The Shadow Man (52 page)

‘Yeah,’ Winter said. ‘I thought he might be on a list too. But I couldn’t find the right one. That might work.’

The tone in his voice indicated that he didn’t have any doubt that it wouldn’t work.

Robinson glanced at his watch. He didn’t want to be late for Espy Martinez’s arrival. It was late in the day, and red streaks filled the sky to the west. Tendrils of night were already starting to creep through the shadows thrown by the high rises.

‘I’m going to the airport,’ he said. ‘Want me to drop you someplace?’

Simon Winter was abruptly struck with an idea. He nodded and gave the young detective an address. Then he folded up a copy of the composite drawing and slipped it into his pocket.

Walter Robinson pulled the car to the curb. ‘Something

will happen soon,’ he said. ‘They read that announcement tonight.’ He looked down at his watch again. ‘Actually, any minute now. Should shake something loose in the next couple of days. And let’s see what Espy found out.’

‘Call me when you know something. I’m going to be home after I stop in here.’

‘What’s this?’

‘Oh, a long shot,’ the old detective said, stepping back from the unmarked car. ‘And they’ve probably all gone home.’

Walter Robinson eyed the older man. Overhead, a jet had turned on its final approach into Miami International Airport, and its route was carrying it over the midsection of the Beach. It was still too high for the engines to be heard, and the plane seemed to be floating across the darkening sky.

‘How long a shot?’ he asked.

Winter had started to turn away, but when he heard the question, he faced about and made a slightly dismissive gesture with his hand, as if to say not worth the detective’s time and effort. Robinson saw this, saw precisely what the motion was supposed to create within him, fought off the urge to pull the car out into traffic and head to the airport, which was where a large part of him eagerly wanted to go. Instead, he slipped the car’s gear shift into park and jumped out from behind the wheel. Simon Winter, a few feet away on the sidewalk, paused and grinned.

‘What, don’t trust me?’

‘It’s not that,’ Robinson said as he caught up with the older man. He didn’t add to that statement. Instead, he asked, ‘What is this place?’

‘This is the Holocaust Center,’ Winter answered. ‘But more importantly, it’s the only place I’ve been to, since all this started, where the past meets the present. Other than

over several dead bodies, that is.’

He pushed his way into the office building, trailed by the younger detective.

The receptionist was collecting her things when they came through the door, frowned impatiently, but was impressed when Robinson flashed his badge. It only took a few seconds for them to be swept into Esther Weiss’s office, where the young woman stood beside her small desk. She greeted Simon Winter rapidly, with both familiarity and crispness. She too had been preparing to depart.

‘Mr Winter, have you had any success? Are you still persuaded this man is here?’

Winter introduced Walter Robinson and Esther Weiss asked: ‘Are the police now believing the Shadow Man is here?’

Robinson answered this swiftly. ‘Yes.’

The center director shuddered slightly, placed her small briefcase on her desk and sat down. ‘This is a terrible thing. I never thought such a thing possible. He must be found and brought to justice. There are courts in Israel. And Germany

‘I’m more interested in a court across town,’ Robinson

said.

Esther Weiss nodded. ‘Of course. He must be brought to justice.’ She seemed about to add to that statement when Simon Winter stopped her.

He had had that conversation with the young woman before, and part of the advantage of old age, he thought, was insisting that roads once traveled did not need to be traversed again. So, following his instincts, he reached inside his jacket pocket and unfolded the composite picture of the Shadow Man. He thrust it across the desk at Esther Weiss without saying anything. She reached out, spreading the picture on the desk in front of her. She

stared hard at the drawing, just as everyone else had, but when she looked up, there was a slight twitch at the corner of her right eyelid and a tremor crept into her words:

‘But I know this man,’ she said slowly, as if confused. She recoiled from the drawing as if it were a current of electricity. ‘At least, I have seen him once, twice, a few times before …’

Espy Martinez was surprised that Walter Robinson wasn’t at the International Arrivals terminal to meet her. She was in that unsettled state caused by traveling across large time zones; she was uncertain whether she was exhausted or energized. She went directly to a telephone and called his office, only to learn that he had not checked in since he was at the rabbi’s apartment.

She debated whether to head home, the thought of a shower and a change of clothing, and perhaps a nap as well, being a powerful attraction. But she had the sensation that things were taking place, and she felt slightly on the forgotten side of events, which surprised her; written on a piece of paper inside her briefcase were a name and a number and, she thought, maybe all they needed to find the man they hunted.

She took one last quick glance around the airport terminal, but did not see Walter Robinson. She insisted to herself that she shouldn’t feel irritated, that after all there were higher priorities than being met at the airport, and she wondered if perhaps he hadn’t received her phone message, or that the arrival time could have been garbled. She filled herself with excuses, which made her forget, momentarily, any fatigue, and headed outside.

She stood, waving for a cab, amidst the noxious combination of exhaust fumes and syrupy evening heat that filled the half-enclosed waiting area. She climbed into

the backseat of the taxi, gave her home address and leaned back, letting the tropical air slide around her. But before the cab managed to reach the airport exit, she changed her mind, and pitching forward, speaking in rapid-fire Spanish, told the driver to take her to the rabbi’s apartment on Miami Beach.

Simon Winter had grasped Esther Weiss by the arm. With his free hand he thumped hard on the composite drawing. ‘Who?’ he demanded. ‘Who is it!’ Walter Robinson had jumped forward, gesturing, his voice urgent with a cold, harsh hope. ‘Where have you seen this man?’ he asked, his words trampling the same furious questions by the older detective.

Esther Weiss stared crazily at the two men. ‘This is him?’ she asked, high-pitched.

‘Yes,’ Robinson replied. ‘Where have you seen this man?’ he repeated.

Esther Weiss’s mouth opened slightly in astonishment, and Simon Winter could see the formulation of fear behind her eyes. He released his grip on the woman’s arm, and she slid into her desk chair, still wide-eyed, staring at the two men.

‘But here,’ she answered slowly. ‘Right here …’ Winter was about to speak, but Robinson beat him to the punch. The young man’s words were measured, slow, still colored with a cool appreciation of good fortune. , ‘When, how, tell me what you know, right now,’ he said. ‘Leave nothing out. Not the smallest detail. Anything could help us.’

‘This is the Shadow Man?’ the woman asked again. ‘Yes,’ Simon Winter said.

‘But this man is a historian,’ she replied. ‘With impeccable credentials…’

‘No, I think not,’ Winter said quietly. ‘Or perhaps he is both. But this is the man we are searching for.’

‘Start at the beginning,’ Robinson said. ‘A name. An address. How is it you know him?’

‘He studies the tapes,’ she said. ‘We allow scholars to study the tapes privately. Scholars and historians and social scientists …’

‘I know that,’ Simon Winter said impatiently. ‘But this man. Who is he?’

‘I have his name on file,’ Esther Weiss coughed as she spoke. ‘I have it written down. And an address. I have these things. A resume too, I think. We keep all these things in the confidential files. You remember, Mr Winter? I gave you some names once before …’

‘Yes. I remember. Was he on that list?’ ‘I can’t recall,’ the young woman said. ‘I gave it to you. I just don’t remember.’

Walter Robinson interjected himself smoothly. ‘But now you can go to the file, correct? You can go to the list of scholars and pick this man out? Is he on a Rolodex? In an address book? Now, Miss Weiss, if you please.’ ‘I can’t believe—’ ‘Now, Miss Weiss.’

She hesitated, then acquiesced: ‘Yes. Of course. Right away.’

The center director unsteadily moved to a black, lateral file cabinet tucked into a corner of the small office. She rolled the top drawer open and began searching through the collected papers. After a moment she muttered, ‘There are more than a hundred people authorized to examine the tapes.’

As she continued to search, Simon Winter asked: ‘Is there a procedure for getting this authorization? I mean, does somebody get checked out?’

‘Yes and no,’ the young woman replied. ‘If someone’s credentials seem in order, then approval is pretty much routine. The scholar must submit a statement as to why they need access to the tapes, and describe any use they intend for them. They must also sign a waiver and a confidentiality clause. We are strict about prohibiting any commercialization of the memories we have on tape. But what we’re mainly interested in avoiding are the revisionists.’

‘The what?’ Robinson asked.

‘The people who deny the Holocaust ever took place.’

‘Are they crazy?’ Robinson blurted out. ‘I mean, how can someone—’

Esther Weiss looked up, a small manila folder in her hand. ‘There are many people who want to deny the existence of the greatest crime of history, Detective. People who would explain away gas chambers as delousing units. People who would say that ovens were for baking bread, not people. There are those who think Hitler was a saint and that all the memories of his terror are so many conspiracies.’ She took a deep breath. ‘Rational people would say these views are madness. But it is not so simple. Surely, Detective, you can understand that?’

He could not, but he did not say so.

Esther Weiss put her hand to her forehead for a moment, as if shielding her eyes from something she did not want to see. Then she handed the manila envelope to Simon Winter.

‘This is the man that resembles your drawing,’ she said.

The old detective opened the file and drew out several sheets of paper. The first was a form requesting access to the tapes. Attached to that was a letter, a curriculum vitae and waiver forms, signed.

At the top of the resume was a name: David Isaacson.

Beneath that was a Miami Beach address.

‘What do you remember of this man?’ Robinson asked.

‘He was in, I don’t know how many times. He was very quiet and not outgoing in the slightest. I only spoke to him once, the first time. He told me that he too was a survivor, and I asked him to contribute his own memories to the tapes, and he agreed, but said it would have to wait until he finished his memoir. That’s what he was working on. His memoir. He said it was to be privately published. After his death. He said it was for his family, so there would always be a record for them to remember.’

She hesitated, then added: ‘I thought this was admirable.’

‘Is there a log, showing numbers of times visited?’

‘If we collect the staff, perhaps we could piece that together. But once someone has access, they are given their privacy with the materials.’

‘How did he get approval?’

‘See the other letter?’

Winter and Robinson both looked down at the letter clipped to the file. It was from the Holocaust Memorial organization in Los Angeles, and it was signed by an associate director. It asked that all scholarly perquisites be permitted for Mr Isaacson, who had done similar work with materials in Los Angeles.

‘You called? Checked this out?’

‘No,’ Esther Weiss said hesitantly. ‘It was signed by the associate director.’

Walter Robinson nodded. ‘Don’t worry,’ he said slowly. ‘It makes no difference.’

Simon Winter looked up. ‘So, these other things on the resume. The degrees from New York University and the University of Chicago. The publications, and all that. You didn’t check…’

‘Why?’ she replied. ‘Why? It was clear he wasn’t a revisionist! He even showed me the tattoo on his arm!’

Winter held up his hand. He could see the young woman’s face was drawn. She had paled and seemed to be teetering on the edge of panic.

‘I didn’t know,’ she said. ‘How could I have known?’

Winter didn’t answer that question. All he could think about was the Shadow Man. Polite. Quiet. Doing nothing to draw attention to himself, examining tape after tape, looking for anyone who might have known him.

Hunting, the old man thought.

The same thoughts filtered through Walter Robinson. But he took the time to answer Esther Weiss’s question. ‘You were never meant to know,’ he said. He paused, and added firmly: ‘But don’t worry. This is ending now.’

He looked down at the address. Then he reached across the desk and picked up the telephone. He dialed the Beach police headquarters, identified himself briskly, and demanded to speak directly with the captain in charge of the special weapons and tactics squad.

Both Simon Winter and Walter Robinson underestimated the impact that the announcement would have on the community of survivors. As evening passed into night, telephones throughout Miami Beach were ringing. At the few old Deco-style hotels that had not been taken over by the youth movement and still catered to the elderly, knots of people up past their usual bedtimes stood in the lobbies, or on the wide, outdoor porches, loudly discussing what they had heard. At Wolne’s Restaurant, not far from the Lincoln Road Mall, there was an argument going, which turned abrasive and strident. It caused some of the younger people and several foreign tourists visiting the landmark to turn their heads, wondering why the ordinarily quiet, placid old folks were raising their voices. A stranger overhearing the heated talk would have seen anger in several faces, but had they looked closer, would have seen fear as well. A deep, blackened fear, rising through long-held memory; although there were precious few who had ever heard of the Shadow Man, every man and woman was scarred by a recollection of a similar terror, whether it was Gestapo or S. S. or merely the awful knowledge that they had done what they were ordered to do, and voluntarily delivered themselves to the machine of evil.