, without anybody, just them. And then she was through the door.

  He waited until the light snapped on, then waited a few minutes more. If Otto was really there, surprise or not, she’d draw the blinds, keep him out of sight. She’d ask about the cut on his head, what happened. Would he tell her about Fritz? Then feverish planning, what to do, still behind closed blinds. But they stayed open. She passed by the window, not looking out, unconcerned, alone.

  Where would he go? He lived in Villa Freud under siege. His lifeline came to him, twice a week, regular as a clock. Then an early dinner in the café on Plaza Güemes, still invisible under his Panama hat. And so to bed. But what about the other days? Aaron tried to remember Ari’s surveillance report. A rambling walk through Palermo, but that had been an exception. The café. Home. Except when he went to the other café, up in Recoleta. Always the same days, a routine? A tourist café near the cemetery, where no one would notice an early diner. Another lifeline? Why there and nowhere else? He tried to picture the report. An Italian restaurant, like half the restaurants in Buenos Aires. A predictable name. Café Roma? No, Napoli. Probably one of the restaurants past the Café La Biela, lining the narrow park across from the cemetery. Just around the corner, in fact, a few blocks away. If today was the regular day. He checked his watch again. The cemetery would be closing soon, visitors spilling across the strip of park to the cafés, where a man was having an early dinner. Alone, the surveillance report had said. The same café.