by Eddy Shah
'Funny. He thinks you're more involved than you say you are. Even said the British government could be in this.'
'That's daft.'
'It's as good as any other scenario in this crazy mess. I mean, they could blame the Pope and somebody'd believe it. Anyway, he wants you packed off to Washington for interrogation.'
'Which is why I'm leaving. I want to resolve this thing, Billie. I won't do it stuck in Washington. And all the leads here are cold.' He smiled at his own unwitting joke. 'Cold and buried.'
'So where're you going?'
'After Goodenache. To a place called Nordhausen. Could be a dead end, but it's all there is. And no-one else realises it.'
'Let me come with you?' She was surprised by her own question. It wasn't what she had opened her mouth to stay.
He looked up, startled, from his packing.
'I mean it,' she continued. 'I've nothing here.'
'You're a CIA operative.'
'I'm a clerk. A disseminator of information. Yes, and I'm over forty years old, pal. You don't have to remind me. I'm also about to lose my job.'
'Since when?'
'Since I get back. That's when. Come on, I've got nothing to lose. Always talked about it, never did much. I've got nothing here, no-one to go home to, except a battery of lawyers and bad memories.'
'You're risking everything. For nothing.'
'It's as good a reason as yours. And don't give me that loyalty shit next.'
'You'll lose your pension.'
'Very funny. I think we should go now.''
'And if I say no?'
'I'll just make sure you don't get out of here.'
'I'd have to shoot you.'
'Too noisy.'
'Then I'd cut your throat. And put my hand down and pull out your vocal chords and...' Adam paused.
'And what?'
'If you come, you do exactly as I tell you.' The wisecracking had stopped. 'Your life could depend on it.'
'Okay.'
'I mean it. I don't want to be worried about you when somebody's having a go at me.'
'I understand that.'
'I hope so. Now go and pack. Just your necessaries. We can buy stuff on the way. Be ready in five minutes.'
'How're we going to get to Germany?'
'We'll worry about that when we get out of the hotel.' He suddenly saw a way out. 'Have you got your passport?'
'Yes. Agency regulations. Always be prepared. Hey, tough guy,' she said softly. He looked up at her quizzically. 'What if I was with you just to keep an eye on you? For the Agency.'
He grinned. 'It'd be interesting, wouldn't it?'
'What I said to you, about my reason for coming. Do you understand that?'
'Some people, when they approach the amber light, they put their foot on the brake. Others take a chance and slam down on the pedal. Which are you, Billie? Are you ready to jump the lights?'
Getting out of the hotel unheeded presented no real problem. The CIA men, unused to having their orders ignored in their world of grey suits and corporate ladder climbing, weren't expecting Adam to leave the building, let alone New Orleans.
He knew that was how they would react. They were Head Office men, not honed by the death force of the field. They were out-of-touch men fighting for the glory of the top floor washroom key.
He still took precautions. Bu descending the eighteen floors down the emergency stairs, he led Billie down to the rear exit, out on River Walk and the Mississippi. She kept up with him and he remembered she was an exercise freak.
They walked along the north bank, the river barges towing their long cargo busily along the Mississippi, blaring their warnings as they passed each other, their horns the will of pre historic monsters. There were no pedestrians and they turned north past the Riverfront Aquarium and up Spanish Place towards Tchoupitoulas Street.
'Heya. Where you going?' asked Frankie as he pulled up at the kerb, having spotted them as he returned to the hotel after dropping a fare on St Charles Street. 'Looks like you guys need a cab.'
Showing no surprise whatsoever, Adam opened the back door for Billie and ushered her in. He took her case from her, walked round to the boot and opened it, dropped their bags in the back. Then he joined her in the rear, his brown bag on his lap.
'Where to?' asked Frankie.
'The airport,' said Adam.
'Anybody know you're going?'
'Who's going to tell them?'
Frankie looked in the rear view mirror and saw the Browning in Adam's hand and the lop-sided grin on his face. He was some crazy son of a…'Not me,' he replied emphatically, putting the car into gear and joining the traffic flow. 'I owe you, anyway. I mean, they made me tell them about Fruit Juice. Didn't want to, but I had to.'
'Just get to the airport.'
'No sweat. Where's she going?'
'With me.'
'They gonna ask why.'
'Because she's my security.'
'Is that right?' Frankie asked Billie.
'Yes,' she replied, joining in the charade. 'Bastard forced me. With his fucking gun.'
‘Like hell. But I’ll play along.'
‘Come on, we need to get out of here,' snapped Adam.
'Who the hell are you? You more than you seem.'
'So are you, Frankie. Just shut up and drive.'
The rest of the trip was made in silence, though Billie did ask Frankie how his leg was.
'No problem. Just dug the bullet out and bandaged me up. Wanted to give me a fucking anaesthetic. When I said no, they insisted on giving me a local one. In my damn leg. Shit, I've had no feeling in that leg for ten years. And they give me a fucking anaesthetic.'
‘Why’dyou do it, Frankie?’ Adam said.
‘Goat Face? Guess I just didn’t like him.’
Adam directed Frankie to park in the C long-term park area, at the farthest corner under the flyover. He took the key out of the ignition, disarmed the cab driver and took his other weaponry from the glove compartment. Then he opened the bonnet and ripped out the carburettor head. As he pulled out Frankie's wheelchair and crutch he told Billie to get the bags. He tied Frankie's hands behind him with his necktie. Frankie didn't say a lot, didn't shout in protest. The handkerchief stuffed in his mouth ensured that. It would be a long time before anyone found Frankie.
Using the wheelchair as a trolley, they took their luggage to the main terminal where they hailed another cab.
The cab dropped them at the entrance to New Orleans station, in front of the big AmTrak sign, and Adam led Billie to the booking office. There were two queues formed, one for all the local commuting traffic and the other for the Eastern Regional Pass, the routes that covered the East and Central areas from Grand Rapids to New York, from New Orleans to Miami. The long distance queue comprised four people and Adam and Billie joined it.
'New York. Two, please,' said Adam to the booking clerk five minutes later.
'You got reservations?'
'No. We only just decided to go by train.' As Adam replied, Billie smiled, impressed with his Deep South accent.
'You need a reservation.'
'Don't you have any cancellations?'
'You gotta wait. Train for New York don't leave till seven in the morning. Won't know till then.'
'That's ten hours away. We can't just hang around till then.'
'Train's only just got in from New York. It's gotta be cleaned and readied for the return trip.'
'Are you sure it's fully booked?'
'Won't know till everyone turns up. People could be booking outta town now. We have no way of knowing, not at this time of night.'
'Can I reserve two. In case someone doesn't turn up.'
'Yeah. We can do that. But you can't board till five a.m.'
'Okay.'
'Good hotels round about. Should find a bed. You want bedrooms?
'Yes.'
The clerk reeled off the various coaches and Adam standby-booked a deluxe double Superliner bedroom. The clerk wrote out a Pass and handed i
t over. 'Pay here at five. If there's any cancellations for a Superliner room, that is.'
They found a small hotel, Beiderbeck's, in the next street and booked in as Mr and Mrs Archer from Des Moines, Idaho. Billie giggled as Adam signed the register for the receptionist behind his steel meshed counter. This was a working hotel for working girls. The clerk insisted they pay $20 in advance. It wasn't the type of establishment where guests spent a whole night.
'What's so funny?' he asked as they climbed the stairs to the first floor.
'I've never booked in to a whorehouse before,' she said.
'Don't worry. I won't ask you to earn the fare to New York.'
The room was small, the walls dark. The bed was a cot and the mattress had long since given up its firmness. There was one wooden backed chair and a cheap dressing table with a small cracked mirror standing on it. It was the pits, but it was safe.
'Why we going to New York?' she asked, settling onto the end of the bed. He took a cigarette out, but she stopped him. 'Can you not do that? In a room this small...'
He shrugged and put the cigarette away. 'Because we can't just catch a plane to Germany. They'll be watching for us.'
'So why New York?'
'To get north. We won't be stopping there.'
'Are you going to tell me how you plan to cross the borders and get over to Europe?'
'Trust me.'
'It could all go wrong.'
'That's what makes it so exciting.'
Billie curled up on top of the bed and eventually snoozed, uneasy in their unfortunate resting place. Adam settled into the chair to pass the night away.
At four thirty he woke her and, after the most rudimentary of toilet preparations, they left for the station. They were lucky. and they climbed on the Crescent train just after five thirty. Their bedroom far exceeded the hotel room they had just left and Billie settled down gleefully on the single swivel window seat. Adam leant over and drew the curtains shut. He didn't want to be discovered by Carter and his people. She grumbled, but knew he was right. They were fugitives now and Billie enjoyed the sense of adventure that tingled her.
The room, as it was called, was designed for two adults, with a large sofa and a swivel chair. It converted to a bedroom with two fold down berths, one of which was the sofa, the other folded into the wall. There was also a shower, toilet, sink and cupboard area. It would be a fun way to spend the thirty hours it took to travel to New York. Billie wondered how they would be travelling after that.
'All aboard,' she heard the conductor shout as he walked along the platform, hurrying his charges along. This was his fiefdom, his area of total authority. 'All aboard for Birmingham, Atlanta, Charlotte, Washington, Baltimore, Philadelphia, Newark and Penn Station, New York. All aboard.'
The Crescent pulled out of the station on time at seven a.m.
Billie finally opened the curtains and settled back to enjoy the view. She had never travelled on a train before.
Frankie, now released from his uncomfortable entrapment, watched the Crescent rattle out of New Orleans. It hadn't taken him long to trace them; he knew his way round the Big Easy better than most. The cab driver who'd fared them to the station had been traced by a radio call and the rest had been simple.
So long sucker. You wuz easier than I thought.
BOOK FOUR
Ch. 51
CIA HQ
Langley
Virginia.
Sorge had never been to Langley before. It was not something a Russian expected to do.
It was after nine a.m. when Nowak drove him through the gates, past the guards, and into the vast underground car park.
'Why Langley?' Sorge had asked him on the way out of Washington.
'They want to show you that they trust you.'
'I don't expect I'll see much.'
Nowak laughed. 'Damn right. We park in the underground car park, catch a special lift to the fifth floor and walk across the corridor into a special conference room.'
'That's trust?'
'That's trust.'
The Executive Director was already in the meeting room. 'Welcome to Langley'. He held his hand out in welcome.
When the introductions were complete, the Exec Director, the DDA, the DDI, Sorge and Nowak settled themselves round the small conference table.
'We have a new problem,' kicked off the Exec Director. 'The English operative who was guarding Trimmler has taken off. He's also taken an agent of ours with him. We believe as a possible hostage. A woman. We think they're still in New Orleans.'
'Why?' asked a concerned Sorge.
'I don't know yet. What about Goodenache?'
'He caught a flight to Frankfurt. Then he hired a car, but the car was found abandoned on the outskirts of Frankfurt. We are trying to find our missing scientist now.'
'Are the German authorities involved?'
'No. We have our own means.' Sorge saw the Exec Director look up, his eyebrows raised suddenly. 'We both have our methods. Even in an independent Germany. After all, it was the death of our people in these situations that has brought us together.'
The Exec Director shrugged. Bastard Russians still up to their old tricks. He ignored the pointed look the DDI was giving him. 'I thought it best if the Director of our operations in New Orleans gave you a run down of what has taken place up to now.'
He sat back and let the DDA give a full report, including the trip to the voodoo ceremony and all that followed. Sorge didn't stir, even when they mentioned the gruesome spectacle of Trimmler's arms folded in the sign of a swastika. 'We still aren't convinced that Trimmler's death has anything to do with the death of our agents. There's no definite link.'
'The situation might be clearer when I've finished.' Sorge looked round the table, saw their undisguised curiosity. 'In 1942, in Germany, we had a GRU network named the Rote Kapelle...'
'What's that?' asked the Exec Director.
'Red Orchestra. The Nazis called it that because we had radio operators we codenamed musicians. Their leader, the Chef, we called him, was Leopold Trepper. It was this group that radioed the warning of Operation Blue, the attack on Stalingrad.'
'Who was feeding you all this information in Germany?' asked the Exec Director.
'High ranking officials. Both in the military and in the government. They saw the damage Hitler was doing. They didn't disagree with his aims, only his methods. When they saw that the War could not be won, even as early as 1941, some of them opened up lines of communication with us and the British.'
'We didn't get that sort of stuff till late into 1944,' said the DDA.
'You weren't Europeans. We had centuries of contacts to fall back on. For all their bravery and resourcefulness, their information was often wasted, because Stalin didn't believe them. But then, he found it difficult to believe anyone. The Germans, with more sophisticated radio tracking equipment, started to track down the musicians. Even Trepper was captured and the Rote Kapelle was wound up at the end of 1942. Our information continued for a while, but it was of doubtful origin. Trepper was interrogated by the Gestapo and we believed he became a double agent, a lot of misinformation was received in Moscow.' Sorge leant across and finished his coffee before continuing. 'But we still needed information. The overall network with sources inside Germany was the Rote Drei.'
'The Red what?' said the Exec Director, pleased that he had deciphered the first word of the new codename.
'Three. The Red Three. Based in Switzerland and named after the three transmitters that they used. The most important source of information, from agents inside Germany, was from a group under Rudolf Roessler. His codename was Lucy and his network the Lucy ring. Roessler, or Lucy, was a Swiss intelligence officer of German extraction. He had many contacts in Germany. Lucy's four main contacts were Major General Oster who was the head of the Abwehr, Admiral Canaris who was later hanged for his part in the 1944 bomb plot, Carl Goehdeler who was leader of the official opposition to Hitler and Colonel Boetzel, the commanding offi
cer of intelligence evaluation. There were others, but Lucy never disclosed any of them to us.'
'Even after the War?' asked the DDI.
'The Lucy ring was disbanded in 1943, after being responsible for some invaluable work. I won't go through all their successes, but it was substantial. The British were involved with them through us and it was their advanced work on breaking cyphers that enabled the ring to establish such a great record. But, the ring disbanded, once more because of Stalin's penchant for secrecy, after Moscow tried to bypass Roessler and go direct to his number two.'
'So where's the link?' interrupted the DDA, impatient as ever.
'It's important you understand the background,' said Sorge, not allowing the American to get under his skin. 'Nothing further came from the ring until the last few weeks of the War. With the Allies advancing on the eastern and western fronts, many high-ranking Germans were out to save their own necks. The Lucy ring was reactivated, this time without the knowledge of the British.'
'Or the Americans,' commented the Exec Director.
'I suggest you take that up with Comrade Stalin,' replied Sorge drily. 'It was an impressive list. They didn't just have knowledge. They also had wealth. In all forms. Art, cash, in every form possible. They used the ring because of their line into Switzerland. They wanted the security of the Swiss banks and the Russian Bear. One was dependent on the other.'
'So they bought immunity. While our boys were still getting killed,' snapped the DDI.
'As were ours,' snapped back Sorge. 'But your hands weren't that clean. You were bringing scientists and others into America just as we were. Scientists with Nazi records, scientists with a history of brutality, war criminals.'
'Gentleman, please,' said Nowak, ever the diplomat. 'Can we just stick to what we're here to discuss. Go on, Dimitri.'
Sorge was annoyed with himself, irritated that he had allowed the intelligence man to get under his skin. 'Of course,' he smiled back. 'We used the Lucy ring to carry out the deed. Many Germans, with their prizes, crossed safely into Switzerland. They came in cars, army lorries, even an aeroplane. Their riches were stored in the banks under private accounts and then they were brought through Czechoslovakia and East Germany into the Soviet Union.'