“Thanks just the same,” Salinger said, stepping to the table and found his pack of cigarettes. “But I can’t imagine, Frank you came here to talk about baked fish.”
Bentley followed him out onto the balcony. Salinger turned down the radio. “I’ve been listening to the war news.”
‘It’s all turned in our favor now, but we have to be careful.”
Out on the street there was the quick chatter of words, then they were down the street.
The OSS officer leaned on the rail. “I just wanted to come by before you find out from someone else I personally don’t think you’re ready for this sort of thing,” Bentley said. “And—I let them all know that. Nothing personal, but haven’t you wondered in the least why they want you involved?”
“They’ve given me what they consider a good reason.”
“Ah,” he said. “The situation has changed in Tehran . . . a lot, no matter what they tell you. We’ve overplayed our hand in Iran with our dealings with the pro-German government. They simply don’t like us.” He broke his glance from the dark street to Salinger. “But when I said I didn’t think you were ready for this, I wasn’t referring to the political situation.”
“I know what you’re talking about,” Salinger said.
“Then you’ve thought about it?”
“I think about it every day. There isn’t a day that those months don’t play out in my mind.”
“And you’re going back . . . knowing you’ll no doubt see Julia. And you’ll have to deal with Goli, and what an awful mess that can turn out to be.”
“I’m going to patch up things with Julia one day if she’ll listen and forgive me. As for Goli, she played on our team once, remember, Frank?”
“Not anymore.”
“Then I will have to deal with that, won’t I?” Salinger’s mind tightened. “Look, the President wants me involved in this.”
Bentley rolled his eyes. “And who could resist if they throw Roosevelt into the mix? They know where your loyalty lies and you want to make up for losses. What they don’t know for certain is the personal burden returning to Tehran will have on you, Booth.”
“Thanks for worrying about me, but it’s not necessary.”
“You’re welcome,” Bentley said glancing at his watch. “Well, dinner waits.” They walked inside and he continued to the door.
As the door began to close, Bentley stopped it with his hand. “A final thought, Booth—and please don’t take this as a threat but only as friendly advice. I’ve pulled you out of the fire once before. To ask me do it again may be asking too much.”
He wasn’t smiling as he allowed the door to close.
Salinger freshened his drink and turned the apartment light out. Bentley was wrong. Tonight he liked the dark. He lit a cigarette and listened to the street noises.
When the street fell silent again, he didn’t turn on the radio, but instead thought back on the worse days of his life.
----
Bern.
Goli had found him that late evening huddled on the apartment steps in the Old Town. Salinger had lived for several weeks at the Baur au Lac Hotel until someone decided that was too dangerous, then he was moved to an apartment off the Kreuzgasse.
It was snowing and the air was crisp and sharp and the weather was much too cold for one to be out. Besides, a man with a head full of secrets walking aimlessly through the winter streets of Bern had to be taken very seriously. Maybe that was why when Salinger looked up at Goli her face held the most concerned expression.
“I just couldn’t go inside,” he said.
Goli’s gloved hand was on his shoulder. “I understand, Booth. I really do.”
They took him up to the apartment, questioned him briefly while several steps away Goli talked softly into the hall telephone. Then he was placed in a sedan where he was grateful for the warmth in the rear seat. Goli came down the steps, got in the back seat beside him, and the sedan drove away, her face in half shadow. “They were worried when you didn’t show up because you know too much, Booth. They can’t have you just disappearing like that. Where were you?”
“Walking.”
“Just walking?”
“Did you talk to anyone?”
He smiled. “No, I didn’t talk to anyone.”
The sedan had taken them out of the city and beyond the window there was only darkness and the gray outline of trees. From that moment on Salinger’s world became a dull web of confusion. Wires in the brain, short-circuited to the point where deep down inside he no longer cared. They drove him along a rolling road to a wide, brown gothic place out among lush, full trees.
He didn’t see Goli again for days.
He was given medicines in the mornings to make him alert, given medicines after dinner to help him sleep. His world became strolls along shaded sidewalks accompanied by a nurse who he supposed was handsome in her own way. During that time, Salinger was certain that he had finally gone mad.
At first he and the nurse didn’t talk on these walks, but simply chatted about things he had learned in his training—‘ciphers differ from codes—I was trained by the old agents who kept the Germans on their toes, you see—but ciphers are different from codes in that they are constructed upon a systematic method’—his voice was hollow, detached somehow, as if it wasn’t him speaking at all. The nurse stood there and listened to everything he wanted to say. Mrs. Walker, yes that was her name . . . “Now, Mrs. Walker, ciphers on the other hand are certainly different—”
Then one day—looking back he thought it must have been three weeks—he stopped talking about codes and ciphers. That familiar voice inside his head returned as he tried to explain to Mrs. Walker he had tried his best, he really had, but still good men had died in those mountains because of him . . . and how it was all too late to make it right now.
That simple act of confessing and gradually realizing his inability to change events somehow reattached Salinger to the real world. He began to laugh and joke with her. He told her about Julia and about Goli and how they had grown up in Tehran as children and how much he loved the desert. He began to read again. In the evenings he filled in the crosswords when Mrs. Walker could find him an English newspaper.
On a chilled, sun-bright morning Goli came for him in the big sedan with the stuffy heater. They rode back on the same road that had brought him here except now it was like a different planet he was traveling through; cleaner, fresher, and free of that smothering darkness and self-induced pity and pain.
Goli’s face was sharp, and in the new light satisfied, her forehead against the window where her breath drew small circles on the window glass.
Salinger rolled down the window and leaned back; hands clasped in his lap, and let the cold air sweep against his face. Cold, free wonderful air. He didn’t realize how much he had missed it, and he wondered . . . just how close had he come to going mad?
Ahead he could see the Bern city lights growing brighter, a beacon beyond the black trees. Then Goli’s hand was on his shoulder. “I said, roll that window up silly, you’ll catch cold.”
That night, in the Bern apartment, Salinger opened a casement window and they shivered beneath a pile of blankets while listening to street noises, people moving about. They stared at the lights on the ancient Catholic Church across the street and whispered to each other in low, new voices about the approaching betrayal.
Later, they became lovers.
----
Cairo.
At nine o’clock the next morning, Mayfield and a driver picked up Salinger in a staff car. The British officer’s mind appeared cluttered as they were driven through the narrow streets. He informed Salinger that he would be leaving for Tehran a day early. “I’d like to stay and help you here with gathering information about Fields, but Churchill wants me in Tehran, you understand. He and Roosevelt are meeting today with Chinese officials, and then they should depart Cairo sometime late tomorrow if they stick to the schedule,” Mayfield said. “Tehran is goin
g to be a political labyrinth what with the Soviets involved. Stalin’s army has beaten back Hitler’s best soldiers at the gates of Moscow, so he’ll be negotiating from a position of arrogance, we can be certain of that. What Stalin wants more than anything is for us to open up the ‘second front’ we’ve promised him since 1942.”
“Any chance Fields was killed by Soviet intelligence and the information now in the hands of Stalin?”
“I hope not,” Mayfield said. “Can you imagine the horrifying ramifications of exposing that?”
“Would we tell the world even if we knew?”
“No, probably not,” Mayfield looked at him for a long moment. “After we finish this war out, there’ll be time for allies to turn on one another.”
Salinger turned to the window and watched the sights of the old city slip by. They drove by the entrance to a bazaar flanked by small shops. On the street side a thin boned shopkeeper sold antiquities lined out on the sidewalk.
“How is she doing, Booth? Your wife?”
“Gradual deterioration of the eyes caused from the accident,” Salinger said. “I’ve tried to talk to her, but she won’t have anything to do with me.”
“Maybe one day it will all change,” Mayfield said with a certainty that made Salinger pause. “Does Julia read the Bible?” Mayfield asked. “The Bible teaches we are all sinners. I would think none of us are beyond offering forgiveness to each other.”
Salinger opened the manila folder in his lap. “Sinners aside, I’d rather discuss Fields this morning.”
“I wasn’t trying to pry into your personal affairs, Booth. If it were possible I’d rather not send you back to Tehran. You’ve paid your dues.”
“Let’s discuss Fields, Major. That’s why I’m here.”
Mayfield leaned closer. “The conference should run about six days. Security will be at the highest level, though the Iranians somehow manage to halfway accomplish those sorts of details.”
“And the political atmosphere?”
“We applied pressure to persuade Riza Shah to resign because he was pro German, but in doing so we created a new set of enemies. The new ruler, Mohammed Riza Pahlavi and many of his close collaborators in fact sympathize fully with the Nazis.”
“Making the existence of a network of German agents in the city a distinct possibility.”
“A certainty,” Mayfield answered, eyebrows lifting. “The Soviets performed an excellent job of eliminating German agents, but how many still exists is the question. I have a report on my desk of over a hundred slipping back into the country dressed up as Siit pilgrims?”
Salinger took a moment to flip through the folder. “Not much information on your intelligence officer.”
“We don’t make a habit of publishing our intelligence backgrounds.”
Salinger read the two-page text. Major Benjamin Fields born 1895 in Mayfair village, excelled in school, academically and in sports. Amateur lightweight boxing champion. Aviator in the first war flying Sopwith Camels. After the war, he turned to business, owned a profitable radio manufacturing business. Sometime later he went to work for Admiral Sir Reginald Hall within British Intelligence. Once the war broke out in Europe in 1939, he was promoted to Major and was reassigned to MI6. No mention of family or wife, or ex-wife.
“A bachelor?”
“Confirmed,” Mayfield said. “Apparently he was having too much fun to take any one woman seriously.”
There was a blast of horns and the staff car came to a sudden stop. The driver leaned out the window exchanging insults with an old man pulling a cart stacked with fruit. They cursed each other in rapid Egyptian before the driver swung the staff car wide and sped around.
“Uncivilized heathens,” Mayfield hissed.
----
The British General Headquarters for the Middle East was located at Gray Pillars referring to four Corinthian colonnades squaring its dignified foyer. Situated at number 10 Tolombat Street, it was one of a group of buildings surrounded by barbed wire fencing. Next door in a large block of apartments was the headquarters of the SOE—British military intelligence.
In the lobby, Mayfield introduced Salinger to a woman named Perkins. She was middle-aged, with a tight, all-business air about her, but with a pleasant face framed with black hair. “She’ll take good care of you,” Mayfield told him as he said his goodbyes and informed Salinger he would see him in Tehran. “When you finish up here, I know there are things to get off your desk at HQ.”
“I’m scheduled to catch a plane to Tehran late afternoon tomorrow.”
Mayfield’s staff car cleared the gates when Mrs. Perkins turned to him. “Would you like to start with the major’s office?”
“I’ll trust you on where to start,” Salinger said. When they started down the hall, he asked, “Did you know the major well?”
She continued staring straight ahead. “No one knew him very well at all. Even though he had an office here, and spent a good deal of time across the street at ‘number ten’, he was a distant sort of fellow.”
She led Salinger up a flight of marble stairs and to the second door on the right. Salinger found Field’s office an intelligence officer’s workplace: a cheap desk, two telephones on a polished credenza, one obviously coded, and a green safe in the corner for putting away dossiers and documents. The desk was by the window, papers sorted out into three careful stacks. The standard issue Middle East map hung on the opposite wall.
Salinger took a moment to roam around the room and take everything in while Mrs. Perkins lingered patiently at the door as if to enter she would violate sacred space.
“Were you familiar with his schedule?” Salinger asked.
“The major was here at least once a week, I remember. Sometimes more often,” she said. “I know he had established an office in Tehran within the last three weeks preparing for the upcoming conference the Prime Minister is attending.”
“Where was he when he wasn’t here or Tehran?”
“Traveling, I suppose.”
“Do you know why?”
“I didn’t work under the major’s direction, limiting the information I can offer to you this morning. However, as I informed Major Mayfield, I’ve lined up several interviews with people who did work for him. Clerical staff mainly, maybe they can assist you.”
Salinger spent the remainder of the morning conducting those interviews. He was disappointed that nothing much came out of the discussions.
The first, a young Iranian woman who served as a clerk, college educated and very sharp, told Salinger that she found the major to be very polite and all business. The second interview was with a middle-aged clerk with the highest security ranking available for such workers, who produced two files containing carbon copies of correspondence between MI6 Tehran office and London. Salinger flipped disappointingly through the files. “This is it, his complete correspondence for the last six months?”
“Except for personal correspondence,” she said defensively. “I didn’t have access to his personal writings.”
Salinger closed the file. “Of course you didn’t. Do you know where the major was when he wasn’t in this office?”
“Tehran, I imagine.”
The last interview was with the Iranian driver. He had been issued standard security clearance and background check, which was conducted on all drivers utilized by the British and Americans in and around Cairo. Salinger dismissed him within twenty minutes.
He placed Fields’s files in his briefcase, prepared to leave when a short, thick man strolled into the office, hands in his pocket. He seemed surprised to see Salinger.
“Sorry,” he said tightly, “didn’t mean to interrupt.” He glanced quickly around the room. “Has the major reported in this morning?” he asked as if expecting Fields to rise out of a chair or walk around the corner.
Salinger walked up to him. “No, he hasn’t. Who are you?”
“Lawrence . . . Larry Card.” He offered his hand.
“You’re Ameri
can?”
“Yes, I am.”
“You know the major?” Salinger asked.
“We worked together over the last two months. Had the occasional drinks.” Sensing something wrong, he pulled back. “Where is the major?”
“What is your purpose in Cairo, Mr. Card?”
“I don’t think I want to answer any more questions until you tell me what’s going on.”
“I work for the British government. Major Fields was murdered outside Tehran two nights ago.”
Card’s face slackened. “I wouldn’t have known . . . I was away on business since the middle of last week. Do you mind if I sit down?”
Salinger gave him a moment to gather himself. “Now . . . what is it that you do, Mr. Card?”
He was rubbing his forehead. “I’m an engineer.”
“With the British military?”
“International Business Machines. We set up secure lines in several rooms. Of course, we have to change out the wiring. This building used the French 12-volt systems, so we converted it to 110-volt. The army brought in some old German equipment. We wired that up.”
“Where did you do all this work?”
Card nodded. “Here in the major’s office. And a communications room down the hall.”
“Anywhere else?”
“You mean in Cairo? No.”
“Besides here in Cairo, Mr. Card?”
“Three of my men were sent to Tehran two weeks ago. They’ve since completed their job and they’ve been flown back to England.”
“Do you ever go to Tehran?”
Before he could answer, Mrs. Perkins entered suddenly. “Mr. Card, I didn’t know you had returned.”
Card told her, “Got back late last night . . . were you aware about Fields?”
“A dreadful business, yes.” She touched his arm. “Let’s not bother Mr. Salinger any longer, he’s quite busy.”
“We were just discussing—”
“I know, Mr. Card, perhaps later. Let’s get you some tea. I imagine this has been all such a shock to you.”
They started out of the room when Card turned. “You’re going to find out who did this, aren’t you?”
A Spy in the Shadows (Spy Noir Series Book 1) Page 5