“Seems to be,” the runner said. It was clear he too knew boxing wasn’t the strong suit of the American team but Owens wasn’t inclined to criticize a fellow athlete. Paul had heard that the Negro was among the most genial of the Americans; he’d come in second in the most-popular-athlete-on-board contest last night, after Glenn Cunningham.
“I’d offer you a ciggie…”
Owens laughed. “Not for me.”
“I’ve pretty much given up offering butts and hits from my flask. You folks’re too damn healthy.”
Another laugh. Then silence for a moment as the solid Negro looked out to sea. “Say, Paul. I got a question. You here officially?”
“Officially?”
“With the committee, I mean? Maybe like a guard?”
“Me? Why do you say that?”
“You sort of seemed like a, well, soldier or something. And then, the way you were fighting. You knew what you were doing.”
“I was in the War. That’s probably what you noticed.”
“Maybe.” Then Owens added, “Course that was twenty years ago. And those two fellows I’ve seen you talking with. They’re navy. We heard ’em talking to one of the crew.”
Brother, another trail of clues.
“Those two guys? Just bumped into ’em on board. I’m bumming a ride with you folks… Doing some stories about sports, boxing in Berlin, the Games. I’m a writer.”
“Oh, sure.” Owens nodded slowly. He seemed to debate for a moment. “Well, if you’re a reporter, you still might know something ’bout what I was going to ask you. Just wondering if you heard anything about those two fellows?” He nodded at some men on the deck nearby, running in tandem, passing the relay baton. They were lightning fast.
“Who’re they?” Paul asked.
“Sam Stoller and Marty Glickman. They’re good runners, some of the best we’ve got. But I heard a rumor they might not run. Wondered if you knew anything about that.”
“Nope, nothing. You mean some qualification problem? Injury?”
“I mean because they’re Jewish.”
Paul shook his head. He recalled there was a controversy about Hitler not liking Jews. There was some protest and talk about moving the Olympics. Some people even wanted the U.S. team to boycott the Games. Damon Runyon had been all hot under the collar about the country even participating. But why would the American committee pull some athletes because they were Jewish? “That’d be a bum deal. Doesn’t seem right by a long shot.”
“No, sir. Anyway, I was just thinking maybe you’d heard something.”
“Sorry, can’t help you, friend,” Paul said.
They were joined by another Negro. Ralph Metcalfe introduced himself. Paul knew about him too. He’d won medals in the Los Angeles Olympics in ’32.
Owens noticed Vince Manielli looking down at them from an upper deck. The lieutenant nodded and started for the stairs.
“Here comes your buddy. That you just met on board.” Owens had a sly grin on his face, not completely convinced that Paul’d been on the level. The Negro’s eyes looked forward, at the growing strip of land. “Imagine that. We’re almost in Germany. Never thought I’d be traveling like this. Life can be a pretty amazing thing, don’t you think?”
“That it can,” Paul agreed.
The runners said good-bye and jogged off.
“Was that Owens?” Manielli asked, walking up and leaning against the railing. He turned his back to the wind and rolled a cigarette.
“Yep.” Paul pulled a Chesterfield out of a pack, lit it in cupped hands and offered the matches to the lieutenant. He too lit up. “Nice man.”
Though a little too sharp, Paul thought.
“Damn, that man can run. What’d he say?”
“We were just shooting the breeze.” In a whisper: “What’s the situation with our friend down below?”
“Avery’s handling it,” Manielli said ambiguously. “He’s in the radio room. Be here in a minute.” A plane flew overhead, low. They watched it for several minutes in silence.
The kid still seemed shaken by the suicide. Not in the same way Paul was, though: because the death told him something troubling about the people he was going up against. No, the sailor was upset because he’d just seen death up close – and for the first time, it was pretty clear. Paul knew there were two kinds of punks. They both talked loud and they both blustered and they both had strong arms and big fists. But one kind would leap for the chance to give knuckle and take it – touching the ice – and the other wouldn’t. It was the second category that Vince Manielli fell into. He was really just a good boy from the neighborhood. He liked to sling out words like “button man” and “knock off” to show he knew what they meant, but he was as far from Paul’s world, though, as Marion was – Marion, the good girl who flirted with bad.
But, like the mob boss Lucky Luciano had once told him, “Flirting ain’t fucking.”
Manielli seemed to be waiting for Paul to comment on the dead sap, Heinsler. Something about the guy deserving to die. Or that he was nuts in the head. People always wanted to hear that about somebody who died. That it was their own fault or they deserved it or it was inevitable. But death is never symmetrical and tidy, and the button man had nothing to say. A thick silence filled the space between them and a moment later Andrew Avery joined them. He was carrying a folder of papers and an old battered leather briefcase. He looked around. There was no one within earshot. “Pull up a chair.”
Paul found a heavy wooden white deck chair and carried it over to the sailors. He didn’t need to carry it in one hand, would’ve been easier in two, but he liked seeing Manielli’s blink when he hefted the furniture and swung it over without a grunt. Paul sat down.
“Here’s the wire,” the lieutenant whispered. “The commander’s not so worried about this Heinsler guy. The Allocchio Bacchini’s a small wireless; it’s made for fieldwork and airplanes, short range. And even if he got a message off, Berlin probably wouldn’t pay it much attention. The bund’s an embarrassment to them. But Gordon said it’s up to you. If you want out, that’s okay.”
“But no get-out-of-jail card,” Paul said.
“No card,” Avery said.
“This deal just keeps getting sweeter and sweeter.” The button man gave a sour laugh.
“You’re still in?”
“I’m in, yeah.” A nod toward the deck below. “What’ll happen to the body?”
“After everybody disembarks, some marines from the Hamburg consulate’ll come on board and take care of it.” Then Avery leaned forward and said in a low voice, “Okay, here’s what’s going to happen about your mission, Paul. After we dock, you get off and Vince and I’ll take care of the situation with Heinsler. Then we’re going on to Amsterdam. You stay with the team. There’ll be a brief ceremony in Hamburg and then everybody takes the train to Berlin. The athletes’ll have another ceremony tonight but you go straight to the Olympic Village and stay out of sight. Tomorrow morning take a bus to the Tiergarten – that’s the Central Park of Berlin.” He handed the briefcase to Paul. “Take this with you.”
“What is it?”
“It’s part of your cover. Press pass. Paper, pencils. A lot of background about the Games and the city. A guide to the Olympic Village. Articles, clippings, sports statistics. The sort of stuff a writer’d have. You don’t need to look at it now.”
But Paul opened the case and spent some minutes looking carefully, going through the contents. The pass, Avery assured him, was authentic and he could spot nothing suspicious about the other materials.
“You don’t trust anybody, do you?” Manielli asked.
Thinking it’d be fun to sock the punk once, really hard, Paul clicked the briefcase closed and looked up. “What about my other passport, the Russian one?”
“Our man’ll give that to you there. He’s got a forger who’s an expert with European documents. Now, tomorrow, make sure you have the satchel with you. It’s how he’ll recognize you.” He unfurled a colorful map of Berlin and traced a route. “Get off here and go this way. Make your way to a café called the Bierhaus.”