The Accidental Agent

by Andrew Rosenheim

  ‘Who rigged things to say Stacey had rejoined the CP?’

  ‘That was my idea.’

  ‘Yes, but who did it?’

  ‘I told you, I won’t squeal.’

  ‘You have five seconds to do precisely that.’

  It took Winograd only two seconds to reply, once Nessheim put his index finger through the trigger guard. ‘We had comrades on the Coast add her name to the Party roster, then your colleague – T.A., is it? – slipped it into the Bureau files.’

  How ingenious, thought Nessheim bitterly. The Bureau was used to people trying to conceal their Party memberships; it would never dream that anyone would want to invent a membership. The play had worked; it had been the piece of evidence presented by Guttman that had first persuaded Nessheim that Stacey was working for the Communists.

  ‘What exactly happened in Stacey’s apartment?’ He was struggling to sound matter-of-fact. He knew if he didn’t stay calm he would kill Winograd before learning what he wanted to know.

  Winograd seemed to sense this, for he shrank back against the wall. When he spoke, his voice was thin with fear. ‘When I came to see you that afternoon, the plan was to have the Russians take care of your girlfriend. Then after you and I’d had a few beers, they’d come over and deal with you. It was going to look like a homicide/suicide – you killed your girlfriend when you discovered she was a Communist agent, then went home and in a fit of remorse killed yourself. The Russians would take the gun they used on Stacey, use it on you, wipe their own prints and stick it in your hand.’

  ‘What went wrong?’

  ‘You did – you kept showing up early. I had gone over there to warn them you were coming in an hour or two. That was okay – it just meant they would have to kill you there as well. But then you rang the buzzer.’

  ‘And?’

  ‘Stacey suddenly went bananas. Somehow she got the window open and started to call out to warn you. We were desperate to shut her up and the Russians tried to pull her back in. She was like a wildcat. Finally they managed to get hold of her and then …’ Winograd paused and took a deep breath. ‘They lifted her up and threw her right out the window.’ He slowly lifted his eyes and looked at Nessheim. ‘I didn’t want that to happen. That’s the God’s truth.’

  ‘I thought Communists didn’t believe in God,’ said Nessheim.

  Winograd was silent.

  ‘So what happened then?’

  Winograd swallowed nervously. ‘We couldn’t wait for you – we had to get out of there fast before the cops showed up. Even so it was a close-run thing. We heard you coming out of the stairwell just as we got into the elevator.’

  Winograd was starting to look exhausted. There was a thin line of sweat coming down one side of his face. Nessheim felt sick, wondering whether if he had got to Stacey’s building even earlier things might have been different. But then he would have been killed, too. There was nothing he could have done to save Stacey that day; instead, by screaming she had saved his life.

  He knew Winograd would probably get off scot-free. There would be nothing to link him to Stacey’s death, even if the police got lucky and caught the Russians.

  ‘You’re not planning to stick around in Chicago, are you?’ he asked Winograd.

  ‘What, and not finish Torts? What would Professor Fielding think?’ He laughed weakly, but stopped when he saw Nessheim’s face. ‘Don’t worry, I’ll be gone tomorrow.’

  Good, thought Nessheim. He had had enough: if he listened to much more he would kill Winograd; he was sure of that. He said, ‘I’m going to leave now. For your sake, I hope we don’t meet again.’ He was about to holster the .38 when he thought of something. ‘There’s one thing I don’t understand. Why didn’t the Russians kill Stacey before I got there?’

  ‘They should have. But –’ Winograd stopped. There was an appalled expression on his face, like that of a man who finds he’s stopped two feet from the edge of a cliff.

  ‘Go on,’ Nessheim commanded. Winograd shook his head until Nessheim pointed the gun at him again.

  Winograd wouldn’t look at him now. He said, ‘When I got over there, I expected to find Stacey dead. But instead they had her in … the bedroom. They were very pissed off when I showed up – they had just started to play around with her.’ He glanced anxiously at Nessheim.

  Nessheim wanted to close his eyes, hoping that would get rid of the images in his head. He looked hazily at Winograd, who said, ‘I’d told them not to fool around with her, Jim. But they’re Russians, after all. And you have to admit she was a tasty-looking piece.’

  ‘What did you say?’ Nessheim asked sharply.

  Winograd gave a small involuntary laugh. ‘I said, you have to admit she was a –’

  The sound of the .38 fired in the confined space was deafening. The bullet hit Winograd in the foot of his good leg – or what had been his good leg. He doubled up and fell off the bench, rolling on to his side and clutching his bleeding foot with both hands. He opened his mouth to scream, but the pain was so agonising that he could only whimper.

  Nessheim looked down at the shuddering man on the floor. ‘You’ll live, Winograd, and people will be out here in the morning. I’ll make sure they find you. That’s more than you did for Stacey.’

  40

  HE WALKED ALONG the Midway, on the north side of its middle strip of snow-covered grass, which had been excavated originally for a planned canal running between Jackson Park by the Lake to Washington Park a mile to the west. But it had never been filled, though in winter one section was flooded to let people ice skate. Now a solitary skater was moving in circles around the ice, backlit by the snow.

  At the Quadrangle Club, he retrieved his key and went into the phone booth next to reception. He didn’t bother to disguise his voice when the desk sergeant answered. ‘I was walking near the Jackson Park Lagoon, at the north end. I heard shots. That’s right – gunshots. Somebody was screaming blue murder. You’d better send a car to have a look. No, my name is not important, but I’d get out there if I were you.’

  Upstairs, as he entered his room, he suddenly felt wobbly for the first time; he had been operating like an automaton since Stacey’s death, working non-stop to find out why she had been killed, and who had killed her. There was nothing left to pursue now; he wouldn’t find the Russians, and didn’t think the police would either. Now he felt grief settle on him, like a great weight that he would never be able to lift. Life suddenly seemed unbearable.

  He forced himself to collect his razor and toothbrush, and put them and his suit into the canvas bag he’d brought. He went downstairs to reception, where he left the room key, explaining to the woman with the bob that Mr Guttman would be repossessing the room, then left the club.

  Outside, the night seemed milder now, and the moon had brushed away the clouds and sat bulb-like and low in the sky. He wondered idly how the day had gone with Fermi, and thought of the bizarre contrast between the importance of Fermi’s work and the ignorance of the world at large about it.

  He walked slowly along 57th Street and saw that the stores in the next block were closed; even Stineway at the end of the block had its flashing sign ‘For All Your Drug Needs’ switched off. It would be nice to walk this way without worrying about scientists or spies, though the thought of becoming a full-time law student again seemed imbued by failure. Stacey had seen that he was in retreat, and for a few weeks at least had brought him to life again. His instinct now was to withdraw again, try to bury himself in the complexities of Torts and Constitutional Law, though he could hear her mocking tone if he did this. Whatever he did, a future without Stacey seemed impossible to contemplate.

  Kimbark Avenue was dark, with only a few street lights on, an experiment ordered by the government to accustom the inhabitants to blackouts. Absurd, of course, since no enemy aircraft were going to penetrate this far, but he supposed it was only fair for everyone to share the burden of war. When he got to his building he saw that the lights were out in his apartme
nt, and kicked himself for not calling Guttman first, since Guttman had his key. He must have gone out, perhaps to celebrate with Fermi and the other scientists if all had gone well. Unless he was sitting in the kitchen, out of sight from the front of the building.

  Nessheim went around the corner to check the rear of the apartment. The street was deserted, and when he turned into the alley, he found it almost eerily quiet as well. He opened the back gate and crossed the small yard, and went along the thin walkway to the external flight of wooden stairs at the rear of the building. At the foot of the staircase, he paused since something caught his eye, protruding from the void under the steps. It looked like a shoe. Peering closely he saw that it was a shoe, and when he knelt down the shoe held a foot, which was attached to a leg, and the rest was a man. A policeman, in blue uniform.

  No one would be napping there, not in 10 degrees Fahrenheit, unless they wanted to sleep for ever. Which, he realised as he looked closer, this guy was going to do. Even in the dark Nessheim could see the bullet wound in one temple, a black pencil-sized hole. A trickle of blood was seeping out; the man hadn’t been dead more than a few minutes. The rescinding of Detective Palborg’s orders to arrest Nessheim must not have reached the poor bastard; he must have still been watching the apartment in case Nessheim showed up.

  But if the Russians had murdered the cop, then they were inside the apartment.

  Nessheim put a hand out for the rough railing of the staircase and took his first step. Nothing creaked. Encouraged, he made his way up the one flight. He stayed on the wall side as he stepped on to the landing by the kitchen door, hoping they were expecting him to come in through the front.

  He peeled off his overcoat and dropped it behind him, then tried the handle of the kitchen door. It moved freely, so he knew the Russians were inside. He pushed the door open very slowly, an inch at a time, then took a step up and stood on the kitchen’s soft linoleum floor, waiting for his eyes to adjust to the dark, listening for any noise.

  Then he heard voices, low ones from the front room. Was Guttman there? Nessheim carefully drew the Smith & Wesson out of its holster.

  He took a risk and gradually eased himself through the kitchen doorway into the dining room, knowing that if anyone were there, he was a sitting duck. The room was empty; from down the hall he could hear the voices in the living room. He listened hard, but the words were an inscrutable jumble, spoken now in a high-pitched voice – no, two high-pitched voices. He realised they were speaking in Russian, and his heart sank.

  Then a third, slightly lower voice said, ‘You’ve made a hell of a mistake. I’ve never heard of this guy and you’re in my apartment. So get the hell out.’

  Nessheim wanted to cheer. It was Guttman, at his robust best.

  One of the Russians said, ‘We are not fools. We know whose apartment this is.’

  Then the other spoke, again in Russian; his voice was more urgent now. Nessheim sensed tension building between the two men. Not good.

  He squatted down and carefully unlaced his boots all the way to the last eye, taking care not to move on his heels. Standing up, he wiggled his feet, lifting them one at a time out of the boots.

  He realised that there was a slight increase in light halfway down the corridor, coming from the windows at the front. He crouched down, then started to crawl his way along.

  It took him a full two minutes to go ten feet. He stopped and propped himself on his elbows, his gun ready in his right hand. There was a light switch for the hall about four feet up, which he could just make out in the dark. The Russians were arguing now; when Guttman started to interject, he was told again to shut up, this time forcibly.

  Something moved in the living room ahead of him, and Nessheim could just see that it was one of the Russians, sitting in a chair in the middle of the living room, positioned to face the front door. The other Russian’s voice came from further away. Nessheim figured he must be near the window, covering Guttman.

  ‘If you’re going to kill me, then get a move on,’ Guttman suddenly boomed. ‘I don’t want to die with you pricks babbling away.’

  Then Nessheim heard a movement, and he was up on his feet before he had even made a conscious decision. When he spoke he didn’t shout, hoping it would confuse the gunmen for a crucial second, and said in a clear but quiet voice, ‘Harry, move now.’

  He pushed the light switch button and as the hallway lit up he fired at the Russian he saw by the window. There was a howl of pain. The other Russian swung his gun, and Nessheim was about to fire again when out of nowhere a burly figure was on to the man, encircling his chest with both arms.

  Nessheim hesitated as the pair of men wrestled, the Russian trying to raise his gun as Guttman struggled to keep the man’s arm down. Suddenly, Guttman managed to lift the Russian off his feet, and slammed his head against the wall. The Russian fell to the floor, but though stunned still brought his arm around to shoot at Nessheim. When Nessheim fired again, the Russian’s arm dropped, and blood spread across his gut.

  Nessheim stood still, his gun ready, finding it hard to believe the gunfight was over. The smell of cordite filled the air, and he heard Guttman trying to catch his breath. Nessheim went to the first Russian and collected his gun, then did the same for the second man.

  His adrenalin surging, he made himself sit down. Guttman was kneeling on the floor, still breathing hard.

  Nessheim said, ‘You saved my life, Harry.’

  Guttman’s eyes widened. ‘I was just about to say that you saved my life. Tell you what, let’s leave the thanks stuff and call it quits.’

  41

  THE POLICE HAD taken their statements, the two dead Russians had been removed on gurneys, and the fingerprint men wanted them out of the way. ‘I could use some air,’ said Guttman, and Nessheim nodded. They went out the front entrance, since the back alleyway was still filled with squad cars and policemen, stunned by the murder of their colleague whom Nessheim had found under the back stairs.

  The sky was crystal clear, and you could see the stars and a crescent moon. As they moved along 56th Street Nessheim said, ‘What happened at the Met Lab?’

  ‘It worked, just as Fermi said it would. I got there a few minutes late, but you were right – Anderson told me nothing obvious occurred, just a lot of click click clicks. At first I thought the experiment must have failed – everybody seemed so subdued.’

  ‘They must be exhausted. They’ve been working round the clock.’

  ‘Sure, but it was more than that. I got the feeling they suddenly realised what they’ve done. They’re scared, I think, and worried.’

  ‘I thought the whole point was that if they didn’t do it the Germans would get there first.’

  ‘Sure, but that doesn’t make the enterprise any more attractive. Funny, they brought out a bottle of wine to celebrate, and everybody signed the bottle. But there weren’t any toasts, and they drank in silence. It was kind of creepy, to tell you the truth. Anyway, how about you – are the funeral arrangements all set?’

  ‘I don’t know. I didn’t go to the North Side.’

  Guttman stopped walking. ‘How come? Did you think it would be too much for you?’ He sounded sympathetic.

  ‘No, it wasn’t that. I had something I needed to follow up.’ He could see that this worried Guttman. ‘I found out who was running Kalvin here.’

  ‘You did? Who?’

  ‘A law student named Winograd. He tried to befriend me – and Stacey – and he liked to pretend he wasn’t interested in politics. But he’s a hundred per cent Comintern man.’

  ‘How did you figure this out?’

  ‘There was an entry in Kalvin’s diary that he’d crossed out. For a meeting on an island over in Jackson Park. I think they used to meet in the Whispering Gallery at the museum next door, but the exhibit’s closed. I put two and two together, and for a change the answer wasn’t five.’

  ‘Why didn’t you tell me this last night?’ Guttman sounded aggrieved.

  �
�You had Stagg Field to worry about – you said yourself it took priority.’ It sounded good, but was not the true reason. Nessheim decided to come clean: ‘Plus, I didn’t want you to try and stop me.’

  Guttman shook his head. ‘You drive me nuts sometimes, Nessheim.’

  ‘I bet Tolson says the same about you.’

  Guttman looked at him sourly. ‘Have we got anything we can stick on this Winograd fellow?’

  ‘Not really. It’s pretty depressing, Harry – it turns out we got just about everything wrong. Kalvin wasn’t sent to sabotage the experiment – the Russians want us to build this super-weapon. They just want to know how to build one too.’

  ‘Kalvin’s not going to be able to help them with that now, is he? We found him.’

  ‘Yes, we did. But he’s just the tip of the iceberg. I bet there are going to be a lot of Kalvins on this project.’

  Guttman scratched his head. ‘Well, I hope you’re wrong. If you’re right we’ll just have to do the best we can to find the rest of them. I don’t see an alternative, do you?’ When Nessheim didn’t reply, Guttman asked, ‘Where is Winograd now?’

  ‘I would think Billings Hospital.’ He paused for a second. ‘I’d better level with you, Harry. There may be repercussions.’ He explained what had happened on the Wooded Island, recounting the conversation there, and ending with the fact that he had shot Winograd in the foot. Guttman seemed astonished, then asked why he had done it. Nessheim told the truth about that as well, explaining that he had lost all self-control when Winograd baited him about Stacey. He added, ‘I had a personal agenda. He told me he was directing the two Russians we just killed. Winograd was with them in Stacey’s apartment when –’ He stopped, then made himself continue. ‘When she died.’

  Guttman sighed. ‘To be honest, if I’d been in your shoes I would have shot him too – only I’d have killed him.’

  He started walking again and Nessheim went with him. Guttman said, ‘I doubt there will be any comeback from Winograd. How’s he going to explain himself if he tries to press charges? Kalvin may not crack, but we could throw enough mud in Winograd’s direction to make it widely known he worked for the Soviets. He wouldn’t want that.’