Fear Itself Read online

  ‘God, I don’t remember. Somewhere just below 72nd Street.’

  Guttman was silent for a moment. ‘I want you to retrace their steps. Maybe you can figure out what they were doing. It sounds like more than just taking a walk.’

  ‘Okay,’ said Nessheim, then looked at his watch. ‘I’ll do it this afternoon. I have to see Schultz first.’

  Schultz himself answered the door, and to Nessheim’s relief was friendly. ‘Come in, come in. There is coffee in the kitchen, and I have a surprise.’

  Nessheim followed him through and found Beringer ensconced at the table in the kitchen corner, eating strudel with a fork.

  ‘No leaflets today,’ said Schultz, pouring coffee into a mug and handing it to Nessheim.

  ‘What would you like me to do instead?’

  ‘Nothing.’ Schultz gave a gnomic smile. ‘I thought you deserved a break.’

  ‘Really?’ Maybe he would try Peggy on the phone after all. Maybe she’d change her mind. If not, he could go see the Empire State Building.

  ‘Ja. We’ll all go to Long Island.’ There was nothing tentative in his voice. ‘You like to fish?’

  ‘Sure,’ said Nessheim reflexively. Not that he had fished for years. As a kid his father would take him out to trawl for small-mouth bass on a lake east of Bremen. But not very often.

  ‘Good, I hoped you did. We often go out, right to the tip of the island. It’s beautiful, believe me. We catch fish,’ he said insistently. ‘And then we eat them.’

  ‘What time are we leaving?’ asked Nessheim, thinking he had better do what Guttman said first.

  ‘Right now,’ said Schultz firmly.

  Four of them went on the outing – Nessheim, Schultz, Beringer, and Peter Heydeman. No women, for Schultz portrayed it as a boys’ day out. ‘We will have a good time, and bring the fish home for Mrs Schultz to cook. She can do wonderful things with pollack.’

  They caught a noon train from Penn Station. The day was scorching, as if the summer’s accumulated heat was making a last stand before fall began. Their railway car was almost empty, picking up only a few early shoppers heading home. Nessheim wanted to look out the window and gather his thoughts – should he start to press Schultz about his plans, or should he continue to play the idiot athlete? – but Beringer unpacked a picnic box with breakfast. A thermos of sweet iced coffee, pastries filled with chocolate, hard-boiled eggs, cheese, and soft rolls stuffed with Mettwurst. There was enough food to feed a dozen, but Heydeman demolished what the others could not eat.

  It took three hours to reach Montauk. When they disembarked there Nessheim was feeling sweaty and slightly nauseated. The walk from the station to a small harbour on the south side of the island only partly revived him. In the distance the dunes were the pale colour of eggless ice cream, and after days of overcast weather, the sun had taken over the unclouded sky like an avenging god. They passed an inland waterway which held ducks and a dozen pair of honking geese, and Schultz explained that a hurricane the year before had cut off the very tip of Long Island.

  They came to a small bay, more a cove really, with a marina in the centre of its crescent curve. Only a few boats were tied up to its dock: a solitary sailing yacht, a few rowboats with outboards, and a tar-stained fishing trawler that shimmered in the windless heat. ‘There she is,’ said Beringer, pointing at the trawler. As they approached it along the quay Nessheim saw it was named The Braunau.

  There was no one on the boat. Following Schultz and Beringer on board, Nessheim stood by the pilot house and watched uneasily as Heydeman untied first the stern rope, then the aft, and jumped back on board. Schultz turned the key at the captain’s wheel and the diesel engine rumbled into life. Beringer sat in a deck chair, reading an old copy of Look magazine.

  At the stern two fishing rigs were set up, the poles reaching high into the air, with a pair of padded chairs set back from the rail. They sailed south and east, into what must have been familiar water, since Schultz did not consult a chart. Nessheim felt queasy again as soon as they moved out of harbour into the irregular chop of the Atlantic, and within an hour he felt deeply seasick, made worse by the scorching glare of the sun and the stench of diesel. They were far enough out now that there was no land in view. Dropping anchor so that Heydeman and Schultz could fish only made things worse, as The Braunau tilted and rocked up and down, passive in the ocean swell.

  Soon he could take it no longer, and went out of sight to the fore of the boat, where he was violently sick. He stayed there, arms draped over the gunwales, retching for half an hour, until there was nothing left to retch. He felt he’d turned his stomach inside out.

  Reappearing at the stern he found that Schultz had caught two good-sized pollack, and that Beringer had laid a small table he’d erected next to the pilot house. The German was taking food from a second wicker picnic box and putting it on plates: more Mettwurst, lettuce leaves, cherry tomatoes, a half-pound of butter and a loaf of rye bread. Nessheim found the sight of the food nauseating. When Beringer offered him a bottle of Pilsner he shook his head.

  Beringer chuckled. ‘No sea legs, Jimmy?’

  Heydeman and Schultz now joined them. While they ate, Nessheim went and sat in one of the padded chairs, looking out at the horizon and taking deep breaths. The sun was setting and gradually light drained out of the sky, but the air stayed moist and sticky, the temperature at least 80 degrees. A faint moon appeared, and stars began to dot the sky like a series of distant lamps switched on one by one. Nessheim couldn’t see the lights of any other boats, and there was nothing dark in the distance that suggested land. They were a long way from Montauk, he concluded, and resigned himself to several more hours of nausea.

  After supper Schultz and Heydeman wanted to fish some more, so he vacated the padded chair and went towards the bow. The wind had died completely, and Beringer at the helm had them barely idling. The result was a slow swaying progress through the waves, which were picking up. He managed not to be sick again, and growing drowsy he curled up on the deck, using his shirt for a pillow, since the night air was muggy and warm. Eventually he fell asleep.

  When he awoke it was still dark, but he sensed he had slept for hours. For a moment he wondered where he was, then a wave shook the starboard side of the boat below him and he remembered. He got up and made his way back to the pilot house, carrying his shirt.

  Beringer was standing at the wheel, smoking a cigarette. He stood in the yellow glow of a small light bulb hooked in the tiny cabin’s ceiling. ‘Better?’ he said without much concern.

  ‘Yeah.’ He went out to stand by the padded chairs, where he had to steady himself by grabbing the stern rail. They were moving at a few knots now.

  In the far chair Heydeman had gone to sleep with his mouth open, his big buck teeth exposed, and his arms hanging down on each side of the chair. But next to him Schultz was wide awake, watching his line intently.

  Schultz said, ‘I’ve been meaning to ask you something, young Rossbach. How did you happen to be there the other night when we had the trouble at the synagogue?’

  Caught off guard, Nessheim hesitated. At last he said, ‘I saw you and thought you needed help.’

  ‘Yes, but you were a bit far afield, weren’t you? If I remember you came down from Park Avenue. That’s not Yorkville.’

  ‘I had some extra leaflets so I gave them to the doormen in the swanky buildings. I thought it couldn’t do any harm. Was that wrong?’

  ‘Not at all,’ said Schultz.

  ‘If it’s true,’ Beringer interjected smoothly, who had silently appeared in the dark. The boat was idling again.

  Nessheim looked at Beringer. ‘Why would I lie?’ He was trying not to sound nervous.

  Beringer said, ‘You would if you’d been following us. I thought I saw you earlier down at 72nd Street.’

  ‘I told you, I went over to Park and handed out leaflets to some of the doormen. Maybe you saw me then. What were you doing down there anyway?’

  ‘That’s n
ot your business,’ Beringer began, but Schultz raised his hand to cut him off. ‘I’ll tell you. We were looking at the Armory. Scouting the lay of the land, as they say.’

  Beringer looked surprised by Schultz’s indiscretion, but Schultz’s tone suggested it didn’t matter in the least. Nessheim noticed that Heydeman’s eyes were open now.

  ‘Why the Armory?’ he asked. If Schultz didn’t mind telling him they’d cased the place, maybe that meant he trusted Nessheim after all. Though it seemed a big maybe.

  ‘He asks, “Why the Armory?”’ said Schultz, turning his head towards Beringer and chuckling.

  ‘What’s so funny?’ asked Nessheim.

  ‘What do you think they keep in an armoury, young Rossbach? Cat food? Bottles of beer?’

  Heydeman was now fully awake. ‘Wait until Monday,’ he said.

  ‘That’s the day of the rally,’ Nessheim said.

  ‘What about it?’ said Schultz. ‘We’ll leave that nonsense to Kuhn. There will be 15,000 people there and just as many Jews protesting. That’s when we’ll take the Armory.’

  ‘You’ve already got weapons.’ He remembered the rifle practice at Camp Schneider.

  ‘Single-shot garbage,’ said Schultz scornfully. ‘The Armory has powerful repeating rifles and machine guns.’ Nessheim could hear the relish in his voice.

  Suddenly Schultz tensed and leaned forward, staring at his line. It had gone taut, and when he lifted his reel the rod bent sharply.

  ‘Have you got one?’ asked Beringer.

  Schultz was reeling in now, and the rod flexed like a bow. Then he stopped reeling. ‘Nature calls,’ he announced, putting one hand meaningfully to his flies. ‘Take over,’ he added abruptly, motioning Nessheim to grab the rod as he got up, then headed towards the fore of the boat. Nessheim took his place in the chair, then began reeling the line in slowly.

  He sensed Beringer standing behind him, and after a minute Schultz returned and stood there too. He struck a match and Nessheim smelled cigar smoke. Just what I need, he thought, still feeling slightly nauseated. He was reeling in more quickly now, for there didn’t seem much drag on the line. It couldn’t be a very large fish.

  Heydeman had left his chair and come to stand by the stern rail. ‘Let me feel,’ he said and lifted the rod out of Nessheim’s hands. Then Nessheim felt his chair being pushed from behind, spinning him round in the swivel seat to face Schultz. The German was holding a cigar to his lips with one hand; the other held a small snub-nosed revolver which he was pointing at Nessheim. It looked a low calibre of pistol, thought Nessheim mechanically, but it would do the trick.

  Schultz took the cigar out of his mouth. ‘As you Americans would say, let’s talk turkey.’

  ‘What about?’ Nessheim had a sinking feeling in his stomach.

  ‘You tell me, Herr Nessheim.’

  ‘What do you mean?’ he said, but it sounded feeble.

  ‘You collected a letter in Woodstock in that name. It was from your mother in Wisconsin, but you claimed your parents were dead and you came from Chicago. So we started to make inquiries.’

  Nessheim coughed, then said croakily, ‘Rossbach’s my mother’s maiden name. I had a bust-up with my dad.’

  ‘Aw,’ mocked Schultz. ‘A Streit with your father. How sad. Did you tell the FBI that when you joined?’ He suddenly spat overboard, sending a plug of gleaming saliva out into the water.

  Nessheim told himself not to panic. ‘The only thing I’ve ever joined was the Bund.’

  ‘That was interesting too. The Chicago branch said you were an extremely inactive member. Too busy with your lawman duties, eh?’

  ‘I really don’t know what you’re talking about. And that gun is making me nervous.’ Which was true.

  Schultz said, ‘I want to know who you work for in the FBI and how you came to Camp Schneider. What did you want to find out there?’

  Nessheim shook his head vigorously. ‘You have this all wrong, Herr Schultz. Nobody sent me to Camp Schneider; I needed the job. And I’ve explained to you about my name.’

  Schultz ignored this. ‘Peter,’ he ordered. ‘Take hold of him.’

  Suddenly from behind Heydeman gripped both of Nessheim’s arms. The man’s strength was incredible; Nessheim felt as if large manacles had been put around his biceps – he didn’t even try to flex them.

  He wondered what they were planning to do. If Schultz was simply going to shoot him, he’d have done that already. Perhaps they were just trying to scare him; he had heard that prisoners of war were often threatened before interrogation to make them feel more vulnerable.

  But Schultz had something else in mind. Like a nurse passing a scalpel, he handed his cigar to Beringer. Beringer stepped nearer to Nessheim, holding the glowing cigar so close that Nessheim could feel its heat on his chest. When he squirmed, Heydeman tightened his hold, squeezing Nessheim’s arms like gelatine.

  Schultz said, ‘The rules are simple. Tell the truth and you won’t be hurt.’

  The boat was rocking slightly; the still surface of the Atlantic had given way to a small but discernible chop. It didn’t seem to affect Heydeman’s hold on his arms in the slightest, but it reinforced Nessheim’s nausea, which was mixed with feelings of panic he tried to subdue.

  ‘Who are you working for at the Bureau of Investigation?’ asked Schultz.

  Nessheim hesitated, wondering how much to admit.

  Schultz said sharply, ‘We are 20 miles from Montauk, and twice as far from the New Jersey shore, so no one is going to hear your screams. But if you tell the truth you won’t need to. Now where are you based?’

  ‘I don’t know what you’re talking about,’ he said.

  Beringer suddenly leaned forward and pressed the cigar against his right bicep. Nessheim flinched as he felt intense heat, then agonising pain. Beringer kept the cigar firmly against his upper arm until an acrid smell of flesh filled the air. Nessheim bit his lower lip to keep from crying out.

  He could see Schultz’s face in the reflected glow of the pilot-house light. He looked dissatisfied. ‘Let’s get his pants off,’ Schultz commanded. ‘Peter, hold him tight.’

  Beringer came forward and grabbed onto the waistband of Nessheim’s trousers. When Nessheim started to kick out, Schultz took a step forward and poked the pistol in his face. Beringer undid his belt and pulled down the khaki trousers until they sat like bags around Nessheim’s feet. The German yanked off both of Nessheim’s shoes, then pulled his trousers off altogether, tossing them in a heap by the pilot house.

  Beringer’s expression was intent and all-business, like a surgeon halfway through an operation.

  ‘Who sent you to Vermont?’ Schultz demanded.

  ‘I joined because I wanted to,’ Nessheim insisted, trying to ignore the pain in his arm and concentrate on his answer. ‘My parents are German, so I was interested.’

  He hoped this sounded plausible, and was relieved to see Schultz nod. But then he said, ‘Noch mal.’ This time Beringer pressed the cigar against the inside of his upper thigh. Pain shot through Nessheim like needles, and he only dimly realised he was crying out loud – the odd wailing sound didn’t seem to come from him. He gagged, and his gorge rose uncontrollably. Suddenly he retched violently, and vomit shot out of his mouth all over the deck.

  ‘Yeck!’ Schultz exclaimed in disgust, spattered by the stream of sick. He stepped back reflexively, lowering the gun as he looked down at his stained trousers. Momentarily, Heydeman’s hold relaxed, and Nessheim sprang up. Heydeman tried to grab him, but it was too late – Nessheim jumped forwards just out of his reach. Schultz began to lift his gun, but Nessheim took two quick steps and stiff-armed the German, sending him sprawling onto the deck. He sensed Beringer behind him and ran halfway down the boat, then without hesitation dived off the starboard side.

  He hit the water in a shallow dive that made his chest and belly burn. He surfaced moments later, sputtering and tasting salt on his lips, and felt the saline sting where Beringer had put his cig
ar. A wave surged around his shoulders, and he shivered as it unfurled like ice across the back of his neck. Christ it’s cold was his first thought. He saw that he was only 50 feet or so from the boat, and could clearly make out the figures of Schultz and Heydeman peering from the side. If he could see them, he started to think … Then something whizzed at terrific speed past his head and he heard the sound of a pistol firing almost simultaneously.

  He jack-knifed into the cold water, desperate to get out of the mild halo of light that would give him away. He swam underwater away from the boat until he thought he would burst. Coming up at last, he tried to break surface gently, doing his best not to gasp for air too loudly. Peering through the dark, he saw that the boat had moved, but in the wrong direction, and was now a longish football pass distant. Beringer must be at the wheel, and Schultz or Heydeman was holding a flashlight on the starboard side, moving the beam back and forth across the water. The light arced wider and wider until it started to come Nessheim’s way. He dove again, jacking his legs up and forcing himself down.

  He came up gradually, then saw to his alarm that this time Beringer had made a better guess, for the boat was only 20 feet away. Fortunately Beringer had swung the bow round, so the port side of The Braunau was facing Nessheim. He could hear indistinct voices from the boat, with the odd comprehensible word or two. Once he even thought he recognised the name ‘Le Saux’.

  They had shot at him, which meant they weren’t interested in hauling him aboard again to make him talk. So why were they searching for him so hard, since they must know his chances of surviving out here in the water were nil? Why were they bothering?

  The answer was they weren’t. Schultz appeared once more at the stern and shouted out to the indiscriminate waves – ‘Viel Glück!’ And Beringer revved the motor, swung the wheel sharply round, and The Braunau accelerated away.

  No wonder he had heard the name of Eddie Le Saux – Nessheim was going to be left to drown. Nessheim could imagine what had happened to Le Saux, out on Lake Michigan, the night-time water the colour of lead lining a coffin. Eddie’s coffin. Heydeman would have taken his boat out and met Le Saux ‘by accident’. He’d have tied up to Le Saux’s boat and shared a smoke and a beer, persuading Eddie to take off his life jacket for a few minutes, long enough to let Heydeman grab Le Saux and throw him overboard, then drive the tied-together boats away, leaving Le Saux to drown and his body to float ashore without an incriminating mark on it.