by Tom Grace
The remaining pages contained course information, a few letters from the program chairman, and a black-and-white faculty photograph. The last sheet was an official letter terminating Wolff’s appointment to the university. The notice was dated January 1949.
‘That’s odd. The chairman was singing Wolff’s praises right up to this,’ Kelsey said, still studying the notice. ‘Why did they fire him?’
‘May I see that?’ Mrs Greene asked.
Kelsey handed over Wolff’s termination notice.
‘They didn’t fire him. If they had, this letter would have said so, and given the reasons why. Then, as now, dismissal of a faculty member is a serious matter. This letter is just a piece of paperwork terminating the university’s relationship with Wolff – a fancy way of saying he no longer works here.’
‘But where did he go?’ Nolan asked, knowing the answer wasn’t in the file.
‘Who knows?’ Mrs Greene replied. ‘This is all we have on your Professor Wolff. Sorry I can’t be of more help.’
‘Actually, you can do one more thing for us. Can we get a copy of this file?’
‘Sure, but I’ll have to charge you for it.’
‘Fine,’ Nolan replied. ‘Put it on my departmental account.’
16
JUNE 28
Dexter, Michigan
‘I was beginning to wonder if you two would ever get here,’ Martin Kilkenny bellowed in a thick Irish brogue from the swinging bench on the broad covered porch of his farm-house. ‘I’ll bet it was that no-account grandson of mine making you both miss the fine supper my wife cooked tonight.’
‘Nolan and I were up at the hospital visiting Ted Sandstrom, Martin,’ Kelsey replied just before kissing him on the cheek.
‘A likely excuse.’
‘Would either of you like some pie?’ Audrey Kilkenny, Nolan’s grandmother, chimed through the kitchen window. ‘It’s raspberry.’
‘You bet,’ Kelsey replied.
‘Let me give you a hand, Grandma,’ Nolan offered.
A moment later Nolan followed Audrey back onto the porch carrying a large wooden tray covered with five servings of pie and five cups of tea.
‘Ah, that’s a good lad,’ Audrey said as Nolan served her. ‘He’ll make a fine husband, Kelsey. These Kilkenny men all do.’
‘I’ll keep that in mind.’
‘So how is Sandstrom doing?’ Sean Kilkenny asked, joining them on the porch.
‘Good as can be expected,’ Nolan replied. ‘The docs think he’ll recover, but the scarring will be extensive. The plastic surgeon will do her best, but she was pretty frank about the limits of what can be done cosmetically.’
‘How about his attitude? Do you think he’ll be able to get back to work?’
‘He’s taking Raphaele Paramo’s murder hard,’ Nolan answered.
‘Raphaele was very much a father figure to Ted,’ Kelsey added. ‘But I get the sense that when Ted is finally out of the hospital, he’ll go right back to the lab. I think he’ll continue their work as a way of honoring Paramo’s memory.
‘For instance, just yesterday he showed signs of being his old self when Nolan and I brought him a bundle of letters that Paramo had wanted him to have. You see, Paramo was planning on retiring once Ted’s new lab was up and running, and according to his wife, he felt that these letters might help Ted further his research.’
‘Are these letters from Paramo?’ Sean asked.
‘No, they were written to him by a young physicist who was here at Michigan about fifty years ago,’ Kelsey stated. ‘I read a few of them to Ted yesterday; they’re mind-boggling.’
‘I can attest to that,’ Nolan offered. ‘Each letter began with some friendly little chitchat, then this guy would dive into some aspect of theoretical physics that lost me very quickly.’
‘There are probably fewer than five hundred people worldwide who could follow these letters,’ Kelsey explained. ‘Each seems to contain some flash of brilliance, some insight into how the universe works.’
‘Can the person who wrote these letters help this Sandstrom fellow with his work?’ Audrey wondered.
‘That’s what we’re trying to find out,’ Kelsey responded. ‘The strange thing about these letters is that I’ve never heard of the author. Our theory is that someone this bright must have left some record of his work somewhere.’
Martin stared down into the brownish liquid in his mug, lost in thought.
‘Kelsey and I spent the better part of today just trying to find any mention of this guy on campus,’ Nolan offered. ‘We came up with next to nothing. The library has no books, articles, or scientific papers with his name on them.’
‘That’s not too surprising,’ Kelsey added, ‘considering that he was just an assistant professor and spent only two years here.’
Martin looked over at his wife as Kelsey spoke; his eyes were moist.
‘What is it, dear?’ Audrey inquired of her husband.
‘Johann.’
Audrey clasped her hands to her mouth as if to keep the breath from rushing out of her.
‘Dad,’ Sean said, worried, ‘are you all right?’
‘I’m fine, son. Just a bit surprised, that’s all.’ Martin turned toward Nolan and Kelsey. ‘Was the man who wrote these letters, this friend of Raphaele Paramo’s, was he a German by the name of Johann Wolff?’
‘Yes,’ they confirmed in unison.
‘How’d you know?’ Nolan continued on with his thought.
‘I wondered if I’d ever hear that name again,’ Martin said absently, aloud. After a moment’s silence he glanced at Audrey, who was wiping the tears from her eyes.
‘Answer Nolan’s question,’ Audrey urged as she regained her composure.
‘Johann Wolff was a friend. Back in ’forty-six, he arrived here in Ann Arbor with the clothes on his back, a few dollars in his pocket, and a job at the university. The poor fellow was an absolute lost soul, no friends or family – and the anti-German sentiment was still pretty bad. We met, quite by chance, because his office was in Randall and I was in the building next door. He was a wraith of a man when he came through the door of my shop, lost he was and looking for direction. I helped him out, and over time we became friends. A couple of odd ducks we were, with him a highly educated German scientist and me a little-schooled Irish woodworker.’
‘Johann was a bright young man,’ Audrey added. ‘He was handsome in his own way and very sweet. There was also a sadness about him, as there was with a lot of the refugees who came after the war. You see, he lost everyone who was dear to him.’
‘Not everyone, Audrey. You’re forgetting Elli,’ Martin reminded her.
‘Who’s Elli?’ Nolan wanted to know.
‘Johann’s fiancée. They fell in love just before war broke out. Unfortunately, she and her family didn’t get out of Germany and were sent to the death camps.’
‘You see, they were Jewish,’ Audrey added.
‘I think they get the picture, dear. The gobshite Hitler didn’t send too many Lutherans to the camps. Anyway, while Johann was working in Berlin, his family was killed in Dresden and Elli disappeared into those camps. He searched for her after the war but was unable to find her. But because he was well educated, he managed to get a teaching job here at Michigan. A little over a year after he arrived, he got a letter from Germany. It turns out that Elli had survived the war and was living in Chicago. They hadn’t seen each other in years, but it didn’t matter.’
Martin choked back the swelling in his throat.
‘In November of 1948 I loaned Johann a few dollars so he could buy an engagement ring for Elli. Nothing fancy, mind you – neither one of us was a Rockefeller – just a simple gold band as a token of his love for her. A local jeweler made it up for him, and he took it to Chicago. The last time I saw Johann was in my shop, when he told me she’d accepted his proposal of marriage. My God, he was happy. He even asked me to be his best man. When we parted company, we’d agreed that he and Elli would s
tay here with us for the weekend.’
‘Grandpa, so what happened to Wolff?’
‘I don’t know. Nobody does. It’s like he fell off the face of the earth. There were rumors, but nothing came of them.’
‘What kind of rumors?’
‘He was a German scientist, Nolan. Some said the government found out that he’d done some terrible experiments during the war and put him in prison or deported him or had him hanged. Some say that he ran away. Take your choice,’ Martin said bitterly. ‘It was all a load of malarkey. He wasn’t some Nazi bastard. For the first time in his adult life, Johann Wolff had something worth living for. His house was in order; there was no reason for him to run anywhere. Though his body was never found, I still believe that he was murdered. Death is the only thing that could’ve kept him apart from Elli.’
‘So he just disappeared?’
Martin nodded. ‘Vanished. As far as I know, Johann Wolff was never seen again.’
17
JUNE 29
Chicago, Illinois
Walter Guk walked into Rollie’s Bar just after midnight followed by three of his coworkers from the second shift at O’Hare International Airport. The banter of the broadcasters announcing the Cubs game blared from a television hanging over the far end of the bar. Three older men nursed a couple of drinks as they watched.
‘A round of beers?’ the bartender guessed.
‘You read our minds,’ Guk replied. ‘And by the way, is the pool table in back open?’
‘Yeah.’
The bartender placed four icy Miller longnecks on the bar. The cargo handlers paid for the round and disappeared into the back. Immediately the bartender pulled a business card from his pocket and dialed the number scrawled on it.
‘Yes,’ Voronin answered.
‘It’s Nicolai at Rollie’s Bar. Guk just came in.’
‘Spasíba, Nicolai. A couple of my associates will be there shortly to collect him.’
Leskov entered the bar accompanied by Josef. Both quickly surveyed the room, then moved straight to the bar.
‘You Nick?’ Leskov asked.
‘Yeah,’ the bartender replied.
‘Where is Guk?’
‘In the back, playing pool.’
‘How many others?’
‘Three men.’
‘Give me four beers.’
The bartender eyed Leskov for a second, then thought better of it and pulled four Millers from the cooler.
Leskov nodded, handed two of the bottles to Josef, and then moved toward the short hallway that led past the restrooms into the back of the bar. A burst of shouting erupted from the room, briefly overwhelming the excited voices of the baseball announcers.
‘What happened?’ Leskov asked.
‘The Cubs’ first baseman just hit a two-run homer,’ one of the men answered without taking his eyes off the replay. ‘Game’s tied at five.’
As the replay ended, Guk and his coworkers turned to see who had joined them. Leskov smiled warmly as he moved around the table, studying the four uniformed men carefully. A clip-on photo ID badge hung from the left shirt pocket of each man. Josef took up position between the pool table and the hallway.
Leskov took a small sip of beer, then flipped the bottle in his hand and threw it at Guk’s forehead. The bottle struck him on the hairline and exploded in a spray of foamy beer and broken glass. Guk’s hands covered his face, and he howled in pain.
‘What the fuck you doin’, man?’ one of Guk’s coworkers shouted.
‘Oh, shit!’ another added when Leskov drew a pistol from the small of his back and aimed it in their direction.
‘I’m bleeding,’ Guk wailed, staring at the reddish smears on his hands.
Josef stood near the hallway aiming a second pistol at the group. Leskov set his remaining beer on the pool table.
‘Gentlemen,’ Leskov announced calmly, ‘this matter concerns only Guk. I suggest you remain where you are and enjoy the rest of the game.’
Guk’s coworkers hesitated for a second, then slowly backed away. Leskov stepped over to Guk and struck him in the head with the butt of his pistol. Guk fell facedown on the pool table. Leskov grabbed Guk around the chest and dragged him toward the hallway. Guk hung limply in his arms, unconscious.
Once Leskov and Guk had exited the back room, Josef put his two untouched bottles of beer on the pool table.
‘This round is on us,’ he said with a laugh.
Guk regained consciousness as the sharp scent of ammonia burned in his nostrils. There was a dull throbbing in the back of his head. He tried to open his eyes, but something was holding them closed. He lay flat on his back, wedged between a pair of hard vertical walls.
I’m in a box, he thought, panicking.
Guk tried to sit up, but his arms and legs were bound. A fist struck his abdomen, knocking the wind out of him as he fell back.
‘He’s awake,’ a voice announced.
‘Good. Take that thing off his eyes.’
Guk felt fingers probing the material adhered over his eyes, and then a violent tug jerked his head upward as the tape tore the eyebrows and lashes from his face. He blinked repeatedly as tears filled his eyes, as much from fear as from the irritation of salty blood.
Slowly, his vision cleared and he was looking up at a white tiled ceiling. The room was warm and had a clean antiseptic look, like a hospital. Guk heard footsteps. Then a man with a thick fleshy face and stringy black hair leaned his arm against the rim of the box and looked down at Guk.
‘Walter, do you know who I am?’
‘Da, Pyotr Voronin.’
Voronin smiled. ‘Very good. Now for a more difficult question. What the fuck happened to the cargo container I sent to Moscow?’
‘I don’t know what you’re talking about! I didn’t—’
Voronin smashed his fist into Guk’s mouth, splitting the man’s lower lip.
‘Don’t lie to me, Walter. I know how things work at O’Hare – I get a percentage. Yesterday International Airfreight flight number eleven twenty-eight left Chicago for Moscow. I have a receipt confirming that a container of property belonging to an associate of mine was on board that plane. When the plane reached Moscow, the cargo was not on board. How is this possible?’
‘I don’t—’
Another fist slammed into Guk’s face. Blood flowed freely from his lip and nose; one eye was nearly shut from swelling.
‘I apologize,’ Voronin said as he wiped Guk’s blood from his knuckles. ‘I must not be making myself clear. If you don’t tell me what I want to know, I am going to kill you. It will be slow and most unpleasant. Do you understand me now? Just nod your head yes or no.’
Guk nodded yes.
‘Wonderful. Where is my cargo?’
‘Moscow,’ Guk replied, slurring his words.
‘Why you little fuck!’ Voronin wound up for another punch.
‘No, no!’ Guk pleaded. ‘It’s in Moscow, I swear. It was on the plane.’
Voronin pulled his punch, his thick knuckles less than an inch from Guk’s damaged face.
‘How?’
‘I changed the flight manifest to make it look like the container wasn’t on board.’
‘But it was loaded on the plane?’
‘Da, it went to Moscow,’ Guk replied emphatically.
‘Why did you do this?’
‘I didn’t think anyone would notice. It was just some furniture, a computer, and a stereo. It was insured, so if it got lost, I figured the owner would rather have the money.’
‘If you were going to steal my property, why did you send it to Moscow?’
‘I didn’t know it was yours. God, you must believe me,’ Guk pleaded. ‘It looked like something no one would miss. I have a cousin in Moscow who is getting married soon. I sent it to him as a wedding present. You know, a housewarming gift.’
‘How did your cousin get it if Customs in Moscow says it didn’t arrive?’
‘He works cargo at Sheremetyevo.�
��
Voronin saw all the pieces fit together. He’d been a little too clever in packaging Orlov’s stolen property, making it so innocuous that this termite Guk stole it without a second thought.
‘What is your cousin’s name?’
‘Konrad. Konrad Guk,’ the man blubbered.
Voronin pulled a phone from his coat pocket and selected a number from its memory.
‘Dóbraya útra,’ Voronin said into the phone. ‘I have the information Orlov requested. The package arrived in Moscow but was stolen by a cargo worker named Konrad Guk. I have his cousin here who tells me that he’s the one who altered the plane’s manifest and made Orlov’s property disappear. The furniture was to be a wedding gift.’
Voronin paused for several minutes, listening to the other person on the line.
‘Da,’ he replied, ‘I’ll take care of it.’
Voronin slipped the tiny phone back into his pocket and looked down at Guk.
‘Walter, I’m so glad we had this talk, but I must go now. Don’t worry, I’m leaving you in very good hands.’
Voronin stepped back. A man appeared on the other side; he smiled and then swung a hinged lid over the top of the box. Guk was again plunged into darkness, and quickly the box reverberated with the sound of a hammer driving a nail.
‘Oleg,’ Voronin said as Artuzov set the last nail, ‘once again, thank you for your assistance.’
‘No bother at all, Pyotr Yefimovich. I’m just happy to be of service.’
With that, Artuzov rolled the trolley bearing the wooden box up to the door of the cremating furnace. The wooden box shuddered as Guk thrashed inside, screaming for his life. When the trolley was properly aligned, Artuzov walked over to the console and started the cremation. Slowly, the wooden box glided down the stainless-steel rollers into the furnace. Already the temperature inside the box was over two hundred degrees. The superheated air seared Guk’s throat and lungs, each frantic, labored breath more difficult than the last. The thrashing inside the box stopped as Guk lost consciousness.