by Eddy Shah
'All of them?' asked the DDA.
'Those who broke their word were hunted down.'
'And disposed of?'
'Some needed reminding that we expected them to honour their word.' It was a cold reminder of their world, of the business they traded in daily. 'We had a large colony of Nazis living in the Soviet Union. They weren't all scientists, in fact we had little use for most of them. They had their own estates and farms to the west of Moscow. They kept their secret identities and paid for it through their Swiss bank accounts. But they remained Germans, always dreaming of going back to the Fatherland one day.
'How many Nazis did you take to Russia after the War?'
'The Narodnyi Kommissariat Vnutrennikh Del, our People's Commissariat for Internal Affairs, was responsible for....'
'I never heard of them,' the DDA stopped him.
'NKVD,' explained the DDI patronisingly. 'Wiped out twenty million Russians for Stalin. That right?' he challenged Sorge.
'More. Thirty million. According to official sources,' Sorge riposted. 'A most efficient organisation.' That should shut them up. He felt the look of disbelief pass between the Exec Director and the DDA. The other just watched him, the mocking smile still on his lips. He would be the one Rostov had warned him to be wary of. He decided to wipe the smile off his face. 'Thirty thousand. That's how many East Germans we deported into the Soviet Union after the War.'
The DDI's smile disappeared. 'Thirty thousand Nazis? Jesus.'
'Yes. And we kept another hundred and twenty thousand between 1945 and 1954 in Hitler's old concentration camps. Many were Nazis, but businessmen and professionals were also our targets. A third of those died. The others were eventually released and absorbed into the Democratic Republic.'
'Including Nazi sympathisers?'
'Of course.'
'Doesn't that concern you?'
Sorge shrugged. 'Not really. I was eight years old at the time.' It wasn't the answer that the DDI expected and Sorge regretted his words. He wasn't here to make jokes. 'The thirty thousand in the Soviet Union, as I said, became a community in their own right. Without our knowledge, over the years, with the use of their money and supportive people in the Swiss banks, they forged contacts with those left behind in East Germany. They all had one dream. To regain what they had lost. They had a codename amongst themselves. Something that linked them, was a reminder of how they had got there. It had to be a safe name, innocuous, nothing that would draw attention to the past. They remembered the Lucy network, their gateway out of Germany. They called themselves Die Lucie Geists.'
'The Lucy Ghosts.'
'Yes.'
'Did the organisation extend to America?' The Exec Director was alarmed.
'Goodenache. I guess he was one of them?' asked the DDI.
'We weren't sure, but in view of his sudden departure, I would say yes.'
'Which ties Trimmler in. And God knows who else. The name Grob Mitzer mean anything?'
'He was one of their leaders. It was the Lucy Ghosts who supplied him with the cash that helped him build his empire.'
'Why didn't you stop it? Dammit, you knew about it for long enough,' snapped the Exec Director.
'We didn't realise how important it was. We thought they were like any other war time group, nothing more than reminiscences and marching songs. Old men remembering their youth. The importance of it didn't surface until Germany was reunified. And it was only the Englishman overhearing the conversation between Goodenache and Trimmler that finally bridged the gap.'
'So why should the English guy take off with the girl?' The DDI changed the subject.
'He's not one of us. I suggest you ask your allies about that. Maybe he's just an adventurer. No more. You must have cleared him.'
'Of course.' The Exec Director didn't want his dirty washing wrung out in front of this Russian. 'Was there anything else?'
'Only that the GDR, East Germany, as it was, is different to the West. There are still many there who haven't forgotten the War. Their attitude is different to us. Some are still waiting for the War to end. They're a traditional people. Many ex-Nazis, even Gestapo, working and living normal every day lives.'
'Working for the Stasi.' The DDI reminded them all of the secret police who had run East Germany with an iron fist.
'Some, yes. Others returned to the jobs they had before the War. Within the new Germany, many of them have become frightened. Their secrets are no longer safe. Most of all they fear the Israelis.'
'Is Frick one of these guys?' asked the DDA, remembering the name had been picked up by Adam in New Orleans.
'No,' lied Sorge. His orders were quite specific. Don't ratify any names. They didn't want the Yanks stumbling in and screwing up in an attempt to force the issue.
'So what's all this got to do with the deaths of our agents?' continued the DDA.
'We're not sure. Except that a lot of the information we have both lost was about the Lucy Ghosts. Link that with Trimmler's death, Goodenache's sudden departure for Germany, and the mention of the Lucy Ghosts during their conversation, and I think you will agree that is the strongest lead we have to follow.'
Nobody spoke for a while, then the Exec Director re-opened the discussion: 'Has Moscow any suggestions as to how we should proceed?'
'No,' replied Sorge. Which was what he'd been told to say. 'We hoped you would come up with something.'
'I'm sure we will.'
'Can you tell us the names of some of these Lucy Ghosts?' cut in the DDI. 'The ones in Russia. How high up the ladder did they go?'
Sorge enjoyed his reply. 'In time, yes. But I can tell you you're wasting your efforts looking for Martin Bormann in South America. He died twenty years ago.'
He watched their stunned faces across the room. Well and truly shafted.
They said little after that and Sorge was soon being escorted, with Nowak, down to the underground garage. Five minutes later they were on their way back to Washington.
'Bormann. Fucking Bormann. They had him all the time,' said an astonished DDI. 'Would'ya believe it? They probably got Hitler stashed away too.'
'Well, it's been a real eye opener,' said the Exec Director. 'But let's not forget we've still got a crisis on. Find the Englishman. Find him and see what the son of a bitch is up to.'
Ch. 52
The AmTrak Crescent
Atlanta
Georgia.
The son of a bitch was relaxed as he hurtled across the land that is America.
The train had pulled out of Atlanta Station at seven thirty nine p.m., four minutes behind schedule.
They had slept well, eaten well, slept again and eventually got bored with the passing countryside. Adam had insisted they stay in the room and she hadn't found a good enough reason to change his mind.
He was thumbing through USA TODAY for the umpteenth time, looking for something he might have missed, when he heard her giggling. She was in the swivel chair, reflected in the window with the dark night as a backdrop, her head angled towards him.
'What's so funny?' he asked pleasantly, putting the paper down.
'You sure know how to give a girl a good time.'
'Don't I?' he grinned back.
'According to all the books, a secret agent's life's meant to be glamorous. We've spent twenty four hours together and in that time I've been bitten by bugs in a hooker's bed, tied up a guy with no legs and stolen his wheelchair, stayed cooped up in a train for twelve hours with an attractive man and behaved like a virgin. Don't take that the wrong way. But James Bond would've handled it differently.'
'He was Scottish. I'm English. They’re the ram 'em and bang' em type. We're more sophisticated.'
'What happens next?'
'In which department?'
'In the where're we going department.'
'To Nordhausen. That's where Trimmler said he would meet Goodenache.'
'Trimmler's dead.'
'And Goodenache's running from the Russians. He can't go back there. From
what I heard, Germany was still their home. And Nordhausen was where they shared something special. They wanted to go there. If Goodenache's frightened, and he wants to hide, that's as good a place as any.'
'Nordhausen. Where is that?'
'Central Germany. South of Berlin, near what was the old east-west border. It was where the Nazis built most of their rockets, the V1's and V2's, during the Second World War. From what I remember, they moved most of the rocket manufacture down there so that our bombers couldn't get to them. Built the factory right in the heart of the mountains. Used slave labour. I think a lot of people died in the making of those weapons, even before they got launched and blew up half of London.'
'Why go back there?'
‘That’s what we hope to find out.'
‘He won’t go there. Not when he finds out that Mitzer and Trimmler are dead.'
‘Maybe other people are also going there. Maybe he’ll go there because it’s where he feels safe.'
'Maybe. Now that he’ll know he’s a fugitive.'
She shrugged and looked thoughtful.
'Penny for them,' he said after a while.
'I was thinking of Peter.'
'Ah! The venerable ex.'
'I know. Here's us, heading for trouble and God knows what else, and in the middle of you talking about Nordhausen, I start wondering what Peter’s up to.'
'Stop knocking yourself.'
'Makes a change. I usually leave that to you.
He burst out laughing.
'Okay tough guy. What's got you so tickled?'
'Here we are, crammed in a small compartment in a train, hurtling across America being chased by the CIA, the FBI and god knows who else, and you're worried about your ex husband's sex life. Christ, he must've been good.'
'He was a shit.'
'So why....?' Adam stopped and shook his head.
'Because some of us like shits. Don't ask me why.' She laughed with him. 'He's cheap, too. He once bought me a Louis Vuitton handbag. Your travel case reminded me of it when we left the hotel. It was for our second anniversary. I broke the lock and took it back to the shop in La Jolla. They told me it was a fake. A fucking Hong Kong fake. Can you believe that?'
'What did he say ?'
'That he'd bought it in New York when he was there on a visit. And if he could remember where the shop was, he'd go back and sue the bastards. That's Peter for you. A cheapskate liar and womaniser. And I can't let him go. That's really pathetic, isn’t it?'
'No. Just human.'
'Very understanding. What would you know ?'
'Maybe not women, but...my parents. And my twin brother.'
'You're a twin?'
'Was. They all died when I was nine.'
'Was he an identical twin?'
'Yes.'
'That means you came from the same egg. That right?'
'Something like that.' He didn't add that he had studiously learnt everything about twins and their relationships.
'My first boyfriend at High School, he was a twin and his brother played on the football team. If he got hurt, my guy used to suffer, too. We used to watch the game together and I'd suddenly see him wince in pain. Just like that. And I'd look on the field and it was his brother who'd been tackled.'
'Yes. Something like that.' He laughed. 'I remember once getting a tap round the head from my dad. I'd done something wrong. I remember him saying it was a shame that he had to punish us both when only one of us was being naughty. That tap sorted us both out.'
'Do you still feel he's with you?'
'He is.'
'Then you're lucky. You're not alone. Is that so bad?'
'I don't know why I'm alive and he's dead.'
'What's his name?'
'Marcus.'
'Nice name. It’s good you've got someone. It's important.
Ch. 53
The Kremlin
Moscow.
They came out into the corridor together, Rostov holding back as he allowed the older and more senior man to go before him.
'Your head's on the block,' said the Director as Rostov caught him up. 'You know that, don't you?'
The younger man shrugged. It came with the stripes he wore on his shoulder.
They walked along, slowly, at the old man's pace. This was not the place to talk, here in the corridors of power where every wall had ears.
'Not a job I would want,' said the Director, 'being President at this time. With all the problems. But then, there are always problems. It is not a job I would ever want.'
They had spent half an hour with the President, the Director sitting back and letting Rostov take him through all the details of the last few weeks.
'A confused sequence of events,' the President had said when Rostov finished. 'No doubt there is a logic to it. There always is. My main concern, after the safety of our people, is to ensure that the Americans and ourselves keep the faith. It's always difficult to trust old enemies. When I meet with the American President in Berlin, I want him to believe he can trust me.'
He said little more, only asked to be kept informed. He respected the American President. He didn't want this to come between them.
'He doesn't totally trust them either,' the Director said to Rostov as they came out into the open. It was a bright day and the official Zil lurched forward toward them. The Director waved the driver to stop where he was. There were still things to be said out of earshot. 'But he has to try. Just like we do. And, I suppose, the Americans. It was easier in the old days. We knew where we were. Now, in this time of peace, it's a fragile trust. I hope it went well for Dimitri Dimitrovitch.'
'His report should be ready when I get back.'
'Was it wise to tell them about Bormann?'
'It was only a titbit. To excite them.'
'I suppose they'll think we have Hitler as well.'
'Our sources always reported that they believed Bormann had come here. He was seen by that General's daughter.'
'He was seen everywhere. Excellent misinformation. Now that they know about the money, there is always a possibility that they'll tell the Germans. They could ask for its return.'
'That's between them and the Swiss Banks. What's left of it.'
The Director laughed. 'Not much. It all helped fund Stalin's five year plan.' He paused, then turned to the younger man. 'The Lucy Ghosts. It's important they don't leave Russia. Not until this matter is settled.'
'We deported over thirty thousand Germans after the War. It's not going to be easy. Not in this time of perestroika.'
'I know. I know. But Germany has been peaceful because the East Prussians were under our control. You know...as I do...that the Prussians have always been the warmongers. We cannot allow them...the neo Nazis...to stir up trouble. Not at a time when the rest of Germany is in turmoil, when the economy is struggling.'
'Fascist extremism...it's in the Prussian's nature. That won't change, however rich they become.'
'Are you sure you are taking the right course of action?' The Director couldn't ask what it was, not without implicating himself if it went wrong.
'Yes.'
'And if it fails?'
'That will be my mistake.'
'It's a sad moment when a man realises he is expendable.'
'I won't be the first.'
'No. We've all been through it. When you have to stand by your own actions. You appreciate why, don't you?'
'Yes. Nothing must damage the relationship between us and the West.'
'If it works, nothing will ever be known. If it doesn't, then...' he shrugged. They both knew that was the end for Rostov. The Director waved his car over.' Are you coming back with me?'
'No, sir. I want to walk. It's a nice day.'
'To church?'
'To church.'
'Well, I hope He can help where the rest of the KGB can't.'
Rostov walked out of the Kremlin, past the KGB guards with their blue-ribboned caps, and along the river. He mixed with the tourists and other passers-b
y, enjoyed being nobody in a bustling city.
He thought of the action he had instigated. He knew it was dangerous, knew that his only hope was to flush them out.
All they could do was watch and wait, trigger off several fuses and watch them burn until one of them, hopefully, ran its full course. His instinct told him the Englishman's disappearance was their best chance. He wasn't in hiding. He wasn't the type. He was after something. He could be their salvation.
He would pray for the Englishman's safety.
He needed all the help he could get.
Ch. 54
Dresdener Heidi
Dresden
Germany.
The AmTrak Crescent was stopping at Culpeper, Virginia, when Peter Frick called the Council meeting to order.
The twelve were there, in the big room that had once served as a dining room in this grand old house. Frick sat at the head of the long table, in his rightful place as their leader. Helmut Kragan sat on his right, his seat away from the table, as befitted the recorder of minutes who wasn't a council member.
'We are...' Frick said, after a long pause, well over half a minute, until he was certain he had everyone's fullest attention. '...at the beginning of history. All we have waited for is now possible. Germany is divided. Reunification has resurrected the class structure, not based on background, but on wealth. The haves and have-nots. That is the clay we work with. It is our duty, as National Socialists, to unite Germany. To give those who have, the security to keep what they have earned. And to give those less fortunate, the ability to lift themselves into the prosperity that is the right of all Germans.'
He looked round the room slowly at the other eleven council members. Karl Schiller sat on his immediate left. He was the newest member of the Council, hurriedly elected to replace Mitzer in a series of anxious and hushed telephone calls. He was an investment banker and financier, in his early fifties, with contacts and influence into all reaches of industry and government. A new German, with a formidable international reputation in the United States and Japan, having developed, through his investments, a wide array of associates in the upper echelons of those countries.