The Polochev was a liberty ship manned and operated by the Soviet Union on lend-lease, one of 2,170 mass-produced at 18 shipyards in the United States. At 441 feet overall, she carried 14,474 tons fully loaded and was fitted with 2 boilers and a steam turbine that drove her at 11.5 knots maximum speed. A glance at her hull plating confirmed the Polochev’s hard driving over her short lifetime. The hull plates were dished in from countless storms in the unpredictable North Atlantic on the Murmansk run. Her engine, boilers, and evaporators all needed overhauling. But with all this she was still alive—and lucky alive, as her crew liked to say. Once, in a tight convoy, she had combed the wakes of two German torpedoes, one port, one starboard, both of which went on to rip into two other liberty ships.
Forklifts darted from the warehouse to the dock as if possessed, dropping their pallet loads beneath the Polochev’s booms. Conflicting shouts in English and Russian tore the air as wharfingers and Soviet sailors wrestled with the pallets, hooking them up to thick lines dangling from the booms. Once connected, the loads were hoisted into the air, swung onboard, and eased into one of the Polochev’s five yawning holds.
Karol Dudek waited in the shadows of Berth 48’s warehouse where he could keep an eye on the ramshackle coffee shop across the street and monitor loading activities on the Polochev. Karol’s smooth face and fine, straw-colored hair gave him the appearance of a mousy shopkeeper or clerk. He was dressed like a sailor, though, in peacoat, dungarees, and black watch cap. A seabag was slung over his shoulder, and in his pocket was his constant companion of three years: a six-inch American switchblade surrendered to him by a Romanian sailor in an alley behind a bar in Piraeus, Greece. Luckily the man was drunk, and he stumbled and dropped the knife. Karol picked it up and went for him. The wide-eyed Romanian became sober quickly and ran screaming into the streets. Since then Karol had used the knife twice: once to kill a Russian tanker and the second time to stab a Warsaw bully who tried to take the switchblade away from him.
An orphan, he had grown up near the Warsaw ghettos, where he made money snitching to the police. After the Germans invaded, he made his money from the Gestapo by reporting people hiding Jews. At age 16 he was drafted into the Wehrmacht, and his 5-foot 7-inch, 140-pound frame made him a perfect fit for rear gunner in an Me 110 twin-engine fighter-bomber. Once he discovered that life expectancy in Me 110s was three months, and less over Britain, he wiggled his way into the Luftwaffe medical corps. He became adept as a physician’s assistant treating shot-up flyers, many of whom were unlucky enough to survive crashes with horrible burns and crushed bodies. Morphine and painkillers became his specialty.
In January 1945 the Soviets captured him near Grossenhain Air Base and threw him into a concentration camp. From Grossenhain they manifested him on a train for Soviet Siberia and the gulags above the Arctic Circle. But the NKVD discovered his talents just before the train pulled out. He was medically trained, and in addition to his native Polish Karol spoke fluent German and Russian and passable English. Instead of Siberia, the NKVD sent a grateful Karol Dudek to the training camp for spies in Bykovo, Russia. They decided to try him out at “wet jobs” and sent him into Berlin’s Western Sector on a mission. He performed well, poisoning his victim with cyanide in a hospital.
The job in America had been his second. He had performed as ordered and was due to ship out for home on the Polochev. But first, his contact.
Dudek’s contact was already in the coffee shop, looking around and checking his watch every minute or so. Karol took a last sweep of the area. All looked well in the warehouse and in what he could see of the ship. Except for a bus pulling away, the street seemed clear. So did the coffee shop. Time to get going. He walked quickly across the street and into the coffee shop. A skinny clerk wiped the counter with a dirty wet towel. “What’ll it be, mac?”
“Coffee, please, two cups,” said a voice at the counter. Karol’s man. The two had not met—they had always communicated by telegram—but eye contact was all they needed. Each nodded in recognition.
Dudek took the stool beside the man, who plinked down a half dollar as the counter clerk poured coffee. “Thanks, mac.” The clerk moved off.
The man wore a roadster cap and a topcoat buttoned up to his chin. He spoke in terse sentences, half of which Dudek couldn’t understand. A scent wafted around him. Dudek couldn’t identify it, but it clearly wasn’t a woman’s perfume. Maybe expensive soap. He decided he liked it.
“Are you sure it was him?” asked the man.
Dudek welcomed the opportunity to practice his English. “Who was him?”
“Your target. Your assignment.” He spoke slowly. “Are . . . you . . . sure . . . it . . . was . . . him?”
“Da, da.”
The man exhaled. “English, please, if you don’t mind.”
“I am sorry. Yes. He was in Navy uniform and drive car you describe.”
“And what did you do?”
“I walk from behind and shoot this man here,” he pointed to a spot on his upper left arm, “like they tell you.”
“Did he see you?”
“No, I just keep walking.”
“Did he feel any pain?”
“What? Do what?”
“Did . . . he . . . feel . . . any . . . pain?”
“Oh, no. I think no.”
“Very well.” Dudek’s control reached inside his coat pocket and pulled out a small brown envelope. “As agreed.”
Dudek had no difficulty following that. He snatched the envelope and stuffed it into his coat pocket. The envelope carried the man’s scent. He did like it, and he wondered how he could find some for himself. “And . . . ?” Dudek raised his eyebrows.
“Yes, yes.” The man pulled a watch from his coat pocket and dropped it into Dudek’s hand. Dudek bent to examine the face.
“Take it easy,” the man hissed.
Dudek looked around. Only two other men were in the coffee shop, and both were bent over steaming cups of coffee. Dudek turned his back to them and peered down at the name on the watch’s shiny face. Whittnauer. Yes. He smiled. It was a twenty-one-jewel-movement Whittnauer. All silver with a matching expansion band. The bezel was festooned with timing graduations. Two buttons on the side were for stopwatch functions. He had wanted a Whittnauer ever since he saw one on the wrist of an American pilot who had been unlucky enough to bail out into a group of enraged farmers. But Karol didn’t get the watch. Instead, it went to a Wehrmacht sergeant.
“Is this what you wanted?”
“Da, thank you.” He meant it.
“What of the apparatus?”
“Was?”
“English, you stupid . . .” Annoyed, the contact formed a pistol shape with his hand and squeezed the trigger.
“Da, da. I throw it over bridge into water. Both of them.” That was a lie. The second ejector was nestled in his pocket beside the six-inch knife. One never knew when such a device would come in handy.
“Good.” The man seemed relieved. “Send word when you reach Vladivostok.” He eased off the stool and stood. “Have a pleasant trip.” He walked out the door.
Dudek slipped the watch on his wrist. With the expansion band, it fit perfectly. His heart soared. He checked the fly-spotted electric clock on the wall then took the Whittnauer back off, wound it, and set it. Beautiful. He slipped it back on his wrist, gulped down his coffee, twirled off his stool, and headed out the door. Once outside in the night, he patted his coat pocket, feeling the comforting presence of five thousand American dollars.
A group of Russian sailors jumped off a bus and headed for the Polochev. They were loud and drunk. One stopped to pee in the gutter. One look at them told Dudek that neither his money nor his watch would be safe on the Polochev. For sure they would bunk him with the riffraff in the forepeak berthing compartment. Both watch and money would disappear. Maybe his life, too. Nor could he trust the captain or the purser. Russians were all corrupt. They would steal him blind and then throw him over the side.
&nb
sp; Dudek rubbed his chin. This does not look good. And then it hit him. The hell with that rust-bucket. And the hell with Vladivostok and those stupid Russians; and the hell with selfish and condescending Americans.
He would exit America the same way he entered: via Tijuana, Mexico, and then go back to Berlin, or maybe even Warsaw, to pick up pieces. Five thousand dollars would go a long way in either city. He could make a fortune smuggling cigarettes, liquor, penicillin, and maybe even women’s nylon stockings. With so many shortages he was certain to get rich.
Chapter Forty-Three
2 December 1945
Conference Room B, Headquarters Building, U.S. Army Air Base, Atsugi, Japan
It was cold outside; snow blew in patches, dusting the runways with a brilliant white softness that melted almost immediately and ran into benjo ditches. Ingram stood at the window, drawing his parka around his neck and wondering why the Army engineers hadn’t yet figured out how to heat the building. They’d have it fixed by tomorrow, no doubt; meanwhile people were freezing all over the building. He yearned for the warm comforts of Southern California and hoped this would be over quickly. He’d landed yesterday, and with eight hours of sleep and breakfast, he felt rested and ready to go.
Instead of reporting to the Oregon City, he had been ordered to attend a meeting in Atsugi. Quiet. He was the first one here. He zipped his parka tighter and examined Conference Room B’s ornate table. The muted black satin finish on the top and delicate gold trim and scrollwork on the sides shouted power and wealth. A large bonsai commanded the table’s middle. Seven elegantly understated chairs finished in matching dark wood with gold trim at the edges lined the sides. The eighth chair, which stood at one end, was not so understated. It had a beautifully carved back with intricate scrollwork. And it was strategically placed so that light coming through the window silhouetted the chair’s occupant, making the person’s expression inscrutable to others in the room. Whoever sat there had been Atsugi’s top Japanese dog, Ingram figured. Pictures in groups of four had once graced the cream-colored woven wallpaper. Only blank spaces remained, the peripheries smudged with yellowish-orange tobacco smoke. Oddly, three bullet holes stitched the wall opposite the table’s head.
Ingram was musing on that when the door creaked and Major Neidemeier walked in carrying a well-stuffed briefcase. He looked much more the Army major in his dress uniform than he had in sweaty khakis on Okinawa. He walked directly to the chair at the table’s end and set down his briefcase. A tall civilian wearing coat and tie entered next brushing snowflakes off his camelhair overcoat. He had dark, slicked-back hair and a pockmarked face. Somewhere along the way he had broken his nose, which tilted a bit to the right, the tip swollen.
Neidemeier pulled out the ornate chair and sat. Ingram decided not to pull rank and stifled a grin as Neidemeier disgorged papers from his briefcase. He looked up. “Oh, Commander Ingram, good to see you again.”
Ingram nodded.
“And this is Harlan Ferguson from the State Department.”
Ingram reached across and they shook hands. Ferguson said, “A pleasure to meet you, Commander. I’ve heard a great deal about you.”
“Thank you, I—”
Two more men walked in the door. The first was a stranger, an Air Corps second lieutenant. Behind him was . . . “Leroy! Good to see you.” Ingram jumped up and pumped Leroy Peoples’ hand.
“You too, Commander.”
“Ahem,” grunted Neidemeier.
In his thick Arkansas accent Peoples said, “I ain’t too good at this, but please say hello to Lieutenant Richard Lassiter, my new copilot.”
Ingram stuck out his hand, “Welcome, Lieutenant.”
“Yes, sir, thank you sir. A pleasure.” Lassiter was short and stocky with broad shoulders and a freckled red face.
Peoples asked, “Where would y’all like us to sit?”
Ingram waved at the table. “Grab a seat anywhere.”
“Okay.” Peoples took the chair opposite Ingram.
Ingram said, “Glad to see you have your own airplane, Leroy. And a copilot. What will they think of next?”
Peoples grinned. “Yep. Hauling guys home for Magic Carpet. Nine trips so far—two trips with wounded. But I had a week’s layover and Bucky asked me if I wanted in on this.”
“You fool.”
“Well. This counts toward my rotation. This and two more trips and I get to go home and fly from the other end.”
“Leroy, you’re working the system.”
“Bucky’s showin’ me the ropes.”
“So, how is Bucky?”
“Funny thing. He was detailed for this trip and signed me on along with Berne and Hammer. But then—”
Neidemeier interrupted, “Welcome, Mr. Peoples.”
“Good morning, Major,” said Peoples. “Isn’t Major Radcliff supposed to be on this trip?”
“Something came up. General Sutherland needed a pilot to fly some congressmen up from Manila and I reassigned him.”
Peoples slowly nodded. “I see, sir. Well, I reckon we can get along okay without him.”
Neidemeier said, “You sound unconvinced, Lieutenant. Don’t you feel comfortable with this assignment?”
“Oh, I’m very comfortable, Major.”
Neidemeier said, “Because if you’re not, you can walk out right now. No hard feelings.”
Peoples’ jaw sagged.
Ingram interrupted, “From personal observation, I’m sure Lieutenant Peoples can carry out his duties.”
“I’m not sure if he’s cleared,” muttered Neidemeier, rummaging around in his briefcase.
Peoples said, “Hell, I was on the plane that flew Japs to Manila and Todd here to Karafuto—”
Neidemeier held up a hand, “Sakhalin. Our Russian friends call it Sakhalin. You would do well to keep that in mind since you’ll be seeing them once more.”
“That’s interesting,” said Peoples. “The last time we saw them they was shooting at us. All in a friendly way, of course.”
“Of course. Nevertheless, please keep it in mind,” said Neidemeier.
“Yes, sir, I will,” said Peoples.
“Good.” Neidemeier checked his watch, “Very well, gentlemen. Let’s get started. We have only an hour before takeoff.” He nodded to Ingram, “Your gear is being packed on Mr. Peoples’ plane, Commander.”
Ingram nodded. “Thank you.”
Neidemeier said, “I would like to introduce Harlan Ferguson, who is posted to the special projects section of the State Department, reporting directly to Secretary of State Byrnes. You should know that Mr. Ferguson used to be Captain Ferguson of the 101st Airborne. He parachuted into the Netherlands with Operation Market Garden a year ago last September and was seriously wounded. He was awarded a Silver Star and two Purple Hearts. After recovery, he was honorably discharged and joined the State Department. We’re privileged to have him with us. That said, I’ll turn it over to Captain Ferguson.”
Ferguson stood. Ingram noticed that his left arm dangled at his side and there was a black glove on the hand. “I have to say that my hat’s off to you guys. You’ve all seen combat and know what it’s like. Congratulations to you for surviving the war, and congratulations on your fine service to your country. I’m not going to dilly-dally here. This is a tense situation, and you fellows have done this before and know what could be a simple mission can turn out to be very dicey.”
Ferguson held up his forefinger. “First, we need diplomacy. That’s why we’re sending Mr. Blinde. He’s got that in spades. And he speaks Russian and some Chinese, I’m told.”
“Blinde is going? Where is he?” asked Ingram.
Ferguson said, “Plane’s delayed, Commander. Engine trouble. Should land any minute. But we told the ramp people to direct him directly to Lieutenant Peoples’ plane. He knows the brief and he’ll be the on-scene commander.”
Ingram said, “I have a hard time taking orders from a civilian when people are shooting at me.”
F
erguson nodded. “Absolutely right. If that happens, you take over. And we’re sending a squad of Marines again with plenty of weapons, including a bazooka.”
Ingram said, “Thank you. That increases our survival time from fifteen seconds to thirty-seven seconds.”
Peoples grinned. Lassiter sat poker-faced.
Neidemeier said, “Commander Ingram. Every possibility has bee—”
“Has been evaluated,” interrupted Ferguson. “We think we have it all covered. Please let me explain. This mission has been approved at the highest levels of our two governments.”
“Really?” asked Peoples.
Ferguson smiled. “None other than my boss, Secretary of State James Byrnes, and Foreign Minister Vyacheslav Molotov of the Soviet Union.”
“Okay. So, what is it you want?” asked Ingram.
“I thought you knew.”
“Something about an extra crate. I was hustled out of town rather quickly.”
Ferguson gave a smile. “Well, the Navy can do that to you. Yes, there was a second crate left behind on Sakhalin.”
Ingram decided to play dumb. “What’s in those crates that’s so important, Captain?”
“Harlan, please. I’m a civilian, now.”
Ingram said, “As long as you’re giving orders, you’re still Captain Ferguson to me.”
Ferguson smiled. “As you wish.” He cleared his throat. “All I can say is that there is information in those crates that is prejudicial to the security of the United States.”
Amazing, Ingram thought. Yes, those photos and the cover-up could ruin a few reputations and treaties at home and abroad. World opinion would be scathing. “I see.”
Ferguson continued, “Blinde was aware of it, but he didn’t have time to let you know because the Russians had, unfortunately, gone over to the offensive.”
“I’ll say they did,” said Peoples. “Made us run like a pack of hounds.”
“Well, Secretary of State Byrnes has taken care of that. No rough stuff this time. The Russians are not aware of the missing crate. They think you are coming to pick up Major Fujimoto and his staff. The rest of the Japanese garrison, about two hundred of them, will return on a destroyer, the USS Maxwell.”
Edge of Valor Page 33