by Alan Elsner
“Me?”
“You identified their vehicle and thereby forced them underground. Now they're hiding somewhere with a truckload of explosives. They can't stay hidden forever. They know we're going to track them down. If they intend to attack the government, they'll do it soon.”
“Am I in danger? Or Lynn?”
“Our analysts think they'll go after something of major symbolic value. Nobody will notice a pinprick. They want to shock the country and shake public confidence in the government. You should still be careful, though. You may want to check into a hotel for a couple of nights when you get back.”
I couldn't sleep after that. My mind swung back and forth between extremists and Delatrucha. The thought of him eluding justice was driving me crazy. I sat on the bed leafing through my notes yet again, the words all jumbling together. I could hardly read them anymore. Since that first day I had met Sophie Reiner, I had covered page after page of my legal pad with ideas, impressions, records of conversations and events, but what did it all add up to? I'd have to report to Eric, and I wasn't looking forward to it.
Lynn kept badgering me to come to bed. “I don't see the problem,” she said. “We know Delatrucha gave a recital in Berlin in 1944, and we know Beck gave a recital in Berlin in 1944. What more do you need?”
“It's not enough. It's the same problem we faced with the Bruteitis case. You know for sure the guy is guilty, but—without that signature on the bottom of the page or some other smoking gun—you can't go after him.”
“What about the Diario ABC interview? That's Delatrucha in his own words.”
“That interview is very old. He could claim he was mistranslated or misquoted. Who could prove otherwise after all these years? And I'm sure if we ever went to court, he'd be able to produce three or four witnesses from Argentina who would swear they remember him eating steak and dancing the tango in Buenos Aires in 1944.”
“I just don't think there's any point going over your notes again and again right now. You're making yourself sick. What do you expect to find? You've read them a thousand times. Don't be so anal. Just come to bed, will you?”
Anal? “If you can't help, at least spare me the psychobabble.” I snapped back.
“Give it a rest. Why don't you just come to bed?”
“Sex isn't the answer to everything, you know.” Even as I said the words, I wanted to swallow them.
“You seemed to like it well enough before,” she said icily.
“I did. I do. I'm sorry. I don't want to fight. I'm just so tired and angry about the case. Please forget I just said that.”
I tried to hug her, but she edged away, curling up and covering herself with the blanket. “You were just as eager as I was, and it's not like I seduced you.”
“You didn't. Of course you didn't.”
She spoke coldly from beneath the blanket, her voice trembling. “Perhaps it's better this way. I keep wondering if there's any future for us. You have your work and your religion, and I don't know if there's room for me as well.”
“Lynn, stop throwing religion in my face. That doesn't have anything to do with this. If I were a professional athlete, or a violinist who was always practicing, you wouldn't say that. But because I pray to God a few minutes each day, it's suddenly a big issue and you don't know where you fit in? At least be honest. What's really on your mind?”
She shrugged off the blanket and sat up to face me. “I keep thinking that if we got serious, I would have to give up a lot. I don't know if I'm willing to do that for you.”
“What? That's bullshit! First of all, we already are serious—or at least I am. I don't have time for messing around. I would never have slept with you if I hadn't been serious. I thought you understood that. Second, what would you have to give up to be with me that's so important?”
“I'd have to give up the freedom to eat whatever I like, to name just one thing,” she said. “I'd have to keep a kosher home if we were together.”
“Is that such a big deal? You don't have total freedom now. Nobody does. You might want to eat three pints of ice cream every day, but you restrain yourself because you don't want to get fat. You might want four glasses of wine, but you don't because you don't want to get drunk. We all limit ourselves in our choices all the time. Millions of people spend their lives dieting and denying themselves things they want. Keeping kosher is just one more limitation. It's a lot easier than being vegetarian. And I bet if I were a vegetarian, we wouldn't be having this discussion. What is it about my being Orthodox that you find so scary?”
“When I give up ice cream or beer, that's totally my choice. I get to decide of my own free will. If I were to keep kosher, it would only be because a God whom I don't believe in told me to.”
“So don't do it for God. Do it for me. People who love each other make compromises all the time. I would make plenty of sacrifices for you.”
“Not about religion.”
“Yes, even about religion.” I tried to collect my thoughts, reaching out to take her hands in mine. “You once asked me if you were like a ham sandwich to me, but it's really the other way around.”
“Go on.”
“The way you're talking, I feel less important than a ham sandwich to you.”
“Why would you say that?”
“Because you'd rather preserve your right to eat a ham sandwich than stay with me. I don't see it as a big sacrifice. You could still eat whatever you wanted outside the home. I wouldn't interfere or force my beliefs on you. You could eat your ham and pork and bacon and shrimp and scallops and oysters and lobster and whatever other hazerei you want. Just not at home, if we ever decide to make one together. That's what it comes down to. That's the so-called big sacrifice. If that's too much to ask, then maybe we should break up.”
“What about Shabbat?”
“What about it?”
“No music, no driving, no TV.”
“I guess you have to decide whether you value TV on Saturday more than our relationship. If you really had to go to the mall, I wouldn't stop you. I just wouldn't come. There are six other days of the week for TV and the mall, but if it's too much, we should just part as friends. I don't want to, but…” There was nothing else I could say.
She was silent. Then,“I don't want to either.”
“Really?”
“Really.”
“Thank God. I couldn't bear it. We can figure all this out. We just have to be honest and patient with each other.”
I kissed her and felt her trembling. She flicked off the light, and eventually we managed to sleep for a couple of hours.
“There is one sure way to nail Delatrucha,” she said the next morning as we packed.
“What's that?”
“Find Sophie Reiner's documents.”
“Don't think I haven't thought of that. I just don't know where to look.”
“You're the logical one. Put yourself in her place. She was in Washington, D.C., a strange city, where she knew no one. We know she came to see you. Where else did she go? Who else did she see?”
I played “What if…?” throughout the eight-hour flight back to the States.
It had taken the best part of four days to get back to Washington. At Dulles Airport, we said good-bye to my dad, who was heading back to West Virginia to start the cleanup. Dad seemed old and tired, lacking his usual vigor. On the flight, he had spoken vaguely about coming back to D.C. to live near me. I think he wanted to see how serious I was about Lynn before committing himself. I couldn't tell him. We were still a work in progress.
With Fabrizio's warning still ringing in my ears, Lynn and I rented a car and drove to a hotel in Baltimore. She collapsed on the double bed. “I feel like I'm still moving,” she said, eyes shut. In less than a minute, she was asleep. I was exhausted but still too apprehensive to follow her example. I wanted my life back, my safe routine of prayers and Sabbath rest that created an oasis of sacred time away from the world.
The weather forecast called fo
r a major snowstorm heading our way. Accumulations of a foot or more expected in Washington. Great. Something else to worry about. An inch of snow can upend normal life in the nation's capital. A foot would cause total paralysis.
I decided to call Rosen. The second he heard my voice, he exploded. “I have been trying to reach you for three days! Nobody knew where the hell you were,” he shouted. “I told you before not to disappear on me, especially at a crucial time like this!”
“Thanks for the warm welcome, Eric.”
“Right, welcome home, blah, blah, blah. Where the hell are you?”
“Baltimore.”
“What are you doing there?”
“Avoiding neo-Nazis with truck bombs.”
“What kind of crap is that? Did you lose your mind over there? I want you in my office at eight o'clock sharp. Bring that assistant of yours, too, if she still works for us. Delatrucha's ceremony is on Monday. We're out of time. I have to decide whether to alert the White House. I assume you found what we needed.”
“We have strong circumstantial evidence. Delatrucha was up to his neck in mass murder at Belzec. He organized a little orchestra and sang Schubert to the victims as they arrived to be gassed.”
I didn't fool him for a second. “Circumstantial evidence? That's what we had before you left. You're telling me you still can't prove it a hundred percent?”
“Ninety-eight percent.”
“Not good enough.”
“I know. But I'm still digging. Eventually, I'll get the—”
“Stop right there. I don't want to hear the word ‘eventually.’ There is no ‘eventually.’ It's now or never.”
“The world doesn't end on Monday. The investigation can continue.”
“No, it can't. Once he has the award, I'm closing the file. I have no choice.”
“What?” I was shocked.
“I won't embarrass the president. How would it look a few weeks after he was photographed shaking hands with this guy if we suddenly announced that the man in the picture is a Nazi war criminal? Try ‘massive public scandal,’ and I'd be right in the middle of it. Conroy and Doneghan would have all the ammunition they need.”
“You'd let him get away with mass murder to avoid embarrassment?”
“Don't play innocent with me. You know how Washington works. I want to nail this guy just as much as you do, but I have to protect this office and our mission. Once this guy shakes the president's doughy hand, the case is in cold storage until further notice.”
“You promised you would never bow down to political pressure.‘Over my dead body,’ you said.”
“This is different. There's no outside pressure. This is my decision for the good of the entire office. I've still got John Howard to worry about as well. I'm on a tightrope here, with no safety net. The slightest little slip, and I'm chopped liver.”
“Why not tell the White House to keep the president away from the ceremony, even if we don't have a hundred percent proof?”
“Don't be so naive. That auditorium is going to be stuffed with movers and shakers who have paid big money to shake the president's hand. It'll be knee-deep in political donors. He's going to be there unless he has a damned good reason not to be.”
“So we have four days, one of which is Shabbat.” “If I'm going to alert the White House to change the president's schedule, I need to do it before the weekend. You have until tomorrow morning to come up with a new idea, or I'm pulling the plug.” He hung up.
This wasn't just a setback. This was total defeat. I called David Binder, thinking he might point me in a new direction. But he wasn't there. Now what? There was zero chance of falling asleep. I made a pot of coffee, watched the basketball highlights for a few minutes, got bored, and switched to the news. Sarajevo had just passed its thousandth day under siege. Me, too, I thought.
I undressed and lay down beside Lynn and closed my eyes. Her sweet body shaped itself into mine. My thoughts raced, bouncing off each other like billiard balls. And then—like lightning—an idea made me sit bolt upright. I scrambled for my glasses, grabbed my briefcase, and padded into the bathroom, stark naked. I sat on the toilet lid, whipping through my notes.
And there it was.
I spent the rest of the night watching reruns of old sitcoms and updates about the looming weather crisis. A massive storm system had formed to the south and was moving slowly up the coast, with Washington directly in its sights. Estimated total snowfall was clocking in at twenty inches.
At 5:30, I prayed the morning service. At 6:00 I called Eric. “I've had an idea,” I said giddily.
“Tell me about it when you get here,” he said. “I'd get going as soon as you can, if I were you. Everybody will be leaving early today if they bother coming at all. They've been raiding the supermarkets to stock up on supplies. Like locusts in a cornfield.”
“Okay, we're on our way.”
“And Mark, take a look at the Post when you get a chance. I'm going to be up to my ears today.”
Lynn grabbed a copy in the hotel lobby. The sky was steely gray and the parkway eerily empty of traffic. As I drove, Lynn leafed through the newspaper.
“Oh, God,” she said, finding a headline buried on an inside page.
“Read it to me.”
“ ‘U.S. Nazi-Hunting Unit Accused of Forging Papers.’”
“He leaked the story to the press,” I said. “What a moron.”
“What?”
“Read me the article, then I'll explain.”
The article reported that the Office of Special Investigations had allegedly fabricated documents in the Bruteitis case. “Do they quote anyone by name?” I asked.
“No. Just an anonymous source close to the investigation.”
“Is there a reaction from Eric?
“It says nobody in the department was available to respond.”
“Ha!”
“You're taking this calmly. Isn't this terrible for you and Eric?”
“It would be if it were true. But it's not. Eric got someone to feed the story to John Howard hoping to trap him. Ever the idiot, Howard fell for it.”
“It's a setup? Why?”
“Howard's been plotting to get rid of Eric. He wants the job for himself.”
“So how does this help Eric?”
“First, they'll determine that the documents are genuine and the story is wrong. That shouldn't take long. After that, the attorney general will proclaim his full confidence in Eric. An inquiry into the leak will lead straight to Howard. If he's lucky, Eric will give him a chance to resign quietly before they nail his sorry ass.”
“What a place! Boy, am I glad I'm leaving,” Lynn said. “This place has become a nest of vipers. You knew about this, didn't you? Why didn't you tell me?”
“I didn't know the details, and we've been so busy surviving attacks and—“
“—studying the Mishna…”
“Exactly.”
Back at the department, Eric had convened a full staff meeting in the main conference room. We slipped in the back. The attorney general was addressing the crowded room, flanked by Eric on one side and Janet on the other. Many of the people assembled there hailed from other divisions of the Department of Justice, drawn by the whiff of scandal.
“I have been assured that the story in today's Post is completely untrue,” the attorney general was saying. He was a largish, pompous man in his sixties, a little on the fat side, with a booming voice.
“Eric Rosen has headed this office for many years. He personifies integrity, and his word is good enough for me.” He mopped his red face with a monogrammed handkerchief, glaring at the assembled officials, as if challenging them to defy him. No one did.
“I have total confidence in Eric Rosen, as does the president. Your chief historian, Janet Smart, has told me she personally collected these documents from the official Lithuanian archives. The originals remain in Lithuania, and I have received word this morning from the Lithuanian government that they have not
been tampered with in any way. All of these documents are clearly signed. We will be communicating these facts to the press shortly.”
There was a collective sigh of relief. Eric sat there impassive, half smiling, self-important, serene and confident, totally in his element. Janet fiddled with her beads, nervously sweeping her unkempt hair away from her eyes. She obviously felt less comfortable at the center of the storm.
The attorney general leaned forward. “To put any lingering questions to rest, I will establish a panel of independent experts to verify the authenticity of these documents beyond any shadow of doubt,” he said. “At the same time, we will open an inquiry into this malicious and unfortunate leak. When we find the person responsible, he or she will answer to me. Mr. Rosen, do you have anything to add?” Eric shook his head. “Then this meeting is adjourned.”
As people filed out of the room, John Howard came toward me, his thin face pale as paper. “Howdy, Johnnie,” I said, slapping him on the back. “How's it going?”
He gave me a haunted look. “Can't talk. Gotta get back to my office,” he said. “Important phone calls.”
“Yeah, I know. You need to update Doneghan—and your Rolodex.”
“I don't know what you're talking about,” he puffed.
I grabbed his arm, determined to make him squirm. “You don't look so hot. Maybe you're coming down with something. You've got to watch out for draughts this time of the year in leaky offices.” He shoved past me and stumbled down the corridor. “Going to take a leak, are you, John?” I called.
Lynn grabbed my arm. “That's enough,” she ordered.
We reconvened in Eric's office. He seemed mightily pleased with himself. He wasn't flaunting it, but I could read his mind. He was preening. He gestured for us to sit down on the leather sofa.
“First of all, welcome home.”
“Thank you,” I said. “I'm glad to see the attorney general has such faith in you.”
“Why wouldn't he? Anyway, I'm glad to see everyone back in one piece. Mark, you said you had an idea on the Delatrucha case. It had better be good, because we all want to get out of here before the snow starts. The floor is yours.”