Stealing Trinity (13 page)

Edward said, "I'm taking Mystic out this afternoon. Care to come along?"

Braun would have preferred pistols at dawn. He'd already been out on the boat twice. It was a tedious affair as Edward blathered about his work and nautical exploits in inverse share to the demands of the boat -- the greater the wind, the less he talked.

"Hows the weather?" Alex inquired.

"Should be a strong breeze today. A storms working its way up from the Carolinas."

"Might be fun." Braun weighed the thin positives of wasting another day at sea with Edward. But then his thoughts ricocheted down a very different path. He found himself saying, "Perhaps Lydia would come along."

"Lydia7. Good heavens, she hates heavy seas. It's all I can do to get her out on the bay."

"Well, we'd be good sports to ask." "Ask if you like, but I know what the answer will be." Braun got up to leave, taking a cup of coffee with him. "What time?"

"Oh, let's say three." "Right."

Chapter 17.

With Edward at the office and her father tied up with business, Lydia decided it would be an ideal day to invite Alex to lunch at the Newport Country Club. And while she desperately wished she could spend the time alone with him, there was no choice -- she had to bring mother. Lydia was an awful liar. If it were just she and Alex, the old hens roosting at their regular tables would see it in her eyes, and their tongues would wag mercilessly.

She found Alex in the library, standing in front of a large wall map of the United States, one finger planted on a spot to the lower left.

"Hello," she said.

Alex turned sharply, but then his eyes softened. His gaze drifted over her body in that open appraisal she so enjoyed. "You look fetching," he said.

Lydia brushed by him as if not hearing the comment, and hoping he'd get a whiff of her new perfume. She went to the map, which displayed two dozen red and green dots, all in the northeastern states. "Father keeps track of his holdings, all the factories and projects."

Alex looked at the display. "These circles?"

"Yes. I can't tell you exactly what they represent, but Father likes visual things. I suppose in another ten years the whole map will be covered with his dots" She went next to him, closer than was necessary. "What were you doing?"

"Oh, just checking the route Til be taking when I head out West."

Lydia s mood sank. Another reminder -- soon he'd be gone.

"But let's not talk about that." His hand fell and brazenly cupped her bottom.

Lydia heard footsteps outside the library door. She pulled away, and moments later a uniformed maid appeared at the entrance.

"Sir, your whites are ready now. Mr. Cole is waiting on the tennis court."

"Thank you," he replied.

The woman disappeared. Lydia leaned back against the sofa and heaved a sigh. "Oh, Alex--"

"I know, darling. I know." He started toward the door. "Your father doesn't like to be kept waiting."

She'd nearly forgotten why she'd come. "Alex, wait."

He paused.

"Can you come to the club for lunch?" Lydia felt the need to add, "We'll bring Mother along."

His smile was an answer. "Of course. Oh, and what about you -- are you doing anything this afternoon?"

"No, why?"

He hesitated. "Well ... just keep it free. I may come up with something."

Lydia watched him leave. She crossed her arms tightly. It was all so insufferable. She knew the status quo was doomed to ruin. In particular, if her father ever found out all hell would break loose. Edward had not yet become suspicious -- the two of them kept separate rooms at Harrold House, and she'd been feigning headaches in the evenings to ensure her privacy -- but sooner or later she'd slip up. On one hand, she hoped Alex would never leave. On the other, Lydia wished she could abandon the affair. She felt wretched about having been unfaithful to Edward. He'd done nothing to deserve it. If only Alex would do it for her, she thought. Perhaps one morning she'd wake to find a sincere, agony-swept good-bye-my-love note slipped under her door.

Lydia looked again at the map on the wall. In one corner was Newport, her home, surrounded by dots. The rest was a tremendous open expanse -- and it would soon swallow the man who had turned her heart inside out. A thin sheet of glass covered the map, and her attention was drawn to where she'd seen him pointing. There was a smudge where his finger had been. Lydia read the name of the town underneath and, while she was not a worldly traveler, it made instant sense.

Of course, she thought. He's traveling by train.

Thatcher kept his word. He dismissed Scholl without relaying the confession about Braun's fate. He knew from vast experience that war crimes of the type were viciously hard to prove. Scholl could easily excuse his actions by saying that he felt his ship was exposed or threatened. The crew would back him up. In any event, the war was at an end, and prosecutors would be inundated with cases that were both far more deserving, and far easier to establish in a court of law.

The morning spent, his next step was obvious. Thatcher would drive to Long Island and search for anything about a German spy who might have come ashore three weeks ago. A look at the map told him it would be a considerable drive, stretching well into the evening, and so he stopped at the first roadside restaurant he came across. It would be his first true meal since leaving England. Thatcher needed it -- he felt listless, weak, and his head throbbed from the congestion. After parking, he again studied the map and decided he would also order a sandwich to take away, thus avoiding another stop later.

He went into the diner and was immediately told by a middle-aged woman in a tired dress and splattered blue apron to, "Sit anywhere." Thatcher was halfway down the row of worn booths along the front window when he sneezed.

"Gesundheit!"

The voice came from the booth he had just passed -- and it was vaguely familiar. He turned to see Jones, the irritating American he'd met in Ainsley's office. Jones pointed across the booth to an empty seat and a suspicious Thatcher eased himself down.

"Welcome to America," Jones said. A thin smirk edged across his lips as he reveled in his little ambush. The man had the subtlety of a rock crusher.

"So you've taken to following me."

"Let's say I found you, Major. And you're awfully far from the office. On vacation?"

Thatcher would not play games. "You know damned well why I'm here."

"Pursuing the case you were ordered to drop?"

He eyed the American defiantly. "Precisely."

"Really? So you think your ghost is here somewhere, sabotaging our factories, stealing information for -- no, wait. Who would he be working for now?" Jones chuckled as a waitress skidded to a stop at their table.

"What'll it be, boys?"

Jones ordered coffee. Thatcher forced his attention to the menu and saw that breakfast could always be had. "Eggs, sausage, toast, and tea, please. And a ham sandwich to take away." The waitress scribbled on a pad before scurrying off.

Jones lit up a cigarette. "Fueling up for a long day?"

"How long have you been watching me?"

"How about I'll ask the questions -- what were you doing at that POW camp?"

Thatcher bristled, but strove for patience. Jones had some measure of authority, and antagonizing him would not help matters. He pulled the sharpness from his voice. "I discovered that our German agent, Braun, might have been sent to America on a U-boat. In particular, one that surrendered here in the states recently. I went to Fort Devens to talk to the captain of that ship."

"And?"

"I was right. They dropped Braun off along the coast of Long Island three weeks ago."

Jones' humor faded. His high, freckled forehead gained new creases. "He actually got here?"

"He got to within three miles of your coastline." Thatcher added deftly, "From there we can only guess." The American fell quiet and Thatcher pressed his advantage. "Worried about your Manhattan Project?"

Jones cut a swift glance over his shoulder before locking eyes with Thatcher. His voice was low and harsh, "Do not mention that name again!"

"All right. Under one condition -- you tell me what it is."

"Tell you what it is?' Jones stuttered incredulously. "Just like that?"

"Mr. Jones, or whatever your name is, our interests are mutual. We don't want this man anywhere near your precious secrets. But to find him I must know what he's after."

The waitress arrived with cups of tea and coffee. When she left, Jones raised his mug in a mock toast. "God save the King. Now listen, Thatcher--"

"FBI."

"What?"

"You're FBI," Thatcher repeated. "All that nonsense about the War Department."

The American rubbed his temples. Thatcher hoped he was giving the man a headache.

Jones aimed a finger at him. "I can have you sent back to England under armed guard within the hour."

"And I'll be back on the next B-24."

The two locked glares.

Thatcher continued, "In England you didn't even talk to Corporal Klein. It was me you were after. This project is something big, and the mere mention of the code name threw up a red flag. You only wanted everything swept clean and shuttered."

"Can you guess why?"

Thatcher considered it. "Because the whole thing is nearing fruition. It won't be a secret much longer."

Jones sat back and took a long draw from his cup. "You're a smart man, Major. As we say here in America, maybe too smart for your own good."

"I can help you find Braun," Thatcher implored. "He could still be a threat, couldn't he?"

Jones set down his cup and looked across the room again. When he spoke, it was in a voice only Thatcher could hear. "This is the biggest secret of the war. And it's also the biggest single industrial program ever undertaken. Billions of dollars."

It was Thatcher's turn to fall nonplussed. "Surely you didn't say--"

"Yes, billions. Without the approval of Congress, I might add."

"What does it involve?"

"That I'm not telling you. I like my job. Let's just say it's a weapon, and it's taking an incredible amount of resources to build. My job is to make sure nothing gets in the way. And there are a hundred guys like me out there, not to mention the Army."

Thatcher filed away this information. "It's almost complete?"

"Almost."

"Will it be used against Japan?"

"How would I know? The point is, this project is expansive, and so far along that one lone saboteur could never make a difference. He'd have to destroy huge facilities all over the country. With the security that's already in place -- it would be absolutely impossible."

Thatcher chose not to argue the point. "But then why?"

"Why what?"

"Why this whole mission? The Nazi's knew the war was over. What would be the point of sending Braun here? It's not the kind of thing they could steal?"

"No way," Jones said. "But they say it's something that will change the way wars are fought."

Thatcher chewed on that -- change the way wars are fought. How many times in the history of armed conflict had that happened? The bow. Gunpowder. Mustard gas. In this war it had been the airplane. The goddamned airplane. And now some new terror to trump them all. He wondered what it could be. Did Jones even know?

The waitress rushed up with Thatchers food, a heavy plate clanking onto the table. When she left, he said, "What about Die Wespe? Klein said there was an agent."

Jones shook his head definitively. "Nobody could threaten a program of this scale." He slurped crudely from his cup. "You really think this Braun guy is here?"

"I'm sure he was dropped off. But... I do have doubts as to whether he made it ashore."

"Why?"

"Leaky raft, nasty weather. The captain of this U-boat seemed skeptical, but no one can really say." Thatcher began cutting his sausage into neat, half-inch cylinders. "You just need to get out to the end of Long Island and start looking."

"I need to start looking?"

"Yes. You represent a large law enforcement agency -- you could find out a great deal, probably with no more than a few phone calls. And while you work on Long Island, I'll take a different tack."

Jones' amusement was evident. "I'll bite. What's that?"

"If he made it here, Braun might be difficult to track down, especially since he's gotten a big head start. I want to find out more about him."

"How?"

Thatcher's answer made the FBI man laugh. "So you want me to do your leg work while you prance off to an Ivy League school to look at yearbooks? I'll give you this, Thatcher, you got big brass ones." He shook his head and crunched his cigarette into an ashtray. "Give me one good reason why I shouldn't have you sent back to England right now."

Thatcher took a knife and meticulously trimmed the edges from his toast. "I'll give you two. First, because I'm right. And second, because, if he's here, I'll find him."

Thatcher was back in his car thirty minute later. His map held a new fold, now showing the road east to Boston. Jones had succumbed, agreeing to search for any evidence of the last German spy coming ashore on Long Island. He had also given a telephone number where he could be reached. It would be an uneasy partnership, he and the crass American -- the man was like a barnacle, a scraping irritant. But Thatcher was on foreign ground. He needed help, and he hoped that Jones, for all his arrogance, was at least proficient at his job.

As Thatcher drove, the rolling countryside and small towns he passed through would have been an easy comparison to home. He never noticed. Instead, he stared blankly at the road ahead, his head aching. A doctor, if he had one, would have prescribed rest. Madeline would have prescribed hot soup. He should have ordered the soup.

Never one for self-pity, his thoughts moved on. Miles passed quickly as bits and pieces of information turned in his mind. The Manhattan Project. Three high-ranking Nazi intelligence men plotting a mission in the Reich's dying days. But what was it all about?

The only way to know for sure was to find Alexander Braun.