IT WAS DUSK when he reached Hyde Park, and dark by the time he parked Stacey’s car discreetly under the elms by the Oriental Institute on 58th Street. He walked the block to the Quadrangle Club and stopped at reception for his room key. A young woman with a short blonde bob stood behind the counter in a smart black suit and white blouse. When he gave the number of his room she said, ‘Excuse me, sir, are you Mr Nessheim?’
‘I am.’
‘There’s a message for you from Mr Guttman.’ She handed him a pink phone slip on which Guttman had scribbled, ‘Stay put. See you at 6 in the bar. H.’
The woman said, ‘Will you be seeing Mr Guttman any time soon?’
He looked at his watch. ‘Is an hour soon enough?’
She didn’t smile, but looked relieved. ‘Could you give him this then, please? It just arrived – special delivery.’ And she handed him a large Manila envelope. It was carefully taped, and as he went up the stairs he saw the return address was ‘The British Passport Office, 30 Rockefeller Plaza, New York City’.
Upstairs he changed out of his suit and had a lukewarm shower since apparently the club didn’t like to spoil its guests with too much hot water. He wanted to lie down and sleep until daybreak, but told himself he had to keep going. Stacey had been clear that dreams of forty acres and an apple orchard would have to wait.
He was trying not to think too much. His grief had briefly abated from learning that Stacey had not been working for the Russians, but it was quickly replaced by guilt. Why had he doubted her so readily? Guttman, sour and cynical, had persuaded him almost right away that he should not trust his feelings for Stacey, but needed to face facts. Is that why he had so easily accepted Guttman’s contention that she was setting him up? The fact was, she hadn’t been spying on him at all; the fact was, she had loved him. There had been no failure of love on his part – he knew he had loved Stacey – but instead an inability to accept that she had loved him too. He felt a terrible sadness now, and a growing anger – with Guttman for getting it so wrong; with himself for accepting Guttman’s ‘evidence’ so easily.
At six he went downstairs in a blazer and grey flannel trousers and found Guttman on a stool at the dark mahogany bar. Behind them a pair of professorial types were playing billiards, in a space separated from the bar room by a waist-high wall of brick.
When the barman went to pour Nessheim a bourbon on the rocks, Guttman said, ‘I’ve got some news. They found the old lady from Stacey’s apartment building. Or rather I found her. Her name is Mrs Flint, and she confirmed your story about the scream.’
‘Do the cops know that?’
‘Not yet. There’s something else. When you arrived, the doorman had gone to hail a cab on the Drive. When he was walking back he saw two guys shoot out of the building, then a minute later he saw them driving away.’
‘In a dark green sedan?’
‘Yep. So I phoned Palborg but he wasn’t there. We’re due to talk in the morning so this is no time for you to get arrested.’
Nessheim nodded.
Guttman said, ‘Did you find the people you wanted to talk to?’
‘I did.’ He took a big swallow. The bourbon burnt his throat but warmed him, even with the ice. ‘The Russians killed her. And no, Stacey wasn’t working for them.’
Nessheim cut him off. ‘She knew a secret they don’t want to get out.’ And he told Guttman about Diane’s account of Stacey’s past few years. When he got to Trotsky in Mexico, Guttman’s eyes widened, and when he explained what Stacey had known about Trotsky’s killer, the eyes widened even more.
‘So they had a reason to kill her,’ said Nessheim. ‘The last thing Stacey would have done was to jump out a window.’
Guttman exhaled involuntarily. He held his glass with both hands but instead of drinking he just stared moodily at it. ‘I’ll take your word for that.’
‘That’s big of you,’ said Nessheim sharply.
Guttman ignored him. ‘I’ll talk to the police and ask them to look for the sedan and the two guys. But they’ll be long gone. They would have made tracks as soon as Stacey –’ Guttman stopped, mortified by what he’d been about to say.
They sat in awkward silence for a minute. Finally Nessheim said, ‘You got it wrong, Harry. Completely wrong.’ His voice was raised, and the barman looked over. Nessheim saw one of the billiard players raise his cue and glance at the bar. ‘You said I was being taken for a ride, but it was you who was duped.’
His voice was still loud, and he got off his bar stool and stood next to Guttman. The barman hesitated, as if uncertain whether to intervene, especially when he saw the look in Nessheim’s eyes. Nessheim sensed that he was close to losing control; that at any moment he might snap. But he didn’t care. Right now if Guttman objected or protested, Nessheim would knock him off his bar stool.
But Guttman didn’t even look at him. He sat with his shoulders hunched, both hands around his glass, and said quietly, ‘I’m sorry, Jim. Truly sorry.’
And after a moment when his reaction hung in the balance, Nessheim suddenly felt himself step back from the edge. The bartender was still looking concerned, so he raised his hand to show that things were okay. He got back on his stool. ‘I’m sorry, too, Harry. Sorry for believing you.’
After another long silence, Nessheim said, ‘Tell me something – and I want you to level with me. Who told you Stacey had been a Communist? Who set that particular ball rolling?’
‘Tatie,’ said Guttman without hesitation.
‘Tatie?’ Nessheim stared at Guttman, who nodded vigorously.
Why would she have done that? Had she really felt so slighted by Stacey’s rudeness in the Palmer House? It seemed a year ago, but was just a matter of a month or so. He tried to make sense of this, then said, ‘Tatie couldn’t have compiled all that info on her own.’
Guttman looked taken aback. ‘You’re right. But Tatie knows all the Records people in the Bureau. It’s a kind of network of its own – between them, they know where all the dead bodies are buried in the files.’
‘That doesn’t ring true. Somebody must have instigated this.’
‘Maybe.’ Guttman paused. ‘You know that I’ve been convinced that we’ve got a problem at the Bureau.’ He looked around him carefully, but the bartender was reading at the end of the bar and the only people within earshot were the billiard players. He said, ‘Tolson’s got an assistant I’m worried about. A young guy named Adams – they call him T.A. He’s been hanging around Marie a lot lately, and there’s something fishy about him. I got some old friends to check him out for me – just in case. It turns out he’s been banging girls in a flop motel down by the Potomac. One of these broads was on my train when I left here last time; she took a big spang at me when I was in my compartment.’ He looked at Nessheim defensively. ‘No is the answer …
‘Anyway, it’s too big a coincidence. I think either T.A. is trying to set me up for a fall, probably on Tolson’s orders, or it’s something different – and worse. I don’t know what relates to what any more, but something smells. I’m still mystified how you were found out here – and who it was who did the finding. I don’t think it was the Bund and neither do you.’
Guttman shook the ice cubes that were all that was left of his drink, then continued. ‘I got tailed when I was in New York, and when I got home Annie said there’d been somebody snooping around my house. If it was the Russians, how did they get the info on me and on you? It could only have come from inside the Bureau.’
He stopped suddenly, self-conscious that he had been talking for so long. Nessheim said, ‘So we’ve got a complicated situation.’
‘Yes, but right now, we have to leave it all aside. Our focus has to be on Kalvin and the project. Fermi says he thinks it will “go critical” tomorrow. Do you know what that means?’ he asked uncertainly.
‘I think so,’ Nessheim said, watching the bartender filling bowls of peanuts ten feet away. He said carefully, ‘If it works tomorrow, it means they can build what they want to build.’
‘Got it,’ said Guttman. ‘I’ve checked and rechecked the security at Stagg. It’s tighter than a drum. Kalvin won’t be there for the final test – Fermi told him this afternoon that he couldn’t be present. He didn’t give the full reasons – he just blamed it on the military being extra-cautious, said there was concern over some of Kalvin’s paperwork. He’s taking him out to dinner tonight to console him, since Kalvin was supposed to be present on the big day.’
Guttman sat up straight and turned to look at Nessheim. It was always that way, thought Nessheim. Harry would snort and sneeze and shuffle around, but when the time came to lay down the law or just tell it straight, he would belly up to the bar and look you in the eye. ‘I think tomorrow should go all right, but I’m still nervous. I need your help and I don’t want you distracted by this other business.’ Guttman shrugged. ‘I know how hard it is, but right now I need you at your professional best.’
‘You’re telling me to be professional?’
Guttman looked uncomfortable but insisted, ‘Yes.’
‘I see.’ Nessheim was watching the bartender; he didn’t trust himself to keep his temper if he looked Guttman in the eye. ‘Tell me, did you act professionally after Isabel died?’
‘That was different.’
Nessheim scoffed. ‘Why is that?’ he demanded, turning now to look at Guttman. ‘Because you were married? Because Isabel was sick? Because you’d been with her a long time?’
Guttman’s chin jutted, but when he spoke his voice was not aggressive. ‘Because she wasn’t involved in my work. Because no one suggested I had anything to do with her dying. I didn’t know Stacey Madison, but I can’t believe she would have wanted you to go haywire at this moment. Listen, they gave me time off after Isabel died, and you want to know the truth? After four days I was climbing the goddamned walls. Sure you have to grieve, but right now there isn’t time for it and second – don’t kill me for saying it – you were born to do. Grief is not doing. I swear, if you stop now and surrender to how bad you feel, you’ll go crazy within a week.’
He paused while the bartender put a bowl of shelled peanuts down in front of him. Guttman grabbed a handful and said, ‘I’m not saying you shouldn’t care about solving Stacey’s murder. I’m not saying we shouldn’t try to find who killed her. But we have to make sure all is safe and sound at Stagg Field first. It’s bigger than the both of us – you know that, Nessheim. If you get mad now and stay mad and stay stupid, there’s nothing I can do for you. And then for sure, the people who did this will get away. Do you hear me, Nessheim? Her killers will get away.’
Nessheim didn’t want to look at Guttman. After a long pause he said, ‘I hear you. So what do you want me to do? Stagg Field’s okay, Kalvin’s out of action – everything’s hunky-dory.’
Guttman looked at his watch. ‘I’m going to roust Kalvin’s apartment. I doubt I’ll find anything, but it’s worth a go. My priority is getting through tomorrow unscathed, but after that I want to put this bastard away. And,’ he added pointedly, ‘any others we can catch. You coming with me or you staying here, sucking up more bourbon? Your choice, pal.’
Nessheim thought for a moment. He resented this tutorial of Guttman’s; he was used to learning his own lessons in life. He took his wallet out and threw a bill down on the bar. ‘I’m coming,’ he said and got off his stool. Then he remembered. ‘Hang on a minute. You had a package come – special delivery. The girl at the desk gave it to me.’
‘It can wait,’ said Guttman impatiently.
‘It’s from 30 Rockefeller Plaza.’
‘Jesus, why didn’t you say so?’
Upstairs Nessheim handed the envelope to Guttman, who ripped it open at one end. There was a cover letter which he took out first. ‘This figures,’ he said after reading for a minute. ‘Kalvin came out of Portugal because he’d spent the last years in Spain. He went to Spain as a supposed scientist, and left a veteran of the Civil War.’
Nessheim remembered Kalvin commenting on Stacey’s Spanish. It was clear where each of them had acquired the language – Spain and Mexico; clear too that for each of them it was a secret part of their pasts.
Guttman was still reading. He said, ‘Kalvin fled to Portugal when Franco won, holed up in Lisbon, wrote letters to every physicist he knew this side of the pond, then got out on a boat for New York. There’s a big gap in his résumé that’s just been filled.’
‘He’s out of the way – that’s what counts. Though I’d still like to know who he was meeting at the museum.’
‘Me too,’ said Guttman, struggling to extract the rest of the envelope’s contents. Finally he managed to pull out two photographs the size of typing paper, printed on glossy stock.
Nessheim wondered if these were shots of Kalvin. Not much use to him, since he knew well enough what the man looked like. But Guttman continued to stare, and after a minute Nessheim ventured, ‘What is it?’
‘I don’t believe it.’ Guttman’s voice had a hollowness to it; his shock was obvious. He leaned back and reclined his head against the antimacassar of his chair while his eyes looked up at the ceiling. ‘Dear God,’ he said.
‘What is it?’ But Guttman was oblivious, fighting some private war of understanding on his own. Nessheim went round his chair and stood behind him. He looked down at the first photo, which was grainy, shot through a long-distance lens. It showed a woman on a walkway – from the row of doors, the place had to be a motel. A man was next to her – you couldn’t see his face but his arm was thrown across her shoulder – and she was smiling. It was a smile of unabashed enjoyment. ‘I think I know that face,’ Nessheim said uncertainly.
Guttman brought his eyes down so they were level with the photo. ‘So do I. I should do – I see it every day.’
‘Christ,’ said Nessheim, in sudden recognition. ‘It’s Marie.’
‘A for All-star, Nessheim,’ said Guttman wearily, lowering the photograph on to his lap.
‘But what’s it mean, Harry?’
‘It means she’s fucking T.A. in a motel room. Unless they’re discussing the later works of Harriet Beecher Stowe.’
‘I’m sorry,’ said Nessheim. Had Harry been carrying a torch for his secretary? Marie was attractive, the right age, and always seemed devoted to Guttman. No wonder this was a blow.
Guttman shook his head. ‘No, no, it’s not like that. T.A. is tracking me all right – and Marie’s been helping him.’ He suddenly thumped his fist on the little table next to him, and the photo fell to the floor.
‘Take it easy – it may not be as bad as it looks. I’m sorry about Marie, but –’
‘Don’t you see? Oh, shit, Nessheim, wake up. The black-haired vamp on the train – she’s humping T.A. So you probably think, big deal. But how did she know where to find me? Only Marie knew I was on that train – and she must have told T.A. The same thing goes for you, pal. How did they know where you lived – Herr Rossbach and all that crap? I knew, and Marie knew, but that’s it. Oh, Jesus,’ he said and slapped his forehead with an open palm.
The other photograph was still on Guttman’s lap, but Guttman seemed too upset to look at anything now, so Nessheim reached for it. It was also of Marie, but this time her companion’s face was visible too, as they left the motel walkway and walked in the open past the shabby front office. The man wore a tie you could spot through the opening of his overcoat, which was a fine dark Chesterfield.
Guttman had stood up and was looking over Nessheim’s shoulder. ‘That’s T.A. He’s schtupping her too. God, look at the smile on her face.’
But it wasn’t Marie whom Nessheim was interested in. He stared hard at the photo; there could be no doubt. ‘Harry, we’ve got a bigger problem than you think.’
‘What do you mean?’
Nessheim stabbed the photo with his finger. ‘Forget Marie – this is the guy I saw meeting Kalvin at the museum. The same guy I followed downtown to the FO building. He’s even wearing the same coat.’
Guttman again looked stunned. Nessheim said, ‘If T.A. was involved in helping Tatie, that would link Stacey’s murder to our worries about the Russians – and T.A.’
‘That’s a big “if”. Why do we think T.A. was helping Tatie? Other than his being in Chicago and visiting the Bureau here?’
‘Because Tatie didn’t mention him when I asked her about the guy I followed. She just showed me the mugshot book of current agents – in Chicago. But she would have known T.A. was visiting. The SAC would have introduced them, if only as a courtesy.’
‘Well,’ said Guttman, swallowing. He was always able to admit when he was wrong, but he didn’t like it.
‘And that ties the strands together. Kalvin to T.A. – Stacey, through Tatie, to T.A. It’s the same group working against us. They threw out red herrings, and we took the bait. All these phoney leads – Nazis, the Bund, then Stacey as a femme fatale who was working for the Russians. It was all bullshit, but we believed it.’
‘We caught Kalvin,’ Guttman said, more in hope than defence.
‘We got lucky, Harry.’
Suddenly Guttman caught sight of Nessheim’s watch. ‘We’d better go. Kalvin will be having supper by now.’