Dezhnev rested on his cane for a moment, watching the four-ship formation steam toward a heavy mist. The wind kicked up another five knots, reminding him of a springtime Sochi on the Black Sea. The waves were furiously white-capped and sadly, the destroyers disappeared into the gloom. Soon the cruiser, a curious wisp of light brown smoke curling from her after stack, was also lost to view. Eduard Dezhnev tightened his collar and his grip on his cane and walked the last half-block to the Soviet Consulate.
Zenit was in uniform. Always, something was up when Zenit wore his uniform. But this time, he was without Dezhnev’s medals. Quietly, just before a consulate party two weeks ago, Dezhnev had trapped Zenit in a vestibule, pressing a forearm to the zampolit’s his throat while he unpinned his medals. Perspiration broke out on Zenit’s lip as he mumbled, “I’m sorry Comrade, I forgot.”
They sat in a third floor meeting room down the hall from the radio room, its powerful receivers squealing.
“Sit, please, Eduard.”
Zenit’s tone was cordial, too cordial. Why?.
As Dezhnev sat, Zenit stood. “I have great news for you, Eduard.” He opened a folder and read from a sheet of paper. “Your promotion to Captain Third Rank has been approved. Commissar Beria himself has endorsed it. Congratulations, Comrade.” Zenit reached out, pumped Dezhnev’s hand once, then let go.
“Approved? I didn’t realize it had been recommended.”
Stiffly, Zenit handed over the page. “Here. Read it yourself.”
It was a dispatch from Naval headquarters routed via Beria. “It’s dated two weeks ago.”
“Transmission was garbled. It took a while to clear up the mess.”
Pure shit. That telegraphist, the guitar-playing Yuri Moskvitin, who runs the radio gang down the hall is top-notch. It wouldn’t take him two weeks to ungarble a message from Moscow. Even so...Captain Third Rank. Dezhnev sat back and decided to try it on for size. “So. We’re the same rank, eh Sergei?” Until now, he hadn’t called Zenit by his first name and he rolled it off his tongue theatrically.
Zenit bristled.
His eyes are crossed. This is killing him.
“Something else has come up.”
That’s why he is in uniform. It helped cover the delayed promotion foul-up . “Yes...Sergei.” Stupid to keep calling him by his first name, but it was fun to watch Zenit squirm.
Zenit cleared his throat. “Commissar Beria specifically asked for you to supervise the West Coast Activities of Operation VOSTOK.”
Dezhnev drummed his fingers. “Which is what?”
Zenit pulled a packet of papers from another folder and passed them over. “As your control, I’ve been authorized to review these, even participate in the project. But you have been selected because of your excellent English and...” Zenit bit his lip, “your ability to act.”
“Act? What the hell does this war have to do with stage play?”
“You’ll have to ask Commissar Beria about that.” Zenit tapped the packet with the back of his hand and dropped his voice to a whisper. “It seems the Americans are involved in some sort of superbomb project, you see.”
“Superbomb?”
“A bomb that can destroy a whole city block, maybe two.”
“We have that capability now.” Dezhnev’s eyes bored into Zenit, the zampolit, the politician who didn’t know a hand grenade from a Molotov cocktail.
“All right. Five city blocks, perhaps. All I know is that their code name is PROJECT MANHATTAN. There is a section here that explains the technical parts, you see. Apparently, the project is in the developmental stage and still requires a lot of pure science. So much so that we have noticed that many physicists in the San Francisco area, in Southern California and in the State of Washington,” he pointed north with his middle finger, “are disappearing. We don’t know where. Whole families. It’s bizarre. Here today, teaching undergraduate physics students at the University of California, then gone tomorrow without a trace. We need you to find them. Possibly to identify those who have not yet disappeared.
“You say Southern California?”
“Yes. From Cal Tech, primarily.”
“I can go there and see movie stars?”
“Cal Tech is not in Hollywood. It’s several kilometers away in a city called Pasadena. Besides, you don’t have clearance to go to Southern California. But we’re working on that. The Americans have declared the West Coast a war zone, but they only enforce it against people like us. For the time being, you will identify and trace physicists who have disappeared from the University of California at Berkeley and from Stanford University.”
Dezhnev took the packet and thumbed its pages. “Thank you...Sergei.”
Zenit gave a curt nod.
“What about KOMET? Do we continue or what?”
Zenit stood and walked to a window, watching dark clouds roll over the bay. It looked like rain. “I think so. Tatekawa keeps asking about operations in the Philippines, Mindanao specifically. He’s apparently doing a favor for a friend, an admiral.”
“What difference is this to us?”
“Using the Birkenfeld business as a lever, they bark, we jump. Beria has ordered us to keep doing all we can.”
“I see.”
“We need more information on guerrilla operations there. Anything. Big or small. Beria wants it all. Apparently, the resistance is giving them fits, tying down troops who are supposed to be fighting the Marines on Guadalcanal.”
How in the hell can I do something in the stupid Philippines? It took all Dezhnev’s composure to keep from sounding sarcastic. “What can I do?”
Zenit stood so close to the window that his breath steamed it up. “We’ve discovered your friend is back.”
“Who?”
“Toliver. Your destroyer comrade. Gunnery officer, wasn’t he? His ship was sunk and he was wounded, you see. They flew him back here where he had surgery at the Stanford Lane Hospital. Now, he’s recuperating.”
“You’re joking.” Dezhnev ran a thumb and forefinger over the solid gold cufflink on his shirt sleeve. They bore his initials, ED, in English. They were a gift from Toliver who had purchase them at Gimps.
Zenit’s lip curled. “The man must be very wealthy. Instead of staying in a military hospital, he recuperates in a suite in the St. Francis Hotel.”
CHAPTER FORTY ONE
11 November, 1942
St. Francis Hotel
San Francisco, California
Dezhnev watched rain pelt the window of room #1220 (The St. Francis prefers to call them parlors) located on the hotel’s top floor. Across the street, Union Square was obscured by the storm that had rumbled in three hours ago. The suite was exquisitely furnished with a bedroom off to each side. Thoughtfully, a giant log crackled in the fireplace. Lucky, he mused. After his meeting with Zenit, Dezhnev called over and was immediately connected with Toliver. Rather than jubilant, Toliver sounded distracted, his voice faint. It took a lot to convince him to have dinner this evening.
Toliver hobbled in on crutches wearing his blue uniform and heavy overcoat, his face the color of chalk. “Seems like every time we go out, it’s raining. You ready?”
Dezhnev, also in uniform, wiggled into his greatcoat. Ever since Dezhnev’s encounter with the Navy thugs, Zenit insisted he wear his uniform when going out. “Where would you like to go?”
“Wait a minute.”
“Yes?” Dezhnev’s eyebrows went up.
Toliver raised his hand and brushed at Dezhnev shiny new insignia. “Something new?”
Dezhnev gave a slight smile. “Promotion. I’m now Captain Third Rank.”
“Well, congratulations, Ed. Does that mean you make more money?”
Dezhnev shrugged. “A few rubles. Now...about dinner.”
Toliver snatched his cap off the desk. “You know? I’ve been thinking about Wong Lee’s ever since I’ve been back. Would you mind?”
“Excellent. Should we call a cab?”
Toliver shook his head. �
��No. We’ll take my car. Except there’s one problem.”
“Yes?” Dezhnev opened the front door and they walked to the elevator and pushed the button.
“The doctors won’t let me drive, yet. Too much strain with the clutch, brake and all that nonsense. How about it? Would you mind driving my car?”
“Of course not.”
They descended into the garage, where the valet delivered Toliver’s Packard, the engine running. Toliver got in the passenger seat. Dezhnev stepped into the driver’s side. “Ummmm.” He released the handbrake then pulled the gearshift, making a loud racket.
“Hey! Jeez, Ed, what the hell you doing?”
The valet stood off to one side scratching his head as Dezhnev pushed in the clutch. “It’s been a while.” He eased the clutch out then pulled hard on the gearshift lever. Once again the transmission made a terrible grinding noise.
Toliver reached over and switched off the engine. “Ed, how long you been driving?”
With the slightest of smiles, Dezhnev turned. “Actually, about a minute and a half.”
Toliver’s mouth curled.
Dezhnev giggled.
Toliver’s laugh grew to a roar and he whacked Dezhnev on the arm. “You sonofabitch. Come on. We’ll take a taxi.”
Suzy, the comely Chinese-American waitress recognized them immediately. With a broad smile, she gave each a kiss. “Booth number thirty-nine for you. The most exclusive in Wong Lee’s Cafe.”
With Dezhnev on Toliver’s left, Suzy took the other side and began leading them into the main dining room. What happened to you?” She asked Toliver, helping him down some steps.
“I’m screwed together with a Neufeld Blade Plate.”
“You’re what?”
“It’s my hip.” Toliver explained quickly. “Look, Suzy, could we sit there?” He pointed to an empty table in the middle of the dining area.
Suzy looked to Dezhnev, who shrugged. “If that’s what you want, then it’s yours.”
Toliver grinned sheepishly, “I’d just like to be with people. Thanks.”
While Dezhnev helped Toliver in his chair, Suzy said, “Don’t worry about ordering. Tonight, it’s the house specialty for you.”
“Which is?”
With exaggeration, she fluttered her eyes, “Don’t you know there are some things you don’t ask a girl?”
“Oh, my god. Bring it on.” Toliver lowered his voice. “Do you still have scotch?”
“For you, Ollie, let me check.” With a wink, Suzy picked up his crutches, stood them in a corner then bustled off.
Dezhnev leaned on his elbows. “You are about to make a touchdown with her.”
“Wish I could. But I’m so full of codeine, I’m just...uhhhh.” Toliver let his tongue hang over his lip.
“What will the booze do to you?”
“I’m sure going to find out.”
A waiter walked up and placed their drinks before them.
Toliver sniffed at it and smiled. “Ahhh, Suzy, you’re a sweetheart. I’m sorry, Ed. You want vodka?”
Dezhnev gave a quick bow and raised his glass. “No vodka. Remember?”
Toliver slapped his forehead. “I hope we can remain friends.”
Dezhnev ignored the gybe. “So this is fine. Now,” he raised his glass, “welcome back. And to your quick recovery. Uhhhrah!”
“Uhhhrah!” grunted Toliver. “And congratulations on your promotion. Uhhhrah!”
“Uhhhrah!” replied Dezhnev, noticing people glancing their way
After they clinked glasses and tossed back their scotch, Toliver dabbed his napkin at his mouth then burped, ”Ahhh. Man, oh man, that is good. I’ll tell you, Ed. There was a time a few weeks back when I thought I would never be able to do this again.”
Dezhnev leaned in again. “So can you talk about it?”
“We’re on the same side, aren’t we?”
“You know what I mean. You’re angry, aren’t you?”
Toliver’s mouth opened in surprise.
“Angry that you let down your shipmates. Especially the dead ones.”
Toliver drank again.
“Remember what I said, Ollie?”
“Let the dead bury the dead.’ Flying back on the plane, pumped full of morphine, that ran over and over in my head. I heard it again when I was coming out of surgery. Yeah, I remember. But I have to tell you, it’s easier said than done.”
“How did this happen?”
Toliver gulped scotch. “I don’t want to talk about it.”
“Better you should. I’ve been through it, too. Remember? Tell me. What happened?”
Toliver drained his glass, beckoned a passing waiter. “I’ll take another, please. How ‘bout you, Ed?”
Dezhnev quickly finished and thumped down his glass. “Da.”
The waiter’s eyebrows furrowed.
“He’s a Commie. That means ‘yes.’“
The waiter nodded and walked away.
“Come now. Give.”
Toliver gave a long sigh. “All right.” He told Dezhnev the same story he’d told Ingram aboard the Zeilin. He finished with, “and now the Riley is at the bottom of the New Georgia Sound. And listen to this. They call it ‘Iron Bottom Sound’ because of all the sunken ships.”
“You say just one torpedo hit you?”
Toliver nodded, his hands wiggling out an explosion. “Boom! Whap! Blew me in air, actually the whole ship jumped. I was catapulted in the air and fell to the deck below. That’s how...”
The waiter returned with the drinks and, “Miss Lee say you should eat soon. She say you look awful and need good food.”
“Bring it on.”
As the waiter walked off, Toliver put a hand to his head. “Damn. This scotch has a kick to it.”
“You all right?”
“Sure, sure.” Toliver leaned aside as the waiter placed a bowl before him. “What’s this?”
“Hot and sour soup.” The waiter set down a spice bowl. “Here is more stuff, if you need it.”
Toliver leaned over the bowl and smiled. “Ummm. Smells good.” He picked up his spoon and gulped. Within seconds, his face turned red and he made a show of gasping. Reaching for his glass, he gulped, letting water dribble down his chin.
Dezhnev chuckled and spooned with panache. Smacking his lips appreciatively, he said, “Ahh. Good choice, Suzy. Very good.”
“Damn,” Toliver gasped. “Poisoned on my first night out.”
They sipped for a moment, Dezhnev mulling what he’d learned so for. From what Toliver said, it confirmed reports that the Japanese had the upper hand with their night tactics and their Type 93 torpedoes. In fact, if Toliver were any example, it sounded as if the Americans had no idea what they were up against. Also, he wondered if Otis DeWitt had had any success about telling the Type 93 torpedo secrets to General Sutherland. Casually, he asked, “So how is Todd. Did he come out all right?”
Toliver reached for a spoon and missed. His second try was successful, except that it was a teaspoon. No matter. He dipped it the hot and sour soup and slurped loudly. “Tanned, windblown. Ingram looks like Charles Atlas. The tropics agree with him,
Just then, Suzy walked by. “Ahhh.” Toliver reached out, and coiled his arm around her. “Great soup.”
She picked up his scotch glass and set it on the tray of a passing waiter. “You eat lots. The main course will arrive soon.”
Toliver plunged his head into his hands and went into a falsetto, “Oh, my god. I can’t stand it. Please, please. I gotta have a drink.” He wracked his body with fake sobs.
Suzy ran a hand through his hair and grinned at Dezhnev.
Dezhnev looked up at her. “How long have you been here?”
“We opened this in 1935.”
Dezhnev slurped and dabbed a napkin to his lips. “And do you run this?”
Suzy bowed gracefully. “My mother is manager here.”
“Well let’s see her.”
“She’s off tonight.”
/> “Oh.”
“You’ve had good success, it looks like?” asked Dezhnev.
“It’s gone very well, thank you.”
Toliver grasped her hand and kissed it saying, “Heard anything from your pop?”
Suzy shook her head.
“I’m sorry, hon.” Toliver wrapped an arm around her waist.
She nodded. “We pray.”
The waiter arrived with a tray loaded with steaming bowls.
“Ummmm. Ollie. I’d forgotten how good this was.”
“Mindanao,” slurred Toliver, picking up a fried shrimp and popping it in his mouth. “Wouldn’t that be something if they ran into each other.”
“Who?” said Suzy. “It’s a big island.”
Dezhnev sat erect.
“Maybe not. You know. Todd’s girlfriend is with the resistance on -- s hhhh --” Toliver lowered his voice to a hoarse whisper and looked around the room. “...Mindanao. She’s with Pablo Amador, the king of Nasipit. If anybody knows about your Uncle, it would be him.”
Suzy bent to her knees and looked up into Toliver’s face, her eyes searching. “You mean someone could find out?”
“You remember Otis?”
“Yes. Yes.”
Toliver grinned conspiratorially. “Well, Otis talks to them all the time. Radio messages. Secret stuff, except it doesn’t mean a hill of beans ‘cause there’s a million Japs around them. But Pablo sure has them bamboozled, I’ll tell you. Let me talk to Otis. See if he can do smoothing.”
“Oh.” Suzy beamed. “Oh.” She leaned over and kissed Toliver on the mouth. “Thank you. I can’t wait ‘til I--”
Toliver waved a finger under her nose. “No telling anybody, honey. Okay? This is a military secret. You have to promise.”
Suzy stood, seeing new customers in the little waiting area. “I promise. Oh thank you, Ollie. Look, I’ll be back in a minute.” she dashed off.
Dezhnev thought about that. Mindanao. And Wong Lee. He hadn’t mentioned Wong Lee when he’d first heard about him. It had seemed so insignificant. Maybe now. A tidbit for Moscow. He took a bite of roast duck. “Ummm, excellent.”
A CODE FOR TOMORROW: A Ingram Novel (The Todd Ingram Series Book 2) Page 35