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

by William Brown

  Varentsov slipped his hand inside his jacket, pulled out his fountain pen, and stepped directly into Neptune’s path. The bus came to a noisy halt next to them, its diesel engine rumbling and its air brakes sighing. Varentsov bumped into Neptune and the two men found themselves face to face, only for the briefest of instants, but that was all it took. He had not seen Neptune in weeks, but it was astonishing how the German had aged. His face was deathly pale. Dark, droopy rings had formed under his eyes, and he looked badly frightened and distracted. As Varentsov raised the fountain pen, he almost felt pity for the harmless bookkeeper — almost, but not quite.

  Startled as the Russian jostled him, the Admiral took a half step backward as he looked up into the Russian’s face. His mouth dropped open. “What? Varentsov? My God, what…” he tried to say, but his voice was silenced by a soft “Phisssst!” below his chin. He blinked as a wet, stinging mist squirted into his eyes and mouth. It made him cough and that only made him inhale even more of the bitter-tasting gas. Somewhere in the dusty corners of the brain of a minor East German Communist Party clerk named Rudolph Friesemann, that bitter taste triggered a memory from a long-forgotten class they forced him to sit through. He coughed again; his red eyes bulged, and he gasped as he suddenly realized what was happening to him. A gut-wrenching pain exploded in his chest. He stumbled backward, eyes wide open as the pieces fell into place, and he knew he was already dead.

  It took only seconds, and looked perfectly innocent. Two men bumped into each other at a crowded bus stop. One of them stumbled. The other took his arm and helped him to the bench, then boarded the bus with the others. The doors closed with a soft, pneumatic hiss. The bus pulled away from the curb and merged into the early morning traffic, leaving the street corner empty once again, except for an ashen-faced man sitting on the bench, wide-eyed and open-mouthed, with his chin resting on his chest.

  Varentsov glanced back through the rear window of the bus. It was a significant risk, but he could not deny himself the pleasure of seeing Neptune sitting on the bench, dead; not that anyone could tell, until he finally toppled. How long would his body remain upright? A few more minutes were all the Russian required. One? Maybe two? After that, the Admiral’s CIA “minders” would get nervous. They would get out of the car, look around, and try to appear casual as they walked over to the bench to check him out. All they would find however, was a dead man with every sign of a fatal heart attack sitting on a bench with a yapping Schnauzer at his feet. Not even the best coroner in Germany would find anything amiss; that was why prussic acid had long been an MVD favorite.

  After two more buses, a meandering walk in the park, and a short cab ride, the Russian stepped into a Deutsche Post telephone booth in the lobby of a small neighborhood Gasthaus many miles away. He dialed a telephone number no one would find in the Bonn phone book. Officially, the number did not exist at all, but he knew it would ring in a corner office on the fourth floor of the American Embassy.

  “Ja?” a bored male voice answered on the second ring.

  “Give me McAllister,” Varentsov asked confidently, in his badly accented English.

  “Who?” the voice answered.

  “McAllister, Philip W., the CIA Station Chief, born in Tulsa, Oklahoma. He has a jagged scar on his right thigh, a souvenir from Anzio. He carries a Colt revolver on his hip that his friends call a proper weapon for a Texas cow poke… is that sufficient?”

  There was a long pause as the other man considered the call, the unlisted number, and the accent. “Look, I’m a bit busy right now. Who is this?”

  “He has a plump wife, two spoiled brats in the International School, and a blonde mistress named Greta he sees at the Gasthof Adler on Tuesday and Thursday afternoons. Since this is Wednesday, this must be you, is it not, Mister McAllister.”

  “All right, this is McAllister. What’s the joke?”

  “No joke, McAllister. I am Varentsov, Sergei Grigorovich Varentsov, Head of Section S of the MVD’s First Directorate. I believe you are familiar with the name?”

  “All right, all right, let’s say you really are Varentsov. What do you want?”

  “What do I want? I was the case officer for your precious Admiral Eric Bruckner, and even that fool was smarter than that. Note that I said was, because he had a fatal heart attack just a short time ago, did he not?”

  There was a long, nervous pause as a hand went over the mouthpiece and he heard an animated conversation going on in the background.

  “Yes, if you do not believe me, check with the people you had following him.” Varentsov told him. “You will find I am telling you the truth.”

  There was silence at the other end of the line as McAllister thought it over. “Okay, okay. What do you know about it? Are you telling me the MVD had him killed?”

  “No, no… I did, McAllister. I killed him with my own hands, and if you want the whole story, every sordid little detail, then meet me at the embassy gate and I will tell you all about it.”

  “At the embassy gate?”

  “Yes, I intend to walk straight through; and I do not wish to be stopped.”

  “Here? You’re coming here, Varentsov? Why?”

  “Oh, that should be obvious, McAllister. I am going to defect, to you personally, and that should make your career. So, ten minutes and do not keep me waiting.”

  McAllister sat with a puzzled expression as he lowered the telephone back into its cradle. Finally, he turned toward the stranger from Langley.

  “That really was Varentsov?” the other man asked. “Well, I’ll be damned.”

  “They were right. And he’s coming here, to the goddamned embassy, if you can believe it, to the front gate.”

  They stared at each other, both men shaking their heads.

  “I figured the Russians were jerking our chain again.”

  “Their Washington attaché told me the word came from Serov himself.”

  “Well, it looks like he was telling the truth.”

  “They carried out their part. They put Schermayevsky and Davidov on the plane from Moscow to Vienna last night, just like they said they would. No strings; they said they were paying in advance. Talk about tying Washington’s hands.”

  McAllister shook his head. “So it doesn’t matter what we think, does it? That poor bastard is bought goods, and we’ve got to deliver.”

  “They knew the White House couldn’t turn the deal down. How could they?” the man from Langley said. “It had to be approved by Beria, you know, maybe even Stalin himself. Two top Jewish dissidents in return for our tossing back some rumple-suited creep from their Department of Dirty Tricks. It was no contest."

  “It makes you wonder what Varentsov did,” McAllister mused. “But the truth is I don’t think we even want the guy.”

  “The truth is, I don’t think we want the two Jews, either; so make the damned call. Let’s get this done.”

  Reluctantly, McAllister picked up the phone and dialed the number they gave him. “Boris? Yeah, it’s me,” he spoke quietly, knowing there was no need for social niceties. “Your package is on the way… no, he’s coming here, to the Embassy. He says he’ll be at the front gate in ten minutes. Just one thing though, when you do grab him, keep it quiet for Chris’ sake… Yeah, Ciao to you, too,” he mumbled into the receiver and hung up.

  McAllister walked over to the window and stared down at the empty courtyard. His tour in the land of good beer, schnitzel, and cuckoo clocks was about over, and for the first time he was sick of it all and looking forward to retirement.

  “You know, there used to be some honor in what we do,” the other man said quietly.

  “Yeah, the whole thing leaves a bad taste in my mouth.”

  “Yours?” the man from Langley said with a cynical snort. “Imagine what it’s going to leave in Varentsov’s.”

  PART EIGHT

  SUCRE, BOLIVIA

  DECEMBER

  1952

  CHAPTER FORTY-FOUR

  Bolivia

&nb
sp; It was Christmas Eve. Another successful dinner party was nearing its end, as Martin Bormann cast a benevolent smile down the long banquet table at his guests. It was summer here, but a roaring fire danced in the stone hearth behind him, filling the high-beamed dining room with a cheerful, homey red glow. To his left stood a fifteen-foot Christmas tree, covered with hand-made Bavarian ornaments. To his right, through the long bank of French doors, lay the snow-covered peaks of the Andes shining in the bright moonlight. And to add just the right touch to the occasion, a recording of the Vienna Choir Boys singing Christmas carols played softly in the background. Who said Germans could not stage good theater?

  Ah, Christmas! This wasn’t July. No need for forced smiles or unctuous flattery. No greasy spics with their fat wives all decked out in gaudy costume jewelry, too much makeup, and expensive dresses that did not fit. No cat fights between overweight Bolivian whores yelling at each other in Spanish. No need to count the silverware to see how much was missing this time. Tonight, all of his guests were German-speaking men in their fifties and sixties grown thick around the middle and gray on the temples. Still, it was easier to buy their loyalty than to have them constantly conspiring against him. That was why they were here, to be flattered, cajoled, and paid off.

  Bormann reached for his champagne glass. As he pushed his chair back and rose to his feet, the room fell silent. Looking around at their familiar faces, Bormann doubted a larger collection of cranks, sadists, and mass murderers had ever been gathered at one spot, except on the patio of Adolf Hitler’s mountaintop retreat at Berchtesgaden. They came here from dozens of countries around the globe to pay homage to him and to receive their envelopes. Leeches, he thought as he raised his glass to salute them. Vermin, he smiled. Pickpockets, he nodded to each side of the table. Whores! From the beginning, all they wanted was a larger share of his money and a larger share of his power. Now, they all knew who was in charge. Some of them had always known, and now they all feared him.

  “Frohe Weinachten, and a very merry Christmas, to you, my friends,” he began, his round red cheeks beaming. “I can think of no more fitting end to another successful year, than to have you here with me to share our many successes. Truly, you do me honor.”

  It was much the same speech he gave last year and perhaps the year before, not that any of these cretins would remember. He owed them nothing. Looking down at their blank faces, he realized how very far he had come since that terrible night when he fled on foot through the flames and rubble of a dying Berlin; but those hard days were long gone. He never expected these “Alte Kampfer,” the Old Guard, to give him the respect he was due; no, that was too much to expect. If they wouldn’t give him their respect, he would take their fear. It had taken him many years of long, hard effort, but the shadowy empire he presided over now spanned two continents. He stood alone at the pinnacle of his power, and he relished the moment.

  When he stopped speaking, he raised his glass. The men on both sides of the table rose as one and pounded their fists on the table, over and over, until their loud, drunken voices broke into a resounding chorus of the “Horst Wessel Song,” the old Party Anthem. Bormann smiled and sang along with them, their voices and fists now shaking the rafters, thinking how pathetic these old fools looked.

  Michael Randall’s journey to Bolivia had been a long and hard one, too. It took him five months to backtrack the entry stamps and work permits in Balck’s passports and seaman’s pay books. They took him back and forth around the globe, paying clerks in seedy hotels, cops on the take, corrupt union officials, and anyone else who might have seen Balck or talked to the man. Most knew who he was, and the fear in their eyes were like the footprints in the snow that led Michael to South America, to Bolivia, to La Paz, to Sucre, and to a recluse living in a large, new house high on a mountainside.

  As soon as he set foot in Sucre, Michael sensed this was not a place that took kindly to inquisitive strangers, so he moved slowly and cautiously. For days, he lay around the old town square in a faded serape, tattered blue jeans, a dirty snap-brim hat, and thick sandals; watching and waiting; learning the rhythm of the place. His skin was now a deep, coffee-brown, cracked and wrinkled from months at sea and under the hot southern sun. He had grown a drooping moustache and dirty black hair that hung to his shoulders. Sitting against an adobe wall with the worn, woolen serape wrapped around his shoulders, he could easily pass for one of the locals, except for the eyes. They were a glistening jet-black, just like the Indios’, but his were hard and angry enough to melt steel.

  As the days passed, all the talk in Sucre was about the party that the great “Patron” had planned for Christmas Eve, and it was hard to miss the trucks of wine, meats, pastries, and decorations that streamed through town and up the mountain. The semi-annual parties on Christmas and in late July each year were no secret; neither was the reputation of Señor Perez’s tall, blond-haired aide. The rest was not hard for Michael to figure out. It took him three days of careful, exhausting climbing — climbing at night and hiding in the crags by day — as he worked his way around and up the mountain to a steep ridge that looked across a ravine to the rear of the chalet.

  There was a thin quarter moon riding low in the western sky. He attached the telescopic sight to the long-barreled hunting rifle he had bought in La Paz and crawled forward into the shadow of a large boulder. The raucous party was still going on, and the house was still brightly lit on all four floors. He brought the rifle to his shoulder and scanned the lower rooms one by one, examining the busy kitchen, the sitting rooms, the crowded dining room on the first and second floors, and the guard stations at the front corners. Satisfied, he turned the sight on the uppermost rear balcony and waited.

  In Sweden, Michael knew he had hurt them badly when he found the U-boat and Leslie killed Kruger. Those were major blows, crippling body blows; but the evil thing they were growing was still alive and the time had come to crawl in after it and bring this to an end. There were debts to pay and scores to settle, and Michael knew in the bottom of his soul that fate had chosen him as the instrument to do it.

  The moon had finally set and the hour was growing late. He heard a choir singing Christmas carols in German, and the boisterous chorus of an old Nazi marching song; and he saw men walking back and forth in front of the windows, but never the right one. Finally, the party began to break up. He could hear the loud voices and laughter as dozens of hired cars picked up their passengers and set off on the long drive downhill. He watched it all through the telescopic sight, waiting patiently on the cold rocky ground for a good shot; but one never came. That was all right. He was well concealed. He had food and water and he was content to sit here for another day or two if he must. All he needed was one good shot.

  Finally, the lights came on in the top floor. There was a bedroom and an office with a large fireplace and the largest balcony and best view of the mountains, so it had to be Bormann’s personal quarters. The glow of the fireplace grew brighter, and soon he heard the loud melodies of Wagner rolling across the valley on the chill night air. Wagner, Michael snorted in disgust. He hated Wagner.

  Glancing down at his watch, Michael saw it was almost midnight. Merry Christmas, Martin, he thought. Your time has come.

  When the last of his irritating guests and all of his best wine were finally gone, Bormann climbed the grand staircase to the chalet’s upper floor and entered the solitude of his corner study. Still dressed in his tuxedo, he placed a new recording of Die Valkyrie on the phonograph, the one that Franco sent him on his last birthday. It was by the Berlin Philharmonic, pre-war, of course; and he turned the volume up high, the way he liked it. He plopped his heavy frame into his red-leather armchair and let the powerful overture echo through the house. The music soared, and it carried him along with it.

  Bormann took a sip of his fiery Napoleon brandy and leaned back in the chair. It had been a good year; no, it had been his best. The Americans were bogged down fighting the Communists in North Korea. Stalin had becom
e an unstable dictator with rockets and nuclear bombs. De Gaulle was fanning the flames of nationalism in France, undermining NATO, and destroying any hope of Western unity. The Communists in China were ruthlessly consolidating their power. England was sinking into socialism. Even the old political tensions of the left versus the right in Germany had everyone searching for friends.

  Yes, it was a marvelous year. Bormann could count six South American governments rattling around with the loose change in his pocket. He enjoyed close personal ties with Franco in Spain, Salazar in Portugal, Stroessner in Paraguay, Perón, the Shah of Iran, Batista in Cuba, and a basketful of Colonels in Greece, Turkey, South Korea, Egypt, Syria, and Chile. The sun may have set on the British Empire; but it was just beginning to rise on Martin Bormann’s. The key of course was money. By carefully transferring assets, ownerships, patents, and cash, his vast financial network controlled more than a hundred corporations, a rocket factory in Egypt, two Swiss banks, steel mills in Germany, arms factories in Portugal, chemical plants in Spain, and a fleet of Greek oil tankers. His subsidiaries owned arms factories in Czechoslovakia, the Philippines, and Brazil, and many, many more stretching from South America to Europe, the United States, the Middle East, and Hong Kong. He owned neither throne nor flag, and his face would never grace a coin, but Martin Bormann could reach out and kill any man on the face of the earth.

  Still, the victories seemed hollow without Heinz Kruger standing at his side to share them. Bormann had hoped the young Sturmbannführer would succeed him one day, but Kruger always took excessive risks. Bormann had yet to receive a satisfactory explanation about what happened in Sweden, but he would; it was only a matter of time. If he invested enough people, money, and time, eventually he would learn everything there was to learn about Sweden, the U-582, his gold, and that meddlesome American. Then, the appropriate punishments would be handed out.