The Elegant Lie

…

The year was 1948.

By then, he had been working as a civilian contractor with the US Army for over three years, moving from base to base wherever he was needed. He had begun in England. From there, he had shifted to France and, once the war ended, into Germany, where bases were quickly established in the American zone of occupation.

Carter’s job as a contractor guaranteed him a decent wage, as well as healthcare, two weeks’ vacation a year and time off for all major holidays. In spite of the good working conditions, Carter had lost count of the number of men who had taken civilian jobs at the base and then left soon afterwards, returning to the States. After the war, there had been an initial slump in the job market as returning veterans competed for employment, and many of those who returned to Europe immediately after being demobilised had done so because they’d had no choice. By 1947, as the big American manufacturers in the car, aircraft and construction industries had completed their transition from wartime to peacetime operations, most of those men who had come over decided to return stateside. For most of them, whether they had fought there or not, Europe was still haunted by the carnage that had swept across it. It would take years, if not decades, to restore the cities that had been bombed and, beyond those cities, in the forests and the fields, the dead could still be found huddled in the foxholes where they had perished. Liberation had come at such a terrible price that the word itself was seldom used, except sarcastically, by those who had been liberated. For those who had been left to clean away the wreckage, it was not the outcome of the war that tormented them. It was simply the cost.

For the soldiers of the occupation, the lack of choice about whether or not to remain there was its own solution to the problem. But for men like Carter, the choice was real and present. It gnawed at them constantly as they weighed steady work and steady pay against the dream of going home. For most, the dream won out. Only a few, like Carter, became regulars in the seemingly endless shift from base to base, never staying long enough to feel like they belonged and never knowing when they would be asked to leave again. The majority were veterans, but few of them talked about their war experiences and, since it was considered rude to enquire about such matters, it was always left at that. These men, and women too, learned to live among the gaps in what they knew about each other. Their pasts became blurred and redundant. Carter found, to his surprise, that this existence suited him, at least for now. Most days he could convince himself that he had made his peace with it, but there were moments, when certain sounds and smells would jolt him back into the life he’d once taken for granted, that he realised how fragile this peace really was and that he could not endure this forever. But as to how and when he might move on, that stayed a mystery to him until the day Marcus Wilby appeared.

Carter was sitting outside a cavernous warehouse at the US Army base in Dornheim, not far from Wiesbaden. He had just finished unloading several pallets of ration boxes, which had been flown in that morning. These packages, each stamped ‘CARE◦– USA’, contained canned food and sundries which were to be handed out to German civilians who might otherwise starve while the rebuilding and reorganisation of the country was underway.

Now he was on his lunch break, eating army-issue baked beans out of a can, with a canteen of water to drink and a Hershey bar for afterwards. It was a sunny morning in late summer, with a stiff wind blowing up from the south that had caused several planes to be diverted from the Dornheim base where Carter worked.

From the corner of his eye, Carter glimpsed two men approaching. He could tell, just from the way they walked, that they were military personnel, even though they were wearing civilian clothes. Carter guessed that they must be intelligence officers◦– SI, SO, X-2, or whatever they were calling themselves these days. The only thing he didn’t know was if they were here to see him, or whether they were simply lost.

At first, Carter did not look up. He scooped another spoonful of beans from the can and was about to shovel them into his mouth when the strangers came to an abrupt halt a few paces away.

‘You really going to eat those cold?’ asked one of them.

Now Carter raised his head.

The man who had spoken wore a trench coat made from the particular pinkish-beige gabardine popular with men who had been officers. The cuffs of his trousers were so high that his ankles were nearly exposed◦– another bizarre fashion statement known as ‘flood pants’, common amongst Ivy League men. Carter could also tell, from the sag on the man’s left side, just below the armpit, that the stranger was carrying a gun.

The other man wore a tweed sports jacket, which barely fitted over his muscle-hunched shoulders. He had a head like a battering ram, with a broad forehead, one cauliflowered ear and a nose that had obviously been broken. He looked as if he had once been thrown into a cage with a gorilla and had to fight his way out.

‘I asked if you were going to eat those cold,’ the man in the trench coat repeated.

‘I have no choice,’ said Carter. ‘It’s too far to go to the mess hall. That’s way over on the other side of the base. By the time I got there, my lunch break would be half over.’

‘Cold beans.’ The man winced. ‘That takes me back.’

Carter dropped his spoon into the can and held it out. ‘Help yourself,’ he said.

‘Oh, hell no,’ replied the man.

There was an awkward silence.

‘Well, since you aren’t here for my lunch,’ asked Carter, ‘is there something I can help you with?’

‘I hope so, Mr Carter,’ said the man.

He knows my name, thought Carter, and he felt the muscles tighten in his neck.

‘My name is Captain Wilby,’ said the man, ‘and I work for the US government.’

Carter nodded at the man in the tweed jacket. ‘And who’s your friend?’

‘Oh,’ said Wilby, ‘he’s just a figment of your imagination. There’s no one here but you and me.’

The man in the tweed jacket scowled at Carter and said nothing.

‘All right,’ answered Carter, ‘then what do you want, you and your imaginary pal?’

‘To reassure you that there are some of us who know you were not treated fairly by the military court.’

It threw Carter off balance to hear this. No one had ever said that to him before.

‘Those men who convicted you,’ continued Wilby, ‘were trying to save themselves from having to admit that one of their own people had committed the crime they sent you in to investigate. In effect, you were punished for doing your job. But none of this is news to you, I’m sure.’

‘Then why are you telling me now?’ asked Carter.

‘Because the same cruel god who trampled you into the dirt can lift you up again and dust you off and send you on your way if he so chooses.’

‘And that god would be you, I guess.’

‘Not at all, Mr Carter. I’m just the guy who works for him.’

‘And what does your god want for this favour?’

‘A little help, perhaps.’

‘You’re going to have to forgive me,’ said Carter, ‘but the last time someone like you showed up and asked for help, I climbed on board a plane to Belgium and that’s the last I saw of home.’

‘I know about that,’ said Wilby.

‘I figured you would. What kind of help are you talking about?’

‘The kind you could perform as an Agent of Opportunity.’

‘A what?’ asked Carter.

‘An Agent of Opportunity,’ repeated Wilby. ‘Sometimes we make use of people who are not officially a part of our organisation, but whose credentials and motivation match the tasks that must get done.’

‘What credentials?’ He gestured at the mountain of packages. ‘Loading and unloading boxes?’

‘No,’ answered Wilby. ‘Your real skill, as an undercover detective. I assume you haven’t forgotten who you used to be.’

‘It’s not something a person forgets.’

‘Exactly.’

‘And you’re telling me you can’t find someone else to do this, whatever the hell it is?’

‘Not someone as well placed by time and circumstance. In fact, you are perfect for the job.’

‘And how exactly would you lift me up again,’ asked Carter, ‘you and your trampling god?’

‘On completion of your task,’ explained Wilby, ‘we will announce that you have been working for the US government, and that your dishonourable discharge was simply a part of your cover. You would receive a public apology for your unlawful dismissal from the police department, as well as back pay, reinstatement, a pension and a medal of commendation, and I’ll even throw in a parade down the main street of Dunellen if you want it, so that no one, ever again, would be able to question your honour or your service to society. I know it isn’t fair that you should have to bargain to get back something that has always been properly yours. But I’m not here to make things fair. I’m here to make them right.’

‘In other words,’ said Carter, ‘you’re blackmailing me.’

‘Don’t think of it as blackmail,’ said Wilby. ‘Think of it as an incentive, without which nobody does anything in this world. I realise that what I’m asking of you is more than anyone in their right mind would accept, especially a civilian. You don’t owe me anything. This isn’t a question of rank. I can’t just give you orders and expect you to obey them. So I have to offer you some kind of reward. Something that will make this worthwhile. I could have appealed to you as a patriot, but that ship has already sailed. I could have offered you money, but everything I know about you tells me that this would have backfired. I could have tried to entrap you in some compromising situation, but you’d have seen that coming. So what was left, except to give you back your life? That is, if you still want it. You’re smart enough to know that the only power on this earth that can restore what has been taken from you is the same one that took it away. You’re also smart enough to know that I’m only going to make this offer once, so if you send me away empty handed, I’m never coming back. And what you have now’◦– he raised his hands and let them fall again, taking in the windswept runway and the warehouse and the empty can of beans◦– ‘will be all you ever have, and there’ll be no one to blame but yourself.’

Carter knew there was no point having a conversation about any of this. There wasn’t going to be a conversation. Neither did he doubt that this man could do, or not do, everything he said. ‘How’s it going to work?’ he asked.

Over the next few minutes, Wilby described how the press would receive notification of a crime at the Dornheim base, involving the theft of thousands of American cigarettes which had just arrived in the country and were due to be distributed to military bases all across Europe. A few days later, American occupation authorities would announce that they had arrested someone in connection with the robbery. That person, Wilby’s Agent of Opportunity, would be Nathan Carter. After a short trial, from which the press would be excluded, Carter would be sentenced to three years in the Allied military prison at Langsdorf. He would serve nine months of that sentence before being released, after which he would approach Hanno Dasch, a known criminal specialising in the distribution of black market goods. Once enough information had been gathered on Dasch and his accomplices they would be arrested, and Carter would return to the United States and the promises Wilby had made to him would be fulfilled.

As Carter listened to this his mind kept slipping, like a needle dragging across a damaged record. He had worked so hard to leave behind the person he had been and the things he had done that the idea of returning to that life, so suddenly and so completely, was hard for him to grasp.

‘Are you getting any of this?’ asked Wilby.

Carter realised he had been staring at the ground this whole time. The taste of the beans was sour in his mouth. He reached for his canteen, fumbling with the cap until at last it slipped to the side, rattling on its little chain. Then he drank, cold water splashing down inside him. ‘How long do you need?’ he asked.

‘Give me one year,’ replied Wilby, ‘starting from the day you get out of jail. After that we’ll cut you loose, no matter where we are.’

‘And nine months on top of that, locked up in a military prison?’ he asked.

‘It’s the only way this could ever work.’

‘Would you really be putting me on trial?’

‘No,’ said Wilby. ‘We’d just announce it, and in the three weeks that it’s supposed to be going on, we’ll give you a holiday. You name it. The south of France. Morocco. London. Whatever you want.’

‘I would like to visit my father,’ said Carter.

‘You mean go back to New Jersey, when I’m offering you Paris?’

‘That’s what I said.’

Wilby sighed. ‘Well, I’m afraid it is out of the question. You show up in New Jersey at a time when the rest of the world thinks you’re supposed to be on trial in Germany, and people are going to ask questions. The operation would be ruined before it had even got started.’

‘Think of all the things I could have asked for, which you would hand me on a platter if you really needed me the way you say you do. But all I’m asking for is this.’

Wilby glanced across at the man in the tweed jacket. Throughout this conversation he had not spoken, nor had he taken his eyes off Carter. He seemed to be studying Carter, appraising him according to some scale of checks and balances known only to himself. But now the man turned and, almost imperceptibly, he nodded at Wilby.

For a moment, Wilby looked surprised. Then he shrugged and turned back to Carter. ‘Consider it done,’ he said.

Those words reached Carter like the slamming of a door as he realised that, in the space of only a few minutes, the course of his life had changed forever. ‘What happens now?’ he asked.

Wilby looked at his watch. ‘In fifteen minutes,’ he said, ‘you are going to be arrested.’