‘Berlin is disappointed with your results in America. Its official assessment is: “Excellent in England, good in America until his trip to Rio de Janeiro, mediocre for the next three months, and lately beneath criticism”,’ he said reading from his notes.
Ivan listened as if none of it had anything to do with him.
‘Now at least you know what they think of you in the service,’ Ludwig finished and then stopped, as if wondering whether he should say what was on his mind. He decided to continue: ‘If you are interested in my own opinion, I am personally very sorry to have to read such a report about one of my best agents, somebody in whom I placed great hope.’ He sounded as if nothing would make him happier than to hear a persuasive explanation for Ivan’s inactivity.
Which he was about to get. A few days before leaving New York, Ivan had worked on his explanation with two English experts on fabricating stories. And he had ready answers for every disputed issue his German handlers might be able to raise. He began, as agreed, by accepting the criticism levelled at him.
‘If you are interested in my opinion, I consider that assessment, if anything, too mild. My results were, from beginning to end, a big fat zero. Beneath criticism, as you say.’ As predicted, this admission rather surprised his handler.
‘Some people think that you’ve changed sides,’ Ludwig said somewhat reluctantly.
That gave him his cue to go on the offensive.
‘I would think the same thing if I were in your shoes. But let’s remember one thing. Why am I doing all this?’
Ludwig did not reply, but Ivan pressed him.
‘Tell me, what is my motive again?’
‘Money?’
‘Exactly. And not just any money, but my fee. And I’m not talking here about the actual fee but about simply covering my costs. I didn’t have enough even for that. You sent me on too expensive an assignment with too little money. The longer I was there the less I was able to do... In a nutshell: you need dollars to get things done. Full stop... Frankly, considering the hard time I had it’s amazing that they didn’t turn me.’
Ludwig decided that rather than argue he would say what he had been told to say.
‘Berlin thinks that you had enough money but that you squandered it. They really didn’t like seeing your photograph with various Hollywood stars in the tabloids.’
The German took from the folder on his desk a dozen newspaper clippings of Ivan in the company of a gorgeous woman: the two of them on the beach, the two of them skiing in Aspen, the two of them in evening dress at a banquet and in white shirts on a yacht, always looking happy, young and in love. In one of them they looked particularly infatuated. He in his tuxedo and she in a long white gown were posing for the camera, but it was obvious that they had eyes only for one another. The caption under the picture was: Simone Simon, star of the latest Hollywood movie Cat People, with her escort at last night’s opening.
Ivan looked through the pictures as if examining important evidentiary material. For a moment he felt wistful, which was unusual for him.
‘Now you see why they think that you spent too much time in America having fun and too little working. You were given a lot of money...’ Ludwig continued.
Ivan, as planned, went on the counter-offensive.
‘Forgive me but what does a lot of money mean exactly? It was a lot if you were thinking of me moving to a small town in Alabama, living the life of an average American and briefing you on what was happening in the neighbourhood. In that case it really was a lot of money. An outrageously large amount of money. But our agreement was that my work would entail mixing with high society. That was our agreement, wasn’t it? Nobody told me that the rules had changed. So let’s see. What was specific to my work in London when they assessed it as excellent?’
Again Ludwig did not reply, so Ivan had to do it for him.
‘In London I had enough money. And what was different in America? Especially in the last three months, when I was beneath criticism? First I didn’t have much cash, and later I stacked up debts. You sent me to America like a kid with empty pockets to the market, and then you wonder why he didn’t buy anything. And you’re annoyed that he had a little fun along the way... That’s not how it goes...’
‘What do you mean by “empty pockets”?’ said Ludwig, surprised.
‘Right off, I spent almost everything I brought with me on getting a decent flat, radio set, furniture and car,’ Ivan said, counting off these basic expenses on his fingers.
‘Do you really not know how much money you took with you or are you shitting me?’ Ludwig suddenly looked astonished.
‘And do you know how much a flat in Manhattan costs? A limo? How many presents I had to dole out? How do you think I got invited to receptions and cocktail parties? How did I meet important people? How, for instance, did I get to J. Edgar Hoover, the director of the FBI? How else could I have found out and told you that he’s a queer and that he’s screwing his deputy? Things work differently in America, my friend. In England it’s about status and who you know. In America the only way you can get to the top is with millions in your pocket or a film star on your arm. You think that’s cheap? I had only thirty-eight thousand to make my way with millionaires. And I was lucky that Simone fell in love with me and gave me a free pass into society. She is at the peak of her fame.’ He had to show off a little but quickly returned to the plan. ‘And it would have all paid off if you hadn’t screwed up just when I was getting somewhere.’
Von Karstoff was feeling more and more uncomfortable.
‘If only you had at least recruited somebody... then I would have easily explained it to them,’ he tried to justify himself.
‘What do you mean “if I had recruited somebody”? Didn’t I recruit? In the days when I had money, and that, I repeat, was precisely the period when you assessed me as good, I recruited several people, and I hadn’t even really found my feet in my new surroundings yet. I wrote to you about it. I didn’t...? Remember the engineer who told me about the new plane engines? And didn’t I find a radio telegraphist? Both had started working for me but quickly dropped me because they hadn’t received a cent. That drooly-mouthed signalman never returned the radio I bought him because I owed him money... As for agent Schatz, who works for the War Ministry, I had him in the palm of my hand. First I found him a girl. She was a real looker. He’d never seen anything like her, let alone been with somebody like that. And he fell hard for her. Everything was going smoothly, according to plan. Then he began to realize how much this little pleasure was costing him, but he didn’t want to lose her, so, fuck it, he got into debt. And by the time I could have bought all sorts of information from him, I didn’t have a cent to my name! How was I supposed to bribe the miserable wretch? With what?’
Nobody said anything. Ivan’s histrionic monologue left him drained and he sat there hunched over, his elbows on his knees, his arms hanging. Elizabeth, who until then had been sitting there looking as quiet and blank as a stuffed pheasant on a wall, glanced over at Ludovico as if asking him to say a kind word to his friend. And when he did finally speak, his tone was different.
‘I understand you. I didn’t know the details but I could have guessed... As I said, personally I see your situation in a much better light than Berlin... I know you and your methods well... I’ll put down in my report everything you said. I’m sure the mistake is on our side, at least in part, and I’ll try to explain that to them... I’ll say that you were left without money in the middle of an expensive mission, and after that everything went downhill.’ Ludovico was rehearsing aloud what he was going to say to Berlin in a form his bosses could accept.
Now that he was clearly on a roll, Popov did not want to lose his momentum. He went on complaining.
‘The less money I had, the fewer the results. You think I don’t know that?’ Now he sounded both repentant and despairing. He stopped arguing, stopped trying to convince anybody of anything. He simply used different words to talk about his woefu
l American adventure, as if he were confiding in close friends. ‘Meanwhile, everybody I had recruited abandoned me. What could I offer them? The promise that one day I might have some money for them? How could I expect them to risk their lives on credit...? That’s not how things are done... As for me personally, I was placed in the humiliating position of having to borrow money from my girlfriend. For the last three months, while I waited in vain for you to send me dollars, she supported me... Like some gigolo... It’s lucky nobody heard about it. Simone really does love me.’
Ludovico and Elizabeth had never seen him so dejected and it moved them. They never dreamed that this cheerful, positive man could sink to such depths of despair. And he convinced them not because of his slick performance, but because he truly believed that he was the real victim here. It was when he came to actually believe this that he forgot the plan and started to improvise. He got carried away with his role, as actors would say.
‘Anyway, what’s the point of me trying to explain anything?’ Ivan said as if talking to himself. ‘Frankly, I can’t work under these conditions anymore,’ he went on, quite calmly. ‘You owe me; I’m drowning in debt. If I mess up, who knows what can happen – you’re holding my family hostage and...’ Here he stopped and changed the subject. It was too hard for him to even mention his fears for his family. ‘We’re friends. That’s clear, I hope. You are the only one who knows the kind of work I do. I spend months in enemy territory. Do you think that just because I’m cheerful and don’t complain it means that I’m not afraid? I risk my life knowingly and I carry out my assignments conscientiously. You can’t say I haven’t been useful up to now, and you can hardly blame me for not having been more useful... But since my work has been assessed as “beneath criticism”, maybe it’s time for us to part ways. What do you think?’ It was only with this last question that Ivan looked up at Ludovico. He had convinced not just him, but himself as well.
Partly because of his performance, partly because of those three pairs of silk stockings, and maybe also because they had had a brief but unforgettable fling when they had met in Rio the previous November, the first to give way was Elizabeth. She, who had never been heard to express an opinion, unexpectedly took Ivan’s side.
‘We have fallen victim to cuts ourselves lately. That’s why we moved here... even though our safety is now at risk.’
‘If you want to leave, the problem will be that you know too much,’ von Karstoff said. ‘I’d rather you stayed and continued to work for us. I’ll try to explain it to Berlin. I’m flying over there tomorrow. Tell me, what are your conditions for us to continue co-operating despite everything?’
Now this was the part that Popov had down pat, but since he was having trouble dropping the role he had just taken on, he continued to speak with the same restrained pathos:
‘For you to pay me what you owe me, for me to give back what I owe you. I’m not asking for much, just what we agreed on and you didn’t honour... Being honourable people, that’s what I expect of you. If there hadn’t been trust I would never have got involved with you...’
‘And how much do you reckon that is?’ Ludovico asked. He was prepared for a whopping big figure.
‘Forty-five,’ said Ivan.
‘Forty-five thousand?’ said a somewhat startled von Karstoff.
‘Well, yes.’ Ivan did not look like a man who would be thrown by such an amount. ‘I owe forty, and I need five for my next trip to London. There’s a chance I may be going in a couple of weeks.’
Von Karstoff looked at him in amazement for a few seconds. Then he wrote down 45,000!!! in his notebook.
‘If you manage to arrange it, just leave the money in the tank in my toilet. If not, we go our different ways. In that event, I’ll have no other choice than to disappear. I’m afraid of my creditors. We’ll see each other after the war, God willing.’ Ivan was much more positive now. ‘We’ve lost a lot of time. I want to finish this job properly, correctly. Here are my notes. Take them so that we can write up the report as quickly as possible. After that, what will be will be. Shall we start?’
Elizabeth sat down at the typewriter; Ludwig took some paper and a pencil and started from the beginning.
‘Remind me the pretext under which you went to the States.’ Von Karstoff always started with questions he knew the answers to.
‘I went as a representative of the Yugoslav government-in-exile,’ Popov replied smoothly.
‘Can you tell me exactly what work that entailed?’
The questions went on for hours. Where? With whom? How? Why? What had happened to him in the States? He asked him everything. Even about movies. He asked him about the latest films, whether he had seen them and what were they like. No detail or event was too small for von Karstoff.
It was almost dawn by the time Ivan crept out of the second-floor apartment at Avenida de Berna no. 6. Ludwig accompanied him across the courtyard to the side entrance. Then he returned home and sat down to read his report. It was well into the day when he composed the conclusion that he would take to Berlin. It said:
Based on the above, and considering that he is the only agent we have of this category, I suggest that he be granted the fifty thousand US dollars he is asking for in order to remain in the service, claiming that he fears for his life unless he settles the large debts he has incurred. I know that the amount he is asking for is astronomical but allow me to remind you that Ivan is one of our most valuable agents. If you deem that his life is not worth that much, then the question is whether to liquidate him or just let him ‘go down the drain’.
THE INCREDIBLE, SAD STORY OF THE SENSITIVE MISS TONITA AND HARD REALITY
Early every morning, before going on what he called his ‘parish rounds’, Cardoso would stop off at the office to browse through the daily press. Once this was done, he would go downstairs for his first coffee of the day. It was Monday, and yesterday’s and today’s issues were waiting for him. Fortunately, there was not much real news. For the past two days the Diário de Lisboa had been focusing on domestic themes: yesterday on some new archaeological finds in the country, and today on Portugal’s traditionally good relations with Brazil. News about the war was interesting but not really earthshattering. It mostly concerned two regions: North Africa, where Australian troops had joined the British in Egypt and things were going well, and the eastern front, where the Germans were advancing, especially in the southern sector along the Black Sea, towards the symbolically key town of Stalingrad.
In the next newspaper he found a story from the said southern sector of the eastern front. The article had appeared in the new June–July issue of the bimonthly Young Europe, which was edited and printed in Berlin and then translated into a dozen languages and distributed worldwide. This issue had a letter written from the front by a German soldier named Georg B. to his Portuguese friend. That was all Cardoso managed to read from the title and a cursory look at the text because the print was small.
‘Miss Tonita, please come over here. I mustn’t tire my eyes,’ the inspector said to the secretary, as he did every time, holding out the journal and pointing. ‘This article here that says “Letter from a German Soldier”.’
Miss Tonita was already an old hand at this and started to read aloud:
CRIMEA, 17/3/42, ARMY POST OFFICE 31.268
MY DEAR PEDRO,
As I write, the other soldiers are sitting around the table playing cards, and our guns and steel helmets are hanging above our beds, ready for use. A year ago we were setting up telephone lines on the La Manche coast and coming under attack from English hunter-planes. Today we’re on the Black Sea coast in Crimea, cursing the loathsome, savage Russians who are ruthlessly attacking us in the most awful, unimaginable ways. They change into civilian clothes or into the uniforms they’ve taken off our dead. During a street fight, they cut off the ears of our captured men, gouged out their eyes, crushed their bones and left them to die a slow, agonizing death.
Here Miss Tonita stopped for a moment t
o breathe, before continuing to read:
I watched my fellow soldiers die there on the bare ground, lying next to each other. Some were only eighteen years old and they gave the Fatherland and Europe the most valuable thing they had to give. Yes, my dear Pedro, they died for their Fatherland, but for yours as well, and for your Faith.
Cardoso saw that the girl was on the verge of tears and he stopped her from reading any further.
‘Stop there, Tonita.’
She blinked at him with wet eyes. She sniffled and wiped her nose with the back of her hand, smearing her tears and powder over her face.
‘For heaven’s sake, Miss Tonita, no tears, please. I don’t like to see tears...’ He gave her the hanky from his breast pocket and took back the journal.
‘You see how important peace is, Miss Tonita. That’s what we are working for. And you shouldn’t cry, you should be proud. Off with you now. Go and freshen up. I’ll finish reading on my own.’
Tonita, a homely but sensitive girl from a good family, always pleasant and cheerful, managed to wipe away the snivel from her red nose, but not her mental image of the boy whose letter she’d been reading: a handsome, blond, blue-eyed boy. She could not fathom the kind of monsters they must be to be able to cut off people’s ears and nose, and break their bones.
Miss Tonita went, or to be more precise, ran to the bathroom, while the inspector took his glasses out of his pocket, placed them on his nose and proceeded, with moving lips, to read the same article.
The battles we waged last winter were like nothing before. In the bitter cold, with temperatures below forty degrees centigrade, we had to fight off a horde of charging Russians who had a slew of weapons and armoured vehicles. We held them off, but wherever they did manage to break through our lines they surrounded our men, who had stayed in position, and liquidated them.
This was enough even for Cardoso.
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