Dry Bones (38 page)

“It’s all right. I’ve been awake a while. I was having terrible nightmares.”

“What about?”

“I don’t remember.” She fumbled among the contents of the bag, lifted out a palm-size, snub-nosed, silver-plated pistol. “Here, take this.”

“You took
that
on the plane?”

“Customs officers haven’t sunk so low they’d search a lady’s handbag.”

He slipped the pistol in his pocket. “Loaded?”

“Would I give it to you if it wasn’t?”

The clerk who’d checked them in was back at the front desk. He approached Dunne as he came down the stairs. “
Un momento, Señor Dunne, por favor.
”

“
Sí, qué pasa?
”

“In the dining room is a man who asked for you. I offer to call your room. He says his wish is not to disturb you so early. He waits until you came down to breakfast.”

“Did he give his name?”

“No. Perhaps the señor of whom you inquired yesterday, yes?”

“
Quizá. Gracias.
”

In a banquette in the rear corner of the dining room, beneath a huge antique mirror, sat the sole patron, his distinctive, sharp-beaked face poised above a half-eaten grapefruit. Turlough Bassante beckoned Dunne, “Come, have a seat.”

Dunne sat across from him. Out the glass doors to his right, where he remembered there used to be a patio and a small garden, a pool glimmered in the morning sun.
Habana vieja
genuflected to
Habana nova
, even the old hotels compelled to offer some version of the amenities routinely available in glass boxes like the Hilton and Flamingo.

“Why don’t you have some breakfast?” Bassante signaled for the waiter.

Dunne ordered a
café con leche
. “You’re with Schwimmer?”

“He asked me along.”

“He didn’t mention you’d be with him.”

“Would that have altered your decision?”

“No, but I’d prefer not to have any more surprises.”

“I didn’t contact him. He contacted me.”

The waiter took away Bassante’s grapefruit and delivered Dunne’s
café con leche
. “Where is he?”

“In the Vedado. You know where that is?”

“The rich folks’ neighborhood.”

“Nouveau riche, mostly.”

“Let’s not play
Twenty Questions
. Tell me straight.”

Bassante rested his elbows on the table. He refolded his hands, put them together as if to pray, tips of index fingers touched tip of nose, briefer’s pose, same as in Bari, gestures as distinctive as eye color or fingerprints.

He’d written Schwimmer, who contacted him when he came to New York. Schwimmer made clear he understood the power and resources possessed by those determined to thwart his search for Heinz. Louis Pohl’s demise left no doubt about the ends they’d go to. Yet the criminals and their accomplices—and their protectors—couldn’t be left in peace; and if he didn’t succeed, someone somewhere would. Justice would be done. Not perfect justice. But enough that the world could never again deny or hide or ignore what happened.

Bassante caught the waiter’s attention. He asked for half a cup of
café americano
and a double shot of rum. “What about you, Fin?”

“A little early for rum, don’t you think?”

“My first and last of the penultimate day of 1958.”

Though impressed by Schwimmer, Bassante said, he didn’t have a “road to Damascus” moment in which he suddenly decided
to put aside his resolve “to stick to caves and crevices.” Yet he wasn’t surprised to hear himself say he wanted to help—that he’d do all he could—and wouldn’t accept anything beyond reimbursement for expenses.

“Why the change?” Bassante shrugged at his own question, as if unsure of the answer. “In the end, I suppose, I did it for selfish motives. Years ago, I sent a request to General Donovan to be transferred from my role as a briefer and sent on a mission. I didn’t want that transfer. I’d briefed enough agents who never came back or were physical or psychological wrecks when they did.

“I couldn’t admit it to myself at the time, but I phrased the request in such a way I was certain it would be rejected. It’s never stopped haunting me. I knew this would be my last chance to get that transfer, so I took it.”

Bassante traveled to Bonn with Schwimmer, who’d cultivated a contact within the BND. A former member of the Abwehr, the military intelligence operation run by Admiral Canaris, Schwimmer’s contact avoided the fate of Canaris and his circle, who were executed by the SS for plotting to overthrow Hitler. He harbored a deep loathing for the former SS members now working within the BND and described to Schwimmer the rivalries rife within the organization. This included the existence of a top-secret unit that was said to report directly to the CIA.

Schwimmer’s source confided that the unit was being reorganized. Its chief had been whisked out of the country. The reason was unclear. Rather than send him back to his former hideout, there was an unconfirmed report that he’d been temporarily parked in Cuba.

“That struck me as an odd choice,” Bassante said, “till I gave it more thought. In fact, it’s perfect: A country in turmoil, consumed by conflicts that concentrate the attention of participants and spectators alike; the dictator in power unlikely to do anything to aggravate or complicate relations with the U.S.; the insurgents
too absorbed in taking power and setting up a new government to care about much else.

“I came to Havana to see what I could find out. A buddy from Counterintelligence who retired here put me in touch with a local private investigator. I didn’t get too specific. I gave him a general description of the person I was looking for. Turns out that Havana is a very small big city. Everybody knows everybody else’s business, and when a foreigner takes up residence—especially when he rents a mansion and is accompanied by bodyguards—interest is high.

“The investigator got back to me within a few days. He was sure he’d located the person I was looking for. Rumor was that the foreigner was a Swiss or German, a doctor who was planning to operate as an abortionist for an exclusively wealthy clientele. I went out and scouted the place. I caught a fleeting glimpse of him in the backseat of his car as it left the driveway. He was leaning forward to say something to the chauffeur. It was Heinz. No doubt about it. He apparently feels supremely secure in Havana—and why not? Chaos has always been his friend. Amid the current turmoil, he’s no doubt aware of how little anyone cares about his presence.”

The waiter brought the coffee and rum. Bassante poured the rum into the cup, raised it to his lips with both hands. “We have a plan.”

“That’s what Schwimmer said on the phone. What is it?”

“Heinz resides in a comfortable villa off Calle G in the Vedado. He has two bodyguards, who are probably Cuban policemen hired by his protectors to provide personal security. He goes to the Hotel Nacional several times a week for either lunch or dinner but follows no set schedule—with one exception.

“Wednesday and Saturday nights he visits a brothel on Calle Consulado, in the shadow of the Capitolio, where the national assembly sat until Batista seized power. Heinz travels with one bodyguard, who stays in the car. In true SS style, Heinz carries out
his mission with efficiency and punctuality—arrives at midnight and leaves at one.”

Bassante placed a leather cigar holder on the table. He flipped it open. Inside was a hypodermic needle. “This is for the driver, in the neck. The one who administers the needle hides on the car floor. Heinz will be annoyed to find him asleep but not surprised. The other two pounce, cover his face with a chloroform-soaked sponge, shove him in.

“What do you think, Fin?” Bassante finished his coffee and rum.

“Then what?”

“We drive to the harbor.” Bassante put the cigar holder back in his pocket. “We’ve hired a boat, small but seaworthy. We sail to the Yucatán.”

“And what if you’re stopped by the Mexican authorities?’

“We’ve acquired the proper papers.”

“To authorize a kidnapping across international borders?”

“To assure we won’t be interfered with. They didn’t come cheap.”

“And after the Yucatán?”

“Mexico City.”

“What’s in Mexico City?”

“The Israeli embassy.”

“They’re expecting you?”

Stefan Schwimmer slipped in from the barroom to the left. He put his hand on Dunne’s shoulder. “I’m glad you’ve come, Fin.”

“I’m explaining the plan.” Bassante fiddled with his empty cup.

“I heard.” Schwimmer sat beside Bassante on the banquette. “You have doubts?”

“Questions.”

“For instance?”

“You’re going to take Heinz to the Israeli embassy in Mexico City, but they’re not expecting you?

“I met with the Mossad station chief. He said they’ve more
‘pressing priorities than chasing phantoms.’ I persisted in presenting the case that Hemmer is Heinz—that he’s alive and well. He suggested I’m ‘too emotionally involved’ to make a rational judgment. ‘Is there any Jew devoid of emotional involvement in bringing these Nazis to justice?’ I asked. He claimed they had ‘more concrete prospects.’ We’ll see what they think when SS-Hauptsturmführer Karsten Heinz is delivered to their doorstep.”

“
If
you deliver him.”

“You don’t think it’ll work?” Bassante continued tapping his cup.

“I think you’re way ahead of yourselves.”

“We’re about a decade and a half behind,” Schwimmer said.

“Let’s hear Fin out.”

“Are you sure you’re not being followed?”

“By whom?” Schwimmer wiped perspiration from his palms with a napkin.

“By anyone.”

“I’m sure.”

“What makes you sure?”

“I’ve never noticed even a hint of being followed.”

“All that might mean is you’re being followed by a pro.”

“We’re
not
being followed.”

“Suppose you are … suppose the driver only pretends to be asleep … suppose he isn’t alone … suppose you turn out to be the hunted, not the hunters—what then?”

“I’ve no idea how long Heinz will be in Havana. For all I know, he’ll be gone tomorrow, God knows where. Tomorrow night—Wednesday—is perfect.”

“Tomorrow night?”

“New Year’s Eve, streets filled with revelers, nobody paying attention.”

“Don’t you see what you’re doing? You’re making the same mistake Louie Pohl made. You’re jumping the gun.”

Schwimmer threw the napkin on the table. “The only gun Pohl jumped was when he trusted Bartlett. This is the best—perhaps last—chance we’ll have to get Heinz. I’m not letting it slip through my fingers.”

“I don’t want to hurt your feelings, but look, you’re amateurs. You don’t have the slightest notion of what it takes to make sure a mission like this goes right—or what to do when it goes wrong.”

“You forget. I served in the RAF.”

“As a bombardier, if I remember correctly.”

“You’re a professional, aren’t you? A veteran of clandestine operations?”

“Long ago and far away.”

“I asked you here because I thought you’d ensure our success. If it turns out to be only the three of us, so be it.”

“Three?”

“Yes.”

“Bassante, you, and who else?”

“Her.”

Dunne looked up.
Mirror, mirror on the wall.
The lean, honey-haired woman reflected in the glass above Schwimmer’s head approached with quick, determined stride. He didn’t recognize her face but remembered her eyes: green and as purposeful as her step.

Dunne lingered in the lobby with Frieda after her brother and Bassante left. If she were the damaged, fragile creature her brother had made out, she gave no sign.

“Stefan didn’t want me to come. He thinks people who give expression to their emotions are weak. I think the opposite.”

“There’s no room for mistakes.”

“He thinks he knows what I endured. He doesn’t. Not all of it.” She stared down at the carpet.

“Your brother is trying to look out for your best interests.”

“How is it possible for anyone who wasn’t there to truly know?” She looked up. Her green pupils seemed to intensify into fiery emerald. “I was one of the girls Heinz sterilized. It was an ‘experiment.’ There were a dozen of us, Jewish teenagers. He did it without any anesthetics. Four of the girls died from infections. I was the one who labeled him
der Blaue Teufel
.”

“You survived.”

“Yes, thanks to Dr. Niskolczi, I was among the few. Did you know he took his own life?”

“I didn’t.”

“When he reached Budapest, he confirmed that his wife and daughters had perished at Auschwitz. He came to Nuremberg and gave a lengthy deposition for use against Heinz. After he learned of Heinz’s transfer to London, where he ‘died,’ Niskolczi bit down on a lethal pill. He suspected the truth, I’m sure.”

“I admired him.”

“And he admired you … and your companion, Major …”

“Van Hull.”

“Yes.”

“He survived the war, yes?”

“Yes. He died only a short while ago.”

“Stefan says you’re not alone.”

“I brought my wife.”

“Though he won’t tell you so, my brother was displeased. He thinks she’ll be an impediment.”

“Roberta, my wife?” He laughed. There was no way to share her story—their story—in a few sentences, saga of the last twenty years, how they’d met, her strength and courage, how their marriage came about, what it survived, crests, plateaus, troughs, distances imposed and incurred, all they’d come to mean to one another. Why even try? It would all come out garbled and sentimental. “If anything, she’ll be an asset.”

“You sounded so dubious about being part of this.” The
intensity in her eyes had subsided. Her face was expressionless. “Yet you’ve agreed.”

“I’m still dubious. What I’m certain of is what will happen if I
don’t
go along.”

“You’re brave.”

“I’m just too far down the road to turn back.”

She took his hand, gently squeezed. “A great philosopher once said: ‘That which does not kill me makes me stronger.’ I’m stronger all the time now. Stronger than my brother. Hearing your voice on the phone, I remembered the assurance Niskolczi gave us. Providence, he said, would see to it some measure of justice is done.”