The Hunt

Wallingford wearily. “I’ve heard about your mother being a countess and all that romantic crap and that’s all it is to me, crap. Underneath it all, you’re nothing. Just another crook who got rich.”

Keegan nodded ruefully and turned to leave the office.

“I’ve got this theory, Keegan,” Wallingford went on. “If you’re not against something, you’re for it. When you turned your back on Reinhardt, you kissed Hitler’s ass.”

“Take it easy .

“No, I won’t take it easy. And you’re right, this doesn’t have anything to do with Reinhardt or my job. I asked a friend for a favor and he turned me down, that’s what it’s about.”

“One hell of a favor.”

“You would have been doing yourself a favor, too. You and a lot of other Americans think Hitler’s a flash in the pan, but he’s going to start gobbling up Europe and the only way we’re going to stop him is to go to war again. Now if you’ll excuse me, I’ve got to be out of the country by six P.M. Deported, isn’t that ironic? Thousands of people desperate to leave Germany and I’m being thrown out on my ass.”

Wallingford walked past Keegan to the doorway and summoned the Marine sergeant.

“That’s the last box, Jerry,” he said.

“Yes sir,” the Marine answered, and carried it out. Walling- ford looked around the office once more. It was stripped clean of everything personal. He started to leave and then turned back to Keegan.

“You know, I hope! never see you again, Francis,” Walling- ford said, and there was a tone of sadness in his remark. “It will just remind me what a poor judge of character I am.”

He left Keegan standing alone in the empty office.

The Imperial was the most elegant bar and restaurant in Berlin. Its domed ceiling towered two stories over the deco and bronze interior. Tall French doors separated the garden restaurant from the bar, where fresh flowers brightened every table and the waiters in their white, gold-trimmed uniforms hustled stoically about the room. The place was buzzing with activity when Keegan arrived, the crowd a strange mix of reporters in their blue suits and flowered ties, tourists in white, SS officers in black uniforms, and the usual smattering of Gestapo agents, easily identifiable in their drab gray suits, their impersonal eyes suspicious of everything and everybody.

Rudman was sitting at a corner table, scratching out notes on the usual sheaf of curled and wrinkled note paper.

“Why don’t you get yourself a real notebook?” Keegan asked, joining him. “Looks like you retrieved that pile of scrap from a garbage pail.”

“Force of habit,” Rudman answered. “Besides, notebooks are too organized. How’s your girlfriend?” Keegan just nodded, “I did a little checking. Nice family background—if you like money.”

“That’s enough,” Keegan said.

“Did you see Wally?”

“Long enough to get insulted and say goodbye.”

“Goodbye?”

“He’s been recalled.”

“What?”

“Forget where you heard what I’m going to tell you.”

“Naturally.”

“Wallingford set up Reinhardt’s escape. A military attache named Trace was driving him across the border and they got nailed by the Gestapo. The damn fool was in an embassy car. To avoid an international stink, Roosevelt has officially apologized to Hitler and Wally and Trace have been deported.”

A waiter appeared and Keegan ordered a double martini. “Jesus! How about Reinhardt?” Rudman pressed on eagerly.

“The way I get it, the Gestapo tortured him for several hours, then forced battery acid down his throat. He’s dead. It will probably be written off as a suicide.”

“Can I use this?”

“You can do whatever you want with it, just don’t mention my name. I don’t want to join Wally and Trace on the boat home. Anyway, I’m sure Herr Goebbels will be over here gloating about it by the cocktail hour.”

“Poor old Wally. Everybody writes him off as an alarmist.”

“He is an alarmist.”

“He’s a visionary, Francis. He sees it the way it’s going to be.”

For the first time, Keegan didn’t argue. He didn’t feel he had the right to argue just then, not with Felix Reinhardt on his conscience.

“Here comes the Bank of Massachusetts,” Rudman said.

Keegan turned to see Vanessa enter the Imperial. She spoke to the maitre d’, who led her toward their table.

“She’s leaving for Hamburg tomorrow,” Keegan said. “Going back on the Bremen.”

“What a shame.”

“Let’s not talk politics in front of her, okay?”