The Hess Cross (23 page)

Midway through a trip to the nitro hut, Flannery realized that the car theft and the delivery of the lunch bucket were tests. Whoever had this kind of dough wouldn't need to have a car stolen. And they could have had a lunch bucket delivered for a lot less than two hundred dollars. These errands had been Flannery's preliminary examination. Stealing the dynamite-delivery schedule was their ultimate goal.

The Irishman thought briefly of extorting more money out of the mailbox for the schedule now that he had it in his wallet. It obviously was extremely important to someone. It would be simple. Just put a note in the box saying, "I've got the route and you can have it for another $2,000." But Paddy Flannery had spent too much time in the underworld to make the extortion mistake. Big money invariably meant ruthlessness. For the sum the mailbox had already paid Flannery, it could have had five Irishmen wrapped in chains and dumped in the Chicago River.

Flannery left work promptly at 5:00 that afternoon and took a cab to his apartment. If the cabbie wondered what a blue-shirt laborer was doing in a cab flashing a thick roll of
greenbacks around, he didn't ask. The taxi stopped in front of a liquor store while Flannery bought a bottle of rye whiskey. He tipped the cabbie five dollars and waited until the cab was out of sight to approach the mailbox. He looked up and down the street, saw no one paying particular interest, took the schedule from his wallet, and dropped it into his mailbox. He gave the box an affectionate pat, and with bottle in hand climbed the stairs to his apartment. Paddy Flannery had hit the big time.

XII

S
T.
L
AZARE
S
TATION LOOMED
over the locomotive, which was belching a huge cloud of ash-gray smoke that billowed up toward the black, beamed-metal roof. Smoke and steam animated the engine and gave it an air of impatience. Hazy, cinder sky filtered through the station's ventilation ports on the ceiling. Green and blue and gray dominated the scene and suggested a coldness the train was anxious to leave.

"
The Old St. Lazare Station: The Train for Normandy, 1877
," Heather McMillan read aloud as she leaned over the thin strand of rope and peered at the small metal plaque on the wall next to the painting. " 'Claude Monet.' "

"I've seen another painting he did of the St. Lazare Station," said John Crown. "It was owned by the Staubs of Männendorf, Switzerland. And I think the Louvre has another. Monet painted many of his subjects a number of times."

Heather and Crown moved to the next painting. She read, "
Haystack. Winter, 1891
. 'Claude Monet.' "

"He painted seventeen or eighteen haystacks. Each was done in different light. He was obsessed with light and tried to capture the nuances of even a slight change in daylight. I've seen a number of his versions of the Cathedral at Rouen, each done at a different time of day."

"I've seen his water-lily paintings at the National Gallery in London," Heather contributed.

"He did those toward the end of his life, when his eyes were failing. They lay around his studio for years after his death. People thought their formlessness was due to his bad eyes. Their importance as a summation of his impressionistic work wasn't recognized for a long time."

"
The Morning Bath, '
Edgar Degas, circa 1883.' "

"Degas painted racecourse and theater scenes. His favorite subjects were graceful ballerinas and ungraceful, bathing women. Unlike most of the impressionists, who lived estranged from their families and penniless during their early careers, Degas's father was a well-to-do banker, who supported Degas's ambition to be an artist. So while Monet, Van Gogh, and Seurat were starving, Degas had the advantage of some income."

"Toulouse-Lautrec also had family money," Heather added.

Crown paused, looked at her with an amused squint, and said, "Say, I'm not making a fool of myself by lecturing you on the French impressionists while you know a lot more about them than I do, am I?"

"I don't mind." She grinned. "I enjoy hearing you talk. And if you make a mistake during your little lecture, I'll tactfully correct you."

"How much do you know about these artists?" Crown felt color touch his cheek.

"I studied them in Paris for a year before the war. But you're doing well. Continue." She laughed delightedly and put her hand through his arm.

Shit. He had read that in her file and had completely forgotten it. Something about her scrambled his thoughts.

"You know, you frost my butt at times," he said, shaking his head while she smiled merrily, squeezed his arm, and leaned against him as they walked into the Renoir room.

The Art Institute of Chicago was one of the many public, crowded places Crown and Heather had visited in the past several days. When not occupied with Hess, they had acted like tourists. Before the Art Institute that day they had toured the Chicago Board of Trade, where from the viewing platform they had watched insane men gesticulating wildly at one another across the tiered pits as they set the United States commodities' prices. It fascinated Crown that legally binding contracts for thousands of dollars of grain could be made with a flick of the wrist.

On previous days had been other crowded places, tourist attractions that bristled with people. Heather had suggestively complained to Crown that she was never alone with him. Crown shrugged it off, and seeing his apparent indifference, she had not mentioned it again.

Crown was far from indifferent. He was under the long gun. Someone in Chicago was looking to kill him. This was apparent, because they had tried once and failed, killing Miguel Maura, and would now be coming for him. Heather's late-night phone calls reporting his whereabouts confirmed they would try again. He was being stalked.

Revenge was not their motive. If it was, they would not have complicated their task by involving Heather. A revenge killing is the simplest. A man with a high-powered rifle waits, often for days, near the victim's home or car until he can put the mark in the cross hairs. It does not matter if the murder is public, because an experienced assassin always has an escape route, usually abetted by confusion. In addition, possible subsequent newspaper publicity of the
killing does not deter the murderer, because he is long gone by the next morning's editions.

Because this was not revenge, it followed that whatever the killers' motive, Crown's death was incidental to a much more important mission. Such a mission could easily be thwarted by newspaper publicity incumbent to a public killing. The killers would try to take Crown quietly, preferably in an out-of-the-way place. They knew that, as in all countries, an agent's death was suppressed if at all possible. If Crown went quietly, his death would not be investigated by Chicago police or the news media, because Crown's agency would quickly dispose of the body and fabricate a convincing story for his relatives.

So as long as he stayed in crowded areas, the assassin would not strike. Crown and Heather had toured the Board of Trade, the Art Institute, the Shedd Aquarium, the Field Museum of Natural History, and other teeming attractions. Heather had not asked why Crown could take time to tour Chicago with her when he was on a vital mission guarding Hess. Normally he would not have, but he was convinced that Miguel Maura's death and the imminent assassination attempt on him were connected to Hess's journey. Any other explanation was too coincidental.

Over long-distance phone to Washington two days before, Crown and Richard Sackville-West had reviewed the entire operation: Maura's death, Hess's journey to Chicago and his interrogations, and Heather's phone calls.

"That's the entire information, sir. If you can come up with anything, any possible mission or the name of whoever is behind it, you're more insightful than I am," Crown had said into the crackling telephone.

"I'd be the last to argue I was not more insightful than you, John," the Priest had chuckled. "I agree that whatever's going on has something to do with Hess. Any other
explanation doesn't make sense. So we have to assume the worst—that their goal is to kill Hess. Somehow they found out he was here, and are now trying to get rid of him."

"You keep saying 'someone' when referring to the killers. Can't we conclude it's the Germans? They know how valuable Hess's information is. They must also suspect the reason Hess was brought to the U.S. was because he was talking, revealing their nuclear-experiment secrets."

"I agree," said the Priest from a thousand miles away. "So the Germans are trying to kill him. Needless to say, we absolutely cannot let this happen. He must be kept alive."

Crown asked, "Why are they after me, rather than Hess?"

"Although they know where Hess is, because Heather has obviously told them, they can't get to him. He's too well guarded. You and Peter Kohler have seen to that. So they'll try for you, hoping somehow to get to Hess through you."

"How?"

"I've no idea. But we assume they want Hess dead, and we know they want you dead. There has to be a connection. Unless they can find a way to get to Hess, they'll keep trying for you. Maybe they only want to kidnap you and force you to breach the EDC house security. Who knows? But they must feel time is running out on them. They're desperate. So they'll try anything."

"Let me see if I can read you," Crown said. "We obviously can't sit here and wait for them to strike."

"Correct."

"So we need to take the offensive."

"Right, again."

"We don't have any leads other than we think they'll try again. So we let them try again. Which means I have to make myself a target."

"You've done it successfully in Europe, and I trust you
can do it in Chicago. All you need do is walk around and expose yourself. Nothing could be easier." The Priest laughed softly.

He knew as well as Crown the terrible ordeal of being a target. Anyone could be the killer—the postman, the lady shopper, the cabbie. He could be hiding behind any tree, post, building, or door. He could be watching the target from any rooftop, any car, anywhere. He could strike at any time—while the target was sleeping, eating, or urinating. Nothing, no one was safe. The constant fear of the attack shortly jellied the target's nerves.

A target could not let the hunter know he was aware of the plan. Not being able to look over the shoulder every few seconds was agonizing. The target had to trust other senses to guard his rear, none of which were as acute as eyesight. Nevertheless, the target's eyes never rested. Without unduly moving his head, he let his eyes fly back and forth, searching for signs of the strike. For two weeks after his last experience as a target, Crown's eyes had twitched uncontrollably, unable to rest even after their torturous duty had ended.

Acute paranoia infected a target. It raised hackles on the neck, turned the stomach over, and made hands tremble, so that writing with a pen was almost impossible. Nights were endless, sleepless vigils. Soon a numbing ache overcame the target and dulled his senses, an ache from sleeplessness and effort. At these times, the target was even more vulnerable, more prone to make a fatal mistake.

"How many days should I make them wait before setting them up?" Crown asked.

"Use your discretion. I suggest three or four days. Make them worry that you'll never expose yourself. You'll be able to predict when they'll strike, that way. If you give them only one chance to hit you, that's the one they'll take. Be
careful, though. You know as well as I do that this ploy requires them to have no hint you're on to them."

"What about my duties with Hess?"

"Keep at them. You're always surrounded by bodyguards and are safest when you're with him. Spend your spare time with Heather and in crowds so the assassins will think they know your every move. She'll keep feeding them information about you until they're sure that if you ever are alone and open to be killed, they'll be aware of it because she'll tell them in advance. That way, they probably won't even follow you. They'll just rely on her reports."

Crown paused several seconds, searching for words that would not be revealing. Finally he asked, "Have you come up with any reason she's in with them?"

"As best we can tell, she's never had any contact with the Nazis, so they couldn't have indoctrinated her. That leaves only one motive for her—money. They must be paying her a tidy sum."

The words had stung Crown. Not that he hadn't suspected money was her motive. He had sifted through all possible reasons why she was informing on him. Each time, he concluded she was on the German payroll, and each time, it hurt more.

At first he had been insulted. She was playing him for a fool. For the past three nights she had used the pay phone outside her hotel after she thought he had driven away. Each night, she gave succinct instructions on their plans for the next day and promised to let them know any changes in plans. She was obviously a rookie at her double life. Had she been in the business for any length of time, she would have known Crown would trust no one completely and would covertly watch her. Neither she nor her bosses respected his professional talent.

Crown's injured-pride explanation went only so far. He
was too honest with himself not to admit the real and hurting reason he despaired over her duplicity. Quite simply, he was falling for Heather.

He was thirty-three years old and had never loved a woman. His affairs had been casual and brief, never long enough for emotional commitment to grow from physical desire. Women had drifted in and out of his life without affecting it. Crown entered relationships expecting at most an uneasy friendship, made uncomfortable by expectations he knew he would never fulfill. At the first sign of attachment, he withdrew, for reasons he could not understand. Perhaps he feared the responsibility of a relationship. Or he was afraid of any emotional change. He had been accused by women he was leaving of being a coward, of being juvenile, of being cold. Maybe. Maybe not. He hadn't taken the time to think about it.

Heather was different. She touched him like no one before. For the first time in his life, Crown looked forward with heady anticipation to being with a woman. He was anxious when he was not with her, and wanted nothing else when they were together. Crown was falling in love.