But if Bulnakov wasn’t working for the CIA, who was he working for? And what about Townsend Enterprises? Was it Gorgefield Aircraft’s own secret service, its department specializing in sensitive issues, dirty business? Or was Bulnakov, or Benton, as Georg was beginning to call him, an independent contractor whose company, Townsend Enterprises, could be hired to carry out shady deals ranging from espionage to murder? Had Gorgefield hired Townsend Enterprises for Operation Mermoz? They had probably given the job a more elegant name: the Mermoz Study, the Mermoz Investigation, the European Helicopter Project.
Even without being able to answer these questions, the story now made sense. Françoise was from New York, worked for Townsend Enterprises in New York, had worked in Cadenet, and then returned to New York. Was she still working for Townsend? Was she still Bulnakov’s/Benton’s lover?
Georg had a story that made sense, but no idea what to do next. He didn’t know if he could interest a reporter in it, or if newspapers would print such a story or readers would want to read it. As it was, he didn’t have much evidence, and didn’t see how he could get more. Without evidence a lawyer couldn’t help him either-that is, if a lawyer would even want to help him. The authorities are looking for me, damn it! I’m a wanted man!
Should he give up or go on? Those were the two alternatives he had been considering. Now he didn’t even know what they meant. What should he go on doing, and how? Did giving up mean going to the police, to the German consulate, going underground in the city, or going out West? Georg paid and left. If nothing else, he could at least fill in the gaps of the story. The library at Columbia must have technical journals dealing with helicopters, weapon systems, and the armaments industry that could clarify whether Gorgefield Aircraft had put out the concept of its helicopter after Operation Mermoz. It could also clarify whether Townsend Enterprises was a branch of Gorgefield or an independent company that belonged to Benton. Georg wanted to know, even if he wasn’t sure how this knowledge could help him.
He called Helen from a pay phone. “It’s me, Georg.”
“You’re calling in the middle of the night?… Oh, it’s seven. God, is everything all right?”
“I’m sorry, it’s again about the matter I told you about…”
“I tried calling you yesterday evening. A year ago your girlfriend”-she said the word as coolly as she could-“was living on Prince Street. A colleague of mine in the Russian Department had her in her conversation class.”
“Where?”
“In her conversation class… Oh, 160 Prince Street near Sixth Avenue and Houston.”
Georg took a deep breath. “Thank you, Helen. I hope this didn’t…”
“No, it didn’t put me out. I showed my colleague the picture, and she gave me her address. And her name: Fran Kramer.”
“Fran Kramer… I looked for Kramers in the phone book. You wouldn’t believe how many there are. Kramers, Krameks, Kramerovs, and so on. Three whole pages.”
“Mm.”
“Anyway, thanks. Would you be mad at me if I asked for one more favor?”
“If I was, you wouldn’t ask?”
“Since the CIA is already mad at me, or the FBI, or the police, I don’t know who, I’d be happier if you weren’t too.”
“What are you talking about?”
Georg told her. He had gone over the story so many times in his mind, in true and false versions, that he managed to tell her in a few words. “And as a result,” he concluded, “you’ll find me in today’s New York Times, on page fourteen.”
“What are you going to do?”
“I don’t know. I have no idea what they’re intending to do to me, how intensively they’re looking for me, or who’s looking. Can you call Townsend Enterprises and act like you are an executive secretary calling from IBM, Nabisco, or Mercedes-Benz, and tell them you would like to make an appointment for someone to discuss an important security issue? If they fall for it, then it would point to the fact that Townsend is an independent enterprise, rather than a branch of Gorgefield Aircraft.”
“Don’t you have more immediate problems?”
“I do, but this one I believe we can get to the bottom of. I want to know what’s going on at Townsend. Not to mention that it would be a relief to know I’m not up against America’s most important armaments enterprise, but that crazy cowboy Benton.”
“But isn’t it clear already that Gorgefield Aircraft… I mean, could Benton send government officers to do his dirty work?”
“Who knows? Would you do me the favor and call? Call from a quiet pay phone somewhere, and the matter can be dealt with in two or three minutes.”
“Okay, I’ll give it a try later this morning. This evening you can reach me at home. In the afternoon I’ll be at Columbia. Be careful.”
36
AT THE ENTRANCE OF the Seventy-ninth Street subway station Georg was about to rush down the stairs with the throng of people when he realized the absurdity of hurrying. The one thing he had more than enough of was time. He would walk.
He strolled up Amsterdam Avenue toward Columbia. He didn’t think the library would be open before eight. He remembered that he had walked up Amsterdam once before, on his first day in New York, from the Epps’ apartment to the cathedral. That had been two months ago. Back then nobody was out to get him, he knew where he would sleep, and he could return to Germany at any time. Nothing was left of that now. And yet he felt lighthearted. The first few weeks in New York he had been stumbling around in the dark. He had felt as if a wound was being relentlessly rubbed raw. He had arrived in America wounded, and every pointless movement had hurt and exhausted him, driven him further into the wariness and distrust he had brought with him from Cucuron. Bulnakov/Benton was right: he had become another person.
The cathedral loomed gray and heavy in the morning sun. Water was bubbling out of the fountain beside it, tables were being set up on the sidewalk in front of the Hungarian Pastry Shop, and workmen were laying pipes in the middle of the street. It was a pleasantly familiar scene, and because of that familiarity Georg let down his guard. Initially, he had intended to enter the Columbia campus from the back gate on Amsterdam Avenue, though he had no reason to think they would expect him to turn up at Columbia, and hence lie in wait for him. So he decided to head for the main gate, which was closer, and he turned onto 114th Street. Not because of the three minutes he would save. It just seemed to make more sense.
They must have been standing on the corner of Broadway, keeping an eye on the subway entrance; God knows why. Perhaps they’d been waiting on the corner of 115th Street by Larry’s apartment, and had gone for a stroll to stretch their legs. Georg saw the redhead and turned around, but the redhead had seen him and began to run toward him, as did the man who was with him.
Georg ran back down 114th Street to Amsterdam. The other two were fast catching up. He turned to look, and was alarmed at how close they were getting. He wouldn’t be able to keep up this speed. If he could get to the cathedral before the others did he had a chance! If it was already open, if the others didn’t know about the little side entrance, if the side entrance was open. If not-he didn’t have the time to think about that. He sprinted across the street, cars honking their horns and braking. His heart was pounding, his legs weren’t as fast as he wanted them to be. Before the others managed to cross the street, he had reached the steps in front of the cathedral leading up to an array of doors that were always locked and one door that he hoped to God was open. He raced up the steps two at a time, his legs getting weaker. He pushed against the door. It didn’t move. He pushed harder, rattled it, the door moved, and, as he pulled, it swung open heavily. He looked back over his shoulder-the others had crossed the street and reached the bottom of the stairs. Would they try the wrong door? He ran through the nave. He kept looking back, hoping his footsteps wouldn’t give him away. The columns blocked his view of the doors, and he walked slowly. The interior of the cathedral was warm. The air was musty and heavy. It was quiet, the church was empty. From the ceiling hung a large fish made of pipes which from the tail to the head grew in length and then became shorter again, bright colors shining as the pipes trembled in the cathedral’s draft. Far behind him he heard a door slamming shut.