To his observers, Metcalfe would appear to be taking a brisk morning stroll along the crowded avenue, a businessman taking a day off for some casual sightseeing; his voice, however, was anything but casual. Rapidly he went through what had happened, from the extraordinarily aggressive search of his hotel room, to the elusive, masterful tail assigned to him, to the alarming disappearance of the transmitter.
Roger’s expression grew steadily graver; hearing about the stolen transmitter, he winced. “After all the trouble I went through to bury the damned thing,” he said. “Unobserved, too.”
“Is there any way you can assemble the relevant components? I’ve got the crystal; presumably the Morse key and other parts can be salvaged from shortwave radios—”
“Does that sound like a practical suggestion?” Roger broke in.
“I suppose not,” Metcalfe admitted.
“Not something you could reasonably expect a feller to do, now, is it?”
“I guess it isn’t.”
“Right. Just so we’re clear on that.”
“We’re clear. Absurd of me to suggest it. Can’t be done. But there’s got to be—”
“Then I’ll do it.”
Metcalfe smiled. “I knew you would, Scoop.”
“Take me a day, maybe two.”
“Of course. In the meantime, though, I need to reach Corky.” Corky had to be told about the missing transmitter; otherwise, when his messages went unanswered, he would assume that something unfortunate had befallen Metcalfe.
“But how? We’re cut off, until I manage to jury-rig a transmitter. If I manage to, I should say.”
Metcalfe was silent for a long while, and at last he spoke. “There’s a way Corky told me about. He told me to use it only as a last resort.”
“I assume you don’t mean the diplomatic pouch. It’s slow—takes a couple of days at least. The only secure conduit for diplomatic communications that I know of is the telegraph. It goes over commercial lines, but it goes out in code.”
“And it’s not secure.”
“Not secure? It’s the most secure channel that exists! It’s what the ambassador uses to communicate with the President, for God’s sake.”
“It is secure—from the Russians. But not from our own people. The enemies inside are apparently as dangerous as those outside.”
“Jesus,” Roger said. “So what does Corky recommend?”
“Apparently there’s a secure telephonic hookup whose existence is kept secret even from most of the embassy staff. A scrambled, enciphered radio transmission relayed to a transmitter in Estonia where it’s amplified, the signal sent over buried telephone trunk lines.”
“The black channel,” Roger whispered in astonishment. “Christ, I’ve heard rumors, but I thought that was just prattle.”
“Evidently it’s rarely utilized. Repeated use would risk Soviet scrutiny, so its use is reserved for emergency situations.”
“Corky’s man there has access?”
Metcalfe nodded.
“What’s the urgency?”
“There’s something wrong. Something off about the mission Corky sent me on here. Von Schüssler is about as far from a potential double agent as you can get, but Corky must have known that! His sources have to be far better than mine.”
Roger looked pensive. “You’re thinking there’s something else going on here?”
“There’s got to be. Otherwise it’s a fool’s errand Corky’s sent me on, and that’s not the way he works. He gets all his ducks in a row before he sends his men into enemy territory. He’d never have yanked me out of Paris for some speculative venture like this—it just doesn’t make sense!”
“No,” Roger said. “I suppose you’re right. It doesn’t read.”
Metcalfe parted ways with Roger and circled back to the American embassy. On the way he passed a classical stone building that was marked with a brass plaque identifying it as the German embassy. He glanced at the building and thought of von Schüssler. All of the information he had collected on the diplomat, including their brief exchange at the American embassy dacha, formed a fairly consistent portrait of a careerist. Not brave or clever, neither an ardent Nazi nor an anti-Nazi activist.
So what was Corky up to? Why the hell had Corky sent him here?
Music spilled out of an open window at the side of the German embassy. It was frigid outside; whoever was inside must be a fresh-air freak, Metcalfe reflected idly. The music was beautiful, actually: a violin, played with impressive skill. What was the piece? he wondered. The name of the melody drifted into his head: “Totentanz.” Dance of death. How like the Germans that was, that peculiar and sinister mixture of culture and carnage.
As he approached the American embassy, he noticed in his peripheral vision a quick motion. He turned, saw the familiar thatch of blond hair beneath a fur cap, the high Siberian cheekbones. The NKVD man who’d tailed him at Lana’s apartment and had driven him to the dacha party. Now he had appeared, seemingly out of nowhere, at the embassy, as if knowing Metcalfe would be there. As if leaving for his inferior colleagues the chore of following Metcalfe from the hotel; this watcher was above that, beyond it. He seemed to know where his quarry was going.
Metcalfe whirled around, lurched toward the NKVD agent, but the man was gone. Very well, he thought. The watcher was preternaturally gifted at anticipating Metcalfe’s moves, but what, after all, had he just learned? There was nothing out of the ordinary about an American businessman stopping into his own country’s embassy. If this was pure psychological intimidation and nothing more—well, let them pull out all the stops. It would not work.
Amos Hilliard appeared in the small consulate reception area, looking disgruntled. He was obviously not pleased to see Metcalfe.
Metcalfe explained the reason for his visit. Reluctantly Hilliard assented. “The Keep,” he said. “As in a castle’s keep. It’s jealously guarded, closely watched. I rarely use it myself. I’ll have to come up with a pretext for my colleagues.”
“I appreciate it,” Metcalfe said.
“Tell Corky I want a raise,” the diplomat replied.
A quarter of an hour later, Hilliard led Metcalfe through a rabbit’s warren of locked corridors, ending at a steel door. This was, he explained as they walked, the most secure section of the embassy. There the diplomat methodically turned the dial on a large black combination lock. It took several minutes for Hilliard to unlock the door; it was obvious that he rarely entered this area.
Once they were inside the secure corridor, Hilliard pointed out a door marked ELECTRICAL CLOSET, where the junction boxes that powered the black channel were located, the telex and telephone cables fed in from outside. He stopped at an unmarked door that was triple-locked, the locks looking extraordinarily complicated. Behind the door was what looked at first glance like the interior of a telephone booth: a narrow, shallow space whose walls were steel-lined. In truth it was not much larger than a coffin. There was one metal chair. Mounted on a narrow steel ledge was an ordinary-looking black telephone handset, which sat on an oversize, bulbous base.
This was the secure communications module that Hilliard referred to as the Keep. It was little more than a soundproof box, acoustically engineered using the most sophisticated methods available. Sound waves would not travel outside the enclosure. Once Metcalfe was seated, Hilliard shut the heavy door behind him and locked it.
Metcalfe could not suppress a panicky feeling of claustrophobia. There was a small Plexiglas porthole in the door, through which Metcalfe could see Hilliard enter a small room directly across the hall, where he would monitor the operation, making sure nothing went wrong.
Inside the Keep, the air was dead and still. There was no ventilation—apparently another soundproofing measure—and it quickly grew hot as Metcalfe waited. Hilliard had initiated the black-channel contact by means of a highest-priority coded telegram; once the necessary links were in place, which required several minutes, an incoming call would be received.
&n
bsp; Perspiration poured down Metcalfe’s face. Suddenly there was a loud, shrill ring, like no telephone he had ever heard before. Metcalfe snatched up the receiver.
“Stephen, my boy,” came Corky’s unmistakable birdlike caw. Even on this secure connection, Corcoran was careful not to use Metcalfe’s last name. It was somehow deeply reassuring to hear Corky’s voice after what seemed like an eternity, even though it had been no more than a few days. “I take it there’s some urgency. I was just enjoying a nice lunch.” There was a strange hollowness to the connection, a metallic echo.
“My apologies,” Metcalfe said stiffly.
“Have you been enjoying the ballet?”
“Did you receive my message telling you I’ve established contact?”
“Indeed. But what about the German?”
“A brief contact.”
“Enough for an assessment?”
“I believe so.”
“Would you say we have a turnable asset? A potential double?”
“I’d say no. And I’d say you knew that already.”
Corky was silent for a few seconds. The only noise on the line was a faint white noise, a muted hiss. “The shortest path between two points isn’t always a straight line,” the old man replied.
“Why am I here?” Metcalfe raised his voice in irritation. “For Christ’s sake, Corky, I don’t think you sent me here, with all the risks involved, on a fool’s errand. All right, so an old girlfriend of mine happens to have taken up with a complete mediocrity of a German diplomat—so what? Don’t tell me you don’t have a hundred better prospects for recruitment than von Schüssler! What the hell’s going on here, Corky?”
“Settle down, Stephen,” Corky said icily. “I wanted you to establish contact with your ‘old girlfriend,’ as you put it, and that you’ve done. Phase one has been accomplished.”
“Phase one of what? I’m not some marionette, Corky. You can’t pull the strings and assume I’ll dance. What the hell am I here for?” He mopped his brow and neck with a handkerchief.
“Stephen, you’ll be told what you need to be told, when you need to be told it.”
“That’s not good enough, Corky. I’m here in the field, risking my neck—”
“You are a volunteer, Stephen. Not a conscript. Any time you wish to go home, I’ll be happy to make the arrangements. But as long as you’re in my employ, operational security is paramount. This is a dangerous game we’re all involved in. The nightmare of what happened to Paris station should serve as a reminder of that—”
“What’s the next ‘phase,’ as you put it?” Metcalfe cut in.
A long, metallic hiss. The seconds ticked by. Metcalfe wondered briefly whether the connection had been severed when Corky replied, “Rudolf von Schüssler, like all of his colleagues in the German embassy, is there in Moscow to gather information about what the Russians are up to. Hitler has forbidden them to engage in any actual espionage, for fear of arousing Soviet suspicions. This, inevitably, makes their job just about impossible. The Nazis are desperate for intelligence on the Soviets, but they’re unable to get it. I say we give it to them.”
“Meaning what?”
“You will shortly be receiving a package of documents. You are to convince Svetlana to pass them to her German lover.”
Metcalfe almost dropped the phone.
“Pass them on?” he cried.
“We have a confluence of factors here,” Corky said. “Svetlana’s father is a retired prominent Red Army general, a Hero of the Revolution, who works in the Commissariat of Defense.”
“His job there is insignificant,” Metcalfe objected. “A sinecure given to a lauded soldier. Purely bureaucratic. Lana told me—”
“Improvise, son. You can do better than that. Give him a promotion.”
“You’re asking me to use her. That’s the real reason you sent me here, isn’t it?” He’d guessed it, but he wanted to hear Corky speak the words.
“I’d put it differently. I want you to enlist her. I want you to use von Schüssler. To use him as a conduit, a channel through which to send information to the Oberwehrmacht. Strategic and tactical information, intelligence that will alter the decisions they make.”
“Jesus, Corky, you’re asking me to put her in an incredibly risky situation. I mean, she’s a dancer, a ballerina, for God’s sake! She’s not a trained intelligence agent. She’s not a spy—she’s an artist.”
“She’s a performer, Stephen. Some of my finest agents have come from the theater.”
“And if she slips, what do you think’s going to happen to her?”
“Stephen,” Corcoran said patiently, “need I remind you of the situation she’s already in? For any Russian citizen to be involved with a foreigner is treacherous these days. But she’s not any ordinary Russian. She’s a prominent dancer, in addition to which her father is a general, and she’s sleeping with a German diplomat. Forget the Hitler–Stalin pact—Soviet intelligence has to be watching her extremely closely.”
Metcalfe flashed on her minder, Kundrov. More closely than you realize, he thought. But von Schüssler hadn’t approached Lana for any reasons of espionage, he was sure. If his interest in her was connected in any way with her father’s position, Lana had not seen it, even after months of his attentions. No, the German’s motivation was carnal. She was a magnificently beautiful woman, which was reason enough for his interest in her. Moreover, she was a prima ballerina, hence a prize catch for him to brandish about. Insecure men like von Schüssler liked to enhance their reputations by showing off female baubles. Once he had blackmailed Lana by revealing the existence of Mikhail Baranov’s name in a dossier that could get him executed at once, he had shown no further interest in the man.
“And what about her father?” Metcalfe persisted. “I’d be placing him at risk, too.”
“Her father is—how do I put this tactfully—not long for this world. It’s only a matter of time before he, too, is arrested, like most of his high-ranking compatriots in the Red Army.”
“He’s survived so far.”
“His name is on a list. We happen to know this. The NKVD calls it Kniga Smerty—the Book of Death. Arrests have been proceeding in an orderly sequence. His time will come in a matter of weeks. Once he’s arrested, Lana will no longer be a useful conduit for our disinformation, so the time is short. In any case, you think the NKVD doesn’t already wonder whether she’s a security risk as it is? She’s already put herself in the stew.”
“It wasn’t voluntary,” Metcalfe said, blotting his damp forehead. “She had no choice.”
“Please. And let me remind you that we’re watching the Nazis gradually devour all of Europe. Not so gradually, actually—they’re taking huge gulps. The goddamn Nazi war machine has been blitzkrieging its way to the ends of the earth. We’ve never seen such a threat to the freedom of the world. France is defeated; Hitler has no enemies in Europe; England can’t possibly hold out. If we have the chance to put a stop to it, it’s our goddamned obligation to do so. That’s what you’re there for. There’s nothing more important. And here I think the opportunity to do something about it has been placed in our laps. It would be sheer folly not to seize it. Worse than folly: it would be criminal neglect.” Corky paused; Metcalfe was silent. “Are you there, Stephen?”
“And what would be in these documents you want her to pass on to von Schüssler?”
“These documents will paint a picture for the OKW, the Oberkommando der Wehrmacht, for Hitler and his High Command.”
“What sort of picture?”
“Some painters use oil; others use watercolors. We will use numbers. Neatly stacked columns of digits. Estimates of troop strength, exact figures, equipment, divisions, numbers of men, locations of weapons depots. An agglomeration of data that will, to the green eyeshades at the Wehrmacht and eventually to Hitler himself, evoke a picture of the Red Army as vivid as anything by van Gogh.”
“What sort of picture?” Metcalfe persisted.
“A
painting of a bear, Stephen. But a cuddly one. A bear cub that has been declawed.”
“You want her to pass on to von Schüssler fake documents that demonstrate how weak Russia is militarily.”
“They’ll be excellent forgeries, let me assure you. Stalin himself could not tell the difference.”
“I have no doubt of that.”
My God, Metcalfe marveled: it was brilliant and diabolical; it was perfect Corky. “If Hitler thinks an invasion of Russia is a cakewalk, he’ll do it in a heartbeat,” said Metcalfe. “He’ll just kick down the door and go right in!”
“Do tell,” Corky said, his voice dripping with sarcasm, audible even despite the odd acoustics of the connection.
“Jesus God, Corky, you’re trying to trick Hitler into declaring war on the Soviet Union!”
Another long silence. The odd crackles, blips, and beeps continued, like the random noises of an ill-tuned radio. “Stephen, I’ve mentioned the Peloponnesian Wars, have I not?”
“Yes,” Metcalfe snapped. “Athens survived only because its enemies began fighting each other.”
“Athens sowed the discord between its enemies. They set one against the other. That’s the real point.”
“But you have no idea whether any of the documents will ever get to Hitler, do you? Think of how many links in the chain there are, how many opportunities for some skeptic in the Nazi bureaucracy to filter it out.”
“True enough, Stephen, but if we only did the sure thing, we wouldn’t do anything, now would we?”
“Granted.”
“We know this: Hitler spends eight hours a day reading reports and memoranda and intel reports. He’s a fiend for intelligence. He alone makes all the major decisions, and he does so based on the information he receives. And the only information he takes seriously is the stuff he receives from his espionage service. His trusted spies. Now, von Schüssler is no spy, but he’s a supremely well-connected fellow. He has friends in high places.”
The Tristan Betrayal Page 24