For a while he thought about how much his head hurt and whether he would be able to turn it into a couple of weeks’ worth of disability leave after all this was over, but then he remembered his report and how many people would be waiting to read it and how the Army would probably want to spend the next several months turning over every rock in New Mexico because their precious security had been compromised, and he decided that by the time he was through with all that his head would probably be as good as new anyway.
And then he wondered what the Santa Fe police were making of Hal Springer’s dead body right that moment, and what sort of a fellow he must have been that his wife had started ducking out on him like that. She didn’t seem the type somehow, but then again maybe there wasn’t a type. At least she wasn’t making any excuses for herself.
The former Mrs. Havens’ rebellions hadn’t taken that particular turn—Karen had been more the pack-her-bag-and-back-tomother type, but she had made plenty of excuses. If Karen had had to explain what she had been up to in that hotel room in Santa Fe, she would have lied her little head off. She wouldn’t have been able to help herself.
But it seemed to Havens that just at present his life was filled with people who were perfectly ready to accept the consequences of their actions. Mrs. Springer for one—and then there was von Niehauser, who had wandered off into a snowstorm rather than accept a few more months of life at the cost of his peculiar Teutonic honor. Everybody, it seemed, was being very noble and at one with themselves.
He wondered how at one with himself he would be when he had to explain to J. Edgar and Company just why he had warned von Niehauser that he could forget about a hero’s welcome down in Mexico. From a strategic point of view it hadn’t been the brightest action of his life, but somehow he had difficulty regretting it. Somehow it would have been appalling to let the man go off like that without his knowing the perfect emptiness of the gesture. Not that it seemed to have made any difference to him. And not that it would make any sense to Mr. Hoover.
It suddenly occurred to Havens that he had forgotten to ask Mrs. Springer just where home was in New Jersey. But the Bureau would keep tabs on her; she wouldn’t be very hard to find. Doubtless he’d see her again, in one context or another.
When they reached the foot of the mountains, they had to get out and walk. There were patches of snow on the trail, but nothing bad—the wind had blown most of it down onto the flats. Charlie Rice, who probably hadn’t been away from his desk in five years, set a slow pace, but Havens didn’t complain. He could just manage with his leg, but only just.
They were about halfway to the summit when they met the team that had hiked over from the Mexican side. There were three of them, and they were just sitting around, lined up with their backs against a rock ledge like the three monkeys. They had been waiting there; that was obvious. One of them was smoking a cigarette. They weren’t looking for anything anymore.
Five yards farther up the trail, and you could see the reason. The body was lying face down, with its head turned to one side. The eyes were open, but enough snow had drifted around that you had to brush it away from the head to notice that fact. Von Niehauser looked as if he had died still trying to crawl forward on his hands and knees.
“What happened to the horse?”
Havens looked around at the three men, and finally one of them shook his head. They hadn’t seen any horse. Maybe it had wandered off onto some other trail and died, or maybe it had somehow managed to find its way home. Horses were tougher than men, even this man.
The orders had been quite explicit. When von Niehauser was taken, there was to be no interrogation and, aside from a quick frisk for weapons, no search. They were to wait for Havens. Information about the precise nature of the operation was to remain as restricted as possible. That had been the way General Groves had wanted it.
“Why don’t you guys go down to the jeep and fetch us up a body bag?”
Charlie Rice looked annoyed when he realized that he too was included in that suggestion. He stood up and dusted off his backside with the air of a man nursing a grievance. Havens waited until they were all well out of sight.
Von Niehauser had frozen to death. It wasn’t much of a thrill pulling his pockets inside out. Havens turned him over, grabbing the khaki greatcoat by the right arm. It was like rolling a log.
He looked strangely alive, and his face registered nothing of the suffering Havens had seen there only a little over twenty-four hours ago. He looked as if everything he had gone through had left him merely amused and a little contemptuous. Havens tried to close the eyes, but they wouldn’t close, and in an odd way he felt as if von Niehauser really had beaten him after all, as if the whole business had never been about bombs and secrets and the fates of nations, as if only now he was seeing that he had misunderstood everything from the beginning.
He found what he was supposed to be looking for in the inside coat pocket, five pages covered with a close, spidery hand. The rest was locked in von Niehauser’s mind and would be safe enough there.
There was a tiny piece of black-and-white ribbon sticking out between the thumb and first finger of von Niehauser’s gloved right hand, which was closed almost in a fist. With great difficulty, Havens managed to open the fingers and found a square, blackenameled medal in the shape of a cross. The four ends were wide and flat, and in the center was a small white swastika. It was only about two inches in width; von Niehauser had been holding it so tightly that its corners had cut into the leather of his palm.
Havens didn’t know what it was, and he would never know what it had meant to von Niehauser, but he had an obscure feeling that this wasn’t something that should go into a file envelope in the basement of Seat of Government, that it was nobody else’s business. Probably this black cross was the last thing that von Niehauser had ever seen.
The wind was beginning to pick up again—perhaps today had only been a lull between storms. Havens put the medal in his trouser pocket and turned up the collar of his coat, waiting for the war to end.
About Nicholas Guild
Nicholas Guild published his first novel in 1975 and has been writing ever since. His books have been published around the world and several have been international bestsellers. He has written thrillers and historical novels. Early in his career he was recognized as a writer of abundant grace, power and technical agility. Publishers Weekly described him as “a master of timing, plot and style.” Phil Thomas, The Associated Press Book Editor, said, “Nicholas Guild writes extremely well. His sentences are tight and well-constructed, and, additional bonus, his plot and sub-plots cannot be faulted.” The Cincinnati Enquirer said, “Guild writes extremely well. He does the flashbacks so well you are unaware the action has stopped and the novelist is filling you in on the character’s past.” The New York Times Book Review said, “The almost languid grace of his writing also sets the measured pace of the storytelling, while wrapping the narrative in an atmosphere thick with sensuality.”
Visit his website at www.nicholasguild.com/
Discover other titles by Nicholas Guild at Amazon.com:
Blood Ties
Angel
The Assyrian
The Blood Star
The President’s Man
The Berlin Warning
The Linz Tattoo
The Summer Soldier
Old Acquaintance
The Favor
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