Cold War Trilogy - A Three Book Boxed Set: of Historical Spy Versus Spy Action Adventure Thrillers

by William Brown

  “I imagine there are some very red faces in the Kremlin about now,” Person said. “Stalin and Beria must be in quite a snit. Obviously, that fellow in Bonn belongs to them, which explains the Russian trawler, the limpet mines, and four dead Red Navy divers. In his new position in NATO, he would have been a major asset of theirs for years to come.”

  “They don’t have much of a sense of humor, do they?”

  “None. And they will not appreciate you very much, either, so you must be careful.”

  In the end, expediency won out. It was decided by the people who decide such things, that the incident never happened. The U-582 should fade back into history and be forgotten. The millions in gold? The Swedes decided to split it fifty-fifty with the Israelis, demonstrating it was easy to be generous with found money. The world was awash with surplus military hardware. With their share, the Israelis could buy battalions of tanks, batteries of field artillery, and squadrons of new jet fighters for their new Air Force. The equipment might be used; but it would prove highly effective in the hands of the right men. David Schiff would live, but he would remain in a Swedish hospital recovering from the same “fishing accident” that cost noted marine geologist Yuri Chorev his life.

  The art and major pieces of jewelry posed a different problem. They would be carefully restored and studied by experts, piece by piece. If the Swedes could figure out where the item came from, they would see to it that it was quietly returned. If not, it would be donated to some appropriate museum. The Russian art was another matter. The Swedes were not happy with the Russian bear’s bad manners. The MVD had gone too far this time, and there must be a steep price exacted. After some thought, the Swedes had the perfect solution. They would give the Russian art to the Israelis, all of it, and let the Soviets bargain with them.

  Michael could only smile. “The Russians aren’t going to appreciate your efforts either, Einar," he said.

  “Me? I’m just an old fisherman,” Person protested innocently.

  “An old fisherman?”

  “We are a small country. It happens I am an old fisherman who formerly served in various positions in his country’s Navy and who still is vaguely acquainted with some of the men running the Admiralty in Stockholm.”

  “Enough that they take the odd phone call from you?”

  “They are Emma’s people.” The old man smiled and relit his pipe, but offered no reply. Michael stared at him for a moment, not wanting to ruin a classic performance, but not believing a word he said, either.

  “No, you will not be quickly forgotten, my young friend,” Person lamented as he took a deep draw on his pipe. “Neither will that German pig, Balck. No, indeed. We have no doubt he was an SS killer from the war.” The American’s eyes turned hard and cold, and his smile vanished. "Well, those same men in our government — the ones who wanted to pin a medal on you — they decided to give you a small present. It turns out that Interpol has been looking for a tall, fair-haired international hit man. He’s wanted for a string of political murders from Spain to the Middle East, Italy, South America, and even Germany. They think he was someone’s enforcer, and our friend Balck is a good match.”

  “Maybe someone’s ‘strong right arm’?” Michael asked as his fingers touched that old silver cigarette case in his pocket.

  “Perhaps.” Person nodded. “The man they have been looking for was very skilled and very careful. All Interpol had was a vague description of a blond psychopath with steel-blue eyes who enjoyed killing people.”

  “That could be half the German Army.”

  “Yes, but when the coroner examined our friend Balck’s body, they found his blood type tattooed in his armpit.”

  “All of the SS had those, didn’t they?”

  “Yes, but most of the former SS had them surgically removed years ago.”

  “Unless they didn’t care who knew.”

  “Or they had no intention of ever being captured,” Person replied as he lit the pipe again and looked out to sea. “We also discovered that Balck’s sea bag had a false bottom. He had six different passports, if you can believe the audacity of the man. Two were Spanish, one was German, and the others were from Italy, Holland, and Bolivia; and he had seaman’s union cards from most of those, each with a different name. Piecing it together, we think Balck shipped out of Cuba on an old Greek freighter last month for a run up the American coast. It stopped in Philadelphia and New York, and then went back to Cuba. Does that ring a bell?”

  Michael stared at him, his jet-black eyes flashing.

  “The freighter captain was found dead in a cheap Cuban hotel with his throat slit. I suspect the same thing would have happened here, were it not for that girl of yours.”

  Michael’s expression quickly changed. He looked away, suddenly feeling guilty.

  “My Emma thinks you are a damned fool, boy. I told her it was none of her business; but Emma can be very stubborn, as you know. She says a girl like that comes along once in a man’s life, if he is very, very lucky. She also says you should grab her by the hand and run away from this business as fast as your feet will carry you. Run, and do not stop… That is what Emma says, anyway.”

  “And you are absolutely right, Einar,” Michael turned and faced him. “It’s none of her business, or yours.”

  “Well, I am making it my business. I was up here on deck when she took on that blond bastard. You do not have the slightest idea what that girl did for you, what she did for all of us, or the courage it took, do you?” Person said as he laid a gnarled fist on the railing. “We all dearly love you, Michael. Emma says she wants a big Swedish wedding, and if you do not treat that girl right, you may find yourself swimming back to port.”

  “All right, Einar, you made your point. Is that all?”

  “No.” Person slipped his hand into his jacket and pulled out a stack of small, brightly colored booklets bound by a thick rubber band. “Since you will not take my advice, these are the passports and seaman’s cards I told you about, the ones Balck had. The face is his, but the names are Juan Ignazio, Mario Crespari, Otto Bauer, Sigfried Koppelman, Gunter Johanssen, and Wilhelm Wangel.”

  “You’re giving them to me?”

  “Well, we could give them to your CIA, but they have been insufferable boors about this entire thing,” Person smiled. “We know they would just sweep them under the rug, so Stockholm figured a clever, resourceful fellow like you might be able to retrace the fellow’s steps. No telling where they might lead you, or what you might find when you get there; but our people think you might be just the man to try.”

  “Thanks,” Michael said.

  “Oh, do not thank me,” Person shook his head and chuckled. “It was not my idea to give them to you. In fact, I was the one who voted against it. I think you are a marked man now, and you’ve done enough. I would rather they put it in the hands of professionals.”

  “Like it’s been for the past six years?”

  “I said professionals, not the bureaucrats and the foreign ministry types,” Person corrected him. "No, you should not go running off around the world chasing some old Nazis. You should be walking into the sunset with that lovely girl draped over your arm.”

  “What did you say about a lovely girl?” Leslie asked as she walked up behind them. She was using a crutch, walking slowly with a large bandage around her right thigh.

  “That she has big ears,” Michael turned and answered.

  “Yes, but every now and then they come in handy.”

  “How are your thigh and hip?” Person asked.

  “I’ll live. The doctor put in a few stitches, but I’ve had worse.”

  “A few?” Person snorted. “It was eighteen, and you should be in the hospital.”

  “I’m fine, so, what are you two doing?” she asked. “Conspiring against me again?”

  “Quite innocently,” Person answered. “We were merely discussing what each of us would do after we reach port. What about you, my dear? Are you returning home?”


  “I don’t know," she said as she turned to face Michael. “That depends."

  “I think I understand,” Person said as he looked at them. “If I may be bold enough to suggest one last thing, the two of you should take the time to put this whole bloody story down on paper, all of it; and then lock it up as if it were gold, and let them know you have it. You will be amazed at how much that will improve everyone’s behavior.”

  “Is that the voice of experience?” Leslie asked.

  “Perhaps,” the old Captain conceded. “And that same experience tells me that the time has come for me to leave you two alone. Remember, if you ever need a friend, either one of you, anytime, anywhere, you send a wire to old Einar," he said with a wink as he turned and walked away. “I have long arms.”

  When they were alone, Leslie turned and leaned on the railing. “I’m no fool, Michael. You aren’t going home with me, are you?”

  "I will, but not right away." She crossed her arms and turned away, hurt, so he put his arms around her and pulled her close. “It’s not like that, Les. I’ll catch up with you: I promise I will.”

  “Promise? Promise me what, Michael?”

  “That I’ll come back, that I’ll catch up with you at your Daddy’s place.”

  “And then what?”

  “Whatever you want, Les.”

  “You are so infuriating, Michael Randall! What is ‘whatever’ I want?”

  He stared at her. “Jeez, Les, you’re not making this easy, are you.”

  “No, I’m not, and if you expect me to be there when you arrive, you need to spell it out in itty-bitty little words that even a simple country girl like me can understand.”

  “A simple country girl?” he started to laugh, but a sharp, angry glare from her eyes cut him off. “Okay, okay, Les, I love you. I love you very much and I want to marry you. Is that what you want?”

  “Is that what I want?” Her expression didn’t improve very much. “If that’s supposed to be a proposal, it didn’t sound very romantic to me.”

  Michael got down on one knee and repeated, “I love you, and I want to marry you. Is that okay?”

  She looked down at him for a long moment, then said, “Yes, that is okay,” as her face broke into a broad smile.

  “Good,” he said as he got back up. “Like I said, I’ll catch up with you in South Carolina. I will; I swear I will. Until then, I have a few things I have to do. I don’t know how long it will take, but I will catch up.“

  “Michael, let me come with you. I can help.”

  “Not where I’m going, Les,” he answered as he felt the weight of the silver cigarette case in his pocket growing heavier and heavier. “This is personal.”

  PART SEVEN

  BONN, GERMANY

  AUGUST

  1951

  CHAPTER FORTY-THREE

  Bonn

  All the way back to Tallinn in that wretched spy trawler, Sergei Varentsov lay on his bunk staring at the ceiling. He knew that when Serov got his hands on him, he was finished. It would be the Lubyanka, and not for a tour. Well, he had failed at everything else, but he swore he would not fail at this one last thing. He would kill Neptune, personally and with his own hands, while he looked the bookkeeper in the eyes and watched him die. Call it a last vestige of his professional pride, self-preservation, or simple revenge; but if he did not destroy that little worm, Neptune would gnaw at his guts until it drove him mad.

  Bonn! That was where Neptune was and where Varentsov had to go if he wanted to kill him. It was a simple enough task, but he no longer had the vast Soviet consular and East German spy apparatus behind him. He was alone and on the run, and an army of MVD “finders” and hit men would soon be on his trail. True, this was the last place they would expect to find him, and they were notoriously slow of foot to begin with; but the MVD was large and persistent. Once they began moving, they would come at him with the sophistication of an avalanche. For a few days though, Varentsov had the edge. Serov would peg him for a coward who would bolt for England or the United States to defect. Eventually, after he turned over all the obvious rocks and came up empty-handed, Serov would send his best men racing to Germany, but he would be too late. Varentsov would have come and gone.

  Yet the great Serov was half right. Varentsov was indeed a coward, and a monstrous one. He intended to defect as fast as his feet would carry him; but if he expected the Americans to take him in, he had to bring them something of value. If he arrived empty-handed without something to trade, they would throw him out like yesterday’s garbage. That was why he had to kill Neptune. There were secrets that only the two of them shared, such as precisely which documents the German turned over to the MVD; which NATO battle plans, which ship deployments, which codes, and which technical manuals. The possibilities were endless; and if only he knew what damage Neptune had caused, he could command a very high price — a new home, a new face, a new identity, and a fat bank account. But if that damned German talked first, then the value of Varentsov’s life would be zero. That was why the Russian came to Bonn, to kill Neptune for self-preservation, as well as for the pure pleasure of it.

  Escaping from Tallinn had proved embarrassingly simple. Clearly, the fiasco off the coast of Sweden was a closely held secret, because there were no armed guards waiting to grab him at the dock. Perhaps Serov was still figuring out how to break the bad news to Beria? When he did, Varentsov would hear the explosion in Germany. Once he reached the airport in Tallinn, his red and gold MVD officer’s badge and his natural arrogant bluster did the rest. He took a short Finn Air flight to Gdansk, Poland, with a quick connection on a Romanian flight to Bucharest. Those were followed by fast hops to Belgrade and Vienna, changing planes each time, an overnight train to Frankfurt, and a commuter train to Bonn. That was how he came to be sitting at a bus stop in a quiet, bourgeois suburb, looking to all the world like a prosperous German banker waiting for his morning tram ride downtown. Varentsov actually felt relieved. His fear had fallen away and his head was clear. For the first time in years, he was in control of his own destiny. There would be no party watchdogs, no minders, and no Inspectors General leering over his shoulder, waiting for him to screw up. Freedom! So this is what it feels like, he smiled. What a heady feeling. No wonder the MVD had been constantly outmaneuvered by the Western intelligence services. Not even a world-class sprinter can run very far or very fast with his feet cast in cement work boots.

  The morning had dawned cool and summery bright. The Russian was dressed in an expensive dark blue suit, a quiet burgundy tie, and a proud, smoke-gray Homburg hat, the kind he had always pictured himself wearing. Yes, Varentsov felt every inch the proper German burgher as he sat on the wooden bench with his face hidden behind his morning newspaper. Unlike the shop clerks, minor civil servants, and schoolteachers around him, Varentsov wasn’t waiting for the bus. He was waiting for Neptune. Like every other middle-aged German male, Neptune’s daily habits were rituals. They never varied. At precisely 7:45 each morning, he marched out his front gate with his meticulously groomed Schnauzer pulling him down the street by its leash. They would pass this bench, turn at the corner and continue at a brisk military pace for one mile, then turn and march back. It was precisely measured, and so regular you could set your watch by it.

  It had to be, because today was the day. Two days ago, Varentsov spotted changes in the normally soft security ring around the Admiral’s house. The stream of official sedans and uniformed visitors dropped to a trickle. The perimeter guard of uniformed German police, whose main job had been saluting and keeping the traffic moving, were replaced by hard men with cheap civilian suits, short hair, and dark sunglasses. Even more ominous, the Admiral had new visitors, some German and some obviously American. They were CIA or NATO Counter Intelligence, no doubt about it, which meant the game was up, and Neptune’s cover was blown. They would be pulling at every loose end and threadbare spot in his legend, tearing apart his files and records, and reviewing his travels over the past three years, tr
ying to figure out what the man had done to them. Varentsov smiled. In a few minutes, he would have the perfect solution to their problem.

  The Russian shifted his newspaper, glanced up the street, and saw Neptune coming down the sidewalk at his usual militarily precise pace, chin up, arms swinging, with the dog pulling him along. Varentsov waited. Up the street, he saw the 8:00 AM bus picking up its usual passengers at the next stop. Traffic was thickening, and their little corner was filling with people waiting for the bus. Exactly as it should be, Varentsov told himself; except for that black sedan following a discreet fifty yards behind the Admiral. What rotten luck, Varentsov thought. Obviously, the American CIA had turned the heat up. That made the operation infinitely more risky, but Varentsov was not about to back away, not when he finally had that Fascist traitor Neptune in his sights.

  The Russian’s practiced eye continued to study each angle. This was no suicide mission for him. It would be a close thing, but he could make it work. Neptune would arrive at the bench with the bus. The polite crowd of waiting passengers had queued up on the sidewalk and would converge on the bus when its doors opened. The black sedan would hang back even farther, and give the bus a wide berth. Yes! It could work! Neptune was fifty meters away, now thirty, now ten, as the bus swung over to the curb. The commuters on the bench rose and gathered their belongings. Varentsov rose with them, politely joining those waiting nearby on the sidewalk, and in the swirl of bodies, Neptune found himself surrounded and screened from the men in the black sedan. That was the moment the Russian had been waiting for.