The Zurich Numbers

by Bill Granger

  A man in overcoat, glasses, and black hat came up to him. He sat down on the bench opposite. Matron left the dining hall.

  He spooned cereal and put it in his mouth. He didn’t look at the man.

  “Are you shy, Stefan?”

  What a dumb thing to ask, he thought.

  “Are you shy?”

  “No.”

  “How do you feel?”

  “Fine.”

  The man did not remove his hat. He smiled at Stefan. Jozef said men in hats are secret police. They don’t have any rules in secret police, Jozef said. They even wear hats in church, during Mass, Jozef said.

  “Stefan, did you ever see the circus?”

  “Yes.” Spoon. “Once when it came to Warsaw. We were all allowed to go except Jozef, because Jozef had written on the walls in the lavatory.”

  “That was a bad thing to do.”

  “He was caught,” defended Stefan.

  “So. You are a lucky boy to see the circus. Now you have more luck.” The smile again. “You are going to have a chance to work for a while in the circus. Would you like that?”

  Stefan said nothing. He was waiting for his mother, didn’t this man know that? He couldn’t be secret police if he didn’t know that. It was better for Stefan to stay here. But he had his bag packed. Matron was gone.

  “My mother,” he began.

  The smile was frozen. “What about her?”

  “She won’t know where to reach me.”

  “I think she will.”

  “Will she know I’m in the circus?”

  “Yes. I think she will. In time.”

  “But doesn’t the circus go to different places? Where will she write to me?”

  “She may come to see you. That would be nice. Would you like that?”

  “Come here? Back to Warsaw?”

  “Maybe you would go to her.” He patted the boy’s hand awkwardly. “Would you like that?”

  Stefan didn’t smile. The man talked to him as though he were a baby.

  “Maybe the circus would go to America. Would you like that?”

  “America?”

  “Your mother is there. In America.”

  “You mean you are going to take me to my mother?” He stared at the man in the hat with new interest.

  “Yes. In a way.”

  “When will I go?”

  “This morning. We have a journey to make, you and me.”

  He put down his spoon.

  “Are you finished?”

  Stefan stood up. “Yes.” He picked up his bag. “I can go now,” he said.

  24

  ZURICH

  Denisov, in black overcoat, black homburg, and rimless glasses that framed saintly blue eyes, stood on the east side of the Rathausbrücke, the bridge that crossed the Limmat almost exactly halfway between the Hauptbahnhof and the entrance to the Zürichsee. Across the river, the immense clockface of St. Peter’s church tower read precisely one. The weak afternoon sun, obscured by frequent raids of low-flying clouds, painted the bricks of the Rathaus in shades of orange.

  He waited five minutes for contact. He was only supposed to wait five minutes. He had been in Zurich two days.

  He started to cross the river back to the west side when he saw the other man emerge from a candy shop and cross busy Limmatquai against the light. Denisov slapped his gloved hands against his arm and waited. He had grown unaccustomed to the cold in three years in California.

  When the Swissair flight had touched down at Zurich International, he had felt a leap of nostalgia to see snow again, to feel the cold sting his cheeks. The nostalgia faded quickly. He caught cold on the second morning. His nose was red and runny and he took aspirin.

  Devereaux did not greet him.

  He fell in beside him and the two men walked across the Rathausbrücke together, their shoulders slumped, Denisov’s gloved hands clasped behind his back, Devereaux’s bare hands jammed into the side pockets of his overcoat. He wore a black turtleneck and was bareheaded. His face was reddened by the cold, damp wind. They were brother oxen, dragging the same burden along the same familiar trail.

  “Felix Krueger definitely exists for one thing,” Denisov thought to say in the middle of the bridge.

  “His name is in the phone book. I didn’t need you for that.”

  “Everything is true as Teresa Kolaki remembered it. This is a city with many secrets and all of them can be purchased.”

  “Did you get your money?”

  “Yes.”

  “You want expenses, too?”

  “Secrets are expensive, as I said. It wasn’t that difficult. I knew men here from ten years ago, when I was a diplomat. In Geneva.”

  “At the permanent UNESCO conference.”

  “Felix Krueger travels in Comecon extensively. Prague and Warsaw primarily, but also Sofia and Budapest.”

  “And he brings out people.”

  “No. KGB does that. But he has luncheons for them at his house.”

  “How do you find out all this in two days?”

  “That is the problem.”

  Devereaux waited. They crossed in silence through the tangle of little streets around St. Peter’s, on to the Paradeplatz, where the streetcars converged before spreading west, south, and north through the city. The shops of the Bahnhofstrasse were dressed for Christmas. The glittering store windows were filled with expensive things. West of the Paradeplatz were the offices of airlines and banks. The banks were housed in squat, substantial buildings.

  “Let me buy you a beer,” said Devereaux.

  “That does not cover the expense,” Denisov said.

  Devereaux smiled. He pushed into a bierstube off the Paradeplatz. The place was noisy in a good-natured way, full of smoke and people leaning over steins of beer. They sat at a table and a middle-aged woman in a peasant blouse and apron came over. They ordered two steins.

  “What is the problem?” Devereaux said.

  “I found a man named Glosser,” Denisov began, sipping the beer. He removed his handkerchief and blew his nose. His glasses were steamed but he did not remove them. Gradually, they cleared. He sipped his beer again.

  “Glosser was useful in the old days. He still is. A Swiss. Which means he will do anything for money. He didn’t know I wasn’t still KGB. We had a nice talk and he knew about Mr. Krueger. I had to be careful. After all, I am KGB; I should know about Krueger, too. I was doing a double-back, I told Glosser.”

  “So what does he tell you?”

  “Krueger was in Berlin in the late sixties. He made a lot of money getting people out of East Berlin. After the Wall. He had connections, very small, he bribed people on both sides. Checkpoint Charlie was Highway one oh one to him.”

  “You’re turning California on me,” Devereaux said.

  “The problem, my friend, is that Glosser tells me so much about Krueger that I am embarrassed. How can Krueger be so open in this matter? What he does is bond people. That is slavery, is it not?”

  “The way they are bonded it is.”

  “And so open. The Swiss? Well, I know the Swiss a little bit. They don’t want problems from anyone.” Denisov finally removed his gloves. “It is cold here.”

  “You’re a Russian, you’re used to it.”

  “Not anymore. Damned cold. I had to buy a hat.”

  “It looks good on you.”

  “But Americans are here. In Geneva, Bern, here in Zurich. Agents. They must know these things after a while. He does not bother to hide himself enough. Why?”

  Devereaux waited.

  Denisov stared at the other man and then nodded.

  “He’s dealing both sides,” Devereaux said.

  “It has to be.” Denisov blew his nose into a handkerchief.

  “But which side is he selling out?” Denisov continued after a pause. “Soviet side? Or the Americans?”

  “We don’t have a side, you and me. Not now. Don’t forget it, Dmitri Ilyich.”

  A silence fell between them like
a sudden shadow.

  “So damned cold,” Denisov said, rubbing his hands. “Don’t you feel it? You don’t even have a hat.”

  “I always feel it. You get used to it.”

  “No,” Denisov said. “I had family in Moscow. Not much of a family. They were always fighting with each other. I couldn’t think. Sometimes I was thankful I was assigned. Anywhere. But I had a warm place if I wanted it. I don’t think you get used to the cold. Ever.”

  “Thankful for the Geneva assignment?”

  “It had its advantages.”

  “Are you a wealthy man?”

  “What is money for us? Just a way to avoid being unhappy.”

  “The melancholy Slav strikes again.”

  Silence.

  “There’s another possibility,” Denisov said.

  Devereaux waited.

  “KGB is getting rid of people it doesn’t want anyway. Krueger makes a small percentage on them. They work for KGB. Maybe it is worthwhile, maybe it is not—”

  “How many? Does Glosser know?”

  “Hundreds in a year. He doesn’t know exactly. Half of what Glosser knows is rumor. A lot is based on the various accounts that Krueger holds in the banks.”

  “The accounts are secret.”

  “There are no secrets. Even in a Swiss bank. Interest accounts in different names.”

  “Like Teresa Kolaki’s?”

  “Yes.”

  “So if there are hundreds in a year, where do they all go?”

  “Mostly to the United States. Some to Western Europe. Some to Canada.”

  “All right,” Devereaux said. “Go on with your scenario.”

  “But if they work for KGB and the Americans know, perhaps they control the information that is passed along.”

  “That’s a remote possibility. It’s too scattershot. If an agent is working in one place, on one assignment, it’s possible. But hundreds of half-educated immigrants working all over the country? It’s not realistic to think we could control the information flow.”

  Denisov chewed his lip for a moment. “All right. Maybe the Americans know about the operation and want it to go on because…” He faltered.

  “Because why?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “Continue it.”

  “Because…”

  “Because they are turning them. Some of them. Not all, just some. Using them.”

  “But for what?”

  “What is the hold KGB has over these people?”

  “Their children, their kin, still inside.”

  Devereaux nodded. “And what is the hold we could have over them?”

  “Nothing.”

  Devereaux waited. If Denisov could see it, then it was possible. No matter how impossible it seemed.

  Denisov stared at the American, tried to see what the man with gray eyes wanted him to see.

  “Teresa. Her child. She wanted him out, she gets him out.”

  “Of course,” Denisov said.

  “It works for them, it works for us.”

  “But if the Americans hold the children as hostage—”

  “Not literally. They just let the immigrants know that we know. After their contract is up—”

  “But what use could they be? I mean, KGB tainted them in the first place.”

  “I don’t know. I need to know that. And now I want you to find a KGB for me.”

  “Why?”

  “So I can give myself up.” Devereaux smiled.

  Denisov waited.

  “The deal is simple. You find a KGB, you cut a deal. You give him me, he gives Teresa the child.”

  “They want you that bad?”

  “It seems so.”

  “What about my money?”

  “Greedy Russian bastard,” Devereaux said. He opened his coat and took out an envelope. “Ten thousand.”

  “I had expenses.”

  “Fuck your expenses. You kited your account for years but I’m not the KGB paymaster.”

  “I could take the money—”

  “And run? Run where? You’ve got it made in California. Relax. Buy yourself a car and you’ll be Sporting Life on Sunset Strip.”

  “I don’t understand that.”

  “Find a KGB. The country is lousy with them. Go down to Geneva and make a deal.”

  “I could make a deal for myself.”

  “I thought of that. If you cross me, the deal’s off and I’ll kill you. You know I will. Or if you think you might be able to beat me, you’ll still be worried that I might get you before you get me. You cross me and I’ll survive the cross and I’ll kill you. Not just bang-bang either, Russian. I’ll cut your fingers off and your toes and your goddam big red nose and let you bleed to death.”

  “And I am a barbarian, is that it?”

  “No. You’re not. You’re a choirboy. You never did wrong in your life, officer. The deal is for Stefan Kolaki and not for anyone else.”

  “And why would they trust you?”

  “Because they want me so fucking bad they’ve been falling all over themselves for a year trying to find me.”

  “And when I make the deal?”

  “We do the trade here. I see the kid, they see me. Just like that.”

  “I can use Glosser to find someone for me,” Denisov said thoughtfully. “But how is the child brought out?”

  “Once the kid is definitely coming out, once we have a date, I’ll have somebody here to pick him up.”

  “I don’t believe you. I don’t believe you will give up. Always survive. You always survive.”

  “Not this time. I’m too damned tired to survive.”

  “Your friend. The lady—”

  “My friend is out of it.”

  “You’re not telling me the truth.”

  Devereaux smiled then. “All right, Russian. Which part is a lie?”

  “Why do I do this for you?”

  “Not for me. For ten thousand more. The minute the kid is standing in front of the train station. Or at the airport. Or wherever we do the trade.”

  “And if KGB… if this can be arranged?”

  “Then it will be guaranteed.”

  Denisov smiled then. “By Herr Krueger.”

  “Exactly,” Devereaux said.

  Glosser could not believe the pain. They had taken a shard of glass from a broken bottle, a large piece, placed it in his mouth and forced his lips and his cheeks together and the glass had slashed the soft inner lining of his mouth. He had been crying but nothing moved them.

  Rimsky said, “Spit it out.”

  Glosser spit. Blood foamed on his lips.

  “Now tell me about the KGB man.”

  “He was Denisov. I knew him. Ten years ago. I told him some things about Felix Krueger. He knew about Krueger.”

  “Denisov is not KGB.”

  “He was. I knew him in Geneva.” As he spoke, he bled.

  “He is working for the Americans.”

  “Mein Gott.”

  Rimsky held the Uzi next to the small man’s eye. Glosser could see the barrel blocking part of his vision.

  “You die, Glosser. In pain or easy. But you die. Now tell me about Denisov.”

  “He said he wanted to trade. An American agent. He said he was working private. He said the agent was called November. He said that name I told you.”

  “Stefan Kolaki.”

  “Yes.”

  “Where was the American?”

  “He did not tell me this.”

  “Are you sure? You want more glass.”

  “Please, please, please. I want to tell you everything. He said to meet him tomorrow. At four P.M. At the zoo.”

  “Where?”

  “He just said to walk around, that he would find me.”

  “Where?”

  “I tell you the truth.”

  Rimsky said, “I believe you now, Glosser. You made it very bad for yourself that you didn’t tell me everything at first.”

  “Please let me go.”
<
br />   “No. That would not be wise. You aren’t useful anymore.”

  Glosser, in the straight chair, in the rented room where he lived, his head filled with pain, began to speak.

  He never uttered another word.

  Morgan called after midnight, Zurich time. When O’Brien got on the line, he turned the lock on the portable scrambler. The machine emitted a barely perceptible hum that had the desired effect on possible taps. Not that Morgan thought he was tapped.

  “Zoo. Tomorrow.”

  “Terrific.”

  “Rimsky took out Glosser. I heard the whole thing. Glosser set a meet with the R Section stooge. It’s going to be tricky. I don’t want Rimsky to take him out before I find out where our target is.”

  “Neither does Rimsky. Just keep your distance and let him handle it. Anything on where Kolaki is? Or this Macklin broad?”

  “Nothing. I haven’t even seen November yet. But tapping Glosser was a good shot. You got a name on the stooge?”

  “Yeah. We tapped into the computer at the Section. Denisov. He was KGB, picked up three years ago in Florida and reeducated. November again. The guy is a one-man band in that rinky-dink outfit. Another thing. We traced a couple of computer inquiries we got the other day. They stopped just short of triggering the alarm. All flagged files. Guess who?”

  “Krueger for one.”

  “You got it. And Mary Krakowski. And Teresa Kolaki. And John Stolmac.”

  “So Teresa—or Mary—spilled her guts.”

  “The Chicago cell is through. They’re going to have to scatter it. Meantime, we were going to blow the whistle on the Numbers network, turn it over to the boys in Hooverville—”

  “Until I got the line on November,” Morgan said. He was in his hotel room, sitting on the bedside, sipping a glass of Scotch. He’d earned it.

  “That’s it, kiddo. You stay on the stooge’s ass, make sure Rimsky gets all the help he can get. When he takes out November, we can concentrate on more important things.”

  “Macklin. Kolaki.”

  “A couple of civilian casualties by the time KGB takes care of them. Knowing that November has Denisov helps a lot. He was stashed in California so we’re going over agent lists. When November and the Macklin woman did their duck, they didn’t have a big choice of places. Same for Kolaki. It must have been California, close to Denisov. Close to a nice pool of ex-agents. Retired agents. We’ve got about two dozen in the San Diego area alone.”