“Yes, sir. There’s a VIP lounge. With only a little skillful lying I can probably get us into that.”
“Let me see what this is all about first,” Jackson said, and ripped open the envelope. Inside were a key and a plain white card. On the card were written an address and the message “Try to make it by nine.” The message was unsigned.
Jackson handed the card to Lieutenant Meyer. “You know where this address is?”
Lieutenant Meyer glanced at it. “Yes, sir. It’s a rather nice address not too far from the zoo. I mean it will be a rather nice address if it’s still standing.”
“Can we have a drink and still make it by nine?”
Lieutenant Meyer glanced at his watch. “Easily.”
“Well, let’s go do that and you can worm your way into my confidence some more.”
It took Lieutenant Meyer, talking steadily, a little more than fifteen minutes to relate virtually all that he knew about Kurt Oppenheimer. When he was finished, so were the drinks. Lieutenant Meyer tipped his up, let an ice cube bounce against his teeth, swallowed the last drop, put the glass down, and stared at Jackson.
“Tell me something,” he said with the air of a man ready to receive a confidence.
“Sure.”
“Why’re you looking for him?”
He really expects an answer, Jackson thought. Not only that, but he also expects a truthful answer. Jackson smiled and said, “I don’t think I said I was looking for him.”
“Washington says you are.”
Jackson kept his smile in place. “Washington hopes that I am.”
It was a long, bleak stare that Lieutenant Meyer gave Jackson. “Well, shit, mister.”
“Disappointed?”
“Oh, hell, no,” Lieutenant Meyer said. “I don’t feel silly, either.”
“You’ll get over it.”
“You used to be with the OSS, didn’t you?”
“Is that what Washington says?”
“That’s what it says.”
“Then it must be true.”
“How good were you?”
“Average,” Jackson said. “Maybe C-plus.”
Lieutenant Meyer shook his head. “They wouldn’t let you run like this if you were just C-plus.”
“I wouldn’t put too much faith in Washington if I were you.”
Lieutenant Meyer’s mouth tucked itself down at the corners as he again shook his head. “Jesus, that’s all I need, a mystery man.” He reached into the pocket of his blouse and brought out several cards. “Well, here you go, mystery man,” he said, and slid the cards over to Jackson. “One of them will get you into the PX so you can buy cigarettes and toothpaste. Another one’s for the Class Six Store where you can buy your booze. That one you’ve got your finger on will let you eat at the officers’ club. The food there’s not so hot, but it’s cheap, and if you don’t eat there, then you’re going to have to depend on black-market restaurants. They’re as expensive as hell, but since you’re a mystery man, and probably rich with it, maybe you can afford them. And the last one’s for gasoline, if you should get hold of a car — which I hope to hell you will, since I don’t much like playing chauffeur. As for where you’re going to sleep, Washington said that’s going to be up to you, so I don’t really give much of a shit.”
“I’ll manage,” Jackson said, smiled, and pocketed the cards.
Lieutenant Meyer studied Jackson for several seconds. He took in the gray hair and the lean face with its almost too regular features. Had it not been for the not-quite gray eyes, the face would have been a toss-up between pleasant and handsome. The eyes made it too alert for either, Lieutenant Meyer decided. Much too alert. His brains leak out through his eyes. Otherwise he’d be Fraternity Row, maybe rush captain at Phi Delta Theta — if you took away ten years and all that gray hair.
“Let me guess,” Lieutenant Meyer said.
“Sure.”
“Dartmouth.”
Jackson shook his head and smiled slightly. “The University of Virginia.”
Lieutenant Meyer didn’t bother to keep the sneer out of his voice. “The gentleman factory.”
“I suppose.”
“You know something, Mr. Jackson, sir?”
“What?”
“I’ve been a little slow, maybe even a little dense, but I think I’m beginning to figure out why you’re in on this thing.”
“Why?”
“Money. There’s money in it somewhere, isn’t there?”
Jackson smiled again — a cool, remote, totally cynical smile. “You’re getting warm, Lieutenant. Very warm.”
At five minutes until nine the jeep, with Lieutenant Meyer at the wheel, drew up at the address near the Frankfurt zoo. Jackson used his lighter to examine the card the Air Corps Sergeant had given him.
“You’re sure this is the right address?”
“I’m sure,” Lieutenant Meyer said. “Some house, isn’t it?”
“Some house,” Jackson agreed, got out of the jeep, and reached for his bag.
Still staring at what he could see of the house, which was illuminated only by the lights that came from two of its windows and the jeep’s headlights, Lieutenant Meyer said, “Fifteen rooms. At least fifteen rooms. You sure you don’t know who owns it?”
“I have no idea.”
“Somebody rich.”
“Apparently.”
“Not even touched,” Lieutenant Meyer said, shaking his head. “You notice that? Both houses on either side wiped out by the bombs and this one’s not even touched.”
“I noticed.”
“You sure you don’t want me to wait?”
“For what?”
“To make sure it’s the right address.”
Jackson shook his head. “It’s the right address.”
“But you don’t even know who lives here.”
“I didn’t say that,” Jackson said. “I said I didn’t know who owns it.”
Lieutenant Meyer sighed. “More mystery-man shit.”
“Sorry.”
“Sure you are.” Lieutenant Meyer started the jeep. “Well, if you want to beckon and call some more, you know where I am.”
“I know. Thanks, Lieutenant, for everything. You’ve been most helpful.”
“I’ve been a stupid jerk is what I’ve been,” Lieutenant Meyer said, and drove off.
Jackson watched him go and then walked up to the iron gate set in the chest-high brick wall that seemed to surround the house. The gate was unlocked. Jackson went through it and up the stone path to the door. He tried the door, but it was locked. He took out the key that had been in the envelope along with the card and inserted it into the lock. It turned easily.
Jackson pushed open the door and went through it into an entry hall that was illuminated by a kerosene lamp. He put his bag down on the parquet floor and looked around. The lamp rested on a table. Farther back, a flight of stairs curved up to the second floor. To Jackson’s left were a pair of sliding doors. They were closed, but some light leaked out from underneath their lower edges.
Jackson went over to the doors and tried them. They were unlocked. He shoved them apart and went into a room that was lit by another kerosene lamp and the glow that came from the grate of a coal-burning fireplace. Two large, high-backed chairs were drawn up on either side of the fireplace. Next to one of the chairs was a small table. On it were two glasses and a bottle of whiskey.
Still looking around, Jackson noticed some dark oil paintings on two walls and in a far corner a baby-grand piano with its lid up.
“Where are you?” he said.
“Over here,” the dwarf said. “By the fire.”
17
Jackson moved over to the two large chairs, glanced briefly down at the dwarf, warmed his hands before the coal grate, and, without turning, said, “Where’re the women, Nick?”
Ploscaru wriggled with pleasure. It was exactly the cool and laconic greeting that he had hoped for. The American was so absolutely predictable.