by Noel Hynd
On the third night of their stakeout, three A.M. passed quietly.
Then three thirty.
Hearn nudged Shassad sharply, taken by surprise himself.
"Hey," he said excitedly "What's this?" He motioned with his head and indicated an activity halfway down Thirtieth Street. He raised the binoculars to his eyes.
The two detectives had been ignoring the side street. They'd become sleepy and their attention had lagged. They didn't even know where the dark green Chevy Nova on Thirtieth Street had come from. Nor did they know how long it had been there. What they could see was that the car had double-parked next to jacobus's battered old Ford. And the driver of the Nova was a busy man.
The man stood behind his own car aAd unlocked the trunk. He opened it slightly, but didn't raise the rear hood. He moved directly behind jacobus's car and seemed to fumble with something small.
"What is it? What is it?" asked Shassad.
"Keys" Hearn said.
"He's got keys to jacobus's car."
"What the hell…?" asked Shassad rhetorically. He was totally perplexed now, the odd scene on Thirtieth Street making no sense yet.
"Get his license number."
The rear hood of jacobus's car went up. Then the man left jacobus's trunk wide open and stepped quickly back to his own car.
He opened his own trunk. Then, with obvious effort, he reached in and picked up a large canvas bag, the size of a post-office mailbag or a sack of flour. He pulled it out, hoisted it over his shoulder, stepped with a slight wobble to jacobus's trunk, leaned forward, and as best he could eased the bag into the Ford.
Then with one hand he reached in and picked up another sack.
This one was much lighter, though the same size. It was bulky, but obviously not nearly as heavy.
The man hoisted the second bag over his shoulder, stepped back to his own car, and dumped the bag almost carelessly into his trunk.
He then slammed down both trunks, and hurried back to the wheel of his own car.
"I don't get it said Shassad.
"Not at all."
The lights of the Nova went on. The engine started. Hearn was still staring through glasses.
"You're going to love this part" he said.
"What?"
"It's a DPL license, New York State Shassad almost gawked at his partner. Diplomatic plates. The car was registered to an embassy or consulate within New York City. Since when did diplomats play musical trunks with janitors? The unmarked police car moved slowly to the corner.
"I can't stand it'" cursed Shassad.
"See whether he goes straight or turns.
Hearn leaned forward, barely able to keep the binoculars focused on the Nova. The car was moving now, approaching the red traffic light at the end of the block at Lexington and Thirtieth.
Hearn watched the car ease to the corner, never halt completely, and turn.
"He ran the light" said Hearn.
Shassad could stand it no longer.
"A red one?"
Knowing what his partner was thinking, Hearn nodded the leprechaun grin he saved for moments of special joy "Let's go fuck him" said Shassad.
The red beacon was still flashing on the dashboard of the unmarked police car. The Nova had been pulled to the curb on Lexington Avenue.
Shassad and Hearn approached it from different sides.
The driver of the Nova, sitting 'with his arms folded, looked through the window at Shassad.
"Lower that window or I'll punch it in!" snapped Shassad.
"I want a license and registration out of you!" He banged the window twice with his fist.
Hearn watched the driver and inspected the Nova from the other side.
With deliberateness that was meant to antagonize, the man at the wheel slowly rolled down the window.
"What seems to be the problem?" he asked calmly in foreign-accented English.
"You! License and registration."
Grudgingly the driver handed both documents to Shassad.
"I'm a member of the diplomatic corps" he said.
Hearn eyed the trunk of the car. Then he walked around to join Shassad.
Shassad glanced at the man's license. Andre Corescaneu, an attachi of the Romanian delegation to the United Nations. -Shassad knew he couldn't touch him with a motor-vehicle violation. He also knew he couldn't tip his hand and let Corescaneu know that Jacobus, whom the Romanian obviously knew, was the subject of surveillance. There was no other choice. The detectives would have to slip into their act. It called for a temper tantrum.
"You see?" said Corescaneu.
"Diplomat. You cannot-" "Get out "What?"
"Get out!" roared Shassad.
"Get out of that car before I haul you out!"
Apprehension showed on the diplomat's face.
"You can't-" "The rules are off, fella" barked Shassad, glaring into the car.
"I'm doing whatever I want tonight."
Corescaneu was flabbergasted, not knowing how to react.
"Come on, come on," Hearn said.
"Calm down." He put his hand on his partner's shoulder.
"No, fuck it!" screamed Shassad.
"I've had it with these frigging foreigners. I'm writing him up!"
Hearn looked at the man in the car. His expression was one of compromise.
"Look. My buddy's in a real bad mood. Step out and we can all calm down."
Corescaneu looked at Hearn carefully, then complied.
"I'm running him in'" said Shassad.
"Fuck his diplomatic immunity. I'm arresting himl" "You can'tar-" began Corescaneu.
"Don't tell me what I can't do!" snapped Shassad, his eyes raging.
"Don't you know what a red light means?"
The Romanian shook his head.
"Liar," snarled Shassad. He looked down at the license and registration.
"How do I know this is you?" he asked.
"Of course it's me," said Corescaneu defensively.
"Prove it Indignantly, Corescaneu did what Shassad wished. He produced a passport. Hearn noted the number.
Corescaneu was obviously concerned now. Not by any legal trouble that he'd be in, his diplomatic status would protect him. What he feared was harassment from an enraged local police officer. Shassad paced up and down beside the car, looking for something wrong.
"I say this is a hot car," he finally decided.
"Hot?"
"He means stolen" Hearn offered.
Corescaneu kept l'looking around, feeling trapped and in danger.
"Is not a stolen car," he said.
"Prove it."
He pointed to the registration.
"That don't mean nothing," sneered Shassad.
"Hey, Aram, take it easy," said Hearn.
"I want this fucker fingerprinted. I want the car searched' He looked back to the diplomat.
"What's in the trunk?" he asked.
"Nothing" "Bullshit," Shassad said.
"I'm having you towed in' Shassad went back to his car, as if to use a radio, which he didn't have. Corescaneu protested heatedly.
"Why don't you let him look in the trunk" suggested Hearn.
That'll cool him down. If he's convinced you haven't got anything, he'll let you go."
The diplomat looked back and forth between the two cops.
"All right," he finally said.
"There is nothing" With amazing eagerness, convinced that the detectives would never understand the implication of what they were looking at, Corescaneu opened the burlap sack and pulled out one dozen empty film cans, cans used to store movie film, the size of reels used for a standard professional projector.
"What's all this for?" Shassad asked.
Corescaneu explained. He pointed to a name tag on the sack. He had a friend who worked for a Romanian film company, Rota Films, located on Vaiick Street. The friend didn't own a car. So Corescaneu, good Samaritan that he was, was helping his friend move the dozen empty film cans.
"I j
ust picked up the bag down on Varick Street," the diplomat offered.
"Is that a fact?" mumbled Shassad, apparently appeased.
"See?" said Hearn to his partner, appearing to grow bored with their captive.
"He's just a wild foreign driver. But there's nothing in his car."
Corescaneu nodded eagerly.
"Is nothing' he said.
"Come on, Aram," said Hearn.
"Let's have some coffee and forget about it" Shassad shot Corescaneu a withering look.
"Get those cans together and get out of here" he said.
"And if I ever see you run a light again, I'll run you in for reckless endangerment" "You can't" said Corescaneu without thinking. Shassad's eyes blazed. The diplomat quickly turned, fumbled the loose cans together, closed the trunk and hopped back into his car before Shassad could change his mind.
Shassad and Hearn sat in the warmth of their car.
"I got a hunch," said Shassad, perfectly calm, lighting a cigarette.
"I say we scored. I say now we snoop around Rota Films."
Chapter 20
He looked at her from across the city newsroom. Andrea was seated at her desk, leaning back in her chair. A man two decades older than she, a professorial-looking man who'd gracefully entered his later years, sat on the edge of her desk and engaged her in a subdued but intense conversation. Even before they saw him, Thomas Daniels knew who the man was. He had a sense of intruding.
"Thomas" she said with animation when she spotted him. She leaned forw'and quickly, then stood.
"You're just who we were talking about ' She embraced him fondly.
"I'm sure you were," he said flatly.
The older man was on his feet now. He was standing uncomfortably, waiting to be introduced.
"This is Augie Reid," she said.
"He covers Albany and the idiots in the state legislature for us ' "I know," Thomas said.
"I've seen the by-line' The two men extended their hands in a chilly, if nonetheless civil, greeting.
"Don't let me interrupt anything" Thomas said, perfectly pleased that he had interrupted.
"If you're having an intimate chat, newspaper work or otherwise, I could come back' "Not a chance" Andrea said, leaning over and pulling a chair from a neighboring desk.
"Sit." A woman with an insatiable appetite for gossip or argument, she wanted to see the two men faced with each other. Thomas knew it.
"I was just leaving, anyway," offered Reid politely. His pipe went from his left hand back to his mouth. A thin stream of smoke drifted upward.
"Maybe all three of us should talk," Andrea suggested. Thomas looked at Reid with thinly veiled displeasure. Reid shook his head mildly to Andrea.
Thomas. sat and threw a jaundiced eye upward toward Reid.
"Do we have something to talk about?" he asked.
"Oh, I doubt it'" offered Reid amiably.
"Maybe your father."
Daniels was quick to frown and pursue the point.
"What?" he asked, a suggestion of anger in his tone. Everywhere, everywhere, William Ward Daniels.
Reid offered a smile.
"Met him once" said Reid, teeth clenched on the pipe. -The man impressed me. Only reason I mention it is my older brother knew him well" Reid perceived that Thomas was annoyed at something.
"No offense intended' he said.
"None taken," said Thomas slowly.
"When did your brother know him?" The question was cautious, exploring the territory.
"City College," said Reid. Thomas could see that the reporter was studying him as he spoke. Daniels disliked people who seemed to look through him when conversing. He'd seen too many of them.
"They were classmates together. Prelaw"Another puff of smoke was launched toward the ceiling.
"Knew each other very well there, in fact. Debating team. Political Science Union. Chess Club. My brother," added Reid, changing pace just slightly, 'he died about two years ago-' "I'm sorry."
Reid shrugged, as if this were the accepted course of things, and continued, 'my brother said that your father possessed the most overpowering intellect he'd ever met" Thomas shrugged in non commitment He'd heard it all before, too many times.
"Only one thing puzzled him. Mind if I tell you?"
Andrea took in the exchange greedily. She loved it. Reid waited for a response and when Thomas acquiesced in silence, Reid continued.
"City College back in the thirties," the reporter said.
"well, I'm old enough to remember a bit of that myself. Great ideologists.
Reaction from the Depression. Reaction to capitalism. Know what I'm going to say?"
"No," said Thomas. He didn't. But he was hooked. He watched another puff of smoke rise. The reporter knew how to draw someone into a story. Reid held the pipe in his hand.
"All the great intellects were left wing" he said. shaking his head, he added,
"Understandable. That's where the intellectuals were.
With the great Russian Experiment,as they called it. They hadn't had to excuse the Stalin purge trials yet. But that's aside from the point. The point is, my brother was always puzzled by your father.
He was the intellect of his class. The intellect. And he went the other road completely. The other wing. And all that jingoistic nonsense."
Thomas shrugged slightly as if to ask what that proved.
"Well said Reid, recovering slightly, "human beings do things for reasons. Other human beings try to figure out why. How could your father have come out of that same environment and been so different politically?"
"I have no idea" said Thomas flatly.
"Ever wondered'?"
"No" he admitted.
Um 'hummed Reid.
"People are people, I suppose." He was thoughtful.
"He flirted with socialism for a while, my brother used to tell me.
Sold socialism to other freshmen, then dropped it himself "Who?"
"Your father," said Reid with a slight smile.
"For a few months as a freshman. You act surprised."
"I am" Reid offered a pensive and perplexed expression as if to say,
"What does it mean? I don't know." He said in closing,
"Well, guess it doesn't mean much now. See you again sometime ' He offered his hand. Thomas took it without resenting it. He didn't dislike Reid as much as he'd wanted to. For some vague reason, he didn't dislike him at all.
Reid nodded to Thomas and Andrea, made an awkward half move – as if starting to lean forward to kiss her, then thinking better of it -then turned and left. Thomas sat by her desk in silence for a few moments watching him leave.
"They're getting older all the time, aren't they?" he asked.
"Who?"
"Your new beaux" he said.
"Aren't you afraid you might give him a heart attack?"
Her eyes narrowed and focused on him sharply.
"I could ask you to leave for a remark like that' "I'm sure you could.
We'll start again. How was your trip?
"Youe in the plural sense."
"Profitable' ' "Profitable?" he asked, exploring the use of the word.
"I enjoyed myself. I'm getting to know Augie very well Thomas shrugged.
"I have eyes. Why do you have to tell me?"
"Because this is partially for you' "For me? What is?"
"Augiel" she said, as if in revelation.
"And the Sandler case. It all fits together."
"Not for me it doesn't. The power of instant and devastating insight was not one of the traits my father passed on "A shame " she said.
"Perhaps that's true. So I'll explain. Augie's a political historian in addition to being a reporter. Political and social ' "So?"
"And his particular field of expertise, if you want to call it that, is intelligence services. Nineteen forties and fifties There was a pause as Thomas sat there unmollified but now interested.
"The fact is'" she continued, 'that he was an intelligen
ce officer in the war." She smiled with a mixture of smugness and self-efficiency.
"I've been plying him with questions," she said.
"Questions beyond the routine ones."
"What are you talking about? The Sandler case?"
"Of course. Espionage systems" She nodded to the direction in which Reid had disappeared.
"That man is a walking compendium of the various intelligence systems.
He taught a course on it at Columbia in the early sixties, before interest in such things went out of vogue. But," she explained further and again that smile returned,
"I have ways of getting him to talk even more than he would to his class. A man will answer any question when his mood is properly arranged."
He looked at her with an attitude that bordered on disbelief An instinct for the jugular was one thing. But here was an instinct toward a more remote artery, the secret unspoken recesses of a man's memory. His father would have loved it.
"You're incredible," was all he could mutter.
"Is that all you see in him?"
She opened her hands as if to say maybe, maybe not.
"He's an attractive man in his own way. I enjoy his company. I enjoyed being away for a week with him. Pleasure with business, you could call it."
"There are a lot of things you could call it " "Call it anything you prefer," she said.
"I love this Sandler story.
You're breaking into a terrific story. I want to understand it piece by piece as you uncover it. I have to understand it." She raised her eyebrows.
"You promised it to me, remember? I promised to help you as much as I could. In return, the story's mine."
He nodded.
"That was the agreement."
"What brings you here today? It's Sunday."
"The Times files."
"What about them?"
"Can you get me access to them?"
She pondered it for a moment.
"Yes. Why?"
"I want to find out about an airplane crash in 1971," he said.
"Then I want to go farther back. I want to read everything in the newspaper files pertaining to two men."
"Who?" she asked.
"Sandler's one, obviously. Who's the other?"
He hesitated only slightly before answering.
"Who were we just discussing?" he asked.
"Why not?" she answered.
"Let's go."