He laughed at that, took a drink.
Eva downed her vodka, letting the heat of it flow through her naked body. Then she propped herself up on an elbow and turned toward Fleischmann. They had been too busy during the last hour to talk.
“You have not been to see me,” Eva said, putting a note of complaint in her voice. “I hope they are not working you too hard at the War Department.”
“There’s been a lot going on,” the colonel said in a self-important tone. “I’ve been working a lot of late hours.”
Eva knew that the colonel was highly placed in the War Department and privy to most of what took place there — although she guessed that he was not as vital to operations as he would have her believe. She had found that while civilian men tended to lie about how much money they earned in an effort to impress, military men — who never made much money — preferred to lie about their own importance.
Fleischmann told her enough to be useful, so that was all that mattered. He shared all sorts of office gossip and discussed the day-to-day politics of the Office of Special Services or OSS. Fleischmann had a wife and family somewhere in New Jersey. She had an inkling that the Fleischmanns were nicely set up thanks to his wife’s money — not his military pay. Eva suspected that she had taken on the role that many wives had at the end of the day, listening as their husbands unburdened themselves. She did her best to listen intently, even to the useless stuff. As for Fleischmann, he was living out the male fantasy of having a wife in a distant city and a mistress to take care of his more immediate needs. The best of both worlds.
Eva allowed herself a small smile. Fleischmann was smart — the trouble was that he knew it and spent most of his time trying to impress everyone around him. Little did he know that the nuggets of useful information he dropped often reached the German high command that very night. He never would have guessed that Eva was a spy — though she was careful never to let down her guard. She thought of Bruno Hess downstairs and wondered how the colonel would react if he knew there was a German agent in her house at that very moment. Not that she was about to wave him under Fleischmann’s nose.
“Will you be sent to Europe in the spring?”
Fleischmann looked at her with those dark eyes. “Do you know something I don’t?”
“It is just that — well, I have heard rumors about an invasion. I was worried you might have to go into battle —”
“I wouldn’t be afraid to go, if that’s what you mean,” he snapped, finishing his drink. “But I doubt I’ll be sent to England. There’s plenty enough to do here.”
England, but not Italy. There were two routes the Allied invasion could take — up through occupied Italy or across the English Channel to France. It was hard to defend so vast a front, so anything that helped determine where the Allies would strike enabled the Germans to fortify their defenses at the right location.
The colonel didn’t add anything else, and Eva did not press. He got out of bed and started to pick his clothes off the floor, where they had been scattered an hour before.
“Are you sure you can’t stay?” she asked. Eva waited until he had already pulled on his pants.
“Another night,” he said. Eva knew that Fleischmann’s wife called him every evening at odd times to make sure that he was at his apartment. The excuse that he was working late only went so far with Mrs. Fleischmann.
He paused and looked down at Eva, still propped up in bed. “Someday, Eva, I want you all to myself.”
“Carl —”
He shook his head and grinned. “I know all about the others. Do you think I’m a fool? I have plenty of money, Eva.”
You mean your wife has plenty of money, Eva thought. “I am happy enough,” she said.
“I can get you a nicer place than this. It’s no way for a movie star to live. Driving that old car. You can even turn up the damn heat.”
“I like it cold.”
He tugged on his shirt. “Cold? Hell, you could hang a side of beef in here. It’s not normal. I swear, I think it’s that damn German blood of yours. You’ve got ice in your veins.”
She forced a smile. “Come back and see me soon, darling. You can warm me up.”
With a grunt, he walked out, leaving the bedroom door wide open behind him. Eva was sure he had done it to annoy her.
She waited until she heard the colonel go down the stairs, and then listened for the sound of the heavy front door closing. He had a car parked out front. An engine started. By the time the car was pulling away, Eva was out of bed, wrapping a robe around herself. It was cold in the room. But heat cost money. Besides, maybe Fleischmann was right about there being ice in her veins.
Zumwald spent his first few days in Washington living in terror of being found out. Every man in an overcoat might be a detective; every soldier in uniform was an enemy. For all he knew, every pretty girl or waitress was a spy waiting to snare him.
He found a cheap hotel, checked in, and seldom left except to eat a hamburger or buy a fresh supply of Westerns. He spent the hours reading, trying not to think too hard about his predicament.
Zumwald thought about giving himself up — although Americans hated the U-boats, he hoped he might face prison instead of a firing squad — but the thought of Bruno Hess stopped him. Hess wasn’t any hapless survivor of a U-boat sinking. If Zumwald gave himself up, he would have to tell the Americans about Hess. Giving himself up was one thing, but Zumwald wouldn’t drag another German soldier down with him. Anyhow, it wasn’t something the hero of a dime Western would do, and Zumwald liked to think that he was as good a man as some pulp fiction character.
What he soon discovered, however, was that no one was looking for him. He read the newspapers and saw no mention of U-351 or of a manhunt for survivors. He was puzzled by this at first, but came to realize that perhaps the government had its reasons for keeping the news quiet. The idea of U-boats off Delaware might not help convince the public that America was winning the war.
Manhunt or not, that didn’t mean Zumwald wasn’t afraid to open his mouth. He was sure his accent would give him away and that no sooner would he speak than whistles would start blowing. But Zumwald hadn’t read all those Westerns or watched all those movies for nothing. His English was pretty good — and as for his accent, he tried talking like a cowboy, slang and all. He tried it out on a waitress and she took him for an Australian. That afternoon, feeling brave, Zumwald went to the movies.
Sitting anonymously in the dark, Zumwald had an inspiration. Hess had given him hundreds of American dollars — if he was careful with the money he could live for a year or two. But why did he have to live in a Washington hotel room, and a dingy one at that?
The next morning, Zumwald bought a map of the United States. He spread it out on the thin cover of his hotel room bed, put a finger on Washington near the wide blue of the Atlantic, and then let his gaze wander over the expanse of paper that lay beyond. A muted rainbow of colors differentiated the states. He picked out landmarks: Appalachian Mountains, Mississippi River … Kansas! Texas! New Mexico!
His whole life he had read stories about cowboys and Indians, cattle drives and rustlers. If nobody was looking for him in Washington, there was even less chance that anyone would expect a German soldier to turn up in, say, Wyoming.
He folded up the map and put it under his pillow. He would stay in Washington a few more days — long enough to make sure that no one was looking for him. That night, Zumwald had a hard time getting to sleep. When he finally drifted off, all the colors of the map seemed to permeate his dreams.