by James Barney
“Yes, yes, of course,” said Krupnov, enthusiastically shaking Haroldson’s hand. “A pleasure to finally meet you.”
“Likewise,” said Haroldson meekly. He was a diminutive man in his midfifties, nearly bald, with a weak chin and all the self-confidence of a mouse.
“Have you got your bags?” asked Krupnov.
Both men nodded.
“Very good, then. Please come with me. Our driver is waiting.” As they walked through the bunkerlike terminal, Krupnov narrated a short history of the airport. “It was once a military airbase,” he explained. “What we called PVO, or Soviet Air Defense Forces. When I was in the Soviet navy, I passed through this airport several times on my way to antisubmarine exercises in the White Sea. And trust me, it was no more charming then than it is now.”
Outside, a shiny black Mercedes sedan was waiting for them in the snow-covered driveway in front of the terminal. It was approaching dusk and snowing lightly. The driver quickly got out of the sedan to help with the bags. He was a tree trunk of a man, with fleshy features and a massive neck, and a blue blazer that looked two sizes too small for him. After loading the bags into the trunk, he opened the rear door for the two guests, and they climbed in and seated themselves in the backseat. Then he did the same for Krupnov with the front-passenger’s door. A minute later, they were under way.
“Gentlemen,” said Krupnov as the sedan slowly rolled away from the airport, “we will be in Severodvinsk in about forty minutes. On the way, you will have a lovely view of the Dvina River from the Severodvinsk bridge. After that, please sit back and relax until we pass through the security checkpoint in Severodvinsk and arrive at our destination. I have arranged for a private dinner, where we can discuss business.”
“Is all of this really necessary?” asked Haroldson nervously. “I mean, I have what you want. Can’t we just—”
“Mr. Haroldson,” said Krupnov firmly. “I appreciate your enthusiasm, and I understand your desire to get things done quickly. But—” He paused for a moment, his tone softening just a bit. “I must insist that we postpone any discussion of this until dinner.”
Haroldson nodded and seemed to understand. This was Russia, after all. Even in the age of “democracy,” you never knew who might be listening.
“In the meantime,” said Krupnov, “please enjoy the view.”
Several minutes passed in silence before Haroldson spoke again. “Um, would it be possible to stop at the hotel before dinner? I’d like to clean up.”
“Actually, there has been a slight change of plans concerning the hotel,” said Krupnov. “I have arranged much nicer accommodations for you than the Volna Hotel, where I originally had you booked. When you see it, I think you’ll agree it was a good decision.”
Haroldson looked uncomfortable with this new plan but said nothing else for the remainder of the trip.
Forty minutes later, the Mercedes cleared security and entered the Sevmash shipyard in Severodvinsk and slowly made its way through the gritty, industrial landscape of massive warehouses, office buildings, machine shops, and crisscrossing railroad tracks. Finally, they reached the waterfront area of the shipyard on the Dvina River. The driver parked in a reserved space in front of Pier 16 and quickly got out and opened the doors for the passengers.
Krupnov emerged eagerly from the sedan. “Gentlemen,” he said with a flourish, “this is your hotel for tonight.” He pointed to a sleek yacht moored at the very end of Pier 16. The two-hundred-foot vessel was splendidly lighted inside and out, giving it a warm, festive appearance in the otherwise bleak environment of the frigid, snow-covered shipyard. “This yacht belongs to my dear friend Makarova, who runs the commercial division of the shipyard. He designed it himself, and I understand he has already received orders to build several more. The name of this vessel is Belyi Prizrak, which in Russian means ‘White Ghost.’ As you can see, the design is very modern.”
Indeed, the vessel had an unusual, futuristic appearance, with highly stylized curved lines, an inverted bow, and a large flat afterdeck that was obviously designed to accommodate a helicopter. The hull and superstructure were entirely white, punctuated by long, sleek, tinted windows that appeared nearly black in contrast.
“Come,” said Krupnov. “Misha will bring your bags.”
The three men made their way down the snowy pier and were greeted at the end by two crewmen in thick orange parkas, who helped them aboard the Belyi Prizrak. Twenty minutes later, the vessel was under way in the Dvina River, heading south toward the White Sea.
Dinner was served in the lavish dining room by a uniformed waitstaff. They started with an appetizer of crepes and red caviar, followed by ukha, a fish broth soup, followed by small plates of smoked mackerel; raw salo, or fatty bacon; and pickled tomatoes. Finally, a main course of minced-meat pelmeni, leeks, and boiled potatoes was served to each of the three men.
As the Belyi Prizrak cruised slowly along the industrial waterfront, sporadic welding activity could be seen onshore through the dining room’s long windows.
“Looks busy,” said Fulcher, nodding toward the shoreline.
“Yes,” Krupnov replied. He had just finished refilling everyone’s wineglass with an expensive French Bordeaux. “In the Soviet era, this was known as Shipyard 402, the largest shipyard in the world and a very famous one in Russia. It was here that Russia’s first nuclear-powered submarine, K-3, was built. Many other nuclear submarines were also built here, including the Akula, the largest submarine ever built, even to this day.”
“So are they working on submarines in those dry docks?” asked Haroldson, pointing to two adjacent, brightly lit dry docks that appeared to be the center of tremendous activity.
“No. In those dry docks, they are building two Lomonosov-class floating power stations, the first of their kind in the world. On the left is the Abraham Alikhanov. On the right is the Georgy Flyorov. We are funding these through the Skolkovo Innovation Center. . . . ” Krupnov’s voice suddenly trailed off as he noticed that Haroldson had barely touched his pelmeni. “Is the food not to your liking, Mr. Haroldson?”
“What? Oh no, it’s fine. It’s just, well . . . I guess I’m not that hungry.” He took a small sip of wine and looked down at his food again, poking it around with his fork.
Now Krupnov focused all his attention on Haroldson. “Tell me, what do you plan to do with the money? I imagine a million euros will be a big change for you and your wife.”
Haroldson shifted uncomfortably in his seat. “Uh . . . we’d like to travel.”
“I see,” said Krupnov with a smile. “And you’ve already received our advance, have you not?”
“Oh, yes,” said Haroldson meekly. “Fifty thousand euros. Quite helpful to pay off expenses.”
“I’m happy to hear that,” said Krupnov. “As you know, the remainder will be wired—”
Just then a waiter knocked and entered the dining room. He and a second waiter quickly cleared the dinner plates and set out dessert, a baba romovaya cake with rum sauce and fresh berries. They poured cognac for everyone and then quickly left the room.
“Try the cake,” said Krupnov to Haroldson. “It’s delicious.”
Haroldson took a small bite and nodded his head unenthusiastically.
Krupnov leaned back in his chair and savored a slow sip of his cognac, studying Haroldson’s face over the rim of his glass. “So,” he said after a pause, “tell me more about your father. How exactly did he come into possession of this material?”
Haroldson cleared his throat and gestured toward the elderly British expatriate next to him. “Oh, I . . . I assumed Mr. Fulcher had already told you all about it.”
“Well, yes. He told me your father found it in Tunisia, during the war. But I’d like to hear more details. From you.” Krupnov took another sip of his cognac. “If you don’t mind, that is.”
“No, I don’t mind. But I . . . I can only tell you what my father told me, just before he died in the hospital this past July.”
/> “Go on,” said Krupnov.
“Right. So it took place when he was in the army, during the North African campaign in 1943.”
As the men sipped their drinks, Haroldson proceeded to recount the remarkable tale that his father, William Haroldson, had told him just hours before he died at the age of eighty-seven.
13
MEDJEZ-EL-BAB, TUNISIA
MAY 7, 1943
Private William Haroldson checked his watch and felt nauseous: 4:40 A.M.—five minutes to zero. He tightened the chin strap of his pith helmet, leaned back against the inside of the Bedford, and let the heavy vibration of the idling engine spread throughout his body. He and fifteen other members of the British Eleventh Hussars Regiment sat knee to knee inside the canopied cargo bay of the sweltering truck, part of a mile-long column of tanks, armored cars, and personnel transports of the Seventh Armored Division, idling in the darkness thirty miles southwest of Tunis.
The muffled shouts of sergeants outside the vehicle suddenly grew louder. There was a loud slap on the truck door, and a deep voice from outside bellowed, “Go, go, go!” With a horrific gnashing of gears, the Bedford lurched forward toward the German line.
As the truck bounced along the desert road, a lance corporal sitting across from William motioned for him to do something with his rifle. William didn’t understand. “What?” he asked above the roar of the engine.
Annoyed, the more experienced soldier grabbed the rifle from between William’s legs, yanked the bolt mechanism backward, and pressed it forward with a metallic ka-chink. Then he reached into his own ammunition pouch and retrieved a single .303-caliber round. He quickly ejected the ten-round charger from William’s rifle, added the additional bullet, and pressed the charger back into place. He handed the rifle back to William, barrel up. “Ten in the charger, one in the chamber,” he shouted in a thick Manchester accent.
William nodded.
“The Bosche are waiting for us down there, mate,” said the lance corporal. “You’d better be ready.”
William nodded again.
“This is it, boys,” yelled William’s squad leader as the rickety Bedford bumped and pitched its way down from the high ground at Medjez-el-Bab to the desert floor below. “Heads low.”
William slinked down as low as he could, until his helmet was clanking hard against the metal wall of the truck bed. A solitary thought was reverberating in his mind: I don’t want to die.
The first enemy blast came just minutes later—a thundering ka-pow that lifted the truck’s rear wheels off the ground and shredded its canvas canopy. The powerful concussion left William gasping for air, his ears ringing painfully. The truck slammed down with a gut-wrenching impact, and all sixteen men inside flew around like toy soldiers, banging heads, limbs, and rifles. Miraculously, the truck restarted and began accelerating again. William scampered back to his seat, clutching his rifle. He could hear the rat-tat-tat of the gunner in the cab firing his heavy Bren—a tripod-mounted machine gun. The Germans were close.
Another explosion. The troop carrier lurched violently to the left as sand and rocks sprayed into the cargo compartment through the torn canopy. The Bren gunner was still firing rounds in a mechanical staccato, rat-tat-tat-tat, as the transport slid to an abrupt halt.
“Out!” screamed the squad leader. William followed his comrades as they scrambled with their weapons out of the back of the truck and onto the sandy road. The sun was just breaking the horizon, illuminating the eastern sky in a brilliant orange.
Suddenly, there was automatic gunfire from behind, and a young man next to William—an eighteen-year-old private just like him—grunted loudly and fell to the sand with several bullet holes in his back.
“Behind the truck!” screamed the squad leader before he, too, was cut down by a storm of German bullets.
Frantic, William ducked low and followed his squad mates off the road and behind the Bedford. Bullets were slamming hard into the other side of the truck as William flattened to the ground. From his new vantage point beneath the truck, he could see the source of the bullets. A German Panzer tank was approaching fast from the south, its small front portal flickering with muzzle flashes. At the top of the Bedford, the Bren gunner was still firing a steady stream of British bullets, but to no avail. The Nazi tank was invulnerable.
William watched in horror as the massive Panzer stopped short, pivoted, and trained its long barrel directly on the Bedford. Somebody shouted, “Run!” But before William could even lift himself off the ground, a tremendous explosion blasted sand and heat into his face, temporarily blinding him. Instinctively, he buried his face in his arm. When he looked up, he was surprised to see the German tank in flames, the apparent victim of a smaller British Crusader tank, now visible through the smoke of the wreckage.
The lance corporal from Manchester was first to his feet. “Back in the truck,” he shouted to the other men. “Now!” As the men clambered back into the truck, more German Panzers were exploding in the crossfire between two columns of British tanks, which were closing together like pincers.
They’d broken the German line.
By the time William’s regiment reached the outskirts of Tunis late in the afternoon, Rommel had already surrendered to the Allies.
William’s regiment entered the eastern sector of the city, where the process of disarming and interning tens of thousands of dispirited German and Italian troops was already in full swing. William’s squad was assigned to “the medina”—the old quarter of Tunis—a byzantine patchwork of cobblestone streets, open-air souks, and ancient buildings. Their orders were to clear every building to ensure that no enemy holdouts were lurking inside.
“Come on, mate,” said the lance corporal from Manchester, slapping William on the back as he walked past. William had stopped momentarily to take in the impressive view along the Rue de la Kasbah, a palm-lined promenade that cut through the heart of the medina. He had read about Tunis as part of his Roman history lessons, his favorite subject in school. Here, in 255 B.C., the Carthaginians had defeated the mighty Roman army in the Battle of Tunis, using thousands of cavalry and Nubian elephants under the command of Xanthippus, a Greek mercenary. Beneath the swaying palm trees of the Rue de la Kasbah, William imagined Xanthippus parading his elephant army triumphantly through the streets of Carthage.
“Let’s go,” shouted Manchester, motioning with his arm. William caught up with him, and the pair continued walking along the Rue de la Kasbah toward the towering edifice at the end of the street.
“Would you look at that?” said Manchester as they approached the massive building.
“It’s a mosque,” William said. “You can tell from the minaret.” He pointed to the ornately decorated square tower that rose high above the rest of the building. The exterior walls of the sprawling mosque were colonnaded in a Romanesque style, enclosing more than an acre of space within.
“Strangest mosque I’ve ever seen,” said the lance corporal.
William studied the crude city map that his platoon commander had given him. “Says here it’s the Great Mosque of Al-Zaytuna. Actually, I’ve heard of it before.”
“You don’t say.”
“I remember reading about a famous mosque in Tunis that served as a major university in the Middle Ages. I think this is it.”
Manchester eyed him curiously. “A history buff, are you?”
William nodded. “My father teaches history at Clifton College.”
Manchester smirked, apparently amused by that fact. Then he slung his rifle over his shoulder and started off toward the mosque. “Come on, then.”
The two soldiers reached the Al-Zaytuna mosque and entered the long portico that extended the entire length of the west side of the building. The arched portico was supported by dozens of ornate Roman columns, which the builders of the mosque had salvaged twelve hundred years earlier from the ruins of Carthage, just across Lake Tunis to the east.
They approached the first heavy wooden door and excha
nged glances. Slowly, Manchester pushed the door open with a squeak, and the pair entered the mosque with rifles at the ready. After passing through a narrow archway, they entered a vast courtyard, covering nearly three-quarters of an acre, with a large fountain in the middle. In the fading twilight, William could just barely make out the red-and-white geometric pattern of the tile pavers covering the ground.
“Over there,” said Manchester quietly. He nodded toward an open door in the northeast corner of the courtyard, which led into a portion of the building near the minaret.
William peered in that direction and saw the faint glow of candlelight emanating from the doorway. Someone was inside, in violation of the citywide curfew. Before William could say anything, Manchester was already on the move. William caught up with him a few steps later, and the two made their way across the courtyard and took up positions on either side of the open doorway. There, they readied their rifles. William gripped his with two sweaty hands.
“Hear that?” Manchester whispered.
Through the open doorway, William could hear a sharp, metal-on-metal sound repeating in rapid succession. Chink. Chink. Chink. It stopped for a moment, then resumed. Chink. Chink. Chink. Chink.
Manchester stepped quietly through the open doorway. William took a deep breath and followed, his stomach churning, in knots. He didn’t like this one bit.
They now stood at one end of a long hallway with narrow windows on the exterior side facing the darkening sky. At the other end of the hallway, a horseshoe-shaped archway framed a set of descending stairs. The flickering candlelight and the metallic noise were coming from down the stairs. Manchester pressed his finger to his lips and silently mouthed, “Shhh.” Then he started cautiously down the hallway toward the stairs with William following close behind.
The noise continued in periodic spurts. Chink. Chink. Chink.
They passed through the horseshoe-shaped archway and stopped at the top of the stairs. Manchester motioned for William to stay put, then pointed to his eyes and the hallway behind them, signaling to keep a lookout behind us.