The Discovery

by Dan Walsh

  I noticed something else. In comparing the Ben and Claire photograph to all the others, I noticed that Nan wore a slightly different hairdo. And in the Ben and Claire photo, they actually looked younger, maybe by several years. I don’t know why I hadn’t seen it before, but it was crystal clear to me right then. In fact, I suddenly felt stupid for not seeing it sooner. As the realization sunk in, my hands started trembling.

  The typewriter case. The real first name. This picture.

  I had not spent the last two days reading my grandfather’s last, unpublished novel. I had been reading his memoir.

  This was his story.

  The story of how they met. The story the family had never heard. The answers to all the questions Marilyn had been asking.

  Then I remembered my grandfather’s journal. Something he’d written on the last page. It didn’t make any sense then. Maybe it would now. I left everything spread out on the bed, took the photo and manuscript page, and ran down the steps, through the kitchen, and into his office.

  I flipped open to the last journal page, skipped till I found the paragraph.

  I’m writing these last few pages for my family. More precisely, for my grandson Michael to find. I trust he’ll know what to do with it, and with the package I’ve left in my wooden box (which has its own story, and he’ll find out about that too).

  Tears slid down my cheeks.

  I had found it, what Gramps had wanted me to find. Even the wonderful story about the wooden typewriter case. Where it came from. I looked down at it. Oh man. I just realized. This wooden box had actually been made in Havana in 1898, during the Spanish-American War. My grandfather—Ben—had gotten it from his future father-in-law—Mr. Richards, my great-grandfather—who’d gotten it from his father—my great-great-grandfather—who’d fought with Teddy Roosevelt and the Rough Riders. He’d actually fought in the battle of San Juan Hill.

  My great-great-grandfather was an American war hero.

  Everything I had been reading over the past two days . . . it was all true.

  I had to call Jenn. She had to know. What time was it? Shoot, she didn’t get off till 6:00. This couldn’t wait. What were they going to do, fire her? I dialed her number and let the phone ring. Pick up, Jenn. Please pick up.

  Her voice mail. I listened to her message, waited for the beep. “Jenn, call me as soon as you get this. You’re not going to believe it. This manuscript, it’s not a novel, it’s my grandfather’s story. It’s all true. I can’t wait to talk with you, love you.”

  And I hung up.

  Then another thought, this one more disturbing. Not only was my great-great-grandfather a war hero—if this story was all true—my grandfather had once been a German spy. And our family name—my name—wasn’t Warner, because Gramps’s real name wasn’t Gerard Warner. And it wasn’t Ben Coleman, either. It was Gerhard Kuhlmann.

  Was that my real last name? Our family’s real name? Kuhlmann?

  What would Jenn think about all this . . . or Marilyn? Marilyn will go crazy when she hears this. What about my family? What about Rick Samson, my grandfather’s agent? What about my grandfather’s fans?

  What about the FBI?

  I couldn’t think any more about this. I had to get back to the couch and see how my grandfather’s story ended.

  Chapter Thirty-Two

  “Nate, you somewhere you can write this down?”

  “I am, but let me get my pen and pad out. I’m gonna set the phone down a sec.”

  Hammond had checked into a fairly nice hotel a few blocks north of downtown Jacksonville. No reason to stay in the Daytona Beach area any longer. He had his man. Ben Coleman—or the man going by that name—was most certainly the second half of the dead German’s two-man spy team. Hammond was talking with his partner, Nate Winters, who was already in Savannah.

  “Okay, Vic, fire away. What’d you find out down there?”

  “How about the ID of our spy suspect? Who he is, what he looks like—”

  “Really. So how’s that work? You send the rest of us all over creation beating the bushes for leads, and you wrap the whole thing up by yourself a few miles away from where we started?”

  “Oh, we’re far from wrapping this up. Actually, the guy’s heading your way.”

  “He is? So who is he?”

  “Goes by the name Ben Coleman, mid-twenties, light brown hair, about six feet tall.”

  “Not his real name.”

  “Hardly,” Hammond said. Claire had told him Ben’s real name. Once he’d convinced the Richardses he believed them, she’d told him everything she knew. Turns out, wasn’t all that much. “Like we thought, looks like there’s another two-man team of saboteurs involved, probably still up there in Savannah. I’m just a few hours south of you, and I plan to hit the road at sunrise. Find out anything on the explosion?”

  “Still checking things out, but it looks fishy. We’re telling the press it was just an accident. Hoover’s orders.”

  “Let me guess,” Hammond said. “It’s an accident, no matter what we find out.”

  “You got it. Plenty of flammable things in this shipyard to blame. But the folks closest to the scene feel like it’s sabotage. They got all kinds of safety measures in place, several layers thick. All of them were being followed, but the explosion still happened. Witnesses here are saying there’s no chance this was an accident.”

  “When we prove them right, I’m sure you’ll come up with something to get them to cooperate.”

  “Yeah, well . . . So, Vic, how’d you find this guy?”

  “I’ll tell you more tomorrow morning. But already I can tell, this isn’t looking anything like the case last summer. You somewhere you can talk . . . off the record?”

  A brief pause. “Sure, Vic. Just you and me talking on pay phones. Whatta ya got?”

  “Remember how that last bunch of spies spent their time once they came onshore? Except for Dasch and Burger, they all started meeting up with old German friends and Nazi sympathizers.”

  “I recall something like that.”

  “This fellow Coleman hasn’t done that, hasn’t even tried. And he’s been here six months. In fact, everybody I talked to gives him high marks. Patriotic, upstanding citizen. All that. No one knew he was even German.”

  “No accent?”

  “None. The kid was born here, somewhere in Pennsylvania. Sounds like his partner drowned in the surf. He went to the nearest town, got a job, made some friends, fell in love. Even the girl he wanted to marry had no idea who he was until today.”

  “I’m guessing that was painful. But Vic, c’mon. He’s still a Kraut.”

  “That’s the thing, Nate. I’m not so sure. She says he told her—just today—he knew who the other two saboteurs were and left to go after them.”

  “You mean to join them?”

  “To try and stop them. She’s all broken up, thinks he’s going to get himself killed.”

  “You believe her? You know these guys will say anything, especially to women.”

  “I know, Nate, but didn’t you tell me about your buddy in the Washington office saying something about how Dasch got railroaded by Hoover?”

  “Man, I hate talking about this over the phone, Vic.”

  “C’mon, Nate. You said you were at a pay phone.”

  “Still.”

  “No way Hoover has these lines bugged.”

  A long pause. “I guess you’re right. Okay, yeah, that’s what my buddy said. Apparently this other German, Dasch, the leader of the first group—”

  “Dasch didn’t get the chair, right?”

  “No, he got thirty years hard labor. But my friend said the whole case opened up because of him. And only because of him. He turned everyone else in, gave us every major lead we got in the case. All the time he’s talking, the Boss is playing him like a fiddle. Told him he was a hero, said he’s going to let him off when it’s all over. Even let him think we’d let him help us fight the Nazis. Then Hoover sticks him in solitary
where he can’t talk, plays this whole thing in the papers like we busted the spy ring all by ourselves.”

  Actually, Hammond recalled Hoover had made it sound like he’d wrapped up the whole case by himself. It was the part of being a G-man Hammond had come to hate. The manipulation and cover-ups going on behind the scenes, starting with Hoover. Hammond knew exactly how Hoover would treat someone like Ben. “Nate, between you and me, I think this guy might be the real deal. My gut’s telling me Coleman is heading your way, and it really is to stop these other two Germans who came ashore that night.”

  “What do you want me to do? You know, Vic, we slip up here, our necks are hanging way out there.”

  “I don’t know, Nate. Haven’t got this figured out. But you’re somebody I thought could give me a hand. Somebody I could trust if we need to toss the book out the window.”

  “You know I love adventure.”

  “I know. It’s just . . .” Hammond sighed. “We gotta be real careful with this or it could blow up in our faces.”

  “You just make a joke, Vic?”

  Hammond smiled. It was good having Nate around. “Not on purpose. I don’t have much else to tell you. Coleman didn’t want to get his girl or her family any more involved than they already were. So, he didn’t tell her much.”

  “Well, we know a whole lot more than we knew this morning. You did good, Vic.”

  “Thanks. But this thing . . . It could go wrong a thousand different ways.”

  “I got your back, Vic. Like you always got mine. Before you hang up, you want to reel the rest of the team in, since we know where the bad guys are at?”

  “See, that’s the thing. We do that, we might scare these two Nazis off. They see that many G-men all over the shipyard, they’ll just go somewhere else, and we’re back to square one.”

  “Hoping to set a trap?”

  “Something like that. Don’t have it worked out yet. I’m thinking it’s all going to depend on this guy Coleman. We’ve got to find him. Tell you what, go ahead and call five or six guys in, but that’s all for now. Keep everything how it’s been. We’ll keep this new information between you and me, till we see how things play out. I’d like you freed up to be with me once I get on-site.”

  “You said about mid-morning?”

  “That’s the plan.” He took a deep breath. “Let’s see if we can do some good here.”

  “And keep ourselves from getting blown up.”

  Hammond thought a moment. “That was a pun, wasn’t it?”

  “You’re hopeless, Vic. See you tomorrow.”

  Chapter Thirty-Three

  Hours had gone by. At least it felt like hours.

  When Helen Richards had turned out the light, their bedroom became completely dark, as it had every night since she’d first shared a bed with Hugh. She needed it to be totally dark to fall asleep. Funny how much of the room she could see now that her eyes had adjusted to the dark. She traced the complete outline of the ceiling, then focused on the flowery light fixture above their bed. She couldn’t see the floral pattern, of course. But she could see the distinct shape clearly.

  She lifted her head slightly. There was Hugh’s dresser on the left, his side of the room. She could almost make out the big glass ashtray where he kept his wallet and keys. On the right, she saw her chest of drawers beside the closet. She could even trace the outline of the mirror.

  “Can’t sleep, hon?” Hugh said, his voice just above a whisper.

  “Did I wake you?” she said.

  “No. I haven’t slept a wink.”

  “Me neither.” She rolled on her side facing him. “I shouldn’t be surprised. This still doesn’t feel real to me.”

  “That’s not my problem,” he said, still on his back looking up. “Feels very real to me.”

  “Are you still worried . . . I mean, as much as before?” They had prayed a good while before turning out the lights, more than the normal polite nighttime prayers.

  “No—I feel that same peace that came over me when we stopped praying,” he said.

  Helen had felt it too; it made her think of that passage in Philippians that spoke of a “peace that surpasses understanding.” It was the only thing that could explain the calm they had both felt, considering their whole lives had just been turned upside down. “What are you thinking about?” She heard him breathe in and out slowly.

  “Something I don’t want to be thinking about, but it won’t leave me alone. I feel as though I’ve been wrestling for the past hour or so, but I’m not sure if it’s with God or the devil.”

  She didn’t like the sound of that.

  “The thing that bothers me the most,” he said, “is that I’m pretty sure it’s God.”

  Helen sat up. “May I turn on the light?”

  “Might as well.” He sat up too.

  When Hugh’s face came into focus, Helen saw tears in his eyes. “What’s the matter, Hugh?” she said softly. She reached her hand up and stroked his face. She knew a hundred different things were the matter but not which one was affecting him this way.

  “I keep hearing God telling me to let go, but I don’t want to let go, not now, not this way.” The tears rolled down his face.

  She reached over and hugged him and felt the weight of his head fully on her shoulder. He let go and just cried. She wasn’t sure just what he was grieving for. Not wanting to rush him, she let him rest there until it seemed he was through.

  He lifted his head and looked at her.

  “What do you think God wants you to let go of, Hugh?”

  “It’s Claire.” The tears began to flow again, but this time he fought through them. “I think I’m supposed to let go of Claire—we’re supposed to let go of her.”

  “What do you mean?” She didn’t like the sound of this.

  “These last few months, since she and Ben got together, I’ve been so happy. For her, I mean. As her dad. My concern for years now—what I’ve prayed for more times than I can count—is that she’d find the right man. Someone who’d make her truly happy, who’d take care of her the rest of her life, treat her the way I have all these years.”

  “The way you’ve treated me,” Helen said. He didn’t seem to hear.

  “I really thought that man was Ben. From that first night, and every moment I’ve spent with him since. It wasn’t just how happy Claire’s been. I felt like he was the man I’d been praying for all those years. Because of who he is, what he’s like.”

  Helen knew exactly what he meant. “I did too, but now I’m not sure.” She didn’t know why, but she felt herself tensing up. “So, what are you saying?”

  “I’m saying, I still feel the same way, that Ben is right for Claire. He’s the man I’ve been waiting for her to meet.”

  “Even with all this?” She reached for his hand.

  He nodded. “I don’t want to think it. I’ve been trying to block all this out, shut it down. Claire needs to face it: it’s over. We need to face it. What we feel doesn’t matter. Ben’s a German spy, a fugitive. That’s what matters. We’ve got to stay a thousand miles away from him. I need to use my fatherly influence, every ounce I have left, to help her—to make her see if necessary—she has to let him go.”

  He said it so forcefully, Helen was a little confused. “But you don’t think so now?”

  “No. I feel like God is telling me to let go . . . of Claire. That Ben is not a mistake. That he’s the man I’ve been hoping for, the one who will truly make her happy.”

  “But you know what that means,” she said.

  She looked into his eyes. He did.

  The tears began falling down his cheeks again.

  Chapter Thirty-Four

  Ben didn’t sleep well last night. No surprise there. He’d gotten up for good around 4:30 a.m., decided he might as well get an early start on closing the gap to Savannah. He’d made better time than he thought and came to the edge of town about twenty minutes ago. He was driving down Bay Street now, riding along the river as t
he sun began to rise.

  Nice town. He remembered something about it from high school history, how it played some kind of role in the Civil War. Couldn’t recall any details now. Didn’t want to, either. He was not here to sightsee. But it was hard not to notice the charming old storefronts and hotels, the little park squares and huge mossy oaks. Claire would love this place.

  No.

  He sighed. No more thoughts of Claire. It made him weak.

  He knew the shipyard was just east of town, between the river and President Street. They had studied it in Germany, along with a number of other coastal locations building these Liberty ships. He tried to recover some of the details of the mission. He had put them out of his mind once he and Jurgen had been assigned other targets. But he needed to remember them now if he had any hope of catching Graf and Kittel.

  If they were responsible for yesterday’s explosion, it meant that one of them had succeeded in getting hired at the Southeastern Shipbuilding Corporation. Once he was employed, his real job would be to learn everything he could about the operation, especially their security measures. So that months later, working as a team, they could come in at night and begin to set off a succession of explosions initially made to look like accidents. But as more and more explosions occurred, each more severe than the one before, they’d create a panic among the employees.

  Ben remembered his Abwehr commander smiling as he talked about the fat, lazy Americans imagining themselves as so patriotic, doing their part for the war effort building these ships. The average American knew nothing, he’d said, of the realities of war, of real battles where people fight and die. “Let’s see how quickly they turn and run,” he’d said, “when their co-workers start dying or losing limbs in these explosions.” Everyone else in the room laughed out loud. “We will shut these shipyards down,” he said, “one by one.”

  Ben had found a way to shut his emotions down, long before then. So lunatic remarks such as these didn’t eat him up inside. He’d become something of an actor, always living in character. That was how he’d endured not just the physical but the psychological effects of his training. Outwardly, he appeared the fine young Nazi, zealous for the Fuhrer and the Fatherland. No one ever suspected how he’d truly felt. He’d never yielded a single clue.