The Forgotten Holocaust

Chapter Thirty-Four

On its approach to Tulsa International, Ben’s plane swooped down over a vast landscape of vivid green hills, forests and sun-scorched swathes of flat prairie. From his window he got his first glimpse of the city from above: home to near half a million inhabitants, a gleaming modern metropolis of towering skyscrapers and criss-crossed highways, parklands and housing developments and industrial zones that spread far and wide along the banks of the broad, stunningly blue waters of the Arkansas River.

Within thirty minutes he was through arrivals and getting his bearings. He changed some euros for dollars, then picked up a Starbucks and sipped it while studying a map that told him he was just five miles northeast of downtown. From there, he made his way to Alamo Rental and selected a grey Jeep Patriot. It was a practical and sturdy vehicle, not too ostentatious or distinctive. Roomy enough to sleep in if he had to. But mainly, he chose it for its dark-tinted windows. Those would fit in with the plan he’d already worked out in his mind. He rented it for a week, which might turn out to be more than he needed, or might not.

The day was going to come when his name would be blacklisted by every car hire company on the planet, but seemingly it hadn’t come yet. He’d just have to try extra hard not to destroy the Patriot.

His stomach was still on European time, and he filled it at a nearby steakhouse called Libby’s that served bison burgers and homebaked chicken pies as big as a hubcap. It was hot, but the humidity was bearable and a fresh southerly breeze kept his shirt from sticking to his back as he left Libby’s and walked back to the car.

He picked up the main highway, heading south. After Europe, everything seemed on a giant scale, wide and flat and spread out. He passed lumber yards and industrial plants and warehouses and used car lots before he spotted the general store he was looking for and pulled over.

Inside, the place was crammed with every kind of goods imaginable. He picked up two light denim shirts, two pairs of black jeans, compact binoculars, sunglasses, a baseball cap that said ‘Tulsa Drillers’, five plastic litre bottles of water and an issue of Oklahoma Sports and Fitness. The old guy behind the counter wore dungarees and had thin white hair and a face like crinkled tan leather.

‘What’s the nearest hotel around here?’ Ben asked him as he paid for his stuff.

‘English, huh?’ the old guy asked, peering at him.

‘Half Irish,’ Ben said.

‘Good for you. My people came over from Mayo, before the war. That’s the Civil War I’m talkin’ about. Name’s Gallagher. Frank Gallagher.’

‘Pleasure to meet you, Frank,’ Ben said, wondering if he’d have got such a friendly welcome if he’d said he was English. ‘I’m Ben.’

‘First time in Tulsa, Ben?’

‘First time.’

‘Vacation?’

‘Not exactly,’ Ben said.

‘Didn’t figure you for a tourist. Stayin’ long?’

‘Long as it takes.’

‘I reckon that’s about right,’ Frank replied with a wrinkled grin. ‘Anyhow, you got the old Perryman Inn just down the road. Rooms’re comfortable enough, I guess, nuthin’ fancy.’

‘Sounds like my kind of place,’ Ben said.

‘Maybe I’ll see you around. Store’s open day or night. I live right upstairs, so you just give me a yell any time. Got most everything you’ll ever need.’

‘You’re not kidding,’ Ben said, glancing around him at the sagging shelves.

Nuthin’ fancy was the perfect description of the Perryman Inn, which turned out to be a motel only a couple of small notches above the rank of a fleapit. The proprietor was a guy with a beard and a paunch the size of a beach ball who was only too happy to take cash without asking for any ID. Ben was only too happy to do business that way, and he had no problem with the room either. It was cool and shady with the blinds down, and nobody in the world knew he was here. Ben locked the door, showered, changed into his new jeans and a new shirt. Then he put on the sunglasses and cap, grabbed his bag and went out to the Patriot.

As he drove into the heart of the city, the signs of the impact the oil boom had made were hard to miss. They were visible all around, in everything from the spectacular art deco architecture the Tulsans had built up with their newfound fortunes to the huge parks with manicured expanses of green, fountains and artificial lakes and waterfalls, all dominated by the looming presence of the Bank of Oklahoma tower, the tallest building in the state, a proud monument to big fat beautiful dollars. The place was an oasis of money in the middle of the prairie.

Ben used his map to locate City Hall on East 2nd Street in the heart of downtown. He parked the Patriot across from the modern glass-fronted building and the right distance away so that he could sit and watch the entrance and stay discreet. It was four forty and the sun was still bright and high and hot in the blue sky. He took out his phone and keyed in the same Tulsa landline number he’d called from Ireland. The same receptionist replied, in the same nice southern twang as before, ‘Mayor’s office.’

‘Hi, this is Ronnie Galloway from Marshall Kite Enterprises.’

‘You called a couple of days ago, right?’ the receptionist replied coldly. ‘From England?’

‘That’s right, London,’ he said, scanning the building’s scores of windows and wondering which one she was behind, not a hundred yards from where he sat. ‘Is Mr McCrory available?’

‘He’s in his office,’ she informed him. ‘But he’s not taking calls right now.’

‘I’ll try again another time,’ Ben said, and switched off the phone. He’d no intention of speaking to McCrory, had only wanted to find out if he was in the building. He’d no intention of marching in and confronting him, either, because that was an obvious blind alley. Much better to sit tight, wait for McCrory to appear and then quietly follow him to see where the trail might lead. It might be days of cat-and-mouse games before it would lead anywhere interesting. Ben didn’t care. Stake-out surveillance was nothing new to him.

He kept the windows rolled down, sipping water to keep cool and keeping one eye on City Hall while looking totally immersed in Oklahoma Sports and Fitness. He studied the layout of the building. There might be another entrance round the far side that he couldn’t keep tabs on, but there appeared to be only one main car park. There was a good chance that anyone leaving the place would come into his field of view.

Five o’clock came and went. Soon afterwards, the first trickle of office workers began leaving the building. Some walked to their cars, others departed on foot. Ben wound up the Jeep’s tinted windows. They made little difference to what he could see from inside, but passers-by wouldn’t be able to see him. The inside of the car began to heat up quickly. That couldn’t be helped. He reached into his bag and took out the compact binoculars he’d bought from Frank Gallagher’s general store. They might not have suited Bernard Goudier for watching birdlife on the beach in Galway, but they fitted Ben’s purposes just fine. He turned them up to maximum zoom and watched the office staff leaving City Hall.

Most were women, leaving in pairs and small groups, chatting and smiling and laughing now that their working day was over. He ignored them and focused on the men. Some were older, some were younger. Some wore suits and ties, some didn’t. None of them was Finn McCrory.

Ben went on waiting, patient and watchful. Another half hour passed. The traffic of workers leaving the building peaked and then began to thin out. By quarter to six, there were just the occasional ones and twos filing out of the entrance. By six, the trickle had pretty much stopped altogether.

Unless he’d managed to slip out unseen, the mayor must be working late. Which wasn’t unexpected, and wasn’t a problem. Ben had nowhere else to go.

At half past the hour and still no sign of McCrory, Ben had had enough of Oklahoma Sports and Fitness, even if he was only half-focused on it. He tossed it aside and returned to his reading of Elizabeth Stamford’s journals.