Alfred Corcoran sat staring into the fire and smoking. He had been surprised, and truth to tell not a little annoyed, to discover that Stephen Metcalfe was still alive. Amos Hilliard had been killed before he had been able to eliminate the security risk that was Metcalfe.
But Corcoran prided himself on being an infinitely pragmatic man. He’d always believed that successful operations required constant improvisation. So be it. Metcalfe’s assessment of the Russian ballerina was probably correct. Let him go to Berlin and make sure that Operation WOLFSFALLE stayed on track. Perhaps it was better that things worked out this way.
His Swiss housekeeper entered the room with a silver tray and poured him a cup of steaming hot tea.
“Thank you, Frau Schibli,” he said. He was so cautious about his arrangements here in Bern that he’d even asked Chip Nolan to run a background check on this poor hausfrau. One couldn’t be too careful.
He reached over to the telephone, dialed the Bellevue Palace, and asked for Chip Nolan’s room.
The Bellevue Palace was set high above the Aare River on Kochergasse, its views sweeping, magnificent. Nolan’s suite was no less spacious or magnificent, a fact Metcalfe didn’t hesitate to point out to the FBI man. “J. Edgar Hoover must give you guys a pretty healthy per diem,” Metcalfe needled the small, rumpled man.
Chip regarded him warily, his hazel eyes seeming to cloud over. “Mr. Hoover recognizes the importance of expanding the Bureau’s worldwide intelligence work . . . James. That’s your name, right? James?”
For a moment, Metcalfe was confused, then he remembered that the FBI man was not fully in the loop, that Corky’s sacred compartmentation dictated that he not learn the true identities of Corky’s agents.
“Close enough,” Metcalfe said.
“Like a drink?” Nolan said, moving to the bar. “Whiskey? Gin? Or maybe you’d prefer vodka, after your visit to Mother Russia, huh?”
Metcalfe glanced over, saw the leering smile on the FBI man’s face. “Nothing for me, thanks.”
Nolan poured himself a Scotch on the rocks. “You been over there before, right?”
“Russia, you mean?” Metcalfe shrugged. “A couple of times.”
“That’s right; it’s coming back to me now. You speak Rooskie, don’t you?”
“A little.”
“Like it?”
“Like what? Russia?”
“The socialist utopia. What’s that some guy said, ‘I’ve been over to the future, and it works’?”
“If that’s the future,” Metcalfe said, “we’re all in trouble.”
Nolan chuckled, seemingly relieved. “You can say that again. But the way Corky talks about the Russians sometimes, you’d think he’s maybe getting a little soft on ’em.”
“Nah, I just think right now he fears the Nazis more.”
“Yeah, well, that supposed fear has turned far too many patriotic Americans into Reds.”
“No one who’s seen Stalin’s Russia firsthand—I mean, really seen it, seen what that system does to human beings—is going to end up a Communist.”
“Bravo,” Nolan said softly, tipping his glass toward Metcalfe. “Tell that to your Social Register friends.”
“Like who?”
“Corky’s boys. I’ve met a number of them by now, and all they seem to care about is Hitler this and Hitler that, the Nazis, fascism . . . It’s as if they haven’t given a thought to what happens if Uncle Joe gets his way. If the Kremlin takes over, there sure as hell won’t be any Social Register, believe me. Those dandies’ll be planting radishes in Novosibirsk.” He set down his glass. “All right, you’ve got to get over to Berlin, I understand, but your old Paris cover’s been blown, right?”
“I assume so. In any case, I’m not going to take a chance.”
“Berlin, huh? You’re playing with the big boys now.”
“What makes you say that?”
“You think the NKVD’s tough, wait’ll you get a load of the Gestapo. They don’t fuck around.”
“I got a load of them in Paris.”
“Paris was kindergarten, James. Paris is nothing. In Berlin, the Gestapo’s in charge. Lemme tell you, you’re going to have to watch your ass over there. You’re not going to be running around and bedding dames.”
Metcalfe shrugged. “My assignment is pretty straightforward.”
“Which is?”
“My assignment?”
“Can’t help you unless you give me details.”
“Remember Corky’s sacred principle.”
“Compartmentation can get you killed, James. Look at how many of Corky’s boys have already bit the dust in the last month. All because he kept them isolated, unconnected. I’m in and out of Berlin all the time—I can help you there.”
Metcalfe shook his head. “I appreciate the offer, but I just need cover papers.”
“Suit yourself.” Nolan unlocked an armoire and drew out a leather portfolio. “I’ve always said you wanna hide in plain sight. Okay, so you’re an American banker based in Basel. William Quilligan.” He handed Metcalfe a dog-eared American passport. Metcalfe opened it, found his own photograph inside and several pages of stamps indicating a couple of years of transatlantic journeys, mostly between New York and Switzerland. “You’re with the Bank for International Settlements, sort of an international consortium that does a lot of business with the Germans. The Reichsbank’s your bank’s largest client. There’s a fair amount of banking that you guys do on the Q.T. with Germany, gold shipments and the like.”
“You’re saying the bank launders money for Nazi Germany.”
Nolan gave Metcalfe a sharp look. “All its operations are legal, conducted under Swiss laws of neutrality. Hey, the bank’s president is a Harvard man, just like you.”
“Yale, actually.”
“Yale, Harvard, whatever. Anyway, the guy goes to Berlin pretty often, meets with the Reichsbank’s president, Walther Funk, but he can’t make it this time, so you’re basically serving as a glorified courier. Hand-delivering some financial instruments that need to be signed and handed back to you.”
“Whatever gets me to Berlin.”
“Yeah, well, I suggest you do whatever you have to do and don’t fuck around. You’re not in some Errol Flynn flick anymore.”
An hour and a half later, Metcalfe was on a train from Bern to Basel, en route to Nazi Germany.
Chapter Thirty-three
The streets of Berlin echoed with the sound of soldiers marching in formation, their hobnailed boots clacking loudly; there were black-uniformed SS officers all over as well, some brown-clad storm troopers, a sprinkling of Hitler Youth in their dark blue uniforms and high boots. When Metcalfe had last passed through Berlin a decade or so ago, it was a high-spirited city, ringing with laughter. Now the Berliners were stolid and expressionless, well dressed in their ulster overcoats, yet colorless. The women, once so pretty, had become drab as well in their cotton stockings and low-heeled shoes, devoid of makeup, which was discouraged by the Nazis.
His overall impression was one of darkness. It wasn’t just the normal dreary Berlin weather, the shortness of the days at this time of winter. No, it was the somber mood combined with the Verdunklung, the blackout. He had arrived at the dark railroad station two hours late and had taken an ancient, rattling cab, operated by an equally ancient cabdriver, to the Hotel Adlon on Unter den Linden. There were no street lamps, the only illumination coming from the slitted crosses of the traffic lights where Unter den Linden met Wilhelmstrasse and from the occasional flickering of flashlights carried by pedestrians, who pointed them downward, flashed them off and on like fireflies. The interiors of the trams and buses that passed by were cast in a ghostly blue light, making their passengers look like apparitions. The few cars that drove by had their headlights hooded. Even the Adlon, which used to blaze brightly and welcomingly, had dark curtains drawn across its entrance, concealing the brightly lit lobby within.
The city had had a facelift since the Nazis had
taken over, and it was hardly an improvement. Hermann Göring’s Air Ministry building on Wilhelmstrasse, Joseph Goebbels’s Ministry of Propaganda—Nazi architecture was grim, monumental, and intimidating. A number of huge concrete Flakturmen, or flak towers, had been built around the city. Berlin was a city under siege, at war with the rest of the world, and its citizens did not seem to share the martial enthusiasm of their leaders.
Metcalfe was surprised when the hotel’s desk clerk handed him a block of food ration coupons, allowing him so many grams of butter or bread or meat. The clerk explained that you couldn’t eat in restaurants without them and it made no difference if someone else was taking you to lunch or dinner. You couldn’t eat in Berlin without ration coupons.
Metcalfe arranged with the hotel’s concierge to get tickets to the special performance of the Bolshoi Ballet this evening at the Staatsoper, just down Unter den Linden. While he was unpacking in his hotel room, the telephone rang. It was a Reichsbank official, contacting him just as Chip Nolan had said he would.
They met in the hotel lobby. He was an obese middle-aged man, with plucked eyebrows and a shiny bald head, named Ernst Gerlach. He wore a well-cut gray suit; on his lapel was a large white button on which was emblazoned a red swastika. He was a midlevel officer at the Reichsbank, though he conducted himself with a certain arrogance that seemed to imply that he considered Metcalfe—William Quilligan—a lackey he had been saddled with receiving and entertaining.
“Have you been to Berlin before, Mr. Quilligan?” Gerlach asked as they sat in overstuffed chairs in the bar.
Metcalfe had to think for a brief second. “No, this is my first time.”
“Well, it is not the best time to visit. It is a time of great hardships for the German people, as you have no doubt seen. But with the leadership of our Führer, and the help of important financial institutions like your bank, we will prevail. So, shall we have a drink?”
“Just a cup of coffee for me.”
“I do not recommend that, Mr. Quilligan. The coffee these days is ersatz. The National Socialist coffee bean, as it is called—well, the slogan used in the advertisements, you know, tells us that it is ‘healthy, strength-giving, tasty, indistinguishable from the real thing!’ What the advertisements don’t tell you is that it is swill not fit to drink. How about a pony of good German brandy instead?”
“That would be fine.” Metcalfe slid a large sealed manila envelope across the table toward the banker. He wanted to get the business over with as quickly as possible so that he could head over to the Staatsoper. There were far more important things to do than listen to this corpulent midlevel Nazi hold forth. “All the financial instruments are in here,” Metcalfe said, “along with complete instructions. They need to be executed and returned to me at your earliest convenience.”
Gerlach looked mildly surprised at Metcalfe’s impertinence. Business was to be conducted only after the social niceties were observed. To launch into business dealings this early was somewhat rude. But the German quickly recovered. He shifted smoothly into a florid and somewhat patronizing oration about the difficulties of doing business these days, with the war on. “Only your bank and the Swiss National Bank,” he said, “have remained steadfast friends of Germany. And I assure you that we will not forget it when the war is over.”
Metcalfe knew what Gerlach was really talking about: every time the Nazis had invaded a country—from Poland and Czechoslovakia to Norway, Denmark, and the Low Countries—they would loot the country’s treasury, seize its gold reserves. The only foreign banks that would cooperate in this grand theft were the Bank for International Settlements and the Swiss National Bank. As a result, the Nazis had thousands of tons of stolen gold on deposit in Bern and Basel. The BIS was even paying Germany dividends on the looted gold and was selling some of this seized gold to purchase foreign currency, all to fund the Nazi war machine. The value of the BIS to the Nazis was that the Basel-based institution could never be closed down. The Nazis’ plunder was safe in Switzerland. It could not be confiscated.
This was an outrage, and Metcalfe listened with growing furor as the glib, imperious official spoke about rescheduling interest payments on terms more favorable to the Reichsbank, about letters of credit and depository receipts and earmarked gold in London being transferred to Basel, about transactions in Swiss gold marks. But Metcalfe played his part, listening meekly, taking down Herr Gerlach’s instructions, promising to communicate them to Basel at once.
“Let me take you to dinner tonight,” Gerlach said. “Although I must warn you that today is Eintopftag—one-dish day. Unfortunately, this means that all restaurants, even Horcher’s, the finest restaurant in all of Berlin, must serve a hideous stew. But if you’re willing to put up with this culinary insult . . .”
“It sounds lovely,” Metcalfe said, “but I’m sorry to say that I have plans tonight. I’ll be attending the ballet.”
“Ah, the Bolshoi. Yes, indeed. The Russians send their pretty girls to dance for us, hoping to win us over.” He gave a feral smile. “Let the Russians cavort for us. Their time will come. So, that is just as well. Another night will be better. If you are free for lunch or dinner tomorrow, I shall take you to Horcher’s or Savarin’s, and we can dine on lobster and other such unrationed delicacies, hmm?”
“Wonderful,” Metcalfe replied. “I can’t wait.”
Thirty minutes later, having at last freed himself of the odious Nazi banker, Metcalfe entered the Staatsoper. One of the world’s great opera houses, it had been built in the eighteenth century under Frederick the Great in classic Prussian style, though it was meant to resemble a Corinthian temple. It was one of the grandest architectural masterpieces among a parade of wonders including the Pergamonmuseum, the Altes Museum, and the Staatsbibliothek, ending at the Brandenburg Gate.
The interior was high rococo, its entrance glittering, tiled in black-and-white marble. The patrons were no less glittering, and markedly different from the Berliners on the street. Though evening attire was officially discouraged, the operagoers nevertheless were dressed in finery, men in suits or uniforms, women in ball gowns, silk stockings, their faces and their jewelry glinting. French perfume wafted by, Je Reviens and L’Air du Temps. Everything French, which was in such short supply in Paris, was here in abundance: the spoils of war.
Metcalfe needed to contact Lana tonight somehow. He knew nothing of the security arrangements here, how protected the Bolshoi troupe would be. Somehow he would have to get word to her. Kundrov, her minder, was likely to be here: he might be the best intermediary. Perhaps Kundrov would be in the audience: it was likely, in fact. He would have to search the audience, search for Kundrov—unless Kundrov found him first.
“Herr Quilligan!” An imperious voice he recognized at once. He turned and saw Ernst Gerlach, the Reichsbank official, and Metcalfe understood at once. Gerlach must have been assigned to keep tabs on “William Quilligan.” The Nazis were every bit as suspicious of foreign visitors as were the Russians. Once “Quilligan” had turned down Gerlach’s invitation to dinner, Gerlach had probably chosen—or been ordered—to go to the Staatsoper in order to maintain a watch. It was unsubtle, like all police-state surveillance, and Metcalfe was not going to make it easy for the banker.
Gerlach had moved in so close that Metcalfe could smell the soaplike aroma of the Underberg herbal digestive on the man’s breath. “Why, Herr Gerlach! You didn’t mention you had tickets to the ballet!”
The imperiousness faded as Gerlach scrambled for a plausible explanation. “Ah, well, the pleasure of watching the Bolshoi is, I’m afraid, a poor consolation for the far greater pleasure of your company,” Gerlach said, looking uncomfortable.
“You’re too kind, but still, I had no idea—”
“Daniel! Daniel Eigen!” A female voice. Metcalfe felt a sudden jolt. Daniel Eigen—his Paris cover name! Oh, God, it should hardly have been surprising, given the flow of Nazis between Berlin and Paris, that someone who knew him as the Paris-based Arg
entine playboy would turn out to be here!
Metcalfe did not turn to look, even though the voice was loud, exuberant, not to be ignored. And plainly directed at him.
“As our Führer says, even the most elaborate plans must sometimes be adjusted to the current realities,” Gerlach said stiffly, attempting to regain his dignity.
Now Metcalfe needed to break away from the banker as quickly as possible. The woman who knew him as Daniel Eigen was approaching closer, moving through the crowd with astonishing swiftness, and was just a few feet away. She could no longer be ignored; she would not be ignored. He saw her in his peripheral vision, recognized her at once. A slightly faded beauty draped in ermine, the sister of a Nazi official’s wife. The name came to him: Eva Hauptman. A woman he had befriended and bedded while she was in Paris with her sister and her important brother-in-law. The brother-in-law had been recalled to Berlin, taking with him his coterie, including Eva Hauptman. Metcalfe had assumed he’d never see her again.
Oh, Christ! The heavily perfumed woman reached out a bejeweled hand, tapped him on the shoulder. He could not ignore her any longer. He turned and looked at her blankly. She was with a female friend, another German woman who had been with her in Paris as well. The friend was smiling bashfully, eyes gleaming rapaciously, and Metcalfe could only assume that Eva Hauptman had whispered excitedly to her friend all about the Argentine businessman she had befriended in Paris, and why, here he is!
Metcalfe looked puzzled and turned back to Gerlach. “Well, how nice to run into you again,” he said. “We must take our seats.”
“Daniel Eigen!” the ermine-draped woman scolded, blocking his egress. “How . . . how dare you!”
Gerlach stared in perplexity combined with a glint of amusement. “This woman is talking to you, Herr . . . Quilligan.”
He could not ignore the woman; she was too insistent, too adamant. He looked at her, eyes narrowed, expression phlegmatic. “No, I’m afraid you have me confused with someone else.”
The Tristan Betrayal Page 41