The Eighth Dwarf (17 page)

Baker-Bates sighed. “In point of fact, General, he bought me one.”

“He bought
you
one,” the General said, packing his tone with incredulity.

“A Scotch and soda.”

Knocker Grubbs nodded slowly several times. He had a big chunk of a head, still vaguely handsome, with small, very pale blue eyes that looked stupid, the way some very pale blue eyes do. His best features were his strong nose and chin, which rescued his profile from not enough forehead and a wet, weak mouth. What was left of his hair was a smoky gray.

Grubbs stopped nodding, but kept his voice full of amazement. “And so you just stood there, bellied up to the bar with this Kraut killer that half the Army is looking for, and you and him just bullshitted each other: have I got it right, Major?”

“Yes, sir, I'm afraid that you do.”

“And you couldn't tell from his accent that he wasn't American?”

“He had no German accent.”

“None at all?”

“None that I could detect, General. But he had two American accents. One was what I suppose could be called American standard, and the other was Texan.”

“How the fuck would you know what a Texan talks like?”

“Are you from Texas, General?”

“Amarillo.”

“Actually, sir, he spoke very much the way you do.”

“Like I do?”

“Yes sir.”

“You're not trying to be cute, are you, Major?”

“Only accurate, General.”

“I'd hate to think that you were trying to be cute. I don't know what they do with majors with funny little cocksucker mustaches who turn cute in your army, mister, but I know what they do with them in mine. And I'll tell you one more thing, fella; you're goddamned lucky you're not under my command.”

“Yes, sir, I would think that I am. Lucky, that is,” Baker-Bates said, and decided that Knocker Grubbs wasn't quite real.

“So you two, you and this Kraut killer, parted the best of pals, right? And then you sat down all by yourself in the American officer's club and had a nice, hot American meal, and maybe smoked a couple of American cigarettes and then when all that was done, you wandered over to see Lieutenant Meyer here, maybe an hour later, and that's when you found out you'd been boozing it up with the Kraut killer that everybody's looking for. And that's when you told the Lieutenant here that maybe it might be a good idea to seal off the complex on account of this crazy Kraut killer you'd just had a friendly drink with might still be killing an hour or two hanging around the PX or the Class Six Store, right? Except that he'd long skipped, and we've got fuck-all ideas about where he skipped to. Are those the facts, Major? I wanta be good and goddamned sure I got the facts right for the report I'm gonna have to send your CO.”

“Your facts, sir, are essentially correct.”

“How 'bout you, Lieutenant: you think I've got the facts right?”

“Yes, sir: except that we're having copies made of Oppenheimer's photograph, and we'll distribute them throughout the Zone.”

“You know what they call that down in Texas?”

“No, sir, I don't,” Lieutenant Meyer said, wondering how long this dimwit was going to continue with his reaming out of Baker-Bates—who, in Lieutenant Meyer's estimation, had slyly got in a few licks of his own, especially that one about the Texas accent.

“Well, I'll tell you what we call it down in Texas,” Knocker Grubbs said. “We call it locking the barn after the horse is gone.”

“Gosh, sir, that's vivid,” Lieutenant Meyer said.

“They don't say that in England, do they, Major?”

“Not recently, General,” Baker-Bates said.

“Well, I'm gonna tell you one final thing, sonny. You're down here because Berlin wants you down here. But you fuck up one more time, and Berlin or no Berlin, I'm gonna have your sweet ass for Sunday breakfast. Do I make myself clear?”

“Quite clear, General,” Baker-Bates said. “In fact, extremely so.”

“Dismissed,” the General snapped.

Baker-Bates and Lieutenant Meyer rose.

“Not you, Lieutenant,” Knocker Grubbs said with a mean smile. “Hell, I haven't even half started with you yet.”

16

After the plane landed at Frankfurt's Rhine-Main airport, Jackson and Bill Swanton, the INS man, watched as the Army wives filed out of the aircraft first. While the two men waited, Swanton took out a notebook and a pen.

“You ever see one of these?” Swanton said.

“What?”

“The pen. They call 'em ball-points. I bought it for twenty-nine ninety-five on sale in New York.” He wrote his name and his Berlin address in his notebook, tore out the sheet, and handed it to Jackson. “Maybe if you get up to Berlin, I could be of some help on your book.”

“Thanks very much,” Jackson said.

Swanton gave his pen one more admiring glance before returning it to his shirt pocket. “You know what they say these things will do?”

“What?”

“Write underwater. Now, just what in hell would you want to write underwater?”

Jackson thought about it. “Maybe a suicide note if you were drowning yourself.”

Swanton brightened. “Yeah, that's a possibility, isn't it?”

He followed Jackson off the plane. When they reached the terminal, he held out his hand. Jackson took it. “Thanks for the booze, Brother Jackson,” Swanton said. “And in Berlin. If you get up there, look me up.”

“I'll do that”

When they entered the terminal, a loudspeaker was calling Jackson's name. “Will Mr. Minor Jackson report to the information desk. Mr. Minor Jackson.”

The information desk was manned by a harassed Air Corps staff sergeant

“I'm Jackson.”

“Okay, Mr. Jackson,” the Sergeant said, opening a drawer and taking out an envelope. “This is for you, and so is the Lieutenant over there.” He nodded at Lieutenant Meyer, who was standing nearby and trying not to stare at Jackson.

“What's in the envelope?” Jackson said.

The Sergeant sighed. “I don't know, sir. I didn't open it. I don't usually open other people's envelopes, but if you'd like me to, sir, I will. All I know is that an Air Corps captain gave it to me about three hours ago and made me swear that I'd get it to you. And that's what I've just done, haven't I, sir?”

“You've been swell,” Jackson said.

“Can I be of assistance, Mr. Jackson? I'm Lieutenant Meyer.”

“From Milwaukee.”

“Yes, sir.”

“My nursemaid.”

“Liasion, Mr. Jackson, but if you want to call me a nursemaid, or anything else that might come to mind, even something a little vulgar, well, that's just fine, because I'm used to it on account of this very afternoon I spent one hour and fifteen minutes having my ass chewed out by a one-star general who's not very bright, but who does know how to chew ass, and who called me names that are a lot worse than nursemaid. So if you want to call me that or, as I said, anything else that comes to mind, that's just fine, Mr. Jackson, sir.”

Jackson stared at him. “You're in shock, pal.”

“Probably. It's been a very long, very rough day.”

“What kind of orders did you get from Washington about me?”

“Very explicit ones. I'm to be at your beck and call and worm my way into your confidence.”

“We're off to a good start.”

“Yes, sir. I was hoping you'd think so.”

“Think you could beckon or call up a drink around here?”

“Yes, sir. There's a VIP lounge. With only a little skillful lying I can probably get us into that.”

“Let me see what this is all about first,” Jackson said, and ripped open the envelope. Inside were a key and a plain white card. On the card were written an address and the message “Try to make it by nine.” The message was unsigned.

Jackson handed the card to Lieutenant Meyer. “You know where this address is?”

Lieutenant Meyer glanced at it. “Yes, sir. It's a rather nice address not too far from the zoo. I mean it will be a rather nice address if it's still standing.”

“Can we have a drink and still make it by nine?”

Lieutenant Meyer glanced at his watch. “Easily.”

“Well, let's go do that and you can worm your way into my confidence some more.”

It took Lieutenant Meyer, talking steadily, a little more than fifteen minutes to relate virtually all that he knew about Kurt Oppenheimer. When he was finished, so were the drinks. Lieutenant Meyer tipped his up, let an ice cube bounce against his teeth, swallowed the last drop, put the glass down, and stared at Jackson.

“Tell me something,” he said with the air of a man ready to receive a confidence.

“Sure.”

“Why're you looking for him?”

He really expects an answer, Jackson thought. Not only that, but he also expects a truthful answer. Jackson smiled and said, “I don't think I said I was looking for him.”

“Washington says you are.”

Jackson kept his smile in place. “Washington hopes that I am.”

It was a long, bleak stare that Lieutenant Meyer gave Jackson. “Well, shit, mister.”

“Disappointed?”

“Oh, hell, no,” Lieutenant Meyer said. “I don't feel silly, either.”

“You'll get over it.”

“You used to be with the OSS, didn't you?”

“Is that what Washington says?”

“That's what it says.”

“Then it must be true.”

“How good were you?”

“Average,” Jackson said. “Maybe C-plus.”

Lieutenant Meyer shook his head. “They wouldn't let you run like this if you were just C-plus.”

“I wouldn't put too much faith in Washington if I were you.”

Lieutenant Meyer's mouth tucked itself down at the corners as he again shook his head. “Jesus, that's all I need, a mystery man.” He reached into the pocket of his blouse and brought out several cards. “Well, here you go, mystery man,” he said, and slid the cards over to Jackson. “One of them will get you into the PX so you can buy cigarettes and toothpaste. Another one's for the Class Six Store where you can buy your booze. That one you've got your finger on will let you eat at the officers' club. The food there's not so hot, but it's cheap, and if you don't eat there, then you're going to have to depend on black-market restaurants. They're as expensive as hell, but since you're a mystery man, and probably rich with it, maybe you can afford them. And the last one's for gasoline, if you should get hold of a car—which I hope to hell you will, since I don't much like playing chauffeur. As for where you're going to sleep, Washington said that's going to be up to you, so I don't really give much of a shit.”

“I'll manage,” Jackson said, smiled, and pocketed the cards.

Lieutenant Meyer studied Jackson for several seconds. He took in the gray hair and the lean face with its almost too regular features. Had it not been for the not-quite gray eyes, the face would have been a toss-up between pleasant and handsome. The eyes made it too alert for either, Lieutenant Meyer decided. Much too alert. His brains leak out through his eyes. Otherwise he'd be Fraternity Row, maybe rush captain at Phi Delta Theta—if you took away ten years and all that gray hair.

“Let me guess,” Lieutenant Meyer said.

“Sure.”

“Dartmouth.”

Jackson shook his head and smiled slightly. “The University of Virginia.”

Lieutenant Meyer didn't bother to keep the sneer out of his voice. “The gentleman factory.”

“I suppose.”

“You know something, Mr. Jackson, sir?”

“What?”

“I've been a little slow, maybe even a little dense, but I think I'm beginning to figure out why you're in on this thing.”

“Why?”

“Money. There's money in it somewhere, isn't there?”

Jackson smiled again—a cool, remote, totally cynical smile. “You're getting warm, Lieutenant. Very warm.”

At five minutes until nine the jeep, with Lieutenant Meyer at the wheel, drew up at the address near the Frankfurt zoo. Jackson used his lighter to examine the card the Air Corps Sergeant had given him.

“You're sure this is the right address?”

“I'm sure,” Lieutenant Meyer said. “Some house, isn't it?”

“Some house,” Jackson agreed, got out of the jeep, and reached for his bag.

Still staring at what he could see of the house, which was illuminated only by the lights that came from two of its windows and the jeep's headlights, Lieutenant Meyer said, “Fifteen rooms. At least fifteen rooms. You sure you don't know who owns it?”

“I have no idea.”

“Somebody rich.”

“Apparently.”

“Not even touched,” Lieutenant Meyer said, shaking his head. “You notice that? Both houses on either side wiped out by the bombs and this one's not even touched.”

“I noticed.”

“You sure you don't want me to wait?”

“For what?”

“To make sure it's the right address.”

Jackson shook his head. “It's the right address.”

“But you don't even know who lives here.”

“I didn't say that,” Jackson said. “I said I didn't know who owns it.”

Lieutenant Meyer sighed. “More mystery-man shit.”

“Sorry.”

“Sure you are.” Lieutenant Meyer started the jeep. “Well, if you want to beckon and call some more, you know where I am.”

“I know. Thanks, Lieutenant, for everything. You've been most helpful.”

“I've been a stupid jerk is what I've been,” Lieutenant Meyer said, and drove off.

Jackson watched him go and then walked up to the iron gate set in the chest-high brick wall that seemed to surround the house. The gate was unlocked. Jackson went through it and up the stone path to the door. He tried the door, but it was locked. He took out the key that had been in the envelope along with the card and inserted it into the lock. It turned easily.