The cop turned his glare on the shadow. “What’d you do to him?”
“Nothing! Officer, I’ve never seen this man before! I was just walking down the street. All’a sudden, he turns around and runs at me screaming.”
“Uh-huh.” The cop glanced at me. I was twitching a little but stayed quiet. He sheathed the club and asked the shadow, “Where you going, pal?”
“On my way to the grocer’s, my wife gave me a list.” He pulled a scrap of paper from his pocket and extended it.
Nice touch, that—always have a good cover story if a tail goes wrong. The cop, a bald man with a wide chin, scanned the list and handed it back.
“How ’bout you, pal, where you going, why’re you yelling?”
I drew myself up and leaned slowly toward the cop, making sure not to get too close. “He’s following me to make sure the broadcasts are still coming through.”
The shadow piped up. “Officer, I got no idea what he’s talking—”
“Shuddup, lemme handle this.”
The shadow shut up, the cop eyed me up and down. “Broadcasts, huh? Who is it this time? The F.B.I., the O.S.S., Hitler?”
I shook my head. “S’the Russians. They’ve got a transmitter in Moscow, see, and—”
“Awright, that’s enough. Lemme see some I.D., pal.”
“I.D.? I don’t carry that, they want to take it from me!”
“Yeah, well, I bet they know who you are at Saint Elizabeths, don’t they?”
“Saint who?” I gave him a blank look.
The cop sighed. “Awright, you get your shopping done,” he said to the shadow. To me he said, “Let’s go for a little ride, pal.”
“What about the transmitter, the broadcasts—aren’t you gonna make them stop?”
“Don’t worry, you can’t hear anything inside the car, it’s got a lead-lined roof.”
“For real?”
“You bet.” He jerked his head toward his prowl car and waited for me to get going, following closely behind.
The shadow waited for us to get a few steps ahead, then continued north on Tenth, rubbing his chin, looking worried. The Russians would blame him for what happened, but I wasn’t out of the woods yet. The shadow would tell them the cop was taking me in, the Russians would follow. For a moment I wondered if I should let the police take me to St. Elizabeths for a chitchat with a shrink—at least I’d be safe from the N.K.V.D. in the nuthouse. But I couldn’t risk being identified as the man who’d run away from the Harbor Patrol Station.
“Where’re we going, Officer?” I asked as we approached the car.
“Don’t worry ’bout that, pal—all you gotta know is, where we’re going, you’re not gonna hear any broadcasts, okay?”
I nodded eagerly. “Yessir.”
He opened the rear driver side door. “Get in there and keep quiet, understand? No squirming, no talking, no nothing—got it?”
“Yessir!” I scrambled in. The cop got in and gave me a long look through the wire screen between the seats before starting the engine.
To get to the closest precinct, I figured the cop would make a right at New York Avenue, which would take us around Mt. Vernon Square, the site of the public library. If I jumped out there, I could bolt to the library’s entrance and run for the stacks before the cop got inside. While he rushed back and forth, wondering where I’d gone, I’d exit through the library’s sorting area, in the rear.
The cop didn’t speak, just kept glancing in his rearview mirror to make sure I was behaving. And I was, keeping still and avoiding eye contact. As he slowed the car to round the Square, I slid to the door, opened it, and jumped out.
“Hey!” the cop shouted—“Ufff!” I grunted. I estimated our speed at only fifteen miles an hour, but that felt plenty fast when my feet hit the pavement. I stumbled and reeled, my arms spinning like a windmill. Luckily I reached the curb before I fell, so my head only hit the grassy strip between the curb and sidewalk. I scrambled to my feet and ran up the steps to the library’s entrance. But the cop was quick, a lot faster than I’d expected—he was already out of the car and racing toward me as I grabbed the door handle. So much for my head start.
I tore across the marble lobby floor as startled patrons gaped.
“Outta the way, goddammit!” the cop yelled. He sounded awful close.
I led him toward the circulation desk. A librarian stared in amazement. I didn’t look over my shoulder, didn’t want to know if he’d drawn his weapon. He wouldn’t shoot me in the library with so many people around—I hoped—but what if he cornered me? I veered toward the periodicals, but those cases couldn’t conceal me, they were slanted to display magazines and you could see through the gaps between the shelves. Had to keep out of corners, open spaces too—not so easy in a library, I realized.
The reference section, next to the periodicals, had higher shelves. I dropped to my knees, dipped my head, crawled as fast as possible. If I reached the far wall, I could run down a narrow aisle, screened by the reference bookcases, to the sorting area. Now I was out of sight, but I discovered that it’s awful hard to crawl quickly, even with the aid of an amphetamine.
I heard the cop shout at patrons to keep back, so he wasn’t far. I reached the end of the shelf, turned the corner—and looked straight at a little girl, her eyes wide. She was about ten feet away. I pressed a forefinger to my lips, then beckoned her to come close. She did, warily, as I stood carefully and pressed my back against a reference bookcase.
“There he is!” someone called out excitedly.
“Where?” the cop demanded.
“No, it’s just a kid,” another voice boomed.
I stayed put and whispered to the girl, “We’re playing hide and seek, can you keep a secret?”
She nodded solemnly. Looked about eight, long black hair carefully braided, wearing a polka dot dress with buckled straps. I smiled and pointed for her to go up the aisle between the shelves. She darted away. For chrissake, don’t shoot—
“He’s here, he’s here!” the girl shouted.
A buzz rose from the gawkers—“There he goes!”—as I raced toward the library’s sorting room and burst through the swinging doors. I seized a cart laden with books, pushed it in front of the entrance, and ran to an exit. I’d just opened the door to the street when I heard a tremendous clatter—the cop upending the cart and tumbling into an avalanche of books. Still running, I went west to Massachusetts Avenue, then slowed to a normal gait, blending in with a crowd waiting for a bus. We were boarded and underway by the time I spotted the cop, limping slightly, coming that way.
I DIDN’T STAY ON THE BUS LONG, DISEMBARKING AT DUPONT CIRCLE TO transfer to a southbound Connecticut Avenue bus. With almost twenty-four hours to go, I’d already had two close shaves. Should have been scared, should have been thinking about digging a deep, deep burrow and hunkering down—but no, all I could think about was how the Russians had found me. Where had I gone wrong? How many Reds, pinkos, and fellow travelers did the N.K.V.D. have on a string? I’d had plenty of brushes with the Russians before, but I’d never imagined they could whistle out so many spotters on a moment’s notice. I got off the bus and started walking south on Seventeenth Street. Thought: Go to the Bureau, ask for Slater, tell him you’re ready to talk. I’d ladle up malarkey, for sure, just enough truth to keep him hungry, stretch it out through the night, then leave in the morning—when Hoover’s boys think they got something hot, they’ll stay on as long as it takes. But that would be beyond stupid, I realized. I’d surrender control to a hostile agency itching to even a score with me.
I turned off Seventeenth onto H Street. Had to keep moving, had to circulate the streets this way, that way, never staying on the same street or avenue for more than three blocks. Still a beautiful day, the sky an impressionist painting, sun glinting on the Washington Monument, tulips dabbing the street sides yellow, red, orange.
Gotta be a place in this city where the Reds aren’t, so think, Ellis, think! Took me four miles,
at least ninety-nine corners and turns, and a lot of random pauses to check shop window reflections for a tail, but finally I came up with that place—and I beelined for it.
CHAPTER 12
WHAT PASSED FOR A HOBO JUNGLE IN D.C. LAY NORTH OF UNION STATION, where the Baltimore & Ohio tracks diverged. Warehouses, repair shops, and vacant lots occupied the flat land between the tracks. Before the war, there was a sprawling junkyard here, but years of scrap drives had stripped it of all usable metal, leaving only the rusted hulks of Olds, Studebakers, and Buicks too far gone to salvage. Vags had colonized the wrecks, using the car bodies as shelters. They’d Hoovered them but good, adding on shanties cobbled together from boards and tar paper. The settlement was much smaller than the homeless settlements that had sprung up across the country during the Depression, but the capital’s squat had a permanent look to it, as if these men were here to stay. Maybe they were, too—Dougie MacArthur wasn’t around to burn them out like he had the Bonus Army.
Which made my entrance tricky. A man couldn’t just stroll into a hobo jungle, couldn’t just pass around a bottle of sneaky pete and expect a warm welcome. For whatever reasons, these men had dodged a uniform or steady work at a time when sixteen million men were in the service and the nation had a negative unemployment rate. That put these bums in an awful elite club, one harder to join than the Cosmos Club. They hated outsiders, they could spot a foreigner a mile away. No way I could pass muster, not in my clothes. I could rub grease on my cuffs and roll my trousers in dirt, but a one-eyed bindlestiff would see fresh paint. Some of these joes had Coolidge-vintage grime, they’d been in the life since I was a squirt. My haircut was barbershop, my shoes clean. If I was going to check in, I had to peddle a damned fine tale.
Still flying on the jazzbo’s pill, I reprised my cover identity, Ted Barston, from the case that had landed me in this vat of hot water. Changed the dates, left out the dope habit, and spun a yarn about “Ted” jumping the brig in Norfolk. The vags loved it—they’d all had run-ins with the Man. I clinched my entrance with my account of how I’d skimmed the church offering. A spindly old-timer named Juke accompanied me to the nearest liquor store, at the end of Third Street, and I blew the Congregationalists’ cash on rotgut for all. We spent the rest of the day and much of the night drinking and telling stories of the life (mostly I sipped and listened). As the last vag awake staggered off to his ’28 Packard for shut-eye, I rubbed my raw, red eyes and slipped away in the dewy air to make my break past the N.K.V.D. into the Navy Building.
WHAT I DID WAS, I FELL IN WITH A GAGGLE OF STENOS, TYPISTS, AND clerks who arrived on the same bus every morning; they boarded together in a house off Rhode Island Avenue. We called them the Andrews Sisters—some wag had overheard one girl trilling a song line once when they were leaving the Navy Building. One of them, Brenda, had been sweet on me and we’d gone on a date or two, but she liked movies and magazines, I liked books; she went for Kenton and Christy, I went for bebop.
“No baby, nobody but you …” I crooned, stepping out of the crowd waiting for the bus she’d just left.
Brenda wheeled around. Her favorite, that Gene Roland number.
“Good God, is that you, Ellis?”
“Mi’lady.” I took a theatrical bow. The Sisters stared.
“D’hell happened to you?” Brenda asked.
“Would you believe I spent the night in a hobo jungle?”
“Yeah!” she and a Sister exclaimed in unison.
“I think he’s drunk,” another whispered.
“Nope. Sober as a judge, just had to sip now and then to keep up my cover.”
“Cover, right.” Brenda rolled her eyes. My work on the countersubversion desk had never impressed her. Just a big game for boys, she’d remarked on our first date.
“Listen, will you gals do me a favor and walk me in?”
“For real?”
“We’re not gonna get shot, are we?” someone giggled. Nervously.
“Oh no, I’m just doing this to win a bet.”
“Gawd,” Brenda said, but she held out an arm, and I hooked her elbow. She wore a jade-green dress with a braided belt and a rounded collar. A soft burgundy felt hat draped her forehead, dangling to her plucked eyebrows—always a dish, Brenda. On my other arm, a Sister I didn’t know by name, a gal with a toothy smile. We crossed Constitution Avenue and walked to the main entrance as I forced myself not to look anywhere but straight ahead. With the Sisters around me, I’d make it—I hoped.
We got in without trouble, I thanked the Sisters, but I wasn’t safe, not yet. Figured the N.K.V.D. or its minions were watching, maybe they had orders to nab me if they could, maybe they just wanted to know I was in the building. Maybe they had someone inside, a Red or a ringer, didn’t matter—if he knew his work, he could do his job quietly, quickly, bloodlessly. I’d have to hit the head sometime, a garrote would only take a minute or two, an ice pick even less time. Easy, Ellis, easy. Told myself it was the drug finally wearing off, leaving me frazzled, fried, twitchy. Wide awake, sure—but paranoid as hell, a step away from becoming the loon I’d played to shake my shadow the day before.
Donniker. Had the old man beat me to the Navy Building? I sure hoped so—if he was still on the lam, I had a lot of explaining to do and a hell of a lot more worrying to do. I’d already failed to protect Kenny Newhurst from being hurt; what if Donniker became a victim too?
To my immense relief, Donniker was in his ground-floor workshop, sorting through a box of electrical clips as if nothing unusual had happened.
“Jesus Christ, you look like shit,” he greeted me.
“Gee, thanks. When did you get in?”
“Same as always, ten after seven.”
I didn’t ask why ten after seven was his usual arrival time. He sure didn’t look like he’d had a stressful night. Freshly shaved, hair combed, clean clothes, shop apron cinched tight around his skinny waist.
“Any troubles?” I asked.
“Nope. Stayed with a pal I know through ham radio.”
“What’d you tell him?”
“Besides that little green men were chasing me? D’hell’s it matter what I told him?”
“Sorry, it’s just that—well, my weekend wasn’t so quiet.”
“They found you?”
“Almost. I shook ’em, but I had to spend the night in the hobo jungle.”
“Huh. That would account for your ripe smell.”
I managed a grin. “Maybe you can loan me your cologne?”
He snorted an appreciative laugh, but his gaze was wary and unsettling. Had I overreacted? Were the Russians not interested in Donniker? Maybe their interrogation of Kenny had given them all they needed to know: I had lied, and they needed to pick me up pronto.
“We better go see Commander Paslett now,” I said. “He’s gotta know what’s happening.”
“Which is what we shoulda done Saturday night,” Donniker complained. “Taking off like a coupla fugitives—what kinda nonsense is that? They’re not after me, and I’m starting to wonder if they’re really all that hot to talk to you.”
I glared at him, remembering Kenny’s pale face, his gasping breath, his wound.
“They shot a kid, Donniker! For no reason! They beat him to find out about you and me, and we’re supposed to just sit around and hope they don’t come after us?!”
“All right, simmer down.” He dropped the clip he was holding and took off his apron.
COMMANDER PASLETT HAD A SECOND-FLOOR OFFICE OVERLOOKING THE Reflecting Pool on the Mall. If not for the other tempos on the other side of the pool, it was a postcard view. Not that Paslett spent much time window gazing. He was blunt, he was driven, even obsessive, especially when it came to commies. A lot of brass played politics, they collected and traded favors like rare stamps; they wheedled, connived, and wormed their way up. Not Paslett. He’d earned his desk, he delivered, he had the O.N.I. director’s full faith and credit; and I was lucky to serve under him. And boy, did I need a dose of that
good fortune today.
I knocked, we entered at his command. Paslett was at the filing cabinet holding his meticulously curated domestic intelligence files. He was as proud of those files as Mellon had been of his art collection. He turned to look at us.
“Hello, Donniker.”
“Commander.”
Paslett scowled at me. “Why aren’t you in uniform?”
“Because the Russians are taking it to the cleaners for me, sir.”
“What the hell does that mean?”
“Saturday after duty, sir, I picked up an N.K.V.D. shadow.”
A look of alarm. He strode to his desk and sat, motioned for us to sit down.
“Just curious?” he asked. Foreign intelligence tails weren’t unusual, sometimes the Russians liked to let us know they were around, hoping we’d waste time trying to lose shadows. Feints, diversions.
“Nosir. What it feels like, they wanna talk to me awful bad. And maybe Donniker too.”
Paslett bit his lower lip and lit up a Chesterfield. Grateful he’d taken out his cigarettes, I fired up too, hoping the commander didn’t notice the tremble in my hands.
“About Himmel,” he said. A statement, not a question. Henry Himmel, the missing Russian agent everyone wanted.
“Yessir, that’s gotta be it.”
“How do they know you saw Himmel?”
I took a deep breath, exhaled smoke. “There was a kid in the kitchen, sir, at the Automat, when we”—I ticked my head at Donniker—“set up the listening rig. The Russians found the kid.”
“How do you know that?”
“After duty Saturday, sir, I went to the Automat to talk to the kid.”
“Why?”
I phrased my reply carefully. “With my spec coming to an end, sir, I’ve been thinking a lot about what happened at the Automat. Who Himmel met with, why he disappeared, if he’s gonna turn—”
“Just tell me what happened, Voigt.”
“Yessir. So the boy, Kenny’s his name, Kenny Newhurst, he didn’t show up for his shift that day. So I called the Horn and Hardart office and got his address and went to see his mother.”
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