I nodded solemnly, and von Leeb snapped the briefcase shut and got to his feet.
“This office shall be the command headquarters of the entire operation. I am staying at the Neue Adlon, and you shall install a direct line to my suite. I wish you to call me at precisely eight o’clock every evening to report on the progress of your investigation. If there is a breakthrough, come directly to the Adlon. Understood?” His voice was clipped, military, the camaraderie gone. I nodded again, feeling I should be saluting. “Good. For purposes of identification we shall give this business the code name of Operation Nibelung. At no times in speaking to me will you use the word ‘Jew.’ ” He scowled abruptly. “There are those who would like to exploit this situation to their own partisan advantage, Lieutenant. Even a man in my position is not immune to surveillance by anti-Party elements within the state apparatus. You understand?”
I did indeed. If von Leeb was in with the Contraxists, Schirach and Speer would like nothing better than to sully his reputation by proving a Jew had escaped the Einzatgruppen’s celebrated net.
The old man shot his hand into the air again and I responded with a more enthusiastic heil! than before. Without a word to. Kohler and Beck he swung on his heels and strode out the door. There was a long silence after he left, broken only by the slow expelling of my breath. Finally I turned to Kohler, who’d remained motionless, sweat coursing down his forehead.
“Shit,” I muttered, “is this really happening?”
He forced a. wan smile.
“You’re in the big time now, Bill. How does it feel?”
“Like a sheep to the slaughter.” I glanced quickly at Beck, still as sphinx-like as ever, and got up from behind the desk.
“Look, Ed, I need a drink. Let’s get out of here.”
“You’re on.” He turned to Beck. “Arrange the phone hook-up. We’ll be back in a half-hour.”
Beck’s eyes narrowed, but he nodded. Kohler and I left the precinct house and walked over to Sullivan’s on the corner of Third and Eightieth. There was nobody there but a few rheumy-eyed old dipsos trying to kick the mid-morning shakes, and we took our double Scotches to a quiet corner table. I drained mine in two gulps and Kohler wasn’t far behind me. I took his glass, went to the bar for refills, and struggled to assemble my thoughts.
“Ed, you know why I wanted you alone. Can I talk freely?”
Kohler sipped contemplatively from his drink.
“No, not really, Bill.” He sighed. “Look, let’s be honest about it. If it would help my position I’d dump you without blinking an eye, just as quick as Beck, so we might as well understand each other. But for the time being it seems our interests are pretty much identical, and there’s no reason for me to screw you. Yet.”
That was about as straight as I could get it, and I wouldn’t have expected anything else, no matter what he told me.
“Okay,” I said. “Some questions. First off, why me?”
“Just the luck of the draw. He wanted a local cop, one who could be trusted, and I remembered you from the Toronto thing. Nothing personal, old buddy.”
I thought a moment, nursing my drink.
“The Jew. Is he for real?”
Kohler shrugged.
“Who knows? Von Leeb thinks he is, and Berlin must think he could be, and that’s all that concerns us. In a way I hope he really is walking around out there, because if he doesn’t exist and we draw a blank, the Professor is gonna have our balls on toast. In his book, failure is just another word for treason.”
“But how could a Jew have escaped? And here in New York of all places? I could maybe understand it in Latin America, hiding out in the jungle somewhere, but not here, for Chrissakes. I mean, shit, the ovens were going full-blast twenty-four hours a day at Croton for over a year, it wasn’t humanly possible for anybody to escape.” There was a note of desperation in my voice. “Was it?”
Kohler gulped the last of his drink.
“How do I know?” he asked wearily. “I’d say the odds are a hundred thousand to one against it. But try telling von Leeb that.”
“Look, the whole thing rests on this mezzuzah or whatever you call it, right? Well, how does that prove he’s a Jew? Maybe the guy’s just some kind of nut, he found it or bought it somewhere. I mean, the way he behaved in the shop, maybe he’s got some kink about Jew stuff, collects it or something, that doesn’t necessarily mean he’s a Jew himself.”
Kohler leaned back in his chair and lit a cigarette.
“Look, Bill, don’t you think I’ve run through that whole line of reasoning already? And sure it’s possible, logical even. But there’s something else von Leeb didn’t get around to telling you. You know the skull, the one this character made off with?”
I nodded.
“It still had a price tag on it with the name and address of the shop. Four days later a woman returned it to Pickett. Her kids found it while they were playing in Washington Square Park. Dug it up. It’d been buried in a shallow grave.”
“Oh, shit.”
“Yeah. And for von Leeb, two and two make Jew. You try talking him out of it. I’m sure as hell not going to.”
I finished my drink, accepting defeat.
“Let’s get hack to the office. I’ve got to get started on Operation Nibelung.”
Callender called me over as we entered the station house, a glint of malicious interest in his eyes.
“Headquarters called while you were out. The Commissioner himself. He wants you to get back to him right away.”
Between the Gestapo and Centre Street the bastard probably thought I was in hot water. Well, he was right. I grunted something noncommittal and led Kohler to my office. A guy from communications was installing the direct line to the Adlon and I had to shoulder him aside to ring Gunther. When I finally got through, his voice was sputtering with anger.
“What the hell is going on down there? I just got a call from somebody called von Lipp…”
“Von Leeb,” I corrected him.
“Von Lipp, von Leeb, all I want to know is what is he up to? He gave me some line about you being seconded to the Interior Ministry and being out of my jurisdiction. I couldn’t follow half of what he was babbling on about. Who is this nut?”
I let him have it with both bores.
“He’s an O.P.C. and former Commander of the Einzatgruppen, in New York on the direct orders of Heydrich.”
There was a long silence, broken only by the Commissioner’s heavy breathing.
“My God,” he whispered finally, “I hung up on him.”
My spirits lifted somewhat; misery does love company.
“Call him back. After all, the worst he can do is have you shot. He’s staying at the Adlon.”
Gunther’s voice regained some of its normal nastiness.
“Is this your idea of a bad joke? Because believe me, Haider, if it is I’ll break you so fast…”
He was the least of my problems.
“Look, Commissioner, I’ll put you on to the Gestapo, they’ll explain the situation. I’ve got to get moving on this thing.”
I signalled Kohler, who’d been conferring in the corner with Beck, probably about retirement plans, and he took the phone as I left the office.
Callender was reading a boyie magazine at the duty desk, a well-hung blonde Viking straddling the lurid cover, but he looked up expectantly as I approached.