“It’s a way to pass the time. But don’t think I wasn’t telling the truth. They’ve got my ass in a crack, old buddy. You’re the only one who can get it out. You’re forcing me to make it hard, but hard or easy I’m going to make you do it.”
“Who are we waiting for, Evan?”
It was as if he hadn’t heard the question. He went on:
“You could still do it easy. Think about whether you’d rather have it in the Kremlin or the White House. Think about democracy—corny as that may sound. The innate good judgment of the American man in the street.”
“That good trustworthy American Christianity. It wasn’t the man in the street who ordered the bombing of Nagasaki.”
“You really don’t believe in it, do you.”
“The apple pie way of life? Sure I do.”
“Democracy.”
“I don’t believe power can be trusted. I don’t trust Brezhnev and I don’t trust Mao and I don’t trust Nixon.”
“Right now this minute, Harry, you’ve got more power than most people in this world.”
“No. You only think I have. I’ve got no gold mine in the sky. I’m sorry you convinced them I did. It’s backfired on you, but there isn’t a thing I can do about that.”
“You make me sick. Aren’t you tired of this yet?”
“Tired to death of it.”
“Then quit it, Harry. Tell me when the auction was supposed to start.”
Of course that was it. They had sat around a great long table at the CIA Director’s conference one morning and they had come up with the auction because it smelled right: it fitted their conspiratorial way of thinking, it was exactly what each one of them would like to do if he had the chance. They were people so corrupted by their own cynicism they couldn’t credit anyone else with a morality any higher than their own. Somebody had said, Sure, that’s exactly the way Bristow will do it, and they’d all nodded in agreement because it was just plausible enough and it sounded dirty enough to appeal to them.
It was a mark of my own naïveté that I hadn’t thought of it myself. I wouldn’t have done it—I wasn’t gaited that way, wealth wasn’t my goad—but if my mind had been working more clearly I’d have known that was how they were thinking and I’d have known why all of them were taking me so seriously: they didn’t want me to get loose where I could force an auction. I hadn’t anticipated it at all, so I was just as shortsighted as they were.
I said, “No. No auction, Evan. Think about it and you’ll see why it couldn’t be done.”
MacIver cleared his throat. He sat there with his hands intertwined across his incipient paunch. “God damn it.”
“You’re all clowns,” I said. “You’ve done it again, Evan. The CIA working in mysterious ways its blunders to perform. You see how funny it is?”
“Do I look amused?”
“I wish you had the grace to. You used to have a pretty good sense of humor.”
“I never laugh when there’s a gun jammed up my ass.”
“You put it there yourself.”
“Please don’t tell me it’s poetic justice, Harry.” He spat something out; I saw that he had bitten his cigarette cleanly in two.
He said, “You win that round on points, Harry, but I still have to win the fight. Now either you throw the fight or I knock you out. Your choice. And I still don’t think you want——”
An obsequious knock at the door cut him off. Pinar opened the door.
“Here?” MacIver asked.
Pinar nodded. “Upstairs, as you wished.”
MacIver nodded. “About time. Harry, go up to your room. I’ll see you again later. But one thing first. This building is surrounded by our people. If you try to leave and they haven’t had a signal from me, they’ll turn you back. As painfully as you make necessary.”
“That could be a bluff.”
“Try it and see. You’re welcome to.”
“You’ve laid on an expensive production here.”
“It’ll be cheap at the price,” he drawled. “Go on upstairs like a good boy.”
He’d regained his self-confidence. It was more than I could say for myself. I went along the hall with Pinar; he left me at the foot of the stairs.
When I put my foot on the step a new realization grenaded into my mind: I knew what I would find in my room. It had to be; it was the only way MacIver could have known I was in this town. I went upstairs with slow uncertainty and hesitated outside my door with my hand on the knob.
I opened it and stepped inside and suddenly I was face to face with Nikki.
“Hello, Harry.”
She was sitting on my bed with her knees drawn up against her breasts and her head tipped to one side on her folded arms, watching me. She’d been sitting that way for quite a few minutes, I thought, burying her face in her arms.
I pushed the door shut behind me—slowly, almost reproachfully. “Then it’s true what they say. It really is the crossroads of the world. Wait long enough in Pinar’s taverna in Trabzon and sooner or later everybody you know will come by. Mazel tov, Nikki.”
“Please don’t make jokes.”
She wasn’t wearing her glasses. The nearsighted agate eyes squinted at me, pressing at me curiously like diamonds etching against glass. She looked very slender and very tense, hungry for something: information? Forgiveness?
Her soft and always slightly breathless voice: “Harry. Please let me talk to you.”
Now she uncoiled. She stood up hesitantly, her fingers at her throat. Her dark hair was plaited at the side of her head. I hadn’t really remembered how gamine and lovely she was: I thought I had, but I hadn’t. Even now—bedraggled and dispirited, rumpled and untidy and too tired to care—she was so very lovely.
“Somebody had to tell MacIver where to find me,” I said. “I didn’t think it was Vassily Bukov. And it couldn’t have been Pudovkin, he’s dead.”
Her head jerked back as if I’d slapped her; she swung away from me and swung back again, her face crumpling.
“He was driving. They machine-gunned him. I was lucky, they missed me.”
I watched her face adjust to it. I said cruelly, “You and MacIver.”
She pinched her lower lip with her teeth. I said, “I liked Pudovkin. He was a gentle old man. How well did you know him?”
“Well enough to like him. I’m sorry, Harry, I didn’t know.”
“You knew the risks. You set the whole damned thing up. Didn’t you.”
Taut anger ground itself into the lines around her lips. “I’m responsible for it, yes. For his death. Yes.”
“Don’t get maudlin. It’s a privilege I’d just as soon not see you luxuriate in. How long have you been in this with MacIver? From the very beginning?”
“Yes.”
“From the night we first met?”
“Yes.”
“MacIver set it up for us to meet there as if it were an accident. Is that the way it worked?”
She nodded her head.
“And Haim Tippelskirch. It must have been his idea at the beginning. He was the one who’d been obsessed by the gold for fifty years.”
“Harry, you don’t understand. Please——”
“I will not be your wailing wall, Nikki. You hung me on puppet strings and made me dance across an emotional minefield. I owe you nothing.” I stood there with my fists clenched at my sides. “Nothing.”
She lifted her chin. Very soft: “Are you the only one with principles? Are you the only one with a private line to God? How are things on Mount Olympus, Harry? Will you let me talk to you? Will you listen to what I came here to say to you?”
“When you’ve said it, you’ll go,” I said. “And you’ll take MacIver and his wolf pack with him.”
“I’ll go, yes. I can’t answer for him.”
“You sicced him onto me. You can get him off me.”
“It’s not like that. We had the plan but it was MacIver who provided you. That wasn’t my idea. I’d never heard of you.”
“Sure. I was a total stranger. That made it a whole lot easier to play your badger game—you didn’t have to worry about feelings. All you had to do was act like a hooker, the hundred-dollar kind who says I-love-you between humps.”
She squeezed her eyes shut. “Please. That’s not true. Dear God it wasn’t like that, Harry. Falling in love was the worst thing that could have happened, but it did happen and I wasn’t acting. It wasn’t supposed to happen. All I was supposed to do was to get you to Israel so that——”
“So that Haim could work on me. He wasn’t really retired from the Mossad at all, was he. He was right up in the top echelons—right up to the day of his death.”
“Yes. That’s true.”
“Fifty years he schemed to get at that gold.”
“No. It wasn’t until the nineteen fifties. After there was an Israel.”
“It had to be someone above suspicion. Someone acceptable to both the Americans and the Soviets. Certainly not a Jew. Someone who could get access to the records in both countries—and someone who had an interest in the gold so that he’d know what to look for, and look for it. Was it MacIver who picked me? Or was it Haim? He knew my books.”
“I don’t know, Harry. I can’t answer that. I wasn’t there when they had their first meetings. It was several years ago, I’m sure. I only came into it a little while before you met me.”
“Well you sure as hell made up for lost time, didn’t you?” I swung away heavily; I couldn’t bear to go on looking at her.
“Wait.…”
“I won’t leave,” I said. “Not until I’ve heard the whole story. You’ve got the floor.”
Her words came in a headlong rush as if she were talking compulsively to hold herself together.
It must have seemed an even more fantastic scheme at the outset than it had proved to be in actuality. The fountainhead was Haim Tippelskirch.
“Haim said there must never be forgetfulness or forgiveness of evil,” she said. “He said it was a debt we owed the dead and the living equally. The Russians must not have that gold. Nor the Germans. Too many Jews died for it. I remember one of those foolish old men saying something about God’s will. Haim reminded them of their Torah—God does not intervene to redeem man’s duties to his fellow men.”
The gold belonged to Israel by moral right. That was Haim’s idealism. His realism was that it would be a cold day in hell before the Soviets would let a Jewish researcher into their archives. An innocent dupe had to be found. Nikki did not use the word dupe but it was what she meant.
It was all such a long chance. Haim was the only one with faith in it because he was something of an amateur historian himself: a student of military history, a student of Germans and Russians. He knew the German penchant for record-keeping and he knew if they’d moved the gold they’d have left paper tracks. He also knew one other thing he’d never told me:
“Our people went into Siberia in nineteen sixty-two to look for that old iron mine. It was empty. That was how we knew the gold had been moved.”
Another thing they hadn’t told me: Haim himself had sought access to the American files, on the pretense of writing an article for some European quarterly on the subject of World War II in Russia. They hadn’t let him in because as soon as the security check began they discovered he was an agent of the Mossad and that was what put MacIver on him.
MacIver wanted to know what interest the Mossad had in those records and Haim told him the truth because he knew it was never going to work without outside help; and the United States was the firmest ally Israel had, despite suspicions and reservations on both sides. Clearly the dupe had to be an American historian and sooner or later the American authorities would have to be brought into it because too many of the documents were classified.
It was no wonder I’d got access to so much material that had never been exposed before: The CIA had been opening all the doors ahead of me, unseen by me.
It was CIA agents in Moscow who confirmed that the Soviets were ignorant of the gold—its original hiding place as well as the fact that it had been moved sometime between 1920 and 1962. Since the Soviets didn’t have it and no other country or individual had produced it, it could only have been rehidden, and probably still inside Russia. All this merely confirmed what Haim had already intuited.
I had to be kept ignorant of the scheme because there was always the chance the Soviets would tumble to what I was doing; that they would either shut down the archives to me or interrogate me. In either case the gold would be lost again but if the Soviets interrogated me and found out that the CIA and the Mossad had put me up to it there would have been hell to pay. At least if I didn’t know who was calling the shots I couldn’t tell the Russians.
The best my puppeteers could do for me was put me under the protective wing of Vassily Bukov because he had a far more viable organization in the Crimea than the CIA had. Unfortunately this had backfired because my visit with Bukov had inflamed the Soviets’ suspicions.
In the end I was to have been persuaded by the CIA to turn over to them whatever I discovered about the gold. Originally this debriefing was not to take place until I was safely out of the Soviet Union after having completed my research there. But Bukov had reported that Zandor was breathing down my neck too closely; that the Russians might lock me up at any time; and therefore Ritter had gone in, ahead of schedule, to find out as much as he could.
“What if I’d told him I knew where the gold was? What if I’d specified a location?”
“What do you mean?”
“He’d have killed me, wouldn’t he? To keep the Russians from squeezing me.”
“No,” she said vehemently. “He had orders to get in contact with Vassily. Together they were to smuggle you out safely.”
Something had convinced Ritter that I’d found it. Probably the poor way I handled the meeting with him. I’d given it away, or Ritter thought I had—it amounted to the same thing. The screw was cranked a few turns tighter and I did what I had to do: I broke and ran, and was delivered onto MacIver’s doorstep, or Nikki’s, on schedule.
“All right,” I said. “What’s supposed to happen now?”
“To you? You were supposed to tell us where the gold is.”
“I didn’t find it, Nikki.”
She had nothing to say to that.
I said, “Suppose I’d found it. Suppose I told you, or MacIver, where to find it. What would have happened then?”
“They expect to make a trade with the KGB. It’s a lot of gold, Harry.”
“Yeah. I know it’s a lot of gold. One million pounds of it. Troy. What was the trade for?”
“Gold.”
“Trading gold for gold?”
“Have you ever heard of washing money?”
“Like gangsters?”
“Yes. That was the plan.”
Organized crime takes in enormous sums of money but it can’t be spent overtly because that would bring the Internal Revenue people down on the spenders. It has to be “washed” first—funneled through a Mafia-owned legitimate enterprise, such as a gambling casino, where it can show up as acknowledged gross receipts, then be balanced off against operating losses so that the income tax is minimized.
Nikki said, “The Russians have five hundred tons of Spanish gold in the Ural vaults.”
“Five hundred and ten.”
“All right. There are two plans, really. One is to persuade the Russians to give that gold back to Spain. The United States and Israel will get a substantial portion of it from Spain in what will be written up as repayment of foreign-aid loans.”
“I didn’t know Israel had lent money to Spain.”
“It would funnel through Washington.”
“What was the second plan?”
“Repayment for World War Two lend-lease. Direct payment, in gold, from the Kremlin to Washington. To equal exactly half the value of the gold we led them to.”
“And you think the Russians will go for either one
of those?”
“Either they will, or they don’t get the gold. Half of it is still a lot of gold for them to keep. More than two billion dollars’ worth.”
I said, “And Tel Aviv ends up splitting fifty-fifty with Washington, whatever the Russians pay?”
“Yes. We’re a silent partner. The Russians might not go for it if they knew we were involved. We’re not exactly political bedfellows.”
“An unwise turn of phrase, Nikki.”
She flushed to her hairline. “Harry——”
“Let me tell you something. I didn’t find the gold. That leaves all of you looking pretty foolish, doesn’t it? Maybe it makes it a little easier to see things clearly—what you’ve really done.”
“To you?”
“To both of us. All of us.”
“It was worth the cost. It had to be.”
“The Nazis and the Communists have a phrase for it. To use a knotty overworked saying, the ends justify the means. Any means.”
“Don’t try to put words in my mouth, Harry. You act as if you’re the only one who’s got a right to principles. I’ve got principles too—things that come higher than my feelings about you or anyone else.”
“It ain’t the principle, it’s the money.”
“I hate you when you make cheap jokes, Harry. It’s beneath you.”
“So is theft.”
But I remembered the documents I’d stolen and destroyed.
“Theft from whom?” she said. “Whose gold is it? The Czar’s?” She stood up. Her shoulders went up and her face lifted. “Let’s talk about another principle. We made it possible for you to do your research, Harry. Without us you wouldn’t have found a thing. You probably wouldn’t even have got clearance into the Soviet Union at all. It was a sort of bargain, even though you were forced to sign the contract without reading it. That’s regrettable, but we kept our part of the bargain. You got everything you wanted. You’ve got your book to write. You’ve got the fantastic story of the gold to tell the world. Nobody will stop you from doing that—as long as it’s not published before we complete our arrangements with the Russians and the gold changes hands. You’re alive, you’ve had an adventure——”
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