The One From the Other (30 page)

“I told you.” Henkell stepped back into the corridor. “This is the man I met at the hospital.”

“You mean
he’s
the detective you were talking about?”

“Yes,” said Henkell. “Have you two met before?”

The American was wearing a different sports coat. This one was gray and cashmere. He wore a gray shirt, a gray woolen tie, gray flannels, and a pair of black wingtips. His glasses were different, too. These were tortoiseshell. But he still looked like the cleverest boy in the class.

“Only in my previous life,” I said. “When I was a hotelkeeper.”

“You had a hotel?”

Henkell looked as if he found the idea of that absurd. Which it was, of course.

“And guess where it was?” said the American, with amused contempt. “Dachau. About a mile from the old camp.” He laughed out loud. “Jesus, that’s like opening a health spa in a funeral parlor.”

“It was good enough for you and your friend,” I remarked. “The amateur dentist.”

Henkell laughed. “Does he mean Wolfram Romberg?” he asked the American.

“He means Wolfram Romberg,” said the American.

Henkell came along the corridor and put a hand on my shoulder. “Major Jacobs works for the Central Intelligence Agency,” he explained, guiding me into the next room.

“Somehow I didn’t figure him for an army chaplain,” I said.

“He’s been a good friend to me and Eric. A very good friend. The CIA provides this building and some money for our research.”

“But somehow it never seems to be quite enough,” Jacobs said pointedly.

“Medical research can be expensive,” said Henkell.

We went into an office with a neat, professional, medical look. A large filing cabinet on the floor. A Biedermeier bookcase with dozens of medical texts inside, and a human skull on top. A first-aid cabinet on the wall next to a photograph of President Truman. An Art Deco drinks tray with a large selection of liquor bottles and mixers. A rococo walnut writing desk that was buried under several feet of papers and notebooks, with another human skull being used as a paperweight. Four or five cherry-wood chairs. And a bronze of a man’s head with a little plaque that said the likeness was of Alexander Fleming. Henkell pointed through two sets of sliding glass doors at a very well equipped laboratory.

“Microscopes, centrifuges, spectrometers, vacuum equipment,” he said. “It all costs money. The major here has sometimes had to find several unauthorized streams of revenue in order to keep us going. Including Oberscharführer Romberg and his Dachau nest egg.”

“Right,” growled Jacobs. He drew aside the net curtain and stared suspiciously out of the office window into the back garden of the villa. A couple of birds had begun a noisy fight. There is a lot to be said for the way Nature handles itself. I wouldn’t have minded taking a sock at Jacobs myself.

I smiled. “It’s certainly none of my business what the major did with all those poor people’s stolen valuables.”

“You got that right,” said Jacobs. “Kraut.”

“What exactly are you working on, Heinrich?” I asked.

Jacobs looked at Henkell. “For Christ’s sake, don’t tell him,” he said.

“Why not?” asked Henkell.

“You don’t know anything about the guy,” he said. “And have you forgotten that you and Eric are working for the American government? I would use the word ‘secret,’ only I don’t think you guys know how to spell it.”

“He’s staying in my house,” said Henkell. “I trust Bernie.”

“I’m still trying to figure out why that is,” said Jacobs. “Or is it just an SS thing? Old comrades. What?”

I was still wondering a little about that myself.

“I told you why,” said Henkell. “Eric gets a bit lonely, sometimes. Possibly even suicidal.”

“Jesus, I wish I was as lonely as Eric is,” snorted Jacobs. “That broad who looks after him, Engelbertina, or whatever her name is. How anyone could be lonely with her around sure beats me.”

“He does have a point,” I said.

“You see? Even the kraut agrees with me,” said Jacobs.

“I wish you wouldn’t use that word,” said Henkell.

“‘Kraut’? What’s wrong with it?”

“It’s like me calling you a kike,” said Henkell. “Or a yid.”

“Yeah, well, get used to it, buddy,” said Jacobs. “The yids are in charge now. And you krauts will have to do what you’re told.”

Henkell looked at me and, quite deliberately, as if to irritate the major, said, “We’re working on finding a cure for malaria.”

Jacobs sighed loudly.

“I thought there
was
a cure for that,” I said.

“No,” said Henkell. “There are several treatments. Some of them are more effective than others. Quinine. Chloroquine. Atebrin. Proguanil. Some of them have rather unpleasant side effects. And of course, in time, the disease will become resistant to these drugs. No, when I say a cure, I mean something more than that.”

“Give him the keys to the safe, why don’t you?” said Jacobs.

Henkell continued, hardly deterred by the Ami’s obvious displeasure. “We’re working on a vaccine. Now that really would be something worthwhile, wouldn’t you say so, Bernie?”

“I guess so.”

“Come and have a look.” Henkell ushered me through the first set of glass doors. Jacobs followed.

“We have two sets of glass doors to keep things extra warm in the lab. You may find you have to remove your jacket.” He closed the first set of glass doors before opening the second set. “If I’m in here for any length of time, I usually wear just a tropical shirt. It really is quite tropical in here. Like a hothouse.”

As soon as the second set of doors was open, the heat hit me. Henkell had not exaggerated. It was like walking into a South American jungle. Jacobs had already started to sweat. I removed my jacket and rolled up my sleeves.

“Every year almost a million people die of malaria, Bernie,” said Henkell. “A million.” He nodded at Jacobs. “He just wants a vaccine to give to American soldiers before they go to whichever part of the world they intend to occupy next. Southeast Asia, possibly. Central America, for sure.”

“Why don’t you write an article for the newspapers?” said Jacobs. “Tell the whole goddamn world what we’re up to here.”

“But Eric and I want to save lives,” said Henkell, ignoring Jacobs. “This is his work as much as it is mine.” He took off his jacket and unbuttoned his shirt collar. “Think of it, Bernie. The idea that Germans could do something that would save a million lives a year. That might go a long way to balancing the books for what Germany did during the war. Wouldn’t you say so?”

“It might at that,” I admitted.

“A million lives saved every year,” said Henkell. “Why, in six years, even the Jews might have forgiven us. And in twenty, perhaps the Russians, too.”

“He wants to give it to the Russians,” murmured Jacobs. “Beautiful.”

“That’s what drives us forward, Bernie.”

“To say nothing of all the money they’ll make if they do manage to synthesize a vaccine,” said Jacobs. “Millions of dollars.”

Henkell shook his head. “He doesn’t have the first idea of what really drives us,” he said. “He’s a bit of a cynic. Aren’t you, Jonathan?”

“If you say so, kraut.”

I glanced around the hothouse laboratory. There were two work benches, one on either side of the room. One was home to a variety of scientific equipment, including several microscopes. On the other were ranged a dozen or so heated glass cases. Under a window looking out onto another part of the neat garden were three sinks. But it was the glass cases that drew my attention. Two of them were teeming with insect life. Even through the glass you could hear the whining sound of the many mosquitoes, like tiny opera singers trying to sustain a high note. It made my flesh creep just to look at them.

“Those are our VIPs,” said Henkell. “The
Culex pipen.
The stagnant-water variety of mosquito and therefore the most dangerous, as it carries the disease. We try to breed our own in the lab. But from time to time we have to get new specimens sent all the way from Florida. The eggs and larvae are surprisingly resilient to the low temperatures of long-distance air travel. Fascinating, aren’t they? That something so small can be so lethal. Which malaria is, of course. For most people, anyway. Studies I’ve seen show that it’s nearly always fatal in children. But women are more resistant than men. Nobody knows why.”

I shuddered and stepped away from the glass case.

“He doesn’t care for your little friends, Heinrich,” said Jacobs. “And I can’t say that I blame him. I hate the little bastards. I have nightmares that one of them will get out and bite me.”

“I’m sure they have more taste than that,” I said.

“Which is why we need more money. For better isolation chambers and handling facilities. An electron microscope. Specimen holders. New slide staining systems.” All of this was directed at Major Jacobs. “To prevent just such an accident from happening.”

“We’re working on it,” Jacobs said and yawned ostentatiously, as if he had heard all of this many times before. He took out a cigarette case and then seemed to think better of it under Henkell’s disapproving eye. “No smoking in the laboratory,” he murmured, slipping the cigarette case back into his pocket. “Right.”

“You remembered,” said Henkell, smiling. “We’re making progress.”

“I hope so,” said Jacobs. “I just wish you’d remember to keep a lid on all of this.” He had one eye on me when he said this. “Like we agreed. This project is supposed to be a secret.” And he and Henkell began to argue again.

I turned my back on them and leaned over an old copy of
Life
magazine that was lying on the bench, next to a microscope. I flipped the pages, giving my English a little exercise. Americans looked so wholesome. Like another master race. I started to read an article titled “The Battered Face of Germany.” There was a series of aerial pictures of what German towns and cities looked like after the RAF and U.S. 8th Air Force had finished. Mainz looked like a mud-brick village in Abyssinia. Julich, like someone had experimented with an early atomic bomb. It was enough to remind me of just how total had been our annihilation.

“It wouldn’t matter so much,” Jacobs was saying, “if you didn’t leave papers and documents lying around. Things that are sensitive and secret.” And so saying he removed the magazine from my eyes and went through the double glass doors back into the office.

I followed him, full of curiosity. So did Henkell.

Standing in front of the desk, Jacobs fished a key chain out of his trouser pocket, unlocked a briefcase, and tossed the magazine inside. Then he locked it again. I wondered what was in that magazine. Nothing secret, surely. Every week
Life
magazine was sold all over the world, with a circulation in the millions. Unless they were using
Life
as a codebook. I’d heard that was the way things like that were done these days.

Henkell closed the glass doors carefully behind him and uttered a laugh. “Now he just thinks you’re crazy,” he said. “Me, too, probably.”

“I don’t give a damn what he thinks,” said Jacobs.

“Gentlemen,” I said. “It’s been interesting. But I think I ought to be going. It’s a nice day and I could use some exercise. So if you don’t mind, Heinrich, I’m going to try to walk back to the house.”

“It’s four miles, Bernie,” said Henkell. “Are you sure you’re up to it?”

“I think so. And I’d like to try.”

“Why don’t you take my car? Major Jacobs can drive me back when he and I have finished up here.”

“No, really,” I said. “I’ll be fine.”

“I’m sorry he was so rude,” said Henkell.

“Don’t get sore,” Jacobs told him. “It’s nothing personal. He surprised me, turning up again like this, that’s all. In my business, I don’t like surprises. Next time we’ll meet at the house. We’ll have a drink. It’ll be more relaxed that way. All right, Gunther?”

“Sure,” I said. “We’ll have a drink and then go and dig in the garden. Just like old times.”

“A German with a sense of humor,” said Jacobs. “I like that.”

TWENTY-SIX

When they first make you a cop they put you on a beat. They make you walk so you have enough time to notice things. No one ever notices much from the inside of a stripe wagon traveling at thirty miles an hour. “Flatfoot” and “gumshoe” are words that come at you when you wear hobnailed boots. If I had left Henkell’s laboratory in the Mercedes, I would never have glanced in the window of Major Jacob’s Buick and I would never have seen that he had left it unlocked. Nor would I have looked back at the villa and remembered that it was impossible to see the road and the car from the office window. I didn’t like Major Jacobs, in spite of his approximate apology. That was no reason to search his car, of course. But then, “snooper” is another word for what I do and what I am. I am a professional sniffer, an oven-peeper, a nosey parker, and I was feeling very nosy about a man who had dug up my back garden in search of Jewish gold and who was sufficiently secretive—not to say paranoid—to lock away an old copy of
Life
magazine in order to stop me from looking at it.

I liked his Buick. The front seat was as big as the bunk in a Pullman sleeping car, with a steering wheel the size of a bicycle tire and a car radio that looked like it had been borrowed from a café jukebox. The speedometer said it went up to one hundred twenty miles per hour, and with its straight eight and Dynaflow transmission, I figured it was good for at least a hundred of that. About a yard away from the speedometer, on the sunny side of the dash, was a matching clock, so you’d know when it was time to go and buy more gas. Below the clock was a glove box for a man with bigger hands than Jacobs had. Actually it looked like a glove box for the goddess Kali with room for a couple of garlands of skulls as well.

I leaned across the seat, thumbed it open, and raked around for a moment. There was a snub-nosed thirty-eight-caliber Smith & Wesson—a J-frame with a nice rubberized grip. The one he had pointed at me in Dachau. A Michelin road map of Germany. A commemorative postcard to celebrate Goethe’s two hundredth anniversary. An American edition of
The Goebbels Diaries.
A Blue Guide to northern Italy. Inside the Blue Guide, at the pages for Milan, was a receipt from a jeweler’s shop. The jeweler’s name was Primo Ottolenghi, and the receipt was for ten thousand dollars. It seemed reasonable to assume that Milan had been where Jacobs had sold the box of Jewish valuables dug up in my back garden, especially since the receipt was dated a week or so after his stay with us. There was a letter from the Rochester Strong Memorial Hospital, in the State of New York, itemizing some medical equipment delivered to Garmisch-Partenkirchen, via the Rhein-Main Air Base. There was a notepad. The first page was blank, but I could just make out the indentation of what had been written on the previous page. I tore off the first few pages in the hope that later on I might shade up whatever Jacobs had written down.