Heroes, David Hagberg [me reader .txt] 📗

his window, tossed it out, and cranked the window back up before he got out of the car.

No one had come in, or out, of the apartments. At least, not the back way. And as far as he could tell, there was no one obviously watching him from any of the windows. If she was any good at all, though, he’d never be able to detect her in the darkness.

Back here in the parking lot, there was very little light. The street lamp just out front was burned out, and the one up the street was too far away to provide much in the way of illumination this far back.

There were two buildings to the left, two straight ahead, and a pair to the right. She had called her escort Bernard. Perhaps that had been his clue.

Schey went up the snow-covered walk and entered the nearest building. He had to go down the corridor to the front of the building before he found the mail slots. There were a dozen nameplates. Johnson, Appleton, Jankowski … no Bernards, first or last name. He slipped out the front door, hurried up the walk, and entered the second building straight ahead from his car.

He found what he was looking for almost immediately, although at first he simply could not believe his own eyes. It was a monstrous out-of-kilter joke. So terrible, so almighty obvious, that no one would ever suspect. It was like playing the childhood game of hide-the-thimble.

The nameplate for apartment 3D was in the name of Eva Braun. The Fiihrer’s girlfriend. The one German name recognizable anywhere in the world.

He went to the stairs and listened. The building was very quiet, but from a long way off, possibly on the second floor, he thought he could hear faint talking. Or perhaps a radio. But the harder he listened, the less certain he became of-what he was hearing, or if he was hearing anything at all.

Schey took the first flight of stairs two at a time, silently gliding up to the second floor, where in the dimly lit corridor he looked left, then right. The voices had faded so that he could not hear them at all.

A toilet flushed somewhere as he started up, and then a second later a door closed. He froze, holding his breath to listen. But there was nothing. The building was quiet.

He started up again, when a man appeared on the stairs above him. Their eyes met, and for an instant Schey read puzzlement there. It was his contact’s escort, the man she had called Bernard.

Schey immediately lowered his head and continued up as if he belonged here, passing the man two-thirds of the way up, then rounding the corner into the corridor at the top.

He stopped and listened. There were no sounds on the stairs for a moment or two, but then he heard the man say something to himself and head down.

Did he recognize me, Schey wondered. He tensed, waiting for the sounds of the man turning around and coming up again. But the sounds gradually faded, and Schey thought he heard the front door open and close, and then there was silence.

He breathed a sigh of relief, then turned and went to the end of the corridor where, at apartment D, he put his ear to the door.

He could hear music very faintly. But nothing else. He knocked.

The music stopped.

“Yes?” a woman called from within. “Bernard. Is that you?”

“I’m looking for the correct time. In England.” Schey said, keeping his voice low.

“Greenwich time?” the woman asked.

“Yes. Zulu time.”

The lock snapped and the door opened. The woman from the Reflecting Pool, the one who on the nameplate downstairs called herself Eva Braun, stood there looking up at him. Her eyes were wide, her nostrils flared, and her lips pursed. His first thought was how good-looking she was, and then she was pulling him into her apartment.

She closed and locked the door, then spun around. “Did you see Bernard?” she asked urgently.

She was wearing a black dress with a Navy collar and a pleated bodice. “We passed on the stairway.”

“Goddamn … oh goddamn,” she swore. She was evidently trying to think it out. “I saw you pulling up and waiting down there. I was in the bedroom for a minute. Bernard was out here.

But he’ll be back. Damn!”

“Who is he?”

“Bernard Montisier. He works in the War Department, over on C Street. He’s a jerk, but he’s been good cover. He’s jealous as all hell.”

“Give me my papers and ration books and money and I’ll be gone, Fraiilein …”

“Eva Braun. It’s on my birth certificate,” she said with a laugh. “But you’re not going anywhere. Bernard will either be back up here or he’ll wait outside until you come out. And then he’ll beat hell out of you.”

Her speech was colloquial. She looked American, or perhaps Swedish, with her light hair, lovely large pale eyes, round face, sensuous lips, and full figure. He found himself comparing her to Catherine. Plain Katy whom he had loved against all the rules and odds.

“And if I don’t leave? Won’t he eventually become suspicious and come up here?”

“Yes, he will. And I’ll let him in. And he can look around … a little. And we’ll argue, but he won’t find you. With any luck,” she added. She was listening at the door. “Did he recognize you?”

“He might have.”

“You’re all he talked about all evening. He thought we were having a secret rendezvous. He thought we were lovers.”

“Any chance he’s an FBI man?”

She looked sharply at him. “You’re on the run, aren’t you?”

Schey nodded.

She shook her head after a moment. “Bernard’s too stupid.

Even Hoover doesn’t pick them that dumb.”

Schey let his gaze wander around the apartment. It was a good size and reasonably well furnished. Whoever this woman was, she was definitely well connected. These apartments, contrary to the matchbook advertisement, may not have been where the elite gathered, but the poor didn’t congregate here either.

She stiffened. “Here he comes,” she whispered.