The Manhattan Deception

by Simon Leighton-Porter

  ‘You missed a speech and a half there, James.’

  ‘Oh really. Who was that anyway?’ he said without even trying to hide his boredom.

  More incredulous looks. ‘Are you kidding? Billy Dorfmann was number one cheerleader for the Mike Murphy campaign right up till the New Hampshire primary but now he’s backing us all the way. As superdelegates go he’s one hell of a feather in Eric’s cap. They don’t come any bigger than this.’ They all looked at him expectantly. Poor sod thinks I’m supposed to be impressed, thought James, who dutifully mumbled what he hoped were the right words. This seemed to have the desired effect and the Stepford acolyte turned his adoring gaze once more towards the stage.

  In his absence, James noticed that the congealed rubber chicken had been removed and in its place was something, a dessert he assumed, that appeared to be made entirely of artificial colourings. He prodded it around disconsolately and tried to blot out the noise coming from the rostrum. And to think he’d been looking forward to this.

  It was after ten o’clock when the campaign bus delivered them to the airport for the trip home. For James, the relief at the prospect of getting back to Washington was tempered by the worrying thought of having to share Pauli’s company on the short flight. He wasn’t even sure whether he’d be banished to the back of the aircraft because when he sat down, Pauli was nowhere in sight. Eventually, the man arrived looking tired but happy as he waved goodbye to the group of local party operatives who’d gathered at the foot of the steps to see him off. He slumped down into the seat next to James without even acknowledging his presence. James looked defiantly straight ahead, determined not to allow Pauli to intimidate him this time.

  Finally, Pauli broke the taut silence. ‘Guess today’s given you a lot to think about, hasn’t it?’

  James’s reply was noncommittal, ‘You could put it that way. I’ve certainly learned a lot.’

  For the first time since they had been back together, Pauli turned to look at him. ‘Like what?’ he asked.

  ‘All kind of things, I suppose. That I’m not cut out for a life in politics; that almost none of what I saw – or even ate – today was real. Saccharin and colouring are fine if you like that kind of thing, but not for me thanks.’

  ‘That isn’t what I was talking about, James. Politics is like that. There’s stuff I want to change, stuff I will change if I’m elected – even campaign finance laws to stop my future opponents having the use of private jets like this one – but when it comes to what you have to do out on the stump, that ain’t ever going to change.’

  James pulled a face of distaste. ‘I know this is politics, but it was all that fakery about pretending to be best buddies with people you’ve never met before and will never meet again that gets me. I know you all do it, but it still sticks in the throat.’

  ‘Politics is the art of the possible, James. D’you know who said that?’

  ‘I always thought it was Rab Butler.’

  ‘Nope. Otto von Bismarck – can’t get away from us goddam Germans, can you? Listen, if I took the time to try and build a relationship with every local Democratic party official who sweats his guts for me, I’d be dead long before I’d got half way, let alone getting to know the individual voters.’

  ‘But it’s such a corny act.’

  ‘Of course it is, and some of those people in the hall tonight who’re leading shitty, badly-paid lives are going to carry on just the same whoever’s in the White House, but not all of them if I have my way, that’s why I do it. Yes, it’s phony, yes I need them to like me because if they don’t they won’t vote for me, and if they don’t do that, I can’t make their lives any better. However big a crock today was, the ends justify the means. If I doubted that I wouldn’t do it….’

  He was interrupted by the twin Allison turbofans spooling up. On either side, blurred white lights sped past the rain-streaked windows as the aircraft accelerated down the runway into the darkness. James noticed that Pauli’s hand was shaking as he grasped the arm-rest: if flying scares him that much, he thought, then he’s certainly got guts to do it every day. The climb-out from Yeager Airport was bumpy until the aircraft cleared the cloud-tops at 20,000 feet and at last, Pauli’s hand unclenched from the armrest and he turned once more to James.

  ‘I’ve been doing some thinking about our conversation earlier.’

  ‘Oh really?’ said James with an air of studied indifference.

  ‘Yeah. Been thinking that maybe I was a little harsh on you.’ Here we go; bad-cop, good-cop thought James. ‘Guess I’d have done pretty much the same as you in the circumstances,’ said Pauli. ‘But I wouldn’t have been so dumb as to sit tight on the gold.’

  ‘When I get home I’m going to drop it in the ocean,’ said James. ‘If I’d let on that I had it, my uncle Bill would’ve been seen as nothing better than a looter.’

  Pauli gave a scornful laugh. ‘So explain to me how what he did wasn’t looting.’

  ‘You’re right: it was. But it was also a long time ago – it just seemed pointless to drag his name through the mud.’

  ‘Don’t get me wrong,’ said Pauli. ‘I know why you did it and I think I can help you.’

  James was on the defensive once more. ‘And what makes you think I need your help?’

  The snarl briefly returned to Pauli’s voice. ‘You didn’t listen to what I told you this morning, did you? I can have you arrested for what you’ve done, and if that happens, not only your uncle’s but your name will be dragged through a lot worse than mud. I take it you’re planning on looking for a new job when you get back to London?’

  ‘I am.’

  Pauli shrugged. ‘Well, you know the City of London better than me, but I don’t think a conviction for handling stolen property is likely to play any better than it would on Wall Street. Now d’you get my meaning?’

  James nodded. ‘Oh yes, loud and clear,’ he said. ‘You’re not offering to help me, are you, Eric? You’re blackmailing me.’

  ‘Blackmail, help: what’s the difference? Semantics, that’s all,’ said Pauli, ignoring the provocation. ‘Here’s my offer. You do what the hell you like with the gold and in return you give me those four letters of transit. Legally, I guess they’re yours just as much as they are mine, but they’re part of my family history. I know next to nothing about my parents; no pictures, no nothing, so anything tangible is precious to me. Do we have a deal?’

  ‘Looks like we do,’ said James with a shrug.

  ‘Splendid,’ said Pauli, clapping James on the knee as though they were old friends. ‘I’ll get Vince Novak to draw up something for you to sign just in case you were thinking of double-crossing me.’ James opened his mouth to protest but Pauli spoke first. ‘Don’t take it personally; in the circumstances, I’d sure as hell double-cross you.’

  Chapter Twenty-six

  Three months now and still no news other than Köcher, who was ambassador to CH, not dead after all but conflicting reports on where he is. Tantalisingly close – if anyone knows what happened to the consignment, he will. A. almost like his old self once more and spends all his time planning our escape.

  *

  James could hear from the tone of Cathy’s voice that his call had woken her and she was not pleased. However, as soon as he related his conversation with Pauli, she switched from drowsy to wide-awake in an instant. They agreed to meet for breakfast the following morning at his hotel and James, although desperate for sleep himself, started looking on-line for the earliest flight out of Washington to the UK.

  Cathy arrived on time at seven. She looked gorgeous he thought as he rose to meet her. After five hours’ sleep, he felt exhausted and frightened: it showed.

  ‘You look terrible,’ she said. ‘What did Pauli do to you?’

  Cathy sat in silence, nibbling at a croissant and sipping a black coffee while James told her about his ordeal.

  ‘I’m worried,’ she said when he had finished. ‘I hope I’m wrong, but I’m starting to see all kind
s of scary connections with the murders, and so are the police.’

  ‘You mean connections with Pauli?’

  ‘That’s what I’m seeing. I know we kicked this around before, but I still can’t work out how he fits in. Trouble is, the big connection the police see is with New Horizons magazine in general and me in particular.’

  ‘But why?’

  ‘Just tick off the links: I take over a story from Lisa Greenberg who’s just died – first they said it was an accident, now it’s murder. Then, I’m contacted by the son of a recently deceased scientist who just happens to have probable links to Pauli’s parents – not that the police have figured that out – and surprise, surprise, the son’s murdered a few hours before I’m supposed to meet him. Next it’s the creep from our IT department – I know I shouldn’t call him that, but that’s what he was.’

  ‘Was? Not another one?’

  ‘Afraid so. Apparently, he’d been downloading details from the magazine’s diary and activity system – it’s old technology but everything has to go through it – and, get this, he was passing everything on to a couple of bogus FBI agents who said they were investigating Lisa’s murder. A murder that everyone else, including the cops, until now, thought was an accident. Next, he turns up outside my house and is in the middle of trying to hack my wireless connection when DC’s finest run him in. And the following day he’s found with half his head missing. Now, that’s four dead bodies and if you’re a cop, who’s the connection?’

  ‘You are.’

  ‘And that’s exactly what they said.’

  James looked at her aghast. ‘So what did you tell them?’

  ‘That I’m covering the nomination stakes for both parties which means doing in-depth research on all the candidates, their key donors, business contacts, campaign staff, voting records, the works. I’m a political correspondent, it’s what I do. And if that’s pissed someone off to the extent that they’re going round killing people then I’m very sorry but it’s got nothing to do with me.’

  ‘Did they believe you?’ he asked.

  ‘Probably not but I’m trying not to lose any sleep over it. I think the trail points Pauli’s way and assuming he’s not the killer, then he’s in danger too. But until I’ve got proof of how he fits in then there’s no point stirring up trouble.’

  ‘D’you think the proof’s out there?’

  ‘I’m sure it is. One thing’s for sure: Pauli knows more about his parents than he’s letting on. He took a big risk showing you that: if you’d called his bluff, you could’ve stranded him a long way up the creek without a paddle.’

  James shook his head. ‘I had no choice. All he’s got to do is call the police and if they turn the house over they’ll find the letters and the gold.’

  Cathy stared at him intently. ‘And then what? You haven’t thought it through any more than he has.’

  A puzzled look spread across James’s face. ‘I’m not with you.’

  ‘OK. He calls the British police; they search your house and find the gold. You deny you even knew it was there. No one but Pauli cares about the letters, maybe a museum might, but the police sure as hell won’t.’

  ‘But I handled one of the bars,’ he said. ‘It’ll have my fingerprints on it.’

  ‘The protective coating will. How were you to know that of all the metal blocks in the workshop that you touched, some of them were gold bars?’

  ‘It’ll still mean a whole load of bad publicity for Bill Todd and for me, come to that,’ said James.

  ‘Typical man,’ said Cathy with a smile. ‘You only think about yourself, don’t you? Your fifteen minutes is over, James, you’re yesterday’s news. Pauli’s the one who needs to worry about bad publicity if his sainted anti-Nazi parents turn out to be a couple of crooks.’

  James stared into the distance, brow furrowed in concentration. ‘I see your point but I still don’t want to get into a pissing contest with someone like Pauli. I’ve already decided. I’m out of here on tonight’s 19:55 flight to London.’

  She shrugged. ‘Your call I guess, but I’m not going to let this drop. When you get back, can I ask you a big favour?’ Would you be willing to send me scanned copies of those letters? To my home e-mail?’

  ‘Sure, no problem. I’ve got a few things to sort out – ’ James was interrupted by the ringing of his mobile phone. Cathy watched and listened as he replied in a series of monosyllables and non-committal grunts. ‘Yeah, sure, I know where that is,’ he said. ‘I’ll be there, don’t worry.’

  Cathy looked at him with her head cocked on one side. ‘Who was that, your ex-wife?’

  James gave an ironic snort. ‘Almost as bad: Vince Novak.’

  ‘What did he want?’

  ‘Wants me to come to the Russell Senate building at 3 o’clock tomorrow to sign that document Pauli was talking about on the flight. The man himself is going to be off somewhere on the campaign trail. Rather him than me.’

  ***

  A short distance across town, Vince Novak snapped shut his cell phone. ‘I still think this is one hell of a risk, Eric.’

  Pauli leant back in his chair as though he hadn’t a care in the world. ‘Course it’s a risk. You don’t play poker, do you?’

  ‘You know full well I don’t.’

  ‘Well I do and I can tell when a guy’s playing a good hand badly. My guess is that our friend James Atkinson doesn’t play poker either or he’d have called me out in a heartbeat. We’ve nothing more to worry about.’

  ‘What if he’s told the girl?’ asked Novak.

  ‘I’m sure he has. After all, why else are they having breakfast together at his hotel this morning?’

  ‘True, I guess,’ Novak said. Pauli could see from Novak’s expression that he wasn’t convinced.

  ‘Look, Vince, the girl’s got DC Homicide breathing down her neck. Atkinson’s running scared: he’s on the seven fifty-five flight tonight. When he gets home, he’s going to make damn sure those letters stay under lock and key, and I’d put a bet on him dumping the gold in the sea like he said. The time we need to start worrying is when he turns up here tomorrow to sign some stupid document that doesn’t exist – which he won’t because he’ll be back in London.’

  Novak shook his head. ‘I still think it’s one hell of a chance,’ he said. ‘The guy’s no idiot and I don’t buy the Bertie Wooster act for one minute.’

  Pauli thought for a moment. ‘So would it make you happier if we leant on him a bit just to make sure?’

  ‘Yeah, it would. What did you have in mind?’

  ‘Oh, nothing illegal – just a bit of harmless fun,’ said Pauli. ‘He’s out of his comfort zone and scared shitless – just want to make sure he stays that way.’

  ***

  All the way to the airport, James kept looking over his shoulder. The traffic was so dense that it was impossible to tell whether the car was being followed and in the end, with a stiff neck, he gave up. Once inside the terminal, he felt safer – just another face in the crowd – and after clearing security and dropping his carry-on bags in the airline’s business lounge he wandered back into the main terminal to kill time by strolling around the shops. He was about to go into the Smithsonian Museum Store when he heard someone say his name. Turning round, he saw a smartly dressed man of around his own age and height but about twice as wide. ‘Sorry to see that you’re leaving town in such a hurry, Mr Atkinson,’ said the stranger. ‘But don’t worry, our counterparts from the Metropolitan Police will be in touch with you shortly. Have a nice day, sir.’

  James stood rooted to the spot. The stranger turned away and melted into the crowd.

  What little calm had settled over James was instantly shattered by the stranger’s words and, as Pauli had predicted, when combined with the events of the last few days, the meeting threw him into a state of confusion verging on panic. With his mind racing and despite utter exhaustion, he only managed to grab a couple of hours’ fitful sleep on the aircraft.

  For once
, the flight was on time and he stumbled his way home via the Heathrow Express and London Underground, crowded and jostled by the morning rush hour, feeling detached from reality and desperate to get into a proper bed. Tired and distracted, James failed to notice the scruffily dressed man in the torn jeans and army-surplus jacket who followed him all the way from High Street Kensington station to his front door and barely broke stride as he glanced over from the other side of the road to note the number.

  James opened the door and was delighted to see that there were only a few envelopes waiting for him on the doormat. His relief was short-lived, however, as he noticed the pile of envelopes that his cleaning lady had arranged for him on the hall table. He dropped his bags on the floor and started checking through them: all bills and junk mail and he was about to file them all under “later” when he spotted the one he’d been waiting for. Postmarked four days ago, it was from his headhunter: he was invited for an interview with Hérisson Capital, a French-owned hedge fund based near Green Park, for the position of head trader. Things were looking up and the fear that had been stalking him just a few hours earlier was already fading to nothing more than a bad memory. Wandering through to the bedroom, his attention was caught by the flashing red LED on the telephone. He paged through the messages and saw from the numbers that most of them were from his ex-wife, one was from Mick Cuthbertson and the rest were either number withheld or ones he didn’t recognise. He listened to the first one – she was moaning at him about something as usual – and so before the will to live deserted him completely, he deleted it, stripped off, showered and was asleep within minutes. It was good to be home.

  Chapter Twenty-seven

  The Higgs woman brought me a letter today – she wants to know all about my “affair” but I pretended not to understand. Word at last from Köcher who is now in Argentina, living under an assumed name. Could barely open the envelope, hands shaking with excitement – says many old friends there but also bad news. Says aircraft from Berlin never arrived Fürstenfeldbruck so they all returned to CH empty-handed. A. spent the day in a terrible rage – says K. is lying – had to go out for a walk just to keep out of his way. Will now try to contact Reinebeck who used to work for Köcher but no idea where to start.