Carnival of Shadows (37 page)

On the final page, merely a couple of lines, Travis read that the forget-me-not had been chosen by the 1938 annual Nazi party Winterhilfswerk, a charitable foundation charged with the responsibility of collecting donations so that other state funds could be released and employed for rearmaments.

That, in essence, was the sum total of the report in Travis’s hands, and though he found the material disconcerting, if not almost unbelievable, he had no further understanding of why Edgar Doyle would have mentioned Blauer’s name, nor why he wore a badge that indicated membership of a pro-Nazi foundation. Was that what he had been doing for the last two years of the war, raising money for the Nazis? What had he said about that badge? That it was his shield against all ills, the thing that made him invincible? What could he have meant?

These were questions that could be answered by Doyle alone, and so Travis folded the report, tucked it into his pocket, thanked Delaney once again for his assistance, and left the Bureau office.

32

Arriving back in Seneca Falls, Travis drove straight to the carnival site. Even as he approached the location of the previous evening’s experiences, he realized that he’d done all he could to blanch his mind of what he’d seen and heard. There was no immediate explanation for Oscar Haynes’s ability to
see
cards through the eyes of another human being, and there was most definitely no explanation for Chester Greene’s ability to know what he did about peoples’ lives and past circumstances. If it was not collusion and prior arrangement with the subjects in question, then it challenged most of what Travis understood about the human mind. Perhaps it was only natural that Travis blocked these thoughts from his immediate consciousness. But what was really certain? And where was the dividing line between what was real and what was not? In fact, was there a dividing line at all?

With these questions at the forefront of his mind, he exited the Fairlane and walked to Doyle’s caravan. It was a little after eleven, and he doubted that even Doyle would still be asleep so late in the morning.

Before he reached the vehicle, the door opened. Valeria Mironescu appeared in her robe. Her feet were bare, but she seemed not the slightest bit self-conscious.

“Agent Travis,” she said, and smiled in her most engaging way.

“Miss Valeria,” Travis replied.

“You are looking for Edgar,” she said, more a statement than a question.

“I am.”

“He is here. We are just having some coffee if you would like to join us. Do you like Turkish coffee?”

“I can’t say that I have ever had it.”

“Well, then, you must try it.” She leaned back into the caravan and called out to Doyle. “Edgar, put some clothes on. We have company.”

“You rise late,” Travis said.

“Not so late if you live a predominantly nocturnal existence,” she said. She winked. “Vampires, you see, Agent Travis. Perhaps half vampires, eh? We can take the daylight, but only from lunchtime onward.”

Doyle appeared behind Valeria. He smiled at Travis, seemingly pleased to see him.

“Agent Travis,” he said. “I have been expecting you. Please, just give me a moment to throw some clothes on, and then join us for coffee, why don’t you?”

“I will, thank you,” Travis said. “I have some questions for you, if you have time.”

“Always,” Doyle replied. “I always have time for questions, Agent Travis.”

Doyle and Valeria Mironescu disappeared into the caravan. The door was closed behind them, and Travis waited no more than five minutes before it opened again and Doyle stepped out. He was lighting his pipe as he came, and then he stopped and extended his hand.

“Good morning, Agent Travis,” he said.

Travis shook the man’s hand. “Good morning, Mr. Doyle.”

“Did you come with your square head again?”

“Of course, Mr. Doyle. Can you not tell? I am beginning to believe it’s the only one that works.”

Doyle looked at Travis with an expression of patience, as if now explaining something for the second or third time to a slightly backward child. “Do you even understand what I mean when I say your square head, Agent Travis?”

“Miss Valeria made the same comment, Mr. Doyle, and yes, I know what you mean.”

“Tell me.”

“You are implying that I can look at what is happening here with all my preconceived ideas and personal certainties intact, or I can allow myself a certain degree of flexibility.”

“Complete flexibility. Complete freedom of thought. Complete absence of fixed ideas and preconceptions. That’s what I am advising, Agent Travis. When you walk down the road, you can look at your own feet, the road beneath, or you can look at the surroundings, the sky, the trees, the scenery as it unfolds, and you can trust your feet to continue taking you in the direction you’re headed.”

“I appreciate directness, Mr. Doyle. The equivocal answers, the allusions, the inferences, the open-ended statements are all so much a waste of time—”

“Well, that’s where you and I have to perhaps agree to differ once again, Agent Travis,” Doyle said. “Come. Let’s go inside, and we shall continue this overdue conversation.”

“Overdue?”

“Oh, don’t you think it’s overdue?” Doyle said, and then he walked to the caravan without waiting for a response from Travis.

Once inside, Doyle directed Travis to sit. Valeria Mironescu brought a metal coffee pot and the smallest cups Travis had ever seen.

“It is strong and bitter, and you may need sugar,” she said. “It is perhaps an acquired taste, but you cannot acquire the taste unless you try it, right?”

She poured the coffee. Doyle added a heaped spoonful of sugar into his cup, and Travis did the same. He tasted it. It was quite dreadful, and there were coffee grounds in his mouth.

“Too quick,” Valeria said. “You need to let the grounds settle at the bottom.”

Travis set the cup aside.

“So?” Doyle asked.

“So, tell me why you consider this a game, Mr. Doyle. I don’t see it that way at all, as I am sure you know.”

“I am not trying to be evasive, Agent Travis, and I am not interested in provoking any kind of response in you aside from a willingness to step outside the lines.”

“I have no difficulty stepping outside of any line, just so long as it gives me a satisfactory explanation.”

“And if there isn’t one?”

For a moment there was silence, a sense of tension, and then Valeria sat beside Doyle. The pair of them looked at Travis as if he were an exhibit in a gallery. He felt unnerved by such a focus of attention, and he spoke quickly, if only to distract their attention, to make them stop looking at him that way.

“There is always an explanation,” he said.

“Always?” Doyle asked.

“Yes, always. Everything has an explanation, Mr. Doyle.”

“I don’t disagree with that statement. At least, not in principle. Let us say that everything
does
have an explanation, but some of the explanations require that you look at things in a very different way.”

“And again, you are being circumspect and guarded. You seem to have an infinite capacity to answer questions without ever really answering the question.”

“I shall take that as a compliment, Agent Travis.”

“It was not intended to be.”

“I was joking.”

“I was not.”

“I think you’re both idiots,” Valeria Mironescu interjected. “It’s like listening to squabbling children. I think you both need to grow up, frankly.”

Doyle laughed. He put an arm around her shoulder, pulled her close, and kissed her forehead. “See, this is what we all need, Agent Travis. A grounded and level-headed woman to tell us when we are behaving like children.”

Travis did not laugh. He did not smile. “I don’t see it as a game. You cannot even begin to comprehend how significant this investigation is, not just to the Bureau, but to me personally.”

“It is your test, is it not, Agent Travis?” Doyle asked. “They sent you on your own. That is not Bureau protocol.”

“I don’t think you’re in a position to explain Bureau protocol to me, Mr. Doyle.”

“I might just surprise you there, Agent Travis,” Doyle said. “From what I understand, it is not entirely usual for the Federal Bureau of Investigation to dispatch a man alone. That aside, I do not understand why additional officers have not already arrived to assist you. You have been here for four days, and you are none the wiser as to the identity of the dead man, let alone the identity of whoever might have been responsible for his murder. It appears to me that you have been thrown in at the deep end in anticipation of your bringing this matter to an acceptable resolution by yourself.”

“That may very well be the case, Mr. Doyle.”

Doyle leaned forward. “So let me ask you a question for once, Agent Travis.”

“Go ahead.”

“What if the murder of a man is not the real investigation here?”

“If it is not, then what is?”

“I mentioned a name to you, Agent Travis. Do you remember?”

“Harold Blauer.”

“Yes, Harold Blauer. Did you find the time to learn something of his fate?”

“I did, yes, and that is one of the reasons I am here now, to ask you about this man. Why did you mention that name to me? Does he have some connection to what is happening here?”

“Would you indulge me, Agent Travis? Would you let me tell you about the fate of another man who has some connection to this?”

“So you
are
saying that Blauer is connected to this case, even though he died six years ago?”

“I am, and it was a very unnecessary tragedy. However, he was not the only one, and that is why I want you to hear the story of a man called Frank Olson.”

“Is that the name of the man who was found here?”

“No, Agent Travis. I do not know the name of the man who died here.”

“So who is this Olson, and what does he have to do with this case?”

“Frank Olson was a doctor. In fact, he was a US Army scientist and one of their top researchers into the field of germ warfare. He was administered a drug without his knowledge. Actually, he was shut in a New York City hotel and given that drug repeatedly over a nine-day period. Olson fell into a deep depression as a result of that drug. In truth, he lost his mind, and the army feared that not only would he talk about what had been done to him, but that such revelations might compromise their continued research into germ warfare. He had a minder with him at all times, a man called Robert Lashbrook. Lashbrook worked for an organization right there in the heart of the American intelligence community. Anyway, Lashbrook didn’t do such a good job of keeping an eye on Dr. Olson, for Olson jumped, or—as many people believe—was thrown, from the thirteenth-floor window of that hotel. What little remained of him was there on the sidewalk, and the army and Lashbrook’s employers worked furiously to cover up the circumstances that led to the death of Dr. Olson. Whether or not there will ever be an investigation into that death is doubtful, but Frank Olson died, just like Harold Blauer died, and it is unlikely that anyone will ever do anything about it.”

“And these people, Olson and Blauer… you are telling me this because?”

“Because you need to know who you are working for, Agent Travis, and I think it is only fair that you have some kind of understanding of the real reason for your presence in Seneca Falls.”

“The people I work for? What are you telling me, that this Robert Lashbrook worked for the Bureau?”

“No, he didn’t, as a matter of fact. He might as well have, for there is little difference between the FBI and the organization that he did work for, but no, he was not a G-man.”

Travis frowned. “I am confused.”

“Don’t be,” Doyle said. “That is their intention in such cases, to throw as much misinformation at you as possible, and it leaves you with a sense of disorientation. Even Goebbels made such a reference, didn’t he? Something to the effect that if you told a big enough lie and kept repeating it, then eventually people would come to believe it. Even Socrates commented on the fact that if you want to make a lie work, then you need to attach a small element of truth to it. Truth, or at least the promise of truth, holds us like glue. Is it not the case that our natural human reaction is to reject those things that we don’t understand, the things that trouble us the most, just because we don’t want to believe that other human beings can be that evil and corrupt? Is it not true that if a man acted in the same way that most of the world’s governments act, then we would have him arrested, tried, convicted, and executed before he could do any further damage?”

“Are you telling me that the Federal Bureau of Investigation was in some way involved in the deaths of Harold Blauer and Frank Olson? Is that what you are saying, Mr. Doyle?”

“No, sir, I am not. I do not think that they were directly involved in
those
deaths.”

“Meaning?”

“What do you think I mean, Agent Travis?”

“I think you are implying that the FBI is in some way involved in the death of the man that was found here in Seneca Falls.”

Doyle smiled, looked at Valeria Mironescu, and winked. “Give the man a Kewpie doll.”

“This is utterly outrageous. Mr. Doyle. How can you possibly think that the Bureau had anything to do with this homicide?”

“I am permitted to think what I wish, Agent Travis. In fact, not only am I permitted to think what I wish to think, I am also permitted to say what I think without fear of reprisal, attack, censure, or penalty. Doesn’t the Constitution say as much?”

“I think there is a difference between freedom of expression, Mr. Doyle, and unfounded allegations and accusations against one of the most important and powerful law enforcement organizations in the world.”

“And there lies the rub, Agent Travis. The bigger the organization, the more easily it hides its identity. The bigger the organization, the more easily it not only obscures its intent, but also the consequences of its actions.”

Travis felt the indignation and rage rising in his chest. For Travis, the Bureau stood for integrity, honesty, the maintenance of law and order, everything without which the society could not possibly hope to survive.

“Every once in a while, we reach a watershed,” Valeria Mironescu said. She reached out and touched Travis’s hand.

He withdrew it sharply. “You people are unbelievable,” he said. “I come here as a representative of the federal government. As far as you are both concerned, I am the law. I am here to investigate and expose the truth regarding a man’s death. With a single phone call, I can have fifty agents here, a hundred if I wish, and we can turn every single one of you inside out.”

“And if we knew something, Agent Travis? If we really knew something and we didn’t tell you?”

“Then you would be charged with obstruction of justice, that at the very least. If found guilty, you would serve a jail sentence, and in some instances, I am sure that the possibility of extradition out of the United States might be considered.”

“Always the little people ground to dust in the teeth of the mighty machine,” Valeria said.

“Little people who lie and withhold the truth,” Travis replied.