Stealing Trinity (23 page)

After a moment of reflection, Lydia found herself saying, "Tell me, Michael, how did it make you feel?"

His reply came right away, as if it had been a perfectly natural question. "It was exhilarating -- the most fulfilling instailt of my life." They locked eyes, and he added, "Even if my wife, Madeline, would have hated it."

Lydia nodded. "She must have been terribly worried about you.

He seemed put off, and Lydia eyed his wedding ring.

"Actually," he said in a quiet voice, "my wife was killed in the Blitz."

"Oh, God! Michael, I'm so sorry. I only assumed--"

"No, no. It's all right. I still wear the ring -- can't get it off, actually."

Lydia looked at her own wedding band. Would the thought of taking it off ever come? She watched Thatcher as he buttered a piece of bread. His face was rather bony and narrow in the dim light, angular and at odds with itself. The eyes, however, seemed soft, more so now than she'd noticed before. But then every other time she'd seen him he'd been engrossed in his hunt for Alex.

"Do you miss her?" she asked.

"Yes. Terribly."

Lydia felt a new pain emerge, one that the drugs could never help. "I miss Edward too." She felt a tear fall freely down her cheek. "You know, it's funny. When Edward was alive I could only see the worst in him. Wrinkled shirts, working weekends, the spots where he'd missed shaving. Now I only think about the flowers he gave me, and the trip to Niagara Falls he wanted to take over the holidays."

"Yes, I know. Madeline and I had so many plans. But the last thing I ever said to her was something stupid about a wing -- what you call a fender -- that she'd bent on our car."

Lydia shook her head. "But for me it's worse, Michael. You see, it's my fault Edward died."

"You can't believe that."

"I brought Alex here."

"He was an old college flame who thought--"

"No! When he came back, I should have turned him away. But instead I embraced him. I led Alex on, without a thought for my husband!"

He offered up a handkerchief and she began to wipe.

"Lydia, Alex is the killer."

"No! He couldn't have done it without me! Michael--" she felt the confession rise, "I carried on with him!" The tears began to flow, but she couldn't stop. "Right in this house, with Edward only a few rooms away!" Lydia fell forward on the table, sobbing into her folded arms. She felt his hand on her shoulder.

"You must think I'm disgraceful."

"I think you're human."

Thatcher made no attempt to dissuade her from her guilty thoughts. He simply sat in silence until her convulsions eased.

"And useless. I'm so damned useless! I failed Edward, and I've been a failure through this entire war. I just heard today that our former cook's son, Mario, was killed in the Pacific -- one of those dreadful kamikazes. I grew up with Mario, he and I played together when we were children. He goes off to the war and makes that sacrifice, while my biggest concern each morning is ... is what shoes to wear!"

Thatcher said nothing.

Lydia straightened up in her chair. "Look at me. I'm a blathering mess."

"Yes, you are. But I suspect there are at least a thousand like you at kitchen tables across the country at this very moment."

She eyed him thoughtfully.

He said, "This war has caused incredible suffering, Lydia. No one has come through untouched."

"I suppose you're right. But my wounds are self-inflicted. I only have myself to blame."

She handed back his handkerchief, now a soggy ball of cotton. Thatcher then helped her up the stairs to her room where she collapsed on her bed. He gestured to the pill bottles on her nightstand. "Are you sure you don't need these?"

"I'm sure," she said. "Please take them away."

He did. "I've got to go and catch my bus now." Thatcher took her nearest hand, which had a nasty bruise, and rubbed lightly over the mottled patch of skin. "Time heals, you know."

"Does it?"

Lydia thought his smile looked strained.

"Take care of yourself, Lydia."

And with that, he was gone.

PART III

Chapter 29.

It took two days for Thatcher to reach Santa Fe. After a short night in a hotel, he called Sargent Cole.

"Have you heard anything new?"

Cole had been getting regular updates from the Newport Police regarding the almost certain murder of his son-in-law. He was Thatcher s source for current information.

"Yes. They tracked the airplane through a series of fuel stops. Last night it turned up -- he crashed in New Mexico, about fifty miles east of Santa Fe. Near some little place called Villanueva."

"And Braun?"

"The airplane hit hard, but it clipped a couple of trees perfectly-- ripped both wings off. The police figure that absorbed the impact of the crash. The cockpit was pretty banged up, but it was in one piece. They found blood inside, but not Alex."

"Blast! Does this man have no end of luck?"

"Oh, it gets better. Right next to the wreck was the body of some poor old Indian --had a nice hole in his chest. Apparently he was out hunting. Must have seen the crash, gone to help and --"

"And Braun gets another!"

"Looks that way. The guy's rifle and an old beat-up truck are missing."

Thatcher asked for a description of the truck, but Sargent Cole couldn't help. "Have you talked to Jones?" he asked.

"God damned right I did! When I heard about this I called and ripped him good. He says he's working on it, but not very hard if you ask me. He seemed more interested in you, Thatcher."

"Me?"

"Yeah, they seem to have lost track of you. I told him you were back in England, as far as I knew."

"Good. How is Lydia holding up?"

"Its been rough. They haven't found Edward's body yet."

Thatcher was not surprised. "They may never."

"I'm worried about her."

Thatcher understood perfectly. And it wasn't only Lydia. He heard it in Sargent Cole's voice as well -- grief combined with anger. Thatcher knew how frustrating it could be, how it burned constantly from the inside. At that moment, he considered telling Sargent Cole the truth -- that finding Braun would not end his family's misery. Life as they'd known it would never return. The pause was a long one.

"Thatcher? Are you still there?"

" Yes.. . Yes. Give her my best, would you?" He then gave Sargent Cole the telephone number of his hotel. "Call me if you find out anything else."

Karl Heinrich looked nervously toward the entrance of Los Cuates. He mixed the last of the food on his plate, stirring rice and chicken into the green chili sauce. He'd be leaving New Mexico soon, yet for all he disliked about the place, Hatch green chili was the one thing he would miss.

The place was dark, more resembling a cave than a restaurant. Heavy wood beams held up the roof, and the walls were adobe, the mud and grass medium that dominated nearly every building, fence, and wall in Santa Fe. Heinrich had always wondered why it all didn't wash away in the heavy rains of monsoon season. The floor was dull and unvarnished, smooth not from fine craftsmanship, but rather years of wear. It was caked in a layer of brown dirt, probably swept in by the incessant wind. The wind he would certainly not miss.

He'd arrived an hour earlier -- fifteen minutes before the place had opened for lunch -- to ensure he got the correct table. It had probably been overkill. Even now, approaching noon, only three other tables were occupied. Eleven thirty, the time for the rendezvous, had come and gone. And still he was alone.

Again the questions gnawed. What if no one came? How would he reconnect with the Reich? His information was of such value, certainly vital to the rebuilding effort. Heinrich knew that his last contact, Klaus, had been killed by the Americans. This surprised him -- even if they were the enemy, the Americans seemed a civilized lot, the type to handle prisoners in a fair and honorable manner. He could only assume that such severe justice was reserved for spies. Spies like him.

It had been a massive relief to find the new message last month, coded in a newspaper classified advertisement. A new contact would be made, someone to escort him back to the folds of the Fatherland. Heinrich again looked desperately around the restaurant. So where was he?

"Scheiss!" he muttered under his breath.

He scraped his plate clean. Should he push it away? Order something else? He'd never been good at this game. In the labs of Los Alamos he was on familiar ground -- there, stealing secrets had become second nature. But Santa Fe was different. It was the only place where The Hill's scientists and workers were able to mingle with the general populace. Given this, the Army Intelligence G-2 men were on every corner. They were agonizingly obvious in their pin-striped suits and wingtip shoes, against the locals who were partial to blue jeans, Stetson hats, and bolo ties. Heinrich had decided that the disparity was intentional, a message of intimidation. He was also convinced that some of the bolos were watching as well. It all made him feel like a fish washed up on the beach -- flopping around and trying to breathe in an unnatural element, praying for a wave to come and sweep him away.

The chime on the front door jingled, and Heinrich looked up hopefully. He was disappointed. A skinny Spanish-American boy scurried in. The lad walked quickly, pointing at each empty table he passed, as if counting. When he reached Heinrichs table he stopped.

"Cinco!" The boy dropped a piece of paper next to Heinrich's empty plate. "Para usted, senor." He then held out his hand.

Heinrich was stunned to inaction. No, he thought, this is not the plan. This is not the way it is supposed to happen. He collected himself enough to fish a few coins from his pocket and drop them in the boy's hand. He smiled and scurried away.

Heinrich looked around the room expecting all eyes to be on him. In fact, none were. He took the note, undid one fold, and palmed it like a poker player with a tight hand. It read: Petroglyphs, fifteen minutes. End of southern path. There was no signature.

Karl Heinrich's spirits soared. His wave had come.

He tried to walk slowly so as not to draw attention. Heinrich ignored the Indians hawking trinkets from their blankets on the sidewalk, and tried to ignore two G-2 men who were chatting near a lamppost. His pace quickened as he passed La Fonda, the town's main boardinghouse, and continued east toward the foothills.

The petroglyphs were a local curiosity, situated near the terminus of the Santa Fe trail. The topography altered slightly just outside of town, the crusty hardpan soil giving way to clusters of boulders. Here the vegetation, scant to begin with, almost disappeared, a few desperate weeds fighting for survival amid the cracks between rocks. A thousand years ago the indigenous people, the Anasazi, had used the sides of the boulders as their canvases, engraving human and animal figures, along with more elaborate, artistic designs. A handful of these images remained with remarkable resolution, and the petroglyphs had become a mildly popular side trip for the scientists of Los Alamos. Today, however, at noon on the cusp of summer, Karl Heinrich was alone as he trudged across the informal walking path toward the southern end of the outcropping.

He'd been here once before, a year earlier with Bostich. Then, he had thought the petroglyphs indeed remarkable, but less so than the fact that the Anasazi had chosen to live in such a godforsaken place. Today these thoughts were completely lost to exhilaration -- the possibility of reconnecting with the Fatherland.

The final segment of the path climbed a moderate rise. Combined with the altitude and excitement, it had Heinrich panting like a dog. A vulture turned lazy circles in the sky above. Heinrich spied it with defiance. Not today, you bastard. The path ended near an unusually large formation, a red-brown boulder the size of a truck. Heinrich stopped and bent over, his hands on his knees, his open mouth gasping for air.

"Guten Morgeriy Herr Wespe"

Stunned, he turned to see a man behind him. He was tall and blond, Aryan in appearance. He also looked like he'd taken a recent beating. There was a large bruise on his forehead, and he carried one arm close to his chest, bent at the elbow as if injured.

"We should use English, no?" Heinrich suggested.

His contact shrugged and smiled easily. "I've been watching closely. We are alone here, and the approaches are easily seen. But if you prefer--"

"No, no. I would like to use our native tongue. It has been a very long time for me."

The man came forward and extended his good hand. "My name is Rainer. It is good to finally meet you."

Relief swept across Heinrich. He lunged ahead and took the hand with both of his. "I am Karl. Dr. Karl Heinrich." He had to suppress tears as he held the man close. A hundred questions rushed to his excited head. "It has been very difficult to be isolated for so long -- to hear only the American's view of the war. Surely it cannot be as dire as what I see in the newsreels and papers. What has come of our Reich?"

The man whose name was almost certainly not Rainer smiled confidently. "The Reich ... it endures, Karl. It endures."

Heinrich was overwhelmed. He stood back and eased his bulk down on a rock, smiling as those words played in his mind. Even if Germany's situation had seemed bleak, Heinrich had never lost faith. And now here was the reward for his confidence. "What about our Fuhrer? Is it true that he is dead? No one has produced a body, so I suspected it might be a ruse."

"No, Karl, it is true. Hitler is dead. But the Reich remains strong. If we have lost the battle for Germany, the greater struggle will go forward."

"This I have never doubted," Heinrich insisted. "The next time the world will fall not to our sword, but to our cause, our logic. The impure races are a scourge on humanity, weighing the world down."

"Yes, without doubt," Rainer replied. "But it will take time for us to rebuild that cause."

"Yes, yes. Where will we go? I have guessed South America -- Brazil."

There was a pause. Rainer smiled. "A good guess, Karl. Very close. It will be Argentina."