The Discovery, A Novel (22 page)

“Nate, you somewhere you can write this down?”

“I am, but let me get my pen and pad out. I’m gonna set the phone down a sec.”

Hammond had checked into a fairly nice hotel a few blocks north of downtown Jacksonville. No reason to stay in the Daytona Beach area any longer. He had his man. Ben Coleman—or the man going by that name—was most certainly the second half of the dead German’s two-man spy team. Hammond was talking with his partner, Nate Winters, who was already in Savannah.

“Okay, Vic, fire away. What’d you find out down there?”

“How about the ID of our spy suspect? Who he is, what he looks like—”

“Really. So how’s that work? You send the rest of us all over creation beating the bushes for leads, and you wrap the whole thing up by yourself a few miles away from where we started?”

“Oh, we’re far from wrapping this up. Actually, the guy’s heading your way.”

“He is? So who is he?”

“Goes by the name Ben Coleman, mid-twenties, light brown hair, about six feet tall.”

“Not his real name.”

“Hardly,” Hammond said. Claire had told him Ben’s real name. Once he’d convinced the Richardses he believed them, she’d told him everything she knew. Turns out, wasn’t all that much. “Like we thought, looks like there’s another two-man team of saboteurs involved, probably still up there in Savannah. I’m just a few hours south of you, and I plan to hit the road at sunrise. Find out anything on the explosion?”

“Still checking things out, but it looks fishy. We’re telling the press it was just an accident. Hoover’s orders.”

“Let me guess,” Hammond said. “It’s an accident, no matter what we find out.”

“You got it. Plenty of flammable things in this shipyard to blame. But the folks closest to the scene feel like it’s sabotage. They got all kinds of safety measures in place, several layers thick. All of them were being followed, but the explosion still happened. Witnesses here are saying there’s no chance this was an accident.”

“When we prove them right, I’m sure you’ll come up with something to get them to cooperate.”

“Yeah, well . . . So, Vic, how’d you find this guy?”

“I’ll tell you more tomorrow morning. But already I can tell, this isn’t looking anything like the case last summer. You somewhere you can talk . . . off the record?”

A brief pause. “Sure, Vic. Just you and me talking on pay phones. Whatta ya got?”

“Remember how that last bunch of spies spent their time once they came onshore? Except for Dasch and Burger, they all started meeting up with old German friends and Nazi sympathizers.”

“I recall something like that.”

“This fellow Coleman hasn’t done that, hasn’t even tried. And he’s been here six months. In fact, everybody I talked to gives him high marks. Patriotic, upstanding citizen. All that. No one knew he was even German.”

“No accent?”

“None. The kid was born here, somewhere in Pennsylvania. Sounds like his partner drowned in the surf. He went to the nearest town, got a job, made some friends, fell in love. Even the girl he wanted to marry had no idea who he was until today.”

“I’m guessing that was painful. But Vic, c’mon. He’s still a Kraut.”

“That’s the thing, Nate. I’m not so sure. She says he told her—just today—he knew who the other two saboteurs were and left to go after them.”

“You mean to join them?”

“To try and stop them. She’s all broken up, thinks he’s going to get himself killed.”

“You believe her? You know these guys will say anything, especially to women.”

“I know, Nate, but didn’t you tell me about your buddy in the Washington office saying something about how Dasch got railroaded by Hoover?”

“Man, I hate talking about this over the phone, Vic.”

“C’mon, Nate. You said you were at a pay phone.”

“Still.”

“No way Hoover has these lines bugged.”

A long pause. “I guess you’re right. Okay, yeah, that’s what my buddy said. Apparently this other German, Dasch, the leader of the first group—”

“Dasch didn’t get the chair, right?”

“No, he got thirty years hard labor. But my friend said the whole case opened up because of him. And only because of him. He turned everyone else in, gave us every major lead we got in the case. All the time he’s talking, the Boss is playing him like a fiddle. Told him he was a hero, said he’s going to let him off when it’s all over. Even let him think we’d let him help us fight the Nazis. Then Hoover sticks him in solitary where he can’t talk, plays this whole thing in the papers like we busted the spy ring all by ourselves.”

Actually, Hammond recalled Hoover had made it sound like he’d wrapped up the whole case by himself. It was the part of being a G-man Hammond had come to hate. The manipulation and cover-ups going on behind the scenes, starting with Hoover. Hammond knew exactly how Hoover would treat someone like Ben. “Nate, between you and me, I think this guy might be the real deal. My gut’s telling me Coleman is heading your way, and it really is to stop these other two Germans who came ashore that night.”

“What do you want me to do? You know, Vic, we slip up here, our necks are hanging way out there.”

“I don’t know, Nate. Haven’t got this figured out. But you’re somebody I thought could give me a hand. Somebody I could trust if we need to toss the book out the window.”

“You know I love adventure.”

“I know. It’s just . . .” Hammond sighed. “We gotta be real careful with this or it could blow up in our faces.”

“You just make a joke, Vic?”

Hammond smiled. It was good having Nate around. “Not on purpose. I don’t have much else to tell you. Coleman didn’t want to get his girl or her family any more involved than they already were. So, he didn’t tell her much.”

“Well, we know a whole lot more than we knew this morning. You did good, Vic.”

“Thanks. But this thing . . . It could go wrong a thousand different ways.”

“I got your back, Vic. Like you always got mine. Before you hang up, you want to reel the rest of the team in, since we know where the bad guys are at?”

“See, that’s the thing. We do that, we might scare these two Nazis off. They see that many G-men all over the shipyard, they’ll just go somewhere else, and we’re back to square one.”

“Hoping to set a trap?”

“Something like that. Don’t have it worked out yet. I’m thinking it’s all going to depend on this guy Coleman. We’ve got to find him. Tell you what, go ahead and call five or six guys in, but that’s all for now. Keep everything how it’s been. We’ll keep this new information between you and me, till we see how things play out. I’d like you freed up to be with me once I get on-site.”

“You said about mid-morning?”

“That’s the plan.” He took a deep breath. “Let’s see if we can do some good here.”

“And keep ourselves from getting blown up.”

Hammond thought a moment. “That was a pun, wasn’t it?”

“You’re hopeless, Vic. See you tomorrow.”

Hours had gone by. At least it felt like hours.

When Helen Richards had turned out the light, their bedroom became completely dark, as it had every night since she’d first shared a bed with Hugh. She needed it to be totally dark to fall asleep. Funny how much of the room she could see now that her eyes had adjusted to the dark. She traced the complete outline of the ceiling, then focused on the flowery light fixture above their bed. She couldn’t see the floral pattern, of course. But she could see the distinct shape clearly.

She lifted her head slightly. There was Hugh’s dresser on the left, his side of the room. She could almost make out the big glass ashtray where he kept his wallet and keys. On the right, she saw her chest of drawers beside the closet. She could even trace the outline of the mirror.

“Can’t sleep, hon?” Hugh said, his voice just above a whisper.

“Did I wake you?” she said.

“No. I haven’t slept a wink.”

“Me neither.” She rolled on her side facing him. “I shouldn’t be surprised. This still doesn’t feel real to me.”

“That’s not my problem,” he said, still on his back looking up. “Feels very real to me.”

“Are you still worried . . . I mean, as much as before?” They had prayed a good while before turning out the lights, more than the normal polite nighttime prayers.

“No—I feel that same peace that came over me when we stopped praying,” he said.

Helen had felt it too; it made her think of that passage in Philippians that spoke of a “peace that surpasses understanding.” It was the only thing that could explain the calm they had both felt, considering their whole lives had just been turned upside down. “What are you thinking about?” She heard him breathe in and out slowly.

“Something I don’t want to be thinking about, but it won’t leave me alone. I feel as though I’ve been wrestling for the past hour or so, but I’m not sure if it’s with God or the devil.”

She didn’t like the sound of that.

“The thing that bothers me the most,” he said, “is that I’m pretty sure it’s God.”

Helen sat up. “May I turn on the light?”

“Might as well.” He sat up too.

When Hugh’s face came into focus, Helen saw tears in his eyes. “What’s the matter, Hugh?” she said softly. She reached her hand up and stroked his face. She knew a hundred different things were the matter but not which one was affecting him this way.

“I keep hearing God telling me to let go, but I don’t want to let go, not now, not this way.” The tears rolled down his face.

She reached over and hugged him and felt the weight of his head fully on her shoulder. He let go and just cried. She wasn’t sure just what he was grieving for. Not wanting to rush him, she let him rest there until it seemed he was through.

He lifted his head and looked at her.

“What do you think God wants you to let go of, Hugh?”

“It’s Claire.” The tears began to flow again, but this time he fought through them. “I think I’m supposed to let go of Claire—
we’re
supposed to let go of her.”

“What do you mean?” She didn’t like the sound of this.

“These last few months, since she and Ben got together, I’ve been so happy. For her, I mean. As her dad. My concern for years now—what I’ve prayed for more times than I can count—is that she’d find the right man. Someone who’d make her truly happy, who’d take care of her the rest of her life, treat her the way I have all these years.”

“The way you’ve treated me,” Helen said. He didn’t seem to hear.

“I really thought that man was Ben. From that first night, and every moment I’ve spent with him since. It wasn’t just how happy Claire’s been. I felt like he was the man I’d been praying for all those years. Because of who he is, what he’s like.”

Helen knew exactly what he meant. “I did too, but now I’m not sure.” She didn’t know why, but she felt herself tensing up. “So, what are you saying?”

“I’m saying, I still feel the same way, that Ben is right for Claire. He’s the man I’ve been waiting for her to meet.”

“Even with all this?” She reached for his hand.

He nodded. “I don’t want to think it. I’ve been trying to block all this out, shut it down. Claire needs to face it: it’s over. We need to face it. What we feel doesn’t matter. Ben’s a German spy, a fugitive. That’s what matters. We’ve got to stay a thousand miles away from him. I need to use my fatherly influence, every ounce I have left, to help her—to make her see if necessary—she has to let him go.”

He said it so forcefully, Helen was a little confused. “But you don’t think so now?”

“No. I feel like God is telling me to let go . . . of Claire. That Ben is not a mistake. That he’s the man I’ve been hoping for, the one who will truly make her happy.”

“But you know what that means,” she said.

She looked into his eyes. He did.

The tears began falling down his cheeks again.

Ben didn’t sleep well last night. No surprise there. He’d gotten up for good around 4:30 a.m., decided he might as well get an early start on closing the gap to Savannah. He’d made better time than he thought and came to the edge of town about twenty minutes ago. He was driving down Bay Street now, riding along the river as the sun began to rise.

Nice town. He remembered something about it from high school history, how it played some kind of role in the Civil War. Couldn’t recall any details now. Didn’t want to, either. He was not here to sightsee. But it was hard not to notice the charming old storefronts and hotels, the little park squares and huge mossy oaks. Claire would love this place.

No.

He sighed. No more thoughts of Claire. It made him weak.

He knew the shipyard was just east of town, between the river and President Street. They had studied it in Germany, along with a number of other coastal locations building these Liberty ships. He tried to recover some of the details of the mission. He had put them out of his mind once he and Jurgen had been assigned other targets. But he needed to remember them now if he had any hope of catching Graf and Kittel.

If they were responsible for yesterday’s explosion, it meant that one of them had succeeded in getting hired at the Southeastern Shipbuilding Corporation. Once he was employed, his real job would be to learn everything he could about the operation, especially their security measures. So that months later, working as a team, they could come in at night and begin to set off a succession of explosions initially made to look like accidents. But as more and more explosions occurred, each more severe than the one before, they’d create a panic among the employees.

Ben remembered his Abwehr commander smiling as he talked about the fat, lazy Americans imagining themselves as so patriotic, doing their part for the war effort building these ships. The average American knew nothing, he’d said, of the realities of war, of real battles where people fight and die. “Let’s see how quickly they turn and run,” he’d said, “when their co-workers start dying or losing limbs in these explosions.” Everyone else in the room laughed out loud. “We will shut these shipyards down,” he said, “one by one.”

Ben had found a way to shut his emotions down, long before then. So lunatic remarks such as these didn’t eat him up inside. He’d become something of an actor, always living in character. That was how he’d endured not just the physical but the psychological effects of his training. Outwardly, he appeared the fine young Nazi, zealous for the Fuhrer and the Fatherland. No one ever suspected how he’d truly felt. He’d never yielded a single clue.

As he turned off Bay toward President Street, he realized he’d only begun to feel normal these past six months. Since he’d met Claire. He’d still had to play the actor, but at least he got to tell the truth about some things, about the man he was inside. The man she’d come to love.

He banged the steering wheel. “What are you doing?” He was torturing himself.

Up ahead the lights from the shipyard glowed above the rooftops at the edge of town. He lifted his watch toward the windshield, trying to catch the time. Good. He’d made it. It wasn’t much of a plan, but he decided to start near the gate. He knew thousands of workers would be clocking in around 7:00 a.m. He’d already grabbed his binoculars, one of the few spy tools he hadn’t buried in the sand dunes that night.

He planned to find a secluded spot where he could watch the workers as they filed in through the gate, hoping to catch a glimpse of either Graf or Kittel.

Hoping he hadn’t come all this way, and given up so much, for nothing.

Claire sat out on the wraparound porch in the same rocker she had sat in so many evenings these past few months. These past few wonderful months. She looked to her left at the empty rocker. Ben’s rocker.

She didn’t feel wonderful now.

It was probably mid-morning, although Claire had no idea what time it was. Her father had gone off to work. She’d never seen him so distraught. At breakfast he went through all the motions and routines he did every morning, but it was like he wasn’t there. He drank his coffee, ate his toast, and stared at the newspaper. He never turned a single page. He looked at her once then quickly turned away. When it was time to leave, he’d gotten up without saying a word and kissed her and her mother on the cheek. His face smiled, but his eyes did not. He said he’d be home around 6:00 p.m., as usual.

A blue heron swooped down from somewhere between the trees and stood in her front yard. It didn’t move for several moments, except its head, slowly back and forth, as if on guard. She loved looking at them. Normally they stood near water, in the reeds around ponds or by the river’s edge. Why had it come here just now? Beautiful birds, she thought, but so lonely. Even when in the company of other herons, they seemed to stand by themselves.

The screen door creaked open, then slapped shut. “Claire, you okay? I brought you a cup of coffee.”

How did her mother do it? She always found some small reserve of strength to stay positive, no matter what the challenge. Claire looked up. “Thanks.” Coffee wasn’t nearly as satisfying these days, since the best beans were no longer available because of the war. But she welcomed it, more for the love behind it.

Her mother sat in the rocker where Ben always sat. “Your father and I talked a little before he left. We both had a rough night. We talked a lot last night—I suppose you didn’t get any sleep either.”

“No, actually, I did,” Claire said. “Exhaustion, I guess. But it didn’t do me any good. I woke up just as tired.”

“We’re all pretty weary,” her mother said. “Guess that’s to be expected.”

“So what did Dad say?”

“Well, one of the last things he said was he felt that FBI agent . . .” It seemed she’d forgotten his name.

“Hammond,” Claire said.

“Right, well, he felt Agent Hammond sounded pretty sincere there at the end yesterday. I thought so too.”

Claire wondered if Hammond had just been manipulating them to get more information.

“But I can tell your father’s worried sick. It’s just all so big and so sudden.”

Claire sipped her coffee. She hadn’t even thought about what all this was doing to them. “I’m sorry, Mother. For getting you both mixed up in this.”

“It’s not your fault, Claire. You had no way of knowing Ben’s past. Who would have ever guessed such a thing? And we came to love Ben too, both of us. I liked him from the start. Your dad was excited when he asked about marrying you. You should have heard him go on about Ben that night. It’s one of the big things parents hope for . . . or dread, the person their child picks to marry.”

The implication seemed pretty clear: Ben was the wrong person, as wrong as a person could be. “I still love him, Mother.” Tears welled up in her eyes.

Her mother reached over, put her hand on top of Claire’s. “I know you do, sweetheart.”

Claire braced for the gentle lecture she knew was coming. How she had to be sensible, to let him go. There was no way she and Ben could be together now.

“The thing is,” her mother said, “we still love Ben too.”

Claire looked up. A tear slid down her mother’s cheek. “We don’t want to lose him. But we don’t have a choice.”

Okay, here it comes, Claire thought.

“Your dad followed the trial of those other German spies, the ones who got caught last June. He knows we didn’t get the whole story, you never do in wartime. But one thing was very clear . . . Americans were outraged. He said everyone wanted the spies dead. He’d heard rumors that the two they didn’t execute were kind of like Ben. They weren’t Nazis and cooperated with the investigation. That’s why they didn’t get the death sentence. But they both got very long prison terms. They’re in prison now.”

Claire didn’t know what her mother was trying to say, but what she was saying wasn’t helping.

“Your father thinks Agent Hammond believes us, and you, that we really didn’t know anything about Ben until yesterday. But it might not matter. He said if he decides to drag us into this, we still . . . we still could go to jail. He thinks we’d be exonerated if that happened, at a trial. My goodness, I can’t believe I’m saying this.”

Claire sighed.

“You know, all the people who know us, and know Ben, they’d all say nothing bad was going on, that we weren’t doing anything against our country. The thing is—and this is what made us both so sad—whether we get arrested or not, we don’t see any way we can still be around Ben . . . ever again.” She pulled a hanky from her apron pocket and wiped her eyes. “If he gets caught, even if he escapes. We don’t see how we can ever see him again.” She was crying now. “And that breaks my heart.”

“Oh, Mom,” Claire said. She buried her face in her hands and cried. She felt her mother’s hand resting on her shoulder.

“But Claire . . . we don’t feel it’s right to ask that of you.”

Claire wondered if she’d heard correctly. She tried to get hold of her emotions. “What?”

“Look at me, sweetheart.”

She did.

Her mother wiped the tears from her eyes. “We love Ben. We don’t feel he’s done anything wrong, not before God, anyway. We don’t think he should have to pay for crimes he didn’t commit. And we know how much you love each other. Your father broke down last night when he said this, but he can tell Ben loves you the same way he loves me. A once-in-a-lifetime kind of love, he said. It was so sweet. We can’t take that away from them, he said. Meaning you and Ben. We talked about it, prayed about it, and we don’t think God wants us to.”

“What are you saying?”

“Your dad remembered a verse in the Bible, in 1 Corinthians 13. Real love, it says, doesn’t think about itself. That’s how we love you, Claire. We don’t want to lose you, or Ben. And we don’t know why all this has happened. But we’ve decided we have to let you go.”

“I don’t understand.” Claire was trembling.

“If Ben comes back, if he . . . if he doesn’t get caught by the FBI . . .” Her mother started crying again. “You can go with him, if that’s what you want. It has to be your decision. We’ll miss you . . . both of you, so much. But we’ll make it. If God’s in this, and we think he is, he’ll give us the strength neither one of us have right now.”

Claire burst into tears and held her mother close. They just sat there and cried for several minutes.

When Claire looked up, she noticed the blue heron was gone.