Pushed forward by the officer, Ernst found himself beside the weeping Willi Brandt in a crowd of jostling SS troops, firing his pistol, as the others fired, into Cell 16. There, Gregor Strasser, winner of the Iron Cross, first class, devoted National Socialist and once the Führer’s friend, dodged back and forth, his eyes astonishingly bright, trying to avoid the hail of bullets. Finally, jerking spasmodically, he collapsed in his own blood and was given the coup de gr
â ce.
The cells stank of cordite and piss and the rank sweat of terror.
There were no names after that – only bodies spurting blood. Ernst went with the others, losing control of himself, firing his pistol in dark prison cells, in the hot, sunlit courtyards, then driving across the city to execute others in their homes, then on to the Lichterfeld Barracks – here, there and everywhere, through the day, into the night – murdering SA troops and government ministers and policemen and politicians.
He fell asleep in darkness, awakened to the new day, took part in more executions at Lichterfeld Barracks and Columbia House, an SS torture chamber, until, at approximately 0400 hours the following morning, he was finally allowed to holster his pistol and wash the blood from his hands.
Like his good friend Willi Brandt, he wept and then dried his stinging eyes.
He remembered returning home and telling Ingrid what had happened. He remembered, also, that she did not show any sympathy for his exhaustion, any understanding of his feelings of shame and horror, but only reviled him for what he had done, swore that she would never forgive him, and told him never to touch her again, because he would simply revolt her. That morning, as he lay on the sofa, he drew his strength from contempt for her.
He became a good Nazi.
CHAPTER SEVEN Wearing a gray suit, plain white shirt, and tie, Bradley was feeling more like a full-time lawyer and less like a disappointed, part-time intelligence agent when he picked up the telephone in his office high above Wall Street.
‘Miss Kinder?’ he checked tentatively. ‘The Miss Kinder, from Roswell, New Mexico?’
‘That’s right,’ Gladys Kinder replied. ‘You sound surprised, Mr
Bradley.’
‘Well, I certainly wasn’t expecting to hear from you, so, you know,
I was – ’
She chuckled in a familiar, oddly mocking manner. ‘Well, here I
am.’
‘Where, exactly?’
‘In the Algonquin Hotel. It’s famous for its famous resident writers,
so I wanted to stay here.’
‘What are you doing in New York?’ he asked, feeling guilty at how
pleased he was to hear her voice. ‘It’s a long way from Roswell.’ ‘I’m on my way to Europe,’ she replied, ‘and I’m sailing f'rom this
fair city, so I thought I’d give you a call. I remembered that you’d
taken a shine to me when we talked in your hotel, so I figured you’d at
least buy me a drink.’
‘I really don’t think – ’ he began, taken aback by her insolence,
embarrassed by her accuracy, and horrified that his secretary might be
listening. ‘I mean, I – ’
She chuckled with throaty amusement. ‘Oh, stop worrying, Mr
Bradley. I know you’re not the playboy type. I really called because
I've got some information that I think might intrigue you.’
‘What information?’ he asked carefully.
‘Wilson. You remember John Wilson?’
‘Yes,’ he replied, sitting up straight in his chair, even as the
mention of Wilson’s name revived his feelings of bitter
disappointment. ‘Of course I do. He’s the reason you and I met in the
first place, so...’
‘Still interested in him?’
‘Well, not exactly. I mean...’ He didn’t quite know how to phrase it.
He didn’t even want to think about it, since it made him mad and
frustrated. ‘That project’s sort of gone off the boil,’ he tried. ‘It kinda
got put on ice.’
‘Ah-ha!’
‘Right,’ Bradley responded, already feeling too emotional just
hearing her voice.
‘So explain, Bradley. I thought you were hot for Wilson.’ ‘I was, Gladys, but various things got in the way. Basically, it was
decided from above that what we had on Wilson wasn’t enough to
establish him as someone worth wasting good government money on.
In short, I was taken off Wilson’s case and given some others, so I
haven’t done anything about him for some time. I asked them to give
me a few more days, but they cut me dead on the spot.’
‘And when was that?’
‘A couple of days after I’d visited MIT to check Wilson’s
background and education. Since he’d gone from there to Cornell, I
was going to go there next, but when Taylor put a stop to the project...
Well, I was really disappointed and kinda lost interest.’
‘I’ve been to Cornell,’ Gladys said. ‘I went there to visit a friend
before leaving for Europe; and since Wilson had once told me that
that’s where he’d been educated, I decided to check his records while I
was there. I come cheap, so buy me lunch and I’ll give it all to you.’ At once embarrassed and charmed by her unusual boldness,
Bradley practically stuttered, ‘Well, I don’t know, Gladys. I’m pretty
busy here... and what with the project being put on ice and all... Well, I
‘You don’t want to see me before I leave for Europe?’
‘Well, yeah, I do, but...’
‘Then don’t make excuses. And believe me, Bradley, when you
have this information on Wilson, I don’t think you’ll have any problem
at all in reviving the project – so you win on both counts. Now, do you
want it or not?’
‘I want it,’ Bradley said, now excited for more than one reason.
‘Where and when can we meet?’
‘My ship leaves tomorrow, so can you meet me today? I’ve a prior
engagement for this evening,’ she said, sounding as if she was teasing
him, ‘so how about lunch right here?’
‘You can’t make it any other time?’
‘No.’
‘Then lunch it is.’
‘I’ll be at a table in the restaurant. One o’clock?’
‘Right,’ he said. Thanks for calling.’
‘My pleasure, Bradley.’
Feeling remarkably flustered, Bradley put the phone down just as
Mark, his eighteen-year-old son, entered the office. 'Hi, Dad,' he said. Mark was blessed with his mother’s warm brown eyes and sensitive
features, which no doubt helped, Bradley thought, with the many
young ladies he dated in Manhattan during the weekends. In fact,
Mark, though oddly shy, was a considerable ladies’ man who kept one
set of girlfriends in Manhattan, where he went to college, and another
in Connecticut, where he lived with the family on weekends. Bradley
had always liked people who could surprise him and Mark could
certainly do that.
‘Hi, kid,’ Bradley said, as his son took the chair at the other side of
his desk. ‘Is it lunchtime already?’
‘Yep, it sure is. Don’t tell me you were working too hard to notice.
I don’t fall for those tricks.’
Feeling guilty, Bradley grinned. ‘Did I promise you lunch today?’ ‘Yeah,’ Mark replied, ‘but I’m letting you off the hook. Since my
lecture’s been cancelled and I’ve got the afternoon free, I’m going to
have lunch with Gail Mitchell, who looks sweeter than you.’ ‘Gail Mitchell? Do
I know her?’
‘I don't think so. She lives in Brooklyn Heights. I met her through a
friend at college. She’s rich and impossibly attractive and too tall for
you.’
‘I may be only five-foot-seven,’ Bradley said, unburdened of his
guilt, ‘but what there is, is all man. Anyway, never mind. I was going
to disappoint you. I’m having an unexpected business lunch today, so
I'm glad you’re fixed up.’
‘Who are you lunching with?’
‘Dave Marsh,’ Bradley lied instinctively, impelled by the return of
the guilt caused by the thought of Gladys Kinder and using the name of
a friend he often met for lunch.
‘You mean that other lawyer?’
‘Right.’
‘I think I met him at home a few years ago.’
‘You did. We once invited him for Thanksgiving. He got drunk and
made a pass at your mother, which gave her a thrill. Anyway, since it’s
urgent, I had to cancel you and arrange to meet him instead.’ ‘Charming,’ Mark retorted.
‘Well, I knew you’d have a tall lady at hand, so I wasn’t too
worried. Come on, let’s go.’
They left the office, took the elevator down to Wall Street, and
stood outside on the busy, sunlit pavement.
‘Are you having a long afternoon or just lunch with your Amazon?’
Bradley asked.
‘Just lunch.’
‘Okay. Since it’s Friday afternoon, why not meet me on the
platform of the station at four sharp and we’ll go home together?’ ‘Sounds good,’ Mark said.
‘Okay, son, I’ll see you.’ When Mark had sauntered off along the
crowded sidewalk, Bradley grabbed a taxi to the Algonquin Hotel on
44th Street. He found Gladys Kinder already seated in a booth in the
Rose Room, drinking bourbon and smoking a cigarette.
She certainly looked her age, which she had said was thirty-eight,
but even in her old-fashioned clothes, which were doubtless the rage in
Roswell, she had an undeniable attractiveness and, at least to him, an
oddly opaque, provocative sensuality.
She made him feel slightly out of breath.
As he sat beside her in the banquette, wondering why she had
chosen it instead of an open table, she held up her glass, grinned
laconically, and said, ‘I’ve been on the wagon since last night, but I
couldn’t resist this. We working journalists are all the same.’ ‘It looks almost empty,’ Bradley observed. ‘Shall I order another
one?’
‘Why not?’ she responded.
‘Shall we also order the food?’
‘Sure,’ she said. ‘Why not?’
Instantly recalling her ability to hold her liquor, and also
remembering that when drinking she could be impish, Bradley ordered
two more bourbons. He went through the menu with her, ordered the
food for both of them, then, when the aperitifs had arrived, raised his
glass to her.
‘Cheers,’ he said.
‘Cheers, Mr Bradley,’ she replied, also raising her glass and
smiling.
‘Mike… Please call me Mike.’
‘That sounds really intimate, Mike – but what the hell, call me
Gladys. Not the most romantic name for a lady, but I’ve learnt to live
with it.’
He had to grin at that one. ‘You said you were on your way to
Europe. Did you really mean that?’
‘Yep. Sure did, partner. I never quite recovered from the way that
bastard Wilson left me, I didn't particularly like being a middle-aged
spinster in New Mexico, and so I wangled myself a job as foreign
correspondent to the Roswell Daily Record, which I’ve served so well
so far. Those good ol’ boys in Roswell always treated me fine, and
when I told them I needed to get away, this is what they came up with.
It doesn’t pay much, but I’ll get to see Europe, and I’ve dreamed about
that all my life.’
‘Based anywhere in particular?’
‘London. But I’m hoping to go on to Spain. I think things are
happening there.’
‘Bad things.’
‘I guess so.’
Over the meal, Bradley told her what he knew about Europe, which
was considerable, and all the time he felt himself falling into her, as if
in a dream. She wasn’t like the women he knew – she was rough-edged
and laconic – but that very difference, which seemed more pronounced
here, in these sophisticated surroundings, made her even more
attractive to him.
Talking about their first meeting in the Roswell hotel’s gloomy
lobby, she said, ‘You had the East Coast written all over you and I
thought that was cute.’ She also joked about how shocked he had
seemed when, after informing her that he was in Roswell to interview
the members of Goddard’s rocket team, she responded by not only
telling him she had been Wilson’s mistress, but by describing in
drunkenly mischievous, intimate detail just what she and her
remarkably youthful sixty-year-old lover had done together in bed.
‘You looked as shocked as a cheerleader trapped in a baseball team’s
locker room after a winning game. God, that was something!’ Finally
she reminded him that he had found her attractive, that she’d seen it in
his face, and that his blushing response to her teasing had simply
confirmed it.
‘Yes,’ Bradley murmured, ‘I guess it did.’
He had never had an affair before and certainly didn’t plan to start
one now, but when he thought of her going off to Europe, probably
never to be seen again, he was filled with an unutterable sense of loss.
It was an unexpected, inexplicable feeling, and it left him bewildered. So bewildered, in fact, that he almost forgot to ask her about Wilson – though eventually, over the coffee and brandy, he did get down to
business.
‘You said you’d been to Cornell,’ he reminded her. ‘Is that true or
not?’
Gladys turned more serious then. ‘Yeah,’ she said, ‘it’s true.’ Opening her handbag, she withdrew two sheets of typed notes,
unfolded them, and spread them out on the table. She was briefly
distracted by her brandy, but eventually, after imbibing and inhaling,
she exhaled smoke and started reading from her neatly typed notes. ‘Name: John Wilson. Born July 6, 1870, in Montezuma, Iowa, to
Cass and Ira Wilson, both listed as farmers. Attended elementary
school in Montezuma then high school in Des Moines. Stunning
reports from both schools for his academic achievements – though all
agreed that he seemed to have few friends and cared only for studying.
In the fall of 1888, when he was eighteen years old, he signed on at
MIT – reportedly, shortly after his mother died and his father sold their
farm in the Corn Belt and moved back to Worcester, Massachusetts,
his hometown. At MIT, Wilson studied aerodynamics, with particular
emphasis on the wind-tunnel experiments that took place in the
Engineering A Department. In 1893 – the same year his father died –
Wilson’s reports, in which every subject is listed as “exemplary,” thus
setting a college record, gained him entry to Sibley College, Cornell
University, where he studied experimental engineering. By 1895
he’d
obtained his bachelor of science degree in aeronautics and left Cornell.
The university records don’t say where he planned on going when he
left – but they do reveal that between 1896 and 1897 he returned
frequently to the university to attend the lectures of Octave Chanute.’ She stopped reading and raised her eyes from the notes. ‘Anything else?’ Bradley asked.
‘No,’ she replied. ‘At least not until he turned up, in the fall of
1930, to work for six months with Robert H. Goddard, whom we all
know and love as the controversial rocket scientist and a later, if more
renowned, MIT graduate.’
Bradley wrinkled his brow. ‘Did you say 1930?’
‘Yep.’
‘You mean there’s nothing on this guy from 1895 to 1930 – a
period of approximately thirty-five years?’
‘Not so far. He appears to have wiped his own tracks clean. We
don’t know what he did for a living following graduation, but we do know that he frequently returned informally to Cornell to attend Chanute’s lectures, given throughout 1896 and 1897. Then, when Wilson was twenty-seven years old, he dropped out of sight completely
– and he didn’t reappear until 1930, when he worked for six months with Robert Goddard, before disappearing again, as completely as he’d
done the first time.’
‘That’s incredible,' Bradley said, blowing another cloud of smoke.
‘A guy can’t disappear that completely for thirty-five years, then
suddenly turn up again at sixty years old!’
Gladys sighed. ‘So far that appears to be the case. Wilson seems to
be some kind of authentic genius. He obtained his BA in aeronautics
when they were very rare indeed, he claimed to Goddard that he’d
designed airships, and yet we can’t find a damned thing on what should
have been the most productive thirty-five years of his life.’ Bradley gave a low whistle.
‘Would that be possible in this day and age?’ Gladys asked
rhetorically. But before Bradley could open his mouth to reply, she
raised her index finger and asked, more emphatically: ‘One: Would a
man with that track record be capable of designing airships? And, two:
If he was capable of doing so, could he have done it in total secrecy for
so long?’
She glanced across the busy restaurant at the group of people
arguing noisily in a cloud of cigarette smoke at a table in the middle of