The Reunion (15 page)

“Admiral Rickover?”

The old man laughed. “He was Captain Rickover when I knew him in forty-two.”

“Walk me through this,” Dunlevy said, trying to spark something in the deep recesses of what was once high school chemistry. “I thought Nautilus class subs ran on uranium fuel rods.”

“They do. Uranium-235. But you've got to understand that plutonium was the newest big advance at that time. It makes for a marvelous fuel for nuclear fission, but with the nasty habit of going boom.”

Dunlevy was up now, pacing the room. “Professor, you're telling me they were kicking around plutonium-powered submarines?” he asked in disbelief.

“Damn stupid idea, wasn't it? Way too volatile, but apparently your German friends didn't know that.”

He nodded. “Maybe not.”

“By 1945, everybody agreed uranium-235 was the way to go. And really, it's not as stupid as it sounds. We have plutonium-powered reactors now, breeder reactors is what they call them, I think. It's cheap, but a political hot potato. Nobody wants to deal with it.”

“So, let's say you're right. This sub picks up plutonium in New England, travels south, and three days later the Coast Guard sinks them off North Carolina.” Dunlevy was scrawling out words on his legal pad now. “Would radioactive material still be on the wreck?”

Johnson answered quickly. “Only for about the next twenty thousand years.”

25

Carolyn tucked in the baby, moved to the center of the hotel bed's badly worn comforter, and spread out the pages she had taken from Hudson's Navy gym bag. Her manner was one of restrained excitement. By all rights, she was damn lucky to still have the papers. The Wilmington police had rummaged through the bag immediately following her arrest. But they were looking for a murder weapon, not legal pads, and paid little attention to the wealth of notes she had stolen from the professor's trunk. They were hers now, and she had no intention of telling the FBI agent—at least not yet.

She flipped through one legal pad to a page titled, “Remaining U-352 survivors.” There were two names. The word “comatose” was written next to the first name. The second was circled in red, with two large question marks in the left column. “Gerhard Reussel, Martinique.” The address and telephone number had been neatly printed on the line below. In the margin, more scribbling: “Won't talk.”

She reached for the telephone receiver but noticed the time on the adjacent clock. It was eleven thirty; too late to call now. She promised herself she'd try first thing in the morning.

***

Gerhard Reussel lived on the second floor of a converted eighteenth-century Creole rum factory on a crag where the mountains met the sea. The decaying old stone building had been lovingly restored into fourteen simple but spotless suites overlooking the beach at Anse Milan on the island of Martinique.

His was the only window at the bed and breakfast without a shutter or curtain. Every morning, for fifty years, sunshine served as a serene wake-up call, luring him to a private balcony, coffee in hand, to marvel at the sight. Below him, the scraggly little shrubs he had pushed into the sand a half-century earlier now burst forth in a jungle of abundant color. Fishing boats stretched in casual formation almost to the horizon, secluded by green bluffs high enough to kiss the clouds.

The first seed for Reussel Haus had been planted in 1941, when the young sailor spent time recovering from a gunshot wound at the French military hospital across the bay in Fort-de-France. The French never could hide their disdain for the Brits. Even when the Third Reich occupied their homeland, many islanders were still sympathetic to the German cause, allowing their U-boats to secretly refuel and drop off their injured for the locals to nurse back to health.

School children were taught the Nazi salute, Hitler's picture hung on the wall at the Vichy-French government headquarters, and even the most casual remark about Britain prevailing in the war was grounds enough for a Vichy magistrate to jail the offender.

In July of 1942, an American naval blockade and the mere threat of invasion was enough to bring Martinique grudgingly back into the allied fold. For a time, the Vichy Navy did posture in the Fort-de-France bay, but just long enough for a greedy vice admiral to raid French gold reserves that had been hidden deep underground at Fort Desaix three years earlier. It's the one chapter in island lore that never seemed to make the travel guides.

When Gerhard returned after the war, only the flag had changed. Like Rio and Buenos Aries, Martinique would always be a place where an old Nazi could feel at home. At eighty-seven, he still managed the books and reservations, but was no longer allowed to work the front desk. That chore was left to his eldest daughter and her ill-tempered French husband, whom he hated. The smarmy little frog claimed that his German accent and prosthetic leg were scaring away the guests. But this was low season, and his daughter and the Frenchman had taken the ferry over to the city to shop for linens and other supplies.
Fuck him,
Gerhard thought.
Today I'm in charge.

He stood at the front desk scrutinizing the guest list while the help scurried all around him preparing for the afternoon arrivals. A shapely twenty-something Creole maid, whose name he could never remember, squeezed past him to grab the phone.

“Monsieur, it's for you.”

Reussel's eyes narrowed. Nobody ever called for him. He took the receiver from the brown-skinned girl, stealing a peek before reminding himself he was too old for such thoughts.

“Reussel Haus,” he said suspiciously.

It was a female voice he had never heard before. “Mr. Reussel, my name is Baerwaldt, Carolyn Baerwaldt,” she said, using her father's surname for the first time. “Does that name sound familiar to you?”

He instantly frowned. “Should it?”

“You served with my father in the Second World War. Klaus Baerwaldt. Do you remember him?”

Gerhard hobbled to the lobby couch, the cordless receiver still pressed to his ear. Of course he knew the name, but this was not a social call. “What do you want, young lady?” he asked sternly.

There was a long pause. “I know the police have already contacted you, but please, it's very important. I'm looking for anything that might explain the explosion.”

“Police? Explosion? I'm sorry, but I have no idea what you're talking about.” His tone was hollow and detached, bordering on irritable.

“Please don't hang up,” she pleaded, her voice now quivering. “Didn't the authorities call and ask about the reunion?”

“What reunion? You're talking nonsense!” he yelled.

“May 9th, your old shipmates, the sixtieth anniversary of the capture. I know the FBI has tried to contact you.”

The old man listened intently, a dull ache building in his chest as she rambled on with her incredible yarn. A week didn't go by that he didn't wonder what became of those boys. Now, he was the only one left.
How could my own daughter and the frog have kept all of this from me?

When she finished, he pondered her story for a long moment, agonizing over how much he should reveal.

“And you say Klaus was your father?”

“Yes.”

“Klaus saved…” He stopped in mid-sentence.

“What is it?” Carolyn asked.

“My daughter. She's home. I must go now. I'm truly sorry about your father, young lady, but please don't call here again.”

“Hold on,” she demanded. “Please, let me call you back. You pick the time.”

He paused. “E-mail me. We have a Web site. Reussel Haus. Look it up. I'm the only one that works the computer here.”

The phone went dead.

***

Joey snatched the red Ford Mustang convertible from a used car lot just outside of Wilmington. He took it late Saturday night, guessing it wouldn't be reported stolen until the dealership reopened for business Monday morning. He felt good at the wheel of his latest procurement. It was a flashy car, one that commanded attention. He had the top down within an hour of driving it off the lot. He didn't want to stay in North Carolina, but if he had to he thought it best to hide in plain view. Barney Fife and the rest of the Mayberry assholes would never think outside the box like that.

He caught the eye of a pretty brunette at a stoplight downtown. Joey did his best to look cool, flashing her a broad smile as he inched up next to her at the white line.

Joey's skin tingled from the vibration of the car. He drove with one hand. His right fist was curled snugly into the grooves at the very bottom of the steering wheel, his thumb dangling even lower, tracing the outline of the swelling in his pants.

He smiled and mouthed the word “hello” when she looked his way. The pretty woman nodded sheepishly and returned his smile, unaware that the man at the wheel of the sporty convertible was rubbing himself just out of view.

It had been a long time since Joey had been with a woman, but tomorrow would mark the end of that dry spell. He had been too startled to notice her long legs and full bosom during their brief encounter at the beach house. It wasn't until he spied her leaving the police station that he noticed how sexy she actually was.

He had listened to the drama of her arrest on his handheld scanner and then spent two hours sipping latte at the coffee house across from the station while he waited for her interrogation to end. He followed her back to the La Quinta and checked in minutes after she did.

He put up only mock resistance when the old lady insisted she be taken out too. Sure, it was dangerous to hang around Wilmington, but the risk no longer mattered. He was operating on a different plane now. She was tall and muscular. The encounter promised to be very physical. He was counting on her to fight back.

26

Senator DaSilva leaned forward with both palms pushed against his hand-carved antique desk. Thick eyeglasses teetered on the bridge of his nose, giving the appearance he was scrutinizing the FBI report with far greater intensity than he actually was.

He was a short, stout man with thick, snow-white hair. The goatee and olive skin added a touch of ethnicity to the package, but most people in his home state were never quite sure of his origin. At a recent speech at a textile mill in Wakefield, he opened his remarks in flawless Portuguese, much to the thrill of the workforce there. Later that same night in Providence, the crowd at the Sons of Italy banquet was equally impressed with his mastery of their language.

On occasion, an editorial in the
Providence Journal
would paint him as an ineffective, doddering old man. And his approval rating had slipped in recent years, but it didn't matter. No one really paid much attention. Edmund DaSilva was everyone's grandfather. Men stood in line to shake his hand; women of all ages just had to hug him. The only people who really didn't like the senator were the ones who had mistaken him for a pushover. And most of them knew better than to verbalize their umbrage for fear of further incurring his wrath.

Millie buzzed in on the intercom to announce the arrival of Assistant FBI Director Bob Harris. The senator stood and stretched before ambling over to the door to greet him. DaSilva made pleasantries as he steered his guest to the dark leather couch. He plopped down into his executive swivel chair and wheeled it closer to the agent.

“Bob,” he said gravely, “I've just been reading the field report on the murders of those elderly men in North Carolina. It's a terrible tragedy, and now I see there's a connection to my home state.”

Harris nodded, trying not to show surprise that the old man had gotten his hands on confidential memoranda that only crossed his desk in the last twenty-four hours.

“I have a few concerns I'd like to discuss with you.” He paused to sip from his coffee mug. “As you know, one of your field agents has been interviewing the elderly mother of the candidate I'm supporting to take my seat when I retire at the end of the year.”

Harris fought back a smile. The Grand Old Party's master of finesse was squirming and the assistant director wasn't about to let him off the hook, at least not easily. “And your godson, I believe. That's right, isn't it?” he asked with a straight face.

The senator laughed out loud. “Manny is a fine young man. And yes, Bob, I'm his godfather. I guess that makes me the don, just like in the movies.” He chuckled again. “Trust me, it's not as sinister as you make it sound. But I did call you for a favor.”

The agent couldn't help but break into a wide grin.
Damn, the old man's good.
All of a sudden, the crafty bastard had snaked the upper hand. “And what favor would that be?” he asked, playing along with the game.

“Not a favor, actually,” he shrugged, dismissing the idea he really needed his help. “I'm just looking for a little sensibility in how this matter is handled.”

Harris didn't back down. “Certainly you're not asking me to ignore a possible lead?”

The senator was momentarily startled by his bluntness. He folded his hands together in his lap as he paused to ponder the appropriate response. “I would never use my position to impede the progress of a federal investigation,” he said sternly. “What I am asking is that you carefully weigh all the ramifications of pursuing a lead that has no chance of bearing fruit.”

The agent furrowed his brow. “We have a responsibility to pursue all avenues, Senator.”

DaSilva was determined to spell it out for him. What started as playful sparring had escalated, in his mind, into impertinence. “Your field agent is quizzing an elderly woman who single-handedly built a retail empire about a grocery sacker who may or may not have been in her employ several years ago. Come on!”

Harris shrugged his shoulders but didn't speak.

The senator stiffened his tone. “Before Mary Vocatura retired, she consistently had over a thousand people on her payroll at any given time, many of them teenagers. It's a sad reality, but I'm almost certain that over the years some of those kids turned out to be bad adults. It sounds like you're hot on the trail of one of them now, and good for you! I hope you nail him. But for one of your field agents to further some obscure link this suspect may or may not have to the Vocatura family one month before Manny's primary borders on criminal. That's how I feel about it, and I want you to know it. Are we clear?”

“Yes sir,” said Harris, the respect back in his voice.

The senator seemed to scowl as he crossed his arms, a signal Harris took as an end to their brief meeting. As he stood to leave, DaSilva waved him back.

“Listen, I don't mean to be a grouchy old bastard,” he admitted almost apologetically. “The press hasn't reported any link to Manny yet, and I don't think they will. But, hell, even if they did, he's fifteen points ahead in the polls. He'll still win.”

“Senator, please,” Harris interrupted. “This matter will be handled with all the delicacy and due diligence the Bureau can muster. You have my word on that.”

“Good, I appreciate that.” He stood to shake the agent's hand. “Young fella, do you mind a little parting wisdom from an old son-of-a-bitch who's been dealing with the Bureau since J. Edgar's watch?”

Harris chuckled. “Not at all, sir.”

“People seem to like you over there at the Hoover Building. I called and checked.” This amused him. The senator smiled and clasped his hands together, leaning into the desk. “Try to remember that the race to the top at the FBI is a marathon, not a sprint. Make as many friends along the way as you can.”