Glenn Meade (2 page)

'The name's Frank Carney.'

He seemed unimpressed, but then
something flickered in his eyes and he frowned. 'Not Carney the New York Times
reporter?'

'I'm afraid so.'

Weaver relaxed for a moment. 'I
used to read your columns.

Not that I agreed with everything
you wrote, mind.'

'You must have agreed with some of
it, though,' I offered. 'I was a cub reporter covering
Dallas
as a stand-in when Kennedy was killed.
You were one of his security advisers. You told him not to go, remember?'

'Too many weak spots. Damned holes
everywhere in the local security. And he was a sitting duck in that open-top
car, despite the assurances of the Secret Service that they could protect him.'

'Had Jack Kennedy listened to you,
he might still be alive today. I said as much when I wrote about it
afterwards.'

Weaver shook his head wistfully.
'Too late now. But come to think of it, I seem to remember your article. It was
a fair and honest assessment of the facts.'

'That's because I did my homework.
I read what I could about your background at the time. Trust no one and doubt
every fact was your personal motto. With a career as long as yours, you seemed
like a man worth taking advice from.'

'Put it down to experience. The
years harden you.' Weaver looked across at me, suddenly suspicious again. 'None
of which explains what the hell you're doing here. This is private property.'

'Again, I could ask you the same.
Did the landlord let you in?'

'What the hell is it to you if he
did? Just answer the goddamned question.'

'Oh, I think you can guess why. We
were both at the morgue for the same reason. Johann Haider. Arguably one of the
greatest enigmas of the Second World War.'

Weaver stiffened. 'You were at the
morgue?'

'Apparently I just missed you. And
by the way, the attendant wasn't very pleased you didn't leave a tip.'

Weaver's eyes narrowed cautiously.
'How do you know about Johann Haider?'

'Egyptology happens to be an
abiding interest of mine, which is why I've spent the last five years in
Cairo
as a correspondent.
Quite a few years back I was researching an article on one Franz Haider, a
wealthy German collector of Egyptian artifacts. I had it in mind to write a
book about some of the priceless Egyptian treasures that went missing from
private collections and museums all over Europe during the last war, many of
which have still never been found.'

Weaver registered interest. 'So?'

'Before the war, Haider owned one
of the finest private collections in
Germany
,
most of it irreplaceable, and he was a benefactor of the
Egyptian
Museum
.
He died when the Allies destroyed
Hamburg
during a massive fire-bombing raid in 1943.

Some time after that, his entire
collection went missing. I tried to dig a little deeper, to find out if they
had any living relatives, anyone who might have known what became of the
collection.

So I had a journalist friend in
Berlin
do some checking
for me.

There were no relatives still
alive, at least none that could tell me anything worthwhile, but it turned out
Haider had a son, Johann, who served during the war. The German military
records stated that he died in action in 1943, on some kind of mission, but
made no mention of how or where. Though my friend did discover that Haider had
been recruited by the Abwehr in 1940. That's the wartime German intelligence
agency to you and me.'

'I know what the Abwehr was,
Carney. But go on.'

'As a boy, Johann Haider was
educated in
America
,
until his mother died tragically giving birth to her second child. After that,
his father brought him back to
Berlin
,
though apparently for many years they returned to the States each summer. His
mother's family once had a large estate in upstate
New York
. I visited there some years back,
but the place had changed hands many years ago, the house had been demolished,
and no one in the area remembered the Haiders.'

Tin hardly surprised. You're
talking about a long time ago.'

'Johann Haider also spoke several
languages fluently, including Arabic, and attained the rank of major during the
war, though he never joined the Nazi Party. The rest of his military background
is pretty much a mystery, apart from a stint spent in
North
Africa
, and there were no details of the mission he's supposed to
have died on.'

'And what else did you learn?'
Weaver said quietly.

'This is where it starts to get
really interesting. I thought no more about it until recently, when I
interviewed one of the former heads of the
Egyptian
Museum
,
Kemal Assan, shortly before he died. I mentioned Franz Haider in passing and
Assan said he met his son, Johann, in 1939, when he took part in an
archaeological dig at
Sakkara
. In fact, he
said he'd also seen him in
Cairo
after the war. Considering Haider was supposed to be dead, that fact seemed
pretty incredible.'

Weaver was suddenly very
interested. 'And what exactly did this Assan tell you?'

'Ten years ago, he was sitting in
a
Cairo
coffee
house minding his own business, when he noticed a man seated at the next table.
Assan thought his face seemed oddly familiar.

When he asked if he knew him, the
man simply smiled and said in German, "We met long ago in another
life." Then he got up and left. Assan spoke some German, and he was
adamant the man was Johann Haider.'

Weaver's eyes sparked. 'Didn't he
try to follow him?'

'He tried to, but he lost him in
the bazaar.'

Weaver looked deflated. 'I see. So
you believed Haider might be still alive?'

'It's a mystery that's bothered me
ever since. I really didn't know what to think - the whole thing was such a
puzzle. But certainly I thought there might have been a story in it. If Haider
was still alive, there was a chance he might know what had become of his
father's collection. Then I came across a mention in yesterday's Egyptian
Gazette, about the body of an elderly German recovered from the
Nile
. Apparently, his identity papers named him as Johann
Haider, and the police were asking for anyone with information to come forward.
When I heard the name I put two and two together, and hoped it might make
four.'

I looked across at Weaver, who
stood there, taking it all in, but he didn't say another word.

'The question is, what are you
doing here, Colonel? The last I heard you were living in
Washington
. But come to think of it, if I
remember correctly, you've had a lifelong interest in
Egypt
.

You have several archaeological
digs to your credit, and served here with military intelligence during the war.
But I can only presume the real reason you're here is because you obviously
knew about Haider.'

Weaver seemed suddenly at a loss
for words, caught in a trap of his own making. He sighed, flopped into one of
the chairs, but didn't utter a word.

'Was it Johann Haider back there
in the morgue?'

Weaver didn't reply.

'Then at least tell me why you're
here. And how you knew Haider. After all, it's not every day I come across a
story about a man who's been reported dead, and yet might still be alive over
fifty years later.'

Still Weaver didn't answer.

I stared at him. 'I get the
feeling I'm talking to a brick wall, Colonel'

He remained sitting there,
motionless.

'At least tell me why you're here.
One simple question. Is that too much to ask?'

Weaver seemed to lose his patience.
'God, Carney, you're like a dog after a bone. I've had enough of your goddamned
questions.' He stood up, as if to leave, and said firmly, 'You're a stranger to
me. And I don't discuss my personal business with strangers.'

'OK, Colonel, if that's what you
wish. But I'd like to tell you something. Maybe come at this from another
angle.'

Weaver looked exasperated. 'Shut
it, Carney. I'm not in the mood.'

'I think maybe you'll want to hear
what I have to say.'

'I doubt it.'

'Just hear me out for one minute.
The moment I heard your name back in the morgue, I felt a shiver down my spine.
I kind of like to think it might be kismet playing its part - fate to you and
me, the kind of thing the Egyptians are so fond of believing in.'

Weaver's eyes narrowed. 'What the
hell are you talking about?'

'The article I wrote about you
after
Dallas
.
You never asked how come I knew so much about your personal background, when
there really wasn't that much information on public record.'

Weaver frowned, nodded. 'I seem to
vaguely recall all the facts were there, all right. But what of it?'

'Does the name Tom Carney mean
anything to you?'

Weaver looked totally astonished,
as if I'd hit him a blow. 'Captain Tom Carney?'

'The same. He was my old man. You
served in military intelligence together, and landed in
North
Africa
during Operation Torch, 1943. You were wounded by shrapnel
after a mortar hit your reconnaissance unit outside
Algiers
. He carried you back to American
lines, under heavy enemy fire. He got a medal for that one, on your
recommendation. He was also wounded twice for his trouble, and got shipped
home.'

The hardness peeled from Weaver's
face, all his aggression gone, and he studied me intently. 'Well, I'll be
damned. So you're Tom Carney's son.'

'My old man talked a lot about you
over the years. The feeling I got, you were once good buddies.'

Weaver nodded, and his eyes
watered, as if he were remembering.

'He was a good man. Courageous.
Honest. One of the best I served with. I was only sorry we didn't keep in
touch.

Though I heard he died, what,
maybe ten years back?'

'Twelve. And still not a day goes
by when I don't miss him.' I looked at Weaver steadily. 'I like to believe that
sometimes lives intersect, even briefly, for all sorts of reasons we mortals
can't even begin to comprehend. Maybe it's written in our stars. Like you and
my old man. You know, it's odd, but my father used to talk a lot about destiny.
And maybe if he hadn't been with you the time you were wounded, things might
have turned out very differently, for both of you. Fate's a funny thing,
Colonel. And when I heard your name mentioned back at the morgue, I figured it
might have been fate lending me a hand. Kismet helping us meet for a reason. This
Haider business has been rattling around in my head for quite a few years, an
enigma that won't go away, and I'd like to get to the bottom of it. So if
there's any way you can help, I'd be grateful. I'm not trying to call in any
family favors, Colonel, believe me. But I reckon my father was a man you could
trust. I'm simply asking you to trust me.'

Weaver was silent.

'Maybe you think I'm asking too
much? Two simple questions. Why you're here, and how you knew Haider.'

Weaver sighed, a long, hard sigh
that sounded like he was trying to expel some kind of pain from deep inside
him. 'Yes, I knew Johann Haider,' he admitted finally. 'A very long time ago.'

'Now you do surprise me. I know
why I'm here. But what about you? What's your reason?'

Weaver sat forward in the chair,
his hunched frame suddenly making him appear very old, as if my persistence had
finally worn him down, and there was a tired, sad look on his face. 'Oh, there
are lots of reasons, Carney. Lots of them, I assure you.' He was about to say
something else just then, but appeared to change his mind. 'So, you thought
there might be a story in all this?'

'I was kind of hoping there might
be. And even if not, I might at least be able to put my curiosity to rest.'

Weaver hesitated, as if trying to
decide something, then he seemed to make up his mind. 'I think you could
certainly say there's a story, but I doubt it would help you discover what
happened to Franz Haider's collection. There's a good chance it probably ended
up in Russian hands after
Berlin
was stormed.

Almost everything of value did.'

'I figured that was a distinct
possibility. But what about Johann Haider? It seems to me he's the only link
left in all of this mystery. What can you tell me about him?'

Weaver was uncomfortable, as if
the pain he'd tried to expel had returned. He looked around the room. 'Is there
a drink in this place?'

'I guess not.'