Fear Itself

by Andrew Rosenheim

  Speak to a woman who owns the old Jahnke house on 4th Street in Livermore. Her name is Koehler. She knows the family who bought the house from Jahnke, and says Dreiländer was ‘adopted’ by them when Jahnke left town.

  J

  He landed in Washington just after two-thirty in the afternoon, having added Akron and Pittsburgh to the itinerary of intermediate stops. He called Guttman’s house and the phone was answered right away – again by a woman.

  ‘Is Harry there?’ he asked.

  ‘Who’s calling?’

  ‘Tell him it’s Rossbach,’ he said, using the alias from Camp Schneider.

  ‘Could you hold on a minute, please?’

  He waited impatiently, looking through the window as two men in blue shorts and T-shirts pushed long-handled carts holding the passengers’ bags. At last the woman picked up the phone again. ‘Mr Guttman says on no account go to the office. He wants you to meet him at the bar by the Potomac tonight at ten.’

  ‘I can come out right now.’

  ‘No, that won’t be possible.’

  He said sharply, ‘Let me speak to Mr Guttman, please.’

  ‘I’m sorry, that’s not possible either.’

  His voice hardened. ‘Tell him I need to speak to him now.’

  ‘I don’t think you understand, sir. I was talking to Mr Guttman on the other phone line. He’s in New Jersey – he won’t be back until after supper.’

  He had six hours to wait so he went to the House of Youth. None of his colleagues at the Bureau knew where he lived, so there was no reason to think Mueller would be coming for him there, or anyone else. And despite the pull-down bed and munificent service in the air, he realised he was drained from the last twenty-four hours. His ‘one’ flight east had entailed seven sets of take-offs and landings.

  He took a taxi, making it clear to the driver before they’d even left the airport that he didn’t want to talk. Nessheim had him drop him off a block away and took his time walking to the house, checking the tree-lined street carefully for any waiting, occupied cars.

  The coast was clear. He went into the house and back to the kitchen, where messages were left for the lodgers. There was nothing for him, just a note pinned with a tack on the table for Plympton. He hesitated, then unpinned the paper.

  Frank,

  We’ve all gone out to Sally’s in Virginia. Call and say what bus you’re catching and I’ll come pick you up in Burke. See you tomorrow.

  Doobs

  So Plympton was away, but would be back in time to join the gang in Virginia for Decoration Day. Good, thought Nessheim. He wouldn’t have to duck their company while he sorted out what to do, since there was no longer any chance that Nessheim would be invited, too.

  He left the house at nine, half an hour after sunset, grateful it was dark. He was going against the flow of traffic – residents of Washington were leaving town for the one-day holiday, so it only took him twenty minutes to reach the river and find the sign, Steamers. This time the bar was crowded, full of the white workers from the next-door factory already celebrating their day off. The man with the nickel-sized wart was behind the counter, pulling beers; next to him a fat woman with dyed blonde hair was serving Sloppy Joes on hamburger buns, and slabs of freshly fried fish, gleaming with grease, which she slathered in mayonnaise and stuck between the mountainous halves of large soft rolls.

  He saw Guttman in a corner, sitting by himself with two full bottles of beer. Spying Nessheim, Guttman got up and disappeared into the back. Nessheim found him outside, sitting at a solitary picnic table. In the darkness of the bar’s back yard, he was eerily highlighted by light spilling like paint from a window upstairs, where a noisy private party was going on.

  ‘You made it,’ Guttman said.

  ‘I called you from the coast but some woman wouldn’t accept the call.’

  ‘That was the helper – she didn’t know who you were.’ He looked bone tired, but there was life in his voice again. ‘I’ve been to Princeton and back – 320 miles round trip.’

  He sounded so triumphant that Nessheim didn’t interrupt with news of his own discovery. Guttman explained, ‘Princeton’s got a little centre where they monitor foreign broadcasts in English. The prick who runs it wouldn’t help me over the phone, so I went there myself. Have a look,’ he said, taking a piece of paper from his jacket’s inner pocket.

  Nessheim took it and put it down on the table. In a patch of light he peered at the paper, which was part of a typed transcript:

  Announcer: This is Germany Calling, Germany Calling, Germany Calling.

  Lord Haw-Haw: Tonight I want to speak directly to our American friends, who must be looking with concern on events of Europe. There are those in that country who would like to join in the unfortunate war now spreading across all of this continent, but I think we can see through them easily enough. Money-men, financiers, lackeys of the House of Rothschild – the usual predators who profiteer from the misery of common men at war.

  We in Germany have no fight with the United States. After all, there are more people of German descent in that new country than of any other nation. Those descendants of Aryan stock will understand at once that the Reich bears no ill will towards its far-western neighbour.

  As this momentous Decoration Day in America approaches, I say to those of you who listen with open minds and decent hearts, that the best way ahead for America is peace, not war.

  The transcript ended:

  Before I bid you goodnight, I have a few messages for special friends. Spectre, watch the moon ascending. Donegal, continue as before. Dreiländer, the time is right.

  To all of you, goodbye. May peace be with you and the United States.

  Nessheim looked at Guttman, whose face was half in light and half in shadow. ‘Dreiländer.’

  Guttman nodded. ‘That’s right.’

  ‘How did you know where to look for this?’

  ‘Stephenson. It was all his doing.’ Guttman seemed happy to credit the Canadian. ‘We were trying to figure out how the Dreiländer would receive his orders. His contact Werner was dead, Jahnke’s in Germany, and the letters from Lady Dove don’t lead anywhere. So I wondered if they could be using radio sets – the Nazis we arrested in New York last year were using them to contact Berlin.

  ‘But Stephenson said nah, it’d be too risky – if the Dreiländer got caught with a transmitter-receiver the game would be up. But that’s when Stephenson had a eureka moment – why not a normal radio broadcast? There’s nothing suspicious about listening to the radio, and what safer way to reach the Dreiländer – since only he will understand the message?’

  Nessheim said, ‘You can listen to German broadcasts here on short wave.’ Mueller had.

  ‘Exactly. They’ve got this guy Lord Haw-Haw giving propaganda talks in English. Stephenson says his real name’s Joyce; he’s American-born but lived in England for years. So I went to Princeton to go through the transcripts, and this is what I found.’ Guttman stabbed a stubby finger at the paper. ‘I figure that’s the trigger – the time is right.’ Then his face fell, and he sighed. ‘What I don’t know is who the message is for.’

  Nessheim could contain himself no longer. ‘I do.’

  ‘You do? Why didn’t you say so?’ asked Guttman in astonishment.

  ‘The Dreiländer is Jake Mueller.’

  ‘Mueller? Are you sure about this?’

  ‘I am.’ Nessheim told Guttman about his discovery in Livermore, then looked at him anxiously. ‘What do we do now? There isn’t enough proof to bring charges against Mueller. You and I may know it’s him, but what real evidence do we have? Just a long chain of coincidences.’

  Inexplicably, Guttman was smiling happily; Nessheim wondered if the drive to Jersey had been too much for him.

  Guttman said, ‘I’ve got good news and bad news, kid.’

  ‘Get the bad out of the way.’

  ‘Mueller’s discovered that the President’s been using Cummings’s house as a rendezvous
. I don’t think he knows what FDR is doing there, but he’s on to something.’

  ‘How the hell did he find out?’

  ‘It doesn’t matter – in a way it even helps. Let me tell you the good news. Mueller’s in Canada with Eleanor Roosevelt – way out in Calgary. That buys us some time.’

  ‘Are you sure?’

  ‘Yeah. Marie talked to him yesterday on the phone – I told her to make up some excuse to call him. I don’t trust the bastard either, though I never had him down as a Nazi.’

  Harry the Heeb, thought Nessheim. He said, ‘Mueller will be back at some point. How do we protect the President then?’

  ‘By that time Hoover will know. He wants to see me first thing on Friday morning. I want you there too. In fact, I need you there. You can tell the Director everything you’ve discovered out in California. After that, he won’t let Mueller within a million miles of FDR.’

  ‘We’ve still got no real proof.’

  ‘We don’t need to.’ Guttman gave a great sigh of relief. ‘Until you showed tonight, all I had for Hoover was this Haw-Haw stuff – but I couldn’t have told him who the transmission was going to. When he hears Mueller’s cousin is the Chief of the Gestapo he’s got to have another think, even if he doesn’t accept that Jahnke planted Mueller years ago. After all, what if I went to the press, like your old hero Melvin Purvis? Can you see Drew Pearson’s column asking why the FBI hired a leading Nazi’s cousin and let him guard the President?’ He shook his head. ‘No, Hoover will have to act. And we can take our time to build the case against Mueller.’

  Nessheim finished his beer and put the empty bottle on the picnic table. ‘What do you really think of Mr Hoover? I mean, did you used to like him?’

  Guttman looked thoughtful. ‘I don’t really know how to answer that. He hired me, and I’ve been at the Bureau a long time – twelve years; I started only four years after he took over. Back then he was still a person. But the truth is, liking Mr Hoover doesn’t come into it. Not that he gives a damn if you like him or not, either. I respect him – he’s done a lot. The Bureau was nothing until he got here. To that extent, I’m grateful to Hoover, as any American should be.’

  Nessheim tried and failed to suppress a yawn. Guttman said, ‘Anyway, you should get some rest. Take it easy tomorrow – it’s a holiday after all. Whatever you do, don’t go into the office.’

  ‘Okay,’ said Nessheim.

  ‘Before you go, tell me about the aeroplane; I’ve never been on one. Were you scared? Jesus, I would have been.’

  ‘Nah,’ said Nessheim, trying not to think of the fear he’d felt when they hit turbulence over the Front Range of the Rockies. ‘It was a piece of cake.’

  35

  HE GOT BACK to the House of Youth after midnight. On the kitchen table there was a message for him, taken by his landlord.

  Miss Ryerson asks that you please go to Belvedere at noon tomorrow.

  What did Annie want? Was she coming in from Virginia to give him the audience he had requested? If so, she probably just wanted to lambaste him again for his probes into her past. He didn’t allow himself to hope she might have something else to tell him.

  The upstairs hallway was pitch dark, and Nessheim was glad to know that Mueller was in Canada. He jammed a chair under his room’s door knob, nonetheless, and slept with his .38 tucked under a second pillow on his bed. During the night he woke once, and wondered what had stirred him. Was that the faint noise of a footfall on the stairs? He strained to listen but it had stopped. He fell asleep again, convinced he had imagined it.

  He slept late, almost until ten, excusing himself with the thought that it was only seven a.m. out in California. When the sun came through the window he got up and took a bath, shaved, and dressed. He wore a jacket despite the sunny warmth of the day because he didn’t know if he was dressing for business or not. And that way he could wear his gun and holster. You never knew.

  * * *

  He timed his walk perfectly, reaching the Belvedere gates exactly at noon. They were closed but when he pushed they gave way, and he walked up the drive, feeling like a penitent rather than a guest. The house looked stark and cold, despite the increasing warmth of the day. He went round the back, where he rang the back doorbell. After a minute he heard steps on the kitchen’s hard tile floor, then the door opened.

  ‘Jimmy! How good to see you. Come on in.’ It was Frank Plympton, dressed for the weekend – a blue short-sleeved cotton shirt and khaki trousers.

  Nessheim was embarrassed. Would Annie have confided in Frank what he had written to her from the train; would she have said the ‘G-Man’ was sweet on her? Even if she had, Frank was being friendly, perhaps out of a victor’s magnanimity.

  Nessheim took a hesitant step into the kitchen. Plympton said, ‘You looking for Annie? Come on upstairs.’

  They went through the deserted spic-and-span kitchen, its big range cold and gleaming from polish, then out into the hall and up the grand staircase. Frank was talking, but Nessheim barely heard him. What a mistake this was. He didn’t know what he would say to Annie now, especially with Frank present. Was there some way he could pretend he’d never sent the letter? No. Was there some hole he could crawl into instead? No again, and with each step he was abandoning all chance of making his excuses and getting out of there.

  They reached the landing upstairs, and went past the elevator and the first guest bedroom to the open door of Annie’s converted office. He took a deep breath and followed Plympton in.

  Annie wasn’t there. He was disappointed, and relieved.

  Plympton said, ‘I’ll go find where she’s got to, Jimmy. Have a seat.’

  Nessheim perched uneasily on the Shaker chair Annie kept in a corner between her desk and the window. He felt slightly depressed, since clearly Annie didn’t want to have a heart-to-heart, not if Plympton was around.

  He heard Plympton coming down the hall from the bedroom. ‘In a minute,’ Plympton said, as he re-entered the room. He added cheerfully, ‘I’m sure you’ll be happy to wait.’

  ‘What do you mean?’ said Nessheim, with a robustness he didn’t feel.

  ‘Don’t you know?’ said Plympton. His voice was still friendly.

  ‘Frank, if this is about Annie, then let me explain.’

  To his surprise, Plympton seemed amused. ‘I saw your letter,’ he said. ‘It’s in the drawer over there.’

  ‘Then you know there’s been nothing—’

  Plympton cut him off. ‘Kind of nice, I thought. Reading it, I realised that a message from Annie would make you come running.’ He looked at his watch. ‘Won’t be long now.’

  As they sat awkwardly in silence – Nessheim on the Shaker chair, Plympton on the swivel chair behind the desk – he wished Annie would hurry up.

  ‘Pretty warm today,’ Plympton remarked, opening one of the desk drawers. ‘Take your jacket off, why don’t you?’

  ‘That’s all right,’ said Nessheim. He would feel too self-conscious, sitting in his shirtsleeves with a holstered .38 hanging from his shoulder.

  ‘They’ll be saddling up just about now,’ said Plympton, looking at his watch. It was expensive – a Bulova, which Annie had given him as an engagement present. Nessheim knew this because she had shown it to him and Dubinsky first, asking if they approved.

  Then he thought about what Plympton had said. ‘Who’s “they”?’ he asked.

  Plympton looked at Nessheim with curiosity. ‘Sally and the others, of course.’

  Plympton was still rummaging in the drawer as Nessheim looked out the window. The garage was empty – usually there were two cars in it. Sally would have the big Plymouth in Virginia, but with Annie here, he’d expect to see the other one – a Buick – which she would use to drive Plympton out to Five Forks. He was about to ask where the Buick was when Plympton said, ‘Take your jacket off, Jimmy.’

  His tone made Nessheim look over. Plympton was standing by the desk now, screwing a four-inch silencer onto the barrel of a .22 ca
libre pistol.

  ‘Jesus, Frank. Is that thing loaded? Be careful.’

  ‘Of course,’ said Plympton calmly and swung the pistol until its barrel, elongated by the silencer, was aimed right at Nessheim. ‘Stand up, Jimmy, but keep your hands away from your body. Then I want you to take your jacket off. Very carefully.’

  ‘What’s this about?’ Nessheim demanded.

  ‘Go on, do it. And I have to warn you: if your hand so much as brushes your holster it will be the last thing you ever touch.’

  Plympton said this so cheerfully that Nessheim was too stunned to react, but when the man impatiently waved the pistol Nessheim stood up right away, keeping his hands in the air. Taking painstaking care not to touch his .38, he pulled back both lapels of his jacket as if he were packing them in a suitcase, and wriggling first one shoulder, then the other, let the jacket fall in a heap on the floor.

  ‘Good. Now we’re going to do the same with the pistol. Take your hand and pull the holster strap down your arm. If you touch the gun I’ll shoot.’

  Plympton said this in the tone of a grown-up warning a small child not to play near the fire. Nessheim did as he was told.

  ‘Now drop the whole shebang onto the jacket.’ Nessheim did this, too, though the protruding butt of his .38 missed the coat and landed with a thud on the floor.

  Plympton frowned and moved from behind the desk. Without looking he kicked the holster and gun across the carpet towards the door to the hall. He motioned Nessheim to sit down again in the Shaker chair. Once he had, Plympton moved back and squatted to pick up the Smith & Wesson .38, all the while keeping his gun trained on Nessheim. Reaching for the shelf of the bookcase, he put Nessheim’s pistol down. Then he stood facing him, keeping his distance.

  ‘Take it easy, Jimmy,’ he said gently. ‘It won’t be long now.’