"And this was when you came across the words — Manhattan Project?"
"Yes. The first three files were personnel folders. I did not see the names. Of the last two, one involved this secret project. There is an agent — in Mexico, I think. Code name Die Wespe."
Die Wespe, Thatcher thought. The Wasp. "This agent, is he American?"
Klein shrugged. "I remember nothing else. There were only moments to look."
"What about the final file? You looked at this one as well?"
"Yes, briefly. It was a personnel dossier on the army captain. He lived in America before the war — this was circled — and he attended university there."
"Which one?"
The prisoner frowned in concentration and Thatcher scribbled away, increasingly sure that the man was giving all he could. "Harburg.. Harbor. Something like this."
"Harvard?"
"Harvard! Yes, that was it," Klein said.
"You're sure?"
"Yes."
Thatcher wrote down the name and circled it idly. Not that he would forget. Klein probably had no idea that Harvard was among America's most elite institutions of higher education. It was also, like Oxford and Cambridge, academic territory reserved for the children of the very wealthy and privileged. He thought it curious that a man from such a background might end up as an officer in the Wehrmacht.
"Give me a physical description of this man."
"Tall, strong build, blond hair. He wore a sniper's badge. And there was a scar — here." Klein pointed to his temple. "I also remember his name."
He motioned for the pen and paper with his cuffed hands, and Thatcher slid them over. Klein wrote the name, then proudly turned it toward his interrogator. Alexander Braun.
"There is one other thing" the prisoner added. "I saw a strange classification, a note handwritten on the cover of the folder. We file by a single letter, then a number. This one said 'U-801:"
"Why do you find this strange?"
"Because the U file doesn't go that high. Maybe fifty is the highest. And Braun starts with a B."
"So perhaps Braun was not his true name?"
"It is possible."
Possible, Thatcher thought. So much was possible.
The interview lasted another twenty minutes. Convinced that Corporal Klein had given his all, he released the man to the custody of the guard. Thatcher quickly made his way out of The Stage, wondering if the Americans were still watching.
As he walked down the hall, the word Roger Ainsley had spoken yesterday suddenly came back. Demobilized. Thatcher wondered how long he had. Might this be his last case before heading back to university? Civil Law and Procedure. The Rules of Evidence. How trite it all seemed in the face of a world turned upside-down.
Of course, someday the world would right itself. Thatcher only hoped he could do the same.
Chapter 9
The meeting reconvened in Ainsley s office an hour later, a round-table discussion of the slim facts. As earlier, Jones sequestered himself from the conversation, staring out the window with a brooding expression that mirrored the slate gray sky outside.
"Not much to go on, but he was very consistent," Ainsley said.
"Yes," Rasmussen agreed. He seemed to look to Jones for guidance. "It all sounds pretty sketchy. I'm not sure if it's worth pursuing."
"I found it compelling," Thatcher disagreed. "We should have another go tomorrow. I'd like to try to jog his memory on this Braun fellow. We know where he went to school before the war. If I called there and—"
"No!" Jones broke in. "No. We're done here." He moved to the coat rack. "Colonel Ainsley, there is no need to pursue this matter any further. Keep Klein in solitary until we approve his release."
"We told him he'd be released in two months," Thatcher countered. "And surely solitary can't be necessary."
"Keep him isolated until we tell you otherwise. It might be two months or two years."
"But we agreed—"
"Major" Jones cut in again, "that man is a Nazi!"
"He's a soldier"
"Soldier or not, he's locked down. And I will also require the two of you to maintain absolute silence about this."
Thatcher limped over to Jones and stood in his face. "You'll require us? What the bloody hell does that mean?"
Jones shrugged his baggy coat over his shoulders and said, "It means that by the end of the day you will have very specific, written orders relating to this matter. Drop it and zip your lips. That's it!"
The civilian strode out the door, Colonel Rasmussen tagging along behind.
Thatcher bristled. "Who the devil does he think he is?"
In a practical sense, Thatcher and Ainsley found out three hours later. The orders came straight from the War Office. Isolate Klein indefinitely, and don't breathe a word about any of it.
Ainsley broke the news to his friend over an ale at the Cock and Thistle.
"This has come from the very top, Michael. We must honor it."
Thatcher studied his Guinness. "Bloody eejits! It doesn't make sense, Roger."
"What do you mean?"
"If this Manhattan Project is such a minor issue, why all the huff?"
"So there's more to it. The Yanks want to investigate the matter themselves."
"But they're not! That's what doesn't follow. If it was a breach of some critical program, they'd be grilling poor Klein six ways. Instead, they order him locked down, tell us to shut up, and disappear."
Ainsley shrugged and took a long pull on his mug.
Thatcher continued, "It's something terrifically important, I tell you. Braun, Wespe, and this Manhattan Project — it all goes beyond the war."
"Our hands are tied, Michael." Thatcher didn't respond and Ainsley gave him a stern look. "Tied, I tell you!"
"Of course, Roger."
A hard silence fell. Thatcher looked to the wall at the back of the bar. There were two dozen photographs of young men and women. They were nailed into every space, a makeshift memorial to the locals who had given their lives for the cause. Each would have had families, friends, comrades-in-arms. So many, Thatcher thought. So much suffering. He paid for the round and told Ainsley he was going home.
They both knew it was a lie.
It wasn't so strange, Braun thought, being a spy. In a way he felt like he'd been one his entire life. He had taken a gunfighter's seat in the posh restaurant — his back to the wall and with a commanding view of the entrance. It seemed a natural precaution.
He'd only been in America for thirty hours and, though exhausted, everything was falling well into place. The truck he'd stolen yesterday in Westhampton was now parked amid a half dozen similar rigs at a roadside restaurant, this one far busier than the place where he'd first found it. The choice of the truck had been fortuitous. It was a mover's truck, delivering the worldly possessions of some well-to-do family. Braun had stuffed a suitcase with clothes, which were far better in fit and quality than the squat driver's, along with a considerable collection of jewelry. The driver himself, minus eighteen dollars that had been in his pocket, was now folded neatly into a large trunk at the front of the trailer, and the rear doors secured by a padlock.
Next had come a bus ride into the city, and a night in an anonymous hotel in the borough of Queens. This morning, an inexpensive breakfast prepared him for the riskiest maneuver — quietly exchanging the jewelry for cash. Claiming it to be an inheritance, Braun split the collection and pawned it at three different shops. He allowed the merchants a steep premium for cash, knowing the magnitude of the bargain would suppress any unease about the source of the goods. In the end, he pocketed three hundred eighty dollars — more than he'd ever had in his life.