“I’ve just asked you again.”
“The Republic of Ireland, of course, had little to do with the war. Relentlessly neutral, as they say, on the side of the Allies. My Da was the Republic’s consul to Munich. Is it getting clearer?”
“No.”
“In 1938, when I was about seven years old, it was decided, because of the unusual world circumstances, that I would stay on in Munich with my parents, instead of returning home to school by myself, as would have been normal. I spoke German as well as any boy my age, had had my first years in German schools, looked and dressed German. And, as my Da said, entrusting me with this great responsibility, I had reached the Age of Reason.
“So my pa took up agreein‘ with,the Nazis in public, although he hated their ideas as any decent man would. We remained in Germany throughout the war. I remained in the German school, became a member of the Hitler Youth. The short pants, the neckerchief, the salute, the whole thing. Marched in the rallies. Was the young star at some of the gymnastic shows. People forgot I was Irish altogether.”
“Flynn, really…”
“Believe it, if you will. I was a perfect member of Jugendfuehrer.
“But, you know, you’d be surprised what a wee boy in short pants and a Hitler Youth shirt and a bicycle and a camera can do. He can roam the countryside, sometimes with his friends. Tours of installations would be set up for us. You’d be amazed how soldiers and officers will show things to a wee boy they wouldn’t show their own mothers. Anything I didn’t understand, I’d take a picture of; anytime I came across what I suspected was a Nazi dignitary, I’d get his autograph. You’d be surprised at the number of high Nazi officers who’d be moving about in great secrecy but would stop to sign their names on a slip of paper for a small boy. Ah, I was a wonder, I was.
“And I had a couple of friends I corresponded with all during these years, in Dublin. One was Timmy O’Brien, Master Timothy O’Brien, and the other was Master William Cavanaugh. I used to write them excited letters about my life, where I’d been and what I’d seen. I was full of the old Nazi malarkey—a bragging schoolboy, I was, if you read the letters. I’d get letters back, doubting my word. I’d send photographs and autographs, and every proof I had.
“Of course, my Da was the ghostwriter of my side of the correspondence. And both Masters O’Brien and Cavanaugh had their actual address in London, at headquarters for British Intelligence.”
“My God.”
“An unusual way to grow up. My father also was using the consulate to help sneak British and American filers out of the country, home again. It was all very difficult on my mother.”
“Is this true, Flynn?”
“I was fourteen at the end of the war. Munich was rubble. There was no food to be had. I expect you’ve seen the pictures. It’s all true.
“Before the Nazis withdrew, they shot my parents. Each of them. A single bullet between the eyes. In the kitchen of our apartment. I don’t think the Nazis had any evidence against them. I think it was one of those arbitrary murders. There were lots of such incidents, those days. I found them after standing an air raid watch.”
“What did you do then?”
“Oh, there were weeks and months to go yet. At first, I lived with the family of a friend. They didn’t have any food or heat, either. I was on the street, living under things that had already fallen down. Even after the surrender, there were weeks and weeks of wandering around. You see, I was afraid to go up to the British or American soldiers. An odd thing. I was afraid of them. Of course, I was half-crazy.
“One night, sleeping in an alley, I got the toe of a boot in my ribs. Someone spoke to me in the lilt. A soldier was standing over me. You can believe he got an earful of Irish like he’d never had!
“Then it was home for me, back to Dublin. I was put in a Jesuit seminary, if you’d believe it. I guess it was my choice. I’d seen hell, you see.
“I learned another logic, got my health back. By the age of twenty I was tired of truth. Can you understand that?”
“Of course.”
“The celibacy had worn thin, too. So I wrote friend of mine, Master William Cavanaugh, in London. I sent the letter direct this time. Asking for a job. I gather the letter caused a great laugh, among the old boys.
“The rest of my life is a blank.”
“I know you didn’t work in Chicago.”
“I know you know that. You did work in Chicago. What were you doing at the newspaper the other if you weren’t enquiring about me?”
“You became a spy again.”
“Did I say that?”
“But you married, and had kids.”
“I did that. An unusual thing for a lad who thought he’d be a priest to do.”
“Odd for a spy, too.”
“I wouldn’t say that, precisely.”
“Are you Catholic now?”
“Are the Catholics Catholic now, I’d want to know. My kids enjoy something or other, but what it is, I don’t know. They disappear on the Sundays with their guitars and violins and bang around in some church, shaking hands and kissing each other. They tell me it’s very exhilarating.”
“Your wife is Irish? American? What?”
“She’s from Palestine, a Jewish girl. I had a job of work to do out there in that area at one time. Would you believe we had to go to Fada to be married when she was pregnant? Neutral territory.”
“Flynn, your being a Boston policeman is a cover. It’s your cover.”
“Why don’t you pour yourself some fresh whiskey, lad?”
“That’s why you’ve said you have no experience as a policeman. You’ve never actually been a policeman.”
“I have to bumble along,” said Flynn. “Bumble along.”
“You became a Boston policeman just at the time the intelligence agencies were being investigated by Congress and everyone else throughout the world.”
“Have I said too much?” Flynn’s face was a study in innocence. “It must be the tea talking.”
“Can you still speak German?”
“In a way, it’s my natural tongue.”
“As a member of the Hitler Youth, did you ever actually have to pick up a gun and use it?‘
“I did, yes.”
“What happened?”
“In my confusion, I almost shot myself. I couldn’t shoot at the Allied troops advancing on Munich. I couldn’t shoot the lads I had been brought up with.”
“What did you do?”
“I cried. I lay down in a ditch of mud and I cried. I wasn’t fifteen yet, lad. I doubt I’d do anything different today.”
A heavy gust blew a sheet of rain against the windows.
“Now it’s your turn, Fletch.”
Twenty-four
Fletch mixed himself a second drink.
He said, “I doubt I have anything to say.”
Even through the thick walls of the building they could hear the wind.
“I’ve done this much on you,” said Flynn, from his chair. “Born and raised in Seattle. You have Bachelor’s and Master’s degrees from Northwestern. You didn’t complete your Ph.D.”
“The money ran out.”
Fletch sat down again in his chair.
“You concentrated in journalism and fine arts. You wrote on the arts for a newspaper in Seattle. Broke a story there regarding the illicit importing of pre-Columbian Canadian objects. You joined the Marine Corps, were sent to the Far East, and won the Bronze Star, which you have never accepted. You then worked as an investigative reporter for the Chicago Post. You broke several big stories there, as you did later for a newspaper in California. As an investigative reporter—not as a critic.”
“There’s a difference?”
“About eighteen months ago, you disappeared from southern California.”