The Accomplice

by Joseph Kanon

  “And you think I wouldn’t want that on my conscience?” Aaron shook his head. “It would be like squashing a bug.”

  “Then why don’t you do it?” Otto said, voice weaker, not really expecting an answer. He closed his eyes, a minute’s rest, face haggard.

  Aaron looked up and down the street, an unexpected panic. One dead man, another fading. Too heavy to move if he was unconscious. Aaron would have to leave him, the end of it. And how long before they were found? Unless they were hidden. Where? He caught the irony—a cemetery with nowhere to put a dead man. But Otto wasn’t dead, couldn’t be. That was the point. He had to get him out. There’d been some tarp covers at one of the repair sites. He could put the other man there, at least buy time. But Otto would have to help, not try to turn on him. Use anything. Jamie’s voice: You make the approach. Why not a convenient lie? Meanwhile, the shadows were lengthening in the street, the sun dropping. How long did they have? Recoleta in the dark, listening for rustlings, ghosts.

  “Because we’d rather have you alive,” he said, his Agency voice, only a minute later, all the rest of it a flash through his mind.

  “Israelis? Another glass box and then you kill me. Do it now.”

  “I’m not Israeli. I don’t work for them. I let them find you, that’s all.”

  Otto looked over at him, weighing every part of this.

  “Why?”

  “To put you on the front page. Then we had a better idea. Since you’re already dead. Erich Kruger goes to Brazil,” he said, tapping the pocket with the envelope. “Then flies on to Madrid. A new life. With old friends. Some of your oldest friends. Happy to see you again. Exile being what it is. And you’re happy to see them. Be of assistance, any way you can. And then talk to us about all the happy things you’re doing.”

  Otto said nothing for a moment. “You’re lying. But why?”

  “Then don’t do it. I didn’t say it was my idea. I’d rather see you dead. But I don’t run the Agency.”

  “Spy for you? Why would I do that?”

  “Consider your options.”

  “And that’s why you lock me in that place. In handcuffs.”

  Aaron nodded. “The Israelis. They can be a little heavy-handed. Especially with people like you. But here we are. And it’s getting late.”

  “And I’m supposed to believe this? Someone who shoots me?” He glanced down at his side.

  “After you missed.”

  Otto took this in, then grunted.

  “We need to move him. We can’t let him be found. Not yet. We need time.” He paused. “Unless you’re planning to spend the night.”

  Otto looked up, still uneasy.

  “Or I get us out of here.”

  “I’m supposed to trust you.”

  Aaron shrugged. “That cuts two ways. But I have this,” he said, waving the gun. “I’m not Fritz. I won’t turn my back. Even for a second. I saw what you did to him. I didn’t know you still had the strength. Big man. He must have—”

  “Dummkopf. ”

  “We can go back to the original plan if you like. Otto Schramm exposed. You don’t have to be alive for that story. You can stay here and bleed out. Messy for the others. Bildener. Martínez. The police in Mar del Plata. And Hanna.”

  Otto looked up. “She had nothing to do with it. She didn’t know.”

  “Or Otto Schramm died a few years ago. Everybody says so. And Erich Kruger’s been a great help to us.”

  “Huh. Your lackey.”

  “I don’t like it either. I think you should hang. But I’m just a messenger. Like him.” He pointed to the body. “Putting a package on a plane.”

  “I don’t believe you. It’s a trap.”

  Aaron looked around. “And what’s this? You want out, it’s a chance you’ll have to take.”

  “Hola! Hola! El cementerio está cerrado! ” The guard, a few streets away.

  Otto looked up, then at Aaron, neither of them moving. Drawn by the noise or just making rounds?

  “El cementerio está cerrado! ” No closer, a touch of bravado, another way of asking, Is anyone here? Then more Spanish, lower pitched, talking to himself. Aaron’s eyes darted to the body, then to Otto, both of them staring at each other, waiting for a move. One shout and the guard would have to respond, look for whoever was there. Aaron took in the street again—a body, a gun, no time to move either, a crime scene. What explanation could there be? If the guard moved deeper into the cemetery, turned in to their street, they’d have to kill him. Another murder. He looked at Otto, their eyes meeting. One shout. No sound now, shallow breathing, listening for footsteps. A chance you’ll have to take. If he took it. Aaron gripped the gun, waiting.

  “Alguien? ” The guard’s voice again, a hollow appeal, just going through the motions, then the murmur again, grumbling to himself, the sounds getting fainter, heading back to the gate. Another look at Otto, his last chance to give them away. Otto looked back, the silence itself an agreement, both of them in it now.

  Aaron waited a few more minutes.

  “So,” he said, then looked away, everything already said. “Help me move him.”

  At first they tried to carry the body by its hands and feet, but the weight was too much for Otto, weakened by the bullet.

  “Wrap his head,” he said, and then when Aaron looked puzzled, “For the blood. Use the jacket.”

  Aaron struggled getting it off, then cradled the man’s head and wound the jacket around it. They each took a foot, Otto straining, and began to drag the body down the street. There was still a stain of blood on the pavement where he’d been shot, but no trail out, as if the angel had lifted him up too. Aaron guided them to the repair site near the Junin wall, the body making a scraping noise with each yank, another sound to unnerve the guard, some spirit movement among the tombs. Shadows longer now, dark enough for him to need a flashlight if he came back, a warning.

  There was a ladder at the building site, tall enough to get a man to the roof of the tomb but not over the cemetery wall, at least twice Aaron’s height. No steps or protruding handholds, smooth stucco.

  “Now what?” Otto said.

  “First, deal with him.”

  He pulled the tarp back. Stacks of bricks, half of them gone. He moved the remaining stacks closer together, creating a space for the body, then nodded to the man’s feet.

  “Can you do it? One heave. On three.”

  Otto winced, but the man went up and over, falling on the other side of the bricks. Aaron covered him with the tarp, then took out the empty gun and wiped it, placing it dangling from the man’s hand.

  “Nobody’s going to believe that,” Otto said.

  “It’ll buy us some time.” He looked over. “The other one’s still loaded.”

  Otto ignored this, placing the ladder against the wall. “It’s not tall enough.”

  “Not here. There’s a place closer to the gate. I was hiding there while you and— What’s his name?”

  “Julio. Why?”

  “I just wanted to know.” Somebody. “It’s somewhere along here.”

  “It’ll be getting dark soon.”

  And then, just as he said it, streetlights went on, the timing so quirky and unexpected that Otto almost smiled, a face Aaron hadn’t seen before. The lamps were for pedestrians outside, not the dead inside, but enough of their glow came over the wall to make it easier to see.

  “Like a Roman temple,” Aaron said, still trying to spot it, the search now something they were doing together, a way out.

  The side alley that ended at the wall was narrow, all its tombs looking oversized for the space. More bank vaults, a chapel with an obelisk, and then the temple at the end against the wall, just as he’d remembered. Dusty, under repair, but rising in setbacks, each stage wide enough to hold the ladder. The last platform put them halfway up the wall. Aaron wedged the ladder against the temple and started climbing.

  “Hold it steady,” he said.

  Otto gripped it with one
hand, the other still at his side.

  “You OK?”

  Otto nodded.

  When his hands reached the last rung, Aaron realized he would now have to hold them flat against the wall as his feet took the last few steps up. Nothing to hold on to. Would he be high enough to reach over the top? He looked down at Otto holding the ladder, face upturned, following the last steps, no support, no mat, a trapeze act. All Otto would have to do now was shake the ladder, make him lose his footing, a sudden fall, hands trying to hold on to something as he plunged to the ground. No effort at all, not the strength he’d needed to choke Fritz. Just a shake. But then how would he get out? A dash to the gate, some story. But what story? Two bodies to explain. He took another step.

  His hands touched the edge of the rounded top. He’d been afraid of coming up short—the ladder was too unsteady to use as a springboard, taking the last few feet in a jump. He’d have to pull himself up. He slid his hands farther over the rim. Wider than he’d expected. A last step, top of the ladder. His arms reached across the wall, almost at the other rim. One push, feet no longer on the rung, kicking to find some leverage on the wall, the sudden weight pulling his arms down. Don’t slide back, hang on. Another push, putting everything into a final heave, grunting out loud, his chest hitting the top now, the weight finally in his favor, on his stomach, straddling it and moving his legs up behind him, stretched out on the wall. He lay there for a second, taking deep breaths, then looked down at Otto.

  “Come on.”

  Even the first steps were tentative, testing the ladder, nobody holding it now, and by the time he reached the last handhold he was sweating, looking down, then up, an impossible climb.

  “I can’t do it.”

  “I’ll help you up. But you need to be at the top of the ladder.”

  “It makes me dizzy, to look.”

  “Then don’t look. Come on.” He positioned himself across the top and reached down with one arm, a visual encouragement, like a dangling rope. “Grab my hand.”

  “I’ll fall.” Only a whisper, panicking.

  “Grab it.”

  Otto took another step, only looking up now, eyes frightened. He slid his hand up the wall. Another step, the last, within reach. Aaron grabbed him, holding tight as Otto left the ladder, a second of free fall, an involuntary whimper, his eyes almost pleading now. And for a second Aaron realized that he held Otto’s life in his hands, and he wondered how it would feel to let go, to see in Otto’s eyes that he had done it, not just looked on at some impersonal hanging, but had deliberately opened his hand and let Otto’s life slide out of it. He pulled again.

  “Grab the other side. Almost there.”

  Otto grunted and lifted his chest over, still clutching Aaron’s hand.

  “I need to rest,” he said, gasping.

  “First get your legs up. Like riding a horse. It’s easier.”

  Otto looked down into the street. Across Junin, the strip of park and then the cafés, but the sidewalk beneath them empty, the cemetery visitors gone.

  “It’s too far to jump,” Otto said, talking to himself.

  “We use the lamps,” Aaron said. Large wrought iron street lamps were bolted into the walls, another nostalgic piece of Europe, the gaslight making yellow pools of light all the way down Junin. The bottom of the lamp, a decorative swirl of iron, was several feet down the wall, a body dangling from it would be another six feet down, the rest of the drop manageable. If the lamp could hold their weight.

  “I’ll go first,” Aaron said, sliding backward toward the nearest lamp.

  “It’s too far.”

  “If it is, you’re stuck,” Aaron said, then more gently, a parent to a child, “If I can do it, you can do it. Watch.”

  He grabbed onto an ornamental crown near the top of the lamp and swung over, working his way down to the wall brace, finally to the bottom, holding on as he dangled. How far from here? Not quite his height. He tried to remember the Agency training about jumps, how to land, spring back after you touch down, but all he could see was the sidewalk a few feet below. Not grass, a hard landing.

  He let go of the lamp and hit the ground in a crouch, absorbing the shock, and pushed up with his knees. Staggering a little, not used to it, but nothing broken. No one near, only a few cars. He looked up. Otto had started down the wall, gripping the brace, then dangling from the underside of the lamp, legs scissoring in the air. He was groaning, gravity pulling on his wound, obviously in pain.

  “It’s too far. I’ll break—”

  Aaron stood beneath him. “I’ll catch you. Just drop. Let go.”

  “Catch me?”

  “Quick. Before anyone comes.” He looked up and down the street to check, then back up at Otto. “Trust me.”

  Otto looked at him with an expression Aaron couldn’t read. But hanging was its own agony. He nodded. “Now?”

  “Now,” Aaron said, opening his arms, then suddenly knocked over as Otto fell on him, both of them down, piling on each other and rolling over, tangled together. Otto made a gasping sound.

  “You OK?”

  His answer was to clutch his side again and groan. Aaron got to his feet and pulled Otto after him, holding him upright, a kind of buttress, steadying him. Otto’s head had begun to dip, a drunk’s swaying, his body limp.

  “Don’t pass out on me.”

  Otto just nodded, speech too much of an effort.

  “Lean on me. Here, on my shoulder. If anyone comes, I’m getting you home from a party. OK?”

  Another nod.

  They started up Junin, in a few minutes passing the entrance portico, a single light burning inside, probably the guard still listening for sounds. They kept to the park side, away from the cafés. Two women came out of Our Lady of Pilar, avoiding them as they passed, their faces clouded with disapproval. Otto slumped more heavily against him, as if the effort he’d put into the climb had drained him, his feet moving with an old man’s shuffle.

  “I never checked his pockets for any ID,” Aaron said, just to say something, keep him awake. They were almost at the sloped plaza. “Just the ticket. How’s the side? You still bleeding?”

  Some neutral sound, which Aaron took as “no.”

  “Lucky about the lamps. If they used ordinary streetlights, we’d still be up on the wall.”

  A man coming toward them, wary in the dark. Otto leaned into Aaron, hiding his face. “Noches,” the man mumbled.

  Another antique gas lamp with its yellow pool. “Not far now,” Aaron said. He could see the dark ombu trees down the hill.

  And then he felt it, the blunt metal in his pocket pushed up against him, Otto’s hand holding it. He jerked his head around and saw Otto’s blue eyes, steel, untamed, a wolf’s eyes. I won’t turn my back. But he had. So it would end now. In a second. Otto shoved the gun closer, Aaron holding still, any movement another trigger. In his mind he could see Otto’s finger, tightening.

  “Jew,” Otto said, almost spitting it.

  Aaron felt a tremor go through him, an actual shaking, then a numbness. All he was. Steel eyes, unforgiving. To the left.

  “Jew,” Otto said again, fainter this time, his eyes closing, then pitched forward, sliding down, his knees at Aaron’s feet.

  For a minute Aaron couldn’t move, as if he had actually died and needed time to come back. Then he reached down and took Otto’s hand out of his pocket, slowly, still afraid of any trigger movement, relieved when he felt the hand had gone slack, the gun slipping away from it as it came out of the pocket. He looked down. Never forget what you’re hunting.

  He knelt down. “Otto,” he said, shaking his shoulder. “Get up.” Too heavy to carry. Deadweight.

  Otto opened his eyes, the steel gone. A groan.

  “Get up,” Aaron said again, trying to lift Otto to his feet. “It’s not far.” Otto closed his eyes again, drifting. “She’s waiting.”

  A second’s delay, taking this in, then opening his eyes. “Who?”

  “Hanna. Sh
e’s waiting. Get up.”

  “Hanna’s waiting?” Confused, but making an effort now, finding his feet.

  Aaron held him under the arms, helping him stand. Don’t turn your back. But something had changed, a shift of power. He had survived, in charge now, Otto suddenly feeble, done.

  “Señor? ”

  Two men, seeing Otto slump, some street emergency.

  Aaron moved Otto’s body, putting the wounded side next to him, obscured. Think.

  “Ivre,” Aaron said. No, that was French. What was Spanish for drunk? Ivro?

  Otto raised his head. One last chance to sound an alarm. But Aaron was looking at him, eyes steady, holding him closer, snapping on a leash.

  “Borracho,” he said, then, acting it out, “borracho.”

  The two men giggled and Aaron saw that they were half-drunk themselves. A burst of Spanish, then one of them took Otto’s other side, throwing an arm over his shoulder, helping Aaron move him. “Dónde? ” He nodded toward the corner of Alvear and started walking.

  “Borracho,” Otto said to the ground, playing. More giggling from the other men, a running conversation in Spanish, turning it into an adventure, getting a drunk home, the wound still unnoticed. Otto heavy, but easier to move with two of them, feet shuffling, dragging from time to time.

  When they reached the corner, Otto pulled himself up. “Muchas gracias,” he said, dismissing them, leaning on Aaron, all he needed now to get home. To Aaron’s surprise, the men nodded, oddly formal, some Castilian point of honor, then laughed.

  “We’ll be OK,” Aaron said, but they were already moving off, back toward the lights of the cafés. “Can you make it? It’s just here.”

  Otto looked at him, disconcerted. Some missing piece of the puzzle, Aaron knowing where.

  Aaron used his passkey at the downstairs door. No noisy buzzers. Another look from Otto. In the elevator he slumped against the rail, weak again.

  Aaron used the doorbell this time, afraid she’d think someone was breaking in if he used the key.

  “Sí? ”

  The door opening a crack, then wider, all the way. She looked from one to the other, her face changing expressions, shock, fear, mouth open, unable to speak, and then back at Aaron, dismayed, as if she were trying to make up a story to explain things and none would work.