The American Ambassador (13 page)

At last the major came to the end of his story. He cleared his throat and passed the attaché case to Herr Duer. North wondered if they were wired, Bruch and Duer.

Kleust said, “This is informal.”

North smiled.

“Bill, let me show you some pictures.” He nodded to Duer, who opened the attaché case and handed a manila envelope to North. It was not sealed. There were three eight-by-ten glossy prints, taken with a long lens; three middle-aged men at a café table, all of it foreshortened.

Duer said, “Hamburg, last
month.
The fifteenth of last month, at four in the afternoon.”

North's expression did not change. His hands were trembling slightly. He walked to his desk and took a magnifying glass from the center drawer. He had to push the Smith & Wesson to one side to get to it. He returned to the chair studying the photograph, noticing as he did so a sigh and a rustle in front of him; impatience. He looked at only the top photograph. He did not recognize any of the three at the table, they were ordinary middle-aged men in dark suits and open collars, apparently Germans. But his eyes were elsewhere now, at a table in the rear of the café. He needed a moment, so he looked at Kleust and shrugged.

Duer said softly, “Look again, please, Ambassador. The upper right of the photograph.”

He looked through the glass again. A smudge of a face, but unmistakable, a positive sighting. His stomach turned as he looked through the glass. He said, “Last month?” He was concentrating on the photograph, all the details. The face was in profile, bearded under a black beret. The right hand held a cigarette, the angle of the hand was unmistakable. Bill Jr. was talking to someone across the café table but his companion, whoever it was, was concealed by the waiter's body.

North said, “It's him. Who are the three in the foreground?”

“Our people have an interest in them,” Major Bruch said.

“Are they connected?”

“We don't think so. We have no reason to think so and it would be unlikely. The three in the foreground are not political. At least they are not political in that way. In the way of your son.”

North nodded, looking at each of them in turn. For a brief moment, he had an urge to thank them but he didn't. Whatever Kleust said, this was an official visit. It was not personal, so appreciation didn't come into it. “Who is he with?”

“A female, according to the waiter. He remembers her because of her good looks. And she wore a short leather skirt. She was a good-looking young female.”

“German?”

“The waiter thinks she was foreign, but is not sure. Your son spoke excellent German, very fluent. But the young woman did not speak at all, according to the waiter.”

North looked from Bruch to Duer and back again.

“That is all we know about that,” Herr Duer said.

“Hamburg,” he said.

“Hamburg,” Colonel Bruch said.

“And nothing since then?”

“Nothing positive,” Duer said.

He looked at the other two photos. They were essentially the same scene, taken from different angles. The clearest of them showed Bill Jr. in corduroy trousers and a dark sweater at the café table, raising a cup of coffee to his mouth, a characteristic gesture, his elbows out, holding the cup in both hands. His expression was pouty, like an infant's. Smoke curled around the cup, from the cigarette in his left hand. He was frowning, annoyed at something. The photograph was not clear enough for North to see his eyes. A waiter was bending over the table, the waiter in white shirt and black tie, his body concealing the young woman. North recognized the expression on his son's face. He and the young woman were having an argument. He was talking and she was listening; or, anyway, she was silent. She was probably not listening. Talking was one of his long suits. His thoughts would be on his own arguments, what he would say next, and how, particularly
how;
when he was hot, his speech became almost Edwardian, elaborate, rich with sarcasm, a literary monologue in complete sentences, subject, verb, predicate. The moral life of the young.

“We are trying to find out about the young woman,” Kleust said.

North looked again at the picture and wondered what the argument was about. The waiter was present, so it would not be anything personal or political. Probably the coffee was foul. The sugar dish was empty. He had complained and the young woman had objected, perhaps to his tone of voice. One could be wonderfully rude in German. He said, “The three in the foreground—”

“We photographed your son by the sheerest chance. It was Herr Duer who noticed him in the background of the picture. Herr Duer has an—interest in your son. And his associates. And their plans for the future, insofar as they effect the BRD. Herr Duer's eye was drawn to the beret, it is not usual to see berets in Hamburg. Something about the angle of the face, and the hands holding the cup of coffee . . . Herr Duer has an excellent memory.”

Duer said, “By the attitude of the waiter we are guessing that this is a familiar café to your son, though the waiter denies that he has ever seen him or the young female before. Look at the waiter's feet. They are crossed, and he has one hand on the table. This is the attitude of one who is conversing, not merely taking an order.”

German thoroughness. “Seems so,” he said.

“We thought, looking at your son, that perhaps there was an argument of some kind. His face is dark. But the waiter could remember no argument.”

North nodded but did not reply.

“Then, looking at some of the other photographs we have collected, we thought that perhaps his face was always dark.”

North said, “The waiter is lying.”

Kleust leaned forward. “That was what we thought, Bill. We have the café under surveillance, but there is no sign of them, your son or the young female. And the waiter behaves normally. And of course until now we were not certain that it was your son. We had no positive identification until today. It was only a guess on Herr Duer's part. Give thanks to the beret.”

He said, “Where is the café?”

“Around the corner from the Hotel Prem. An expensive neighborhood, fashionable. A neighborhood where tourists often go. Of course there are not many tourists in Hamburg. Hamburg is not Munich. And this was in October, so there are even fewer tourists.”

Duer said, “Does your son normally wear a beret?”

“No,” he said.

“Nor a beard.”

“Nor a beard.”

“Do you know the Hotel Prem?”

He nodded. “Stayed there once, years ago.” Subtle of Kleust, remaining silent. Three years earlier they had had dinner at one of Kleust's haunts on the harbor, a fish house. He and Elinor and Bill Jr. and Kleust, the American consul general, and the resident spook. Bill Jr., bored and sullen, did not speak so they ignored him. It was an excellent dinner, very jolly; the consul paid. Bill Jr. left them in front of the restaurant, walking away through the gauntlet of wharf whores. And that was the last time he had seen his son. He disappeared into Germany. He remembered that Kleust had returned them to the Hotel Prem and they had a nightcap in the bar, a half bottle of Fürst von Metternich. He and Elinor did not miss Bill Jr. until the next morning, when the receptionist reported that his bed had not been slept in. Will your son be returning? Bill thought a moment and said, No, he won't be, knowing he was gone, knowing they would not see him again for a very long time.

“Your whole family?”

“Bill Jr. was with us.”

“Well,” Kleust said.

“What do you intend to do now?”

“We have the café under surveillance, as the ambassador said,” Herr Duer said. “And the authorities in Hamburg have been alerted. We have the waiter under surveillance also, but we do not expect anything to come of this. There is nothing in. The waiter's background. To suggest any connection with your son or your son's associates. Of course that, in itself, is perhaps suspicious.” Herr Duer smiled.

North smiled back. Quite a piece of work was Herr Duer, squaring the circle. Heads I win, tails you lose. He handed the photographs back to the German, who put them in his attaché case and closed it. For a moment no one said anything.

North said, “The other three, in the foreground—”

Duer made a little gesture of dismissal, but his eyes were bright.

North said, “Could be a coincidence.”

Kleust sighed. “I am afraid Herr Duer does not believe in coincidence.”

Herr Duer leaned forward. Half moons of sweat showed under his armpits. He gave off an odor of cologne mixed with sweat as he shook a damp cigarette out of the pack on the table and lit it. He smiled fractionally, displaying yellow teeth. “With your permission,” he said politely. “This is a formidable lead, the best one we have had. In fact the only one we have had, that is verifiable. They are very careful, these people, very professional, very meticulous.” He paused again, glancing at Kleust. “We thought you might be able to help us. We thought you might be persuaded to come to Hamburg, Mr. Ambassador.”

“To help you find my son.”

“Yes,” Duer said.

“How would I do that?” he asked softly.

Herr Duer cracked his knuckles. He was trying not to show his excitement, but his voice rose and he spoke rapidly. “It is well known, people return to that which is familiar to them. The Hotel Prem, for example. You have been in Hamburg with the boy, you might remember places you visited with him. And you could recognize him, in a café or across the street, with a beret or without a beret or a beard, or however he chose to present himself. I don't have to say to you. It is in everyone's interest to find your son, before.”

“Before what?”

“He is a violent boy,” Duer said sharply.

North looked at Duer, then turned to Kleust. There was a moment of silence, and then Kleust nodded at Duer, almost apologetically. Duer immediately rose. “You and the major,” Kleust said. “Please to wait outside for a moment. I wish to speak to the ambassador privately.” He turned to North for confirmation. It was North's office and North's embassy and Kleust did not wish to seem—Teutonic.

“Sorry about all this,” Kleust said when they were alone.

“It's hard as hell, Kurt.”

“I know it is.”

“I don't care much for your Herr Duer.”

“Nor do I. He is interested only in his work. But he's good, he's the best we have, though he has the personality of a . . .” Kleust sought the word and North said, “Bowling ball.” Kleust thought a moment, then smiled. “I would have said polo mallet.”

North stepped to the window and stood looking down into the courtyard. Harry Erickson was walking to his car, talking animatedly to the station chief. They looked like boys without a care in the world, playing hooky from school. He said, “I suppose Duer's efficient.”

“Very,” Kleust said.

“Unorthodox or by the book?”

“Both,” Kleust said. “That's why he's so good.”

“You've got quite a file on my boy, haven't you?”

“Yes,” Kleust said.

Harry Erickson looked up and saw the ambassador in the window, and quickly looked away. He and the station chief got into the big Land-Rover. “One of my officers,” North said from the window, “young fellow, good record, except that he's younger than springtime. Wife's having an affair with another woman. Or that's the story. That ever happen with your people?”

“I know all about that.”

Of course he would. There were no secrets in embassy ghetto. “Jan Francis is a friend of mine.”

“I'd forgotten,” North said.

Kleust laughed. “You remember my commercial attaché. Fell in love with Bruch's deputy, a darling captain. Fine horseman. They were discreet about it and it didn't matter except it drove Bruch crazy. He had the captain transferred to South Africa, which ruined the polo team last year. But I understand the move produced benefits for the security services. The commercial attaché cried for a month and tried to follow his boyfriend, though he didn't try very hard. Not much for a commercial attaché to do in South Africa and this lad was very much the careerist. So he's in Athens now. You have too many people in this embassy, Bill.”

“I know that. It's called bureaucratic creep.”

“Well, you're the ambassador—”

“They keep sending me people. And they are usually people who can't stand the climate or the Africans. They think it's exotic until they get here, and then they want to be somewhere else. Oslo or Geneva or Rome.”

“Jan Francis likes to make trouble. She likes to make trouble for the Americans, particularly.”

“She has a husband,” North said.

“He does not count,” Kleust said.

North watched Harry Erickson and the CIA man get into the Land-Rover and drive away. Benson raised the candy-colored barrier and saluted smartly. Harry returned the salute casually, a weary general on friendly terms with the ranks. He tried to imagine Alice Erickson and Jan Francis in bed together, doing whatever women did. Well, he knew what they did; but it was hard imagining them doing it. He wondered if it was fun for Jan, making trouble for Americans. Whether or not it was fun, it was certainly easy. “She ought to pick on someone her own size,” he said.

Kleust said, “That's difficult, in this country.”

“So you still see her?”

“Not often,” Kleust said.

“I wish she'd lay off,” North said.

“Your people have to learn,” Kleust said.

North nodded, that was true enough. He said softly, “Can I see the file?”

Kleust said, “I don't have it. Duer has it.”

“Will he let me see it?”

“He hasn't let me see it,” Kleust said. “They guard things closely, you know.”

“Have you asked to see it?”

Kleust said, “No.”

“All right,” he said. “Tell me about Herr Duer.”