City of Spies (8 page)

“Sit down,” he said, his lips softening. “I'll serve.”

She bit down a smile and sat down in the chair by the suite's desk as Devin set the plate down and opened the Coke bottle. He handed it to her. Her fingers slipped on the outside condensation and touched his. A brief touch, then his hand was gone.

“They don't call it Her Majesty's Secret Service for nothing,” he said, and lifted the cover off her plate with a flourish.

A cloud of fragrant steam rose from the large, beautiful steak lying there. Pagan leaned in to inhale, as Devin unfurled her napkin and laid it on her lap.

He leaned over her as he did it, and her shoulder brushed his chest. For a moment the heat from his skin enveloped her reassuringly. A whisper of his breath touched her temple.

She turned to him and looked up. He was looking down at her. Their lips were inches apart. Any moment now he'd close the gap to kiss her, pull her close.

Then he stepped back.

“You don't have to do this for us.” Devin walked over to stare out the window, his back to her. “I know you want to, but maybe it's best.”

So they weren't going to make out. Fine.

“I'm going to do this,” she said, and took a fizzy sip of Coke to settle her nerves.

“You're not responsible for what your mother did,” he said. “You don't have anything to prove.”

“Mercedes said that, too, but neither of you grew up loving your mother only to find out later she hobnobbed with war criminals. She
helped
them.” Pagan took another sip of Coke. The saturated sweetness coated her tongue, a memory of hot summer days playing tag with Ava in their terraced backyard while Mama yelled at them not to get too dirty before dinner. How could that woman be the same one who welcomed Dr. Someone into their home, who helped him escape?

“Do you think she regretted it?” Pagan asked suddenly.

“Your mother?” Devin turned from the window, puzzled, until realization eased the line between his brows. “You're thinking that's maybe why she committed suicide.”

“Is it strange that's the answer I'm hoping for?” she said.

“No.” Devin's voice was gentle. “But whatever else she did doesn't cancel out the fact that she really did love you. And Ava.”

“Why do people have to be so complicated?” She didn't expect an answer. “I want to understand why she did it, but if I do figure that out, what good does it do me?”

“You're the only one who can figure that out,” he said. “Identifying Von Albrecht might not get you the information about your mother that you're looking for. It might get you her file, and it might not. You could go through all of this and still not have any answers.”

Pagan picked up her fork and knife. “All the stuff with Mama is secondary. If the man you've found here is the one who did those experiments on people, he needs to be brought to justice.” She cut a tiny piece off the steak. Slightly pink inside, the way she liked it. “Tell me more about him.”

Devin took a seat, watching her eat. “The man we found here named Rolf Von Albrecht is the right age to be Von Alt, the right height, we think, and he has the right sort of knowledge. He's a professor of physics at the University of Buenos Aires, not far from here. He also lives nearby. He moved to Buenos Aires in March of 1953, which jibes with him leaving your house in November of 1952.

“He was later joined by his two children, Dieter and Emma, and his wife, Gerte. We know Von Alt had a family back in Germany during the war, but the records of their names and ages were destroyed. So we can't trace him that way. Gerte died in 1960 of cancer. Dieter goes to a high school right next to where his father teaches and has been accepted into the university. He's also part of a dangerous gang of teenagers that split off from a larger fascist gang recently. We think he may even be their leader.”

“He sounds delightful,” Pagan said.

“It makes all kinds of sense if he's the son of a Nazi war criminal,” Devin said. “That's another reason we think Von Albrecht's our man. The fight between the gangs seems to have been over how ‘pure' bloodlines were. Dieter and his friends are children of recent German immigrants, too new to Argentina for the leader of the other gangs.”

“So even the purest Aryan son of a Nazi wasn't pure enough for this other gang?” Pagan shook her head. “If the fascists are fighting among themselves, they should do us all a favor and kill one another off.”

“Unfortunately, they haven't forgotten that they hate the Jews more than anyone. The barrio where Dieter's school is, and where Von Albrecht teaches, has a large Jewish population and a history of anti-Semitic violence. So it's very lucky for us that you'll be shooting a scene of your movie on the grounds of that school tomorrow.”

“The big dancing-in-the-courtyard scene?” Pagan had memorized the entire horrible script in spite of its awfulness, as well as the shooting schedule. “How'd you manage that?”

Devin raised his eyebrows in an exaggeratedly innocent way. “Who says I had anything to do with it? To round out the report, Von Albrecht has a daughter, Emma, two years younger than Dieter, sixteen.”

“Von Albrecht's a professor, so maybe I can wander into one of his classes tomorrow—a lecture,” Pagan said through a mouthful of steak. It was tender and succulent. “As soon as I hear him speak, I should be able to tell you if it's the man I knew.”

“We thought of that. But he took a sabbatical, a full year, and won't lecture again until the fall.”

“Why have the movie shoot near his workplace, then?” Pagan asked. “And don't keep pretending you had nothing to do with that.”

“Dieter and Emma will be there,” Devin said. “And it might be useful to have you near them, perhaps to meet them.”

“Maybe I could join Dieter's gang,” Pagan said, waving a forkful of steak airily. “I could establish my bona fides by telling them how I foiled the Communist East German army in Berlin.”

“A gang of fascists might elect you their leader if they learned how you humiliated those Communist leaders,” Devin said in the same light tone. “Let's hope gang membership won't be necessary. But you do have a connection to their family via your mother. Emma and Dieter likely don't know about her at all, but Von Albrecht will remember.”

Pagan nodded, chewing. Perhaps she could use Von Albrecht's sense of obligation to her mother to her advantage somehow. But first she needed a way to meet the man. “The more we know about him, the better, right?” she said. “Even though he's not there, this is where he works and where his kids go to school. I could potentially learn a lot.”

Devin stood up to pace over to the window, look down onto the tree-lined road and then pace back. “We've been following Von Albrecht for the past two months, hoping to find a pattern so we could set you up to run into him. But for the past three weeks he hasn't left his house at all. Not once. He's always spent the bulk of his nonworking time at home, but not to poke his head out of his own front door once in three weeks is very odd.”

“Maybe he's dead.”

“Doubtful. Nothing else has changed. His children come and go in the same pattern—to school, errands, to parties with their friends and so on, with no sign of mourning or visits from mortuary personnel. The daughter, Emma, buys the same amount of food every week. So we're pretty sure he's still alive. No doctor visits, so he's probably not ill, at least not seriously.”

“Personnel,”
Pagan said. “Never heard you use that word before. Sounds...military.”

“I'm officially a lieutenant in Her Majesty's Navy.” He pronounced it
leftenant
. “Unofficially, the men who face real combat wouldn't consider me very military.”

“So how do I get to see and hear this guy if he's locked up in his house?” she asked. “I'm way too messy to be convincing as his new maid.”

“I told you that you wouldn't need to pretend to be anyone but yourself. I've got an idea.” He stopped pacing. She detected a challenge in his stormy gaze. “You're a movie star of German descent, after all. And a lonely girl in a strange city.”

Pagan, who didn't feel the least bit lonely, met his eyes with a small, pleased smile. “So empty inside and in need of rescue. How well you know me.”

CHAPTER EIGHT

San Telmo, Buenos
Aires
Evening of January 10, 1962

CONFITERIA BAILABLE

A café-like establishment where one can purchase refreshments and dance tango.

The tires rumbled over cobblestones. Dim light from streetlamps flashed through the dark interior of the car, over the back of Carlos's head, flashing bronze on Mercedes's dress as she stared out the car window.

Pagan was headed out to a bar. She, an alcoholic. The things she did for Devin and for her country...well, they were dangerous in all kinds of ways and she enjoyed them. That probably meant something was wrong with her, but that fault could get in line behind all the others.

She glanced over at Mercedes, calm and glowing in that knee-length burnished dress, her thick, curly black hair teased at the crown. The winged black eyeliner Pagan had drawn on gave her dark brown eyes a newly mysterious look.

“Cobblestones on the streets, and the buildings are shorter here,” Pagan said, watching the two-story edifices fly past, their window boxes overflowing with flowers, closed up for the night.

“The guidebook said San Telmo's the oldest barrio in Buenos Aires.” Mercedes glanced over at Pagan. “You may be a little overdressed for it.”

Pagan glanced down at her Dior ivory silk dress, covered in tiny silver beads that glinted as she moved. It was a thing of beauty, tailored perfectly to hug her waist and flow like a waterfall down her hips. And it was a good dress for dancing. She'd brought a dark coat in case she needed suddenly not to glow like a sky full of stars.

“Overdressed? It's not even floor-length,” she said half-sarcastically. Her silver heels weren't exactly casual, either. “I need to be noticed tonight. Devin said the bar was casual. So I figured I wouldn't be.”

“You'll be noticed,” M said. “If you're sure that's what you want.”

Mercedes not only didn't approve of Devin's plan; she hated it. At first she'd refused to go with Pagan that night, hoping to keep Pagan home that way. But Pagan was not easily deterred, and M's need to help her out had trumped her resistance. She'd put on her own casual dress and black heels, and only fought Pagan for five minutes when Pagan offered to do her hair and eyeliner.

“It's what I need,” Pagan said. “Don't look at me like that. It's a public place. Nothing's going to happen. Well. Nothing bad's going to happen. To us.”

They pulled up in front of a graffiti-covered wall, two doors down from the bright windows of a café. The light spilled onto the sidewalk and the cobblestones, revealing the entwined silhouettes of several dancing couples swaying right outside. Laughter filtered through the warm night air, peppered with beats from an unseen band and the clink of bottles being cleared from a table.

“We've reached Gläubigen,
señoritas
,” Carlos said, turning in the driver's seat. “Are you sure you don't want me to wait?”

Pagan reached over to hand him a fistful of paper pesos. “For all your help today, Carlos. Thanks. But you should go home. We'll catch a cab back.”

Mercedes looked around the quiet street. The bar was the only sign of movement and life. “If we can find a cab.”

“Walk one block that way,” Carlos said, pointing to the right. “You'll be sure to find one near Plaza Dorrego.”

“Gracias,”
Mercedes said. “Wish us luck, my friend.”

Carlos looked her up and down. “
You
are going to need it in there.”

Pagan froze, about to open the car door. “Why her in particular?”

“Look at them.” Carlos jutted his chin at the young people crowded in the doorway of the bar. “None of them look like her, like me.”

The people spilling into the street and hanging out in the doorway were all fair skinned with a high percentage of blondes. The name of the bar was German for “Believers,” and Devin had said it was a mostly ex-patriot crowd, but not always.

After what they'd encountered at the hotel reception desk, Pagan hesitated. “Maybe you should go home, M.”

“Am I a liability to you?” Mercedes asked, her voice level, reasonable.

“No, just the opposite. But I don't want to push you into anything dangerous,” Pagan said.

“I didn't like it before,” Mercedes said. “This doesn't change anything. But are you sure?”

Pagan caught her friend's eye and gave her a sly smile. “I want to be noticed, don't I? Let's go.”

Carlos got the door for Mercedes while Pagan let herself out and raised her bare arms to the sky, stretching luxuriously. Over at the bar, a few heads turned.

“
Gracias
, Carlos,” she said, and clicked over to the sidewalk with as confident a stride as the cobblestones allowed to join Mercedes.
“Que tengas buenos noches.”

“Ustedes tambien, señoritas,”
he said, touching his hat.

Pagan looped her arm through Mercedes's and they walked in sync toward Gläubigen. “How are we supposed to know which one is your guy?” Mercedes asked in a low tone.

“Tall, dirty blond hair, blue eyes, mole on his right cheek,” Pagan muttered. “Let me know if you spot him first.”

The music got louder as they approached. It sounded like a local band's version of “Blue Hawaii,” sung in a pretty good imitation of Elvis with a slight German accent.

It was time to turn the movie-star wattage up to supernova level. Channeling all she'd learned during many walks down the red carpet, Pagan breathed deep and imagined herself as the center of the universe, filled with light and power. She wasn't just a movie star; she was an actual star, brighter than the sun. Everyone would revolve around her tonight.

If she could pretend to believe it long enough. The thoughts were ridiculous, but they had never failed.

The swaying couples turned their heads. Chatter near the doorway died slowly as they sauntered up. Well, Pagan was sauntering. Mercedes kept to her usual neutral tread.

“It's not as cute as they said,” Pagan said in English to Mercedes, loud enough to be heard.

Mercedes shrugged. “The band sounds pretty good.”

“We shall see,” Pagan said skeptically, and favored those near the doorway with a dazzling smile as she sashayed inside.

There was no bouncer, no cover charge, no maître d'. The place was more café than club, but as Pagan and Mercedes paused on the threshold, several young men turned to stare. The place was packed with teenagers and college-age kids, and after hearing what Carlos had said, Pagan noticed that all of them were fair-skinned. The girls were mostly wearing stretchy skirts with their button-down shirt tied at the waist and ponytails, while the boys favored linen short-sleeved shirts left untucked over khakis and pompadours. Pagan stood out like a princess at a barbecue.

The bartender was older, over forty, and the two waitresses looked experienced, and one was darker-skinned. Against the far wall, the band—six men also older than the crowd—earnestly and expertly plied their instruments. Pagan let her eyes sweep over the nearest knot of boys. None of them had a mole on his right cheek, but two were moving to intercept.

“There's a table,” she said, taking Mercedes by the hand and walking right past the boys with the confidence of someone who always gets the table she wants.

One of the boys muttered,
“Indio,”
as Mercedes passed him. But nobody stopped them. Heads turned as they wove between tables toward one where a blonde girl in a red-checked dress was sitting alone, sipping on something frothy through a straw. The table was one row back from the band, a prime seat.

“Do you mind if we join you?” Pagan asked in English, leaning down to speak in the girl's ear. She had a sweetly pretty heart-shaped face and thick honey-blond hair reined in with a headband. Pagan straightened and gave her a bright smile. “We're new here.”

The girl's eyes widened. Recognition fluttered over her face. “Sure!” Her English was accented with an odd mix of German and Argentine Spanish. “Aren't you...?” She trailed off as her gaze came to rest on Mercedes.

“Thanks!” Pagan took a chair and Mercedes followed suit. “Everyone told me how nice people in Buenos Aires are, and now I believe it! What's your name?”

“Emma,” the girl said. She was still eyeing Mercedes uneasily. “Those seats might be taken.”

“I'm Pagan!” Pagan said, as if she hadn't said anything about the seats. “This is my friend Mercedes.”

“I know who you are,” Emma said, ignoring Mercedes. She blushed and looked away from Pagan shyly. “I saw
Beach Bound Beverly
twice.”

“Oh, that old thing!” Pagan waved her hand in an “aw, shucks” gesture. Her eyes were sweeping the crowd, trying to find her target. “You're sweet. And what are you drinking?”

“It's a
submarino
,” Emma said, stirring the ivory liquid in the tall glass in front of her. She picked up a square of chocolate that was sitting on the saucer and dropped it in. “The milk is hot, and you drop the chocolate in and let it melt.”

“Mmm, I like the sound of that. Want one, M?” She glanced over at Mercedes, whose eyes were fixed on some activity at the bar.

“Sure,” Mercedes said, catching Pagan's eye, then slinging her gaze back over to a group of boys at the bar. “The waitress looks busy. Maybe you should order at the bar.”

“Good idea.” Pagan didn't see any boys with a mole on their right cheek at the bar. But it was crowded over there, and not every right cheek was visible from here. Mercedes must've seen something she hadn't. “Can I get you anything, Emma?”

“Oh, no!” Emma seemed startled by this offer, and blushed again. “Thanks.”

Pagan turned away from her and mouthed, “Good luck,” to Mercedes before heading for the bar.

Head up, shoulders back, dress glinting. It worked. The crowd parted before her. She was Charlton Heston. They were the Red Sea.

People were staring. She kept a Mona Lisa smile on her lips, searching for a boy with blond hair with a mole on his cheek.

A tall dark-haired young man at the bar with eyes like a turbulent twilight sky was gazing at her, one corner of his mouth deepening in admiration.

Devin. Before she could think, she beamed a smile straight from her soul at him. He brightened, grinning back at her for one blinding second, his pleasure at seeing her clear as the stars in his eyes.

She nearly forgot everything and ran across the room to him. It took every ounce of self-control to keep up her steady progress, to pretend she cared about anything else.

Then Devin's face shut down, the expression vanished. Pagan, too, had to bite her smile down fast, hoping no one important had seen. But she couldn't help it. Her heart was still hammering inside her so hard she worried everyone would hear it. Everyone would know.

Know what? What was there to know about her and Devin? Nothing. Right?

She was at the bar. Devin was to her left at the far end, maybe fifteen feet away, sipping a beer labeled Quilmes and avoiding her gaze. The slump in his shoulders, the tilt of his head away from her, told her not to greet him.

The bartender came bustling up to her the moment he was free, eyes big, lips tight with recognition. He dipped his head in a sort of bow and said in English, “Señorita Jones. An honor.”

“You are too kind,” she said. “Two of those
submarinos, por favor
.” Then added in excited English, “They look delicious!”

He smiled. “Coming right up,” and he walked down the bar to her right to heat up the milk.

Pagan smiled at a girl gawking at her and scanned the crowd. She was here to find Dieter Von Albrecht, son of Rolf Von Albrecht. He needed to notice her. But so far it was all a choppy sea of slightly sunburned pale-skinned guys with gelled-back hair trying not to let their gazes linger too long on her cleavage or her legs.

Devin had said Dieter would be here. He hadn't said he himself would be here. He really should've warned her. The sight of him had nearly undone her.

She risked a casual glance in Devin's direction. She couldn't help it. He must be here for a reason. He was looking right at her, and it sent goose bumps down her bare arms.

Devin's eyes flicked to her right, then back to her, then back to the right.

She turned her head casually. In that area ranged a group of boys that looked the right age. She couldn't see how many were all talking to one another in loud German because three broad backs were blocking her view.

“It's all set,” a boy next to her was saying. Pagan was nearly fluent in German, thanks to long afternoons spent with her grandmother as a child, but she had to listen carefully here. The words were familiar, but inflected differently. “While all the mongrels are distracted at the race, we'll get to the docks.”

Calling people mongrels. She turned her nose-wrinkle of distaste into a smile and sidled along the bar. She was moving toward the bartender and keeping her eyes on him, as if fascinated by how he was heating up the milk for their drinks. The boy next to her gave way, turning, and she was able to see more of the group he was talking to.

“Tomorrow,” another boy was saying in German, “we tell the
judios
the time and place.”

Judio.
It took Pagan a moment to sort through the German words in the sentence to realize that was Spanish for Jew.

“And we parlay with the Tacs to get more manpower,” a deeper voice spoke. The boys around her looked at one another, uneasy.

What were Tacs? She didn't recognize that word in any language. Some gang term, probably.

“We don't need those snobs!” the boy next to her said too loudly.

Trust those who called people mongrels to get on their high horse about snobs. But she couldn't think that way. She had to be one of them, for a little while at least.