The Proxy Assassin (26 page)

“Okay,” said Harvey. “Now close the circle.”

Did Harvey already know where I was going with this? Or was this just a cheapshit way of maintaining his all-knowingness? Well, take this pal.

“Leonid had one last blockbuster he wanted to peddle to Miss Julia. I assumed it was an anti-Dewey bombshell, Dewey being the more rabid anti-Commie. But the Reds don't care who's President any more than Hoover does. Truman and Dewey are Tweedle Dee and Tweedle Dum to them. What do they care about? Who do they fear?”

“J. Edgar Bulldog,” said Harvey.

“Yes! Hoover's the only one with the smarts and the manpower to track down Soviet illegals. If the NKVD had twenty agents in Canada in 1945 imagine how many they're running in the States in 1948.”

I paused. Harvey stubbed out his cigarette. I continued.

“I believe Leonid Vitinov's blockbuster story, the one he was going to give to Julia, is that the Director of the FBI collaborated with a Soviet spy in the final days of a
Presidential election in order to damage Frank Wisner, his rival for power.”

I smiled smugly, anticipating Harvey's reluctant acknowledgement of my blinding genius. “Not even Hoover could talk his way out of that one.”

“And why,” said Harvey, “would an NKVD Major do business with J. Edgar Hoover?”

“Because Hoover's an authority figure Leonid can understand. The Soviets don't bother with any red line between police powers and espionage. The head of the NKVD is both spy and cop, not to mention judge, jury and executioner. In their minds J. Edgar Hoover is our Lavrenty Beria.”

“Christ, Schroeder, that's low. And you didn't answer your own question. Why would Hoover dredge up the fed bank story?”

“Oh crap, who knows? It's ancient history, he doesn't care anymore.”

“That doesn't sound like Hoover,” said Harvey. “But that's not why I think your theory stinks.”

I waited, impatiently, for my dressing down.

“Never underestimate
the power of a good librarian. That's how Hoover got started, he invented the card file system at the Library of Congress.”

“I'm hep, Bill.”

“I got curious about the girl reporter after she put your name in the paper. When she ambushed you at the Dewey rally – a lowly stringer digging up obscure details of an old case in another city – I kept my CI researchers up late. Someone was feeding her, possibly the NKVD. But how would they know this shit?”

“I don't know, Bill. But something tells me you do.”

Harvey pulled a folded photocopy of a newspaper article from his coat pocket and handed it over.

“What am I looking at here?”

Harvey
turned on the Cadillac's dome light. I struggled to read the grainy print, certain I wasn't going to like it.

It was from
The Hibernian Bugle
, a Cleveland weekly, dated January 3, 1946, a couple weeks after the Mooney boys and I robbed the bank. The lead item in a column titled ‘Comings and Goings' detailed the sudden departure of the entire Mooney clan for County Cork.

‘
Twas a proper sendoff indeed. Mrs. Aloysius Mooney, attended by her sons Ambrose, Sean and Patrick, hosted an open bar last Saturday at O'Brien's. Young Patrick, still on crutches from an unfortunate accident, impressed one and all by making a parting donation to Father Michael Kennedy of St. Malachi's Parish in the form of a crisp, newly-minted, one hundred dollar bill
.”

Oh Christ. Those idiots.

“The NKVD has librarians too,” said Harvey.

“Where did your people find this?”

“At your previous place of employment.”

“The Cleveland Public Library?” Harvey winked at me. “The Cleveland Public Library was Leonid's source?”

“Makes more sense than your convoluted crock of shit.”

The sonofabitch had a point. “All right, say Hoover's not Leonid's source, he's not scheming to ruin me. Why's he call me in?”

“You've already answered that question.”

I had at that. Rank opportunist Hoover saw a chance to gather me in his fatherly embrace while I was feeling like the world had turned against me.

“Well, it's not going to work. I'm not going to be his snitch.”

“The Director won't like that, Harold.”

“Too fucking bad. Is that why you're here, Bill? To enlist me?”

Harvey
leaned back against the car door and pronged me with his thyroid eyeballs. He was good and pissed. I had questioned his integrity.

“I'm here, Schroeder, because I thought you had CI potential.”

Counterintelligence? The purest form of intelligence gathering? Something I could actually do now that I was a blown asset? First I'd heard of it.

“And I just blew my chance is what you're saying.”

I had happily tumbled into Harvey's jolly yarn. Drunken uncle doting on wayward nephew. But those bulging eyeballs told a different tale.

You're in deep, sonny boy, and you're on your own
.

I
climbed out of the Cadillac and started walking north toward the Mayflower. Bill Harvey drove off in a huff. Stupid of me to insult the man. I didn't have any friends to burn in Washington D.C.

The night had turned cold. Winter cold, Cleveland cold. I shoved my hands in my pockets and picked up the pace.

Something was eating me. If my elaborate Leonid-Hoover conspiracy wasn't true, if Leonid's source for the bank robbery info was
The Hibernian Bugle
, why did he want to meet with Miss Julia again? We didn't find any evidence that he had a follow-up story to sell. Unless it was in that missing shopping bag of his.

But I knew the answer to that. If Leonid's assignment was to deliver a smear story to whatever reporter would take it he wouldn't have wasted time playing hide and seek with us on a dark street. Not unless Leonid had decided to revert to amateur status, to settle a private matter.

I walked faster.

-----

The loading dock of the Mayflower was alive with smells. The tang of oysters and blue crabs battled the sweet warmth of fresh-baked bread as delivery men unloaded trucks. My head swam. If this hellish night ever ended I was going to sit down to a two-hour breakfast followed by a light lunch, a late afternoon snack and a six-course dinner.

I hung back and waited for the trucks to leave before ducking through the back door and heading down the hall to the service elevator. An odd noise caught my ear. It seemed to
be coming from the lobby. It was a noise on two levels, a gravelly murmur topped with static.

I could hazard a quick visit to the lobby. If there were any newsies still standing at this hour they'd be too drunk to recognize me.

As I got closer I noticed a small cluster of folks by the wall across from the reception desk. They were watching a television.

I'd never seen a television in action before. The screen was about ten inches across, straight-edged on the top and bottom and rounded on the sides. The picture was wavy and gray-green, as if shot underwater.

A man in a bowtie sat at a desk with a big microphone. He was reading copy, a news bulletin that he repeated.

“There has been a shooting at the Soviet Embassy on 16
^th
Street. A passing motorist reported hearing three or four gunshots, followed by dark-clad man or boy fleeing the Embassy on foot.”

Man or
boy
.

The fleeing suspect was short.

It was goddamn motherhumping Leonid Vitinov is who it was.

The PD wouldn't have been able to hold him for long no matter what cockamamie story Harvey fed them. The Soviet Ambassador would have come to collect Leonid, who would have fed his boss some cock and bull about how he landed in the hospital, knowing the real story would surface in short order.

Hence the shooting. A sentry at the gate, maybe a guard inside the Embassy as well. Leonid had no interest in returning to Lavrenty Beria. His business was here. With me.

I had outthunk myself once again. All my mental gymnastics about Leonid masterminding a Commie conspiracy to spike the Presidential election or ruin Hoover were wrong-headed.
This was the oldest story in the book. A bitter man looking to settle a score.

Leonid didn't have a smear story to peddle. I had learned in Berlin that he wasn't a true believer in the cause of World Communism. Leonid was only a true believer in himself. And his old world code of honor.

I had dishonored Leonid Vitinov in every way imaginable. I had cuckolded him, outwitted him, killed his wife. Such disrespect would require elaborate vindication. Shooting me on a dark Georgetown street wouldn't begin to cover it. He had bigger plans.

Julia's humiliation of me at the Dewey rally was just the beginning. The follow-up would be Leonid killing someone dear to me, to avenge the death of his wife Anna. He would want to do this in my presence. The climax would, of course, be the tragic death of young Harold, in as protracted and painful way as possible.

But why had he waited? He saw me go up the back stairs to Julia's apartment after the Dewey rally. Why not act then?

Because Leonid wanted to make sure. When Julia got me to endorse Dewey, Leonid knew I'd made an ill-advised admission to an attractive young woman. I was smitten. But then Julia bushwhacked me at the Dewey rally, as instructed. Could be I'd gone to her apartment to yell at her.

Leonid had a ten o'clock appointment with Julia that night, an appointment he never intended to keep. When she didn't hustle out the door at 9:45 Leonid had his answer. I had talked her out of it, I was concerned for her safety.

Julia was dear to me. Game on.

My stupidity had saved us. My hare-brained scheme to snatch Leonid outside Bonnie's Diner got us out the door before Leonid could leave his observation post across the street, scramble up the fire escape and jimmy the back window. It must have been frustrating for the little man, about to ring up
the curtain on his big production, only to have to chase down the street after that smart-mouth girl reporter.

Leonid and I both knew what I'd do now. I wasn't going to tolerate the killing of another female confederate. Anna was one too many. What I was going to do now was plunge myself headlong into Leonid's trap.

I had Julia's business card in my wallet. I went to the pay booth and called her number. It was busy, she'd probably taken her phone off the hook.

I considered calling the cops on the off chance they might station a squad car out front of her apartment. But if Leonid was already inside and saw the cops roll up…No, this one was all mine.

I might get to Julia's and reclaim my six shooter before Leonid showed his pretty mug. Not likely but what else did I have? The house dick. The house dick would have a gun.

-----

“No sir, Mr. Schroeder, we are not permitted weapons,” said the stout brown-eyed man in the black suit. “Many heads of state stay with us.”

“Which is why you need a gun,” I said, “to protect them.”

“Heads of state provide their own security.”

“Which means they don't trust you, the house detective, to carry a gun in your own house?”

I was trying to goad him into showing me his gat so I could rent it for a ridiculous sum. But all he said was, “You are correct, sir.”

I hoofed it out of the hotel, grabbed a cab, gave the driver a fin and Julia's address. “And don't spare the horses.”

The traffic was light, we flew across town. The cabbie didn't have a gun I could borrow either.

I
had him do a quick around-the-block when we reached Seaton Place. No one followed, no one lurked. There's never a buzz-cut FBI tag team around when you need one.

There were lights on in Julia's apartment but no silhouettes in the windows. We stopped in the alley by the back door. I was about to climb out when a thought occurred.

“What's your name Mac?”

“Tommy.”

He was middle-thirties, with shaggy brown hair that spilled over his collar.

“My name's Hal Schroeder, you may have heard of me.” No sign of recognition from the driver. I held up another fin. “Tommy, I'm going to ask you a big favor. A young lady's life might depend on it.”

Tommy eyed the fiver, saying nothing. He looked like he'd pulled a twelve-hour shift.

“I want you to wait five minutes then come up to apartment G as in George, hammer on the door and yell ‘Police, open up!'”

I wanted a distraction so I could jump Leonid. He wouldn't plug us right away, he'd want to gloat.

“That's it?”

I liked it that Tommy didn't ask for details. “That's it. Apartment G, second floor, five minutes. I'll leave the back door open.”

“I'll do it for ten.”

I liked that too. I forked over my last bill. “You don't have a flak jacket handy do you?”

Tommy grinned, and squinted. “You're that hero guy, ain't ya? Some bridge in Berlin and all.”

“Yeah,” I said and climbed out. “I'm that hero guy. Be safer if you parked down the block.”

Tommy nodded like he did this every day. I used the skeleton key on the back door and crept quickly up the stairs.

My
legs got heavy as I approached the second floor. Was I that hero guy? Real heroes do things they don't have to do, things that get them killed. I could punk out now and no one the wiser. I'd been a selfish shit in the past, why stop now?

I didn't want Miss Julia to get killed of course, she was class A all the way. But if Leonid was already inside her apartment as he figured to be, dollars to donuts Julia and I were both goners.

Tough shit, had to do it. Tommy the cabdriver would be disappointed if the hero of Muhlendamm Bridge punked out. And I couldn't disappoint Tommy.

I heard music when I reached the second floor, a radio or a record player. The music was coming from inside apartment G. I assumed it was part of Leonid's well-laid trap, meant to make me think Miss J was winding down after a hard day.