Oppenheimer paused, looked in his daughter’s general direction, smiled, switched to German, and said, “Leah, dear, I think it’s time for my cigar.”
“Yes, of course,” she said, rose, and crossed the room to where a box of cigars rested on a table. She took one out — long, fat, and almost black; clipped off one end with a pair of nail scissors; put it in her mouth; and carefully lit it.
“Would you care for one, Mr. Jackson?” Oppenheimer said as his daughter handed him the cigar.
“No, thanks, I’ll stick to my cigarettes.”
“Damned nuisance, really. One of the few things I haven’t been able to learn how to do for myself properly — light a cigar. Hard on Leah, too. Keeps her from wearing lipstick.”
“I don’t mind,” she said, resuming her seat by the tea table.
“I always like a woman who powders and paints. What about you, Mr. Jackson?”
“Sure,” Jackson said, and lit a cigarette.
Oppenheimer puffed on his cigar for several moments and then said, “Miss the smoke, too — the sight of it. Ah, well. Where was I? In Switzerland. We stayed there until 1940. Until Paris fell. Then we went to England — London. At least, Leah and I went. Some people call me an inventor, but I’m not really. I’m more of a... a Kesselflicker.”
“Tinker,” Jackson said.
“That’s right, tinker. I take other people’s inventions and improve on them. Patch them up. I had an idea for a cheap way for the British to interfere with enemy radar. Well, they almost clapped me in jail. I wasn’t even supposed to know about radar. But eventually they used my idea anyway. Long strips of foil. Someone else got the credit, though. I didn’t mind. I had other ideas. A long-lasting electric-torch battery. I gave them that. Then an idea for a metal-less zipper. They didn’t seem to think that zippers had anything to do with the war effort. I should’ve tried that one on the Americans. That’s where I made my money originally, you know: in zippers. Damned near the zipper king of Germany. Didn’t invent it, more’s the pity, but I improved on it. But no matter. Then, toward the end of the war, I developed cataracts, and that’s why I’m here.”
“Why Mexico?” Jackson said.
“There’s an eye surgeon in Mexico City who’s supposed to be the best in the world. I don’t know whether he really is or not, but he’s a German Jew like me, and I feel comfortable with him. He’s going to operate next month, and that’s why I wanted to get this business about finding my son settled.”
“What makes you think he’s still alive?” Jackson said.
The blind man shrugged. “Because nobody’s come up with any proof that he’s dead. If he’s not dead, then he’s alive.”
“He stayed on in Switzerland when you went to England.”
“Yes.”
“And then went back into Germany.”
“Yes.”
“He went underground?”
“Yes.”
“Was he a member of any particular group?”
“I don’t know. My son is a Communist. Or thought he was, anyway. He almost went to Spain in ’36, but I persuaded him not to, although I couldn’t persuade him to go to Britain with us.”
“When was the last time you heard from him?”
“Directly?”
“Yes.”
“There were a few letters in 1940. Two in ’41 and then nothing. And then, about a year ago, we heard that somebody had heard that he had been seen in Berlin just before the end of the war. It was no more than that: just hearsay, rumor. But we started writing letters — to the Americans and the British.” He made a small gesture with his cigar. “Nothing. Finally, we heard about Ploscaru from someone who’d known someone in Cairo who’d used him for something similar to this during the war. We made inquiries and found that Ploscaru was in Los Angeles. So we came here from Mexico City and started negotiations — which brings us up to date. Ploscaru tells us that you were an American spy during the war.”
“Something like that,” Jackson said.
“With the Office of Secret Services.”
“Strategic Services.”
“Oh, is that what they called it?”
“Yes.”
“Well, what do you think, Mr. Jackson: do you think you can find my son?”
Jackson lit another cigarette, his second, before answering. “Maybe. If he’s alive and if he wants to be found and if he hasn’t gone East.”
“Yes, that’s a distinct possibility, I suppose.”
“No,” Leah said. “It’s not. He wouldn’t go East”
Jackson looked at her. “Why?”
“Kurt didn’t trust the Russians,” she said. “He despised them.”
“I thought you said he was a Communist.”
“A most peculiar type of Communist, my son,” Oppenheimer said, and added dryly, “but then, my son is most peculiar in many matters. Some of his peculiarities we’ve written down in a kind of dossier that we’ve put together for you. There are some pictures — a bit old by now, I should think. Kurt must have changed considerably.”
Oppenheimer nodded at his daughter, who crossed to the table where the cigar box lay, opened a drawer, and brought out a thick envelope, which she handed to Jackson.
“Does he have it yet?” Oppenheimer asked.
“Yes.”
“Your fee is in there too, Mr. Jackson: fifteen hundred dollars. Correct?”
“Yes.”
“I must apologize for those rather silly code phrases that I insisted upon, but we’ve learned that there are a number of confidence tricksters about down here — Americans mostly. Wouldn’t want the money to fall into the wrong hands, would we?”
“No.”
“Probably made you feel a bit silly, though, all that lu, lu, lu-ing.”
“A bit.”
Jackson by now had discovered that the blind man spoke two kinds of English. One was an almost breezy form of chatter which had only a light accent. Oppenheimer employed it, perhaps unconsciously, when engaging in his rather heavy-handed persiflage, which was something like a salesman’s banter. But when the blind man wanted to make a point or find out something, the accent grew heavier as he hammered out his nouns and verbs into a more formal structure.
His accent was quite heavy when he asked Jackson, “When do you think you might arrive in Germany?”
“In about a month,” Jackson said. “I’ll be going to Washington first. There’re some people there who might be helpful. After that, if I can’t get a seat on a plane, I’ll take the first boat I can get out of New York.”
“My daughter will be leaving for Frankfurt immediately after my operation, which will be two weeks from now. That means that she’ll arrive in Germany at about the same time that you do. The address where she’ll be staying is in the envelope we gave you. I suggest that you get in touch with her. I’m sure that she can be most helpful.”
Jackson stared at the remote, solemn-faced woman who sat motionless in the straight-backed chair with her eyes lowered.
“Yes,” he said, trying to keep the surprise out of his voice, “I’m sure that she can be.”
4
It had grown dark by the time that Jackson tipped the Mexican attendant a quarter for bringing the Plymouth around. He got in behind the wheel and fooled with the radio, trying to find something besides the strident, slightly off-key mariachi band that the attendant had tuned in. Jackson had just about settled for a San Diego station when the man came out of the shadows, got quickly into the car, slammed the door shut, and said, “Let’s take a little spin.”
The man’s accent came from somewhere in England; probably London, Jackson thought. As he turned to look at him, Jackson let his left hand slide from his lap down between the seat and the door to where the tire iron was. After he found it, he said, “Where to?”