Harlot's Ghost

“Good.”

  “Pieck would leave the official Schloss and go to a room in the servants’ quarters where he would take off his shoes, put on slippers and old workingmen’s clothes, and cook his evening meal. Old cabbage soup, cold noodles, pudding for dessert. He’d eat it all off the same tin plate, the pudding mixed up with the noodles. I remember wondering how Dr. Schneider could learn all this by playing an official concert for Wilhelm Pieck.”

  “What else did Montague and Gehlen talk about?”

  “Chess.”

  “By the way, here’s a verified photograph of Gehlen.” He passed me a photostat of a snapshot. “Just to make certain that Schneider equals our man.”

  “He was wearing a white wig that night, but, yes, I would make a positive identification.”

  “One hundred percent?”

  “I’ll go one hundred.”

  “Good. Gehlen and Montague talked about chess in your presence. Nothing else?”

  “I spent most of the evening talking to Mrs. Montague.”

  “Kittredge?”

  “Yessir.”

  “What about?”

  “Chitchat.”

  “Expatiate.”

  “Sir, if I may say, I feel more comfortable with Mrs. Montague than with her husband. We talk about everything under the sun. I think we were laughing together in the kitchen because of the funny noises Dr. Schneider, I mean, General Gehlen, was making while he played chess.”

  “How long have you known Montague?”

  “I met him at his wedding to Kittredge. She was close to my family, you see. Her father bought my family’s summer house. Since then, I’ve seen Mr. Montague socially once or twice.”

  “What do you think of him?”

  “An iceberg. Nine-tenths under.”

  “Oh, isn’t that true,” said C.G.

  “Well, we now,” said Bill Harvey, “have a general picture that fails to explain why Gehlen asked me to bring you along to Pullach.”

  “Kittredge and I are third cousins,” I said. “If she mentioned such a family relationship to Gehlen, he may wish to reciprocate the courtesy. Your briefing says he’s very family-oriented.”

  “Are you saying Kittredge requested that he invite you?”

  “No, Chief. Just that Gehlen must know who’s working for you at GIBLETS.”

  “On what basis do you come to that conclusion?”

  “It’s my impression that everybody knows everything in Berlin.”

  “Son of a bitch, yes.”

  For whatever reason, that caused him to cease speaking. He had the ability to end a conversation as effectively as if he had turned off a light. We drove in silence while he drank alone from the jug of martinis. Flatlands gave way to rolling country but the highway curved little and there was no traffic. At Braunschweig we left the Autobahn and drove along two-lane roads, the driver reducing his speed to ninety miles an hour on the straight, seventy through the curves, and down to sixty through each village we traversed. Gonorrhea and fast car trips, I was discovering, did not accommodate each other. Yet my desire to urinate was overcome by my lately acquired knowledge of the price. Near Einbach we picked up the Autobahn again and went along at one hundred and twenty miles an hour. At Bad Hersfeld, the back roads began once more, and an endless series of turns in hill and forest and village took us to Würzburg where a better road went on to Nürnberg and the beginning of the last stretch of Autobahn to Munich. There, at an all-night gas station, 4:30 in the morning, Bill Harvey spoke again. “I need a pit stop,” he said.

  We parked in the shadow behind the gas station.

  “Check out the men’s room and the ladies’ room, Sam,” he told the driver. When Sam came back, and nodded, Harvey got out and motioned to me. “How about you?” he asked C.G. “Long trips never bother me,” she said.

  He grunted. His breath came across the night air on a riser of gin. “Come, kid,” he said heavily, “just you and me and the shit-house walls.” He picked up his attaché case and handed it to me.

  Although Sam had presumably scouted the premises, Harvey withdrew one of his guns from the shoulder holster, turned the knob on the bathroom door and threw it ajar with one smooth pass, sighted in from that angle, crossed the open door space too quickly to be hit by any but the fastest trigger, sighted from the reverse angle, and satisfied, now entered, wheeled, squatted to scan the floor, threw open the stall doors, then smiled. “Sam is good at checkout, but I’m better.” He did not settle, however. He carefully lifted the cover on each water tank, peered into the inside, took a coiled wire from his pocket, ran it a foot up the flush tunnel of each bowl, and finally let out his breath. “I have one bad dream,” he said as he washed off the wire. “I’m trapped in the men’s room when a satchel bag full of demo goes off.”

  “That’s a bad dream.”

  He burped, unzipped his fly, turned his back to me and unleashed a urination worthy of a draft horse. I took the next stall, waited like a dutiful inferior for my own laggard waters to enter their small sound against his heavy one, and did my best not to wince as a hot wire went up my urethral passage in compensation for the pus-laden stream going out. I do not think the paucity of sound accompanying the urine I ejected was lost on him.

  “Kid,” he said, “your story is weak.”

  “It’s weak because it’s true.” I almost cried out from the pain of my urination. My member was swollen abominably.

  “That’s one hell of an instrument you have there,” he said over his shoulder.

  I did not explain why it was twice its normal size.

  “Speak softly and carry a big stick,” he said.

  “Theodore Roosevelt,” I replied. “I believe that was his foreign policy.”

  “I happen to have a little dick,” said Harvey. “Luck of the draw. But, boy, there were years when I knew what to do with it. Guys with little dicks try harder.”

  “I’ve heard about your rep, sir.”

  “My rep, hell. I was merely a cunt-lapper of the most diabolical sort.” But before I had time to be prodigiously embarrassed by this, he said, “It’s your reputation I want to know about. Did you ever fuck Kittredge?”

  “Yessir,” I said, lying right through the pain of wire-thin piss.

  He lifted his free hand and clapped me on the back. “I’m glad,” he said. “I hope you gave it to her good. Was she a cockeyed wonder in bed?”

  “Fabulous,” I muttered. My gonorrhea served me an undeniable lightning bolt.

  “I might have had a whack at her myself if I hadn’t given up on all that. Loyalty to C.G. mit lots of hard work—that’s how the operation runs these days. So, I’m glad you laid the wood to her good. I hate that son of a bitch Montague.”

  I was discovering the secret of an escape route. You found it by making the effort to escape. “I hate him too,” I said. To myself, I added, “Forgive me, Hugh.” I did not, however, feel that much disloyalty. Harlot, after all, had encouraged me to find my own route through the crux.

  “Have you talked to Kittredge lately?” Harvey asked.

  “Yes.”

  “When?”

  “A few days ago. After you lost confidence in me. I guess I called to complain about my troubles.”

  “That may be forgivable.” He gave a last thwack to his penis, put it back in his pants, even as I was concluding my small torture, and said, “Do you think she could have been the one to call Gehlen?”

  “It might be,” I said. “Dr. Schneider certainly acted like he was crazy about her.”

  Harvey yawped suddenly. That is to say, he belched emptily. Under the dangling light bulb, his skin had gone pale, and he was full of perspiration. I think it was an honest spasm of his much abused system. He went on speaking, however, as if physical discomfort were an element of the given, like heavy air in a railroad coach. He nodded. “If she called him, it makes sense. Gehlen would probably do anything for her. Yes, I can live with this one.” Now, he seized me by the arm, and dug each one of his stubby fing
ers, strong as iron bolts, into my triceps.

  “Are you loyal to Gehlen?” he asked.

  “I don’t like the fellow,” I said. “Not from what I saw. I assume if I get to know him well, I will like him even less.”

  “And me? Are you loyal to me?”

  “Chief, I’m ready to take a bullet for you.”

  It was true. I was also ready to die for Harlot, and for Kittredge. And for my father, conceivably. I was ready to die. The thought of sacrificing myself was still as large an emotion as I could find. The proctor in my personality, however, that young dean of probity installed by the canons of St. Matthew’s, was horrified at how easily I could succumb to large acts of lying, and outrageous expressions of excessive emotion.

  “Kid, I believe you,” he said. “I’m going to use you. I need stuff on Gehlen.”

  “Yessir. Whatever I can do.”

  He bent over, his breathing heavy, and opened the attaché case. “Take off your shirt,” he said. Before I had time to question his purpose, he removed a small plastic tape recorder.

  “This is the best sneaky we’ve got,” he said. “Here, let me tape it on.”

  In two minutes, his fingers fast and deft, he taped the recorder to the small of my back. Then he installed a switch through a small hole he slit in my pocket and ran a wire through a buttonhole in my shirt to which was attached a small white button which was, I realized, a microphone. He handed me an extra tape. “You’ve got a total of two hours, one hour each tape. Get everything Gehlen says once we’re there.”

  “Yours, Chief.”

  “Now leave me alone. I got to throw up. It’s nothing personal. Vomit once a day, you keep the doctor away. But leave me alone for that. Tell C.G. I’ll be back in ten minutes. Maybe fifteen. I got to take my time with this. Oh, Jesus,” he groaned as I went out the door, and I heard the first caterwaulings come up from his belly.

  Back at the car, Sam was overseeing the transfer of gas from the reserve tank to the main, and C.G. was alone in the rear seat.

  “How long did he say?” asked Sam.

  “Ten minutes.”

  “It’ll be twenty.” Sam looked at his watch. “Every time we go down to Pullach he wants to break the record, but we’re going to miss tonight. It’s a shame. No ice. No fog. No delays for construction. No detours. He’s going to ask why we didn’t cut any minutes off our last time. I can’t say it’s ’cause he fucks around in the pit stop.”

  That was the longest speech I ever heard from Sam.

  “Well,” I said, “it’s a crazy night.”

  “Yeah,” said Sam, “tell it to the Marines.” He strolled over to the door of the men’s room and stood guard outside.

  Back in the rear seat with C.G., it occurred to me that if luck was a current in human affairs, one had to ride on its tide. My hand went into my pocket to activate the switch to the sneaky.

  “Is Bill all right?” she asked.

  “He will be in a few minutes,” I said.

  “If people knew how hard he worked, they would understand his eccentricities,” she told me.

  I wanted to warn her not to utter a word; I was eager to manipulate every speech she offered. Bright was the inner light of the last martini on my moral horizon.

  “I guess he’s never been understood well enough,” I said.

  “Bill has so many gifts. It’s just that the Almighty never provided him with the simple talent not to make needless enemies.”

  “I suppose he’s taken on his share,” I said.

  “You may well believe that.”

  “Is it true,” I began. “No,” I said, “I won’t ask.”

  “You can. I do trust you.”

  “I’m going to ask it then,” I said.

  “I’ll answer if I can.”

  “Is it true that J. Edgar Hoover did not like your husband?”

  “I would say Mr. Hoover didn’t treat him very fairly.”

  “Yet Bill Harvey worked hard for the FBI.” When she did not reply, I added, “I know he did.”

  Her silence was only to control her indignation. “If it hadn’t been for Bill babysitting Elizabeth Bentley all those years,” C.G. said, “you would never have heard of Alger Hiss and Whittaker Chambers and Harry Dexter White, and the Rosenbergs. The whole slew. Bill had a lot to do with exposing that gang. That, however, did not warm Mr. Hoover up toward him. J. Edgar Hoover likes to let his best people know who is the boss. His secretary, Miss Gandy, who is certainly no more than her master’s voice, is perfectly capable of sending a Letter of Censure to a top operator if he happens to come into the Director’s Office with one spot of dust on his shoes. This, mind you, after ten days out in the field.”

  “Did that ever happen to Mr. Harvey?”

  “No, but it did to two of his friends. With Bill it was worse. Inhuman, I would characterize it. The Company doesn’t ever treat its people the way the Bureau did.”

  “Did Mr. Hoover actually fire Mr. Harvey?”

  “No, Bill could not have been fired. He was too well regarded. Mr. Hoover wanted to put him in purdah, however, and Bill was too proud. So, he resigned.”

  “I don’t believe I’ve ever heard the story properly.”

  “Well, you have to understand that Bill was sort of depressed in those days.”

  “About when was this?”

  “The summer of 1947. You see, Bill had put in an immense amount of work trying to penetrate the Bentley network, but no dramatic success, so to speak. It would all come out later and Joe McCarthy would get the credit, but in the meantime, Bill was burning the candle at both ends. Which I attribute to his deep unhappiness with his wife Libby. They married awfully young. Bill, you see, was the son of the most esteemed attorney in Danville, Indiana, and Libby was the daughter of the biggest lawyer in Flemingsburg, Kentucky. I know only what Bill tells me, but that marriage, according to him, did contribute to his woes.”

  “Yes,” I said. I was beginning to appreciate Montague’s remark that closemouthed individuals, once under way, do not stop talking.

  “Bill’s critical troubles with Mr. Hoover go right back to one specific night in July 1947. Bill went to a stag party out in Virginia with a few FBI friends and had to drive back after midnight in a heavy rainstorm. He slowed down for a large puddle in Rock Creek Park, and a vehicle passing in the other direction was inconsiderate enough to race by. Bill’s car was deluged with so much water that his motor conked out. He did manage to coast to the curb, but there was a foot of water all around him, and he was exhausted, poor man. So he fell asleep at the wheel. It was his first good sleep in weeks. He didn’t wake till 10:00 A.M. And no police car bothered him either. Why should they? He was parked properly, and the puddle had receded. Since his car was able to start, he just drove home to Libby. But it was too late. Libby had already phoned FBI headquarters to tell them that Special Agent William K. Harvey was missing. She was hysterical enough, or mean enough, or scared enough—I won’t judge her—to hint at suicide. ‘Bill has been so despondent,’ she told the Bureau. Of course, that went right onto the record. When Bill phoned in a little later to tell the Bureau that he was at home, intact, the Bureau said no, you’re in trouble. You see, the FBI expects an agent to be reachable. If you’re not where they can find you, you’re supposed to call in every two hours. Bill had been out of touch for nine and a half hours during which period the Bureau had mistakenly supposed he could be contacted at home. That was a big point against him. Then there was the potential embarrassment. What if a police car had stopped and questioned Bill while he was asleep? What if he had been arrested? Mr. Hoover sent down the worst memo: Serious reexamination of Special Agent Harvey’s occupational readiness is advisable in the light of wife’s deputation that Special Agent Harvey has been morose and despondent for considerable periods.

  “Bill dared to carry the fight right back upstairs. These are the exact words he wrote to the FBI inquiry: ‘My worry is the natural worry that would come to anyone who has dealt a
s intimately with the Communist problem as I have since 1945.’ The aide from Mr. Hoover’s office who was conducting the investigation actually sent a memo up to Mr. Hoover saying that Bill had always been given a rating of Excellent, and no administrative action should be taken. Mr. Hoover just told the aide to write another memo. This one said: ‘Special Agent William K. Harvey is to be transferred to Indianapolis on general assignment.’”

  “Cruel,” I said.

  “It broke Bill’s heart. If the Agency hadn’t been there to ask him to come over, I think he might have been truly despondent.”

  At this moment, Mr. Harvey returned with Sam, got in the car, and we started out again. I clicked off the sneaky.

  12

  BILL HARVEY FELL ASLEEP ON THE NÜRNBERG–MUNICH AUTOBAHN, AND was so heavy-eyed in the dawn that C.G. insisted on checking in at a hotel, rather than meeting General Gehlen for early breakfast. In the elevator, Chief grimaced. “Let’s grab thirty minutes of shut-eye and a shower.”

  The thirty minutes became one hundred and thirty minutes, then an hour more. Not until noon did Harvey and I get to Gehlen’s office.

  The General did not look a good deal like my recollection of Dr. Schneider. The absence of the white wig showed a high forehead, and his mustache was gone. He looked no more than fifty years old. His lips were well chiseled, as were his long nose, his nostrils, his small chin. His thin hair was combed straight back. Only his ears remained as large as I remembered, and continued to give him much resemblance to a bat. But I had no time to wonder why General Gehlen had chosen to be in disguise at the canal house. He pointed at me with a quick finger, and said, “Delighted to meet again.” I noticed that his pale blue eyes were strikingly different. The left was aloof; the right eye belonged to a fanatic. I had not noticed that much before.

  “Gentlemen,” said Gehlen, “first things first. Is your young man approved for relevant levels of clearance?”

  “You invited him, didn’t you?” said Harvey.

  “To dinner, perhaps, to reciprocate for a fine dinner, yes, but not to dine out on what I say here.”

  “He stays,” said Harvey. I did not know if Chief ’s loyalty was to me, or to the sneaky.