The Accidental Agent

by Andrew Rosenheim

  Guttman sat up straight and turned to look at Nessheim. It was always that way, thought Nessheim. Harry would snort and sneeze and shuffle around, but when the time came to lay down the law or just tell it straight, he would belly up to the bar and look you in the eye. ‘I think tomorrow should go all right, but I’m still nervous. I need your help and I don’t want you distracted by this other business.’ Guttman shrugged. ‘I know how hard it is, but right now I need you at your professional best.’

  ‘You’re telling me to be professional?’

  Guttman looked uncomfortable but insisted, ‘Yes.’

  ‘I see.’ Nessheim was watching the bartender; he didn’t trust himself to keep his temper if he looked Guttman in the eye. ‘Tell me, did you act professionally after Isabel died?’

  ‘That was different.’

  Nessheim scoffed. ‘Why is that?’ he demanded, turning now to look at Guttman. ‘Because you were married? Because Isabel was sick? Because you’d been with her a long time?’

  Guttman’s chin jutted, but when he spoke his voice was not aggressive. ‘Because she wasn’t involved in my work. Because no one suggested I had anything to do with her dying. I didn’t know Stacey Madison, but I can’t believe she would have wanted you to go haywire at this moment. Listen, they gave me time off after Isabel died, and you want to know the truth? After four days I was climbing the goddamned walls. Sure you have to grieve, but right now there isn’t time for it and second – don’t kill me for saying it – you were born to do. Grief is not doing. I swear, if you stop now and surrender to how bad you feel, you’ll go crazy within a week.’

  He paused while the bartender put a bowl of shelled peanuts down in front of him. Guttman grabbed a handful and said, ‘I’m not saying you shouldn’t care about solving Stacey’s murder. I’m not saying we shouldn’t try to find who killed her. But we have to make sure all is safe and sound at Stagg Field first. It’s bigger than the both of us – you know that, Nessheim. If you get mad now and stay mad and stay stupid, there’s nothing I can do for you. And then for sure, the people who did this will get away. Do you hear me, Nessheim? Her killers will get away.’

  Nessheim didn’t want to look at Guttman. After a long pause he said, ‘I hear you. So what do you want me to do? Stagg Field’s okay, Kalvin’s out of action – everything’s hunky-dory.’

  Guttman looked at his watch. ‘I’m going to roust Kalvin’s apartment. I doubt I’ll find anything, but it’s worth a go. My priority is getting through tomorrow unscathed, but after that I want to put this bastard away. And,’ he added pointedly, ‘any others we can catch. You coming with me or you staying here, sucking up more bourbon? Your choice, pal.’

  Nessheim thought for a moment. He resented this tutorial of Guttman’s; he was used to learning his own lessons in life. He took his wallet out and threw a bill down on the bar. ‘I’m coming,’ he said and got off his stool. Then he remembered. ‘Hang on a minute. You had a package come – special delivery. The girl at the desk gave it to me.’

  ‘It can wait,’ said Guttman impatiently.

  ‘It’s from 30 Rockefeller Plaza.’

  ‘Jesus, why didn’t you say so?’

  Upstairs Nessheim handed the envelope to Guttman, who ripped it open at one end. There was a cover letter which he took out first. ‘This figures,’ he said after reading for a minute. ‘Kalvin came out of Portugal because he’d spent the last years in Spain. He went to Spain as a supposed scientist, and left a veteran of the Civil War.’

  Nessheim remembered Kalvin commenting on Stacey’s Spanish. It was clear where each of them had acquired the language – Spain and Mexico; clear too that for each of them it was a secret part of their pasts.

  Guttman was still reading. He said, ‘Kalvin fled to Portugal when Franco won, holed up in Lisbon, wrote letters to every physicist he knew this side of the pond, then got out on a boat for New York. There’s a big gap in his résumé that’s just been filled.’

  ‘He’s out of the way – that’s what counts. Though I’d still like to know who he was meeting at the museum.’

  ‘Me too,’ said Guttman, struggling to extract the rest of the envelope’s contents. Finally he managed to pull out two photographs the size of typing paper, printed on glossy stock.

  Nessheim wondered if these were shots of Kalvin. Not much use to him, since he knew well enough what the man looked like. But Guttman continued to stare, and after a minute Nessheim ventured, ‘What is it?’

  ‘I don’t believe it.’ Guttman’s voice had a hollowness to it; his shock was obvious. He leaned back and reclined his head against the antimacassar of his chair while his eyes looked up at the ceiling. ‘Dear God,’ he said.

  ‘What is it?’ But Guttman was oblivious, fighting some private war of understanding on his own. Nessheim went round his chair and stood behind him. He looked down at the first photo, which was grainy, shot through a long-distance lens. It showed a woman on a walkway – from the row of doors, the place had to be a motel. A man was next to her – you couldn’t see his face but his arm was thrown across her shoulder – and she was smiling. It was a smile of unabashed enjoyment. ‘I think I know that face,’ Nessheim said uncertainly.

  Guttman brought his eyes down so they were level with the photo. ‘So do I. I should do – I see it every day.’

  ‘Christ,’ said Nessheim, in sudden recognition. ‘It’s Marie.’

  ‘A for All-star, Nessheim,’ said Guttman wearily, lowering the photograph on to his lap.

  ‘But what’s it mean, Harry?’

  ‘It means she’s fucking T.A. in a motel room. Unless they’re discussing the later works of Harriet Beecher Stowe.’

  ‘I’m sorry,’ said Nessheim. Had Harry been carrying a torch for his secretary? Marie was attractive, the right age, and always seemed devoted to Guttman. No wonder this was a blow.

  Guttman shook his head. ‘No, no, it’s not like that. T.A. is tracking me all right – and Marie’s been helping him.’ He suddenly thumped his fist on the little table next to him, and the photo fell to the floor.

  ‘Take it easy – it may not be as bad as it looks. I’m sorry about Marie, but –’

  ‘Don’t you see? Oh, shit, Nessheim, wake up. The black-haired vamp on the train – she’s humping T.A. So you probably think, big deal. But how did she know where to find me? Only Marie knew I was on that train – and she must have told T.A. The same thing goes for you, pal. How did they know where you lived – Herr Rossbach and all that crap? I knew, and Marie knew, but that’s it. Oh, Jesus,’ he said and slapped his forehead with an open palm.

  The other photograph was still on Guttman’s lap, but Guttman seemed too upset to look at anything now, so Nessheim reached for it. It was also of Marie, but this time her companion’s face was visible too, as they left the motel walkway and walked in the open past the shabby front office. The man wore a tie you could spot through the opening of his overcoat, which was a fine dark Chesterfield.

  Guttman had stood up and was looking over Nessheim’s shoulder. ‘That’s T.A. He’s schtupping her too. God, look at the smile on her face.’

  But it wasn’t Marie whom Nessheim was interested in. He stared hard at the photo; there could be no doubt. ‘Harry, we’ve got a bigger problem than you think.’

  ‘What do you mean?’

  Nessheim stabbed the photo with his finger. ‘Forget Marie – this is the guy I saw meeting Kalvin at the museum. The same guy I followed downtown to the FO building. He’s even wearing the same coat.’

  Guttman again looked stunned. Nessheim said, ‘If T.A. was involved in helping Tatie, that would link Stacey’s murder to our worries about the Russians – and T.A.’

  ‘That’s a big “if”. Why do we think T.A. was helping Tatie? Other than his being in Chicago and visiting the Bureau here?’

  ‘Because Tatie didn’t mention him when I asked her about the guy I followed. She just showed me the mugshot book of current agents – in Chicago. But she would have known T.
A. was visiting. The SAC would have introduced them, if only as a courtesy.’

  ‘Well,’ said Guttman, swallowing. He was always able to admit when he was wrong, but he didn’t like it.

  ‘And that ties the strands together. Kalvin to T.A. – Stacey, through Tatie, to T.A. It’s the same group working against us. They threw out red herrings, and we took the bait. All these phoney leads – Nazis, the Bund, then Stacey as a femme fatale who was working for the Russians. It was all bullshit, but we believed it.’

  ‘We caught Kalvin,’ Guttman said, more in hope than defence.

  ‘We got lucky, Harry.’

  Suddenly Guttman caught sight of Nessheim’s watch. ‘We’d better go. Kalvin will be having supper by now.’

  37

  THEY LEFT THE Quadrangle Club, with Guttman leading the way. It was only once they turned the corner at 58th Street that he spoke, his breath sending little puffs of white into the air with every word. It was numbingly cold. ‘You know I don’t like Hoover, and Hoover doesn’t like me.’

  ‘That’s pretty obvious,’ said Nessheim.

  ‘Yet Hoover leaves me alone. He’s scared of what I know, and I stay clear – since I’m scared of what he’s capable of. Instead he lets Tolson pick away at me. It’s like having a scab that never heals. I think they both hope I’ll get sick of it and resign.’

  ‘You figure Tolson knows about T.A.’s doings?’

  ‘No, I don’t – that’s the point I was coming to. Whatever Hoover is, and Tolson for that matter, neither one of them’s a spy. You could show me a picture of the Director sitting on Joe Stalin’s lap, and I still wouldn’t believe he worked for the Russians.’

  ‘I’m sure that’s right.’ There were certain conspiracies that needed to be rejected out of hand; certain lines drawn, or else you became infected with a persecution complex that was ultimately paralysing.

  Guttman said, ‘T.A. is a different kettle of fish. The guy’s a master manipulator. Tolson seems to hold him in “great affection”, shall we say, and T.A. can wrap him round his little finger. Women fall for him too, in a big way. Think of that picture – Marie looks … what’s the word?’

  ‘Besotted?’

  ‘That’s it. I thought she might be a little bit interested in me – I’ll tell you why another time – but I realise now that Adams must have put her up to it. He’s a clever, clever prick, this guy.’

  ‘Do you think Marie’s a Red?’ It seemed preposterous.

  ‘No. I think she’s a dope who’s fallen for a bad guy who is a Red. Adams spent some time in Hollywood, and Stephenson thinks he was probably recruited there, possibly by your old Russian friend Elizaveta Mukasei. So I think he is a foreign agent, and I think he was Kalvin’s controller. Or one of them anyway – T.A. couldn’t get out here very often or Tolson would start wondering why. There must be somebody based here who runs Kalvin day to day.’

  They were nearing the Cloisters at the corner of Dorchester Avenue. It was a big square thirteen-storey building with four tiers of apartments. Crossing the street, Guttman suddenly turned and looked behind them. Past the adjacent playing field, seen through its iron spiked fence, were the hulking shadows of several Gothic buildings, whose blue-grey granite shone in the weak moonlight like the edifices of a ghost story. ‘What is all that?’ asked Guttman.

  ‘It’s the Lab School. Where the faculty kids go. John Dewey founded it.’

  Guttman rubbed a finger across his lips, looking pensive. ‘The Dewey Decimal System, right?’

  ‘One and the same. Congratulations.’ It seemed almost grotesque to stand here bantering with Guttman.

  ‘Sheesh. You’re supposed to be the small-town boy and I’m the city sophisticate.’

  ‘Only according to you, Harry. I’ve never seen it that way myself.’

  They entered the tall doorway into the apartment complex, and as they passed the doorman’s little room, which had a window to watch the entrance, a Negro man inside stood up from a high stool. He was tall, with a thin narrow moustache, and wore a blue suit with a captain’s peaked hat. Seeing Guttman he waved and sat down again.

  ‘I squared him this afternoon,’ said Guttman. They walked along one side of a cloistered walkway, which surrounded an open courtyard that had a shallow rectangular pool running down its centre. At one end, water burbled from the mouth of a dwarf-sized stone cherub in a passable imitation of an Italian fountain. At the back of the courtyard they crossed to the north-east tier. As they waited for the elevator, Nessheim said, ‘It’s a fancy building, Harry. How does Kalvin manage this?’

  ‘He’s subletting from some doctor who’s gone off to stitch the wounded in the Pacific. The university owns the building, and they fixed it for him.’

  They got off at the seventh floor, and Guttman took out the keys he must have got earlier from the doorman. He opened the door and they stepped into a little hall; Nessheim saw through an open doorway a magnificent view of the downtown skyline. You could even see the Palmolive Building up on North Michigan, and the sweeping beacon on its roof, used to keep aircraft from flying into it. A mile south, the dark bulk of the Loop’s buildings loomed like rectangular cut-outs in a cardboard game.

  Guttman switched a light on in the hallway. ‘Okay, let’s be careful,’ he said. ‘Everything you move, move it back again before you look at anything else.’

  They worked together, going methodically through the rooms, switching a single light on at a time, switching it off before turning on another one. They weren’t looking for Fermi-like hiding places – there simply wasn’t time – but hoping that Kalvin had grown overconfident and careless.

  In the kitchen, they checked the drawers and icebox and cleaning cupboard, which was full of dust. The dining-room sideboard contained the china and silverware which the usual tenant had left behind. The living room held a collection of curios on the built-in bookshelves and there were more bibelots on the mantelpiece, which Guttman examined and shook vigorously to no effect. They lifted the pillows of the sofa and felt under the cushions of the armchairs, but the only thing they discovered was that the room needed a good clean. They inspected the bathroom, and Guttman frowned at the lotion bottle for thinning hair, but otherwise the items they found were unremarkable. The linen closet contained a motley collection of sheets and towels and pillowcases, but nothing else.

  At last they came to the bedroom, which was as gloomy as the rest of the place, but messier – the bed was unmade and there were used socks and underwear strewn on the carpet. The blinds were down, but Kalvin had left a light on here, which cast a yellow glow that made the room seem especially seedy.

  Guttman gently nudged some of the underwear on the floor with his shoe. ‘You have to laugh.’

  ‘Oh, yeah?’ said Nessheim, who had never felt less inclined.

  ‘Here we are – I’ve lost my wife, you’ve lost your gal. And what do we do but sneak into some schmuck’s apartment to see if there’s a microdot in his boxer shorts.’

  There was a suit jacket hung around the arms of a stiff-backed wooden chair, the trousers draped across the seat. Kalvin must have changed before dinner with Fermi. Nessheim carefully patted the pockets of the suit. No wallet, which Kalvin would have kept with him, but in the waist pocket of the jacket he found a small diary, with a stub of pencil shoved between its spine and pages.

  ‘What have you got?’ asked Guttman.

  ‘His diary.’ Nessheim was already paging through it.

  ‘Anything there?’

  ‘Nah. M.L. three o’clock. M.L. five o’clock.’

  ‘Who’s M.L.?’

  Nessheim thought for a minute. ‘It must be “Met Lab”. That’s the code name for the project. And every Wednesday has an E.F. at four o’clock. That would be Fermi.’

  ‘Let me see,’ said Guttman, and Nessheim handed him the diary.

  ‘What’s this M.S.I.?’ he asked after a minute.

  ‘When was that?’

  ‘There are two of them. One back in
August – one at the beginning of November.’

  ‘When in November?’

  ‘The fifth,’ said Guttman.

  Nessheim suddenly understood. ‘The Museum of Science and Industry. That’s where he met with T.A.’

  Guttman handed the diary back to Nessheim and started going through Kalvin’s dresser. Nessheim looked at the recent pages of the diary, which had times marked on a few of the most recent days. He realised these were probably the train times for Kalvin’s trip to New Mexico and back. Groves didn’t want any of the scientists taking airplanes; flying was both too risky and too intimate.

  Nessheim turned more pages, looking at the days ahead, and found nothing but a few more Met Lab meetings and appointments with Fermi. Except for one item, on the very next day; it had been pencilled in and then erased. He could just make it out: ‘5 p.m. Tea House’. He said nothing, but felt his pulse pick up, for he had found the link he had suspected.

  ‘Better put it back,’ said Guttman. He looked at his watch. ‘And we’d better get out of here. Fermi warned me that Kalvin’s a fast eater.’

  ‘Are they having supper at Fermi’s house?’

  ‘Nah. He picked some eating house on Fifty-seventh Street. Funny name – the Tropical Hut.’

  They checked the place to make sure there was no sign of their intrusion, then left and took the elevator down. As they came around the far side of the decorative pool, Nessheim tapped Guttman’s shoulder and gestured for him to wait. They stood there, watching as a couple moved along from the entrance towards the other east tier. Nessheim had his back against a pillar until the couple left, then breathed a sigh of relief as the elevator door closed on the figures of Professor and Mrs Fielding.

  ‘What’s the big deal?’ complained Guttman as they continued towards the entrance.