Ross Thomas - The Eighth Dwarf

“Bookbinder tells me that the Russians want Oppenheimer real bad. If they can’t track him down themselves, they’re even willing to buy him.”

“From whom?”

“From whoever’s got him for sale.” They had started walking again, but Meyer stopped so that he could stare at Jackson without any liking. “I suppose that means you — and that creepy little pal of yours.”

“I’m working for Leah Oppenheimer.”

“Sure you are.”

“You don’t believe it?”

“I don’t know what to believe about you, buddy, except that I don’t trust you. Or that dwarf. Neither does Bookbinder. Up in Bonn he wants me to ride your ass, and if you start to go sour, I’ve got orders to stop you — even if it means bringing the British in. You understand?”

“I understand.”

“Now we get to the part that I really don’t like. It’s a personal message to you straight from Washington. It’s supposed to be funny, I guess, but I don’t think it’s very funny at all.”

“Go to it.”

“Okay. This is it, and it’s an exact quote: ‘Don’t sell until you hear our final offer.’ You got it?”

“I’ve got it.”

“You understand it?”

“Maybe.”

Lieutenant Meyer nodded coldly. “Yeah, I thought you would.” Then he turned and walked back to the Ford sedan.

Because of bad roads and worse bridges it took them nearly three hours to reach Remagen. The dwarf had sung most of the way, more loudly than usual in order to make himself heard over the old car’s big engine. For the last hour he had been singing German drinking songs. When he hadn’t been singing, the dwarf had recounted the histories of the castles they passed. He seemed to know stories about all of them.

They stopped at Remagen for a glass of wine and because Jackson wanted to see what was left of the bridge that the U.S. Army had used to first cross the Rhine.

“You’ve been along here before, of course,” Ploscaru said as they got back into the car and started off again.

“A long time ago. Before the war.”

“You remember the stories about this region?”

“Some of them.”

“Roland built his castle here in Remagen, you know. He had been courting the fair Hildegunde, who was the daughter of the Count of Drachenfels. But then Roland went off to fight the Moors in Spain, and when he returned he found Hildegunde had become a nun. So he built his castle and sat moping in it until she died and then went off to fight the Moors some more. There it is — over there on your left — the Rolandsbogen. Roland’s Arch.”

“So it is,” Jackson said, not slowing down.

“Now a little farther up we’ll catch our first really good view of the Siebengebirge, the seven mountains.”

“Where Siegfried hung out.”

“Right. After he killed the dragon he bathed in its blood, you remember, which made him immune to any wound — except for a very small spot between his shoulder blades.” Ploscaru sighed. “It’s not a very original myth — almost a direct steal from Achilles and his heel; but then, the Germans never were the most original of people, not even in their mythmaking.”

“As I remember, there were some other folks who’re supposed to be running around up there in the Siebengebirge.”

“Really? Who?”

“Snow White and the Seven Dwarfs.”

Ploscaru smiled slightly, even a little sadly. “And now there’ll be eight, won’t there?”

They encountered the British roadlbock on highway B 9 just as it reached the Bonn suburb of Bad Godesberg. A British sergeant accompanied by two privates approached the car and asked Jackson and Ploscaru for their passports.

“You might also want to look at this, Sergeant,” Jackson said, handing over the laissez-passer. The Sergeant examined the passports first. He took his time, glancing several times back and forth between the passport photos and the occupants of the Mercedes. He then leisurely opened the envelope and read the letter that it contained. If the four-star General’s signature was supposed to impress him, his face didn’t show it. He might have been reading the trolley schedule. He slowly refolded the letter, tucked it carefully back into its envelope, and handed it back along with the passports.

“You’ll be staying in Bonn?” he said.

“Bad Godesberg,” the dwarf said.

“Where?”

“The Godesberg Hotel.”

The Sergeant nodded thoughtfully. “All right, gentlemen. You can go.”

The Sergeant watched as the old Mercedes rolled away. Then he turned to one of the privates and said, “Get on the blower to the Major, Charlie, and tell him that the Yank and the midget will be staying at the Godesberg.”

The Godesberg Hotel was not the best hotel in either Bonn or Bad Godesberg. The best hotel was probably the Dreesen, where Hitler and Neville Chamberlain had met in 1938 just prior to Munich. However, Bonn had never been known for its hotels, but rather for its university and for being the birthplace of Beethoven, who had left as soon as he could for Vienna and the company of Mozart and Haydn, never to return. The war had nearly bypassed Bonn, although allied bombing and artillery had managed to destroy what some claimed was 30 percent of the city, although others charged that this estimate was far too high.

In its first postwar year Bonn remained what it had always been since the Romans founded it in 12 B.C. — sleepy, which was a guidebook euphemism for dull. And if Bonn was sleepy, Bad Godesberg was unconscious.

The Godesberg Hotel was a three-story building on a side street just off the Ringsdorf. Jackson and Ploscaru had only time enough to check in, unpack, and settle down in the dwarf’s room over a drink before someone started knocking at the door.

The dwarf opened it, looked up, and smiled. “Well,” he said, “what a delightful surprise. Do come in, Gilbert — and your friend, too.”

Maj. Gilbert Baker-Bates, dressed, in a tweed jacket and gray trousers, came into the room, followed by the man with yellow hair. Jackson decided that the jacket and trousers were the same that Baker-Bates had worn in Mexico. He tried to remember what the pay of a British major was, but couldn’t. He wondered whether it would be worthwhile finding out, but decided not. The dwarf would know. The dwarf always knew things like that.

Once in the room, Baker-Bates didn’t look at Ploscaru. Instead, he let his gaze wander around. When it reached Jackson he nodded, the way one might nod to a dimly remembered acquaintance at a large but dull cocktail party.

Still not looking at Ploscaru, Baker-Bates said, “How are you, Nick?”

“Well. Quite well, in fact. And you?”

Baker-Bates turned to the yellow-haired man. “This one’s Ploscaru, of course. And that one over there is Jackson. Minor Jackson.”

The yellow-haired man nodded, but only once.

Ploscaru smiled up at him. “I don’t believe I’ve had the pleasure.”

“It’s not going to be one, Nick. His name’s Von Staden. Heinrich von Staden. He’s your new nanny. Where you go, he goes.”

“Von Staden,” Ploscaru murmured. “Von Staden. Yes, I seem to remember now. You were one of Canaris’s bright young men, weren’t you? In Madrid for quite a while, I believe.”

Von Staden said nothing. Instead, he continued to examine the dwarf as if trying to decide whether to add him to some collection.

Rebuffs, however, were Ploscaru’s specialty and had been for a long time. He smiled cheerfully and said, “Let’s all have a drink, Gilbert, and Minor will show you a letter that you should find most interesting.”

“We’ll take the drink, but there’s no need to wave that letter around. I know what’s in it and who signed it, and I’m not impressed. One misstep and we clap you in jail, both of you, and if there’s a fuss, well, we’ll let Berlin sort it out.”