Rip the Angels from Heaven

by David Krugler

  “How d’hell am I gonna fix your engine if I’m not on the boat?”

  “Anyone come aboard, we got this guy—what did Bender say he looked like?”

  “Tall, black hair,” the unhappy cop said. “Didn’t say anything about glasses.” Now both of them were studying me.

  “Jesus, d’same question your pals asked me—‘anyone come aboard?’”

  “Our pals?”

  “You’re all Harbor Patrol, aren’t you? They came flying aboard, ass over tea kettle, tearing that boat apart, asking me over and over, ‘Sure you haven’t seen this guy, you sure’—hell, I’m not blind or deaf! Nobody was on that boat but me.”

  I thought for sure the coin-flipping cop was going to tell me to take my cap off, but to my great relief his partner had a different idea.

  “You said you’re from the Central Garage?”

  “Yeah, so what—I can fix a boat engine the same as a—”

  “Where’s that located?”

  I knew the answer—some of my Navy cases had required help from the city government—but I had to stay in character.

  “What, you don’t think I know where I work?”

  “Where is it?” he persisted, his voice low but firm.

  “Why’re you busting my balls—the garage’s in the old Ford Building on Pennsylvania, goddammit!” If this didn’t clinch it, my goose was cooked—someone who had seen me inside the Harbor Patrol Station was bound to come out any minute.

  The unhappy cop eyed me over again, his gaze lingering on the toolbox I was holding tight. Please, please don’t let him recognize it!

  “Awright, okay, simmer down, we got an escaped prisoner, we gotta be careful.”

  I shrugged. “I’m just a grease monkey, whadda I know?”

  “We better get going,” his partner said.

  “Yeah, I know,” he sighed. “You need to see Ramsay, you’re gonna hafta wait—he’s out in a car looking for this guy.”

  “That’s okay, his engine’s fixed, he doesn’t need to see me.”

  They stepped aside so I could pass; I checked the urge to say good luck. Frank Morgan was kind of a self-absorbed guy, plus he was in an awful hurry to be someplace else.

  CHAPTER 7

  FILBERT DONNIKER LIVED EAST OF UNION STATION, IN A NARROW, BRICK two-story close to the convent of the Little Sisters of the Poor. I had no choice but to keep wearing the dirty jumper, since my clothes were still soaking wet. Which meant I needed to hang onto the toolbox. But looking like a grimy mechanic was good cover, no one gave me more than a passing glance. Once clear of the Harbor Patrol Station, I had to take two buses to get to Donniker’s. I’d fooled two cops, but I might not be so fortunate with an alert taxi driver who’d received an A.P.B. from the police.

  The ride seemed to take forever, and I resisted looking at my Harvel 1302 (thankfully waterproof) to see the time—I’d get there when I got there. My hope was, Shovel-face and his partner were first looking high and low for me. Only when I didn’t turn up would they attempt to learn who the old man was. I hoped. Worrying about Kenny Newhurst further agitated me. Ramsay, the cop who’d given him first aid, had seemed optimistic about the boy’s chances, but maybe he’d been putting on a front, maybe he hadn’t wanted to admit in the presence of civilians the boy was going to die. Donniker’s gotta have a phone, we’ll call the hospital and ask, I told myself. If Donniker was home, if he was safe.

  I disembarked at Union Station, in front of the Columbus Fountain, and hurried to Second Street. My arm ached from carrying the toolbox, the rubber boots were blistering my feet. I thundered up Donniker’s steps and pounded on the door before a terrifying thought hit me: What if the Russians are already here?

  The door eased open, and to my enormous relief, Donniker scowled at me. He was of an indeterminate age, old, but how old, no one was sure—he might have been fifty-six or eighty-two. His knuckles were knobby, but his hands were agile and quick; he had a full head of hair that had settled on a steel-gray hue; his gaunt frame belied strength and stamina.

  “Voigt! D’hell you dressed like that?”

  “They shot the kid,” I said bluntly.

  “Who shot who?”

  “Kenny, his name is Kenny Newhurst, the kitchen boy at the Automat, the one who let us in that night we used your listening rig. Two N.K.V.D. goons shot him before I could stop them.”

  “Jesus Christ. You better come in.”

  I followed him into a parlor that looked like a Victorian museum taken over by a radio repair shop. Atop a walnut credenza, the shells of Admiral, R.C.A., and Monarch sets surrounded a tarnished silver tea set. Vacuum tubes brimmed from cups and bowls in a glass china hutch. Brightly colored wires—green, yellow, orange, red—festooned a coat rack with carved hooks; metal antennae were stacked atop a dusty Victrola. All of the curtains were pulled tight, the overhead light dim. We didn’t sit.

  “What happened?”

  “The Russians found him.”

  “What Russians?”

  “The fella we set up on back in May, his name is Henry Himmel—he works for the Russians. That undercover work I was doing, that was to watch Himmel.”

  “Who was the joe this Himmel was meeting with?”

  “Some kinda scientist. He passed on something awful important to Himmel.”

  “Spies.” He spit the word out like a sour grape. “Why’d they go after the kid?”

  “Himmel went missing that night, with whatever that scientist gave him. The Russians wanna find him real bad. So they’re retracing his every step, that led them to the boy. I went to check on him today but he never showed up for work.”

  “And they shot him, just like that? Where?”

  “Empty factory down by the docks. They had Kenny tied to a chair. Had already beaten him up pretty bad.”

  “If you could see ’em, how come you—”

  “I was up on the roof, all by myself! Looking through a vent. Got down as fast as I could, but the door was locked, and when I pounded, they shot at me through the door, and then, then …” I didn’t finish, my legs shaky, stomach queasy.

  “Jesus, Voigt, you better sit down.” Filbert strode over and took me by the elbow, guided me to a chair, took the toolbox from my hand, and set it down.

  “Can I—could you get me a glass of water?” I asked in a hoarse whisper.

  “Water, hell.” He went over to a bar cart and lifted a liquor bottle out of a snarl of wires and clips, like a magician lifting a rabbit from a top hat. Two glasses also appeared; he poured generously. “Drink this.”

  I took a long draught. Whiskey, but unlike any I’d ever had, caramel-colored, with an earthy scent and a smoky taste. It burned my throat, but I immediately felt better.

  “What were you doing there alone?” Filbert asked.

  “Looking for the kid, I told you.”

  “But if you thought the Russians had him, how come you didn’t get Daley or somebody—”

  “You don’t think I’m not asking myself that!” I shouted. “I shoulda been looking for him a long time ago. All I was gonna do today, I was just gonna talk to Kenny nice and easy, find out if anyone had been asking questions about that night, but when I found out he was missing, I had—I mean, what the hell was I s’posed to do, Donniker? If I went to the Navy Building, how much time was that gonna take?”

  “Okay, okay, take it easy—here, take another drink.” He poured a belt, I knocked it back.

  Filbert watched me as I took a deep, slow breath.

  “Is he dead?” he asked quietly.

  “No, God no—your phone, where’s your phone?” I jumped out of the chair, spilling my drink all over my jumper and the carpet.

  “Hey, hey!”

  “Sorry, sorry, but we gotta call the hospital to see if he’s gonna pull through! Where’s your phone?”

  “Hold your horses.” Donniker walked to an end table and lifted a black Bakelite from behind a stack of newspapers.

  I raced over, took the set, dial
ed zero, told the operator to ring Providence Hospital. It was the closest emergency room to the Harbor Patrol Station; Kenny had to be there.

  Donniker’s expression—pursed lips, tilted head, intense gaze—demanded an explanation, answers to the questions he hadn’t yet asked. How had I known where the Russians would take the boy—hell, how did I even know they were Russian? Where were they now? How had I gotten the boy to a hospital, how did I end up dressed in a police mechanic’s jumper?

  “So what this is,” I began, dipping my chin at my outfit, “I carried the boy to the M.P.D. Harbor Patrol, it’s only a few blocks from—”

  “What about the Russians?” Donniker interrupted.

  “They ran out the back, I had to bust the window to get—” I broke off as the Providence switchboard came on the line. “Hello, yes, my son, his name is Kenny Newhurst, he’s missing, I’m his father, Lyle, and I’m calling all the city hospitals, his mother and I are worried he might have been in an accident, please help us, can you check to see if he’s been admitted to the emergency room today?”

  The switchboard operator was familiar with frantic calls. She calmly told me to repeat my name and my son’s and to describe him. After I finished, she told me to wait. With the headpiece clutched to my ear, I started to tell Donniker what had happened at the Harbor Patrol but again had to stop.

  “This is Doctor Tennant, with whom am I speaking?” a weary but authoritative male voice said.

  “Lyle, Lyle Newhurst—I’m trying to find my son Kenny, he’s been missing—”

  “What’s your address, please?”

  “134 Randolph Place, Northwest.”

  “Could you describe your son?”

  I rushed through a description of Kenny: average height, husky build, acne.

  “Okay, Mister Newhurst, I can’t tell you much over the phone, but I can confirm your son is here at Providence and he’s been hurt. How soon can you get here?”

  “Oh my God, what happened—is he, will he be all right? What happened?”

  “He’s suffered a serious injury but we’ve stabilized his condition. It’s crucial you get here as soon as possible, do you understand, Mister Newhurst?”

  “Yes, yes, we’ll be there right away!” I hung up. The real Lyle Newhurst would have stayed on the line, pressing the doctor for more answers, but I had another call to make.

  Georgette answered on the first ring. “Kenny?!”

  “Missus Newhurst, this is William Brady. Kenny’s at Providence Hospital. He’s been hurt, but the doctors have stabilized his condition. You and your husband need to get there as soon as possible, Providence Hospital.” I hung up, cringing at her cry of despair I’d just cut off.

  Donniker silently took the phone from my hands and returned it to the table.

  “Voigt, what the hell is going on?”

  I didn’t respond. He’s gonna be all right, he’s gonna recover! For the first moment since I’d learned Kenny was missing, I felt like I had the situation under control, that this mess, this unholy snafu could be untangled, that everything would—

  —“d’hell is going on!” Donniker yelled.

  I snapped out of my reverie and looked at him.

  “What’s going on is, they’re coming after us, the Russians who shot the kid. That’s why they snatched the kid and knocked him around, to find out what he knows. Which means they got descriptions of you and me, and they know we’re O.N.I.” I didn’t tell Donniker I’d let the Russians interrogate me the night before—he didn’t need to know, and I didn’t want to complicate our next steps.

  “Jesus H. Christ. What does Paslett wanna do?”

  “Don’t know, haven’t talked to him yet.”

  He stared at me in disbelief.

  “Donniker, it’s not gonna take those Reds long to figure out your name and where you live. Me either.”

  “Call Paslett now.” He pointed at the telephone.

  “And tell him what, to send a coupla provost guards over from the Yard?”

  “Better make it three.”

  I picked up the receiver, held it out. “Say I get ahold’a Paslett this minute, say he calls the duty officer. He’s gotta type up orders, they gotta get signed, they gotta get delivered to the Yard, they gotta get signed there, on and on. Gonna be two hours at least before those guards arrive.”

  “I can stay safe for two hours, Voigt.”

  “I don’t know we got two hours.”

  “M’not leaving my home,” shaking his head, taking a long swig of his whiskey.

  “Just til Monday, Donniker. Monday bright and early, we’ll meet at the Navy Building and see what Paslett wants to do.”

  “Fine, let’s go there now.”

  “We can’t.” Leaving it at that.

  He studied me silently, clutching his glass. Finally he said, “They knew it was you, trying to get in to save the boy.”

  “Yeah.” Shovel-face and his partner hadn’t seen me, but my beat cop act couldn’t have fooled them, not for a moment. While I was saving Kenny’s life and escaping the police, Shovel-face undoubtedly had made some calls. He’d told staff at the Soviet embassy to find out who Donniker was. He’d told his superiors that he was on his way to my flat to get me—the fact that I was a lieutenant in the U.S. Navy wasn’t going to protect me. Meanwhile he’d have N.K.V.D. agents watch the Navy Building—if Donniker and I tried to sneak in, they’d nail us before we got close to any of the doors. The building, one of the awful tempos put up during the last world war, straddled the Mall, offering observers great sight lines on all entrances. They’d sweep us up before we even got close.

  “Goddammit, Voigt, what have you gotten us into?” He finished off his whiskey and glared at me.

  “Nothing I can’t get us out of, if you get gone til Monday.”

  “What’s gonna be different about Monday?”

  “We come in with the morning shift, both of us—blend in with the stream. Russians won’t risk that kinda commotion, hitting a big group like that.”

  “You sure about that?”

  “No. But it’s better odds than we got right now.”

  “Jesus H. Christ, I’m too old for this horseshit, you know that, Voigt?” He proceeded to drub me but good, a profanity-laced review of my failings as a field agent. I didn’t argue, didn’t interrupt—how could I possibly disagree, after what I had allowed to happen to Kenny Newhurst? He finished with a question: “Where are you gonna go?”

  “I got a place in mind.” I didn’t elaborate, he didn’t press. Better if we didn’t know where each of us went—life insurance for each other.

  “Just til Monday, huh?”

  “Right. Get yourself into the building first thing in the morning, we’ll see what Paslett wants to do.” I couldn’t promise anything more. “How soon can you clear out?”

  “Twenty minutes tops.”

  I checked my watch: 7:27. “The Russians gotta be at my flat by now, watching to see if I show. It’s gonna take their embassy a little while longer to come up with your name, so you’ll be long gone by the time they get here.”

  He pointed a finger at me. “If they mess up anything, you’re paying!”

  “They’re not gonna toss your place, Donniker.” Though I wasn’t so sure. The Russians might well take both our places apart. But I couldn’t think about that until I figured out how I was going to keep clear of the Russians for the rest of the weekend. “I’ll see you safe and sound Monday, okay?” I added.

  “Yeah, sure,” he grumbled, looking around the parlor, as if he was considering packing up the whole mess and taking it with him.

  “Listen, Donniker, you think maybe I can borrow a change of clothes?”

  He looked me up and down. He was shorter than me, and thinner. “They ain’t gonna fit.”

  “I’ll make it work.”

  “You ever gonna tell me how you ended up in that getup?”

  “Sure, over a bottle of that kinda whiskey, my treat,” gesturing at the liquor he’d
served us.

  He snorted derisively. “You wouldn’t even know where to look for it.”

  “Then I’ll spring for martinis.”

  He ignored me and went upstairs. I opened up the toolbox and took out the sodden mess that had been the contents of my pockets: wallet (holding six dollars, my O.N.I. identification card, a District of Columbia Public Library card, a coupon for ten percent off my next purchase of books at Lowdermilk & Co.); the keys to my basement flat on Swann Street; dimes, nickels, and pennies totaling sixty-three cents; a plastic comb; and a penknife. Usually I carried a fat money clip, but I’d forgotten to grab it that afternoon after changing clothes. But I was a seasoned naval intelligence officer—if I couldn’t stretch $6.63 for thirty-six hours, then I didn’t deserve my commission. At least cigarettes only cost eighteen cents a packet—I’d be able to keep smoking. I’d ditch my wet clothes and the toolbox after I left.

  Donniker returned with brown trousers, blue dress shirt, shorts, socks, and a pair of battered wingtips.

  “What size shoes you wear?”

  “Twelve.”

  “These are ten and a halfs.”

  “Better than these boots.”

  He grunted, dropped the clothes on the couch. He poured himself a healthy drink while I changed. The pants were tight and too short, the shirtsleeves weren’t long enough, but it was a better outfit than the jumper.

  “You want anything else, Voigt, maybe a cup’a cocoa and a peanut butter and jelly sandwich?” he said sarcastically as I sat and pried my feet into the shoes. By tying the laces loosely, I could just fit into the wingtips.

  I looked up. “Would a glass’a milk and tuna salad be too much trouble?”

  Neither of us laughed. I stood and picked up the toolbox.

  “Listen, Donniker,” I began, but he held up a hand.

  “Save it, Voigt. We both know you owe me, but we’ll settle up when this is over.”

  I nodded. “All right.” I turned to leave. “Stay safe, you old goat,” I said without looking over my shoulder. Thought I heard a chuckle, wasn’t sure.

  “You too, Voigt.”

  CHAPTER 8

  IGOT A PLACE IN MIND. SO I’D TOLD DONNIKER. TOO BAD IT WASN’T TRUE. All my usual haunts and hangouts were verboten, for sure. Calling on friends or girlfriends endangered their lives. Not that I had any close friends or gals anyway. Bunk in a flophouse? Nix—once the Russians figured out I wasn’t coming home, they’d think of the same moves. They’d tour the Seventh Street fleabags, tossing dollar bills to greedy front deskmen until they found me. Stay up until Monday morning, fueled by coffee and bennies? Maybe. For now, I needed to get to a part of the District I didn’t frequent, some place that wasn’t part of my routine for the O.N.I. or my personal life in any way, shape, or form. Downtown, the public library, the Mall—all off-limits. Union Station was a one-way suicide ticket. There was a Negro neighborhood east of where I lived, but a wandering white man would stick out. A realization tightened my stomach as I walked away from Donniker’s house: from my time undercover, I knew the N.K.V.D. had a stable of stooges throughout the District, dues-paying members of the Communist Party of the U.S.A. as well as parlor pinks and fellow travelers. Look at how easily the Russians had put Mara and her pretend boyfriend into the field. If all these Reds and wannabes went on the look-see, my odds of staying free would get a lot longer.