The Monte Cristo Cover-Up

by Johannes Mario Simmel

  The men's room! Probably no secret service in the world could get along without such places! Morris entered the retreat mentioned punctually at half-past five. A man about forty-five emerged from one of the closets. He was tall and nearly bald, had skeptical, intelligent features, large ears, thin lips and rimless spectacles. He wore a flannel suit with a blue, open-necked shirt, such as artists sometimes wear. He glanced at Morris and at the queerly shaped little pipe hanging from the corner of Morris's mouth. He nodded briefly and said: "You're on the dot, Morris."

  [7]

  "Mark nodded briefly and said: 'You're on the dot, Morris.'" The FBI chief, J. Edgar Hoover, was talking to the intently listening Thomas Lieven. Pamela Faber sat next him, looking serious. All three were smoking, as they drank black coffee and French brandy. The big turkey luncheon was over.

  Hoover lit a long, thick cigar and blew out a cloud of fragrant smoke. "Let me tell you what came next. Morris and Mark couldn't stand each other. But they had to get along together."

  That certainly was so. That afternoon Mark gave Morris money and a code book. He then told him he was to open a

  photographer's studio, by way of camouflage, so as to prevent the authorities from wondering how he lived. Mark also instructed Morris where and how he was to deposit his secret intelligence, and receive orders.

  Microfilms no bigger than a pin's head were to be hidden in coins, old paper handkerchiefs or orange peel. They could also be stuck, by means of small magnetic discs, on benches, public telephones, or letter boxes.

  "The work went on quite smoothly," said Hoover. "Although Morris couldn't endure Mark, he carried out his orders to the letter."

  "What orders, for instance?"

  "Some had serious consequences, unfortunately," Hoover answered with a sigh. "According to what Morris told the ambassador in Paris, there's no denying that. An enormous amount of data was supplied to the Soviet Union by Mark's -organization. On Morris's own confession, for example, he had been spying on a new, top-secret rocket installation."

  "No hitches or breakdowns, then?" asked Thomas.

  "Yes, once. And it at least proved that Morris's later admissions were true. Look at this." Hoover laid a worn five-cent piece on the table in front of Thomas. "Pick it up and let it drop."

  Thomas did so. The coin broke in two. The inside was hollow. A tiny section of film adhered to one of the inner surfaces.

  *That section of microfilm," said Hoover, "contains information from Mark in code. Our best men in the FBI have been trying to decipher it for four years."

  How did you get hold of that coin?" Thomas asked.

  "By pure chance. A boy called James Bozart, who sold newspapers, found it in 1953 ..."

  He went on to say that on a hot summer evening in that year the freckled lad in question was tearing down the stairs of a large block of flats in Brooklyn. He fell flat on his face and all the money rolled out of his pocket. Rotten luck! James started picking up the coins, swearing softly to himself. Suddenly he found a five cent piece in his hand which felt funny—damned funny.

  He turned it in his fingers, examining it. Then it broke in two. On the inner side of one part of the coin he caught sight of a dark spot. Good Lord! Only a few days before, the boy had seen a film about espionage. Messages on microfilm were

  there said to have been concealed in cigarette cases. James wondered if the dark dot in the coin could be a microfilm.

  The United States has cause to be eternally grateful to James Bozart. For he took his find straight to the nearest police station. The officer on duty laughed in the boy's face. But Sergeant Levon said: "No, Joe. Let's send it to the FBI. Maybe we'll all see our names in the paper."

  Their names weren't printed at that time. But two FBI agents called on James at his home and interrogated him closely. Where had he fallen down, they asked.

  Two-fifty-two Fulton Street, he answered. It was a huge block in which the ground floors were occupied as shops. The first and second floors were used as offices. Higher up still lived commercial travelers, artists and junior clerks. And the FBI itself had an office in the vast building.

  The two agents thoroughly investigated everyone who lived there but couldn't pin anything on any of them.

  Years passed. The message on the microfilm remained un-deciphered and its author undiscovered. The men responsible for the national security of the United States became more and more convinced, between the years of 1953 and 1957, of the existence of a spy ring in their midst, operating more and more dangerously.

  "During those years," J. Edgar Hoover told Thomas Lieven, "Morris must have been degenerating steadily. After meeting Dunya Melanin he got into quite a bad way. They beat each other regularly. Mark must have reported this state of affairs to Moscow, for Morris was suddenly recalled. He went to the American Embassy in Paris, asked for political asylum and told all he knew."

  "Well, after all, it doesn't seem to have been very much," said Thomas.

  "It wasn't enough," said Hoover. "But it was quite a lot to go on. For although the mysterious Mark did all he could to keep Morris in ignorance of his address, Morris declared that he was able to follow him to it on one occasion without his knowledge. Guess where it was."

  "HI play. Wasn't it 252 Fulton Street?"

  "Correct. It was in the very block in which little James Bozart had fallen down four years previously and found that coin."

  For a while no one spoke. Then Thomas rose and walked over to the window. He stood there gazing out over the wide, pleasant landscape.

  J. Edgar Hoover said: "A squad of my people, including Miss Faber, has been putting every inhabitant of the block under the microscope again during the last few weeks. The description of Mark given by Morris exactly fits the most popular occupant of the building, a painter who lives on the very top floor. Name of Goldfuss. Emil Robert Goldfuss, an American citizen in residence at 252 Fulton Street ever since 1948. Miss Faber, you can now take over."

  Pamela said: "We've been shadowing Goldfuss for weeks. A dozen FBI cars carrying radar, wireless and television equipment are on the job. Goldfuss can't take a single step now without being followed by us. Result—negative."

  "But I don't understand that," said Thomas. "If you so strongly suspect him of being a spy why don't you arrest him?"

  Pamela shook her head. "We're not in Europe, Herr Lieven."

  "In the United States," J. Edgar Hoover explained, "a man can only be arrested if it is quite certain that he has committed an illegal act. Only in such a case will a warrant be issued. We suspect Goldfuss of being a spy. But we can't prove it. And so long as we have no irrefutable proof of his being a spy no judge in the country will permit his arrest." "What about Morris's evidence?"

  "It was all submitted to us in confidence. He would never endanger his family in Russia by testifying against Goldfuss in public."

  "I see. Well, in that case how on earth are we ever to lay our hands on him?"

  Hoover smiled quietly. "We are addressing that question to you, Herr Lieven. That is why we sent for you, after finding that you were an old friend of Mme. Dunya Melanin."

  [8]

  "In Russia shashlik is prepared with onions!" shouted the fat Boris Roganoff.

  "In Russia shashlik is not prepared with onions," shouted Thomas Lieven.

  The two men stood opposite each other, trembling with rage. Blows were in the offing. The date was June 19, 1957, the hour was one thirty p.m. and it was fearfully hot in New York. The quarrel about shashlik was taking place in the kitchen of a Russian restaurant for connoisseurs on Forty-first

  Street. The stout Roganoff owned the place. Thomas had been frequenting it for some days. Dunya Melanin was in the habit of lunching there. She worked in the consulting rooms of a certain Dr. Mason close by.

  It had been a melancholy reunion. Dunya, still passionate and attractive, was forever lamenting Morris's departure. She burst into tears whenever she mentioned him. And she mentioned him continually, partly of
her own accord and partly because Thomas kept encouraging her to do so.

  Nothing useful came to light at these interviews. Dunya told Thomas a lot. But it didn't get him any further. When he left her he went to see Pamela, through whom he was to report to Hoover. Pamela had a small apartment in Manhattan. Thomas lived at the Waldorf-Astoria.

  Day after day went by. Nothing happened. Goldfuss wasn't taking any chances. Thomas noticed a growing irritation on Pamela's part which he found inexplicable. He met Dunya repeatedly, trying to find out something which might incriminate Goldfuss or at least bring him into the conversation. But Dunya didn't seem ever to have even seen the man. She only went on and on moaning about her dear Morris.

  Yesterday she had wanted shashlik. Thomas had promptly pickled some lamb chops and kept them steeped for twelve hours. The meat was just about right now and Thomas had been in the act of placing it on the spit, with some bacon, when that fat Boris Roganoff had actually begun to cut onions into thick slices. A fierce quarrel broke out. Then they made it up again. Yet nothing but trouble was in store that day.

  MENU

  Spring Salad

  Shashlik with (Risotto

  Fried (Bananas

  NEW YORK, 19 JUNE 1957

  This meal helped Thomas to catch the biggest Soviet spy.

  Spring Salad

  Cut into slices a peeled young cucumber, some tender radishes and hard-boiled eggs. Place the slices on a dish. Sprinkle with pepper, salt and plenty of finely chopped dill, chives and parsley. Mix with plenty of sour cream. Serve immediately, as otherwise the cucumber slices will get dry.

  Shashlik

  Cut a fillet of mutton into inch-thick slices. Soak for at least twelve hours in a solution of olive oil, lemon juice, salt, chopped onion, parsley, crushed peppercorns and juniper berries. Add one crushed clove of garlic and a dash of wine. Place meat on skewers, alternating it with pieces of bacon. Grill, taking care that meat remains pink inside.

  Risotto

  Braise a large sliced onion in butter or olive oil in a casserole till golden-brown. Add dry rice and leave to fry for about ten minutes. Stir continuously, as the rice must not turn brown. Add to the rice one and a half times the quantity of boiling water, salt sparingly and leave to cook under a tight lid. It is best to cook over an asbestos mat, on the lowest possible flame, for thirty minutes.

  Fried Bananas

  Fry on each side, in butter, ripe but not too soft peeled bananas. Add some liquid honey and a dash of rum. Turn the bananas carefully in the liquid and then place immediately on warm plates. Sprinkle with ground almonds or pistachio nuts.

  When Dunya—who was of course late—at last appeared and began to have lunch with Thomas, she too revealed a shocking state of irritation. She kept seizing her aching head in both hands and found fault with everything Thomas said or did. Finally she seemed to calm down a bit. "Excuse me! We're working at such a crazy rate I think I shall collapse!"

  "What's the matter then?"

  "Well, half New York seems to be getting vaccinated."

  "Why?"

  "With the new serum against infantile paralysis. Dr. Salk's. You must have heard of it. The vaccination itself wouldn't be so bad if it weren't for all that writing."

  "What writing?"

  "Every patient has to bring his or her birth certificate. No passports or registration forms. Just the birth certificate."

  "What for?"

  "It's the law. I have to write out the number of every birth certificate and the name of the authority that issued it. And they come in by hundreds! I shall go raving mad! Nothing but vaccinate, vaccinate, vaccinate!"

  "Vaccinate, eh—" he repeated mechanically, catching his breath. For a pretty young woman in a yellow summer frock had just entered the restaurant. He couldn't believe his eyes. She must have gone out of her mind! For FBI regulations strictly forbade two agents who were working together to meet in public. Pamela Faber didn't seem to care a nickel about that rule. She sat down right opposite Thomas, crossed her legs, leaned back and stared at Dunya.

  Naturally, Dunya soon noticed this proceeding. "Who is that?"

  "I—I beg your pardon?"

  "That person over there. She's staring at me. Do you know her?"

  "I? Whom do you mean?"

  "That painted thing in yellow. Don't pretend!"

  "Good Lord! I never saw her before in my life!"

  "Liar! You do know her. And you know her well, too!"

  That was how it started. And that was how it went on all through lunch. By the time coffee was served Thomas's shirt was damp with perspiration. And Pamela Faber was still staring across at them.

  Nor was it the end of the fun that day.

  When Thomais Lieven returned to the Waldorf-Astoria he found a certain William Ackroyd waiting for him. Mr. Ack-royd was known in the hotel as an export merchant who often collaborated with European businessmen.

  Herr Peter Scheuner—Thomas's alias at this time—was known in the hotel as one of the European businessmen in question. The two merchants—who were nothing of the sort—sat down together in the empty bar. Mr. Ackroyd said quietly: "The matter's getting more and more urgent for us, Lieven. Have you made any progress?"

  "Not an inch." ■

  "Pity," said Mr. Ackroyd. "There are several indications that Goldfuss is just about to run for it. We don't know where he'll be off to."

  "We shall have to watch the frontiers, the airfields and the ports. Et cetera."

  "It's not practicable. We simply haven't got enough officers. Goldfuss will obviously be traveling with an absolutely 'genuine' false passport." Thomas had long known that a "genuine" false passport was one that would survive comparison with the official registers.

  "Do you think he'll have reliable 'genuine' forged papers too?"

  "Don't know. Hardly probable if he's in such a hurry. But he's certain to have a passport and that will be enough. It'll be a miracle if the fellow doesn't slip through our fingers."

  Thomas sighed deeply. And on top of all this there's that wonderful colleague of mine, Miss Faber, he thought bitterly. I'll give her hell for behaving like that.

  [9]

  "You deserve a damned good thrashing!" Thomas shouted. He stood breathing heavily, that evening, in Pamela's little apartment, facing its occupant, who was wearing a black dressing gown and obviously very little else. "What on earth did you come to Roganoffs for?"

  "I suppose I've got a perfect right to go to RoganofFs?"

  "But not when I'm there!"

  "I didn't know you were there!" she cried, as loudly as he had.

  He roared back: "You knew perfectly well I was!"

  "Well, what if I did?"

  "What did you come for, then?"

  "Because I wanted to see that Dunya of yours, the sweet little pigeon—"

  His jaw dropped. "And it was for that reason you endangered everything—the whole assignment?"

  "Don't shout at me! Fallen for her in a big way> haven't you?"

  "Hold your tongue or I'll tan the hide off you!"

  "Try it!"

  "Right, I will!" He rushed at her. But the girl knew her stuff. With a dexterous judo hold she sent him crashing, on his back, to the carpet. She laughed and dodged away. He

  scrambled to his feet and dashed after her into her bedroom, where a short wrestling bout ensued. They both dropped on the bed.

  Then he had her across his knee, kicking and panting. "Let me go—let me go—or I'll kill you—"

  The dressing gown fell open. Pamela was wearing little underneath it. Thomas, unmoved, gave her a smacking. She shrieked, struck out right and left and bit him.

  Like Chantal, he thought confusedly, as the blood began to beat in his temples. She's just like Chantal—Oh God! He suddenly bent over her. His lips met hers. She bit, then her mouth opened and softened. She flung her arms around him and both lost themselves in the numbing delight of their first kiss. The room swam before Thomas Lieven's eyes. Time ceased to make sense.


  When he recovered control of himself he was looking into eyes full of love. Pamela whispered: "I was so jealous—so frightfully jealous of that Russian woman of yours ..."

  He suddenly noticed on her upper arm the bright, circular patch left by a vaccination. Turning pale, he stammered the word. "Vaccination..."

  Pamela, who was about to kiss him, stared. "What's wrong?"

  "Vaccination," he repeated stupidly.

  "Have you gone crazy?"

  He looked at her as though lost in thought. "Goldfuss knows he is in danger. He will try to leave America and return to Russia. Every traveler to Europe has to be vaccinated against certain diseases. That's the law. And when he is vaccinated he must bring the doctor his birth certificate, so that the number may be noted ..." He suddenly began stuttering with excitement. "His birth certificate, not his passport ... his false passport is a 'genuine' false one?"

  Pamela went white in her turn. "He's gone mad—absolutely mad."

  "No, I haven't. For if Goldfuss handed in a 'false' false birth certificate, then we can at last charge him with a punishable offense—arrest him—and search his apartment—"

  "Thomas!"

  "Don't bother me now. How many doctors are there in New York?"

  "How on earth should I know? At least ten thousand."

  "It doesn't matter," said Thomas Lieven, while she stared at him in utter bewilderment. He struck the bed with his fist. "I

  don't care if every agent in the FBI has to be put on the job. And I don't care if it sends them all crazy. We'll have to try it out!"

  [10]

  That evening, June 19, 1957, 277 FBI agents were alerted in the city of New York. They were ordered to visit, as a matter of great urgency, a total of 13,810 doctors working in the area, among a population of ten million.

  Each one of the 277 carried the photograph of a man about forty-five, with skeptical, intelligent features, large ears and thin lips. He wore spectacles.

  That evening the 277 men with their 277 photographs put the same question a countless number of times. "Doctor, do you know this man? Is he one of your patients? Have you by any chance vaccinated him recently?"