The Hess Cross

by James Thayer

  "The Morning Bath, 'Edgar Degas, circa 1883.' "

  "Degas painted racecourse and theater scenes. His favorite subjects were graceful ballerinas and ungraceful, bathing women. Unlike most of the impressionists, who lived estranged from their families and penniless during their early careers, Degas's father was a well-to-do banker, who supported Degas's ambition to be an artist. So while Monet, Van Gogh, and Seurat were starving, Degas had the advantage of some income."

  "Toulouse-Lautrec also had family money," Heather added.

  Crown paused, looked at her with an amused squint, and said, "Say, I'm not making a fool of myself by lecturing you on the French impressionists while you know a lot more about them than I do, am I?"

  "I don't mind." She grinned. "I enjoy hearing you talk. And if you make a mistake during your little lecture, I'll tactfully correct you."

  "How much do you know about these artists?" Crown felt color touch his cheek.

  "I studied them in Paris for a year before the war. But you're doing well. Continue." She laughed delightedly and put her hand through his arm.

  Shit. He had read that in her file and had completely forgotten it. Something about her scrambled his thoughts.

  "You know, you frost my butt at times," he said, shaking his head while she smiled merrily, squeezed his arm, and leaned against him as they walked into the Renoir room.

  The Art Institute of Chicago was one of the many public, crowded places Crown and Heather had visited in the past several days. When not occupied with Hess, they had acted like tourists. Before the Art Institute that day they had toured the Chicago Board of Trade, where from the viewing platform they had watched insane men gesticulating wildly at one another across the tiered pits as they set the United States commodities' prices. It fascinated Crown that legally binding contracts for thousands of dollars of grain could be made with a flick of the wrist.

  On previous days had been other crowded places, tourist attractions that bristled with people. Heather had suggestively complained to Crown that she was never alone with him. Crown shrugged it off, and seeing his apparent indifference, she had not mentioned it again.

  Crown was far from indifferent. He was under the long gun. Someone in Chicago was looking to kill him. This was apparent, because they had tried once and failed, killing Miguel Maura, and would now be coming for him. Heather's late-night phone calls reporting his whereabouts confirmed they would try again. He was being stalked.

  Revenge was not their motive. If it was, they would not have complicated their task by involving Heather. A revenge killing is the simplest. A man with a high-powered rifle waits, often for days, near the victim's home or car until he can put the mark in the cross hairs. It does not matter if the murder is public, because an experienced assassin always has an escape route, usually abetted by confusion. In addition, possible subsequent newspaper publicity of the killing does not deter the murderer, because he is long gone by the next morning's editions.

  Because this was not revenge, it followed that whatever the killers' motive, Crown's death was incidental to a much more important mission. Such a mission could easily be thwarted by newspaper publicity incumbent to a public killing. The killers would try to take Crown quietly, preferably in an out-of-the-way place. They knew that, as in all countries, an agent's death was suppressed if at all possible. If Crown went quietly, his death would not be investigated by Chicago police or the news media, because Crown's agency would quickly dispose of the body and fabricate a convincing story for his relatives.

  So as long as he stayed in crowded areas, the assassin would not strike. Crown and Heather had toured the Board of Trade, the Art Institute, the Shedd Aquarium, the Field Museum of Natural History, and other teeming attractions. Heather had not asked why Crown could take time to tour Chicago with her when he was on a vital mission guarding Hess. Normally he would not have, but he was convinced that Miguel Maura's death and the imminent assassination attempt on him were connected to Hess's journey. Any other explanation was too coincidental.

  Over long-distance phone to Washington two days before, Crown and Richard Sackville-West had reviewed the entire operation: Maura's death, Hess's journey to Chicago and his interrogations, and Heather's phone calls.

  "That's the entire information, sir. If you can come up with anything, any possible mission or the name of whoever is behind it, you're more insightful than I am," Crown had said into the crackling telephone.

  "I'd be the last to argue I was not more insightful than you, John," the Priest had chuckled. "I agree that whatever's going on has something to do with Hess. Any other explanation doesn't make sense. So we have to assume the worst—that their goal is to kill Hess. Somehow they found out he was here, and are now trying to get rid of him."

  "You keep saying 'someone' when referring to the killers. Can't we conclude it's the Germans? They know how valuable Hess's information is. They must also suspect the reason Hess was brought to the U.S. was because he was talking, revealing their nuclear-experiment secrets."

  "I agree," said the Priest from a thousand miles away. "So the Germans are trying to kill him. Needless to say, we absolutely cannot let this happen. He must be kept alive."

  Crown asked, "Why are they after me, rather than Hess?"

  "Although they know where Hess is, because Heather has obviously told them, they can't get to him. He's too well guarded. You and Peter Kohler have seen to that. So they'll try for you, hoping somehow to get to Hess through you."

  "How?"

  "I've no idea. But we assume they want Hess dead, and we know they want you dead. There has to be a connection. Unless they can find a way to get to Hess, they'll keep trying for you. Maybe they only want to kidnap you and force you to breach the EDC house security. Who knows? But they must feel time is running out on them. They're desperate. So they'll try anything."

  "Let me see if I can read you," Crown said. "We obviously can't sit here and wait for them to strike."

  "Correct."

  "So we need to take the offensive."

  "Right, again."

  "We don't have any leads other than we think they'll try again. So we let them try again. Which means I have to make myself a target."

  "You've done it successfully in Europe, and I trust you can do it in Chicago. All you need do is walk around and expose yourself. Nothing could be easier." The Priest laughed softly.

  He knew as well as Crown the terrible ordeal of being a target. Anyone could be the killer—the postman, the lady shopper, the cabbie. He could be hiding behind any tree, post, building, or door. He could be watching the target from any rooftop, any car, anywhere. He could strike at any time—while the target was sleeping, eating, or urinating. Nothing, no one was safe. The constant fear of the attack shortly jellied the target's nerves.

  A target could not let the hunter know he was aware of the plan. Not being able to look over the shoulder every few seconds was agonizing. The target had to trust other senses to guard his rear, none of which were as acute as eyesight. Nevertheless, the target's eyes never rested. Without unduly moving his head, he let his eyes fly back and forth, searching for signs of the strike. For two weeks after his last experience as a target, Crown's eyes had twitched uncontrollably, unable to rest even after their torturous duty had ended.

  Acute paranoia infected a target. It raised hackles on the neck, turned the stomach over, and made hands tremble, so that writing with a pen was almost impossible. Nights were endless, sleepless vigils. Soon a numbing ache overcame the target and dulled his senses, an ache from sleeplessness and effort. At these times, the target was even more vulnerable, more prone to make a fatal mistake.

  "How many days should I make them wait before setting them up?" Crown asked.

  "Use your discretion. I suggest three or four days. Make them worry that you'll never expose yourself. You'll be able to predict when they'll strike, that way. If you give them only one chance to hit you, that's the one they'll take. Be careful, though. You know as wel
l as I do that this ploy requires them to have no hint you're on to them."

  "What about my duties with Hess?"

  "Keep at them. You're always surrounded by bodyguards and are safest when you're with him. Spend your spare time with Heather and in crowds so the assassins will think they know your every move. She'll keep feeding them information about you until they're sure that if you ever are alone and open to be killed, they'll be aware of it because she'll tell them in advance. That way, they probably won't even follow you. They'll just rely on her reports."

  Crown paused several seconds, searching for words that would not be revealing. Finally he asked, "Have you come up with any reason she's in with them?"

  "As best we can tell, she's never had any contact with the Nazis, so they couldn't have indoctrinated her. That leaves only one motive for her—money. They must be paying her a tidy sum."

  The words had stung Crown. Not that he hadn't suspected money was her motive. He had sifted through all possible reasons why she was informing on him. Each time, he concluded she was on the German payroll, and each time, it hurt more.

  At first he had been insulted. She was playing him for a fool. For the past three nights she had used the pay phone outside her hotel after she thought he had driven away. Each night, she gave succinct instructions on their plans for the next day and promised to let them know any changes in plans. She was obviously a rookie at her double life. Had she been in the business for any length of time, she would have known Crown would trust no one completely and would covertly watch her. Neither she nor her bosses respected his professional talent.

  Crown's injured-pride explanation went only so far. He was too honest with himself not to admit the real and hurting reason he despaired over her duplicity. Quite simply, he was falling for Heather.

  He was thirty-three years old and had never loved a woman. His affairs had been casual and brief, never long enough for emotional commitment to grow from physical desire. Women had drifted in and out of his life without affecting it. Crown entered relationships expecting at most an uneasy friendship, made uncomfortable by expectations he knew he would never fulfill. At the first sign of attachment, he withdrew, for reasons he could not understand. Perhaps he feared the responsibility of a relationship. Or he was afraid of any emotional change. He had been accused by women he was leaving of being a coward, of being juvenile, of being cold. Maybe. Maybe not. He hadn't taken the time to think about it.

  Heather was different. She touched him like no one before. For the first time in his life, Crown looked forward with heady anticipation to being with a woman. He was anxious when he was not with her, and wanted nothing else when they were together. Crown was falling in love.

  As if Crown had been thinking aloud, Sackville-West said from Washington, D.C., "John, you'd better listen closely. I've said before that nothing can get in the way of your business in Chicago. I mean it. Nothing. That includes a pretty English girl. You've got to remember what she's doing. She's working for the Nazis. She's a traitor. And she'll pay for it. We don't have trials in our line of work, John. You know that. She's living her last days."

  "I know that, sir."

  "What you're seeing is what she wants you to see, what the Nazis want you to see. They're hoping you'll become attached to her. Don't get tricked. Do your job and keep your emotions out of this. Understand?"

  "Yes, sir."

  "Well, whether you do or not, I know you'll do your task as if you did. Remember what I said, though, when her time comes."

  Crown and Heather leisurely toured the Cézanne, Gauguin, Van Gogh, Seurat, and Toulouse-Lautrec displays. She showed an amazing range of knowledge about the French impressionists. Crown tried to concentrate on what she said, but found he was keying on her lilting British voice. They hurriedly visited the rooms with paintings from the fifteenth and sixteenth centuries and paused only briefly at the Dutch and Flemish art from the seventeenth century. They overloaded on the paintings and began passing many without even a glance.

  On the steps of the Art Institute they admired the immense bronze lions guarding the entrance to the art treasures. Heather petted a lion's metal paw and sat on its concrete platform next to Crown. She leaned casually against the lion's leg and played with the back of Crown's hand until he turned it over so she could slip her hand into his. He did not look at her, so she leaned forward and peered up at him with her radiant smile. He looked away and would not play the game. She squeezed his hand and asked, "What's wrong, John?"

  For a few seconds he continued to stare down Michigan Avenue. Finally he turned to her. Her auburn hair was brushed by the November wind, and her cheeks were flushed from the cold. She was wearing a tailored beige jacket over a white blouse and slim tapered pants the color of river sand, a lovely contrast to the dull, hard green and gold of the lion. A rush of emotion swelled up from his stomach and caught him in the throat. He opened his mouth to tell her how he felt, but swallowed it.

  "No, nothing," he said as he forced a smile. "I have an ability to look reflective when I'm not thinking of anything."

  Heather did not believe him, but changed the subject. "How do you think Hess's interviews are going?"

  "I'm glad he got over his amnesia quickly. Fermi is really impatient to find out what Hess knows. Apparently he has a mass of data about the German experiments."

  Crown rubbed his hands together to ward off the chilling fog rolling into the Loop from Lake Michigan. The fog bank rushed across Michigan Avenue and up Adams Street.

  "What about the amnesia and the stomach cramps and all that? Is he faking?" Heather asked, scooting closer to Crown as the temperature plunged and more fog poured from the lake.

  "The doctors don't think so. They say his symptoms are not unusual for a neurotic-schizoid under such pressure."

  "What do you think?" asked Heather in a tone implying that Crown's thoughts would be decisive.

  "During both interviews, Tuesday's and this morning's, I was struck by Hess's ability to pace the flow of information. Fermi questioned him for two hours today, and he got some useful data, but nowhere near everything Fermi thinks Hess knows. Hess may have mental problems, but he controls those interviews. Kohler frightens him, but when Hess is in the interview, Kohler isn't very effective, because Hess knows we want the information and will put up with him. Kohler can go only so far in that situation."

  "I think Hess is just enjoying the attention," Heather said. "He likes being the center of things, so he prolongs the interviews, because when they're over, he'll go back to his cell."

  "Maybe so. He's got a big ego. No question about that. Fermi will continue to question him until Hess has revealed all he knows. Then Hess goes back to his London hospital cell. But I think he's up to something other than just being the center of things."

  Heather looked quickly at him and asked, "What do you mean?"

  "Well," Crown said as he turned to watch the fog, "it's just a hunch. Hess is too controlled. He dribbles out just enough information to keep us interested. When Fermi gets into the heart of the questions about the German experiments, Hess's mind goes blank or he has pains in his abdomen. Like Kohler says, it's too convenient."

  "What're you going to do about it?" she asked, and Crown thought he detected an apprehensive edge in her voice.

  "I don't know yet. Something will come to me, though."

  It was bait. Heather would surely report his suspicions to whomever she was calling. They would be prompted to act quickly, perhaps rashly. Their inability to find Crown in a nonpublic place would make them even more nervous. They would try to kill him at their first opportunity. Crown would give them that chance when he was ready. He would know when they were coming.

  Over rack-of-lamb dinner at the Berghoff, conversation again turned to the deputy führer.

  "He just doesn't come across as a cutthroat, like the Nazis are always depicted," Heather said while she cut tender lamb away from the bones.

  "You don't know enough about him, then." C
rown swallowed and asked, "Have you ever heard of Hess's part in the Night of the Long Knives?"

  She shook her head.

  "During Hitler's rise to power, he had an army of thugs and criminals called the SA, the Sturmabteilung. They started out as bouncers who beat up hecklers when Hitler spoke in beer halls or on soap boxes in town squares. The SA was headed by Ernst Roehm, a homosexual, a drunkard, and a sadist, who soon turned the SA into his private army of three million men. It grew larger than the German Army, Navy, and Air Force combined.

  "Hitler used the SA to solidify his own position in Germany. Soon, though, Ernst Roehm began to flex his SA muscle. Hitler felt that he, Hitler, was losing control of the SA and that Roehm was using it to wrest the Nazi party leadership from him. It's apparent that Himmler, Hess, and others were jealous of Roehm's strength, and they fed Hitler rumors of Roehm's ambitions."

  "Were the rumors true?"

  "Some, maybe. Most were not. Anyway, Hitler decided to get rid of Roehm."

  Crown paused to savor the lamb. Heather asked, "Well, what happened?"

  "Hess and the others convinced Hitler that just getting rid of Roehm wouldn't be enough. He needed to liquidate all the SA leaders suspected of allegiance to Roehm. So Hess, Himmler, Goebbels, and Göring drew up lists of those they wished killed. If they could show that the victims had some connection with the SA, fine, but it wasn't necessary. They included on the lists those with whom they had personal grievances. Anyone unfortunate enough to have made an enemy of these men during the early years of the Nazi party was in this way condemned to die. On June 30, 1934, Ernst Roehm and hundreds of others were murdered. So Hess is just like the rest—plotting, scheming, murdering. Don't single him out for undeserved sympathy."

  Crown chewed on the lamb, indicating the grisly story was over, but Heather demanded more details. "How did Roehm die?"

  Crown looked at her and wondered whether he should complete the history lesson. Why not? She might as well know the mentality of her bosses.