by Orca Various
I tell him for the second time, or maybe the third. I don’t stumble even once. Honesty is the best policy. It’s also the easiest. You don’t have to remember anything special. You just tell it like it is.
Carver shakes his head. “What a maroon,” he says.
“A what?” What is he talking about?
“Eric. His buddy too. All this texting. They think they’re so smart, and then they do dumb stuff. You can’t believe how many times email or texting trips people up. They think just because they delete it, it’s gone for good.”
I know that already. “A maroon?”
Carver shrugs. “I grew up on Bugs Bunny. Maroon—that’s his word for a moron. An idiot.”
“Good word.”
“So, we’ve got Eric for conspiring to kill you. He thought he had that all wrapped up with a bow—mysterious Spider Face kills only eyewitness to alley shooting. But he thought wrong. We can prove that, thanks to the texts on this phone. We also have him texting the owner of this cell phone where and when to be in that alley, which means we can make a second conspiracy-to-murder charge for Mitchell.” He means Duane. “We also have his buddy, the guy who shot Duane, thanks to some other texts that led us to friends of his who decided it was in their best interest to cooperate with us. That spider tattoo—temporary, by the way—was intended to focus your attention enough to make you a viable eyewitness, and therefore a target later on, without giving you what you needed to make a solid identification.”
“Smart.”
“Smart for a couple of maroons. If we’re lucky, maybe we can get a confession on the two college kids. It’d be nice for the parents. Eric and his pals are facing life for killing a cop. That might put them in the mood for a deal.”
He looks across the table at me.
“You want to tell me again about this guy Mitron?”
I tell him everything I know. While I talk, I think about the Major. How is he going to react when he hears about this? Mitron was his mentor. He looked up to the man.
“The girl isn’t disputing anything you told us,” Carver says. “We’ve got the boyfriend locked up. His name isn’t Noah Green, by the way. It’s Thomas Elliot. He’s descended from Irish immigrants. He never had a grandfather in a concentration camp.”
“Did you tell Katya?”
He nods. “She took it hard.”
“What about the safe-deposit box?”
“She handed over the key. She didn’t have to, but she did. She doesn’t want what’s in the box. As far as I can tell, she never did. She just wanted to make amends.”
“But she didn’t do anything.”
Carver lets out a long sigh. “Family is a funny thing,” he says. “It gets to you in ways you don’t expect. When she found out about her great-grandfather, she says it made her feel evil, that just knowing she was related to a man like Friedrich Waldmann made her feel that she was part of it.”
“But it’s not true.”
“True or not, she blames Waldmann for the way her brother turned out. Like I said, family is a funny thing. How we feel about ourselves—sometimes we don’t get that just from the living. Sometimes we get it from the dead.”
I think about my mother. I can’t help it. When Carver says that, there she is. We’re in that car together, driving through the Canadian Shield and past a sign that warns about falling rock. We’re there because I pestered her to take me someplace she didn’t want to go. That car ride was my very last trip with her. It’s a long story, but I know that Carver’s right. Sometimes we get as much from the dead as we do from the living. Sometimes more.
Another hour passes before Carver is finally done with me and I’m in the clear. He believes me when I tell him I’ll come back when and if he needs me again. When I finally step out of the interview room, someone is waiting for me.
My grandma.
All of a sudden, I’m a little kid again. I run to her, almost bowling over a couple of uniforms, one of whom snarls, “Watch it, kid!” All I want is to throw myself at my grandma, who, in case I haven’t mentioned it yet, is the coolest grandma in the world.
Then I see she isn’t alone.
Ari is with her. Grandma notices my reaction.
“He drove me down,” she says. “I was so worried, Rennie.”
I embrace her and feel her arms wrap around me in a bear hug, emphasis on bear. Even at her age, Grandma still goes to the gym. She does a weights class. She jokes that the weights aren’t as heavy as they used to be, but there’s tone in her muscles. I can feel it under her heavy winter coat and what I am guessing is a thick wool sweater.
“Are you mad at me?” I ask.
She hugs me again, and that’s my answer.
“I understand you’re free to go,” she says. “So what do you say we get out of here?”
Ari bundles us into the backseat of his car and takes us to a nice restaurant, for which I’m actually grateful. All of a sudden I’m ravenous. While we eat, I tell Grandma everything.
“Well, that explains that,” she says.
“What?”
“Your father was surprised to hear from Ed Mitron after all those years.”
I think about the Major. “He’s going to be pretty upset when I tell him what happened.”
“He’s going to be relieved you’re okay,” Grandma says. “That’s all he ever cares about, Rennie.”
I open my mouth to argue with her. The Major? Relieved? I end up not saying a word. I hope she’s right.
I pull out the little leather photo album and flip through the pages. Grandma is intrigued.
“Curtis, Katya’s grandfather, says he took some pictures that prove David McLean—” I stop. “He says he took some pictures of David McLean.”
And, sure enough, I find them. There are three of them. One shows my grandfather beaming as he shakes hand with Friedrich Waldmann, aka Heinrich Franken, who looks relaxed in casual clothes. He’s standing in the street in front of the house I visited in Buenos Aires. There’s a second picture, this one with David McLean, Waldmann and an attractive young woman. “That must be Mirella,” I say. “Waldmann’s wife.”
“She looks too young.” Grandma leans in for a closer look.
“She was only a year older than Waldmann’s son,” I tell her. “It’s hard to imagine what she saw in Waldmann.”
“Well, she looks happy enough. Maybe she just wanted to go to the United States.” She points to another picture. “Well, look at that.”
I look. It’s a picture that clearly Curtis didn’t take, because he’s in it. It’s a photo of him and Mirella. Mirella is smiling at the camera as she holds up a map of the United States and points to its west coast. Her expression seems to say: Look at this! This is where I’m going!
Curtis shows no interest in the map. He’s staring at her.
“If you ask me,” Grandma says, “that young man is in love with that young woman. Look at the expression on his face. Your grandfather used to look at me like that, Rennie.”
I’m stunned when she blushes. Boy, you never know about old people. It’s so hard to imagine them as young, but once upon a time they surely were. Curtis is right—how much does one generation really know about the one before it? I look at the picture again, and I see what my grandmother sees.
I take a look at another picture with David McLean in it. It’s similar to the first one—David McLean and Friedrich Waldmann shaking hands and smiling—and I’m trying to figure out if McLean’s smile is genuine or not when something catches me eye. There’s someone else there, almost out of the frame. A passerby—at least, that’s what he looks like at first. Until I recognize him. I pick up the album for a closer look. Grandma frowns.
“Rennie?”
I show her the picture, pointing to the passerby.
Grandma looks at Ari. So do I. The only difference between the two of us is that I’m surprised.
“That’s you.” I push the album across the table at Ari and point to the young man at the e
nd of the street, the man who looks like he’s just passing through.
Ari glances at the picture. He and Grandma exchange looks. Then Grandma gently pats her mouth with a corner of her linen napkin. She excuses herself and makes her way across the carpeted floor toward the hallway that leads to the washrooms. I watch her go. Ari takes a sip of his water.
“Did your grandmother ever tell you how we met?” he asks.
“No.” And to tell the truth, I don’t particularly care.
“It was when I was with Mossad.”
“Mossad?” He’s kidding, right? “The Israeli secret service?”
He nods. “My parents met right after the war, in a camp for displaced persons. They were both the only survivors of their families. I was born in that camp and raised in Israel. As soon as I was old enough, I joined the Israeli army. From there I was recruited by Mossad. Naturally, I had a special interest in bringing fugitive Nazis to justice.”
“You went after Waldmann too?” I look at the white-haired man across the table, his face tanned and deeply lined, his wild old-man eyebrows shooting out in all directions, his stomach straining a little too much against the buttons of his crisp shirt. It’s hard to imagine him in the army, let alone as some kind of secret agent.
“The Americans wanted Waldmann very badly. They were interested in developing weapons that would give them an edge over the Soviets. And Waldmann was reputed to be an expert in biological warfare. He had a file that contained all his notes and formulas. Of course, they didn’t tell David that. Instead, they told him that Waldmann had to be brought to justice, called to account for what he had done during the war. They asked David to go down there to ensure he got safely out of Argentina and back to America.”
“But why him? Was he working for the CIA?”
“I only know what he told me.”
“Which is?”
“An old friend at the Pentagon asked for his help.”
“Why?”
“Your grandfather knew Waldmann.”
“What do you mean? How?”
“They met after the war, when David was in the import/export business. It took him to South America regularly, and that’s where he met Waldmann. At a café, I think it was, studying a book on chess. David spoke excellent German, and he struck up a conversation with Waldmann—who at the time was going by the name Franken. Of course, he didn’t know who Waldmann was. And as I understand it, Waldmann claimed to have immigrated to Argentina before the war. I believe he even had papers to prove it. When his true identity came to light, the Americans thought they would have a better chance with him if he were approached by someone he already knew.”
Maybe that made sense. “But why the alias? He had an Argentinian passport under the name Klaus Adler.”
“It was all very hush-hush. The Americans didn’t want to raise any red flags. Waldmann wasn’t the only ex-Nazi in Argentina, you know. They wanted to get Waldmann out of the country quietly. Your grandfather also had false papers for Waldmann, who would be traveling in disguise. The two of them would be just two Argentinian citizens of German descent traveling in South America. Once out of the country, they would fly back to Washington.”
“Hush-hush? But his wife told the neighbors—”
Ari sighs. “Waldmann was less than discreet. He was a boastful man and proud of being recruited by the Americans. Perhaps if he had been more circumspect, things might have turned out differently.”
“What do you mean?”
“The Americans weren’t the only ones interested in Waldmann.”
“You mean the Russians, right?”
“Among others.”
“Among others?” I look at Ari. “Mossad wanted him too,” I say. “You wanted him.”
Ari’s eyes turn as hard as diamonds. “My mother’s family—her parents, her sisters, her brother—they all died in his camp. You bet I wanted him.” He gaze drifts away for a moment. He reaches for his glass and takes another sip. Then, drawing in a deep breath, he continues.
“David was instructed to offer Waldmann a job. Naturally, Waldmann leapt at the opportunity. But at the last minute Waldmann let it slip that he knew the Americans wanted him because of the research he had done on biological weapons. At the time, the Americans were very keen on getting and maintaining a military edge over the Soviets. David didn’t know this about Waldmann. I don’t know what he would have done if I hadn’t showed up.”
“What do you mean?”
“I was watching him—and Waldmann. A comrade and I…shall we say…intercepted their car on the way to the border.”
“You were going to kidnap Waldmann?”
“The Americans didn’t care if Waldmann was ever called to account for his war crimes. We did. We were going to see to it that he paid for what he had done.”
“So you hijacked David McLean.” I peer into those flesh-pocketed eyes and try to imagine the scene—my grandfather and this old man, both young, both determined, both doing what they saw as their duty.
Ari sighs. “That was the plan. Unfortunately, we hit a snag.”
“What do you mean?”
“I told you the Americans weren’t the only ones who were interested. The Russians got wind of him. I’m not sure how. It took us and the Americans a long time to track him down. And once the Americans found him, they were cautious. I have no idea how the Russians knew where Waldmann was, let alone how they knew where and when the Americans were taking him out of the country. But they found out. They got to your grandfather and Waldmann before we could. They ambushed them outside of the city.”
“So the Russians really did take Waldmann from my grandfather? That’s really true?”
“No,” Ari said. “It’s not.”
“Then what happened to him?”
“The Russians took him from David before we got to them. When they tried to handcuff him to get him into their truck, Waldmann fought like a demon. I think he knew what was in store for him. The Russians were harder on Nazis than the Americans. A lot harder. Waldmann managed to get free. I thought he would make a run for it, but that isn’t what happened.”
“You got to him?”
Ari shakes his head. “Like many of his fellows, Waldmann was a coward. He knew what the Russians would do to him once they had his secrets. He got a gun away from one of his captors, and he killed himself.”
I stare at him.
“You look exactly like those Russian agents did when they saw him pull the trigger. But there was nothing they could do. It was too late.”
“So what happened?”
“I don’t know what they told their superiors. But naturally, they wanted to get rid of any evidence of their failure. That meant eliminating David. Fortunately for him, that didn’t go according to plan either,” Ari said.
I stared at him. I knew my grandfather had been through a lot, but I’d had no idea how much. I tried to imagine what it must have felt like to face the Russians and know he was going to die.
“You stopped them, didn’t you?”
“My comrade and I, yes. We buried Waldmann. David told the Americans that the Russians had taken him. It was true as far as it went. The Russians, I suppose, would have blamed Mossad.”
“What happened to Waldmann’s file?”
“There was no file.”
“How do you know?”
“Because Waldmann told David. He boasted that he knew someone would pay him for what he had in his head—the results of all his experiments. His supposed secret weapon.”
“Supposed? You don’t think he really had one?”
Ari shrugs. “Whether he did or he didn’t, it became a moot point when he pulled the trigger. The matter was finished. But I think maybe David got a little satisfaction when he thought about the Americans sweating because they thought the Russians had Waldmann. And, of course, the Russians didn’t deny it. They would look like fools if they admitted he’d killed himself in front of their agents.”
We’re silent fo
r a moment. Now I knew what had happened to Waldmann. But what about David McLean?
“Was he a spy or wasn’t he?”
“I don’t know, Rennie. If he was, we didn’t know about it. And he never spoke to me about it again.”
I remember the notebook pages in code. I have them in my pocket. I pull them out and show them to Ari, but he just shrugs.
“Looks like some kind of code,” he says.
“Can you read it?”
He shakes his head.
“So that’s it?” I say.
“I’m afraid so.” He glances over my shoulder, and a soft smile crosses his face.
Grandma slides back into her chair. A waiter is right behind her with three glasses of champagne on a tray. He distributes them to us.
“The countdown is going to start,” Grandma says, raising her glass to a new beginning.
We count backward from ten with everyone else in the place. We all yell, “Happy New Year.” Grandma kisses both Ari and me, and I kiss her. Then I get out my phone and text my cousin Adam. Mission accomplished.
Sort of.
The next morning, we meet in the lobby of the Holiday Inn—Grandma and Ari and I.
“I need to make a stop before we leave,” I tell Grandma. “I need to return this.” It’s the photo album I took from Curtis’s room.
We stop at the old man’s house.
I don’t want to get out of the car. I don’t want to climb those porch steps and ring the bell. I definitely don’t want to talk to the old man. But sometimes you have to do a thing even if you don’t want to. So I get out of the car.
Katya answers the doorbell. I tell myself that whatever she decides to say to me, it’s okay. She has a right to be angry. But she doesn’t yell at me or tell me to get lost. And when I tell her that I want to talk to her grandfather, she steps aside to let me in. I glance over my shoulder to Ari’s car and see my grandmother. She nods her encouragement: You can do this, Rennie.
Gerry is in the living room, his feet on the coffee table. He’s in the same clothes he was in last night when he came to the police station to get Katya. He looks blearily at me but doesn’t say a word.
Katya leads me down the hall to the old man’s room. Before she knocks on his door, she says, “The police found someone for me to talk to—about the safe-deposit box, I mean. I’m not sure what’s in it. I only know what Noah told me. But if it is what he told me, these people can help me track down any relatives so their valuables can be returned. For things where there is no one, they say I can give it to a good cause. I was thinking maybe a Holocaust museum or a memorial.”