Pantheon (43 page)

James stared at them, wanting to miss nothing. He certainly did not recognize the second man and, he concluded from McAndrew’s posture and that initial hesitation, neither did the Dean. They were strangers who had nevertheless arranged a meeting.

So fixed was his gaze that only now did James notice that Ed Harrison had rejoined him. He heard him before he saw him, the same fast exhalation. Except this time it was not exertion that made the American breathless, but excitement. ‘You won’t believe who that is,’ he said. He looked back towards the two men conversing on the bench, surrounded by blue sky and fluttering flags. ‘Your Dean is locked in discussion with Hans Stoiber, the most senior diplomat at the Washington Embassy of the Third Reich.’

James couldn’t help himself. He turned to Harrison, his eyes wide and his mouth open, utterly aghast, before remembering his task and turning back. That man in front of him, just a matter of yards away from him, was a Nazi. Elegantly tailored, well-shod, a man you would pass without objection on one of these Washington streets – and yet a servant of a cruel regime bent on crushing and mastering all of Europe, if not the world. It was one thing to glimpse their planes in the skies, to witness the havoc their bombers could wreak, as James had first hand in Spain, or to see their leaders, Hitler, Goebbels and the others, in black-and-white on a newsreel. But to behold the enemy in the flesh and in colour, so near …

And there was Preston McAndrew, happy to shake this man’s hand, happy to engage in polite chat with him, happy – more to the point – to do business with him. Was there no end to this man’s wickedness? Even the sight of it turned James’s stomach. He could feel his loathing turning into a physical thing, a viscous fluid flowing through his veins and vital organs.

Of course James knew the Dean had come to Washington with evil intent: to prolong Britain’s agony. But he had assumed that his method would be … what? Perhaps some discreet lobbying, a quiet word in the ear of an official or two in the State Department? The scene James had witnessed in the Buchanan Room at the Willard Hotel, those lapel pins on Lowell and the other man, had reinforced that thought. He had expected McAndrew to be engaged in looking up his fellow alumni of the Wolf’s Head Society, doubtless spread throughout the higher reaches of the US government, using that network of old members to advance his cause, patiently putting the case for non-intervention.
You’re too young to have served in the last war
, he would say to those officials in the administration, as he began to detail the horrors of conflict …

But he had never bargained for this, McAndrew supping with the devil himself. Sitting with the enemy – not America’s enemy, perhaps, not while the US remained so devoutly neutral. But James’s enemy: the enemy of his country.

And then he was struck by a kind of premonition. His parents might have called it a divine visitation. Or perhaps it was just a lucky instinct. Without looking at Harrison, he whispered, ‘Give me the camera.’

Then, in a walk that was stealthy, noiseless and fast, James got closer – though not so close that his camera would be heard. He put the device to his eyes and watched. He snapped once, moved the winder on, then snapped again. As he was moving the winder on again, it happened and just in time for him to capture it on film. In a movement so swift that it was barely noticeable, the German reached into his briefcase and produced a white, foolscap envelope. Just as James pressed on the shutter, the diplomat handed it to Preston McAndrew, who in a similarly unfussy movement slotted it into a slim leather portfolio case which he then fastened and lodged under his arm. They shook hands – which James photographed too – and rose to their feet.

At once, James pivoted around so that should McAndrew happen to look into the middle distance to his right, he would see only the back of a man walking away from him.

James caught up with Harrison. ‘Can you see him? Which way is he going?’

‘West. Towards Lincoln.’

‘Lincoln?’

‘The Memorial.’

James counted to three, then turned and walked in the same direction, wincing to hear the sandy gravel of the path crunch beneath his feet. He could see McAndrew clearly, perhaps thirty yards ahead of them, that same purpose in his stride.

‘Please tell me you got a picture of that,’ Harrison said eventually.

‘I hope so. I pressed the button, it made the right sound. I only hope you put film in the camera,’ he said, handing the machine back to the American.

‘You sure you didn’t become a reporter in England and you’re just not telling me?’

James’s eyes were locked on the Dean, now about to cross 17th Street. Always the riskiest moment in any pursuit, the crossing of a main road. So many chances to lose the subject: he could turn left or right; he could get in a car; he could cross in a break in the traffic, leaving you stranded on the other side.

‘I mean when you said I’d get a story, I didn’t—’

‘We don’t have anything until we see what he does next,’ said James, his voice as firm and unwavering as his gaze.

Now they were by a long, ornamental stretch of water with grass on either side. James estimated the length at less than half a mile, perhaps a third. The sunlight was reflecting off the water, making it hard to see. He used his left hand to shield his eyes, aggravating his shoulder, and forced himself to ignore the pain. All he had to do, he told himself, was keep McAndrew in view.

They were no more than two hundred yards from the end when he heard a voice that made him shudder.

‘Stop right there.’

It was from behind him. James pictured a gun, silencer attached, as it had been on the train, aimed at his back. Or perhaps it was the police: they had found the corpse by the railway, had realized that no one else had been riding the overnight train. He turned around slowly.

‘Eddie Harrison as I live and breathe! Well, I’ll be.’

Standing, arms outstretched, was a round-faced man in a white suit, his face glistening with sweat in the clammy Washington heat. ‘Congressman, always good to see you,’ Harrison said. James let out a gale of air in relief.

‘Now, Ed, I’ve been wanting to talk to you about this metal embargo for Japan. You sure you can’t get Luce to run something—’

James looked over his shoulder to see that McAndrew was still striding ahead. This delay had cost him valuable seconds and therefore yards. He wanted to sprint, to catch up, but feared that could trigger another bellow from this blasted congressman: ‘Hey, where you off to, son?’ It would be disastrous to make any kind of scene. Raised voices and McAndrew would turn around.

Eventually desperation propelled him. He muttered an excuse, swivelled round and carried on walking. He could hear protests from the Congressman, the reporter apologizing on his behalf, as James quickened his pace. He looked ahead but could see McAndrew nowhere.

James’s heart began to thud. In front of him was a crowd of women, advancing in that slow amble characteristic of out-of-towners. They were blocking his view. Had the Dean realized he had been tailed and deliberately shielded himself behind this group of sightseers?
Damn.

James broke into a jog, always a calamity during surveillance. At intervals he leapt, endeavouring to see over the heads of the women. No sign of McAndrew. He looked to his left and right: had the Dean taken a different route or, realizing he had been discovered, aborted his plan altogether?

James had come to the end of the Reflecting Pool now. Before him was a vast edifice in white stone, a Greek Doric temple of columns, fronted by a wide, steep staircase. So this was the memorial to their President Lincoln. How ingenious of the Dean to choose this place for whatever move he planned to make, rather than skulking about in some back alley. Jorge would have been impressed:
hide in plain sight.

But McAndrew had vanished.

Suddenly the pain in his shoulder violently asserted itself. James put his hand to the wound as he squinted up to look at the staircase. There were too many people, all in motion. If you checked one side you risked missing someone on the other. Scan one section and the section above or below had already changed. In this shifting throng, McAndrew had concealed himself. James’s shoulder was screaming. He had been outwitted.

Now Harrison was at his side. ‘Where is he?’ he asked unhelpfully. James nodded toward the steps, then added ‘Come on!’ He took the first two in a single leap.

Maybe the Dean had ascended to the memorial itself, entering the temple at the summit, but even as they climbed the steps James forced down the fear that they might have lost their subject for good.

Behind him, he could hear the reporter breathing heavily. James guessed they were both thinking the same thing. That Preston McAndrew had received Nazi documents with a direct bearing on the war effort and, thanks to their failed attempt at surveillance, was about to get away with it.

‘Keep walking,’ Harrison said suddenly, his tone urgent. ‘Ahead, two o’clock.’

James’s heart raced in anticipation at seeing his prey again. He could see a man – brown suit, felt hat even in this heat – walking with an intent that set him apart from the tourists, but it was not McAndrew.

‘What?’

‘Brown suit.’

‘I see him, but—’

‘Just a hunch. Keep an eye on him.’

‘Who is he?’

‘Karl Moran,
Chicago Tribune
. Biggest anti-war paper in the country.’

‘I don’t—’

‘Just watch.’

They slowed their pace, letting Moran reach the top first.

‘Give me the camera,’ James said. ‘I’ll go right, you go left. Remember, McAndrew won’t recognize you. If Moran sees you, it’s a coincidence.’

James dipped his head and climbed those last two steps. A moment later he was aware of a change in temperature, the close, muggy heat replaced by the cool of marble. His eyes took a second to adjust to the shade.

He stole only the briefest glance upward, to see the largest statue he had ever seen: a seated, stone Lincoln the size of a mythic god. He and the others in here looked like ants at the president’s feet. And there, on the other side of this shaded space, next to the engraved words of the Gettysburg Address, stood Karl Moran, talking to a man whose hat was pulled low over his face – a man who, James knew at once, was Preston McAndrew.

James raised the camera, just in time to see the men shake hands and part. He did not catch the moment of exchange, but in Moran’s hand there now rested a white, foolscap envelope. The journalist turned sharply and headed for the staircase.

Now, James told himself.
Now
. It would be so easy to walk those few paces, grab McAndrew, bring him to the ground if necessary, watch him gasp for air. The desire for revenge bubbled up inside him once more, hot and red. He would make that man pay for whatever wicked trick he had just performed, for depriving him of his wife and child, for murdering George Lund …

He took a step forward, ready to do it, even here, with all these people. He could feel himself throbbing, the blood thumping through him. But reason, the same rationality he had come to curse, held him back. He repeated to himself what he had to remember: that the threat to his country now was not McAndrew, but those documents. It was the envelope, and whatever dastardly information it contained, not the Dean, that had to be stopped. McAndrew had given those papers to Moran because he wanted them to be published so the goal now – the only goal that mattered – was preventing that from happening. To reveal himself at this moment, by apprehending, even killing McAndrew would not stop that. Rage could not help him now.

And so, biting down hard, he smothered the urge seething through him, watching instead through the viewfinder of this heavy, newsman’s camera as Preston McAndrew adjusted his hat, touched the cuff of his jacket and, with the tiniest smile of satisfaction on his lips, walked just a few yards away from him out of the shade, back down the steps and into the sunlight. How James longed to wipe the smirk off that face, to shatter it with the same force with which he had despatched that goon on the train. He swallowed the rising bile of frustration that rose in his throat.

Looking down, he could see Ed Harrison heading down the steps too. James caught up with him. ‘Where are you going?’

‘I think we need to have a word with my esteemed colleague, Mr Moran.’

‘What are you going to say? How on earth are you going to persuade him to—’

The slower-footed Moran was within sight and within reach now. Harrison smiled. ‘Oh, I’m not going to
say
anything. It’s just I know one thing about the man from the
Trib
that your Professor McAndrew does not.’ He glanced at James. ‘That for Karl Moran, it’s never too early for a martini. I hope you can hold your drink, Zennor.’

This, James concluded with admiration, was the secret of Edward P Harrison’s success. He had noticed it even in Spain, when Harrison was thumping away at the double bass in that impromptu Olympians’ jazz band, knocking back the Sangre de Toro with the rest of them – yet somehow remaining standing when everyone else was keeling over, upright enough to woo one of Florence’s swimming team-mates once he had regretfully concluded that Florence herself was immune to his rugged adventurer charms.

Now James could only look on in awe as Ed filled and refilled the glass of the
Chicago Tribune
’s correspondent in Washington. He had made a brilliant show of running into Moran on the walk back down Constitution Avenue, calculating that it would be too much of a coincidence for them both to be at the Lincoln Memorial at the same time.

‘Moran! Hold up,’ he had cried, slapping him on the back. ‘I need a man to celebrate with me and you’re just the fellow. What do you say to a pick-me-up at the Old Ebbitt Grill? Oh, and I’m buying.’

Moran – his hair ginger, his skin florid and his nostrils permanently flared – had glanced guiltily at the white envelope in his hand. ‘I really ought to get back to the office, Edward.’

‘Please, it’s Ed. And I shall have you back at your typewriter within the hour. That’s what, Karl, eight hours before deadline? That should be enough, even for you. And remember, today’s the first day of August. And what do we always say?’