The grey-faced man had fended off their questions with a mumbled apology for the inconvenience. Then he had concluded by stressing that the entire exercise was of supreme importance and was to be conducted in total secrecy. And with that the mystified telephonists had filed into the exchange to relieve their colleagues who had worked the earlier shift.
Marlene glanced at the big clock at the end of the room. Three minutes to two. She breathed a long sigh of relief. At two o'clock she would have an hour's break. What a blessed relief! An hour in the cafeteria and the rest room - an hour away from bad tempers and the sometimes shocking language of her customers.
"London is on the line now caller," she said into her mouthpiece. "Please go ahead, and I apologise for the inconvenience this delay has caused you."
Getting out of Germany was a lot easier than getting into it that day. But the man known as Abou had always thought it would be. Of course, he had been delayed at the Aachen border post, but only for about twenty minutes, whereas judging by the length of the queues on the Belgian side, those traveling the other way would be delayed for hours.
His watch showed two o'clock. Malone would have left for Bonn by now. But the journey from Aachen to Bonn would take at least an hour and a half, more perhaps if he had trouble with the road blocks. Whereas Abou only had another five minutes driving to reach the private airfield from which he would fly to Zurich. Zurich - and then the long journey home.
The bomb would explode before he reached home. It would explode as soon as Malone touched that switch. Or the minute someone tried to force the locked doors at the back of the ambulance. Which was why Abou hurried. Liege, in Belgium, was little more than forty miles from Bonn as the crow flies. But the commandos who had followed Malone to the German border last night had driven directly to the airstrip and would be in the Lear jet by now, with the engines warmed up, awaiting Abou's arrival. And they would have landed in Zurich by the time the bomb went off.
He swung off the main highway toward Boullion, where the airstrip was located. The countryside was still wooded, but more thinly than on the German side of the border, and he caught a glimpse of the grey waters of the Meuse through the trees.
Behind him, in the stream of cars flowing down the highway from the border, a Mercedes indicated that it too was taking the road to Boullion. Glancing in his mirror, Abou watched the car dislodge itself from the line of traffic to follow him. He felt no alarm, even though the Mercedes seemed to be keeping pace with him.
It was a quiet country road, narrow in places, but not so narrow that the following car could not overtake if it wished. Abou drove steadily, his gaze alert for a signpost to the airstrip.
His thoughts turned to home in the hills above Taipei. In two days' time he would be back there with his father. They would walk through woods not unlike these, up toward Taichung from where they could look out across the Formosa Straits to the mainland of China. Communist China. He remembered walking in the woods years ago. An American general had been their guest that day, and they had led him to the crest which looks out toward China.
"That's it, eh?" the general had said. "The vastness of China. It's big all right. But not big enough. You people have got nothing to worry about. So long as America's your ally, you're as safe here as the folks back home. And that's a promise."
Abou grunted with disgust. Some promise. Tell that to Nixon. Tell it to the peanut farmer now in the White House. Tell it to all the other Americans who were planning to sell Taiwan out to Red China. A thirty-year-old alliance was going to be discarded like an old boot. American troops stationed on Taiwan would be withdrawn, leaving the island virtually defenceless against the might of the mainland. Then there would be a bloodbath of a purge as the communists stripped the ruling families of their power. Killing millions as they had done in Tibet and elsewhere.
Abou swore. The Plan might not save the lives of millions of his countrymen, but it would change the course of history. If the Americans suspected that the bomb in Germany was an act of communist Peking's treachery, then recognition of China was finished. And if it meant a Third World War, would it really make all that difference when American betrayal would force Taiwan into war in any case? War was no worse if the whole world was fighting.
He was so engrossed in his thoughts that he drove mechanically. He slowed down as he approached the lane to the airstrip. And it was then that the Mercedes decided to overtake. It drew alongside with a sudden rush, its horn blaring and headlights flashing. Abou looked through the side window, surprise and irritation all over his face. Then he saw the man who looked like Khrushchev. The man who had been in the restaurant in Cologne. Who had followed him here? Abou was gripped with sudden terror. With split second timing he rammed his foot down to increase speed. But a split second was too long. The rear window of the other car was rolled down and the automatic rifle was already blazing fire. The big shells shattered the glass and tore half of Abou's head away before he even had a chance to turn.
The Audi bucked wildly as it hit the verge, bucked and skidded on to the grass and into the trees, crashing to a halt within twenty yards. The Mercedes turned and the marksman shifted his position to take sight on the petrol tank. A burst of fire, the whump of ignited gas, the explosion of flames, and the Audi was ablaze like a funeral pyre.
Orlov nodded but that was all. His face was expressionless. A twenty-six-year-old blonde KGB agent had been avenged. And as the Mercedes drove quickly back to the main highway Orlov's hooded eyes closed in sleep.
Some time later Mick reached the outskirts of Bonn. He had been lucky. Three road blocks had barred the route into the city, but all three had waved him on when they had seen the flashing blue lights of the ambulance. But now, driving through the suburbs, he could not maintain the same speed as on the autobahn, and the risk of being stopped and questioned was greater. So he drove carefully, slipped into the flow of traffic and headed toward the centre of the city.
Thoughts of Molly still bothered him. Molly would be sitting in Kathleen's kitchen by now, waiting for his telephone call. Nervous and worried probably, dry-washing her hands and watching the clock. He had to speak to her. But the tall dark man had said to park the ambulance and go to the Konigshof Hotel and wait. For an hour. But what if the delay on calls to Ireland was more than an hour? Would he have a chance to telephone later? Probably not - not once someone had made contact. And not without disclosing that he was breaking the rules.
Then Mick had his idea. Why not phone first? Or at least book the call. Then if there was a delay he could drive to the railway station, park the ambulance and keep his rendezvous at the Konigshof.
There was another road block ahead. His stomach turned over at the sight of so many policemen. Traffic was grinding to a halt all around him and he touched the brakes to avoid bumping the car in front.
"Just say Major Ross," Mick said aloud, comforting himself, like a password. But in English? Him, driving a German ambulance in a German city and answering questions from a German policeman. Now wouldn't someone just ask themselves why?
The car in front stopped and Mick made up his mind. With sirens screaming and blue lights flashing he pulled across to the wrong side of the road and put his foot down hard. The police block was a hundred yards ahead. Less - sixty, fifty yards. Startled faces turned in his direction. Oncoming traffic swerved violently to avoid him. Thirty yards to the block. A policeman holding up one hand. Mick ignored him. Twenty yards. Shouts and other policemen blocked his path. Ten yards. The men threw themselves to one side and Mick hauled on the wheel to regain the right side of the road. One glance in his mirror revealed angry faces staring after him. But no attempt was made to give chase.
He took the first right-hand turn, drove for about a hundred meters and took another right just before a major intersection. The traffic about him appeared normal and no great attention was being paid to him. He cut the blare of the sirens and killed the lamps as he reduced speed to match the traffic flow. And then he saw the Konigshof
Hotel.
"Phone now," he told himself, looking for a parking space. "Phone now and afterward ask directions to the railway station."
Ahead of him a white Volvo pulled away from a parking space and Mick swerved sharply. A driver behind stuck his head out of his window and swore loudly, but Mick just grinned. He was as good as there. Twenty thousand in the bank and him on his way to Switzerland. But there was Molly to speak to first.
The red telephone rang in the little room at Cork Gardai Headquarters which Dorfman had designated his communications centre. Six other telephones cluttered the table and a mass of loose cable snaked across the floor. Dorfman grabbed the phone and answered yes and no a dozen times.
"Okay, one last thing," Ross bellowed in his ear. "That number you gave us. Cork, seven-six-five-zero, right?"
Dorfman knew it off by heart. He no longer needed to look at the paper in front of him. "Right."
"We've had it two hours and nothing so far," Ross sounded frantic. "I know I checked before, but—"
"That number's right!" Dorfman said, watching Kathleen take another ball of wool from her shopping bag to finish her knitting. Next to her Molly Malone sat perfectly still, but with a face as white as a ghost.
"Okay," Ross said, "over and out."
Dorfman sighed, replaced the telephone and lit another cigarette. He glanced sideways and grinned at the boy next to him. The earphones on Michael Malone's head were at least three sizes too large and looked like giant earmuffs. But it was the expression on the boy's face which pleased Dorfman. Total concentration. At least for a while the boy had forgotten his own role in the terrible drama being played out in Germany. Now he was absorbed by the radio messages being transmitted from the station to its patrol cars.
"Another cup of tea, Mrs. Malone?" he asked.
"What? Oh - if you like, I don't know—"
"Good idea." Kathleen put her knitting back into the shopping bag and looked across to Dorfman. "Will I get you one as well?"
Dorfman was already swimming in tea, but the fetching and drinking of it helped to pass the time and kept the women occupied. So he smiled and said yes, please, to another cup.
When Marlene Vesper returned to the exchange after her one hour break another development had occurred. The grey faced policeman explained it to them in the conference room. They were searching for one number. A number in Cork in Ireland. If any telephonist was asked for the number, she would key all supervisors in immediately and keep talking. Under no circumstances was she to let the caller off the line.
"Promise you're about to put him through - ask him to hold on - chat him up - engage his attention - but under no circumstances are you to let him off the line," the grey-faced man said. "Do you all understand that?"
The girls had nodded and filed back into the exchange, swapping curious glances and nervous giggles of speculation.
Marlene took her seat and settled down for the afternoon's work. Glancing up she caught sight of policemen hanging large cardboard placards from the ceiling. Six placards, angled in every direction, so that every telephonist there could see the number written on them.
"Cork, seven-six-five-zero."
Ross chain-smoked cigarettes. A chewed cigar lay discarded in the ashtray. Numerous half empty cups of coffee littered the desk and the waste-bins were full of used cardboard cups.
Behind him, an illuminated panel showed a street plan of Greater Bonn and the location of all road blocks. On the other side of the room six radio operators maintained contact with fifty prowl cars and at right angles to them, another bank of operators talked in low voices to the men on the road blocks.
LeClerc paced the room like a caged animal and Elizabeth sat so close to me that I could feel nervous tension running through her body like an electric current.
A German technician had just finished explaining that a direct link had been installed at the International Switchboard, so that if anyone called the Cork number the conversation would be relayed to the loudspeaker mounted next to the illuminated wall chart.
Downstairs, squads of armed men were already sitting in Porsche police cars awaiting the word to go to any part of the city.
And so we sat and waited.
Marlene Vesper had just connected the Bonn office of Lufthansa to Copenhagen when the call came through. She felt herself go cold, and it was as much as she could do to keep her voice steady. Her eyes flicked upward to focus on the big sheets of cardboard.
"Would you repeat the number please, caller," she said in her clearest voice.
"Cork - in Ireland, seven-six-five-zero."
"There is a delay on all calls—" she began automatically and then froze in horror as she remembered the grey-faced policeman. She touched the "alarm" button in front of her and knew that all of the police supervisors had keyed into the conversation. Collecting herself she said quickly: "But if you could hold on a moment. I'll try to route you via London."
"Would you do that?" the voice said and she could hear the relief. "It's very urgent."
"What number are you calling from please, sir?"
"This is - er, hang on a minute - this is one-seven-two-nine."
"Thank you caller. My colleague is trying London now. Please hold on."
Ross barked "One-seven-two-nine. Where's that, for God's sake?"
The German policeman at the end of the desk was already searching his list.
Over the loudspeaker we heard the girl say, "We're through to London caller. If you'll just hold on they will try Cork for us."
"Good girl," an Irishman's voice said. "It's very urgent."
"We'll do everything to help - please hold on now."
The policeman looked up from his list. "He's calling from the Konigshof Hotel. It's a public call box in the lobby."
Ross knocked his chair over and ran to the door. "How far away is that?"
The policeman caught up with him, and Max already had the door open. "Not far - we'll be there within ten minutes."
In Cork the red telephone on Dorfman's desk never had a chance to ring a second time. His face whitened as he listened, then he replaced the receiver.
"They'll put him through in about four minutes' time," he looked at Molly. "Now don't forget Mrs. Malone - act naturally."
Molly trembled like a leaf and clutched the boy tight to her shaking body. She was racked with doubts. Mick had never been a great one for the Gardai, and here she was sitting in the Gardai station itself and about to pretend that she was at Kathleen's place all the time. It was deceitful, that's what it was. Please God make Mick understand, or he'll never forgive me.
Dorfman looked at Kathleen. "When the phone rings you're to answer it, understand? The way you normally do. Then say you'll fetch Molly and put the phone down." He switched his gaze. "And a moment later I want you to pick it up Mrs. Malone."
Molly's mouth was as dry as a bone. The boy squeezed her arm and shared his courage with her while Kathleen reached across to hold her hand.
Dorfman wiped his battered face with a handkerchief and watched the clock.
In the exchange Marlene was improvising like mad. Written signals were being placed in front of her by the policemen who crowded around her seat at the switchboard. She was trying to keep calm and read them at the same time.
"Hello caller, I'm sorry but lines from London to Cork are engaged, but my colleague is on to Liverpool and we think we cart get through from there."
"Good girl," the man encouraged. "Keep trying."
Another note was held in front of her eyes. Her mind raced and the words tumbled from her lips. "We're through to Liverpool caller, and they expect to have a line free within a minute or two."
"You're doing a grand, job - a grand job!"
Marlene hesitated. "You - you did say this was an emergency? We're really not supposed to do this and if my supervisor—"
"It is an emergency," the voice was adamant. "Almost a matter of life and death, you could say."
"Oh, that's all right
then. I mean we're supposed to do all we can to help in emergencies," Marlene said. And then she dried up.
It was warm in the telephone booth and Mick's cigarette had made the atmosphere stuffy. He blinked his eyes against the smoke and peered out into the lobby. "Are you still there?" he asked.
There was no reply. He pounded the receiver rest. "Hello operator? Hello - Mary Mother of Christ, don't leave me now. Hello operator."
"Sorry caller. Lines from Liverpool are busy too. But we're through to Dublin and expect to connect you shortly."
He breathed a long sigh of relief. "You're doing fine," he encouraged, congratulating himself on finding such a helpful girl. Most wouldn't have bothered. A two-hour delay would be a two-hour delay, and that would be an end to it. But at least this girl was trying.
"Connecting you now," the girl said suddenly.
His heart leapt. "Thanks operator - thanks very much indeed - you've been a great help."
"My pleasure," she said, and then went off the line.
Mick listened to the ringing tone. Once, twice, three times. Come on Kathleen, come on!
Then Molly's sister said "Seven-six-five-0. Hello."
"Hello," Mick shouted into the telephone. "Kathleen, it's me - Mick. Did you get hold of Molly for me?"
"Hello Mick. Molly's right here. And Michael. Both waiting to say hello. Hold on, I'll get them for you."
The boy? Mick frowned. And shouldn't the boy be away to school?
"Hello, Mick?" said Molly.
His eyes blurred at the sound of her voice and all of his carefully rehearsed words went out of his head.
Molly clutched the telephone to her ear. "Hello Mick - are you there?"
"Sure now - and who else would be calling you from Germany?"
"Oh thank God! Mick I've been that worried. I had a letter - did you know that? Is that what you're calling about? Mick, you're all right, aren't you?"
"Molly, I'm fine. Look, I'm going away for a bit. Maybe a month or two. I'm not sure yet. But you're not to worry—"
Ian St James Compendium - Volume 1 Page 34