Stealing Trinity (8 page)

Thatcher bristled. "Who the devil does he think he is?"

In a practical sense, Thatcher and Ainsley found out three hours later. The orders came straight from the War Office. Isolate Klein indefinitely, and don't breathe a word about any of it.

Ainsley broke the news to his friend over an ale at the Cock and Thistle.

"This has come from the very top, Michael. We must honor it."

Thatcher studied his Guinness. "Bloody eejits! It doesn't make sense, Roger."

"What do you mean?"

"If this Manhattan Project is such a minor issue, why all the huff?"

"So there's more to it. The Yanks want to investigate the matter themselves."

"But they're not! That's what doesn't follow. If it was a breach of some critical program, they'd be grilling poor Klein six ways. Instead, they order him locked down, tell us to shut up, and disappear."

Ainsley shrugged and took a long pull on his mug.

Thatcher continued, "It's something terrifically important, I tell you. Braun, Wespe, and this Manhattan Project --it all goes beyond the war."

"Our hands are tied, Michael." Thatcher didn't respond and Ainsley gave him a stern look. "Tied, I tell you!"

"Of course, Roger."

A hard silence fell. Thatcher looked to the wall at the back of the bar. There were two dozen photographs of young men and women. They were nailed into every space, a makeshift memorial to the locals who had given their lives for the cause. Each would have had families, friends, comrades-in-arms. So many, Thatcher thought. So much suffering. He paid for the round and told Ainsley he was going home.

They both knew it was a lie.

It wasn't so strange, Braun thought, being a spy. In a way he felt like he'd been one his entire life. He had taken a gunfighter's seat in the posh restaurant -- his back to the wall and with a commanding view of the entrance. It seemed a natural precaution.

He'd only been in America for thirty hours and, though exhausted, everything was falling well into place. The truck he'd stolen yesterday in Westhampton was now parked amid a half dozen similar rigs at a roadside restaurant, this one far busier than the place where he'd first found it. The choice of the truck had been fortuitous. It was a mover's truck, delivering the worldly possessions of some well-to-do family. Braun had stuffed a suitcase with clothes, which were far better in fit and quality than the squat driver's, along with a considerable collection of jewelry. The driver himself, minus eighteen dollars that had been in his pocket, was now folded neatly into a large trunk at the front of the trailer, and the rear doors secured by a padlock.

Next had come a bus ride into the city, and a night in an anonymous hotel in the borough of Queens. This morning, an inexpensive breakfast prepared him for the riskiest maneuver -- quietly exchanging the jewelry for cash. Claiming it to be an inheritance, Braun split the collection and pawned it at three different shops. He allowed the merchants a steep premium for cash, knowing the magnitude of the bargain would suppress any unease about the source of the goods. In the end, he pocketed three hundred eighty dollars --more than he'd ever had in his life.

Only now did he allow himself the luxury of a good meal. In spite of being famished, he lingered for twenty minutes over the menu, studying the offerings like a fallen priest in a whorehouse. It was the waiter's description of the chef's selection du jour that sealed things. Preceded by a generous salade assaisonnee and a glass of Chablis, the rack of lamb proved sumptuous, the meat literally falling from the bone. Braun lingered with each bite, pausing, appreciating.

As he did, he watched those around him. Amid dark wood trim and velvet seats, middle-aged businessmen sat at their regular tables. They mingled in clusters or, in a few cases, were paired cozily with much younger women. Martinis came and disappeared in a constant flow. Braun found it all entertaining, and he imagined that in both groups the lies flowed as freely as the alcohol. It occurred to him that the men seemed quite confident, sure of themselves in these gilded surroundings. He doubted a single one had ever killed a man. It made him feel like a wolf among sheep.

The fine meal was a pleasure he had not experienced for nearly five years, and he left nothing but a scattering of bones picked clean. Braun winced when the bill came. He paid, allowing a nice tip, and headed outside into the warm sun. There, he practiced his new trade.

Braun walked to a corner, turned, and ducked into a shop. He studied the scene out the front window. The lessons had been rushed. On leaving Berlin, he'd spent three days in a safe house before boarding U-801. There, his instructor was Frau Schumann, a graying woman of about fifty who had probably been attractive in her time. She'd given Braun a crash course in the arts of deception. How to build a radio from commonly available parts. How to work with invisible inks and simple codes. Her particular quarter of expertise was an adult version of the child's game of hide-and-seek, the nuanced mechanics how to see but not be seen, how to follow but not be followed. He found her information useful, steeped in an unsavory brand of practicality. Braun took to it naturally. Frau Schumann was pleased.

She had kept him busy for sixteen hours the first day, and at the end she shared a little about herself. She had worked for the Abwehr in Spain, Italy, and France. She spoke seven languages. Her husband had died in the Great War, a victim of the gas. Braun listened politely.

The second day had lasted twelve hours. She then tried to seduce him, which he allowed. The final days lesson lasted ten hours and, after a pleasant dinner, Braun had put a bullet in the back of her head as she stood washing dishes. Those had been his instructions -- Gruber wanted no possible trace of the spy sent for Die Wespe. Braun suspected it was also another part of his education. A final exam, as it were.

Now, as he walked out of the shop, Frau Schumann's words echoed. Crowded places are best. Know every exit. Listen freely, look sparingly. It all made perfect sense.

Chapter 10.

Penn Station was busy in the early evening rush. Office workers swarmed in every direction like ants across a pile. Braun suspected the bustling atmosphere was amplified today, victory in Europe adding a spring to everyone's step. He sat quietly on a bench, waiting for the six fifteen train to Boston. In fact, he would not go quite that far, exiting two stops before the tickets final destination. The extra cost had been minimal, and while he was quite sure that no one was presently seeking him out, there was comfort in the small lie.

A whistle blew and steam billowed around the frame of a departing engine. As he waited, Braun tried to use the time constructively. In the conversations around him he picked up slang. He noted the New York accent that held a stronger edge than his natural midwestern tone. Braun would have to be careful -- five years of speaking only German and a smattering of Russian would creep in if he wasn't careful. He would have to be deliberate and precise. Bit by bit, information came. The Yankees were winning, but struggling in the pennant race. La Guardia was still mayor.

A young boy scurried toward him barking a pitch to sell the New York Times. More to learn. Braun waved him over.

"Hey, boy. I'll take one."

"Five cents, mister."

Braun paid and took a copy. The headline, of course, was Germany defeated. The city had climaxed in a spontaneous explosion -- liquor and confetti, strangers kissing strangers. The celebration would last a day or two, probably until the next horrible casualty count from the Pacific.

He turned to the papers latter sections and flicked his eyes across the pages. He wondered what was happening in Germany. Amid the chaos and muted relief, had Gruber and the others escaped? An image came to mind -- it had been in the Ukraine. His unit had set a barn on fire during a rushed retreat, not wanting to leave anything for Ivan. Amid the blaze, a few chickens had run out, screeching and flapping their smoldering wings. Yes, he thought with a smile, thats how it must be. Braun was sure he'd never see any of them again.

He tucked the newspaper under the arm of a fine charcoal gray suit he had purchased only hours ago. It was used, but in excellent condition, an expensive Italian cut that fit perfectly and retained the signature label. The shoes were also Italian, and together the ensemble reeked of wealth. Even second hand, it had cost thirty dollars. Fortunately, the rest of Braun's needs were modest. He would eat another meal, take a room, and tomorrow find a quality haircut and a shave. When the time came, he had to be eminently presentable. The Coles of Newport would expect nothing less. Or would they?

It had been five years. He knew that Americans, in spite of their patent wealth, had been making sacrifices for the war. Rationing of gas and sugar, copper and tires. But Newport, where the robber barons of capitalism sunned their egos so openly? Would Newport sacrifice? Braun smiled inwardly. Of course not. Discretion. That would be the order of the times. Let the hedgerows grow higher. There would be no shortage of beef on the dinner table or tea to accent one's afternoon. The industrialists would make a mint out of this war, the only concern being not to flaunt the local ease.

Not that there wouldn't be hardship. There must certainly be a shortage of able bodies to keep the gardens lush and the stables clean. The sons of proper society, those who couldn't manage 4-F, would have to take their commissions and go away, even if it was only to plum headquarters assignments in D. C. or Rome. And there would be no end to the tedious fund-raisers and War Bond drives. In her own inimitable way, Newport would do her part. As would the Coles.

A vision of Lydia came to mind, her long dark hair and curving figure. He wondered how much she had changed in five years. She'd sent a picture back in '41 or '42, tucked into one of the last letters that had found him. Still attractive, in an ordinary sort of way, and with the same hopeful pout. Braun had returned a few letters in the beginning, but his enlistment in the Wehrmacht predictably intervened. From there, a friend in Paris had forwarded a few of her buoyant missives, but the arrangement was unsustainable. Lydia would never hold him at fault for not writing -- she knew he'd gotten lost in the fight. Braun had simply neglected to tell her for which side. When he finally walked in the door after so many years, she would forgive. Of this, he was sure.

The rest of the family might have questions, of course. He would concoct a few vague stories, but nothing heroic. Everyone knew the true warriors were the ones who said the least. With the war winding down, men would be coming home by the boatload. Braun would claim to be a soldier on leave, a slim departure from the truth. Two weeks to begin. Or maybe three. Long enough to reestablish himself in good stead with the Coles of Newport.

He'd met her at a Harvard-Wellesley mixer, and they'd done exactly that, wantonly, during the summer of 1940. At first, Braun had been amused by the prim, reserved Lydia, seeing her as simple fare, a light challenge for conquest. The results came immediately, and if she demonstrated a distinct lack of expertise, it was more than compensated for by rampant enthusiasm. The entire, exhausting affair would have fizzled quickly had it not been for Lydia's prescient invitation -- two weeks with the family at Harrold House. This was where Braun had become truly enraptured.

He remembered his first impressions driving down Bellevue Avenue. Expansive lawns gave separation from the road, allowing the commoners a glimpse from a suitable distance. And farther back, along the shoreline, was madness. Forty thousand square foot( cottages," occupied only a few months each summer. It was an impossible mix of styles and themes, an architects playground and nightmare at the same time. A Louis XIV chateau next to a Georgian Revival. French Normandy sandwiched between Gothic and Tudor. The resulting hodgepodge was an assault to Brauns trained eye. He preferred symmetry, consistency. Yet there was something more behind it.

In the days that followed, Braun realized the error of his first appraisal. He saw a greater force at work, an influence that overrode any architectural misdemeanors. These were not structures, they were statements, each a reflection of the individual owner's imagination and ego. Crass and unenlightened as they might be, the buildings and gardens were only props, a setting for the true occupation of Newport. Evenings in full dress, elbow to elbow with senators and ambassadors. Old money magnates and respectable crooks mingling to proper music served up by forty-piece orchestras. It was pure theater on a scale Braun could never have imagined. By day, the men competed, the more ruinously expensive the sport, the better. Polo ponies and racing yachts. Ruthless golf and tennis. By night, the parties rotated among the estates, and here the women competed -- better caviar than the tripe served by the Smythes last week, or three bands to top the Wynn's two. There was backstabbing and manipulation. Deal making and lust. But more than anything, there was money. It was the constant, the standard by which foolish excess was measured.

For Braun, the leisures of Newport had been fleeting, interrupted when the telegram had come from his bullheaded father. Come to Paris right away. No explanation, no suggestion of reason. He had little alternative. Unlike most of his brothers at Harvard, Braun held no trust fund, no reserves from which to draw his final year's tuition, room, and board. He had explained to Lydia that the trip was academic, a scholarly study of the facades of a Paris that might soon be at risk from the impending storm of war. She'd been a model of understanding.

Newport had lasted only two weeks, but it had burned into Braun's mind. Memories that would later hold against the starvation of Stalingrad, the desperation of Berlin, and the killing grounds in between. Yet if he remembered vividly the mansions and galas, Lydia herself fell almost forgotten. He tried to recall her eyes. Were they blue? Or perhaps green? No matter, he decided. He would learn soon enough. Lydia, eager young Lydia, would be his ticket back.

A train pulled to the platform and he rose from the hard wooden bench. The cars were full, and he took a seat to the rear, next to a plump young woman who was firmly engaged in a dime novel. He coughed and snorted roughly as he sat. Feign sickness . . . people always avoid it. He sensed the woman pull away.