The Good German (30 page)

Jake raised his head. “Employment contracts?”

“They already have the patents. The idea is to get the personnel. Nobody wants to stay in Germany. The whole place’ll probably go Commie anyway, and then where are we? Problem now is getting them
in
. The State Department has this funny idea about not giving visas to Nazis, but since everybody
was
a Nazi and since the army wants them anyway, the only way in is to find a sponsor. Somebody who can say they’re crucial to their operations.”

“Like American Dye.”

Tommy nodded. “And they’ll have the War Department contracts to prove it. The army gets the eggheads and American Dye gets a nice fat contract to put them to work and everybody’s happy.”

“We’re talking about Farben people? Chemists?”

“Sure. They’d be a natural fit for American Dye. I talked to one. He wanted to know what Utica was like.”

“Anybody else? Not Farben?”

“Could be. Look, put it this way. American Dye will do anything the army wants—their
business
is the army. Army wants a wind tunnel expert, they’ll find a use for him, especially if the army gives them a wind tunnel contract. You know how it works. It’s the old story.”

“Yeah, with a new wrinkle. Jobs for Nazis.”

“Well, that depends what kind of stink comes off the record. Nobody’s finding work for Goering. But most of them, you know, just kept their heads down. Nominal Nazis. What the hell, it was a Nazi country. And the thing is, they’re good—that’s the kicker. Best in the world. You talk to the tech boys, their eyes get all dreamy just thinking about them. Like they’re talking about pussy. German science.” He shook his head, taking another drink. “It’s a helluva country when you think about it. No resources. They did it all in laboratories. Rubber. Fuel. The only thing they had was coal, and look what they did.”

“Almost,” Jake said. “Look at it now.”

Tommy grinned. “Well, I never said they weren’t crazy. W/hat kind of people would listen to Hitler? ”

“Frau Dzuris,” Jake said to himself.

“Who?”

“Nobody—just thinking. Hey, Tommy,” he said, brooding. “You ever hear of any money actually changing hands?”

“What, to Germans? Are you kidding? You don’t have to bribe them—they want to go. What’s here? Seen any chemical plants with Help Wanted signs out lately? ”

“And meanwhile Breimer’s recruiting.”

“Maybe a little on the side. He’s the type likes to stay busy.” He looked up from his drink. “What’s your interest?”

“He’d have a lot of money to throw around,” Jake said, not answering. “If he wanted something.”

“Uh-huh,” Tommy said, peering at Jake. “What are you getting at?”

“Nothing. Honestly. Just nosing around.”

“Now why is that? I know you. You don’t give a flying fuck about Farben, do you?”

“No. Don’t worry, the story’s all yours.”

“Then why are you pumping me?”

“I don’t know. Force of habit. My mother always said you learn something every time you listen.”

Tommy laughed. “You didn’t have a mother,” he said. “Not possible.”

“Sure. Even Breimer’s got one,” Jake said lightly. “I’ll bet she’s proud as anything.”

“Yeah, and he’d sell her too if you put the money in escrow.” He put the glass down on the table. “Probably runs the goddamn garden club while her boy’s collecting envelopes from American Dye. It’s a great country.”

“None better,” Jake said easily.

“And I can’t wait to get back to it. Figure that one out. Listen, do me a favor. If you come up with anything on Breimer, let me know, will you? Since you’re just nosing around.”

“You get the first call.”

“And don’t reverse the fucking charges. You owe me.”

Jake smiled. “I’m going to miss you, Tommy.”

“Me and your bad tooth. Now what the hell is he up to?” he said, cocking his head toward a drum roll coming from the band.

Ron was standing in front of the combo, holding a glass.

“Listen up. Can’t have a party without a toast.”

“Toast! Toast!” Shouts from around the room, followed by a chorus of keys tinkling against glasses.

“Come on up here, Tommy.”

Groans and whistles, the good-natured rumble of a frat party. Soon people would be balancing bottles on their heads. Ron started in on something about the finest group of reporters he’d ever worked with, then grinned as the crowd shouted him down, held up his hand, and finally gave in just by raising his glass with a “Good luck.” Some airplanes made of folded yellow typing paper floated in from the crowd, hitting Ron’s head, so that he had to duck, laughing.

“Speech! Speech!”

“Go fuck yourselves,” Tommy said, which hit the right note, making the crowd whistle again.

“Come on, Tommy, what do you say?” A voice next to Jake— Benson, from
Stars and Stripes
, slightly hoarse from shouting.

Tommy smiled and lifted his glass. “On this historic occasion—”

“Aw!” More hoots and another paper plane gliding by.

“Let’s drink to free and unrestricted navigation on all international inland waterways.”

To Jake’s surprise, this brought down the house, prompting a whoop of laughter followed by chants of “Inland waterways! Inland waterways!” Tommy drained his glass as the band started playing again.

“What’s the joke?” Jake said to Benson.

“Truman’s big idea at the conference. They say the look on Uncle Joe’s face was worth a million bucks.”

“You’re kidding.”

“Who could? He actually insisted they put it on the agenda.”

“I thought the sessions were secret.”

“That one was too good to keep quiet. They had five leaks in about five minutes. Where’ve you been?”

“Busy.”

“Couldn’t get him off it. The way to lasting peace.” He laughed. “Open up the Danube.”

“I take it this didn’t make the final agreement?”

“You nuts? They just pretended it wasn’t there. Like a fart in church.” He looked over at Jake. “Busy with what?”

After that, the party grew louder, a steady din of music and voices that kept rising until it finally became one piercing sound, like steam whistling out of a valve. Nobody seemed to mind. The nurses were getting the rush on the dance floor, but the noise had the male boom of all the occupation parties, nearly stag, civilian girls confined by the nonfraternization rules to the shadow world of Ku’damm clubs and groping in the ruins. Liz waved from the dance floor, signaling for Jake to cut in, but he gave a mock salute and went to the bar instead. Fifteen more minutes, to be polite, and he’d go home to Lena.

The whole room was jumping now, as if everyone were dancing in place, except for the poker game in the corner, whose only movement was the methodical slapping of cards on the table. Jake looked down at the end of the bar and smiled. Another pocket of quiet. Muller was putting in a reluctant appearance, more than ever Judge Hardy, silver-haired and sober, like a chaperone at a high school dance.

Jake felt an elbow, then a slosh of beer on his sleeve, and moved away from the bar to make a last circuit around the room. A burst of laughter from a huddle nearby—Tommy at it again. Near the door, a corkboard hung on the wall, cluttered with pinned-up sheets of copy and headlines clipped out of context. His Potsdam piece was there, the margins, like all the others, filled with scribbled comments in code. NOOYB, not one of your best. A story on Churchill leaving the conference. WGWTE, when giants walked the earth. The back-slapping acronyms of the press camp, as secret and joky as the passwords in a schoolboys’ club. How he’d spent the war.

“Admiring your handiwork?”

He turned to find Muller standing behind him, his uniform army crisp in the sweaty room.

“What’s it mean, anyway?” Muller said, pointing to the scribbles.

“Reviews. In shorthand. OOTAG,” Jake said, pronouncing it as a word. “One of the all-time greats. NOOYB—not one of your best. Like that.”

“You men have more initials than the army.”

“That’ll be the day.”

“The only one I hear these days is FYIGMO—fuck you, I got my orders. Home, that is,” he said, as if Jake had missed it. “I suppose you’ll be heading home too, now that Potsdam’s over.”

“No, not yet. I’m still working on something.”

Muller looked at him. “That’s right. The black market. I saw
Collier’s
. There’s more?”

Jake shrugged.

“You know, every time there’s a story like that, it’s an extra day’s work for somebody, explaining it.”

“Maybe somebody should clean it up instead.”

“We’re trying, believe it or not.”

“How?”

Muller smiled. “How do we do anything? New regulations. But even regulations take time.”

“Especially if some of the people making them are sending money home too.”

Muller threw him a sharp look, then backed off. “Come for a smoke,” he said, a gentle order.

Jake followed him out. A line of jeeps stretched along the dusty broad sweep of Argentinischeallee, but otherwise the street was deserted.

“You’ve been busy,” Muller said, handing him a cigarette. “I saw you in the movies.”

“Yeah, how about that?”

“I also hear somebody’s been making inquiries in Frankfurt about our friend Tully. I assume that’s you?”

“You forgot to mention what a colorful character he was. Hauptmann Toll.”

“Meister Toll, since you like to be accurate. Not that it matters. Comes to the same thing.” Another weak smile. “Not one of
our
best.”

“The whip’s a nice touch. He ever use it?”

“Let’s hope not.” He drew on his cigarette. “Find what you were looking for?”

“I’m getting there. No thanks to MG. Want to tell me why you’re holding out on me? For the sake of accuracy.”

“Nobody’s holding out on you.”

“How about a ballistics report? On a second sheet that wasn’t there. I suppose that got mislaid.”

Muller said nothing.

“So let me ask you again. Why were you holding out?”

Muller sighed and flicked his cigarette toward the street. “That’s easy. I don’t want you to do this story. Clear enough? Some low-life gets in trouble in the black market and the papers start yelling corruption in the MG. We don’t need that.” He glanced at Jake. “We like to clean up our own mess.”

“Including murder? With an American bullet.”

“Including that,” Muller said evenly. “We’ve got a criminal investigation department, you know. They know what they’re doing.”

“Keeping it quiet, you mean.”

“No. Getting to the bottom of it—without a scandal. Go home, Geismar,” he said wearily.

“No.”

Muller looked up, surprised at the abrupt answer.

“I could make you go home. You’re on a pass here, just like everyone else.”

“You don’t want to do that. I’m a hero—it’s in the movies. You don’t want to run me out of town now. How would that look?”

Muller stared for a minute, then smiled reluctantly. “I admit there are better options. At the moment.”

“Then why not stop being army brass for five seconds and give me a little cooperation? You’ve got an American dead. The CID isn’t going to do a damn thing and you know it. You could use the help.”

“From you? You’re not a policeman. You’re just a pain in the ass.” He grimaced. “Now, how about letting me serve out my time in peace? Go make trouble somewhere else.”

“While you’re waiting, would it interest you to know the money on him was Russian?”

Muller’s head snapped up, then held still. The one thing that always got the MG’s attention. “Yes, it would,” he said finally, looking steadily at Jake. “How do you know?”

“The serial numbers. Ask the boys in the CID, since they’re so professional. Still want me off the case?”

Muller looked down at the ground, moving his foot in a small circle, as if he were making a decision.

“Look, nobody’s trying to hold out on you. I’ll get you the ballistics report.”

“That’s all right. I’ve seen it.”

Muller raised his head. “I won’t ask how.”

“But while you’re being so friendly, you could do me another favor. Kind of make it up to me. You didn’t find any travel orders on him.”

“That’s right.”

“What about an airport okay? Who got him on the plane? I need somebody to check the dispatchers. July sixteenth.”

“But that could take—”

“I figure your secretary might have some time on her hands. If she could call around for me, I’d appreciate it. They’d listen to you. Me, it might take weeks.”

“You haven’t had any problem so far,” Muller said, looking at him carefully.

“But this time I’d have some help from the top. For a change. You know how it is. And while she’s at it, one more thing? Check a flight listing for an Emil Brandt. Previous week and since.” He took in

Muller’s blank expression. “He’s a scientist Tully sprang from Kransberg. Dustbin. Heard of it?”

“Where are you going with this?” Muller said quietly.

“Just have her do it.”

“Dustbin’s a secret facility.”

Jake shrugged. “People talk. Hang around the press camp more. You’d be surprised what you pick up.”

“You can’t write about it. It’s classified.”

“I know. Don’t worry, I’m not interested in Dustbin. Just Meister Toll.”

“I’m not sure I understand the connection.”

“If I’m right, just wait a little and you can read all about it in the papers.”

“That’s one thing I have no intention of doing.”

Jake smiled. “Why don’t you wait and see how it comes out? You might change your mind.” He glanced up at him, serious now. “No black eyes.”

“Do I have your word on that?”

“Would you take it? Why not just say you have my best intentions and leave it at that? But I’d appreciate the calls.”

Muller nodded slowly. “All right. But I want you to do something for me—work with the CID on this.”

“Carbons in triplicate? No thanks.”

“I won’t have you running around like a loose cannon. You work with them, understand?”

“Now I’m on the team? A minute ago you were sending me home.”

Muller’s shoulders sagged. “That’s before the Russians were involved,” he said glumly. “Now we need to know. Even if that means using you.” He paused, thinking. “You’re sure about the money? The serial numbers? That’s the first I’ve heard of it. I thought it was all the same.”