The Nazi Hunter Page 15

  Lastly, it would help a lot to narrow the search to one specific camp to focus the inquiry.

  There was a voice in my head—a tired, wheezy German voice. Sophie Reiner had started this investigation, and she was still guiding it. I sent George a one-line fax:

  Concentrate on Belzec.

  We've been given a new assignment. “Once we've done this next job, we should have enough money,” I told Clint.

  He asked, “Enough money for what?”

  I said, “Enough money to buy all the rest of the stuff we're going to need for the big operation. Remember what I said about the spark and the kindling?”

  I think he does, but you can't always tell with Clint.

  I'd love to aim for the White House or the Capitol, but they're too well guarded. The Supreme Court would be good, but it's set too far back from the street and up a bunch of steps. The State Department's a possibility. The guards there were slow to move vehicles along, especially from the side entrances. Would blowing up the State Department provide the spark? Does it send the right message?

  Clint asks, “How many people have you killed, anyway?”

  I tell him, “I don't rightly know. I killed an awful lot over in Iraq.”

  “Not counting Iraq,” he says. “How many since you've been back?”

  I try to remember them all. “Half a dozen. Maybe more.”

  “Who was the first?” Clint wants to know.

  “That's easy. I was still in jail. When I got out of seg and back into general population, I hooked up with my white brothers for protection. When they asked what I did, I told them, ‘I kill people. I'm real good at it.’ They said, ‘We've got a cocksucker in here who needs killing.’ I said, ‘What's he done?’ They said, ‘He's a snitch.’ They gave me a shiv and made sure he was alone when he went to the shower. He was eight inches taller than me, but he didn't give me any trouble. The screws tried to investigate, but of course no one saw anything, so I was in the clear.”

  “Who was the last you killed?” he asks.

  I tell him about the jogger. Clint's awful quiet. So I ask him, “What's the matter?”

  “I never killed no one,” he says. “Could you take me out with you, show me how?” I told him not to be stupid, he'll find out soon enough. “Couldn't we just kill another jogger?” he asks. “Or that Jew guy?”

  “Maybe,” I tell him. “If you're good, I'll let you kill a jogger.”

  The Jew is mine.

  13

  I smile at you, O skeleton;

  Lead me lightly away to lands of dreams.

  —“THE YOUNG MAN AND DEATH” BY JOSEPH VON SPAUN, MUSIC BY FRANZ SCHUBERT

  BY THE TIME I WAS DONE DRAFTING a request for Eric to submit to the State Department so we could brief our embassies in Berlin and Kiev and formally request the help of the German and Ukrainian governments, it was already eight thirty, and I was dog tired. Lynn poked her head into the office. “Ready to quit for the day?”

  “Sure, let's go eat. Just let me straighten everything out here.” I started sorting the papers on my desk.

  “You really do need things to be organized, don't you?” she said, mussing my hair.

  “What's wrong with that?” I said, removing her hand.

  “Nothing. I'm just trying to bring a bit of chaos into your orderly life.”

  “Where do you want to eat?”

  “How many kosher restaurants are there in D.C.?”

  “Not many, but there are a few veggie places that are okay.”

  We ended up at the Green Pepper in Bethesda. Over eggplant lasagna and a cabernet, I brought Lynn up-to-date on the investigation. She agreed with Eric that we should press Susan Scott for more answers and volunteered to fly up to Boston with me to interrogate her.

  “Maybe she'd be more inclined to talk to another woman.”

  I said I'd think about it.

  Then the subject turned to West Virginia. I said we probably wouldn't be doing any downhill skiing, but we might try cross-country and even tobogganing if the weather was okay.

  We split a serving of tiramisu for dessert and decided to get coffee back at my apartment. She noticed the scratch on the hood as we got into the car. “I'm going to get it filled as soon as I can,” I said.

  We drove back; I grabbed my briefcase from the backseat, and we walked toward the building, snuggling and exchanging little kisses. I pushed open the swinging glass doors—the lobby was dark. The lights must have been broken. Then a shadow formed in front of us. Metal shimmered, slashing toward my throat. Time froze; everything moved in slow motion. I jerked my briefcase upward and felt the knife scrape across the leather. I heard myself yelling and shoved Lynn backward. I remembered the pepper spray in my coat pocket and tried to pull it out.

  The assailant was dressed in black, a big, fat son of a bitch, but that made him move slower. Pockmarked face, teeth bared in a snarl—as he reached back to stab again, I ducked and swayed to one side, and my glasses clattered to the ground. “Get out, get out!” I shouted to Lynn.

  I yanked the pepper spray from my pocket and aimed in the general direction of the man's face, while thrusting my other hand straight out in front of me. The effect was immediate. He doubled up, clutching his eyes, screaming wildly. I aimed a kick at his fuzzy image, catching him on the knee. He fell in a heap, engulfed in a spasm of coughing. Never in my life had I hit another person, but I stomped as hard as I could on his wrist and felt the bones crunch. It felt good. He shrieked in agony and let go of the knife.

  There was another faceless ghoul half hidden in the shadows—a slim, insubstantial figure—and then Lynn's voice came, shouting, “Back off, asshole!” She had stepped just inside the entrance, half squatting, a gun held firmly in both hands.

  The small man was holding something in his hand, I couldn't see what. There was nothing I could do, he was out of pepper spray range. “Back off or I'll fire!” Lynn screamed again. Something exploded a few inches behind my head. The wall mirror across the lobby shattered. Deafened and disoriented, I scanned for the exit.

  “Let's get out of here!” I shouted, shoving the door open and holding it for her. The assassin had retreated to the back of the lobby for cover. Burglar alarms were howling all over the building as residents hit panic buttons. I pulled her out, and we stumbled into the dark. Flinging the car door open, I threw myself behind the wheel and shoved the gearshift into drive. Lynn tumbled into the passenger seat as I hit the gas pedal. We shot out of the parking lot, tires squealing.

  “Calm down, don't go so fast,” Lynn panted. Without my glasses, it was like driving through a fog. I got a grip, slowed down, looking for somewhere to stop, and finally pulled into a strip mall.

  “What's the matter, why are you stopping?” Lynn asked.

  “Glasses,” I muttered. I pulled my spare pair from the glove compartment. She sprang into focus, cheeks flushed, eyes flashing. We held each other for a long time. I could feel her trembling. She started to cry quietly, the tears tracking down her cheeks.

  “I can't believe I did that,” she said. “Tell me I didn't hit him.”

  “I don't think you did. I couldn't see that well.”

  “I was aiming high, trying to miss. I just wanted to scare him. He was coming for you. He wouldn't stop.”

  “I'll never forget it.” I stroked her cheek, brushing away the tears. “It's okay, it's okay, Lynn.”

  “I warned him. You heard me. But he kept coming.”

  I asked,“How come you have a gun?”

  “My dad made me get it when I moved to D.C. Murder capital of the nation and all. I agreed to buy it just to shut him up. I never thought I would use it,” she said, half laughing, half sobbing. “I kept it locked in a desk at home until a couple of weeks ago, when you warned me you were getting these threats and I should be careful.”

  “Do you have a permit for that thing?”

  “You don't need one in Pennsylvania. That was the first time I fired it. I hope I never have to again.
”

  “Where's the gun now?”

  “In my pocket.”

  “The safety's on?”

  She took it out. The black, blunt-nosed weapon in her hand made me nervous, but she seemed to know what she was doing. “Yes. What do we do now?” she said.

  “Get to a phone and call that FBI agent I met the other day, Agent Fabrizio,” I said. As we edged back into traffic, two cruisers hurtled by in the other direction toward the apartment building, sirens wailing. “The office is the safest place I know.”

  I parked in the underground garage below the building. In my office, we removed our coats and fell into each other's arms. We were both shivering. I heard her murmur in my ear, “Thank God you're safe. Thank God you're safe.” At the butt end of the worst day of her life, she still smelled delicious: a heady mixture of sweet perfume and fresh shampoo.

  I fished Fabrizio's card out of my pocket and called the number she had given me. A few seconds later, I was patched through to her. “I've been attacked,” I stated bluntly. “Just now, in the lobby of my apartment building. I was with my girlfriend. Two men came at us. One had a knife, the other may have had a gun.”

  “Are you hurt?”

  “We're okay. I pepper-sprayed one of them and left him coughing his guts out on the ground. Hopefully the police got there in time and arrested him. My girlfriend fired a shot to scare the other one off.”

  “Did she hit anyone?”

  “I don't think so.”

  “Where are you now?”

  “In my office at Justice.”

  “I'm coming right over. Don't move.”

  She arrived twenty-five minutes later, accompanied by a grim-faced, gum-chewing Lieutenant Reynolds. Fabrizio took one look at the two of us and pulled out a hip flask from her pocketbook. “Here, this'll settle your nerves,” she said.

  We each took shots of the burning liquid.

  “This is a quite a mess you folks got yourselves involved in,” Reynolds said, chomping angrily on his gum. “What the hell did y'all think you were doing?”

  “We were attacked. I'm lucky to be alive. Didn't you arrest the guy I pepper-sprayed?” I asked.

  “There was no one to arrest when the squad cars arrived. If you'd been there, we'd probably have arrested you.”

  “It's not too late,” I said, holding my wrists out. I was getting more and more infuriated with the police, and judging by Reynolds's expression, he wasn't too thrilled with me either.

  “Let's not get so dramatic,” Fabrizio said soothingly. “Nobody's getting arrested. That's not why we're here. Just tell us what happened. Don't leave anything out.”

  “We were walking into the apartment building when a guy dressed all in black came at me with a knife.” I showed them my briefcase, the leather scarred by the assailant's weapon.

  “Did you get a look at his face?”

  “Not enough to identify him. I think he was white. A big guy, maybe six-one or six-two, and heavy, built like a football tackle. Pocked face. The other one was small and skinny—he was lurking at the back of the lobby. Lynn fired a warning shot at him. Did you see his face, Lynn?”

  “No.”

  “Where's the gun?” Reynolds asked. Lynn took it out; he examined it, sniffing the barrel. “How many shots did you say you fired?”

  “Just one.”

  “I'm assuming you registered your weapon with the police here in D.C.?”

  “I didn't know you had to.”

  “You most definitely do. Carrying a concealed weapon in the District of Columbia is illegal. All firearms must be stored safely at home or at a place of business. We have enough problems already with people shooting joggers in parks for no reason. I'm going to have to take this. We may file charges later.”

  Lynn looked crushed.

  “Lieutenant—” I began. He turned on me immediately.

  “Are you still chasing conspiracy theories about that German lady's death? Because we got the murderer, and the case is closed. Or it was until the FBI started sniffing about—with all due respect, Agent Fabrizio.” He spat his gum into the trash bin next to my foot. The FBI was meddling in his case, threatening to spoil his triumph. That's why he was giving Lynn such a hard time.

  Fabrizio stood there with arms folded, a faint smile on her face. I turned back to Reynolds. “First of all, back off my girlfriend. She just saved my life. Second, I'm not chasing any theories, Lieutenant. That's not my job. I'm investigating whether the singer Roberto Delatrucha was a Nazi. Whether that turns out to have something to do with Sophie Reiner's murder, I have no idea. That's your job, not mine.”

  Reynolds was still fuming but said nothing more.

  Fabrizio had a few more questions, but neither of us was able to add much. She looked grim. “I must admit, I didn't take your story all that seriously. This puts a different light on things. I'm thinking maybe we should give you some protection as you move around the city. You're obviously safe in your office, but I hate to think of you wandering unprotected around town.”

  “We're going to Boston tomorrow to interview a witness, and after that we're going to West Virginia for a long weekend,” I told her.

  “Does anyone else know of these plans?” Fabrizio asked.

  “No. I only decided to go to Boston just now. You're the only people who know.”

  “Call me when you get back, and we'll see where we are with your security. Maybe you should go to a hotel tonight. You don't want to go back to your apartment. It's bound to be crawling with local media. They'll devour you.”

  “We'll stay right here,” I said.

  Fabrizio and Reynolds left, and Lynn and I went upstairs to Eric's office. She lay down on his couch. I took off my jacket, stretched out beside her, and wrapped my arms around her. It was a narrow space, too tight to be comfortable. Our bodies pressed together; she snuggled close, trying to find a good fit. I kissed her again, tasting her, my hands exploring her body, intensely aware of my arousal. She had to be aware of it, too; it was pretty damned obvious. Each time I touched her, my mind went off duty and told my body, Okay, you're in charge here now. Call me when you need me again.

  “This is our first night together,” I whispered.

  “Not exactly how I imagined it,” she replied, half giggling, half crying.

  “Me neither. But it's still a night I'll never forget.”

  Our limbs were as entwined as our lives had become. She brushed my cheek with her lips. “Good night,” she whispered.

  Lynn fell asleep almost immediately. For a long time, I couldn't relax. I kept seeing that flash of metal as the knife thrust toward me. It still seemed so unreal.

  I woke up about 4:30, stiff, dry-mouthed, and shivering. It was pitch-black in the office, and cold. Lynn was still asleep. I disentangled myself from her, covered her with my jacket, and limped down the corridor to the bathroom. After splashing some water on my face, I padded down to my own office. I had a lot to thank God for. I took the small prayer book out of my scarred briefcase and turned to the psalm of the day.

  God of retribution, Lord God of retribution, appear.

  Judge of the earth, give the arrogant their deserts.

  How long, Lord, how long shall the wicked exult?…

  Were it not for God's help, I would be in my grave.

  When my foot slips, the Lord's love supports me.

  When I am filled with cares, His comfort soothes my soul.

  Silence washed over me. Where was God? In my heart of hearts, I didn't believe that God intervened in the lives of men and women. He had created the world and given humans the gift of free will—the ability to choose between the good and evil in each of us. God wants us to choose good and gave us the means to do so, but all too often evil prevails, and when it does, God doesn't intercede to stop it. If I learned anything from the Holocaust, it was that.

  There was a long fax from George:

  FROM: George Carter

  TO: Mark Cain

  RE: Himmler
<
br />   Here's what I dug up about Himmler's visits to Poland from a review of the published literature. He made two known visits to Operation Reinhard death camps. The first was in mid-July 1942; the second in the first quarter of 1943. There may have been others we don't know about. The first trip preceded the liquidation of the Warsaw ghetto. He was almost certainly at Belzec, and we know he also traveled to Nazi headquarters in Lublin, where he held an important meeting to review the operation. After that, Himmler issued an order dated July 19, 1942, confirming the timetable under which all the surviving Jews of Poland were to be sent to death camps by the end of the year.

  The second visit was late February or early March 1943. By that time, Operation Reinhold was virtually completed. Around 1.7 million Polish Jews had been killed. Himmler visited Sobibor and Treblinka; there are several accounts of the visits. At Sobibor, the commandant arranged a special gassing of over 1,000 young people in his honor. After the gassing, the Nazi VIPs all went to the camp canteen for a special meal. Himmler also inspected the gas chambers and crematoria at Treblinka.

  The main purpose of this visit seems to have been to decide what to do with the three death camps because they would soon no longer be needed. Himmler ordered them to be dismantled. He instructed that all the victims’ remains should be burned, their bones ground up, and all traces of the crime erased. The mood was apparently jubilant. Himmler recommended promotions for 28 SS officers who had distinguished themselves during the operation. I checked the list, but the name Franz Beck isn't on it. Himmler also seems to have hosted a celebration in Lublin at which there was music and entertainment. That's all I've been able to find. It's possible Himmler may have met Beck on one of those visits, but I can't prove it.

  Bottom line: I still can't place Beck at any of the camps, and we still don't know what he did during the war. My German contacts are still searching for witnesses.

  I switched off the desk lamp and sat there thinking. I began a long memorandum, setting out all that had happened since Sophie Reiner had first poked her head into my office. I wanted to leave a complete record in case anything happened to me. I addressed one copy to Rosen and left another in my filing cabinet.