The Gordian Knot - Bernhard Schlink [63]
Even without being able to answer these questions, the story now made sense. Françoise was from New York, worked for Townsend Enterprises in New York, had worked in Cadenet, and then returned to New York. Was she still working for Townsend? Was she still Bulnakov’s/Benton’s lover?
Georg had a story that made sense, but no idea what to do next. He didn’t know if he could interest a reporter in it, or if newspapers would print such a story or readers would want to read it. As it was, he didn’t have much evidence, and didn’t see how he could get more. Without evidence a lawyer couldn’t help him either—that is, if a lawyer would even want to help him. The authorities are looking for me, damn it! I’m a wanted man!
Should he give up or go on? Those were the two alternatives he had been considering. Now he didn’t even know what they meant. What should he go on doing, and how? Did giving up mean going to the police, to the German consulate, going underground in the city, or going out West? Georg paid and left. If nothing else, he could at least fill in the gaps of the story. The library at Columbia must have technical journals dealing with helicopters, weapon systems, and the armaments industry that could clarify whether Gorgefield Aircraft had put out the concept of its helicopter after Operation Mermoz. It could also clarify whether Townsend Enterprises was a branch of Gorgefield or an independent company that belonged to Benton. Georg wanted to know, even if he wasn’t sure how this knowledge could help him.
He called Helen from a pay phone. “It’s me, Georg.”
“You’re calling in the middle of the night? … Oh, it’s seven. God, is everything all right?”
“I’m sorry, it’s again about the matter I told you about.…”
“I tried calling you yesterday evening. A year ago your girlfriend”—she said the word as coolly as she could—“was living on Prince Street. A colleague of mine in the Russian Department had her in her conversation class.”
“Where?”
“In her conversation class … Oh, 160 Prince Street near Sixth Avenue and Houston.”
Georg took a deep breath. “Thank you, Helen. I hope this didn’t …”
“No, it didn’t put me out. I showed my colleague the picture, and she gave me her address. And her name: Fran Kramer.”
“Fran Kramer … I looked for Kramers in the phone book. You wouldn’t believe how many there are. Kramers, Krameks, Kramerovs, and so on. Three whole pages.”
“Mm.”
“Anyway, thanks. Would you be mad at me if I asked for one more favor?”
“If I was, you wouldn’t ask?”
“Since the CIA is already mad at me, or the FBI, or the police, I don’t know who, I’d be happier if you weren’t too.”
“What are you talking about?”
Georg told her. He had gone over the story so many times in his mind, in true and false versions, that he managed to tell her in a few words. “And as a result,” he concluded, “you’ll find me in today’s New York Times, on page fourteen.”
“What are you going to do?”
“I don’t know. I have no idea what they’re intending to do to me, how intensively they’re looking for me, or who’s looking. Can you call Townsend Enterprises and act like you are an executive secretary calling from IBM, Nabisco, or Mercedes-Benz, and tell them you would like to make an appointment for someone to discuss an important security issue? If they fall for it, then it would point to the fact that Townsend is an independent enterprise, rather than a branch of Gorgefield Aircraft.”
“Don’t you have more immediate problems?”
“I do, but this one I believe we can get to the bottom of. I want to know what’s going on at Townsend. Not to mention that it would be a relief to know I’m not up against America’s most important armaments enterprise, but that crazy cowboy Benton.”
“But isn’t it clear already that Gorgefield Aircraft … I mean, could Benton send government officers to do his dirty work?”
“Who knows? Would you do me the favor and call? Call from a quiet pay phone somewhere, and the matter can be dealt with in two or three minutes.”
“Okay, I’ll give it a try later this morning. This evening