Time Loves a Hero (13 page)

Two of the others introduced themselves with cordial handshakes. Franc pretended not to know them, although he was all too familiar with them. Edward Douglas, in his late thirties, was an advertising executive from New Jersey. Although it was now a secret, history would later record that, while in Germany doing marketing research on behalf of his company's chief client, General Motors, Douglas had also been covertly gathering information for the U.S. Navy on German manufacturing capability. Yet the Gestapo had recently become aware of his espionage activities, and now he was fleeing Germany before he could be arrested as a spy. Dolan Curtis, on the other hand, was nothing more nor less than the president of a perfume-importing company in Chicago; like Pannes himself, he had been visiting Germany on business, and now was heading home to America.

The fourth man at the table, though, was an unfamiliar face: prematurely balding, with a trim mustache, his wire-rim glasses framed a pair of inquisitive eyes. As he bent across the table to pick up a briar pipe from the cut-glass ashtray, he offered his right hand to Franc. “Bill Shirer,” he said mildly. “Pleased to meet you, Mr. Pannes.”

Franc was barely able to conceal his astonishment. Too late, Shirer noticed the look of recognition on his face. “Bill Shirer?” he said as they shook hands. “Not the columnist William Shirer …?”

Douglas laughed out loud as Shirer smiled indifferently. “Bill, you're becoming famous,” he said, giving the journalist a slap on the knee. “Now even John's heard of you, and he hardly ever reads the papers.”

“I pick it up on occasion,” Franc said, recovering quickly. Yet in the years to come, William L. Shirer's reputation would outgrow his present job as a European correspondent for the Universal Press Syndicate. As an eyewitness to the events leading to World War II, he would later write several books about the Nazi regime, including its definitive history,
The Rise and Fall of the Third Reich
. Indeed, Franc had studied that same book while preparing himself for this expedition. Shirer's presence here, though, was a surprise. “I thought you were based in Berlin, Mr. Shirer.”

“Bill, please.” Shirer settled back in his chair as he lit a match and held it to the bowl of his pipe. “I still am, but I've just taken a new job. Radio correspondent for the Columbia Broadcasting System. I'm down here doing a little research for a story.”

“And here I thought you were going to take us up on our offer.” Grant gave Shirer a sly wink. “We can still get you a ticket, if you care to change your mind. The flight's not even half-booked.”

Franc was about to inquire what they were talking about, but decided to remain quiet. If it involved Hamburg American Lines, then John Pannes would have probably been privy to it. Fortunately, Dolan Curtis raised the question. “George offered you a ticket on the
Hindenburg?
” he asked, and Shirer nodded as he sucked on his pipe. “Why didn't you take him up on it?”

“
Entschuldigen sie?
” Douglas raised his hand, signaling the barkeep. “
Konnen sie mir helfen, bitte?
”

“I would have liked to,” Shirer said, as the barkeep walked over, carrying his service tray, “but I have to turn it down. My editors didn't want me to leave Berlin just now.” He shrugged. “I can see their point. A couple years ago, the
Hindenburg
was major news, but now another flight to New York … well …”

“Old hat. I suppose you're right.” Grant turned to the barkeep and pointed to the empty glasses on the table. “Another round for all of us, please.” Apparently the waiter understood English, for he nodded. Grant looked at Franc. “What will you have, John. Your usual?”

Franc had no idea what John Pannes usually drank. “Nothing for me, thank you,” he said, then he turned back to Shirer. “I'm sorry you're not coming along,” he said, which was only half a lie; although he would have enjoyed the opportunity to spend more time with this soon-to-be-legendary writer, history might have suffered a terrible loss if William Shirer had been aboard the
Hindenburg
. “So what story are you covering down here?”

Shirer pretended not to hear. Stoking his pipe, he glanced away, as if casually studying the books on the wall. No one else spoke, and for a few moments there was an uncomfortable silence at the table. The barkeep took his time gathering their glasses, then he returned to the bar and busied himself preparing their drinks. When he was gone, Shirer bent over the table. “Sorry about that,” he said quietly. “The walls have ears, you know.”

“He means that you have to be careful these days.” Douglas cast a meaningful glance at the barkeep. “You never know who's an S.D. informant. And our friend here has been keeping the bar open for us a little longer than usual.”

Franc nodded. The
Sicherheitdienst
, the internal security directorate allied with the Gestapo, had infiltrated every aspect of daily life in Nazi Germany during this time. At one point, they employed nearly a hundred thousand people to eavesdrop upon their fellow citizens and report any anti-National Socialist activities to the secret police. Nonetheless, Franc couldn't help but wonder whether Shirer's visit to Frankfurt had anything to do with his own research.

“It doesn't have anything to do with the
Hindenburg
, does it?” he asked, keeping his voice low.

Shirer raised a curious eyebrow. “No. I'm just talking to some Catholic clergymen who are disturbed about recent events.” His eyes narrowed behind his glasses. “Why, is there something about the
Hindenburg
I should know?”

Franc wondered how Shirer would react if he told him, even in private, that the S.S. had heard rumors—and even a letter from an alleged psychic in Milwaukee, sent last month to the German embassy in Washington, D.C.—that a bomb was going to be placed aboard the airship. Yet there was no way he could let the journalist know this. History had to be allowed to take its course.

“No,” he said. “Just a thought.”

Shirer nodded, yet his piercing blue eyes remained locked on Franc through the pale smoke rising from his pipe. Somehow, in those intangible, almost telepathic ways a good journalist develops over years of experience, Shirer knew that John Pannes was lying. And Franc, playing the role of John Pannes, wondered if Shirer would recall this conversation four nights later, when he would be informed that the
Hindenburg
had mysteriously exploded while landing in Lakehurst, New Jersey.

But, of course, by then John and Emma Pannes would be dead.…

There was a clink of glasses from behind them. The barkeep was returning to their table, his tray laden with schnapps, vodka, and bourbon. As he set down the drinks, Franc made a pretense of checking his watch. “Gentlemen, it's getting a little late for me,” he said. “Emma's probably wondering where I am by now.” He pushed back his chair, stood up. “If you'll excuse me.…”

“By all means.”

“Of course.”

“See you tomorrow, John.”

“A pleasure to make your acquaintance, Mr. Pannes.” William Shirer stood, offered his hand once more. “Next time you're in the country, look me up.”

“I'd be delighted to, Bill,” Franc said, as they shook hands for the last time.

Monday, January 14, 1998: 6:02
P.M.

The parking lot outside the Metro station was well-lighted, yet not bright enough to put Murphy's mind at ease. Long stretches of darkness lay between the evenly spaced lampposts, and the long ranks of snow-covered automobiles held many shadows.

He had walked about halfway down the center row, glancing over his shoulder now and then to see if he was being followed, before he realized that he couldn't recall exactly where he had parked his car this morning. Somewhere toward the back of the lot; he had driven down the length of one row, then doubled back and driven all the way up another before he had found an empty space, which he vaguely remembered as being close to the fence. In his haste to catch the next train, though, he hadn't taken note of the row number; all he had done was lock the door, shove the keys in his pocket, and dash to the platform.

Christ. For a guy with a Ph.D. in astrophysics, sometimes he could be the dumbest guy on the planet. For the first time in several hours, irritation replaced fear. The wind had picked up again, and now it blew glistening sheets of snow off the hoods of the cars parked around him. He pulled the hood of his parka up around his head as he marched through the icy fog, and wished again that he had held out for a NASA job in Alabama or Texas.

Somewhere close behind him, he heard ice being crunched underfoot.

Murphy stopped, then quickly looked around. Only a dozen yards away, someone was walking down the row behind him: a tall figure wearing a parka and a baseball cap, his right hand thrust in his coat pocket.

In that instant, Murphy was sure that it was the homeless man he had seen on the train. He glanced about, but there was no one else in sight. In the far distance, beyond the tops of dozens of cars, he could make out the squat box of the tollbooth. It was at least a hundred feet away, on the other side of a maze of automobiles, but there would be someone in there. A bored lot attendant, no doubt leafing through
People
magazine and listening to hip-hop on a ghetto-blaster as he warmed his feet next to a space heater. But he would have a phone, and …

Then the figure stopped in front of a Nissan Pathfinder, and his hand came out of his pocket. There was a shrill
bwoop! bwoop!
and the Pathfinder's headlights flashed. The man walked to his utility vehicle and began dusting a patina of snow off the windshield.

Murphy relaxed. “Idiot,” he muttered as he turned around again. “You're getting wound up over nothing.”

He reached the end of the row. Okay, he was at the back of the lot, and there was the fence. His wheels had to be somewhere nearby. Turning his face into the wind, he raised his hand against his face to shield his eyes against the blown snow as he trudged down the cross lane. Goddammit, did everyone in Arlington drive a Ford Escort? His old Volvo had once had a Grateful Dead sticker on the rear bumper—it made his car a little easier to identify, or at least until all the yuppies started sporting skull-and-lightning-bolt decals on their BMWs—but now he had something a little more distinctive. If he looked hard enough …

And there it was: a five-year-old forest green Escort, blanketed with snow but the white-and-blue sticker on its rear bumper clearly visible in the light cast by the nearby lamppost:
I Want To Go—National Space Society 202/593-1900
. Perhaps half of the cars in the NASA garage had this same sticker, but here in Huntington park 'n' ride lot it stood out like a beacon. Murphy grinned, and decided this alone was good reason to renew his NSS membership.

Setting his briefcase down on the hood, he fumbled in his coat pockets until he found his key ring. He unlocked the driver's side door, pulled it open, then leaned inside and found the long-handled ice scraper he kept beneath the passenger seat. Closing the door once again, he used its brush to clear off the windshield and side windows, then he began chipping at the thin layer of ice frozen to the glass. Yes, it was definitely time to consider moving to Houston. Next year, the shuttles would start sending up the first American modules of the new space station. Maybe he could get transferred to Johnson. They might need a new …

A man-shaped shadow fell across the Escort's hood. Someone else searching for their car? Lost in dreams of Texas, he didn't look up until he detected a vague motion just behind him.

“Dr. Murphy?”

The voice was old, harsh with age, yet oddly familiar.

Still bent over the car hood, Murphy half turned to see the old man from the train standing next to the Ford's rear bumper.

His face was shaded by the baseball cap and shrouded by dense gray beard, yet nonetheless it seemed as if Murphy had seen it before. And there was something in his right hand, something that he held like a pistol, but not quite like a gun.

Murphy slowly raised himself from the hood. He lifted the ice scraper, defensively held it in front of him. The old man shifted uneasily; the weapon came up a little more, and now Murphy could see that its barrel formed a blunt, holeless shape. Absurdly, it resembled a Lazer Tag gun, like the ones he had seen at Toys “R” Us.

“Yeah,” he said. “Who are you?”

The old man hesitated. Although Murphy couldn't clearly see his eyes beneath the bill of his ball cap, they seemed to shift from left to right, as if making sure that they were alone. Murphy was all too aware that they were.

“What do you want?” he demanded. “Why are you following me?”

“I'm sorry,” the stranger murmured. “I'm so sorry.”

He lifted the weapon, pointed it straight at Murphy.

“What …?”

The last thing Murphy felt was a white-hot charge of electricity surging through his body. He didn't have a chance to scream before his body was flung backward into the space between the parked cars.

The old man regarded Murphy for a moment, his steamy breath rising from within his coarse beard. Then he thrust the weapon back into his pocket and, with a final look around, knelt over Murphy and picked up his ankles.

Dragging him through the snow, the stranger dropped him next to the driver's door; he opened it, then hoisted Murphy by the shoulders and shoved him into the car. After setting him upright in the passenger seat, the old man searched Murphy's pockets until he located his key ring and wallet. He retrieved Murphy's briefcase from the hood of his car; after throwing it into the rear seat, he climbed into the Ford, settling behind the wheel before he shut the door behind him.

It took only a few seconds for him to locate the lot ticket; it was tucked into the pocket of the sun visor. He pulled a twenty-dollar bill from Murphy's wallet and clenched it between his teeth, then he inserted the Ford key into the ignition. The cold engine clunked a little as it turned over, but start it did.