The Witness Tree

by Brendan Howley

  “Where?” Misha asked. The two lugs hadn’t stopped staring at him: apparently a Latvian Jew was a novelty.

  “I forget—you’re new. Every night at seven he takes a steam bath downstairs, talk strategy, crap like that. His campaign’s in the toilet, he never misses a steamer.” Hollander sighed and flicked away the cigarette ash. “I should be more positive. He’s got a radio speech tomorrow at nine a.m., so that’s what’s on deck.”

  “On deck?”

  “Skip it. There something else? Or you planning to move in?”

  “Will he have questions about the ledger accounts?”

  “I doubt it. I most sincerely doubt it. Now, if you’ll excuse us …”

  Misha left for his post in the bull pen. A telephone rang on the desk of a beehived brunette. “Vote Dulles in the sixteenth district,” she said mechanically. “Hello?”

  As Misha passed, the brunette tapped a pencil on her cheek, eyeballing him from head to toe, as if he were beef on the hoof. Politics, he decided, is a different country altogether.

  Misha presented himself at the hotel steam baths promptly at seven. The first to arrive, he sat and mulled over the briefcases and the cash, thinking of Cambridge and his history course on the glory days of gerrymandered England. The baths door opened with a cooling gust and an avuncular Allen, his laugh preceding him, led in the two lugs from Hollander’s office, wrapped in towels. Misha was naked, feeling very circumcised to boot, and wondering if he’d breached another mysterious facet of American etiquette, but Allen could have cared less.

  “Hello, there,” he said, waving affably through the mist, “this is Dave and that’s Walter. They’re from head office.”

  “We met,” said Dave, but Walter kept his peace. Allen sat next to Misha on the tiled bench across from the heavies, whose dull eyes never left Misha.

  “So, did Don tell you about the other part of the job?” Allen inquired.

  “No. I mean, I don’t think so.”

  “There are certain fund-raising activities we all have to do around here, all right?”

  “What’s it involve?”

  “Picking up contributions and bringing them to headquarters.” Allen suddenly seemed to find the backs of his hands highly interesting.

  “It’s easy,” Walter piped up encouragingly. “You won’t feel a thing. Tomorrow night. The guy’ll be waiting for you.” He showed his teeth, a bagman’s smile. Dave passed Misha a business card, then nodded toward the door; Misha took the hint. Walter and Dave stared at him as he passed, owls in the mist.

  “A good man, bring him to the radio speech for luck,” he heard Allen say as the steam bath door slid shut.

  The campaign team crowded in behind the big control board in the engineer’s booth at the Metro News studio for Allen’s radio speech: Misha, Hollander, a nervous speechwriter named Hewitt, and the coffee girl, fussing with a plate of untouched doughnuts. Hollander’s heavies minded the door. Clover Dulles was campaigning uptown with Eleanor in tow, giving a speech on Allen’s behalf at a ladies’ club, which Allen cheerfully referred to as “the hen party.”

  On the occasions they actually crossed paths, Misha noticed little chemistry between husband and wife, despite Clover’s best efforts to corral votes for Allen. Misha rather admired her for her quiet loyalty. Moreover, Misha already gleaned that it was a wise man who didn’t leave his wife alone at the country club with Mr. Dulles. “He’s a real Svengali,” Hollander had said. Now Misha knew what the old hack meant.

  Allen’s persuasive gifts worked best one-on-one and didn’t encompass speaking to the masses. He’d tried his speech out on Hollander before the On Air light went on; the politico immediately stripped out all the adverbs and urged passion. It made little difference to Allen’s delivery: he spoke like a sleepwalker on-air, but came alive in the booth afterwards.

  “Hate it, actually, talking into a microphone all on my lonesome,” he admitted, for a moment bashful and open and quite appealing, Misha thought.

  “Never mind,” Hollander replied, scanning his clipboard. “We’ll wow ’em tonight at the chicken dinner. Okay, everybody, car’s waiting.” Then, to Allen: “You have an hour.”

  In the hallway outside, Allen was in no hurry to join his handlers at the bank of elevators en route to the next campaign stop. Curious, Misha waved the others on, pointing meaningfully to the men’s washroom next to the studio. He then watched as the car went up, not down. Metro’s coffee girl was leaving the studio with her tray. Misha called to her, “Miss, what’s on the thirtieth floor?”

  “Oh, that’s the top brass. Their suites and all. Can’t get there unless you’re in the book.”

  Misha thanked her and blandly rode the next car to the thirtieth, arriving in a hushed hallway dominated by a mirror wall across from the elevator doors. A plaque stood on a wooden stand: No public access—Metro security. He stepped out, his campaign pass in his hand, ready to play dumb, just as the elevator bell rang again. This is like Charing Cross on a Friday afternoon, he thought, slipping around the corner to see who arrived next.

  A woman left the elevator, dressed to the nines, veiled and gloved and looking as if she’d just left the beautician’s. She moved to the strip of mirrors and raised her veil, examining her lips and flicking back a strand of red hair.

  Eleanor’s college friend. Misha had gathered she was all the other way, as a remarkable number of bohemian women in Greenwich Village were. But no: Misha did the arithmetic—wife uptown for ladies’ lunch, campaign team occupied preparing for this evening’s rubber chicken … and the candidate at liberty for an hour.

  As if on cue, Allen came round the corner. Misha caught them the moment their eyes locked. He couldn’t make out the murmured greetings, but watched as Allen kissed Grace’s gloved hand with a lothario’s practiced ease, watched Grace depart on Allen’s arm.

  The address was 50 Rockefeller Center, the Associated Press Building, twenty-eighth floor—the highest, Misha reflected, he’d ever been without wings. At the end of a cavernous polished hallway he stopped and read the reverse of Dave’s business card. The hallway lay in lunar shadow, but a cop read by the light of a bare bulb where the hallway split in two. “Where’s room 2806?” Misha asked.

  The cop looked up from his newspaper. “Down and to your left. Watch out for the scaffolding—they’re still wiring the twenty-ninth.”

  The cop shook his newspaper out: AGREEMENT IN MUNICH? the headline read. A photo spread showed the marching soldiers parading before a general and a cardinal, high above on a formal balcony.

  “What’s the latest?” Misha asked.

  “Looks like those crooks made a deal to cut up Czechoslovakia. Only nobody asked the Czechs.”

  “You’re one of few who care, officer.”

  The cop flicked the paper down and eyed Misha. “Hey, my mom’s from Prague. Believe me, mister, it’s all I ever hear about.” He inclined his head toward the light glowing softly through the transom glass at 2806. “Knock hard, pal. He’s a real prep school prick.”

  Misha winked as he knocked at 2806. “It’s open,” called a bored voice.

  Inside, a single gray metal desk occupied one corner of the office, the desk lamp the only light. A radio played on the desk, where an epicene young man studied a thick book entitled Corporate Law. “You the magic Latvian? I heard about you,” the fellow said, unimpressed.

  He wore a school tie, Misha noted, and had the look of the tennis club about him: the kind of uncomplicated personality who never quite leaves his school days behind.

  “It’s a whole city, this place.”

  The aide said nothing, smoking.

  “This your office?”

  “Fat chance. I’m where they keep the help, two floors down.” He worked the safe’s dial.

  “I see. Night school law?” Misha scanned the desk, seeing a letter addressed to Nelson Rockefeller. He gently slid the top letter aside with a fingertip: more letters for Rockefeller.

  “I flunked ou
t once, but my dad got me back in. I’d rather be bumming around Mexico. Those Mexican girls, I tell you.” He swung the safe open and produced a thick envelope out of the shadows.

  Misha took it. “That’s it?”

  The phone rang. “What? You were expecting the Rockettes—no, sorry, not you, sir,” he said into the handset. “Yes, it’s Callaghan here, sir. Gillette’s at the front door.” He rolled his eyes. “Yes. Yes. Will do. Good night, sir.” He put down the phone carefully, as if it might bite, then flicked a switch set in the desktop. “Yessirnosirthreebagsfullsir. Christ.”

  A squawk box came to life somewhere and a scratchy voice grumbled, “Gillette here. What’s up?”

  “Hey, Eddie, yeah, look, I’m starving up here. Go across the street and get me one of Monnie’s hot beef sandwiches and a Coke, will you? Oh, yeah, and a side of her peach pie. I got coffee here.” He flicked the switch back and stared at Misha, spoilt boy all over him. “Your guy going to win?”

  “My guy?”

  “Dulles. The boss’s lawyer. Your guy.”

  Misha composed what he hoped was a very American reply. “Sure. No problem.”

  “Don’t want to be throwing good money after bad, do we?”

  “No. We sure don’t,” Misha agreed, sharing a cynical grin, then left.

  In the elevator, he calculated from the weight and thickness of the envelope that he was carrying serious money: a good inch and a half of bills. He had his passport and more cash than he’d ever seen outside a bank. He toyed with the idea of a quick flit to Palestine, cashing in. Or the Far East: vanish there for decades, up in Burma. When he stepped out of the elevator, the ground floor was eerily lit and silent.

  Never mind Rockefeller’s cash. What we want, Misha decided as his obviously English shoes led him across the brand new floors of Rockefeller Center to the street doors, is a good look at Mr. Dulles’s mail.

  The afternoon after election day, Misha left his office early to pack up his things at the Belmont; everything fit into two boxes. He was about to move the boxes out to the taxi stand when he saw Allen crossing the empty campaign bull pen, alone, subdued. A phone rang on one of the desks and Allen walked right past it, catching sight of Misha. “Coffee’s on,” Misha said. “Might cheer you up.”

  “Uh, hello, Resnikoff. No, thanks,” Allen said. He looked flat, the fluent charm gone out of him.

  “Hard luck last night, Allen. We gave them a race, though. Everyone really pitched in.”

  “Yes, they did. That they did.” He dragged a spare chair next to Misha’s stripped desk. In the distance, the phone rang on. “Who can that be?” Allen wondered, but made no move to answer it. “You know, we haven’t spent ten minutes together, young man. Oh, I forgot to tell you, Eleanor called this morning, said to say hello. Are you close, you and my sister?”

  Misha lowered the last of his notebooks and papers into a box. “We met in Berlin and we keep bumping into one another near water.”

  Allen yawned. “Her and the water. It used to be trees.” He shook his head slowly. “Climbed trees quick as a squirrel. A tomboy. She’d like to be secretary of state. So would I. So would Foster. Things can get a little crowded.” He laughed softly and packed his pipe before he went on: “Still, good of her to mention you. You’ve done well, Hollander says. A nut cutter, Donnie—right out of the Standard Oil stable, one of the great political operatives, I always said. He’ll have that Nelson governor of New York one day. If Donnie likes you, you must be one too. Are you a nut cutter, Misha?”

  It occurred to Misha that Allen might have stopped at the hotel bar to fortify himself before cleaning out his desk. “I suppose if it’s a ‘him or me’ situation, then yes, I am.”

  “Thought as much. It’s in your eyes. I spent a lot of time sizing people up, when I was in Austria and Switzerland during the last war. I had a feeling about you. Eleanor said you’d be good. I can see why. What’s next for Misha Resnikoff?”

  “Back to research for National Cash Register.”

  The phone finally stopped ringing. Allen considered the smoke he was creating before he spoke again. “So you said. Business machines. Up-and-coming thing, I hear.” He glanced away; Misha followed his gaze to the office clock. “Automate everything. It’s the way of the world. Won’t need lawyers next.”

  “I saw your letter in the Times this morning on Hitler’s rearmament. You’re right: the clock’s ticking.”

  “Didn’t help my campaign much. Never mind.” Allen closed his eyes and rubbed them. “Sorry. I’m tired. It takes a lot out of you, politicking.”

  A whistle: a courier stood in his khaki jumpsuit, clipboard in hand. “You Mr. Resnikoff? Sign here.”

  Misha looked the package over: no return address, no postmark.

  “One of your girlfriends sending her regards?” Allen chuckled.

  “Spasiba, goszpada Boonaya,” Misha said.

  “Pardon?”

  “Russian for ‘thank you.’ My first American girlfriend, Mrs. Boone is. She loves it when I speak a little Russian.” Misha’s phone rang. “That’s her now.”

  Allen puffed away contentedly. “Maybe she’s written you into the will.”

  “You’d know, wouldn’t you?” Misha replied, then picked up the phone. “Sorry? No, it’s Resnikoff. Yes, he’s right here. Put her through.”

  He handed Allen the phone. Dulles cupped a wary hand over the receiver. “Not a reporter, is it?”

  Misha shook his head no.

  Allen listened, intent for a moment, eyes moving. “Five minutes,” was all he said, and hung up, brightened considerably.

  “Good news, I take it,” Misha said.

  “Best kind. Look, would you mind locking up? Don and the boys will close things up first thing tomorrow, get the rented furniture back. I should get home. Nice talking to you.”

  But we hardly did, Misha thought.

  “Thanks for your help. If you need me, just call.” Allen placed his card on Misha’s box and they shook hands. “Goodbye, Resnikoff.”

  Misha thought about the voice on the telephone for a moment as he watched Allen walk down Lexington through the Belmont’s big glass window. Something about Allen’s posture tipped him. Misha grabbed his coat. By the time he’d left the Belmont, he was half a block behind Allen and closing fast. At Fifty-first Street, Misha realized Allen wasn’t heading home at all; he was greeted at the cab stand by Grace Dunlop, who affectionately took his arm.

  Misha stepped back gently into a knot of pedestrians, watching as the couple boarded a taxi, heading downtown, not uptown, toward Allen’s townhouse on Fifth. The cab pulled away and Misha saw the passengers’ heads incline toward one another.

  Misha spun on his heel, went straight back to the Belmont bull pen, switched off all the lights, and then took the key to Allen’s hall office from Hollander’s key tree.

  He methodically searched Allen’s desk drawers, finding nothing much at first, but inside a folder marked Fundraising and Confidential he found a two-page client list on Sullivan and Cromwell letterhead. Even more interesting was the series of pink appointment carbons on Allen’s spike. One, a week old, read Standard Oil / Rockefeller / cloaking / BrownBrosHarriman.

  Misha took them all. Locked inside his own office, he opened the courier packet. There was an unsigned file card in crabbed English handwriting, with a safety deposit box key adhesive-taped to it. Decoded from its cover of an order for office equipment parts, the note read:

  Moscow Center situation fragile.

  Advised Resnikoff, Misha workname RUDI

  on a short list of suspect agents.

  Misha burnt the file card in his ashtray. The message fizzled with an aquamarine flame, leaving the antiseptic odor of a doctor’s office. Prepared paper, he knew, crumbling the warm ashes just to be sure.

  The teller left Misha alone in the familiar quiet of the Old Nassau Trust Company’s safety deposit examining room. The double-key box was ancient, its lid bent from decades of use, the black enam
el cracked. He opened the dun envelope inside, fanning out a detailed escape itinerary, three hundred in dollars in cash, and a Swiss passport in the name of Resnikoff, expiration date January 24, 1939: four months to run. In a felt bag he found a nine-millimeter Beretta and two full clips.

  All signs, he thought to himself, point to an interesting autumn.

  XXVI

  MID-OCTOBER 1938

  They were hammering somewhere deep inside the blackened ruin. Eleanor could hear the demolition men at work the moment she left the cab and began her trek across the forecourt, littered with half-burnt beams and fragments of roof, the acrid reek of smoke hanging in the fine morning air. An entire window frame lay near the front door and she guessed it might have been blown out—Eleanor left that thought alone, not wanting to contemplate its meaning.

  Across the street, the patrons of the Irish bar had their faces to the glass, watching. The man holding the folder marked Fidelity Mutual huddled with the fire marshal as the policeman led Eleanor past the yellow wooden sawhorse with NYFD stenciled on its sides. “He’s got no curve and they shellacked him the last time he tried that piecea shit changeup,” the insurance man argued. “Two on, two out. Jee—zus. Pull the guy, get him the hell outta there.” The fire marshal whispered something and the insurance man dropped the subject, throwing Eleanor a sympathetic glance.

  “Miss Dulles?” he called. “This way, ma’am. Walk right where I walk. Don’t wander. The floors aren’t safe.” The hammering continued, props holding charcoaled beams off the mosaic-tiled stairwell.

  “What happened?” Eleanor asked as she ducked under a beam holding the walls in place.

  “Watch your head, ma’am. The fire started next door. Paper warehouse, big rolls of paper. They didn’t burn, but they soaked up the water from the hoses working on the roof fire. Those big rolls expanded, pushed outwards, and collapsed the old brick wall like it was nothing—and that broke open the gas. This is it, right over here. Number four. One of the boys found the door in the middle of the street.”