The Accomplice

by Joseph Kanon

  “Oh,” she said, just a sound, then couldn’t find the next word, looking from one to the other again.

  “He’s been shot.”

  “Shot?” Nothing making sense.

  Aaron moved Otto in. “Close the blinds.”

  She looked at him, surprised at his tone, then did what he said. Easier to act than think.

  Aaron got him into the bedroom, a final heave to lay him on the bed. He looked around, everything the way he remembered it, the bureau, the closets of clothes. He got a towel from the bathroom, wet it, and came back to wash the bullet wound, blotting it. Otto winced.

  “Hanna,” Otto said, voice still weak. “I’m sorry for this. There’s nowhere else—”

  “We have to get him a doctor,” Aaron said.

  “A doctor?” Some impossible idea.

  “Who won’t call the police. Who knows.” He looked at her. “Bildener was a doctor. Could he handle this?”

  “Call an ambulance,” she said. “If he’s dying—”

  “He’s not dying. We can’t go to a hospital. Can Bildener do it?”

  “Yes, I think so. It’s serious?”

  “It’s a bullet wound. It will be if we don’t get it taken care of. Call him.”

  “Now?” she said, a sleepwalker’s voice, still trying to wake.

  “Now. Wait. Your phone’s tapped. Can you get him over here without anyone suspecting? Some story?”

  “Tapped? You knew this?”

  “We’ll talk later.”

  She stood for a second, not moving, some light dimming in her eyes. “No,” she said finally. “What’s the difference?” She nodded to the bed. “I know how it ends.”

  “Sorry about the mess.” The towel red from blood. “Will you call? We don’t want sepsis. The bullet has to come out. Bildener will need his bag, if he still has one.”

  She nodded. “Who shot him?”

  “I did.”

  Another moment of silence. “Oh,” she said. “You did.” Her voice falling, a disappointment so unguarded that he had to look away, back to the wound.

  “I’ll explain everything. But first call Bildener.”

  “Explain,” she said. “More lies. Every man I’ve ever known lied to me.”

  “We can’t stay here long. They’re bound to check again.”

  “Who?”

  “The Israelis.”

  Her eyes opened wider, alarmed. “Israelis. You’re with them?”

  “No. They think I am. Did you close the blinds?”

  “Who, then? Tell me.”

  “I’m not with anybody. Not now. That’s why I need your help.”

  “My help? What, to kill my father?”

  “No, to get him out of Buenos Aires. Before they kill him.”

  “Hanna,” Otto said from the bed.

  She glanced over, but didn’t go any closer. “And now this,” she said, then to Otto, “I’ll be right there. Let me call the doctor first.”

  “Be careful what you say,” Aaron said.

  “Oh, careful.” She started to go, then turned back to Aaron. “So it was all lies? Everything you said?”

  “No. Not everything,” he said, looking at her.

  “What a little friend you are. Tell me your story for my book.”

  “My father’s death. How about that one?”

  Her eyes flashed, another piece in place. “You knew.”

  “That you were protecting him?”

  “You don’t understand.”

  “Which part?”

  “Did you enjoy that? Watching me say those things—knowing.”

  “It wasn’t like that.”

  “No? How was it? Was there ever a book? Did that even exist? Your friend?”

  Aaron nodded. “Until today. Otto killed him.”

  “Otto killed—” she said, thrown by this, looking over to the bed, Otto’s eyes closed again. “Is that true?” A girl’s voice.

  Aaron nodded again.

  “And now you want to save him.”

  “I want to get him out of Buenos Aires. I want him to stand trial.”

  Her head came up. “Trial. That would kill him. And you want me to help you? Why would—?”

  “Because it’s the right thing to do.”

  She looked at him, at a loss. “The right thing to do. You think you know what that is. You.”

  “Right now, it’s get the doctor. Then we’ll talk.”

  “You talk,” she said. “I don’t want to listen.” She stopped, eyes softening. “I thought it was different. What happened.”

  “It was.”

  She looked away. “Get another towel. I’ll call.”

  Otto drifted, not really unconscious but not wanting to talk, waiting for Hanna. Aaron dabbed at the wound, beginning to crust, looking around, the room the same, but everything else different. He thought of the afternoon light, the lingerie drawer, the charm bracelet laid out and ready, Otto close, just follow her to him, everything simple, and now knotted and tangled. The look on her face. I thought it was different.

  When she came back, she brought a nursing pan.

  “I’ll do it,” she said, shooing him aside. “He’s a mess. So dusty. Where have you been?”

  “The cemetery. We had to climb out.”

  “What?” she said.

  He took out the ticket and handed it to her. “I assume you have the passport? For Kruger.”

  She held it for a second, then put it on the night table. “Where’s Julio?”

  “He’s dead.” He took a breath. “Bildener doesn’t have to know that yet.”

  “Did Otto kill him too?”

  “No.”

  She looked up at him, then let it go, pretending to concentrate on the wound, keeping her hand steady.

  “Is he coming?”

  She nodded.

  “What did you tell him?”

  “I said I was thinking about him because I’d seen a movie on television about a doctor. How he would come to the house with his black bag, just like you when I was a little girl. In the movie a friend had been shot and he had to rush to save him. And how is Trude? It’s been so long since I’ve seen you.”

  “He get it?”

  “I think so. We’ll know soon.”

  “A movie. That was good,” he said.

  “I can do it too, make things up. We’re well suited.”

  “Hanna—”

  She glanced around the room. “Is the apartment bugged or just the phone?”

  “Just the phone.”

  “And you know that because you arranged it?”

  “Yes.”

  “And am I allowed to know? Who’s listening? Besides you.”

  “The Agency.”

  “Jamie?”

  “Somebody there.”

  “What did I say? Anything interesting?”

  “You never mentioned him,” he said, gesturing toward Otto. “You never made a mistake.”

  She looked up. “Not then,” she said, then, before he could answer, “There’s a clothes brush in the bathroom.”

  In the living room he moved the blind a crack and looked down. A few people in the street, all of them moving, probably returning to the hotel. The ombu tree dark under its thick cover. Too soon for Bildener. Where did he live? Some grand house out near the park, a formal dining room, a good brandy while he waited for the Fourth Reich. Nobody standing in the street. Where Aaron was supposed to be, Nathan’s eyes on her apartment. Meet back at Goldfarb’s. Ari out at Ezeiza. How to do this?

  She stayed with Otto awhile, then finally came out and lit a cigarette, standing in Aaron’s place at the window, looking down.

  “If you sit here, anybody watching will see you alone.”

  “I thought you did desk work,” she said, but took the seat, the light behind her. “What’s all this business about Madrid? He’s rambling. What does it mean?”

  “The Agency thinks he could work there. An old friend of Perón. Keep his eyes and ears open and repo
rt back.”

  “They know he’s alive?”

  “They know I think he is. But I could be wrong. Mistaken.”

  “Let me understand. Erich Kruger spies for—your people. And Otto Schramm stays dead.”

  Aaron nodded.

  “But you don’t want that to happen.”

  “I want him to go to trial.”

  “That’s right. The sword of justice. Hanging over us all. So you lied to him too. He thinks he’s going to Madrid?”

  “We can’t drag him out. He has to be part of it.”

  “And now you want me to lie to him.”

  “We have to get him out.”

  “For his day in court. The Agency will never forgive you. They’ll know you lied to them.”

  “They’re going to know anyway, one way or the other.” He stopped. “Maybe I don’t like what they’re doing anymore.”

  “With my father?”

  “With a lot of things.”

  “Your wife would be pleased. Maybe you should get back together.”

  “I don’t want to get back together. I found somebody else.”

  She looked at him through a wisp of smoke, the cigarette stopped in midair, then busied herself putting it out, moving on.

  “You’d be throwing away your job.”

  “I’ll get another one.”

  “With the Israelis?”

  “No. Not after this. I’m supposed to be telling them where Otto is.”

  “You’re popular with everybody.”

  “They’re going to kill him. I never wanted that.”

  “Just the trial.”

  “My uncle was Max Weill,” he said, watching for her reaction, the wary recognition. “I want to do this for him. No, that’s not right. I want to do it for all of them. Otto killed my mother. Him, or someone like him. I want him to say it happened.”

  “He killed my mother too. I know,” she said, holding up her hand. “It’s not the same. But there are lots of ways to do it. And what will he say? That he’s sorry?”

  “No. He’s not. He’ll say it happened. He’ll be evidence. So we’ll always know it happened. He’ll answer for it.”

  “With his life.”

  “We don’t know that. But what if he’s killed without answering for it? The Israelis think that’s enough. More efficient, anyway. A message to the others. But then nobody answers. Nobody’s guilty.”

  “It won’t change anything.”

  “Maybe. But we have to think it will. Or then what? There’s only—who has the gun.”

  She took out another cigarette and lit it, taking a minute.

  “Let me ask you something. How did you find him? Me?”

  “I followed you.”

  “Yes? I never knew. You must be good at it. Or maybe—maybe I wasn’t looking for that.” She drew on the cigarette. “So you—got close to me.”

  “That was something else.”

  “A bonus.”

  “Stop. That’s not the way it was.”

  “The way it was,” she said, an exaggerated wryness. “My lover. A man who just shot my father. Who wants to bring him to justice. Whatever that is.”

  “You know what it is.”

  “No, you know. It’s all you think about. I’m thinking about him. You don’t know what he’s like.”

  “Yes, I do.”

  “I don’t mean that. Those days. Or now that he’s so crazy. Since Eichmann, a crazy man. All that business with the accident, then living like a hermit. Afraid of everything. You want justice, there’s some kind of justice there. To be afraid of everything. No,” she said, slowing. “I meant what he was like to me. He would do anything for me in those days. There’s a debt there.”

  Aaron said nothing, absorbing this, then met her eyes. “Now you can pay it. Help me. If I don’t get him out of Buenos Aires, they’re going to kill him.”

  “So we save his life. So you can make an example out of him. Shame him. That’s my choice.”

  “Hanna, he tortured children. Not just killed them, tortured them.”

  A silence, everything in a dead stop, her eyes filling with tears. “I know,” she said, then raised her head. “My father.”

  Another silence, broken by the buzzer from the downstairs door. Aaron jumped up, startled, and went over to the window.

  “There’s a car out front. It must be him.”

  Hanna wiped her face, then stood up, smoothing out her skirt.

  “What do I say to him?”

  “The Israelis. He was lucky to get away.”

  “More lies.”

  “We need his help. Hanna, it’s the right thing.”

  “I don’t know what that is anymore.”

  “Yes, you do. I know you. We know each other.” He looked at her. “I never lied to you. Not about that.”

  She held his look for a second. “And that makes everything all right.”

  She had the door open before Bildener got off the elevator, waving him in. Hurry.

  “I came as soon as I could. Where—?” He stopped, seeing Aaron.

  Hanna and Aaron looked at each other.

  “He knows,” Hanna said finally.

  “He knows? Him?” Not saying more, the surprise and contempt in his face enough. “You told him?”

  Another glance at Aaron, then a turn to Bildener. “He’s helping for me,” she said, dropping it, taking Bildener’s arm. “He’s in here. You brought instruments? He’s been raving, some nonsense about Madrid.”

  “Madrid.”

  “Pay no attention. Some foolishness. I thought, maybe a fever, but I don’t know. You’ll see. I’m so grateful. You know that, yes? Who else could I call? Who knows.”

  He looked back at Aaron. “It’s not good. Telling people. Something comes out and—”

  “He’s all right, don’t worry. He’s here for me.”

  “Another—”

  She cut him off. “You can take out a bullet?”

  “That depends where it is. Who shot him?”

  “The Israelis.”

  Bildener stopped, disturbed. “They know? They’re here?”

  “We have to get him away. As soon as— I don’t mean to hurry you.”

  “No, no. Did he meet Julio?”

  “He must have. He has the ticket.”

  “Markus,” Otto said, trying to sit up.

  “So, where did they get you? Ah. You’re lucky. A few more inches here,” he said, touching his stomach, “and it’s real trouble. How many of them were there?”

  “It wasn’t like that.”

  “Well, tell me later. This will hurt.”

  Otto clutched his hand. “Mein Freund.”

  “What do they think? A bullet’s going to stop you? After everything. A little sting now. We have to cleanse the wound. It’s OK, not too much?”

  Otto nodded, gritting his teeth against the pain, not making a sound.

  “I’m sorry we can’t put you out. If you have to leave—” He turned to Hanna. “They know he’s here?”

  “No.”

  “But they know he’s alive. They’ll come to you.”

  She moved her head toward Aaron. “They sent him. So we have a little time.”

  Bildener blinked, working this out, then reached into his bag. “Hold him down,” he said.

  Aaron went behind Otto’s head and pushed on his shoulders.

  “Ready?” Bildener said to Otto. “Try not to move. I know it’s difficult.” He adjusted what looked like an elongated pair of pliers and leaned over Otto’s wound. “I can see it. It’s not deep.” The instrument now touching the wound.

  Otto’s body jumped, a violent jackknife twitching, startling Aaron.

  “Hold him,” Bildener said, impatient.

  A sharp intake of air, Otto closing his eyes, clenching his fists, willing himself through it. And then suddenly Aaron felt the resistance in his shoulders go slack, no longer fighting. No.

  “Is he OK?” Hearing himself, worried, wanting Otto alive.


  Bildener touched the side of Otto’s neck. “He’s out, that’s all. A mercy. A man his age.” He looked at Aaron. “Such pain. Even a superman would feel it.” Implying somehow that Aaron wouldn’t have lasted as long. The master race. “You can let go.”

  Aaron moved his hands away.

  “I can finish here,” Bildener said, dismissing him, turning his back. “Hanna, some gauze, tape?”

  Aaron waited in the living room. How much longer before Nathan sent someone else to look? They couldn’t move Otto if he was unconscious. Unless they went back to the driving plan, the bridge up beyond the delta. Hours.

  Hanna came back, taking her seat by the window again.

  “I couldn’t watch. He got the bullet, but the wound looks— He says it’s the antiseptic that makes it look like that.”

  “But he’ll be OK?”

  “You mean, will he be able to stand up in court? I suppose.”

  “I meant, will he be OK.”

  She shrugged, letting it go, and reached for a cigarette. “He gave him a pill for the pain. So he’s woozy. But maybe that’s better for you. He’ll think he’s going to Madrid. That’s what you want, isn’t it? To trick him. So he walks into the trap. After his daughter tells him to go. Tells him it’s all right.”

  Aaron looked over, saying nothing.

  “How are you going to do it? You have a plan?”

  “More or less.”

  “Mm. More, I think. I can see it in your face. That look you get.”

  “What look?”

  “Moving the pieces into place. Working things out.”

  “I didn’t know I was that easy to read.”

  “You weren’t. I thought it was something else.” She lit the cigarette. “So. You have a place to move him? He can’t stay here.”

  “He can’t stay anywhere in Buenos Aires. Either Bildener and his friends hide him again. Or the Israelis get him. Either way, I lose. And the Argentines will never extradite him. So we can’t go to them.”

  “So he goes to Brazil? That’s why you wanted the ticket from Julio?”

  He shook his head. “The ticket was just a way to find him. He goes to Uruguay.”

  “Uruguay.”

  “It’s close and they have no reason to say no when the Germans ask for him. No friends in high places.”

  “If the Germans ask for him.”

  “We take him to the West German Embassy in Montevideo. I alert the prosecutor in Frankfurt—a friend of my uncle’s. There’s already a warrant for Otto’s arrest. If they don’t put him on a plane home, I make a fuss until they do. The Israelis can’t touch him in the embassy. They’ll make a formal announcement congratulating the Germans and go home.”