“One more question for today, and then I think we’ll all need to get some sleep. Have you ever heard about the Germans’ so-called Alpine Redoubt? Bunkers deep underground, supply passages, radio installations? Essentially a self-contained facility in the Austrian or Swiss Alps.”
“No. Never heard of it before. Do you have any people in South-West Africa? My daughter—”
“That’s not my game to play, Wood. Keep your eyes and ears open. We’ll see each other tomorrow at nine p.m., all right?”
Fritz slid the pistol into his jacket pocket and the little ammo boxes into the large pockets of his overcoat.
“Bomb it,” he said. “Kill him.”
In the other office, Fritz found Greta and Priest bent over his papers. They were smoking, the air billowing gray and smelling to him like coffee.
“Your coffee’s gone cold,” Greta said. “Great stuff here.” She stood to say good-bye.
Priest rose too, holding one of Fritz’s pages. “Penmanship’s not exactly your strong suit, is it?”
“A smart guy like you can surely figure it out.”
Priest gave him a probing look, something Fritz was used to by now, but this time he seemed pensive too, as if working something out in his head. Unsurprisingly, whatever it was, he kept it to himself.
The night was black and starless and clung to the cold walls of the surrounding buildings, and Fritz could hear his footsteps echoing off the cobblestones. Washington was six hours back—people were just settling in for the evening. He wondered if at this very moment someone could be putting a Kappa report on George Wood before the President of the United States of America. Crazy. He was stepping out onto increasingly bigger stages; he was no longer a minor player.
Soon, American B-17 or British Lancaster bombers would be emptying their payloads over the Wolf’s Lair. The Nazis would be running and squealing, then dying and disappearing from the earth forever. His first mission had already been a success—now it would be crowned with a bang of explosions brought on any second. Hitler’s Reich would be swallowed up whole by a huge sucking crater, and a new Germany would emerge, a good Germany. And he, Fritz Kolbe? He would receive a nice posting in the Foreign Office. He would help to make diplomatic relations bloom once again. He would get Katrin back and marry Marlene Wiese and never have breakfast without her again.
My God, he thought as he passed under the golden glow of streetlamps on Bubenbergplatz. He pictured a Berlin without war, with skies free of that rumbling, metallic hell game played by the bombers, where lovely buildings rose again out of the decaying jaws of rubble, the streets were again full of people and cars, and there was not one single red flag bearing the black swastika. He had never strolled down a single intact street with Marlene; the only Marlene he knew was one who lived among the rubble and its stench. I’m doing what is right, he thought.
At the front door to the hotel, he rang for the night porter and invited him to have a generous shot of whisky.
The following afternoon, he spent an hour at the diplomatic mission discussing Switzerland’s tighter customs regulations with several officials. Then Weygand told him to go.
He walked from Willading Lane with its villas and quaint old front yards over to the Kirchenfeld Bridge. Strips of blue sky poked through gray-and-brownish clouds, the river under the bridge ran dark, and the glittering sun danced on the water like a swarm of tiny birds. From a butcher on Münstergasse Fritz bought a vivid red ham with bright trimmings of white fat and had it wrapped in three layers of paper after ensuring it had been cured well enough to keep for a long time. Such an item hadn’t existed in Berlin for an eternity. The butcher had a severe part in his hair and wore a blue shirt and tie and a white apron smeared with bloodstains. What an absurd man—very much like a German, Fritz thought.
He could picture it precisely, as if it were happening before him right now: the way he would cut off a nice piece of the ham for Marlene and lay it on a white plate—in his blackout-darkened apartment amid the rubble of Berlin. He would cut his slice into little pieces and feed her each one slowly, bite by bite, letting her get a whiff of every morsel with that lovely nose of hers. Why were such true moments of happiness always so brief?
In a small cozy restaurant on Amthausgasse, he ate a fresh-caught trout with potatoes sprinkled green with parsley. Gray clouds were rushing in to blot out the blue sky. He wanted to get back to the hotel before it started raining, so he thanked the headwaiter for the fish and hurried out into the damp wind.
Right before he reached the slick cobblestones of Bubenbergplatz, a black car stopped close to him, its paint gleaming wet, and two men got out. They grew larger the closer they got, and then they dragged him by one arm into the car and started talking at him. Their English was strongly accented. Fritz tried to break free, but the men pressed his hands to the seat and covered his eyes with a scratchy blindfold. He heard the driver step on the gas and felt the car traveling fast through the city.
This was it. Over. Dead.
“Do not have worry, Herr Kolbe. We do nothing to you,” said the voice to the right of him. He could feel the men’s thighs against his legs. The abduction had gone down so fast, it was only now becoming clear to him what was happening. He was sweating. All was black behind the blindfold, but he could sense the people active around him, their breathing, their hostility.
“Who are you?” he squeaked, then cleared his throat and repeated the question.
“Friends, Herr Kolbe, friends.”
Fritz breathed in and out, trying to quell his urge to gag. The rain struck the roof with full force now, and the car drove over a pothole. They weren’t in Bern anymore. They had to be out on a country road. His pistol was lying in a drawer in his hotel, and he had a ham on his lap instead. What did they want from him? For heaven’s sake, what? He couldn’t give anything away now, nothing at all. And yet his fear was overwhelming. He told them he needed to get out. He needed to piss? they asked. He did, yes—and how. This is not a problem, they said. So nice when a fellow can take a good piss.
The car stopped. Fritz felt a hand on his head, then the blindfold was removed. He found himself looking into a rugged, smiling face. The man had black hair and hadn’t shaved. His companion was smaller and gestured kindly to the door. The winding road was hemmed in by dense forest on both sides and smelled of wet bark and good soil.
Fritz asked the man if he would hold this and handed him the wrapped-up ham. The man weighed it in his hands and raised his eyebrows approvingly.
Fritz moved a few yards away from the car and sought out a tree. Flee now? Run with long strides along the blackberry-colored forest floor? No, that was pointless. He looked back down the road to see if another car was behind them, but the wet gray route looked empty. Taking into account the facial features and the accent, he deduced that the men were probably Russian.
He climbed back into the car and saw one of the men holding the black cloth stretched between both hands, then all was dark again.
Some time later the car turned off the country road, down what Fritz guessed to be a forest lane, the tires rolling more softly. He could remove the blindfold now, the man on his right said. They climbed out of the car. They were standing before a hunting cottage, its low roof dripping wet. A man with a rifle was walking back and forth before the door. The men led Fritz into the cottage, where a fire burned in the hearth. Sitting at a wooden table in the middle of the room was a man in a stiff brown suit. He faced Fritz and extended his hand.
“Herr Kolbe, what a pleasure.” His accent was better than the other men’s, his English good. “Please, sit down. A drink?” The man reached for an earthenware liquor bottle and poured two little glasses full.
Fritz set the ham on the table. “To Hitler’s downfall.”
The two men from the car stood on either side of the hearth, warming their hands and watching him.
“You work in the Foreign Office in Berlin, Herr Kolbe.”
Now what? He had to do s
omething, say something. Fritz stared into the low flames. He wanted to drink the liquor but knew that his hands would tremble.
“I don’t think that men like us, men of action, need to play any games,” the Russian said. “Do you?”
“Who are you?” Fritz sputtered.
“Someone who comes from a long way away.”
“That must be nice.” Fritz’s voice was growing firmer. Where did he get that? How did he manage to sound so forceful all of a sudden? Within Nazi Germany he constantly had to disguise himself, always had to pretend to be someone other than who he was. He did not feel like having to hold back on smuggling missions too.
“Allow me to come right to the point, Herr Kolbe.”
“You can do whatever you wish. As can I, by the way.”
“What do you know about General Reinhard Gehlen?”
“Don’t know him.”
“Now look here, if you’re going to be—”
The door flung open with a gust of cold wind. In came William Priest and Greta Stone, each holding pistols, their backs straight, eyes alert, both looking confident in their victory. “Gentlemen,” Greta said. The men at the hearth reached for their pockets, but Priest warned them not to even try it. Fritz blinked with relief. He was saved. He felt lighter, a laugh ready in his belly. He heard the rain outside and the splattering of water running off the roof, then the sound of someone coming in and shutting the door. Everything fell quiet. Allen Dulles sat down at the table and set his pipe before him.
“Mr. Musky.”
“Musorksky, Mr. Dulles, it’s Musorksky,” the man in the brown suit said.
Fritz was certain Dulles knew the man’s correct name. Dulles apologized and began stuffing his pipe. “What is that?” he asked.
“A ham,” Fritz said.
“Ah. Lovely. So, Herr Musorksky, what do you want with him?”
“A chat, Mr. Dulles. A nice talk between men who are on the same side.”
“Which side is that?”
Musorksky looked at Dulles but said nothing. Fritz wondered how Greta, Priest, and Dulles had found him and what had happened to the Russians’ driver and guards. Priest had disarmed the men at the hearth and ordered them onto two stools in the corner. Greta added more logs to the fire and looked at Fritz, adding a quick wink.
“Tell me, how did you know about him?” Dulles added.
“A little birdy told me.”
“Amazing, what all the little creatures can do these days. Tell me . . .” Dulles held a match over the pipe’s bowl and puffed until a thick cloud of smoke the same color as his mustache billowed from his mouth. “Tell me, does this little birdy possibly perch in Whitehall, London?”
“There are so many little birdies.”
“London is a lovely city. Ever been there?”
“For work. I know London well.”
“The British will not be pleased about this.”
“Today we are brothers-in-arms. It’s been ages, Mr. Dulles.”
“If we only had more time to chat about the good old days. But I’m afraid we’ll have to resolve this situation here and now. So, okay. I’ve sent for Dollmann. Does your superior know about this operation, Musorksky? Or were you trying to collect points by doing this on your own?”
“You’re the one who is trying to make a career for himself, Mr. Dulles. It’s no secret you view Bern as your personal springboard, regardless of how many casualties pile up. Washington offers a much bigger stage, though, isn’t that right?”
Greta looked at Priest, Dulles looked at Greta, and Priest glanced at Dulles while keeping an eye on the two men on the stools. Fritz always noticed their glances, but what were they saying?
“Do you think it helps your career,” Dulles asked Musorksky, “to carry out an operation like this in broad daylight, starting right in the middle of town? I certainly don’t. It’s rather amateurish, if you ask me.”
Anger twitched in Musorksky’s face for the first time, but he kept himself from reacting.
One of the men on the stools started to say something. “Shut your trap,” Greta said. The man fell silent. Fritz had never met a woman like Greta Stone before. Standing there, she looked as natural and casual as if she were at home in America somewhere, making a pot of coffee, and just happened to be holding a pistol in her hand.
Priest pulled up a chair and sat down next to Fritz. He kept his pistol trained on the men. “Doing all right?” he asked quietly and, to Fritz’s amazement, with genuine concern. Fritz was so flustered after listening to the two intelligence operators’ ludicrous conversation that he blurted out something or other about a drive in the country always being a pleasant affair. Priest laughed and placed a hand on his shoulder.
The door opened again. A very tall and pale man, presumably Dollmann, entered and calmly shook Dulles’s hand. He looked down at Fritz. Then he inhaled sharply through his nose, glaring around him.
“That’s my ham,” Fritz said and gave the butcher’s address. Priest giggled, something Fritz had never heard the young man do. Dulles left the cottage with the man and stood under the porch’s splintery awning. Fritz could hear that they were having an intense discussion but couldn’t make out what they were saying. Musorksky had gone quiet and was looking at his fingernails. After a few minutes, Dulles and the man came back in. Dulles nodded for Priest, Greta, and Fritz to go outside. Fritz grabbed his ham from the table. “Good-bye,” he said to the Russians.
Outside, Greta and Priest laughed. “What was that for?” Priest asked. “Did you see no better option than being polite?”
Fritz climbed with the others into a long black German sedan. The Russians’ guards and driver were nowhere to be seen.
“They’re still alive, don’t you worry,” Priest told Fritz. Fritz was sitting between him and Greta. Dulles, who’d rejoined them, was up front next to a driver who wore a peaked cap.
“I don’t think they’ll be bothering you anymore,” Dulles said.
Fritz felt Greta’s hand on his. She squeezed tight.
“You are my Fritz, after all,” she whispered. “My dear, dear Fritz.”
“Once the Russians reach Berlin,” Dulles said, “once that curtain rises for the final act—that’s when we’ll have to exercise even more caution. But we’re not there yet.”
“How did they know about me?”
“Dollmann is dangerous—but in line. I think Musorksky was operating all on his own,” Dulles said. “Don’t worry, Mr. Wood. It’s in no one’s best interests for you to get found out.”
“No one’s but the Germans,” Greta said.
“What’s that supposed to mean, don’t worry? How, goddamn it, do the Russians know about me? Goddamn it!”
“We’ll find out,” Priest said.
“What did Musorksky ask you about?” Dulles asked Fritz.
“Can we discuss my situation first?”
“What did he ask you?” Dulles sat there motionless, all of Fritz’s objections seeming to glance off the back of his gray head. He repeated, “What, Wood? It’s important.”
“I’m important too.”
“What did he ask about?”
“Without me, none of this would even be happening.”
“What did he ask about?”
“About General Gehlen.”
“So, them too,” Dulles muttered.
“What does that mean?” Fritz asked. No one replied. Dulles, Priest, and Greta simply looked out the windows. “I see,” he said and breathed in the aroma of his ham. “This is mine. Mine alone, Ms. Stone.” Greta turned her face to him and smiled wryly. “Mine and Marlene’s.”
Once the rooftops of Bern showed above the trees, the driver stopped the sedan along the side of the road and had Fritz get out. Greta gave him an umbrella. Then the sedan started off again, little threads of water squirting up under the tires as it sped up and disappeared into the drizzle of the next bend. Fritz headed toward town, a burbling trickle of water running along the road next to him,
his feet getting wetter with each step.
His cover was full of holes, Fritz feared, his skin too thin. Back in Berlin he was facing mounting distrust, and the small sense of security he’d felt since making his first move in Bern was evaporating. It was becoming increasingly clear to him that Dulles and his people weren’t anywhere close to telling him all he needed to know. Why the strange reaction from Greta and Priest when Musorksky verbally attacked Dulles? Why would Greta make such a claim to him in the car, saying he was hers alone? Dulles’s allusion to London must have had something to do with the rumor of a potential Russian double agent. Most importantly, if, as Dulles as well as Priest had implied, it were really true that the war could continue unabated even with Hitler destroyed, that meant Fritz was stuck between the front lines of the Western Allies and those of the Russians. He cursed. He didn’t want to be a cog in their absurd machine, didn’t want to become someone’s plaything. He wanted Hitler dead. He wanted to be happy, with Marlene and Katrin.
He heard a car behind him. The Russians’ sedan drove slowly past him. Dollmann stared out the sopping windshield. Musorksky turned his ashen face to Fritz and pointed at him in a threatening manner.
“Leave me alone,” Fritz said. The sedan sped up. Fritz loosened a rock from the roadside with the toe of his shoe and threw it at the car. The rock clacked onto the road, bounced twice, and tumbled off into the ditch. The sedan disappeared into the rain-glossed city.
At the hotel, Fritz dropped onto his feathery-soft duvet. He hugged the pillow as if it were Marlene. What are you doing this very moment? Think of me, Marlene, think of me as I think of you. Eventually, we’ll escape the death and the destruction, somehow.
Greta Stone was sitting at Allen Dulles’s desk wearing a light-gray turtleneck sweater. Dulles and Priest weren’t there, and Fritz’s question about the gentlemen’s whereabouts went unanswered. Greta described to him how to make invisible ink from either urine or lemon juice, then explained how to figure out whether he was being followed without the trail noticing he was doing so, as well as how to disappear into a crowd of people. “You consider yourself an inconspicuous man, Mr. Wood, isn’t that right? You don’t think you’ll have any problem being inconspicuous?”
The Honest Spy Page 19