“What was it?”
“He said, ‘To diffuse the Uranium-235, use uranium hexafluoride and a metal filter with submicroscopic perforations. Do not use a mass spectrometer.’”
Without missing a beat, my interrogator repeated, word-for-word, what I’d just said. “Correct?” he asked.
“Yes.”
“Then what?”
Now I held back. That night at the Automat, Himmel had demanded to know how the scientist had made his discovery, and the man had taunted him. What, a Ph.D. in physics from Yale at age twenty-two isn’t sufficient bond? The Russians and their American friend must never know I had this vital piece of identifying information. So I said, “He told Himmel that, quote, our visitor from afar, unquote, had helped them figure out what he’d just said about the uranium.” True.
“Did he or Himmel use this so-called visitor’s name?”
“No.” True.
“Do you know who he is?”
“Yes. Gerhard Trechten. A physics professor, a Nazi, went on the lam, we picked him up in the Canary Islands and brought him to the States, to New Mexico.” Which my interrogator already knew. Because Logan Skerrill, the officer whose death I’d investigated, had been part of that mission to fetch Trechten, and he’d told all this to his Red handlers.
“What else?”
“The scientist said something like, your physicists will know what to do with this, as long as you remember what I just told you.”
“With what—did he give Himmel something?”
“I don’t know. Remember, I couldn’t see them. If he did hand something over—”
He interrupted. “Your technician, Filbert Donniker, he was close to their table, to position the microphone, correct?”
“Yes.”
“What did he see?”
“I don’t know, he didn’t tell me if there was an exchange.”
A long pause. “You heard an apparent reference to a delivery, and yet you didn’t ask him what he saw afterward.” His tone was low and ominous.
“No, we didn’t have a chance to speak, I had to get Donniker outta there and on his way so I could try to follow Himmel.” True! But I had a sinking feeling the truth was no longer helping me.
“That’s difficult to believe, Lieutenant.”
“It’s what happened. I didn’t ask Donniker what he saw.”
He spoke, but not to me. Rapid Russian, to a figure behind me. I checked the urge to speak—pleading would only make me sound like I was hiding something. Which I sure as hell was. I’d followed Himmel, and how I was going to keep that secret, I had no idea. Especially after the first electrical shock hit me.
They gave it to me on the nape of my neck. Went down my spine, through my innards, through my legs, to my toes, and right through the floor to the earth’s core. I’d heard, somewhere along the line, that electricity delivers pain like you’ve never felt before. True. No blow, no cut, no burn could match the fire that coursed through my nerves, that turned my muscles to jelly and my brain into a buzzing beehive, that rattled the fillings in my teeth, that blurred my vision. The second shock lasted an eon, I was living in geological time. If you can call what I felt living.
Somewhere beyond the Milky Way, the voice of God said “Stop,” and the monster left my neck, leaving me quivering, moaning, crying, and soaked in my own piss.
“Again, Lieutenant. What did Filbert Donniker see?”
The vampire swept down and shook me like a rag doll. When the command to stop came, sometime after the passage of the Ice Age, I heard a chortle, from a familiar voice: Shovel-face was wielding the prod.
“Answer promptly, Lieutenant. You’re flat broke, promptness is the only way you can buy reprieve.”
Flash: Just tell ’em Donniker saw an envelope, you need time, gotta figure out how to really lie. A voice I’d never heard before, that of a broken little boy, whispered through my lips—bleeding, because I’d gnashed them—“Okay, okay, he saw the scientist pass over an envelope.”
“Good. Now, you might not believe me, but I find this type of coercion distasteful. So your continued compliance will make the situation better for all of us.”
I took that to mean that more shocks would cause me to shit myself, chew off my tongue—or worse. And that he didn’t like messes.
My interrogator continued. “I have several problems with your account of what happened next, Lieutenant. Specifically, what you told my colleagues about your little stroll with Himmel.”
Why’s he calling these goons ‘colleagues’? I managed to wonder. Was he a professor? Highly educated, for sure. “Want me to go over it again?” I croaked.
“No. Just answer my questions.”
I nodded. At least, my head lolled on the throbbing stump that had replaced my neck.
“First, why would Himmel want to talk to you about the F.B.I.?”
“Because they’d questioned me, he wanted to know what—”
“Stop. You had ample time to tell Himmel about your interview by the F.B.I. after it occurred. You were undercover, working as his courier—”
“You stop!” My outburst surprised everyone, including me. “All the time I was at the clipping service, I was posing as Ted Barston, a discharged commie shipfitter second class who’d just got outta the brig. I kept that cover always, even when Himmel and I were alone. You know that’s good tradecraft, you know Himmel would follow it too.” True.
I braced for a punishing shock—I could hear Shovel-face shuffle closer, no doubt he was drooling in anticipation—but it never came. Instead:
“I see your point. All right, tell me what you and Himmel talked about.”
“I told him the Bureau knew he was running spies outta the clipping service. Told him they knew I was his courier.”
“What else?”
“That’s all.” At least, that’s all I’d told the Russians during my interrogation at the factory.
“I don’t believe you.”
“Okay, I also told him the Bureau didn’t know I was O.N.I.”
“What else?”
“Nothing.” I tried to brace myself, but my muscles had turned to flabby flesh, my bones had dissolved, the rope that bound me to the chair had taken the place of my spine. I heard Shovel-face approach. In spite of myself I cried out.
This shock knocked me out. No reprieve, though—the pain brought me back awfully quick.
“I’ll ask just once more, Lieutenant: What else did Himmel say?”
“Nothing. Why would he tell me anything?”
“What happened to him, where is he?”
What had I told Paslett? I convince the Reds that Himmel’s contact killed him, killed Himmel, and took the package back. Had I really said that, had I really believed I could sell this story to the Russians? Sure—because in Paslett’s office I wasn’t being electrocuted. No way I could pull off that lie now. They’d keep shocking me, demanding evidence. Had we found a body, how had Himmel been killed? And they’d want to know why I hadn’t mentioned this during my first interrogation, back at the factory. I had to improvise:
“He took a powder, he’s scared, he’s hiding.”
“Why do you think he’s on the run?”
“Because he likes life in our bountiful nation. He likes Pepsi, peanut butter, and scotch whiskey. Hell, he just plain likes life.”
The Professor laughed derisively. Not good enough …
“Look, we know what’s happening to the Reds who get long in the tooth. Himmel showed all the signs of a man who wants to keep his teeth.”
Our knowledge that the N.K.V.D. was on a tear, knocking off the most veteran Russian operatives in D.C. and up and down the Eastern seaboard, was a closely guarded secret, and I hoped by sharing it I was proving my trustworthiness.
But that revelation didn’t work either. The Professor said, “Maybe those who aren’t so long in the tooth, either, what do you think, Lieutenant?” His voice—calm, precise, level—hadn’t changed, but there was an ominous undert
one in the question.
“You’ve already rattled me good, in case you didn’t notice.” Begging myself not to beg, not to plead for a second chance. Somewhere out beyond the moon, I could see the logic behind that decision—if I begged for my life by telling them I had orders for New Mexico, they’d know it was a setup—but right then and there, every remaining nerve in my body was twitching for me to beg. But I didn’t, I said:
“Go ahead and get it over with, why don’t you? Fuck you all, just do me straight, you owe me that, goddammit.” I’d managed to say what I had to say, but I couldn’t hold back the tears, which streamed down my face. Shovel-face lurched up behind me. Was he gripping the same gun he’d shot Kenny Newhurst with? Poetic justice, wasn’t it, if it was the same gun …
“Hold it,” the Professor intoned.
CHAPTER 18
WHAT ARE YOU HIDING?” THE PROFESSOR ASKED.
“Does it look like I got anything left to hide, you bastard?” Teeth gritted, breathing shallow, bowels loose, whole body trembling. Would I hear the report, would that be the last sound I ever heard? Or just my pulse pounding in my temple?
“Perhaps you do, Lieutenant, you’ve proven quite resourceful so far.”
Was this my opening, my way out of the crevasse? Or must I burrow deeper into the dark? The only thing I knew for sure was this: I couldn’t take another electrical shock, couldn’t endure even seconds more of that pain.
I said, “Maybe I just don’t want to tell you how short-sighted you’re being.”
“Oh, I think we can handle a little criticism now and then.”
“Good, then handle this: Himmel’s gone, and if he wants to save his skin, he’s already destroyed whatever he got at the Automat. If you want the recipe featuring Uranium-235 molecules, you need another visit from your friend in New Mexico.”
“A child could tell us that, Lieutenant.”
“Could a child get you close to your friend, on that protected base in New Mexico?” Trying to say it calmly, trying not to think about how my life was riding on the Professor’s answer.
Long pause. Somehow, I willed myself to stop trembling.
“You’re being sent to New Mexico,” he finally said. A question, not a statement.
“If I leave here in one piece.”
“Tell me your orders exactly as you received them, every detail, right now,” he demanded.
He was good, damn good—if I was lying, I’d stumble, I’d hem or haw, um or er, as I struggled to craft my story. But Paslett and I had anticipated this moment, he’d drilled me, we’d gone over my orders again and again, so I could do the same with the Russians. So I told them, recited my orders in the rote drone of a schoolboy giving his lesson, the Professor listening intently, not interrupting once. Behind me, I could hear Shovel-face’s husky breathing.
When I finished, the Professor asked, “Why hasn’t General Groves isolated him for questioning?” Him being the scientist who had met with Himmel. The Russians and the Professor knew his name—we didn’t.
“Groves doesn’t know who he is yet.”
“Come now, Lieutenant, that’s fantastical. How many scientists on that project had leave on those days? We know even civilians need permission to step foot off that base, how could he not be identified yet? Perhaps you need a reminder of why you shouldn’t lie—”
“No, no more shocks, call off your Russian wolfhound now. If you want the whole truth, and nothing but the truth, I need to think clearly.”
“Fine,” he said breezily. “But don’t waste time convincing me.”
“We don’t know Himmel’s contact is a scientist. I’ve been calling him a scientist because of all the gobbledygook he said to Himmel, but for all we know, he’s just a messenger who flunked freshman chemistry. There’s what, at least a thousand men on that base, and like you said, every one of them needs a hall pass to leave. Coulda been as many as fifty, sixty, who had permission to leave that week. That’s a lotta folks to check out, and that’s why General Groves wants me down there pronto, to help him make the I.D. quicker.” I offered a silent prayer that Paslett was, right at this moment, convincing Groves to bring me down. Because if those orders fell through—
“Why doesn’t Groves do it himself, with his men?”
“He will, I’ll be there to verify. Nobody wants to make a mistake on this one.”
“What’s Groves going to do after you make the identification?”
I didn’t fall for the trap. “That’s a decision way above my rank. After I do my work, they’ll hustle me outta there without telling me anything.”
“If so, then what’s the value of us letting you go to New Mexico, Lieutenant? After all, we already know who this man is.”
“I’m the only one who can get another copy of the diagram he gave to Himmel.”
“We have other options.”
But none better than relying on me, I wanted to say—otherwise, Shovel-face would already have fired that shot into the back of my head. What the Professor didn’t know is that I’d heard his man from New Mexico tell Himmel that he was out, he was done, he wasn’t going to lift his little finger to help the Russians any longer. He was running scared, laying low, hunkered down on the base in New Mexico where the N.K.V.D. couldn’t touch him. Without the missing Himmel, without a way to reach their man, the Russians didn’t have the dope on whatever weapon we were building down in the desert. They wanted it in the worst way, and the only way to get what they wanted ran through me.
I said, “Here’s how we should do this. You give me your contact’s name, I go to New Mexico and go through the motions of identifying him, to make it look good for Groves. Right away, I’ll tell your man I’m a courier, sent to get another copy of the blueprint out.”
“Can you?” the Professor asked.
“I won’t be searched upon leaving. My kit, sure, maybe a pat-down, but a full body search? Uh-uh.”
“I’m curious, Lieutenant. Why would you do this?”
“Maybe I like Pepsi, peanut butter, and scotch whiskey too. Maybe I just want outta this mess.”
“Or maybe not, but that is irrelevant. Although I have a certain grudging admiration for the audacity of your proposal, you’re not in a position to negotiate. Here are my terms. You will not get our man’s name. You will go to New Mexico, you will identify him on your own, and you will get a copy of what he gave to Himmel. Waste no time. We’ll be continuing our search for the absent Himmel—if we find him, and get what he was supposed to deliver to us, then you’re no longer of any use to us. Same for our friend in New Mexico. Do you understand?”
I nodded grimly.
The Professor spoke in rapid-fire Russian, I heard Shovel-face lurch forward, I tried to steel myself—didn’t matter. The prod came down, and the screams of a terrified, almost broken man filled the still-dark room. Shut up, shut up, I tried to tell him, but he didn’t stop until I passed out.
I WOKE UP IN A WEED-CHOKED FIELD. THE RUSTLE OF CREATURES—RATS, squirrels?—brought me around. Groaning, I struggled to my knees, head hanging low, taking long, slow breaths. Aches veneered the throbbing pain in my entire body, my neck burned. When I touched the spot where Shovel-face had electrocuted me, I cried out. Whimpered, really—my voice was too hoarse for a cry. Add wrinkles, silver my hair, and I’d have looked like I felt: an old man with a terminal condition. An optimist would have told me I was lucky to be alive, but at the moment, I wished, if only fleetingly, that I was dead. The thought of dragging myself out of that field and making my way home appeared impossible, an act of strength beyond even Hercules’s powers. If only it was winter, I thought, I could close my eyes, shut out the pain, and let the cold take me away.
But pity turned to anger, weakness to determination. Neither duty nor courage drove me out of that field, just revenge. Must kill Shovel-face. I muttered the phrase, and that goal rallied my weary, broken body. I repeated the words, they became an incantation, they energized me and brought me to my feet; they steadied me.
Must kill Shovel-face. Afraid to break the spell, I kept muttering as I tottered out of the field, milkweed grazing my trousers. Checked my watch: five past two in the morning.
“Where am I?” I beseeched the first passerby, a slight young man in coveralls, his cap pulled low. He shot me a suspicious look and quickened his pace to go around me. “Please, I’ve just been mugged,” I said, “they hit me on the head, I need to get home.”
“Oh.” He stopped, still wary, keeping his distance. “Are you—do you need a doctor?”
“No, I just need to get home.”
He eyed me over. Given my appearance, my story wasn’t hard to believe. “That’s Virginia Avenue and Seventh,” he said, turning to point behind him.
Which meant I was in Southeast D.C. Pennsylvania Avenue was just a few blocks north, I could catch a bus and transfer at Sixteenth Street, on the north side of Lafayette Square. “Thanks,” I said.
“Sure.” He let me pass, then called out, “Good luck.”
I waved an acknowledgment but didn’t answer. I was already whispering, “Kill Shovel-face, kill Shovel-face,” ignoring my parched tongue and cracked lips.
The bus rides seemed interminable, the pain worsened. At least that kept me from falling asleep. I let myself into my flat and shut the door with a loud, reassuring ker-thunk. I had aspirin in the bathroom, I’d chase the pills with the rest of my whiskey and go to bed. At least that was the plan until I heard a voice call out from my bedroom: “Who’s there?”
Mara! Nothing like a long bout of torture to make you forget about the fellow traveler who’d tried to Mickey you earlier in the evening. Without answering, I walked down the hall and flicked on the bedroom light. Mara turned her head, blinking. Hair mussed, hand pressed to the side of her head. Clothes rumpled, shoes still on. What time had I doped her? Half-past ten, maybe a little later, I guessed.
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