Harry parked, took a business card out of his wallet and handed it to Cordell along with a pen.
“Yeah, Harry, I know where you work at.”
“Write your sizes down. Shirt, pants, shoes. I know what you like. I’ll see if I can find a Louis the Hatter. Pick you up a leisure suit, rhymes with pleasure, right?” Harry said, having a little fun with him. “Don’t go anywhere.” He was grinning when he got out of the car and walked down the street.
Hard to explain, Harry’d get him in trouble, show up get him out. Cordell didn’t know what he’d a done, Harry hadn’t come when he did. He checked the glove box, found the owner’s manual and car papers, Benz was registered to Friedrich Acker. Wondered if it was reported stolen? Wondered if the police were going to show up like they did last time? Cordell promised himself he got out of this mess today he would leave town, not look back. He sunk down in the seat watched people walk by the car, no one really paying much attention to him, brother sitting there practically naked.
When Harry finally came back, he was carrying two shopping bags, got in the car, slid them over to Cordell.
“Here you go,” Harry said.
He opened the first bag, looking at green suede knickers and a white shirt. “The fuck is this?”
“Selection wasn’t good,” Harry said. “It was the best thing I could find.”
“Best thing you could find? You go to a costume shop?” Second bag had hiking boots and green knee-highs. “This some kind a joke?”
“Try it on,” Harry said. “It’s temporary. Just till we get your clothes.”
Cordell slid the shirt out, unfolded it, took all the pins out and put it on. Now he grabbed the shorts, slid into them. Put on the knee-highs and the boots. Saw Harry look over with a grin. Met his gaze. “Don’t say nothing.” He leaned forward, grabbed the rearview mirror, tilted it to the right and looked at himself. “Who am I suppose to be Harry, Hans the mountain boy? Feel like I’m in a Shirley Temple picture.”
Harry started the car, checked the mirrors and pulled out of the parking space, punched it and they were moving in traffic.
“Where we going now?”
Twenty-four
“Lisa’s office,” Harry said. He parked, took the Colt out of his pants pocket and turned the cylinder to a live chamber. Two rounds left. He could feel Cordell’s eyes on him.
“What’re you going to do with that?”
He glanced at Cordell. “Defend myself.”
“What am I supposed to do? Where’s my gun at?”
“Stay behind me.”
“Harry, you a bad-ass now. That right?”
He had two rounds in the Colt and five more in the safe in his hotel room.
They took the elevator up to the fourth floor, room 412, ZOB in black type, all caps, stenciled on the frosted glass panel in the door.
“What’s ZOB mean?” Cordell said.
“It was named after a Polish resistance group during World War Two, the Żydowska Organizacja Bojowa. They fought the Nazis.” Harry knocked on the door. No one came. He turned the knob. It opened. He stepped in, turned on the lights, saw something was different immediately. The bookcases were empty. The photos of at-large Nazis had disappeared from the wall. The top of Irena’s desk that had been covered with stacks of files and paper was now bare, nothing on it. He took the Colt out of his pocket, holding it with two hands, Cordell to his right but behind him, crowding him a little.
“Sure this’s the right place?” Cordell whispered. “Looks like they moved.”
Harry turned to him, put his index finger over his mouth and walked into Lisa’s office, aiming the Colt. It was in the same condition, no pictures on the walls, desktop clean, drawers empty. Not a piece of paper anywhere. Everything was gone.
He checked the other offices, checked closets and under desks, checked file cabinets. Everything had been cleaned out. Except for the sign on the outer door, it looked like the ZOB had never been there, never existed. Harry wondered how they did it, the manpower it must have taken to pack and move all that stuff so quickly. No sign of Leon and Irena either, but it was Saturday. Maybe they hadn’t come in to the office. He knew they lived together, had their address back at the hotel.
“Now what?” Cordell said.
Rausch had watched his men surprise the Jew, pick him up and drop him in the trunk of the stolen Mercedes, and slam the lid closed. Over in ten seconds. Exactly the way he had planned it. He had phoned Hess mid-morning, telling him the situation had been handled, taken care of. “Forget about Harry Levin. He is gone.”
“You are sure?” Hess said. “You saw the body?”
He was always skeptical unless he was involved. “I wouldn’t be calling you unless I was,” Rausch had said.
But now it was after 3:00, more than six hours since the Jew had been abducted and he had not heard from Trometer or any of them. He guessed they were in a ratskeller, getting drunk. He thought back, remembered exactly what he had told them. “Take the Jew in the woods, shoot him, bury him. Call me when you are finished.” What did they not understand? The outcome seemed certain, foregone. But then, they were not trained soldiers, and Levin was unpredictable.
Rausch recalled the scuffle at the restaurant in Washington DC. He had underestimated him and look what happened. He glanced in the rearview mirror, ran his fingertip over the scar on his cheek, the cut that required four stitches to close, remembered the unassuming Jew throwing him over the table, plates and glasses shattering, landing on the floor.
Rausch had never lost a fight in his life. Harry Levin from Detroit had made him look like an amateur, embarrassed him. He remembered Hess, angry, questioning him on the way back to the embassy.
“What happened?” Hess had said. Make a mistake and he would rub your face in it, make you feel like a fool. “Maybe I need a new bodyguard, Someone younger, more capable.”
“Maybe you do.” Rausch wasn’t going to play the game. He had just turned fifty-one. It sounded old, but he was in shape, ran a couple miles every day, lifted weights, boxed and spent time every week at the shooting range.
Then Hess smiled and patted his shoulder. “Arno, of course I am joking.”
Rausch wasn’t so sure.
The black man, Cordell Sims, was another story. He had jumped out a second-floor window into a trash bin and disappeared. What were the odds of doing that without sustaining injury? According to their contact at the Munich police, Sims had been a soldier stationed in Heidelberg before being dishonorably discharged for striking his platoon sergeant. The thought of it infuriated Rausch. Soldiers followed orders, you did what you were told. They should have put him in prison, or shot him. He would do it for them when the opportunity presented itself.
It was starting to get dark. The hotel lights popped on. Rausch sat in the Volkswagen, watching the activity in front of the hotel. Earlier he had gone to the lobby and used the house phone, asking for Herr Levin. Herr Levin did not answer, but it proved he was still registered.
Rausch had gone to the concierge’s desk and said, “A friend of mine, Herr Levin, is a guest in the hotel. I want to surprise him. Can you tell me his room number?”
The concierge said he was not permitted to give that information.
Rausch placed a fifty-Deutschmark note flat on the desk in front of him. The man stared at the money.
“You are a friend,” the concierge said, trying to rationalize taking it.
“Ja.” Rausch forced a smile.
The concierge put his hand over the bill, scooped it up and put it in his pocket.
“Herr Levin is in Suite 7F.”
Rausch found it and knocked on the door, waited thirty seconds, picked the lock, went in and closed the door. He stood and listened and heard the muffled drone of an airplane somewhere overhead, the faint sound of a horn honking on the street below. He walked through the salon into the bedroom. The bed was made. There were receipts on the desk: a beer garden in Dachau, car rental in Munich, an airplane ticket, Pan Am flight, Munich to Detroit but no date. He opened the closet. There were shirts, trousers and a sport jacket on hangers, a pair of brown shoes on the floor. There was a shelf with a safe on it. He tried with all his strength to pull it free but he could not budge it.