The Zurich Numbers

by Bill Granger

  “Well?” A tone of annoyance crept into the old man’s voice.

  Karol stopped licking his fork and put it down. He stared at the priest. No, he thought, he did not want to see the church. He did not like churches. His mother had taken him to church when he was younger, before she went away. His mother had prayed intensely at Mass. His mother had taught him all his prayers. At the orphanage, the children were not encouraged to attend Mass. He did not do so.

  But the priest wanted him to say something.

  “Yes,” Karol said. “I would like to see the church.”

  “And we can pray to the success of our long journey, which is only half over.”

  “Yes,” Karol said. It was what the priest wanted.

  Once, a long time ago, perhaps a year ago, he had prayed with the same fervor as his mother. In his prayers he asked that his mother be sent back to him. The prayers were not answered and Karol felt it was not because he did not pray hard enough but because no one heard him. He stopped praying.

  “Do you want to pray, Father?”

  “Of course,” Father Wojniak said. There was a note of irritation again. He had gray hair and a gut that swelled beneath his black overcoat. His arms were thin. To Karol, he did not seem unkind or even kind, merely indifferent, as though the child were merely an extra piece of luggage he was required to carry on a long trip that might have been easier undertaken without the extra bag.

  “I’ll pray for my mother,” Karol said. It was what they always wanted to hear.

  The priest paid the check and the two of them rose and claimed their bags at the front of the café. They walked out into the bright sunshine.

  Stefansplatz is the square in front of the cathedral. It is a pedestrian zone, but on occasion delivery trucks or taxis use the square to make an illegal shortcut from one tangle of vehicle-bearing streets to another. It is not done often, just often enough.

  Karol ran into the square, transfixed suddenly by a squadron of gray pigeons rising and dancing in formation across the winter-hard sky. Karol stopped, whirled to see them better, and made himself dizzy following the dance of the birds.

  Father Wojniak was behind him. He said something. Karol heard the priest but did not answer. There was the moment of beauty to consider. He was free as the birds were free, whirling in patterns against the cold, cloudless sky.

  A taxi dropped off a fare from the airport at the side entrance of the Am Stefansplatz Hotel, directly in front of the main entrance of the cathedral.

  The driver turned to look at the square after glancing behind him at the departing passenger, a woman with blond hair and quite extraordinary legs. His Mercedes shot ahead, and for a moment he was blinded by the light dazzling off the windows of a shop opposite the cathedral set at an angle to the hotel itself.

  The taxi struck Karol Krakowski 125 feet north of the church entrance. The driver stopped immediately. The child, still clutching his bag, slipped beneath the left front wheel of the diesel Mercedes-Benz 190. Two tons of steel and rubber rolled across Karol’s chest.

  The red-and-white ambulance came six minutes later, its siren wailing the sad cry that is already like mourning. Father Wojniak, his hands splattered with blood, was on his knees beside the still form of the boy. He said prayers for the dead and raised his hand in benediction. Blood still trickled, faintly, from the boy’s nose and mouth. But he was beyond pain.

  The people around the child and priest were still. A woman at the edge of the crowd cried silently. The old man was a priest but no one in the crowd understood his words because he prayed in Polish.

  Karol’s imitation-leather bag lay beside his body. His pale, dead left hand was still wrapped around the handle of the bag. Articles of his clothing were scattered on the square. A piece of paper that had escaped from the partially opened bag was caught by the wind, fluttered up, and danced with the pigeons on the cold breeze. It was a page from a calendar in which all the days had been marked out with rows of neat Xs.

  8

  ZURICH

  Felix Krueger lived on Frohburgstrasse on a hill that rose above the university hospital on the east bank of the Limmat River. The house was made of gray stone and was hidden in summer by extensive bushes that grew down to the public walkway. It was shaded by oaks and evergreens.

  From a large window on the second floor of the house, Felix Krueger looked down from time to time on the spires of the old city, on the towers of St. Peter’s and Grossmünster and Fraumünster, on the buildings of the old town that filled all the streets down to the Quaibrücke and the Zürichsee beyond. He never failed to enjoy the view. He thought it very sad and a little strange that people who visited Switzerland did not find the beauty he found in Zurich, in the solidness of it, in the patient quaintness of its manner.

  A gray sea sky sent clouds scudding in like raiders low against the towers of the city. Felix Krueger, hands in his dark trousers, his large belly pressed against the wainscoting beneath the large window, stared at the gathering storm as he tried to concentrate on the words of the agent who had come to his house ten minutes before. He frowned as he turned reluctantly away from the cityscape at the window and stared at Rimsky, the Soviet agent.

  Rimsky had finished his recitation some moments before and waited awkwardly, fur cap in hand, for Krueger to speak.

  “Despite all you have said and explained, the child is dead,” Felix Krueger said. “And that cannot be altered; that, Rimsky, is not satisfactory.”

  “It was not our fault. I have told you three times—”

  “He was in your care.”

  “The priest—”

  “I don’t care who you used for a courier; he was in your care.” Not said quietly. The words were punched like buttons on a machine. Each word was separate, short, clipped, final.

  “We need to… have a plan.”

  “I am the guarantor of the arrangement. It is my reputation, Herr Rimsky, not yours. In fact, your reputation makes my job necessary to your people. And now I find I cannot guarantee anything.”

  “It was an accident.”

  “I don’t care. What have you told the boy’s mother?”

  “That there is a delay—”

  “Mein Gott.” Krueger pulled his large, freckled hands from his pockets and rested his thumbs under his suspenders at the waistline. It was Saturday; he was tired from the long journey back from Prague as well as from the stupid delays at the Czech-German border. But he must be alert now, he must think of what to do.

  Krueger frowned. “You lie to her, Herr Rimsky. The Russian mind is truly amazing to me. Your instinct is to lie, always, even when the truth would serve you better. For what purpose did you lie? You only create suspicion in her that will turn against you. I do not understand you Russians, I admit it. You lie out of such ingrained habit that you cannot even understand the truth when it confronts you.”

  Rimsky would gladly have killed him with the light Uzi automatic pistol with wire stock and a ten-shot clip that he carried in a holster over his right breast. But he did not move. He said nothing. He stared at Krueger with large, hate-filled black eyes.

  “The boy is dead. It’s too bad. You have to tell the mother the truth immediately and arrange for her to return to Poland—”

  “We had decided to tell her the boy was sick and that we would fly her back to—”

  “Stupid, Rimsky. Stupid. It is such a palpable lie. And what is to assure that the word will not come out of Poland eventually? What will you do, kill the mother?”

  “We’re not barbarians.”

  “Do you not think a double-cross like that would get out? To the very people we are dealing with? The truth, Rimsky, however unpleasant it is to you. Or your masters.”

  “This is something we will decide.”

  “No. It is something I will decide, Herr Rimsky. Something that involves me and my reputation and our whole… arrangement. What about the priest?”

  Rimsky was startled. “What about him? He has returned to
Warsaw.”

  “Send him to Chicago. To the woman. She’s a Catholic?”

  “Yes.”

  “She’ll believe a priest.” Felix Krueger frowned. “Have him tell the truth.”

  “But what if she doesn’t believe him?”

  “Who will she believe better? You?”

  Rimsky frowned. He could remove the pistol so easily, begin firing, watch the blood spread across the pompous well-fed Swiss gut. “But if she does not believe the priest?”

  “What then?” Felix Krueger’s voice was mocking. His face was flushed, his freckles stood out on the bridge of his nose. His large eyes seemed to protrude from their sockets. He seemed to fill the room as a full autumn moon might fill a countryside sky.

  “We can take care of her.”

  “What a foolish thing to say. How many are in the cell run by John Stolmac in Chicago? How many?”

  “Six women now—”

  “Yes. Six. What will you do to Mary Krakowski? Kill her?”

  Rimsky said nothing. He pursed his lips as though under strain. It was exactly what would be done to Mary Krakowski if the woman did not believe the messenger, if she would not return to Poland.

  “There. You answer the question,” Krueger said, smiling. “Then what will you do with the others, Herr Rimsky, after you kill the boy’s mother? Kill one of them and the guarantee, the whole arrangement, is broken for all of them. Do you think they will trust you anymore? Do you think they will work for you anymore?”

  “But they will fear us.”

  “It is better, I think, to arrange that Mary Krakowski is given her American citizenship before you even think to bring her back to Poland. Give her the papers you’ve prepared, give her the bonus money. It is a guarantee for her that she can return to America if she chooses.”

  Rimsky said, “Is that what you suggest?”

  “It is more than a suggestion. Our arrangement can’t survive without trust. Their trust. The priest will speak to her. One of your agents will give the priest her papers—”

  “You know it is difficult to arrange… citizenship on such short notice. There is the problem with altering their computers and—”

  “I don’t want to hear details. I’m a businessman, I don’t believe in miracles. Just hard work. And deadlines. We need action now and you have wasted time already.”

  “This must be approved at the highest level.”

  “Have it done then. Now.” Felix Krueger took a step into the center of the room and stared at Rimsky. The Soviet was the same height as Krueger but not as large. “The Numbers exists as a network only because of a trust, and I’m the center of the trust. They trust in me.” He pounded one thick finger against his chest several times for emphasis. “Without me, there is nothing.”

  It was done. But not as Felix Krueger wished it to be done. The priest named Thaddeus Wojniak left for the United States on a flight connecting through Vienna and Frankfurt and arrived in Chicago thirty-nine hours after Felix Krueger’s conversation with Rimsky in Zurich. The priest had been under no orders to the Polish Security Police, but the Church cooperated with the government in matters that were not political; this was one of those matters. So the bishop had told a reluctant Thaddeus Wojniak.

  The priest looked brittle coming out of the connecting tunnel to the plane at O’Hare Airport shortly after nine o’clock Monday night. He trudged with the others through customs and immigration, enduring the lines, his face drawn and chalky. He had seen the dead child in dreams during the last four nights.

  He knew Chicago. He had visited the city many times to raise money for the Catholic Relief Society of Poland. This visit would not be pleasant. And there were delicate matters to be dealt with.

  The cab took him down into the South Side, to the address on Kenwood Avenue he had given the driver. He trudged up the stone steps to the entry level of the three-story building. He had papers for Mary Krakowski; he had instructions from his bishop, relayed to the Church through the office of the primate, Cardinal Glemp. Why was this matter so important to all of them? Father Wojniak felt himself involved in something more than a mission of mercy.

  The priest pressed the button of the mailbox marked “Stolmac.”

  He felt tired and sorry for himself. He felt a continuous pain at the memory of a child running across a square, so happy. He will rest now with God, his Father, and the angels and the other saints. So he would tell Karol’s mother. But would he believe it when he said those things?

  John Stolmac buzzed the outer door, then waited at the door of his second-floor apartment. He was a large man with thick black hair and fierce brown eyes and a black mustache that curled beneath his long, large nose. His skin was very white.

  “Father,” he said. “I was told.” He opened the door wide. He wore a black suit and tie. Perhaps in honor of a priest visiting their home; perhaps already in mourning.

  “Have you told her anything?”

  “No,” John Stolmac said. They spoke in Polish, in half-whispers. The apartment, built along a corridor that stretched from kitchen to front room, was in shadows. “Are you tired? Would you like coffee, beer?”

  “No. Better to tell her. First.”

  He stepped into the hallway. John Stolmac took his bag. Along the corridor were closed bedroom doors.

  A door opened now. Father Wojniak saw a young, pretty woman in sweater and skirt, with long brown hair. She wore no makeup. She stared at the priest for a long time with resentment in her eyes. She was a smart one, the priest thought suddenly; she knows.

  John Stolmac said to her, “Teresa. Father, this is Teresa Kolaki. She is Mary’s friend. Teresa. Get Mary, please.”

  The woman stared at the two men for a moment longer and then turned, closing the door behind her. A moment passed in awkward silence. Then a heavier woman with dyed red hair opened the bedroom door. Teresa was behind her. Mary Krakowski was pale despite her heavy makeup. Her eyes were red. She was already in mourning, Father Wojniak thought. She only wants me to say it.

  He took a step toward her and held out his shaking hands.

  There. No words passed. It was as though she realized the message in that moment.

  Karol.

  She fell to the floor without another sound, unconscious for a moment to all the pain that would follow.

  9

  CHICAGO

  They had spoken four times in two weeks. No one else knew they made contact. The calls were never made from the house where he stayed nor to headquarters or Hanley’s apartment. There was a longstanding arrangement for special calls, calls that would not be tapped by anyone.

  Always at four in the morning. The simple arrangement was called “Red Sky” because of a poetic streak in Hanley that defied analysis:

  Red sky at morning, sailors take warning.

  Devereaux had made the initial call after speaking with Mary Krakowski that first morning in Melvina’s kitchen. The system was initiated always by the agent, never by control. The phone rang in Hanley’s office; a clear voice said:

  “Red Sky.”

  Thereafter, every fourth day, Hanley waited by a telephone in an all-night Huddle House restaurant three blocks from his apartment in northwest Washington. The early morning was the easiest time to lose tails (or spot them in the first place); it was the time of day when even agents slept, when the world of security was at its most unguarded.

  “There is something,” Hanley said.

  Devereaux waited. He was in a telephone booth in an all-night Walgreens drugstore nearly a mile from the block where Melvina had lived for more than forty years.

  Hanley’s voice did not sound sleepy, though he had not slept much since the first call from Devereaux. This was not supposed to be happening. Security at NSA had promised a thorough cleansing for Devereaux and Rita Macklin; the KGB would not continue on their trail simply because Devereaux would cease to exist, and mere revenge for Macklin’s minor role in the Helsinki business would not be enough to risk a hit on U.S
. territory. That’s what the spookmasters at NSA had assured Hanley.

  But now two foreign agents had visited Melvina trying to get a line on Devereaux. And a Polish alien who spoke vaguely about “guarantees” and her “contract” had been placed in Melvina’s house to spy on Devereaux as well.

  “The women contract with Universal Janitorial, a national chain headquartered in Roanoke, Virginia. But it works on a franchise basis. The franchise in Chicago is Excell Importers, Inc., which is a very odd name for a very odd business. They contract to bring in immigrant labor—Mexican, Colombian, Venezuelan, Pakistani, et cetera—for low-paying domestic and factory jobs. They are both recruiter and employer.”

  “Is it legal?”

  “Seemingly so. Something like that is never strictly legal but this is legal. Anyway, they have the contract for special cleanup projects at various places, including the Department of Special Mathematics at the University of Chicago.”

  “What’s special?”

  “A government contract, of course.”

  “To do what?”

  “Research,” Hanley said in a dry, never-give-it-away voice.

  Devereaux waited. Hanley had something. Something more. The phone booth was nothing more than a plastic divider in a line of similar booths along a wall in the back of the store. At the all-night drug counter, a tired man in a white smock was grinding something in a glass bowl with a glass pestle, while a large, fat man with heavy black skin like coal oil waited patiently. The air was stuffy. The store was crowded with sale items jumbled on shelves, stuck on boxes in aisles, advertised on tired cardboard signs hanging in strings across the ceiling.

  “Research contracted by NSA a year ago. Actually part of a fairly broad, theoretical, interservice, interdisciplinary—”

  “Cut the crap, Hanley,” Devereaux said.

  Hanley smiled at his end of the line. “It’s about developing new cryptography, both software and hardware. The project is ongoing, split between a dozen universities and think tanks coast to coast.”