The Discovery, A Novel (23 page)

That first morning in Savannah, two days ago, Ben had hidden in some bushes by the security entrance to the shipyard, far enough back to stay out of sight, keeping his binoculars focused on the front gate. So many workers had come through, hundreds of cars, and hundreds more came in by bus. Maybe thousands.

He hadn’t seen Graf or Kittel among them.

He was pretty sure, though, that he’d seen a half dozen or more FBI agents come through the gate. Black cars, black suits, white shirts, dark ties and hats. He saw these same men walking around the different buildings, stopping people, writing down things they’d said. Their presence would make it more difficult to stop Graf and Kittel. Of course, there was always the chance the FBI might catch them first, freeing him from his duty.

So far, he’d seen no evidence of that, no signs of anything out of the ordinary.

It was now close to 3:30 p.m., quitting time. After two days of this, he was beginning to wonder if Graf and Kittel were not responsible for the explosion. If they worked here, if even one of them did, why hadn’t he spotted them yet? He’d come back to this spot over the last two days on both shifts: at 7:00 a.m. and 3:30 p.m. when the shifts started, and even at midnight when the second shift clocked out.

He wondered if the FBI had scared the men off. Maybe they’d already gone to their next target, the shipyards in Brunswick a few hours south of here. If so, he’d have to start his surveillance all over again there.

A loud horn sounded in the shipyard, indicating the shift had ended. Men and women poured out of every building toward the front gate. Ben reset the binoculars. He panned past a row of three city buses and people lining up to get in. Wait, was that . . .

Among a group of men who had just stepped in line for the middle bus, a certain face. A large man had stepped in front of the man he was trying to see. “Move!” Ben muttered. “Get out of the way.” The man dropped his hard hat, bent over to get it. It gave Ben a clear view of the man behind him. It looked like Kittel.

He followed the man a few moments, trying to get a better look. The man was turned around now, talking to a co-worker behind him. Ben noticed a lunch box in one hand, a hard hat in the other. He wore blue dungarees and a plaid red shirt. A few moments later, he turned back around and faced Ben, laughing at something the co-worker behind him said.

It
was
Kittel! There was no doubt in Ben’s mind.

Ben watched a few seconds more, then shifted his focus to the bus. He needed to read the bus number in case he lost it in town. He scooted down a brief incline and ran a few feet farther south to get a better angle. There it was on the back, Bus #113. Only a handful of people stood in front of Kittel. Ben had to get to his car before the bus took off.

He’d parked on a deserted dirt road about fifty yards away. He got in and headed north, keeping the bus in sight out the right window. He had to catch it before it pulled out of the shipyard and drove downtown.

Bus #113 was still in sight, three or four cars ahead of him in traffic. It had weaved its way through downtown Savannah, and Ben had pulled over at every stop it made. Still no sign of Kittel. It had just pulled over again, after turning on Jefferson Street, not far from Tellfair Square. He followed the sidewalk up ahead toward a row of two-story apartments.

Graf!

Ben slid the car in a parking space behind a large Buick and ducked. Standing not fifty feet in front of him was Graf, Kittel’s partner, leaning on an iron railing in front of the nearest apartment building, smoking a cigarette. Ben reached up and lowered the sun visor, then lifted his eyes just enough to see over the dashboard.

An old man with a cane got off the bus. Kittel stepped down behind him. He nodded at Graf, who tossed the cigarette in the street. Kittel walked toward him, around the old man, as the bus pulled out and drove away. When he reached Graf, Kittel said something that caused Graf to smile. Graf showed him a piece of paper. Kittel looked at it, got instantly serious, then both men walked up the few steps and through the front door.

Ben’s heart was beating fast. That was it, then. He’d found them.
God give me the strength to do this
, he prayed, unsure if God would help him or even listen to such a prayer.

When the door closed behind the two men, Ben pulled out into the street, enough to read the address above the door frame. He wrote it down then drove off quickly, heading toward the little apartment he’d rented for the week off East Oglethorpe Avenue. He decided to get something to eat and wait until dark. Then he’d come back on foot. He didn’t have a plan worked out yet but knew it would be easier to get away on foot. No witnesses could identify his car. The dark, narrow streets of downtown Savannah would provide plenty of cover.

When he got within half a block of his apartment, he was startled to see a black car double-parked in front. It looked just like the cars he’d seen the FBI agents using at the shipyard. He pulled into an open space by the curb. A man in a dark suit walked out the front door. Then another, dressed the same. They talked on the sidewalk, put on their hats, then walked to the car. One got in right away, the other walked around the car, opened the driver-side door, then stopped. He looked up and down the street.

Ben instantly slid down the car seat, out of sight. He felt his heartbeat in his temples. When he heard the car drive off, going the opposite way, he sat up. The coast was clear. But his plans were anything but clear.

They had to be FBI agents. What should he do? He couldn’t head back to his apartment. Not now. What if they’d left another agent sitting in a car nearby, awaiting his return? He’d have to come back after dark, take his chances then. He couldn’t just abandon the place. Not yet. He’d left his suitcase in the trunk of his car, but his gun was upstairs in his apartment.

So was his picture of Claire.

“That’s kind of risky, Vic, don’t you think?” Nate Winters said as he and Hammond drove down Price Street toward the river. “Shouldn’t we at least stake the place out, leave someone watching the door? What if he gets spooked when he reads your note and takes off?”

Hammond looked at his partner. They’d been through a lot these past two years. He trusted Nate’s instincts second only to his own. “It’s just a hunch, Nate. But I think it’s solid. You’d feel better about this if you’d been with me on all those interviews. This guy’s not a killer. He’s not going to want to take these two guys out if there’s another way. But he’s not going to turn himself in. Doesn’t trust us, knows what’ll happen if he does. He’s here because he thinks it’s the right thing to do, the only thing he can do. We gotta show him there’s another way.”

“But Vic, you just said it, he doesn’t trust us. What makes you think he’ll call? We’re the authorities.”

“I’m banking on two things. His Abwehr training, and that he’s the kind of guy everyone says he is. He’ll know we’re on to him and that we’ve even figured out where he’s staying. He’ll wonder why we didn’t just arrest him the moment he got back to the apartment. He’ll look around outside, expecting to find us keeping him under surveillance. He’ll see we’re not, like I promised in the note, and that we’ve left the door wide open for him to run.”

“You think he’ll come running to us.”

“Exactly.” He looked at Nate, not sure if he was buying this. “Okay, it’s a risk. I could have this all wrong, and . . . we lose him.”

“So what,” Nate said, “we just go back to the hotel and wait?”

“Got no other choice. I left the hotel phone number and our room number. Figured that way he can reach us without us getting others in the Bureau involved.”

Hammond knew this whole thing could sour on him quick. But he also knew that all his promotions at the Bureau came from cases just like this, where he played his instincts. He’d still be out there beating the bushes, working the lowest rung if he’d played it by the book. He respected those guys, the ones that did, and knew they had their place. In fact, these same guys turned up this lead. Good old-fashioned police work, by the book. He should say something. “The guys did good turning up this address for us.”

“They just did what you said.” Nate referred to what most of the guys in town had been doing the last two days. Hammond had given them Coleman’s description and told them to check every place in the south end of Savannah that rented apartments by the week. Get a list of names of anyone who’d rented a place in the last two days.

“But that was a lot of leg work, running down all those names.”

“I’ll tell them you said that,” Nate said.

“Well, not yet,” Hammond said. “We gotta keep a lid on this, see how it plays out. I’ll buy ’em all a round of drinks when we wrap this up.”

“You mean, if it doesn’t blow up in our faces.”

It took Hammond a minute. “That joke’s getting old, Nate.”

Ben was thankful it was a moonless night. The roads still had streetlights, but everything was dimmed due to blackout regulations. Plenty of shadows. After grabbing a bite to eat, he walked around the neighborhood until it became completely dark, then closed in on his apartment building. He checked and double-checked but didn’t see anyone watching the place.

It didn’t make sense.

He started to wonder if he was just being paranoid, thinking those two men were FBI agents. He walked to the front door and paused before going up the steps, half expecting to be rushed by federal agents. But no one came. He breathed a sigh of relief and made his way up the stairs, unlocked his door, and clicked on the light. He could see both rooms from the front door. No one inside.

But something was out of place. What was it?

He stepped inside and locked the door behind him. Panning the room, he finally saw it. Claire’s picture. It was now on the end table, sitting under the lamp he’d just turned on. Underneath it, a note.

He began to tremble. Someone had definitely been here. He tensed and ran to the bed, reached for his gun under the pillow. It was still there. He hurried over to the door, turned off the lamp, then walked to the window and slid the curtains over an inch. He looked at the street below from every angle. No movement. No signs of anyone looking this way.

Ben was confused. He set the gun down on the bed and flicked the lamp on again. He slid the note out from under Claire’s picture, sat on a nearby upholstered chair, and opened it.

Ben,

I’m Victor Hammond with the FBI. You’re probably wondering why I haven’t arrested you. If you’ve checked, you’ve seen I’m not even having you watched. I’ve talked with Claire’s family and know the whole story. I’m willing to take a chance on you, Ben. I don’t think you’re a Nazi. But you’ve got to trust me and let me help you. You can’t take on these 2 men by yourself. I think I know a way to get the job done and keep you out of it. Call me at the Marshall House Hotel. The number’s on the back of this note. I’m in Room 312. If you don’t get me, ask for my partner Nate. Speak to no one else.

Vic Hammond

Ben grabbed the picture, the note, and a few other things he had in the apartment, put them all in a pillowcase, and turned off the light. He put his gun in the back of his waistband and walked to the back window, the one farthest from the road. Before picking this place, he’d checked to make sure he could exit safely out the upstairs window without being seen.

It was pitch black out there. He slid the window up and stepped out, tapping his foot on the ledge. Below him, a slanted roof covered a back apartment that was only one floor. He slid quietly down the roof, dropped the pillowcase in some bushes, and hung over the edge. He dropped and rolled in a small patch of gravel, barely making a sound. Still, he stood a moment to make sure.

He grabbed the pillowcase and walked through the shadows out to the nearest sidewalk. He saw no one in either direction. His car was just a few streets away, and he made it there without any trouble. As he slid in the front door, he tossed the pillowcase beside him.

Then he started breathing again.

This was crazy. What had just happened? Who was this guy Hammond? Was it some kind of trap? But that didn’t make any sense. Hammond could have arrested him the moment he got back. So why didn’t they arrest him? And if they were hoping that Ben would lead them to Graf and Kittel before arresting him, then why would Agent Hammond have written that note?

Hammond said he was willing to take a chance, said he believed what Claire’s family had said about him. Could that even be possible?

Claire.

Would she have really said things to help him, and her parents too? He was sure she despised him now for all his lies. Then a worse thought.
They have Claire. They have Claire and her parents
. Of course they did—they were the FBI. Ben had been told that the FBI functioned with pretty much the same authority as the Gestapo. Did whatever they wanted, whenever they wanted. Unlimited power. This wasn’t America, land of the free, home of the brave, but America at war. He’d been so stupid. He knew the FBI had arrested anyone who’d helped the spies they caught back in June. They had Claire and her family, probably under arrest right now.

Even if Claire had any remaining feelings for him, Mr. Richards would have told the FBI anything that might help his family at a time like this. Why should they be punished for opening their hearts and taking him in all this time? All Ben had done was tell one lie after the other.

His head slumped on the steering wheel. He’d messed this up so badly.
God
, he prayed,
please spare the Richardses. Don’t let them pay for what I’ve done
.

Thirty minutes later, Ben had checked into a hotel on the far side of town under a different name. He sat by the desk in his room holding the note from Victor Hammond, staring at the picture of him and Claire.

Hammond had seen this picture. He knew what Ben looked like. And running away hadn’t kept Claire and her family from getting dragged into all this. He’d been foolish to think it would. He thought about running again, this time for good. He could just take off and keep driving. Go out West somewhere, some no-name town, start over.

But he couldn’t do that to the Richardses, or to Claire. The FBI had to know they had nothing to do with this, with any of it. A verse he’d read in his Bible ran through his mind; it was one he’d tried to memorize, something Jesus said: “Greater love has no man than this, that he lay his life down for his friends.”

Ben had to turn himself in. He might be executed. Maybe they’d treat him like Dasch and Burger, spare his life and give him thirty years. But he had no choice now. He picked up the phone, gave the hotel operator the number to the Marshall House Hotel. When that hotel operator answered the phone, he said, “Room 312, please.”

Someone picked up. “Hello, this is FBI Special Agent Nate Winters.”

Ben didn’t answer.

“Hello? Who’s calling?”

Ben heard someone say in the background, “Is that him?”

“Uh . . . this is Ben Coleman, I’d like to—”

“It’s him, Vic. Here.”

“Hello? Ben?”

“Yeah.”

“I’m glad you called, Ben.”

Ben sighed. “Got your note. Don’t see that I had a choice anymore.”

“You could’ve taken off. I’m sure you checked, I left the door wide open.”

“I know. What I don’t know is why.”

“Well, I’m inclined to believe you’re not a Nazi saboteur.”

“I’m not, Mr. Hammond.”

“Call me Vic.”

“You’ve gotta know . . . Vic. Claire’s got nothing to do with this. Her parents either. I’ve been lying to them all along. Until—”

“I know, Ben.”

“Are they under arrest?”

“Arrest? No. Far as I know they’re sitting in their house in Daytona Beach. They’re heartbroken. But I’m sure you knew that.”

Ben felt a lump in his throat hearing that. But also relief. “I don’t understand, what’s going on here? Why . . . why haven’t you arrested me? You obviously know who I am, where I was staying.”

“
Was
staying? You’re not on Price Street anymore?”

“I moved to . . . another place across town. I didn’t feel safe there anymore.”

“Listen, Ben, that doesn’t matter. What matters is, you’re the only one who knows who these other two saboteurs are, what they look like. Maybe what they’re planning next. We still don’t even know if they’re responsible for the explosion at the shipyard yet.”

“It was them.”

“How do you know?”

“I saw one of them, Kittel, clocking out this afternoon.”

“Kittel?”

“That’s his name. The other one’s name is Graf.”

“Kittel and Graf. Hold on. Write this down, Nate. Two saboteurs, Kittel and Graf.”

“He wouldn’t be using that name,” Ben said. “We got cover names to use, and the papers to back them up. I forget what their names are, but I know what they look like . . . and where they’re staying in town.”

“You do? That’s perfect. Ben, I know you don’t trust me, why would you? But right now, I’m all you got. Nate here, he’s my partner. Nate and I, we’re the only ones who know about you at the moment.”

“What?”

“We haven’t reported this . . .
development
yet.”

“But why?”

“Because I’ve talked to a number of people back in Daytona, besides the Richardses. Even that priest over at . . . what church was it?”

“St. Paul’s? You talked with Father Flanagan?” Ben couldn’t believe it. Father Flanagan had promised Ben that everything they’d talked about would remain confidential.

“He didn’t rat you out. Father Flanagan wouldn’t say a thing to me about what you told him. But he did say I was wrong if I thought you’d ever do a thing to hurt this country.”

“I never would,” Ben said. He was choking up again.
Thank you, God, for Father Flanagan
.

“Mr. Richards said the same thing.”

Ben couldn’t believe it.

“So me and Nate here are going way out on a limb for you. We could both lose our jobs over this.”

“Or worse,” Ben heard Nate say in the background.

“But we’re thinking if you help us nab Kittel and Graf, well, that’s what we’re after here. To stop these guys before they hurt anyone else.”

It was hard to believe, but Hammond sounded sincere. “They are most definitely going to do this again,” Ben said. “Each bomb is supposed to be worse than the one before. I wouldn’t be surprised if they’re going to try again tonight. I was counting on it. Planning on stopping them myself.”

“Then let’s do that,” Hammond said. “Where are you staying? We’ll drive right over and pick you up.”