PART FOUR.

Moscow, August 1991

Amba.s.sador Stephen Metcalfe was dreading this meeting, more than he had ever dreaded any meeting in his life. He touched the pistol concealed in his jacket pocket, the steel cold against his fingers. As he did so, he remembered his old Russian friend's words: n.o.body but you can get close to him. He's better protected than I am. Only you can get to him.With his old friend at his side and flanked by a detail of uniformed guards, Metcalfe walked down the still, dark hallway. They were inside the Kremlin, in the epicenter of Soviet power, a place Metcalfe had visited dozens of times. But there were many buildings within the walled fortress called the Kremlin, and Metcalfe had not been in this particular building before. This building, which housed the Presidium of the Supreme Soviet, was located in the northeast corner of the Kremlin complex. It was in this neocla.s.sical columned building that the head of the Soviet secret police, Lavrenti Beria, was arrested in 1953 after attempting a coup d'etat after the death of Stalin.Fitting, thought Metcalfe grimly.Here, in this very building, is the office of the man most Moscow insiders consider to be the most powerful in all of the Soviet Union, more powerful even than Gorbachev-or rather, more powerful than Gorbachev used to be.A quiet man of una.s.suming demeanor named Stepan Menilov. A man Metcalfe had never met but had only heard of. Menilov was the power behind the throne, a career apparatchik who held levers of power most didn't even know existed. He did more than hold the levers of power, however; he was said to play them like a great church organ. Within his shadowy dominion, he wielded his baton of influence, orchestrating the complex interplay of instruments with the adroitness of a virtuoso. He was the Conductor. The Oirizhor.Menilov was the Secretary of the Central Committee of the Communist Party of the Soviet Union and the Deputy Chairman of the all-powerful Defense Council-a body that oversaw the KGB, the Foreign Ministry, the Defense Ministry,and the Interior Ministry. The chairman was Gorbachev-but he was now indisposed, a prisoner in his lavish seaside villa in the Crimea.Now Stepan Menifov was in charge.Metcalfe's old friend had briefed him on Stepan Menilov. He was fifty-seven years old, a hard-liner and weapons expert who had been raised by his great-grandmother, and then an uncle, in a tiny village in the Kuznetsk Basin, and had quickly climbed the ladder of Soviet industry, had become the Central Committee Secretary in charge of the military-industrial complex, had been awarded the Lenin Prize for his faithful service to his country.But what Metcalfe had not been prepared for, when the door to Menilov's office suite swung open and the man himself emerged, was the man's appearance. He was tall, rangy, and extraordinarily handsome-not at all the way one expected a behind-the-scenes operator to look. He moved with an unusual grace and poise, shook Metcalfe's hand firmly. He asked the general to remain in his outer office. He would speak only to the American.As he took his seat facing the Dirizhoi's large, ornately carved mahogany desk, Metcalfe found himself, uncharacteristically, at a loss for words. Prominently placed atop the desk, he noticed, was the black case that held the Soviet nuclear launch codes."Well, well, well," said Stepan Menilov. "The legendary Stephen Metcalfe. An emissary from the White House, above reproach, above partisan politics. Carrying a message, I have no doubt, from the Oval Office. A message that can later be disavowed if need be. A conversation that can be denied. It's quite clever, really this displays a level of subtlety that I had not thought you Americans were capable of." He spread his hands as he leaned back in his high-backed chair. "Nevertheless, I will listen to what you have to say. But let me first warn you: I will do no more than listen.""That's all I ask. But I'm not here on behalf of the White House. My mission is not official in any sense. I simply want to speak very directly, and in the strictest confidence, to the only man who has the power to stop the madness.""Madness?" said Menilov curtly. "What you're seeing in Moscow today is an end to the madness, finally. A return to stability.""An end to reform, you mean. An end to the remarkable changes that Gorbachev was bringing about.""Too much change is dangerous. It brings only chaos.""Change can indeed be dangerous," Metcalfe said. "But in the case of your great nation, by far the most dangerous thing would be not to change. You never want to return to the terrible old days of the dictatorship. I've seen the days of Stalin; I've seen the terror. They must never be allowed to come back.""Amba.s.sador Metcalfe, you are a great man in your own country. You are a lion of the American Establishment, which is the only reason I've agreed to see you. But you cannot presume to tell us how to conduct our affairs.""I agree. But I can tell you what the consequences will be of this coup d'etat that you and the others are leading."Stepan Menilov arched his brows in that peculiar expression of skepticism and defiance so familiar to Metcalfe. "Is that a threat, Mr. Amba.s.sador?""Not at all. It's a prediction, a warning. We are talking about going back to an arms race that has already broken your country. The deaths of hundreds of thousands of your countrymen in proxy civil wars around the globe. Perhaps even nuclear disaster. I can guarantee you that Washington will do everything in its power to shut you down.""Really," said the Conductor coldly."Really. You will be isolated. Trade, which you so desperately need, will plummet. Grain sales will end. Your people will starve, and the unrest that will result will plunge Russia into a turmoil you cannot imagine. I have just spoken with the national security adviser to the President of the United States, so although I'm not here on any official mission, I do speak with authority, let me a.s.sure you of that."The Dirizhor sat forward and placed his hands atop his desk. "If America thinks it can exploit a moment of disarray in the Soviet leadership to threaten us, you are making a grave error. The very instant you make any move against us, anywhere in the world, we will not hesitate to use everything at our disposal every weapon in our a.r.s.enal.""You misunderstand me," Metcalfe interrupted."No, sir, you misunderstand me. Do not misinterpret the turmoil in Moscow for weakness." He gestured toward the nuclear suitcase. "We are not weak, and we will stop at nothing to defend our interests!""I don't doubt that, and we have no interest in testing your resolve. What I'm suggesting is that it's not too late to back away from the precipice, and only you can do it. I'm proposing that you call the other members of yourEmergency Committee and tell them that you are withdrawing your support for their junta. Without you, their plans will shrivel up.""And then what, Amba.s.sador Metcalfe? Go back to the chaos?""You can never go back. Everything has changed now. But you can help lead true, peaceful change. Listen to me, d.a.m.n it: you cannot sit on a throne of bayonets."The man known as the Conductor only laughed. "You say you know my country. But what you don't seem to know is that in Russia, the most dangerous thing is chaos. Disorder is the greatest threat to our welfare.""It will take enormous courage for you to back down," Metcalfe persisted. "But if you do, you can count on our support. You will be protected, I promise you that. You have my word.""Your word!" scoffed Menilov. "Why should I believe you? We mean nothing to each other-we are as two submarines pa.s.sing in the ocean.""So it would appear. And yet neither of us is in the business of trusting appearances. Let me tell you a story.""I think you have been doing nothing but telling me stories since you got here. And I've heard them all, Mr. Amba.s.sador. I've heard them all.""With all respect," said Metcalfe, "you haven't heard this one."

CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO.

Bern, Switzerland, November 1940The Swiss capital, far quieter and less cosmopolitan than its better known sisters, Zurich and Geneva, was built on a steep promontory of rock, a natural geological fortress, surrounded on three sides by a moat that was the River Aare. The oldest section of the city, the Altstadt, was a maze of cobblestone streets and narrow arcades. Just off the Casinoplatz, in the Altstadt, was Her-renga.s.se. Number 23 was the last in a row of fourteenth-century houses, an old burgher's mansion whose backyard descended gradually to the banks of the Aare in terraced vineyards. High above one could see the Bernese Oberland mountains.This was where Alfred Corcoran had taken up residence. It was his new base of operations, now that wartime espionage was shifting into a new level of activity.Metcalfe's journey across the Finnish border had been harrowing. He had been met at the train station in Leningrad by an elderly couple, as Kundrov had promised, who had dropped him off in the woods outside the city. There, twenty minutes later, a truck had pulled up, the driver demanding a stiff price before he would even shut off his engine. The truck was laden with a dozen hot-water tanks destined for Helsinki: commerce continued even in wartime. One of the tanks had been cleverly modified, with holes bored at the top and bottom for air, a removable panel for air intake, the top cut off with a hacksaw. It had reminded Metcalfe far too much of a coffin. Still, entrusting his fate to a man he had never seen before in his life and never would again, Metcalfe had gotten into the hollow steel tank, and it was welded shut.The inspection at the Soviet-Finnish border had been cursory. A short while later, the truck came to a stop, and then the driver had demanded an additional hundred rubles to let Metcalfe out "for my trouble," he insisted.Metcalfe paid.Very few flights were departing from Malmi Airport, in Helsinki, to Bern, Switzerland, but a rich businessman with good connections, who was willing to pay the price, could always strike a deal.Now, on Herrenga.s.se in Bern's Altstadt, Metcalfe, following Corky's instructions, approached the back entrance to the town house, which was hidden among grape arbors. Visitors, he saw, could enter and depart unseen.He rang the bell and waited with apprehension. It had been only a few weeks since he had last seen Corky, in Paris, but it felt like years. He had gone to Moscow as Daniel Eigen, really the cover that had become his true ident.i.ty: the trivial playboy, cavalier in his personal dealings, carefree in the midst of the war's travails. But Daniel Eigen was no more. Not just because the cover was blown. But because the persona no longer fit. The murder of a close friend, the betrayal of a lover these things could not help but change a man.His att.i.tude toward his old mentor had changed, too. He had followed orders, had drawn Lana into Corky's scheme, had misled her. He had done what he'd been told to do. But he could no longer follow Corcoran's orders unthinkingly, blindly.The door opened; a housekeeper let him in. She was a matronly woman with her hair in a tight bun, Swiss by the look of her. She asked his name, nodded when he gave it, then showed him into an airy, s.p.a.cious sitting room with tall windows and two large fireplaces. In one of them a wood fire was burning; before it sat Corky, in a wing chair. He turned as Metcalfe entered.Corcoran looked even paler, even more wizened, than he had just weeks before. Had the stress of the war, of Operation WOLFSFALLE, aged him so much? The pressures of losing his field agents, his crown jewels, as he called them? The rumors about his health seemed to have some basis in truth: Corky did look ill, markedly worse in a matter of weeks."Stephen Abernathy Metcalfe," Corky announced, his voice high, crackly yet firm. "You never cease to amaze me." There was a ghost of a smile on the old man's face as he rose to his feet. A cigarette burned on an ashtray next to him, the plume of smoke curling in the air."Should I take that as praise?" replied Metcalfe, approaching and shaking Corcoran's hand. "Or reproach." The smell of Pep-O-Mint Life Savers arose from Corky's tweedy suit as strongly as the odor of cigarette smoke.Corky paused contemplatively. "Both, I think. I wasn't sure you would make it here.""It wasn't easy arranging a flight out of Helsinki, I've got to say." He seated himself in a brocade-covered chair on the other side of the fire."Oh, that was the least of my concerns. I'm speaking of Moscow. Far too many things went awry." Corky had turned toward the fire again and was poking at it with an andiron. There was something about the fire, something primitive, elemental, that set Metcalfe at ease. The aging spymaster was a staunch believer in theatrics, in stage setting; Metcalfe had no doubt that Corky had chosen this house, with its fireplaces, its church like medieval architecture and comfortable furnishings, its location on a cobblestoned street in the Altstadt, for its utility in making visitors feel comfortable, inclined to confess all sins to the father-confessor."And even more things went exactly as you planned," Metcalfe said, feeling his anger rise. "Not that you ever bothered to tell me what the plan was.""Stephen " Corcoran began, warningly."Was it really necessary to lie to me about why you wanted me to go to Moscow in the first place? And then to lie about the doc.u.ments you wanted Lana to pa.s.s to von Schtissler? Or maybe it's just that lying is second nature to you. You can't help it.""I know it must have been hard for you," Corcoran said, very quietly, staring into the fire. "What there was between you two it was rekindled, wasn't it? The thing that made it so difficult for you was the very thing that ensured she'd do what you asked of her. You want to know why I lied to you? That's why, Stephen. That's precisely why.""You're not making sense."Corcoran sighed. "If you had known you'd be using her in this way, you'd never have been able to win her back. Only authenticity could fan the flame of love. I lied to you, Stephen, so you wouldn't have to lie to her. At least, not at first."Metcalfe was silent for a minute, his mind reeling. He didn't know what to say. He had to let go of his anger, which was preventing him from thinking clearly."Stephen, you don't know the half of what's going on. Things are far more dangerous than you realize.""I find that hard to believe, Corky. I was there. I was in the G.o.dd.a.m.ned Lubyanka, for Christ's sake!""I know.""You know? How the h.e.l.l ? Don't tell me you have a source in theNKVD!"Corky handed Metcalfe a sheaf of papers. Metcalfe examined what appeared to be an intelligence intercept. He read it through quickly, confused. It was a detailed report of Metcalfe's interrogations within the Lubyanka, including a partial transcript of his exchanges with his NKVD investigator."What what the h.e.l.l is this, Corky? You have a source in the Lubyanka?""I wish we did. No, alas, we have a source at one remove.""What does that mean, 'at one remove'?""I'm speaking somewhat facetiously. We have been successful of late in intercepting Abwehr agent transmissions. What you have in your hands is a transcript of one of those intercepts.""Meaning that the Abwehr has an a.s.set within the Lubyanka?"Corky nodded. "Apparently a very good one, too.""Jesus!" Metcalfe spun away from the fire and stared at Corky. "So does that mean they know about our connection to Lana?""Evidently not. Nothing more than your casual acquaintance with her. Not your tradecraft involvement with the girl. That would have come up, most certainly. Serious doubts have been raised about the WOLFSFALLE doc.u.ments, but not for that reason.""What do you mean, 'serious doubts have been raised'?""The operation hangs in the balance, Stephen." Corcoran took a long drag from his cigarette and looked into the fire. "Hitler's generals are deeply divided about the wisdom of invading Russia. There are those who have always wanted to do so, though they're a fanatical minority. A large segment has been won over by the WOLFSFALLE doc.u.ments. They are pushing for an invasion as early as May of next year before the Red Army can launch any preemptive strike. But there are others within the n.a.z.i High command who see any invasion of Russia as sheer madness utter folly. These are the levelheaded generals, the ones who seek to restrain Hitler's insanity. They remind their colleagues about Napoleon's ill-fated attempt to invade Russia in 1812.""But if Stalin is planning to attack them first, as our doc.u.ments tell them, how can they justify doing nothing?""They justify inaction by casting doubt on the intelligence itself. It's a natural response.""Casting doubt? Have the doc.u.ments been exposed as fakes?"Corcoran shook his head slowly. "I have no indication of that. The doc.u.ments are really first-rate counterfeits, I must say. No one within the n.a.z.i leadership, to our knowledge anyway, has any reason to suspect that the papers were created by the Americans. But they say it's not impossible that they have been cooked up in Moscow, by the Russians.""That makes no sense! To what end? To get the n.a.z.is to invade them?""Don't forget, there are elements within the Soviet leadership whose hatred for Stalin runs so deep that they pray for a n.a.z.i invasion they see Hitler as their salvation. Those elements are particularly strong among the Red Army.""They'd wreck their own country to eliminate Stalin? Insanity!""The point, Stephen, is that there are serious reasons to doubt the bona fides of the WOLFSFALLE doc.u.ments. Especially if one wants to doubt them, if one sees any potential invasion of Russia as a quagmire, which it certainly would be. So questions are raised. Certain German military leaders argue that if the NKVD is so good, why have they not caught this woman, this general's daughter who is pa.s.sing top-secret papers to von Schiissler?""But as long as the doc.u.ments seem authentic ""Doubts continue to be raised," Corky replied, his voice steely. "And these doubts, combined with the quite reasonable, logistical arguments against a blitzkrieg strike at Russia, are beginning to gain the upper hand. Time is against us. Unless something more is done something that confirms the authenticity of the doc.u.ments our plan is doomed.""But what more is possible?""The source must be unimpeachable," Corky said after a pause."The source ... ? The source is a daughter of a Red Army general a general whom the n.a.z.is know to be a secret conspirator against Stalin!""A secret conspirator against Stalin," Corky echoed with a sarcastic twist, "who just happened not to be caught and tried?""It's the hold that von Schiissler has over Lana! He has the evidence.""The spy business, my son, is a wilderness of mirrors. Learn it now, before it's too late. Mirrors reflecting other mirrors.""What the h.e.l.l are you talking about?""In April of 1937, Joseph Stalin received a dossier from Prague containing evidence that his chief of staff, Marshal Tukhachevsky, as well as his other top generals, had been plotting with the German High Command to carry out a coup d'etat against Stalin.""Obviously. That was the basis for the treason trials, the ma.s.sive purges that followed.""Yes. Thirty-five thousand military officials shot. The entire leadership of the Red Army, on the eve of war. Rather convenient for the n.a.z.is, no?""Convenient... ?""Surely you don't imagine that we're the only ones capable of forging doc.u.ments, Stephen. Hitler's intelligence chief, Reinhard Heydrich, is a formidable opponent. Truly a brilliant man. He knew how paranoid Stalin is, how willingly he'd believe that his own people were plotting against him.""You're saying the evidence against Tukhachevsky was forged?""Heydrich enlisted two of his deputies, Alfred Naujocks and Dr. Hermann Behrends, in an ingenious deception operation. He had his SD doc.u.ments experts forge thirty-two doc.u.ments correspondence between Tukhachevsky and other Red Army leaders with the top mucketymucks in the Wehrmacht. Seeking their help in ousting Stalin.""Jesus Christ!" Metcalfe gasped. "Forged?""Heydrich had the doc.u.ments planted well. Dr. Behrends carried the doc.u.ments to Prague and sold them sold them, mind you, for millions of dollars to Soviet agents there.""Tukhachevsky was framed? Is that what you're saying?""The Revolution, like Saturn, devours each of its children in turn. My point is that Heydrich knows the truth, because he engineered the lie that manipulated Stalin into decapitating his own military. He knows that Tukhachevsky wasn't guilty, and so he knows that General Mikhail Baranov is no conspirator, either."So the grip that von Schiissler had on Lana was a fraud! Metcalfe could not wait to tell Lana the truth. But his elation dissipated quickly as soon as he realized the implications of this revelation. "So the bona fides of Lana's father remain in doubt," he said."Everything remains in doubt." Corky exhaled twin plumes of white smoke. "Including the fate of Die Wolfsfalle. Unless we're willing to burn our own agent. A sacrifice that will save the operation and, dare I say it, save the world at the same time."Blood drained from Metcalfe's face. "I don't understand.""But I think you do understand," Corky said, his voice quiet, barely audible. He continued poking at the fire, unwilling to meet Metcalfe's eyes."Spell it out for me," Metcalfe said fiercely. "I'm slow.""You're anything but slow, Stephen, but you seem to want me to speak the words aloud. If that's what it takes, I'm willing to do so. Svetlana Baranova must be caught by the NKVD. She must be arrested. It's the only thing that will convince the n.a.z.is that the doc.u.ments she's been pa.s.sing on are genuine."Metcalfe leaped up, stood directly in front of Corky. Pointing an index finger at his mentor's face, he rasped, "Any means to an end, eh, Corky? Is that it? If a human being gets in the way, becomes a hindrance, you won't hesitate to hurl her to the wolves? Even a woman who acted so bravely on our behalf, put her own life in jeopardy ""Spare me your school-rector sanctimony. I'm talking about the survival of Europe, the United States the survival of democracy upon this planet. I don't need any lectures from you about operational ethics." Corcoran's heavy-lidded eyes were dead calm."Operational ethics? Is that what you call it?" Disgusted and speechless, Metcalfe returned to the chair and sank down. He resumed staring at the fire. "To have her arrested is madness!""Yes, well, as Lord Lyttelton said, "Love can hope where reason would despair," hmm?" The amber firelight seemed to pencil in the creases in the old man's face."What do you know about love?""I'm a spy, Stephen. What I know about is despair.""How about reason?""That, too. Reasons to despair, mainly. Believe me, I understand the woman is a dilly. But you know what? World peace well, that's a dilly, too. Saving the planet from being devoured by the fascist armamentarium? A real beaut. Preventing the Third Reich from engulfing civilization? Now that's a cool drink of water.""Stop it," Metcalfe said stonily."You took the words out of my mouth." Corcoran's eyes were unblinking."You never change, do you, Corky?"Corcoran inclined his head a few degrees. "I sense that you've changed, though."Metcalfe shrugged. "Have I? Maybe it's the world that's changed.""Stephen, Stephen. Why do you still not understand? The world hasn't changed. The world hasn't changed at all. And it won't change not until we change it."Metcalfe put his hands over his face. The wheels in his head began to turn rapidly. There had to be a way! After a moment, he looked up from the fire, resignation seemingly in his face. "What do you intend?" he asked tonelessly."Tomorrow afternoon, the Bolshoi Theater's leading ballet troupe is arriving in Berlin a friendship delegation sent by Moscow. They'll be performing at the Staatsoper. Probably take their tired old production of Swan Lake out of mothb.a.l.l.s again for those undiscriminating Germans.""Lana will be there.""And her n.a.z.i lover, von Schiissler, as well. A little home leave, visiting the old homestead, I'm sure. A well-placed tip to the NKVD is all it should take. The NKVD will arrest her, and the Germans will witness it. And all will be right with the world. I'm terribly sorry, Stephen.""And she'll tell the NKVD the truth.""Will she?" Corky said without interest. "At that point, it really makes no difference. She can protest all she wants, but once the n.a.z.i High Command hears that she's been arrested, the WOLFS-FALLE plan will be salvaged.""You wish it were that simple," Metcalfe said, carefully controlling his voice. "No. I have a better idea. You get me into Berlin and I'll ""You'll restring the marionette.""Something like that."Corcoran peered at Metcalfe for several seconds. "You want to say good-bye to her, is that it?""Allow me that," Metcalfe conceded. "And I promise I'll do my best."Corcoran shook his head slowly. "Forget about it. You're going back to Bar Harbor. You're going to spend afternoons sailing to the Cranberry Islands with a Tom Collins in one hand and a lovely blond girl recently graduated from Westover in the other. And you're going to put all this behind you.""G.o.ddammit, Corky ""Don't be like that. You've already earned our everlasting grat.i.tude." Corcoran displayed a quick, chilly smile, like a magician flashing a face card from a trick deck. "But let's be practical. All the covers you had are blown. Putting you back in the field is a risk I won't take.""But I will," Metcalfe replied."You don't understand, do you? The risks aren't to you alone. They're to all of us the remnants of the Registry to the very operation itself.""I think I'm in a better position to decide.""Stephen, please. The failure is mine. I taught you many things ""Everything I know. I'd be the first to say it.""But I never taught you something truly crucial: humility. I thought life would teach it to you, but apparently I was wrong. No, Stephen, you don't get to decide. The stakes are far greater than even you could grasp. Your usefulness has come to an end. Go back home. A great playground awaits. Put the horrors behind you. And leave the rest to your elders."Metcalfe was silent for a long while. "Fine," he said at last."Ship me back home. But let me tell you what you can expect to happen when you do. I don't know what your sources are telling you, but I know the woman, and I've spent a great deal of time with her recently, and I happen to know that she has a soft spot for von Schiissler."Corky was taken aback. "You never gave me to believe anything of the sort!""Maybe you think you understand a woman's heart better than I do. All I know is what I can sense. I think she feels a little sorry for the German she may even have feelings that run deeper than that.""Meaning what, exactly?""Meaning that there's a real danger that Lana may compromise the mission tip off von Schiissler that he's been set up. That's all it would take, and all our efforts will be for naught.""That cannot be allowed to happen," Corcoran snapped."Indeed. And I promise I'll do everything I can to keep it on the rails. I know how to control her." He looked at Corcoran with a fierce determination. It was crucial that Corky believe what he was saying now. Far too much hung on it.Corcoran's stare was like an X ray; he seemed to be trying to penetrate into Metcalfe's soul. After a full minute, he said, "Chip Nolan is staying at the Bellevue Palace. He can set you up with all the papers you need."Alfred Corcoran sat staring into the fire and smoking. He had been surprised, and truth to tell not a little annoyed, to discover that Stephen Metcalfe was still alive. Amos Hilliard had been killed before he had been able to eliminate the security risk that was Metcalfe.But Corcoran prided himself on being an infinitely pragmatic man. He'd always believed that successful operations required constant improvisation. So be it. Metcalfe's a.s.sessment of theRussian ballerina was probably correct. Let him go to Berlin and make sure that Operation WOLFSFALLE stayed on track. Perhaps it was better that things worked out this way.His Swiss housekeeper entered the room with a silver tray and poured him a cup of steaming hot tea."Thank you, Frau Schibli," he said. He was so cautious about his arrangements here in Bern that he'd even asked Chip Nolan to run a background check on this poor hausfrau. One couldn't be too careful.He reached over to the telephone, dialed the Bellevue Palace, and asked for Chip Nolan's room.The Bellevue Palace was set high above the Aare River on Ko-cherga.s.se, its views sweeping, magnificent. Nolan's suite was no less s.p.a.cious or magnificent, a fact Metcalfe didn't hesitate to point out to the FBI man. "J. Edgar Hoover must give you guys a pretty healthy perdiem," Metcalfe needled the small, rumpled man.Chip regarded him warily, his hazel eyes seeming to cloud over. "Mr. Hoover recognizes the importance of expanding the Bureau's worldwide intelligence work ... James. That's your name, right? James?"For a moment, Metcalfe was confused, then he remembered that the FBI man was not fully in the loop, that Corky's sacred compart mentation dictated that he not learn the true ident.i.ties of Corky's agents."Close enough," Metcalfe said."Like a drink?" Nolan said, moving to the bar. "Whiskey? Gin? Or maybe you'd prefer vodka, after your visit to Mother Russia, huh?"Metcalfe glanced over, saw the leering smile on the FBI man's face. "Nothing for me, thanks."Nolan poured himself a Scotch on the rocks. "You been over there before, right?""Russia, you mean?" Metcalfe shrugged. "A couple of times.""That's right; it's coming back to me now. You speak Rooskie, don't you?""A little.""Like it?""Like what? Russia?""The socialist Utopia. What's that some guy said, "I've been over to the future, and it works'?""If that's the future," Metcalfe said, "we're all in trouble."Nolan chuckled, seemingly relieved. "You can say that again. But the way Corky talks about the Russians sometimes, you'd think he's maybe getting a little soft on 'em.""Nah, I just think right now he fears the n.a.z.is more.""Yeah, well, that supposed fear has turned far too many patriotic Americans into Reds.""No one who's seen Stalin's Russia firsthand I mean, really seen it, seen what that system does to human beings is going to end up a Communist.""Bravo," Nolan said softly, tipping his gla.s.s toward Metcalfe. "Tell that to your Social Register friends.""Like who?""Corky's boys. I've met a number of them by now, and all they seem to care about is. .h.i.tler this and Hitler that, the n.a.z.is, fascism ... It's as if they haven't given a thought to what happens if Uncle Joe gets his way. If the Kremlin takes over, there sure as h.e.l.l won't be any Social Register, believe me. Those dandies'll be planting radishes in Novosibirsk." He set down his gla.s.s. "All right, you've got to get over to Berlin, I understand, but your old Paris cover's been blown, right?""I a.s.sume so. In any case, I'm not going to take a chance.""Berlin, huh? You're playing with the big boys now.""What makes you say that?""You think the NKVD's tough, wait'll you get a load of the Gestapo. They don't f.u.c.k around.""I got a load of them in Paris.""Paris was kindergarten, James. Paris is nothing. In Berlin, the Gestapo's in charge. Lemme tell you, you're going to have to watch your a.s.s over there. You're not going to be running around and bedding dames."Metcalfe shrugged. "My a.s.signment is pretty straightforward.""Which is?""My a.s.signment?""Can't help you unless you give me details.""Remember Corky's sacred principle.""Compartmentation can get you killed, James. Look at how many of Corky's boys have already bit the dust in the last month. All because he kept them isolated, unconnected. I'm in and out of Berlin all the time I can help you there."Metcalfe shook his head. "I appreciate the offer, but I just need cover papers.""Suit yourself." Nolan unlocked an armoire and drew out a leather portfolio. "I've always said you wanna hide in plain sight. Okay, so you're an American banker based in Basel. William Quilligan." He handed Metcalfe a dog-eared American pa.s.sport. Metcalfe opened it, found his own photograph inside and several pages of stamps indicating a couple of years of transatlantic journeys, mostly between New York and Switzerland. "You're with the Bank for International Settlements, sort of an international consortium that does a lot of business with the Germans. The Reichsbank's your bank's largest client. There's a fair amount of banking that you guys do on the Q.T. with Germany, gold shipments and the like.""You're saying the bank launders money for n.a.z.i Germany."Nolan gave Metcalfe a sharp look. "All its operations are legal, conducted under Swiss laws of neutrality. Hey, the bank's president is a Harvard man, just like you.""Yale, actually.""Yale, Harvard, whatever. Anyway, the guy goes to Berlin pretty often, meets with the Reichsbank's president, Walther Funk, but he can't make it this time, so you're basically serving as a glorified courier. Hand-delivering some financial instruments that need to be signed and handed back to you.""Whatever gets me to Berlin.""Yeah, well, I suggest you do whatever you have to do and don't f.u.c.k around. You're not in some Errol Flynn flick anymore."An hour and a half later, Metcalfe was on a train from Bern to Basel, en route to n.a.z.i Germany.

CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE.

The streets of Berlin echoed with the sound of soldiers marching in formation, their hobnailed boots clacking loudly; there were black-uniformed SS officers all over as well, some brown-clad storm troopers, a sprinkling of Hitler Youth in their dark blue uniforms and high boots. When Metcalfe had last pa.s.sed through Berlin a decade or so ago, it was a high-spirited city, ringing with laughter. Now the Berliners were stolid and expressionless, well dressed in their ulster overcoats, yet colorless. The women, once so pretty, had become drab as well in their cotton stockings and low-heeled shoes, devoid of makeup, which was discouraged by the n.a.z.is.His overall impression was one of darkness. It wasn't just the normal dreary Berlin weather, the shortness of the days at this time of winter. No, it was the somber mood combined with the Verdunklung, the blackout. He had arrived at the dark railroad station two hours late and had taken an ancient, rattling cab, operated by an equally ancient cabdriver, to the Hotel Adlon on Unter den Linden. There were no street lamps, the only illumination coming from the slitted crosses of the traffic lights where Unter den Linden met Wilhelmstra.s.se and from the occasional flickering of flashlights carried by pedestrians, who pointed them downward, flashed them off and on like fireflies. The interiors of the trams and buses that pa.s.sed by were cast in a ghostly blue light, making their pa.s.sengers look like apparitions. The few cars that drove by had their headlights hooded. Even the Adlon, which used to blaze brightly and welcomingly, had dark curtains drawn across its entrance, concealing the brightly lit lobby within.The city had had a facelift since the n.a.z.is had taken over, and it was hardly an improvement. Hermann Goring's Air Ministry building on Wilhelmstra.s.se, Joseph Goebbels's Ministry of Propaganda n.a.z.i architecture was grim, monumental, and intimidating. A number of huge concrete Flakturmen, or flak towers, had been built around the city. Berlin was a city under siege, at war with the rest of the world, and its citizens did not seem to share the martial enthusiasm of their leaders.Metcalfe was surprised when the hotel's desk clerk handed him a block of food ration coupons, allowing him so many grams of b.u.t.ter or bread or meat. The clerk explained that you couldn't eat in restaurants without them and it made no difference if someone else was taking you to lunch or dinner. You couldn't eat in Berlin without ration coupons.Metcalfe arranged with the hotel's concierge to get tickets to the special performance of the Bolshoi Ballet this evening at the Staatsoper, just down Unter den Linden. While he was unpacking in his hotel room, the telephone rang. It was a Reichsbank official, contacting him just as Chip Nolan had said he would.They met in the hotel lobby. He was an obese middle-aged man with plucked eyebrows and a shiny bald head named Ernst Gerlach. He wore a well-cut gray suit; on his lapel was a large white b.u.t.ton on which was emblazoned a red swastika. He was a midlevel officer at the Reichsbank, though he conducted himself with a certain arrogance that seemed to imply that he considered Metcalfe William Quilligan a lackey he had been saddled with receiving and entertaining."Have you been to Berlin before, Mr. Quilligan?" Gerlach asked as they sat in overstuffed chairs in the bar.Metcalfe had to think for a brief second. "No, this is my first time.""Well, it is not the best time to visit. It is a time of great hardships for the German people, as you have no doubt seen. But with the leadership of our Fuhrer, and the help of important financial inst.i.tutions like your bank, we will prevail. So, shall we have a drink?""Just a cup of coffee for me.""I do not recommend that, Mr. Quilligan. The coffee these days is ersatz. The National Socialist coffee bean, as it is called well, the slogan used in the advertis.e.m.e.nts, you know, tells us that it is 'healthy, strength-giving, tasty, indistinguishable from the real thing!" What the advertis.e.m.e.nts don't tell you is that it is swill not fit to drink. How about a pony of good German brandy instead?""That would be fine." Metcalfe slid a large sealed manila envelope across the table toward the banker. He wanted to get the business over with as quickly as possible so that he could head over to the Staatsoper. There were far more important things to do than listen to this corpulent midlevel n.a.z.i hold forth. "All the financial instruments are in here," Metcalfe said, "along with complete instructions. They need to be executed and returned to me at your earliest convenience."Gerlach looked mildly surprised at Metcalfe's impertinence. Business was to be conducted only after the social niceties were observed. To launch into business dealings this early was somewhat rude. But the German quickly recovered. He shifted smoothly into a florid and somewhat patronizing oration about the difficulties of doing business these days, with the war on. "Only your bank and the Swiss National Bank," he said, "have remained steadfast friends of Germany. And I a.s.sure you that we will not forget it when the war is over."Metcalfe knew what Gerlach was really talking about: every time the n.a.z.is had invaded a country from Poland and Czechoslovakia to Norway, Denmark, and the Low Countries they would loot the country's treasury, seize its gold reserves. The only foreign banks that would cooperate in this grand theft were the Bank for International Settlements and the Swiss National Bank. As a result, the n.a.z.is had thousands of tons of stolen gold on deposit in Bern and Basel. The BIS was even paying Germany dividends on the looted gold and was selling some of this seized gold to purchase foreign currency, all to fund the n.a.z.i war machine. The value of the BIS to the n.a.z.is was that the Basel-based inst.i.tution could never be closed down. The n.a.z.is' plunder was safe in Switzerland. It could not be confiscated.This was an outrage, and Metcalfe listened with growing furor as the glib, imperious official spoke about rescheduling interest payments on terms more favorable to the Reichsbank, about letters of credit and depository receipts and earmarked gold in London being transferred to Basel, about transactions in Swiss gold marks. But Metcalfe played his part, listening meekly, taking down Herr Gerlach's instructions, promising to communicate them to Basel at once."Let me take you to dinner tonight," Gerlach said. "Although I must warn you that today is Eintopftag one-dish day. Unfortunately, this means that all restaurants, even Horcher's, the finest restaurant in all of Berlin, must serve a hideous stew. But if you're willing to put up with this culinary insult...""It sounds lovely," Metcalfe said, "but I'm sorry to say that I have plans tonight. I'll be attending the ballet.""Ah, the Bolshoi. Yes, indeed. The Russians send their pretty girls to dance for us, hoping to win us over." He gave a feral smile. "Let the Russians cavort for us. Their time will come. So, that is just as well. Another night will be better. If you are free for lunch or dinner tomorrow, I shall take you to Horcher's or Savarin's, and we can dine on lobster and other such un rationed delicacies, hmm?""Wonderful," Metcalfe replied. "I can't wait."Thirty minutes later, having at last freed himself of the odious n.a.z.i banker, Metcalfe entered the Staatsoper. One of the world's great opera houses, it had been built in the eighteenth century under Frederick the Great in cla.s.sic Prussian style, though it was meant to resemble a Corinthian temple. It was one of the grandest architectural masterpieces among a parade of wonders including the Pergamonmuseum, the Altes Museum, and the Staatsbibliothek, ending at the Brandenburg Gate.The interior was high rococo, its entrance glittering, tiled in black-and-white marble. The patrons were no less glittering, and markedly different from the Berliners on the street. Though evening attire was officially discouraged, the operagoers nevertheless were dressed in finery, men in suits or uniforms, women in ball gowns, silk stockings, their faces and their jewelry glinting. French perfume wafted by, Je Reviens and LAir du Temps. Everything French, which was in such short supply in Paris, was here in abundance: the spoils of war.Metcalfe needed to contact Lana tonight somehow. He knew nothing of the security arrangements here, how protected the Bolshoi troupe would be. Somehow he would have to get word to her. Kundrov, her minder, was likely to be here: he might be the best intermediary. Perhaps Kundrov would be in the audience: it was likely, in fact. He would have to search the audience, search for Kundrov unless Kundrov found him first."Herr Quilligan!" An imperious voice he recognized at once. He turned and saw Ernst Gerlach, the Reichsbank official, and Metcalfe understood at once. Gerlach must have been a.s.signed to keep tabs on "William Quilligan." The n.a.z.is were every bit as suspicious of foreign visitors as were the Russians. Once "Quilligan" had turned down Gerlach's invitation to dinner, Gerlach had probably chosen or been ordered to go to the Staatsoper in order to maintain a watch. It was unsubtle, like all police-state surveillance, and Metcalfe was not going to make it easy for the banker.Gerlach had moved in so close that Metcalfe could smell the soap like aroma of the Underberg herbal digestive on the man's breath. "Why, Herr Gerlach! You didn't mention you had tickets to the ballet!"The imperiousness faded as Gerlach scrambled for a plausible explanation. "Ah, well, the pleasure of watching the Bolshoi is, I'm afraid, a poor consolation for the far greater pleasure of your company," Gerlach said, looking uncomfortable."You're too kind, but still, I had no idea ""Daniel! Daniel Eigen!" A female voice. Metcalfe felt a sudden jolt. Daniel Eigen his Paris cover name! Oh, G.o.d, it should hardly have been surprising, given the flow of n.a.z.is between Berlin and Paris, that someone who knew him as the Paris-based Argentine playboy would turn out to be here!Metcalfe did not turn to look, even though the voice was loud, exuberant, not to be ignored. And plainly directed at him."As our Fuhrer says, even the most elaborate plans must sometimes be adjusted to the current realities," Gerlach said stiffly, attempting to regain his dignity.Now Metcalfe needed to break away from the banker as quickly as possible. The woman who knew him as Daniel Eigen was approaching closer, moving through the crowd with astonishing swiftness, and was just a few feet away. She could no longer be ignored; she would not be ignored. He saw her in his peripheral vision, recognized her at once. A slightly faded beauty draped in ermine, the sister of a n.a.z.i official's wife. The name came to him: Eva Hauptman. A woman he had befriended and bedded while she was in Paris with her sister and her important brother-in-law. The brother-in-law had been recalled to Berlin, taking with him his coterie, including Eva Hauptman. Metcalfe had a.s.sumed he'd never see her again.Oh, Christ! The heavily perfumed woman reached out a be-jeweled hand, tapped him on the shoulder. He could not ignore her any longer. He turned and looked at her blankly. She was with a female friend, another German woman who had been with her in Paris as well. The friend was smiling bashfully, eyes gleaming rapaciously, and Metcalfe could only a.s.sume that Eva Hauptman had whispered excitedly to her friend all about the Argentine businessman she had befriended in Paris, and why, here he is!Metcalfe looked puzzled and turned back to Gerlach. "Well, how nice to run into you again," he said. "We must take our seats.""Daniel Eigen!" the ermine-draped woman scolded, blocking his egress. "How ... how dare you!"Gerlach stared in perplexity combined with a glint of amus.e.m.e.nt. "This woman is talking to you, Herr.. . Quilligan."He could not ignore the woman; she was too insistent, too adamant. He looked at her, eyes narrowed, expression phlegmatic. "No, I'm afraid you have me confused with someone else.""What?" the woman spluttered. "I have you confused?... Perhaps I have you confused with a gentleman, is that it? Herr Eigen, n.o.body treats Eva Hauptman like a common tramp!""Madam," said Metcalfe firmly, "you are mistaken. Now if you'll please excuse me."He shook his head, rolled his eyes at the banker, who was staring aghast. "I think it's this common face of mine," Metcalfe said. "I get that alarmingly often. Well, if you'll excuse me, I should use the we. The first act is quite long."Metcalfe turned swiftly and pushed through the crowd as if heading urgently toward the men's room.From behind him he heard the furious woman shout, "And you call yourself a man!"In reality, he had spotted a nearby exit to the street; he had to remove himself from here immediately. Gerlach didn't believe Metcalfe's protestations, and Eva Hauptman surely didn't, either. The problem was Gerlach, of course; he would report his suspicion that William Quilligan was not who he said he was. In one chance encounter, Metcalfe's cover had been blown.Metcalfe had to get out quickly. Later in the evening he would return, once the performance had started, and search for Kundrov. The door opened outward, a side entrance to the theater that was probably locked from the outside. He pushed it open and stepped outside, into the cold night air, flooded by a sense of relief. A close call had been averted.He heard the noise a split second before he felt the cold, hard steel press against his left temple."StoU"Russian. Freeze. He heard, felt the magazine slide into place, ready to fire."Don't move," the Russian continued. "Look straight ahead; do not look to either side.""What is this?" Metcalfe demanded."Don't speak, Metcalfe!" the Russian hissed. "Or Eigen. Whatever your name is, shpion! Directly in front of you is a car. You will walk slowly down these steps to the car. Do you understand?"Metcalfe did not reply. He stared straight ahead. The Russian knew his name. He was NKVD; that much Metcalfe was convinced of."Answer!" the Russian rasped. "Do not nod your head.""Yes, I understand.""Good. Move slowly. I will keep this pistol against the side of your head. The slightest pressure on the trigger, and it will fire. Any sudden moves, and your brains will be on the sidewalk. Do you understand me?""Yes," Metcalfe said. Adrenaline surged through his body; he stared straight ahead at the black sedan parked at the curb maybe twenty-five feet away. He calculated his options; there seemed to be no solution, no exit. The Russian was not making an idle threat: any small jolt to his trigger finger would cause the gun to fire."Place your hands in front of you. On your stomach. Clasp them together! Now!"Metcalfe did so. He walked slowly down the side steps of the Staatsoper, looking straight ahead all the while. He could see little in his peripheral vision beyond a dark shape, a hand gripping a gun.Maybe when he reached the car he could try to grab the Russian's hand, wrest the weapon out of his hand. Or maybe when the Russian got behind the wheel of the car, unless he insisted that Metcalfe drive, which would present other opportunities. Maybe. He would have to go along and hope there was another opportunity later to escape ... or to negotiate for his release. What did they want? To question him, interrogate him?Or to kidnap him, take him back to Moscow?Back to the Lubyanka, this time for good?He kept walking, feeling the muzzle pressing into his temple painfully hard. He heard the shuffling of the Russian's shoes as the NKVD man kept pace.There was no way out this time.A sc.r.a.pe on the pavement.A shoe. Suddenly another sound: the clattering of a gun against the sidewalk. The pistol was no longer pressed against his temple! He dared to turn his head, and he saw his abductor slumped to the ground, head flung backward, foam gathering at his mouth, his noise. The Russian's eyes had rolled up into his head, showing only the whites; he made a peculiar gargling, choking sound, gagging as the foam spilled forth from his lips.His a.s.sailant was dying before his eyes, but how?Metcalfe spun backward, trying to understand what had just happened.What he next saw explained everything.Chip Nolan.The FBI man stood there, a syringe in his right hand. He held up the hypodermic needle. "Ye olde Mickey Finn," he announced. "Chloral hydrate. Injected into the neck, it works fast and it's deadly. This Commie b.a.s.t.a.r.d's not waking up. Ever.""Jesus!" Metcalfe exhaled. "Thank G.o.d you were here my G.o.d, what are you doing in Berlin?"Nolan smiled thinly. "Compartmentation, remember? Didn't I tell you to watch yourself?""You warned me about the Gestapo. You didn't say anything about theNKVD.""I didn't think you needed to be warned about those b.a.s.t.a.r.ds. Thought you'd seen for yourself what they can do. They're sick sum b.i.t.c.hes I don't mind spilling a little Russian blood on German soil." He kicked at the NKVD man's body. The man was dead, limp, his face gray."I owe you one, man," Metcalfe said. "I was done for."Chip ducked his head modestly. "Just stay out of trouble, James," he said, pocketing the syringe as he ambled off. His voice was barely audible over the loud rumble of army trucks, carrying ordnance and materiel down Unter den Linden toward the Brandenburg Gate.Metcalfe looked around for a moment to orient himself, still dazed and flooded with relief. He raced back to the side of the Staatsoper building, leaving the Russian's corpse there, determined to place as much distance between it and himself as possible.A figure was standing on the steps, at the exact place where the Russian had sneaked up behind him and put the gun to his head. Metcalfe unholstered his own weapon.Then he recognized the man. It was Kundrov, a cryptic smile on his face. As Metcalfe approached, Kundrov said, "Who was that?""The guy with the gun? I figured you'd know he's one of your countrymen.""No, not the shchelkunchik.""He's one of mine.""He looks familiar. I've seen the face somewhere. Maybe in one of our face books. Well, if he hadn't gotten there, I would have had to kill my second shchelkunchik in a week. Not good for my reputation. The NKVD prefers to reduce its payroll its own way.""They like to do the executions themselves.""Correct. You are here to see Lana again. You could not stay away from her. Even if it endangers her.""It's not that. I need your help."The Russian lit a cigarette a German brand, Metcalfe noticed. "You would trust me enough to ask my help?" Kundrov said, exhaling twin ribbons of smoke through flared nostrils."You saved my life. And Lana's.""Miss Baranova is another situation entirely.""I'm quite aware of that. I wonder if you know you're actually in love with her.""You know the Russian proverb, I'm sure: "Love is evil. You can fall in love with the billy goat." ""Lana is no billy goat." The Russian was evading; let him evade, Metcalfe thought. Honesty was not always the best policy."Most a.s.suredly not. She is a remarkable woman.""A phrase I've used to describe her more than once.""I am her minder, Metcalfe. Nothing more. I cannot help it if my proximity to her has made my a.s.signment more difficult, but I have no illusions about her. She has always seen me as her jailer more cultured, more civilized, perhaps, than the average, but a jailer nonetheless.""She's not a woman who can be caged.""Nor owned," Kundrov countered. "The help you're seeking it must be for Miss Baranova.""It is.""I will do anything to help her, I think you know that.""It's why I'm here."Kundrov nodded, took another drag from his cigarette. "It is a foul habit, but so much more pleasant when the cigarette is German, not Russian. Even the fascists make better cigarettes than we.""There are more important things to judge a country by than its cigarettes.""True. Certainly there are more similarities than differences between Germany and Russia today."Metcalfe c.o.c.ked an eyebrow. "I'm surprised to hear you say that.""I told you in Moscow. I know the system from the inside out. I know its evils far better than you can even guess at. That is why it doesn't surprise me that you want me to help Miss Baranova to defect."Metcalfe was unable to conceal his astonishment."But I don't think she wants to," Kundrov said. "There is too much that binds her to Russia. In some ways, the woman can be caged.""She's talked to you about this?""Never. She doesn't need to.""You understand her.""I understand the tug in both directions.""You understand the desire to escape from the Soviet Union?""Understand? I feel the desire myself. I would even make it a condition.""A condition?... For what?""For helping you, helping Miss Baranova. It would be my price.""You want to defect? Is that what you're saying?""I have information, a good deal of information, about GRU, about Soviet intelligence, that could be most useful to the American government. To whoever it is you work for. I can be of enormous use to you."Metcalfe was staggered. But there was nothing in Kundrov's expression that suggested a gambit, an attempt to test Metcalfe. Kundrov was entirely serious. "Why? Why would you want to?""You ask me that seriously?" Kundrov threw his cigarette b.u.t.t onto the ground and took out another cigarette, lighting it with a small bra.s.s lighter. His hand was unsteady; the man was nervous. "You, who have seen what our great tyrant has done to one of the greatest countries in the world, would ask me why I want to leave? You, who have witnessed at firsthand the terror, the paranoia, the dishonesty, the cruelty? I turn the question back to you: Why do you not understand the need to escape such a prison?""But you're one of the jailers!""Sometimes even the jailers are not there voluntarily," Kundrov said softly, almost in a whisper. "When I was in my early twenties, my father was taken away. He was imprisoned. Don't ask me why; you should know by now that there often are no reasons at all. But I went to look for him, I inquired in every office in Moscow until I found my way to the GRU headquarters on Arbatskaya Square. And there I was myself imprisoned, beaten, and tortured." He pointed to a pale white scar that ran along the side of his mouth. The sneering expression that Metcalfe had noticed before in Kundrov's face: it was not truly a sneer, but a deformation of his mouth, a narrow scar. "I was finally released on the condition that I myself go to work for the GRU." He nodded at Metcalfe's incredulous expression. "Yes, quite a few of us were 'recruited' that way.""And your father?""He died in prison, actually," Kundrov said offhandedly. "They say he suffered a heart attack. I never learned the truth.""My G.o.d," Metcalfe whispered. He had long a.s.sumed that the privileged servants of the Soviet system were spared its cruelties. But obviously no one went unscathed."I don't need to tell you stories about friends and colleagues of mine in the GRU, about what happened to them. A new GRU chairman is named; he brings in his own lackeys, promotes his own people, and they in turn hurl accusations against their enemies, who are then purged. It is an endless cycle of arbitrary cruelty, a sickness. You know of the ancient Gnostic symbol of the ouroboros, the serpent-dragon that swallows its own tail which simultaneously gives life to itself yet devours itself. This is the tyranny of the state. The revolution devours itself. The Russian Revolution gave birth to Lenin, the monster that the world considers a savior, who created the gulag, the prison camps and he gave birth to another kind of monster, Stalin. And he will in time give birth to some other monster, and the cycle will continue ad infinitum. And the machinery of terror that Stalin uses to maintain his rule it consumes itself; it devours the Russian people as it gives birth to an endless cycle of terror. The machinery feeds on the people it terrorizes; it cannibalizes its own. You say I'm one of the jailers. I tell you, as I told you in Moscow, that I am but one of the screws in the guillotine.""But you helped me to escape. You know the underground network of partisans who smuggle people out you could have defected anytime you wanted to!""Oh, you think so? Alas, no. When an ordinary Russian escapes, the rulers shrug their shoulders; they don't care. When one of the jailers escapes, they will stop at nothing to hunt him down. NKVD squads are dispatched to a.s.sa.s.sinate anyone of their own who dares to defect. Without a patron without protection from a Western government I would be dead in a matter of days. As I've just said, I can be of great use to your employers."Metcalfe was silent for a long moment. This was no ruse; Kundrov was entirely serious. His hatred for Stalin's Russia was genuine; it was something he had obviously thought long and hard about for years. Finally, Metcalfe spoke. "In Moscow, you can be of greater use to your own people.""Only if I survive," Kundrov replied with a sardonic smile. "But for me, it is only a matter of time before I, too, get the bullet in the back of the head.""Look how long you've lasted, how you've risen through the system.""I have the chameleon-like ability to appear quite loyal to the tyrants who employ me. It is a survival mechanism.""It's an ability that will serve you well.""It's an ability that destroys the soul, Metcalfe.""Perhaps, if it serves only the purpose of survival. But if it furthers another goal, maybe not.""Now it's my turn to ask you what you're saying.""Don't you understand? What happens to Russia if everyone like you leaves? What happens to the world? It's men like you who can change the system from within who can prevent Stalin's Russia from destroying the planet!""I've told you, Metcalfe, I am but a screw in the guillotine.""You may be a minor functionary now, but in five years, ten years, you could be one of the leaders. One of the men who help shape the direction of the state.""If I survive. If I'm not shot.""No one knows how to survive in the system better than you. And Joseph Stalin cannot last forever, though it sometimes seems as if he will. In time, he will die ""And another Stalin will take his place.""Another leader will take his place. Whether it's another Stalin or a reformer who's to say? Maybe someone like you. Maybe you! My point is, if you defect if you come to America, or to Britain, or wherever in the free world remains free when this G.o.dd.a.m.ned war is over you'll be just another Russian emigre among hundreds of thousands. But if you remain in Moscow if you keep your views to yourself, if you work within the system there's a chance! A chance that you'll make a difference, that you'll change history. A possibility that you'll prevent the machinery of terror from destroying the planet. The world needs men like you in Moscow good men, honorable men, sane men, d.a.m.n it! Do you remember what you said to me in Moscow? You said that heroes were in short supply that Russia needed more of them, not fewer."Kundrov had turned around, facing the Staatsoper building. He stood there in silence for so long that Metcalfe thought he had stopped listening, but at last he turned back, and Metcalfe saw something different in the Russian's face. The proud, almost haughty expression was gone, replaced by an unexpected vulnerability, a haunted look in his eyes. "Have I a choice?" he asked.Metcalfe nodded. "I wouldn't refuse your request.""That's not what I mean. I suppose I really have no choice. To defect would be, for me, but a foolish fantasy."Metcalfe understood what the Russian was saying. He had been listening all the while; he had made up his mind."Tell me what you want me to do for Miss Baranova," Kundrov said.

CHAPTER THIRTY-FOUR.

Ernst Gerlach was a loyal and devoted employee of the Reichs-bank, but he distrusted the jackbooted police officers, the Schutz-polizei and the Kripo and the Gestapo, who liked to round up men of his s.e.xual persuasion and send them to concentration camps. He'd been spared so far, perhaps because he was a valued, even irreplaceable worker and perhaps because he had highly placed patrons or perhaps for both reasons or maybe it was just good fortune. In any case, he didn't like to press his luck. He went out of his way to avoid attracting the attention of the jackbooted thugs.Still, this was trouble and it was the sort of trouble that could come back to bite him in der Arsch if he was not careful. That woman, who seemed to be a perfectly respectable German woman, if a tad overdressed and overly made up, had called Herr Quilligan by another name. She had called him Daniel Eigen. Quilligan had denied it, insisted there was some mistake, but then he had darted off. His behavior was suspicious.Gerlach realized that he had not yet had a chance to examine the doc.u.ments Herr Quilligan had presented. What if this was some sort of bank fraud? More to the point and a truly serious concern what if this American who called himself William Quilligan was in actuality an American agent who was taking part in an operation against the Reichsbank? The Americans and the British were always trying to seize Germany's foreign a.s.sets; what if "Quilligan" was trying to obtain signatures, account numbers, all the information needed to appropriate Reichsbank funds?There were any number of Gestapo and Schutzpolizei agents at the opera house this evening. But he decided the best course of action was to call one of his superiors at the ministry. He located a telephone booth in the Zuschauergarderobe downstairs. Obviously it was too late to call the office; he called his immediate boss at home, but there was no answer. He called his boss's boss, Klausener, who was only one rung down from the director and dealt quite a bit with the Bank for International Settlements. Klausener was obviously in the middle of a dinner party, and he was furious at the interruption. "I've never heard of any flunky named Quilligan!" Klausener shouted. "Why the h.e.l.l do you bother me? Call Basel; call the police, Hosenscheisser!"After Klausener hung up, Gerlach muttered to himself, "Ach! Verdammter Schweinhund!" What a moron. He couldn't call Basel, where it was too late, and besides, placing an international telephone call was complicated these days.Finally he strode up to one of the black-uniformed SS officers who were loitering outside the entrance to the hall. His stomach constricted as he approached, but he reminded himself that, in his gray suit and tie, he looked utterly dignified.The SS man was in black, head to toe: black tunic, black leather b.u.t.tons, black tie, black breeches, and black jackboots. On his right forearm were the letters SD, enclosed in a silver diamond. The three plaited parallel silver threads on his shoulder tabs and the badge on his collar patch indicated that he was an SS Sturm-bannfuhrer."Forgive me for disturbing you, Herr Sturmbannfuhrer, but I need your a.s.sistance."Frau Eva Hauptman noticed that her best friend, Mitzi-Molli Kruger, was acting a bit superior. The box in which they sat, which belonged to the Hauptmans, seemed positively cavernous without their husbands. Maybe that was why she was paying more attention to Mitzi-Molli than she might normally have. Mitzi-Molli's air of superiority rankled her, and the worst thing about it was, Eva couldn't say anything about it. She knew what Mitzi-Molli was thinking she'd known the woman long enough, since finishing school in Hannover. Mitzi-Molli had taken pleasure in Eva's humiliation. She was always jealous of Eva anyway of Eva's beauty, even her choice of a husband so it must have given her no small pleasure to see her friend embarra.s.sed that way. Imagine, that cad had pretended not to know her! He couldn't have forgotten her in Paris they'd had a brief but ardent affair, and Eva