New York Station

by Lawrence Dudley

“Mike! Figured I’d bring you up to date.”

  Kelly actually sounded surprised, as if he really didn’t expect to hear from him.

  “How is it?”

  “It’s been quiet, been following them around, keeping them under surveillance. I rented a second hotel room right next to Ludwig’s—”

  “Really? He know?”

  “No, he doesn’t know—”

  Kelly burst out laughing. “That’s a gas!”

  “Yes, it is pretty funny, now that you mention it.”

  “It’s good you called, I’m coming up.”

  “You are? When’ll you be arriving?”

  “I’m driving up in the morning, gonna leave about three a.m., actually. Should get there about ten o’clock.”

  “You’re driving?”

  But Kelly seemed enthused. “Yeah, I get to take a car out! Report came down about two hours ago. There’s been a big robbery up there.”

  “That’s odd, there’s been a rumor here about a robbery.”

  Kelly’s wary tone came back up. “Yeah?”

  “People were talking about it all over the lobby. Financial papers, I think.”

  “Aw shit, locals are probably blabbing all over the place. Right, some asshole stole a load of bonds.”

  “Bonds? Really?”

  “Yep. Dumb bastards, you know? That’s the criminal mind for you. Now where are they gonna take a thing like that?”

  “Yes, criminal mind, you’re right, stupid. Mike, let me know when you’re here. I’m buying.”

  “Where are you?”

  “United States Hotel.”

  “See you soon.”

  -90-

  On Route 9, outside Red Hook, the stainless steel gleam of the Half-Way Diner grew out of the darkness. W was already there, his dark green Cadillac in the parking lot. Hawkins sat at the counter next to him. They expressionlessly eyed each other. The waitress came. Hawkins ordered tea. They silently sat a moment.

  “How long have you known the Nazis were trying to rig the election?” Hawkins said.

  “June. Only we didn’t. Not exactly. It started with the conventions. When they realized Roosevelt might run for reelection the Abwehr started trying to figure out what to do. We got an early intercept saying they paid $160,000 to bribe the Pennsylvania delegation to the Democratic National Convention. Anyone but Roosevelt. It’s possible they may have worked their way up to this. I don’t know what’s a bigger shock, that they’re trying to rig the election, or that the bastards actually figured out how to do it.”

  “And me?”

  “BSC and the Secret Service have been strictly forbidden by the Prime Minister to interfere or intervene in American politics in any way. We can talk to the Yanks but that’s it. When I realized the Nazis were trying to meddle in the election I sent for you immediately. We can’t get anywhere near this, take a chance it looks like we’re the ones interfering. But you’re an American citizen. I can’t take your rights here away from you. You can protect the election, stop this. We needed you right away—”

  “Couldn’t be helped.”

  “I know. Initially we just wanted to expose their meddling. Maybe it would’ve brought the US into the war, maybe not. But this is much bigger. It’s a new form of conquest, taking a country over through its elections using covert operations. Who needs an army and navy when you can do this? What brought the United States into the last war, the Zimmerman cable, the subs, it’s trivial duff compared to this. A child could understand it. Expose this, Roy, and America will get in the war. We won’t go down like the French. Maybe we can hold on without the States, but it’s iffy. Britain’s survival may depend on what you do here. That’s the real reason we brought you over.”

  “And if I’m blown you can deny everything.”

  “That’s always gone with the job.”

  “I know.” The waitress brought his tea. Hawkins stared at it a moment, then aimlessly began swirling his spoon in it, then carefully set the spoon down, studying that, too, lining it up with the rest. “Ah, it’s all right, actually.” He grunted very slightly, poured some cream in and began vigorously stirring. “Did I tell you I saw them raising the swastika flag over the Eiffel Tower?”

  “Christ. That must’ve been tough.”

  “It was. Now Paris has come to me. That’s what I’ve been thinking.”

  “Yes. It has. I gather Chet Branch is laundering the money?”

  “Right. Walter Ventnor’s working with Ludwig to organize it. He gets the contacts, lines up the people to bribe, or reward, if they’re so inclined already. Chet Branch pays for him. All those numbers are accounts, routing numbers to banks across the country.”

  W brought a folder from his briefcase.

  “This was telexed in from London this morning.” He spread out a decryption of Ludwig’s list between them, poring over it. “All the names are here in this column. According to what you are saying, then, the next must be the sum they received—apparently some get more than others, for whatever reason. Then these columns must be the bank routing numbers, these, the account numbers. A great many are blank, though.”

  “That’s cash, that’s why they’re up here. That’s why they need the casino, for the cutout.”

  “Right, of course! Probably felt they needed cover, nervous nellies, whatever. London felt the list is incomplete.”

  “No. They never understand over there. It’s not a parliamentary system. Or a direct vote. The president is elected state by state, they only need to turn a few that are close. It’s possible to lose the popular vote and still win with enough states. And you don’t need to steal millions of votes. Just batches here and there in key places inside those states.”

  “Ah, makes sense. You were going to tell me something the other day.”

  “The FBI’s offered me a job. Through Kelly. High ranking. Hoover’s decided to set up a new intelligence division of his own.”

  “All by himself? My, my. I’m not surprised. What are you going to do?”

  “I don’t know. I’ve met a girl I really like.”

  “I see. And the operation?”

  “I’ll stick it through. I think I can shut them down financially. The money is still missing. Chet has to cover his transfers. I think it’ll force him out. It’ll also shut down Ventnor. Ludwig and the Abwehr are subsidizing his radio network.”

  “They are? Makes sense, the way Ventnor came out of nowhere. Like mushrooms in the forest overnight. There he was, all over the dial. But the money angle—that won’t work. I got a flash from Houghton before I left.” W drew another small telex from his vest pocket and handed it to Hawkins. “They’ve been working on Ludwig’s latest airmail. Quite interesting. Ludwig’s getting the money replaced. He’s blaming it all on Dieter, claims he disappeared with it.”

  “They’ll send more money in? Oh, no—”

  “He’s suggesting Mexico, this time. Stopping the money is only a temporary solution. The SS can always murder another family of rich refugees and steal more. It’s the people who are the problem. They’ll keep trying. They won’t quit. The only way is to stop the people.”

  Hawkins thought a second. Yes. The smirk.

  “Right. They’ll never stop.”

  “Remember the bigger picture.”

  “How so?”

  “We need America in the war.”

  “This would do it if people knew.”

  “That’s the job. You’re going to have to handle it yourself, though, without us involved, do you understand?”

  “Of course.”

  W relaxed slightly, shuffling down to the bottom of the papers.

  “I brought this in case you need it—to know what you’re looking at, convince Kelly, whatever the case. Be careful it doesn’t fall out of your hands. These photos are prints from the first set of micro negatives Ludwig sent out. It’s the first half of Steel Seine we intercepted several days ago. No second half. He may not have it yet.”

  “Half? Why half
?”

  “The seller doesn’t trust Ludwig, or the other way around.”

  “You never know. I’ll take it.”

  “A couple of things: in the upper right-hand corner. See? There’s a note in Ludwig’s handwriting explaining this thing. And here’s the real kicker.” He pointed at the top margin. “The letters are cut off, but you can still make them out.” Although the top part had been clipped away, the words clearly read WALDORF ASTORIA.

  “Bloody hell, they did this in the hotel.”

  “Right. That helps us. We can now prove to the Americans we aren’t trying to steal it, too. Anything else?”

  Do I tell W I have the bonds? Hawkins thought. No. Not yet. If I tell him about the bonds I’ll have to explain how I got them … where I got them. That Dieter is dead. My prisoner. That I fouled up for nothing. For nothing. I can’t tell him that. Not now. Maybe later, when I’m on my way to a fresh start with the FBI.

  “No.”

  W got up, patting Hawkins on the shoulder. “Eat something. You look thin.”

  “Here are the names of those people in Warsaw.”

  “I’ll do what I can. Tell your friend he can call the consulate day after tomorrow.”

  W left. Hawkins picked up the menu, skimmed it, sighed heavily. Ought to eat. But the idea of food, disgusting somehow. He cast it aside. He stared for a long time at his teacup, then gulped it, angrily threw the mug down and headed out.

  -91-

  “What’s the son of a bitch doin’ out there?” Jacobson whispered. They peered through the grillwork in the observation gallery at Ventnor lounging below.

  “Killing time,” Daisy said. “He’s been here before.”

  “No,” Hawkins said, “they’re probably getting ready to start passing more bribes.”

  Jacobson’s face twisted in anguish, or rage, or both.

  “God. They’re using my club again? Okay, this time—”

  “No. You can’t—”

  “Why the hell not?”

  “I’ve got to link him to Ludwig and Chet,” Hawkins said, “wreck this whole thing. Who needs tanks and planes when you can do something like this? What’s the difference between attacking a country and hijacking its elections? None. You’re being taken over either way. You want that?”

  Jacobson was wavering. “Well, no …”

  “You went over to Yorkville and beat up a bunch of Nazi sympathizers? Right? And you don’t want to help now? What’s that to this?”

  “Okay, you win, I’ll stick with it for a while. But how are you gonna do this?”

  “I have an idea. But I have to get him back to the hotel first. I want to plant him there with some stolen navy papers. That’ll tie him to Ludwig. And a well-placed tip should do the rest.”

  “Oh, that’s easy enough,” Jacobson said. He glanced at Daisy and gave her a knowing laugh.

  Daisy joined in, swinging her hips, swishing her skirt up. “This is a job for a cocktail waitress!”

  “What?” Hawkins said.

  “We’re going to comp him,” she said.

  “With a Mickey Finn,” Jacobson said.

  Daisy leaned over and gave Hawkins a peck on the cheek, then rubbed the lipstick off with her glove. “Yep. Send him beddy-bye.”

  “We do it all the time,” Jacobson said.

  “You do?”

  “Sure! People come in here, get hot, start a streak … like that dope the other day. We’re not in the business of givin’ money away. See this little pedal on the floor?” Jacobson pointed down at what resembled the clutch pedal on a car. “Watch what happens to the roulette wheel when I step on this thing.” He pressed on it with the toe of his shoe. The roulette wheel gently rolled to a stop. “See? When Daisy got him over to the wheel, I was up here working that pedal.”

  Hawkins glanced at Daisy. “You knew?”

  “Why, yes, Roy.” She gently laughed. “That’s my job. If he didn’t move to roulette, I’d have served him a Mickey and made sure he drank it if I had to spit it in his mouth myself.”

  “Daisy, you’re a woman of many talents. Remind me to keep my wallet in my pocket.”

  “Hey, don’t worry,” Jacobson said. “We can’t do it all the time. The suckers will catch on.”

  Hawkins took the binoculars and checked Ventnor again. “Daisy, remember what Chet said? At breakfast?”

  “Oh, yes. If he wasn’t winning, he’d change the rules so he would.”

  “Let’s find out what Ventnor thinks about that.”

  “Daisy, the drops are in my desk,” Jacobson said.

  Masked again, Daisy smoothly sashayed over, slinked around Ventnor, picked up his glass and set the new one down. Ventnor barely glanced up, missing her supercilious curtsy and tossed a chip on her tray. He reached for a nice draught. Hawkins sat down next to him.

  “Why, Mr. Ventnor, imagine seeing you here.”

  “Oh, Mr. Hawkins? Hello.”

  “Winning or losing tonight?”

  “Holding my own.”

  “Maybe you need a little help.” Hawkins reached into his pocket and placed a small stack of cards, only part of a deck, on the table. Jacobson came up behind him, gently waved for the dealer to take a break. He spread his arms wide on the table, smiling assuredly at Ventnor. Ventnor blankly stared at Hawkins. “Here.” Hawkins reached over, took Ventnor’s face card, a six, and replaced it with an ace.

  “What are you doing?”

  “You want to win, don’t you?”

  Ventnor gestured to Jacobson. “Get him out of here!”

  “Stay or draw?” Jacobson said.

  “What the—”

  “Stay or draw?”

  “Okay, stay!”

  Jacobson flipped the cards over. “Eighteen! Dealer folds.”

  He swiftly scooped up the cards and dealt another round. Hawkins tossed a chip in for Ventnor, then reached over again, plucking up Ventnor’s three, replacing it with the ace of clubs.

  “Stay or draw?” Jacobson said.

  Ventnor started getting angry. “Aw, are you guys nuts? You can’t play a game that way!”

  “Why not?” Hawkins said. “I mean, if you want to, why not?”

  Ventnor’s eyes lost their sharp focus. “Because—”

  “You said the world’s divided into winners and losers. Which one do you want to be?”

  “That’s not a game—”

  “It’s not? Isn’t this thing with Ludwig a game? You seem to treat everything that way, rigging the election—what’s in it for you?”

  Ventnor giggled, giddy and high. “That’s no game—that’s real power—we’re not taking any chances.”

  Ventnor began slightly blinking, slowly swaying back and forth.

  “What’s in it for you?” Hawkins said.

  “I’m their guy. I’m no loser! Not me! I’m gonna be top of the pile! Their guy!”

  “Why does anyone have to be a loser?”

  Ventnor pounded his fist, shaking, slurred voice rising, face flushing. “You! Don’t! Understand! You have to have losers! Have to! If there’s no losers there’s no winners! There’s no one for us to kick around! You gotta make ’em losers! I want the power to do wha—”

  He flopped backward off the stool.

  Five minutes later four of Jacobson’s men edged out on the open catwalk holding Ventnor by his arms and legs. Two others held the doors to the casino and the club shut. Hawkins backed the Cord underneath. They dumped Ventnor’s unconscious body straight down onto the seat. Daisy elbowed Jacobson aside, snatched Ventnor’s chip from her tray. She angrily flung it down as hard as she could onto Ventnor.

  “I’m no loser! Asshole!”

  “I don’t like this. You sure you can manage him?” Jacobson said. “I think we should come.” Hard to tell if he was anxious or just didn’t like being left out. Maybe both.

  “No—you can’t be around, not with the Bureau coming. Got to keep this inconspicuous.”

  Daisy called after him, “Be care
ful, Roy!”

  -92-

  Broadway shone slick and empty at four a.m.

  Hawkins bent his knees, muscled Ventnor’s thick arm over his shoulder and hoisted him from the car. Now the worst part, he thought, sprinting his ass up those big stairs. His legs started burning halfway up. Damn. Feels like Ventnor’s gaining ten pounds every step. He shifted him at the door and squished his hat over Ventnor’s face, comradely embracing his waist. Then he dangled him across the lobby, bouncing him on his feet for effect. The night manager’s eyes flicked suspiciously over the top of his paper.

  “Big night!” Hawkins said, sheepishly grinning.

  The manager sniffed. More drunks. His eyes flicked back to his paper. Moments later they stumbled off the old steam-driven elevator. The car huffed and puffed back down to the first floor with a rattle.

  Hawkins scanned the empty corridor to his observation room. It looked endless, now. No luggage carts. Have to gut it. He threw Ventnor into a fireman’s carry, half-stumbling down the hall under the weight, every footstep crashing in the empty corridor. He reeled in, dumped Ventnor on the bed, caught his breath.

  Got to tuck him in. Make him look good, Hawkins thought. A real Rip van Winkle. Too bad, in a way. Love to be a mouse in the corner when he wakes up. With no clothes on. In a strange bed. In a strange hotel room registered to Mr. Churchill. With a blinding headache. And there’ll be the looming bulk of Special Agent in Charge Mike Kelly hovering over him, pointing that massive Colt an inch and a half from his nose.

  It’ll be deliciously ironic. Ventnor will tell Kelly God’s honest truth—no, I don’t have the slightest idea how I wound up in bed at the States Hotel. Kelly will stand there, lips curling, laughing, certain he was in the presence of a complete fool. It will be hilarious.

  He dumped the pants on the floor and reached for Ventnor’s shirt collar. A muffled creak penetrated the silence. Ventnor? No. He hadn’t moved. Hawkins jostled the bed. Wrong kind of sound.

  Every muscle instantly tensed still, as if a cottonmouth unexpectedly slithered over his bare foot in a swamp. A moment later another creak followed behind the door to Ludwig’s suite. His heart began racing.