Admiral Wilhelm Canaris walked out of the shadows. Just the mentioning of his name conjured up mystery and intrigue. Small, frail and gray-haired, the chief of German Intelligence came and stood beside Richter. “Well?” He simply asked.
“I believe we made progress.”
“Good,” Canaris took him by the elbow leading him down the canal.
Born in the coal-mining city of Dortmund, Canaris graduated from the Naval Academy at Kiel and during the First World War served as the intelligence officer on the cruiser Dresden. He was soon promoted to captain and was assigned to work with the Kaiser’s spy chief in Spain.
By the end of the war, Canaris presented an impressive resume. He spoke seven languages, had a handle on the intrigue existing within the German Navy, and became experienced in covert missions in Europe. In 1934, with German rearming and Hitler’s ascend to power Canaris was the obvious candidate to head the Fuhrer’s spy network.
Under Canaris’s methodical guidance, the Abwehr expanded and was soon poised to present itself as a threat to any enemy. Even the infamous British Intelligence.
But Canaris had no confidence in the thugs with whom the Fuhrer had surrounded himself. Goring. Himmler. Canaris considered them all stooges. There even now lingered for the intelligence chief, a growing doubt of concern about the Fuhrer himself and his capacity to lead their great nation toward its destiny. And though he had never joined the Nazi party, he remained a loyal soldier, faithful to Hitler and Germany. That was specifically why Canaris had decided with the last days to pursue this covert operation with Colonel Theodor Richter.
They walked toward several benches located beneath giant oaks protecting them from the snow.
“The venture in Persia isn’t going very well,” Canaris told him. “Our latest information tells us that the whole lot has basically been rounded up before they reached Tehran.”
“All of them?”
“There is a small group of men who have made it close to the city, and they should provide cover for our operation. Even if they don’t make it to the safe house,” Canaris frowned. “Do you think Schellenberg suspects your efforts to have Paul Heuss included in that group?”
“That Heuss was involved in the elimination of Goli Faqiri’s husband? “Richter asked. “No, sir, I don’t believe he knows anything about us returning Heuss to the scene of the crime.”
“I do hate we’re forced to use such gallant men as deceptions but it simply can’t be helped, Colonel. Our operation must contain a higher degree of success . . . so, we sacrifice our own.”
“Schellenberg believes that also,” Richter said, “in his own way.”
Canaris said, “I find him to be an amazing fellow with a strong heart and obviously ambitious. To fool a fellow such as Schellenberg will take quite an effort.” Canaris hunched his shoulders against the chill. “Black Forest can accomplish that,” he whispered. His hands were suddenly jammed in his coat pocket. “I would imagine he took the bait.”
“Totally,” Richter told him.
“Excellent,” Canaris said, his eyes lifting. “Understand you and I shall not discuss this matter again. Black Forest is your concern now, Colonel. You are totally on your own.”
Richter turned his collar up against a sudden breeze. “Understood.”
-Eight-
In 1943 the population of Tehran was only an estimate—maybe five hundred thousand, maybe eight hundred thousand—there were so many strangers moving in and out of the city each day an accurate number was indeterminable. Houses were lit by electricity and Tehran had numerous cafes with music and sound-film cinemas. Luks, the luxury hotels, had heat and running water. Government officials, landowners, and wealthy businessmen owned automobiles while the public traveled by horse drawn carriages and on double-decker buses, owned by high-ranking police officers—among them was Karim Chubok, a personal friend of Booth Salinger.
----
Iranian Police Headquarters. Daneshvar Street.
Salinger’s flight from Cairo had arrived at five thirty when he checked into the Palace Hotel and came directly to the police station. He now sat patiently in a winged heavily woven chair in the police chief’s office.
The room was large and ornately furnished. Deep-color tapestries hung on caramel walls along with framed photographs of ancestors, warlords of the desert, peering down ominously. A single large window looked out upon a semitropical park planted with firs.
Behind a vast polished desk sat Police Chief Karim Chubok a small, sinewy man, but very important of stature within the law enforcement structure of Tehran. Late afternoon shattered sunlight slanted through the window, bathing across a desk of carefully stacked papers.
“A moment please, Salinger,” Chubok looked up quickly with bright brown eyes, then back to the papers before him. “A cable that should have been sent out earlier in the day, but several important details was missing.” He raised a hand. “A moment.”
Salinger had known Chubok for three years, since he had become the head law enforcement officer in this district. He was known as precise, a professional, and mostly honest to deal with. Salinger knew him as a man who treated information in a city of spies as gems of wealth, diamonds of great value to be bartered with at the appropriate time.
In another moment, Chubok placed the pen down and took the paper and folded it. He pushed the intercom button and a young assistant hurried in. He took the paper from the chief and quickly departed closing the door behind him.
“So, Booth, I thought possibly you would never return again to my city. I seem to remember a conversation in which you stated the very fact.”
“The murder of a British Intelligence officer changes things,” Salinger told him.
“Ah, yes . . . an important man, no doubt if you’ve been sent here to look into his death. And you’re working for Major Mayfield, of course. Which means this is all perhaps linked to the conference.”
“Don’t read too much into this just yet,” Salinger said.
“But I’m afraid I already have, my friend.”
It shouldn’t have surprised Salinger that Chubok was ahead of the game. “Major Fields,” Salinger said, “did have in his possession information concerning the conference. Agendas. Details of security issues being addressed.”
Chubok smiled. “And you came to me for facts, any small piece that may be missing?”
“Where else would I come, Chief?”
“Such a shadowed world, my friend, but I’m afraid I have little to offer on your Major Fields,” Chubok said. “And, I must remind you of the fact we are officially neutral.”
Salinger had considered how his old friend would receive him. Power changes men, mostly in the wrong ways, but it didn’t appear to have tainted Chubok. “I was hoping I could see the report your men filed on the murder scene.”
Chubok placed his hands flat on the desk. “Like I said officially neutral, yes. However, being anxious about the future of my country, I have resigned myself to the fact there is absolutely no hope that my city will emerge from the morass of crime and poverty before the war ends. Corruption at its highest level has simply become a fine art in Iran,” he answered. “The drug trade, prostitution, black marketing—you would be impressed with the dishonesty, Salinger.”
The police chief shrugged. “But there will come a time for change.” He took a cigarette from a box and lit it with a silver lighter. He let the smoke settle in front of his face. “Any assistance which I offer must be discrete,” he said. “The allies used pressure to make Riza Shah resign. He was, as you are aware, favorable toward the Germans. Our people remain bitter.”
“I’m interested in Joseph Shepilov.”
“So, you believe the Russians are involved?”
“The Soviets—like our British friends—have their hands in everything,” Salinger said.
“Ah, but the fact is the British are the ones who sent you here to investigate.”
“That’s right.”
Chubok l
aughed. “I suppose you are right. You would like to see my file on Shepilov also?”
The chief pushed the intercom button and spoke in brisk Iranian. Once he received a response, he turned back. “It seems as though I remember a tragedy involving your wife?”
When Salinger didn’t answer, the police chief waved away this question with an open hand. “Forgive me for meddling. I have brought up a matter not to be discussed.”
The assistant hurried in and handed him two brown folders. The young man hesitated, suspended in a stiff stance until his boss dismissed him. Placing the folder flatly in front, he read for a long moment before looking up. “Have you been in touch with Goli Faqiri since arriving back in Tehran?”
“I just arrived in the city this afternoon,” Salinger said.
Chubok removed two photographs from the folder and placed them on the desk. He stabbed one with a forefinger and dragged it over in front of Salinger. It was a photograph taken at some distance from across a street—unmistakably Goli and Josef Shepilov.
“We are operating under the assumption that she is now working with the Soviets.”
Salinger studied the photograph. “In what capacity?”
“They are working very hard to eliminate all German agents from our city. A noble cause, I think, and Goli would prove to be a great deal of assistance in that matter. It’s their methods I regret.”
Salinger remembered. The Soviets were brutal to those people in the mountains simply because they wouldn’t pledge allegiance. In many cases those simple people didn’t even know what they were being asked to do. He slid the photograph toward the police chief. “How deeply is Goli involved?”
“We placed a tail on her two weeks ago. We’re not overly concerned about her, but with the conference upcoming we can’t take chances on the usual suspects. She’s involved with Shepilov, an ex-member of the Soviet Red Orchestra, arousing any suspicions you may have been suppressing.”
Chubok handed over the second file. “The report on the murder scene in Shahr-e Rey. Two of my best men were sent there in the middle of the night.”
Salinger read quickly over a single sheet of paper. “Not much here.”
“When the British arrived that night, they cordoned the area off and my men were quickly dismissed, especially when it was apparent the murdered officer’s papers weren’t to be found in the room.”
Salinger placed the files back on the desk.
“You can see from the report it was a fairly simple murder scene,” Chubok said. “Fields dead on the floor, half dressed. Whatever the motive, it is clear what took place.”
Salinger said, “Still, it does raise a question. Is there any significance the murder took place in Shar-e Rey?”
“A good question of which I don’t have an answer.”
“I’m convinced Fields knew this person,” Salinger said, “And there was a feeling of trust in the matter. He was an experienced intelligence officer. Why else would he risk going to a hotel with his briefcase?”
“Still very careless, don’t you think?” Chubok asked.
If Shahr-e Rey didn’t mean anything, then why didn’t he have his hotel rendezvous, then go back to the city and retrieve his briefcase for whatever meeting he had planned after? Then another thought. “Or perhaps he wasn’t going to a meeting later after all.”
“I’m afraid I don’t follow you.”
If Salinger was right then Shahr-e Rey could be useful as a geographic clue. “I’m thinking of the opposite,” Salinger said. “That Fields had his briefcase with him, not because he was going to a meeting, but that he left a meeting earlier and he was late to his rendezvous.”
“Of course, you’re right, and anxious to not be late, Fields would have showed up with the briefcase. She must have been a special woman, Salinger.” Chubok pulled his pocket watch out and glanced at it. “Look at the time. Did you eat on the plane?”
“I haven’t eaten all day,” Salinger remembered.
Chubok held up a finger. “A moment, then.” He picked up the phone. “Let me clear several items from my calendar and I’ll be glad to buy you dinner.”
-Nine-
Southwest of Tehran. On the road to Akbarabad.
Corporal Warren Elliott of the British Army leaned into the curve, the thick dust cloud boiling up behind his Gilera motorcycle. Once out of the curve and on the straight road again, he twisted the throttle and the motor responded immediately lurching forward.
The Gilera was his prize possession, borrowed from an unfortunate German courier ambushed eight months ago in the mountains. The machine gave Elliott some pleasure, and as he soon discovered, the opportunity to earn spending money because the other lads were always buying rides on her. A grand machine, 500cc of Italian beauty, she was worth every penny they paid him. And it broke the monotony. It’s not that the lot of them had it that badly, not now, not as brutal as those poor boys fighting their way up the Italian boot against some of Hitler’s finest troops.
Elliott and his bunch had earned theirs, though. As part of the Western Desert Force in North Africa, they had seen the dirty part of war. Now for Elliott and his fellow soldiers stationed in Iran their biggest enemy was heat, sand, and boredom while performing their main purpose to guard trains transporting oil, or escorting the occasional convey from Iraq or Turkey.
A straight stretch of road and then into the next curve, Elliott let off on the machine, slowed and pulled in. Three of his fellow soldiers, dressed in khaki battledress, sat in canvas chairs drinking beers around a trestle table positioned just outside the doorway of a clay building. As Elliott pulled over to the side, they waved and laughed.
Four months ago they had converted this open roadside teahouse—the Iranians called them ‘chaikhanas’—into a regular English pub. Why, if Churchill himself came over for a pint, Elliott reasoned, he would have thought he were in England. A sign ‘The Fox’ hung over the doorway and inside a constant game of darts was being played. The boys had even chipped in and had bought Atash, the proprietor, a waiter’s suit from a restaurant so they he would look like an English pub owner. Atash, grateful for the commercial opportunity, played the part nicely, and had even arranged to have several different types of English beer brought in.
As had become the custom late in the evenings, beers were drunk on the ‘front lawn’, tables placed in the shade away from the Persian sun.
Elliott killed the motor and removed his goggles. A group of Lur shepherds squatted in a circle twenty meters away, staring at them. “She’s running like a dream today, boys,” Elliott said strolling up to the table. “A maintenance sergeant gave her a tune up last evening while I was in the city. It might cost you double for a ride today.”
“You’re a bum, Elliott,” Corporal Caldwell laughed. “An absolute bum.” Caldwell was eighteen, a boy from Southampton, fair complexion and thick blond hair. To him, he wasn’t fighting a war; he had a free ticket to see the world. “Always looking for the money angle, aren’t you?”
“Money can come in handy if you ever make it into Tehran,” Elliott cracked.
The group laughed. They had over the last year and a half, become good friends.
“Besides,” the corporal said, “have you lost track of the time? It’s almost time for her to pass by.”
Elliott took a long drink. “Then I’m not too late.”
“But you’re cutting it close,” Roger Wallace said. The oldest of the group, he was twenty-seven from London with a wife and two young children. That was the hardest part for Wallace, being so far away from this family. “She comes by like clockwork at five twenty every afternoon.”
Another long drink and his beer was finished off. “I know that,” Elliott said. He slammed the empty bottle on the table. Atash came out of the dark doorway with a tray of fresh beers. “Ah, my hero,” Elliott said.
“Life is good,” the Iranian said. One of several English phrases he had learned since opening the ‘pub’. Elliott grabbed a beer from the tray. �
��Yes, it is my friend.”
“Hey—I think that’s her,” Caldwell said.
At first it was a dot of red, sand swirling up in funnels behind, far down the road. Then it became an automobile moving at a fast speed heading right toward them.
“It is her,” Caldwell whispered.
The red 1935 Austin Sports Tourer was upon them, a gallant red machine with a wide grille like a goddess glaring straight ahead. The top was down and they could see the driver, both hands on the wheel, staring down the road. Then the machine, the goddess, was upon them zooming by at an incredible speed.
Catcalls and whistles from the men around the table.
The convertible slowed just for an instant, the beautiful brunette waved, and then gunned the motor. The engine responded immediately, and then just that quickly, she was past them and heading away.
A dust storm enveloped the ‘pub’. The men coughed and laughed and then fell silent until the Austin finally disappeared around the curve.
“Think the Tourer could outrun the Gilera?” Caldwell finally asked once the sand cloud settled.
“It would be a good race, but I don’t think so,” Elliott said.
“A beautiful lady,” someone at the table whispered an oath of awe.
Elliott lifted his beer in a toast. “Now that I can agree with.” A beautiful machine and a beautiful woman, he thought. They belonged together.
----
Goli Faqiri stood behind a massive mahogany desk in her office on the first floor of the villa. She was tall with a slim figure and wore cashmere slacks, a white silk blouse. Thick, wavy brown hair framed her face and noble features.
A Spy in the Shadows (Spy Noir Series Book 1) Page 7