Irwin Shaw - Short Stories - Five Decades

“Yes,” said Garbrecht.

“You’re sure,” Seedorf said inquiringly, smiling a little at Garbrecht, “you’re sure you don’t know these men?”

Then Garbrecht knew that Seedorf knew he was lying, but it was too late to do anything about it.

“I don’t know them,” he said.

“I could have sworn …” Seedorf shrugged. “No matter.” He got up from the desk, carrying the slip of paper, and came over to the chair where Garbrecht was sitting. “Some day, my friend,” he said, putting his hand lightly on Garbrecht’s shoulder, “some day you will learn that you will have to trust me, too. As a matter of …” He laughed. “A matter of discipline.”

He handed Garbrecht the slip of paper and Garbrecht put it in his pocket and stood up. “I trust you, sir,” he said flatly. “I have to.”

Seedorf laughed uproariously. “I like a good answer,” he shouted. “I do like a good answer.” He put his arm around Garbrecht in a brotherly hug. “Remember,” he said, “my first and only lesson—the one principle in being a hired informer is to tell the man who is paying you exactly what he wishes to hear. Any information must fit into theories which he already holds. Then he will trust you, pay you well, regard you as a more and more valuable employee. However …” and he laughed again, “do not try to work this on me. I am different. I don’t pay you … and therefore, I expect the truth. You will remember that?” He turned Garbrecht around quite roughly and peered into his eyes. He was not smiling now.

“Yes, sir,” said Garbrecht. “I will remember it.”

“Good.” Seedorf pushed him toward the door. “Now go downstairs and talk to Miss Renner. She will make all arrangements.”

He pushed Garbrecht gently through the door and closed it sharply behind him. Garbrecht stared at the closed door for a moment, then walked slowly downstairs to Miss Renner.

Later, on the street, on his way to Mikhailov’s office, he tried not to think of Seedorf’s conversation, or the ingenious, deadly device that even now was waiting for him on the other side of the city.

He felt like stopping and leaning his head against the cold, cracked brick wall of a gutted house he was passing, to weep and weep in the twisting, cutting wind. After so much, after all the fighting, all the death, after the operating room in the brewery at Stalingrad, a man should be entitled to something, some peace, some security. And, instead, this onrushing dilemma, this flirtation with next week’s death, this life of being scraped against every rock of the jagged year by every tide that crashed through Germany. Even numbness was no longer possible.

He shuffled on dazedly, not seeing where he was going. He stumbled over a piece of pavement that jutted crazily up from the sidewalk. He put out his hand to try to steady himself, but it was too late, and he fell heavily into the gutter. His head smashed against the concrete, and he felt the hot laceration of broken stone on the palm of his hand.

He sat up and looked at his hand in the dim light. There was blood coming from the dirty, ripped wounds, and his head was pounding. He sat on the curb, his head down, waiting for it to clear before he stood up. No escape, he thought, heavily, there never would be any escape. It was silly to hope for it. He stood up slowly, and continued on his way to Mikhailov’s office.

Mikhailov was crouched over his desk, the light of a single lamp making him look froglike and ugly as he sat there, without looking up at Garbrecht. “… Tell the man who is paying you exactly what he wishes to hear.…” Garbrecht could almost hear Seedorf’s mocking, hearty voice. Maybe Seedorf knew what he was talking about. Maybe the Russian was that foolish, maybe the American was that suspicious.… Suddenly, Garbrecht knew what he was going to tell Mikhailov.

“Well?” Mikhailov said finally, still peering down at his desk. “Anything important? Have you found out anything about that new man the Americans are using?”

Mikhailov had asked him to find out what he could about Dobelmeir last week, but Garbrecht had silently resolved to keep his mouth shut about the American. If he said too much, if he slipped once, Mikhailov would become suspicious, start prying, set someone on Garbrecht’s trail. But now he spoke in a loud, even voice. “Yes,” he said. “He is a second generation German-American. He is a lawyer in Milwaukee in civilian life. He was under investigation early in the war because he was said to have contributed to the German-American Bund in 1939 and 1940.” Garbrecht saw Mikhailov slowly raise his head and look at him, his eyes beginning to glisten with undisguised interest. It’s working, Garbrecht thought, it actually is working. “The case was never pressed,” he went on calmly with his invention, “and he was given a direct commission late in the war and sent to Germany on special orders. Several members of his family are still alive in the British zone, Hamburg, and a cousin of his was a U-boat commander in the German Navy and was sunk off the Azores in 1943.”

“Of course,” said Mikhailov, his voice triumphant and satisfied. “Of course. Typical.” He did not say what it was typical of, but he looked at Garbrecht with an expression that almost approached fondness.

“There are two things you might work on for the next few weeks,” Mikhailov said. “We’ve asked everyone working out of this office to pick up what he can on this matter. We are quite sure that the Americans have shipped over a number of atomic bombs to Great Britain. We have reason to believe that they are being stored in Scotland, within easy distance of the airfield at Prestwick. There are flights in from Prestwick every day, and the crews are careless. I would like to find out if there are any preparations, even of the most preliminary kind, for basing a group of B-29’s somewhere in that area. Skeleton repair shops, new fuel storage tanks, new radar warning stations, et cetera. Will you see if you can pick up anything?”

“Yes, sir,” said Garbrecht, knowing that for Mikhailov’s purpose he would make certain to pick up a great deal.

“Very good,” said Mikhailov. He unlocked the drawer in his desk and took out the money. “You will find a little bonus here,” he said with his mechanical smile.

“Thank you, sir,” said Garbrecht, picking up the money.

“Till next week,” Mikhailov said.

“Till next week,” said Garbrecht. He saluted and Mikhailov returned the salute as Garbrecht went out the door.

Although it was dark and cold outside, and his head was still throbbing from his fall, Garbrecht walked lightly, grinning to himself, as he moved toward the American zone.

He didn’t see Dobelmeir till the next morning. “You might be interested in these men,” he said, placing before the Major the slip of paper with the names of the men Seedorf had instructed him to denounce. “They are paid agents for the Russians, and the address is written down there, too.”

Dobelmeir looked at the names, and a slow, delighted grin broke over his heavy face. “Very, very interesting,” he said. “Excellent.” His large hand went slowly over the crumpled paper, smoothing it out in a kind of dull caress. “I’ve had some more inquiries for information about that Professor I asked you to check. Kittlinger. What did you find out?”

Garbrecht had found out, more by accident than anything else, that the Professor, an aging, obscure physics teacher in the Berlin Medical School, had been killed in a concentration camp in 1944, but he was sure that there was no record anywhere of his death. “Professor Kittlinger,” Garbrecht said glibly, “was working on nuclear fission from 1934 to the end of the war. Ten days after the Russians entered Berlin, he was arrested and sent to Moscow. No word has been heard since.”