‘Tell me about Mitzer.'
'He was picked up by our troops at the end of the war. With another scientist, Heinrich Spiedal. Mitzer was heavily involved with the administration at both Nordhausen and Peenemünde. In the end we didn’t need Mitzer and he stayed on in Germany. With his knowledge, it doesn't take much to see why he became such a high flyer in West Germany.'
'And this Heinrich…Spiedal, was it?'
'That's Trimmler.'
'An ex-Nazi?'
'Name change because of past connections. You know what happened with the Paperclip conspiracies. We just hijacked them over here, changed some of their names, and conveniently forgot about their war records. When it got out, it created one helluva stink.'
'At least it got us going in the space race.'
'And the computer?' asked the Exec Director.
'Most of those scientists had links with our computers. Hell, they were in on the ground floor. In the early days, every government department was helping each other. They could've planted a virus.'
'Sounds unlikely.'
'We also deal with a company in Germany called Mitzer Metelwerk Gmb. They supply various hardware parts for us. Their people come over here and install and service some of our machines. Usually in non-secure areas, but still linked to the main frame.'
'Mitzer Metelwerk. I don't have to ask who owns that?'
'Grob Mitzer.'
There was silence for a while as all three absorbed this latest information.
'Industrial espionage?' asked the DDI eventually. 'Maybe Trimmler's been helping Mitzer to our space technology and now he's running scared.'
'No,' replied the Exec Director. 'They wouldn't knock off our asset base for that. And where’s that leave the Russians'?'
‘Maybe they stumbled onto something.'
'That don't stack up. Who’s going to take on the CIA and the KGB? What've we got on Trimmler's past?'
'Not a much,' said the DDA. 'When we accessed his file, the virus went to work. Operation Paperclip, in its early days, was handled by the OSS and then the other secret services. All that information is under the 1945 to 1958 file. We can't get to it without corrupting the system.'
'So did we find out about Mitzer?'
'Through our the German station…'
'You contacted my people?' barked the DDI.
'Yes.'
'You should'a gone through me. Fuck it, it makes me look like I don't know what's happening. Even in in my own department.'
'I said you were aware of the situation.' He lied in front of the Exec Director.
'You should've still cleared it with me.' The DDI sat back huffily, irritated with himself for letting his cool exterior slip.
'We needed the information fast,' the DDA purred on, pleased that he had needled his counterpart. 'The information on Goodenache and Spied…Trimmler, was on their file. Mitzer once gave a magazine interview where he talked about how he had been at Peenemünde and how he escaped with two scientists.'
'And he named those scientists?' asked the Exec Director.
'Yes, sir.'
'Has he any links with the Russians?'
'None. He kept his head down and built up his business. No known involvement with any political organisations whatsoever.'
'Any other way of finding out about Trimmler?'
‘Now we’re chasing it something could break. Won’t be easy. Hell, it was nearly fifty years ago.'
'Give it all to the Russkies. There's nothing in there to cause us any embarrassment. In the meantime, see what you can dig up on Trimmler.'
'I'll deal with that,' the DDI reacted quickly, determined to regain the lost ground.
'I also want information on Mitzer. Get that from the German station,' the Exec Director swung back to the DDA. 'See what the Russians have got on Mitzer and on Goodenache. I'll give you fifty-to-one his files were in that fire. ‘
'They'd say that even if they weren't,' interjected the DDI.
'And keep a close watch on Trimmler. He could still be a target.'
'Can I put a team in?'
'Not yet. Until the computer snag's resolved we keep everything under wraps. Get Tucker to report his movements back to you.'
'He might need some help,' said the DDA.
'Okay, but low profile.'
The DDA nodded. He would send Carter down to New Orleans in the morning.
'Can we pull out the Brit?' asked the DDI.
'No. We don't upset London. If things go wrong, we can always pass the buck there. Keep him in the dark. Just tell him he's there to protect Trimmler, as he always was. Limeys! Too bloody polite. They were always the easiest to fuck. And thanked you for the privilege afterwards.'
Ch. 36
Bright winter sunshine, seventy degrees and a swirl of colour, sound and people on the streets as the clock clanged six p.m. in Jackson Square where they once hung the thieves, beheaded the murderers, burnt the witches and broke the rapists on the wheel.
New Orleans. The French Quarter. Watch your fantasies be born, flourish and die in the time it takes you to walk from one end of Royal Street to the other. A place where anyone can make a dream come true, as long as they've got the endurance and the dollars in their pocket. How the American Dream was before popcorn, Coca Cola and Tyrone Power.
Adam and Billie, having agreed to meet Frankie in his cab at seven thirty, had walked up Canal Street from the Hilton, past the new department stores and turned down Royal Street into the area known as the French Quarter.
Lined with elegant Spanish colonial buildings, their upper balconies jutting out over the sidewalk with their slim cast iron balustrades, Royal Street stretched from Canal to Esplanade, parallel to Bourbon Street. Sealed off to traffic, with the exception of black helmetted policemen who rode the streets on their futuristic shaped scooters, the street was crowded with the swell of tourists.
The fat boy, all three hundred quivering pounds encased in a tight white T-shirt and black elastic shorts with a zip up the back, was the first musician they saw. He walked along, twelve string guitar strapped over his shoulder and square cardboard box in hand, looking for a place to park up and troubadour the crowd. They followed him, but never heard the curly haired fat boy sing.
'Maybe he just doesn't,' said Billie. 'Maybe he just likes everyone to think he can sing.'
Adam was surprised by the lack of jazz players; he had expected to see them on every street corner. She told him they worked in the clubs and only came out at night when the Quarter livened up.
'This is just for the gawkers,' she said. 'No-one makes money out of gawking.'
He was happy to listen, to take it all in. Dressed in a pink cotton shirt and pleated charcoal grey trousers he had bought in a local shop, Adam was the cultured European out on the town. Over his arm he draped his black blazer, elegant in style, heavy enough to carry the Browning 9mm in the pocket.
She liked walking with him. Short as he was, he attracted the attention of others, was a man women liked to admire. She was pleased to be next to him, even if her clothes were Californian casual and not European chic.
Further down the road, a clown, white faced and red nosed in a multicoloured jump suit, handed out balloons to passing children. A folk singer, singing Kristofferson songs in a Dylan voice, leant against the wall behind him, his efforts unrewarded by the lack of pennies in his upturned Lennon hat. The fat boy avoided the singer and crossed the road, his guitar wobbling along with him. The singer grinned as he saw the fat boy; 'wearing yesterday's misfortunes like a smile,' he sang.