“To Rheingold, sir.”
Blackford chugalugged. So did Mateus.
“Keep the radio on, Mateus—” Blackford’s intonations were progressively hortatory, and Mateus found himself responding, and doing, as Blackford indicated.
“Yes, sir, I will do that.”
“Because, Mateus, I think I am going to catch just a little catnap before the excitement. Just ten minutes, that is all. But you must keep listening. But before, I think I will just have one last toast to Rheingold.” He poured himself a glassful this time, watching the level on the vodka bottle sink to below the label.
“I would not let you drink alone, sir,” Mateus said, taking all but a few ounces of what was left in the scotch bottle.
Blackford closed his eyes and began a slow snore, his face turned down, his chin on his chest. He was gratified to see, out of the corner of his eye, Mateus take the last of the scotch into his glass, but was alarmed at the thought that he might then decide to go back upstairs. In the event he did so, Blackford would wake up, profess renewed interest in the radio, and demand more booze.
What happened was that Mateus’s head began to nod. Within a very few minutes his head lay over the back of the armchair and he was snoring, mouth wide open, one hand on the glass, beside which lay the pistol.
Blackford waited a few moments, at which point his confidence was complete. He rose, and walked over toward Mateus. He leaned over and gently removed the pistol and put it into his pocket. He was now in command. But he did not want to gloat over a Mateus awake and aware of how he had tricked him. And he especially did not want to have to fire the weapon at the old man. The problem would be to get the key from Mateus’s pocket without waking him. He was glad to see that it was on a chain attached to a loop on his belt. The radio was now abuzz with reports from the intersection boundary. A breathless commentator was describing the rolls of barbed wire outside the Brandenburg Gate, the rapidly congregating crowd of protesters, the armored cars with riflemen, weapons poised, looking over the crowd. Mateus’s body slumped to the right, and it was in his right pocket that the keys lay. Blackford studied the conformation of Mateus, and resolved that he had no alternative than to pull gently on the chain and hope that the keys would slide up Mateus’s pocket without waking him. He pulled with infinite care, a half inch at a time. Mateus registered nothing, and the keys, reaching the wider part of the pocket, began to follow the tug more easily. In a moment they dangled under the key chain. The radio spoke of the shouts of the crowd at the Vopos, and of the human wall of Vopos giving protection to the work squads that were laying the barbed wire concertinas. Whether to withdraw the key, or attempt to disengage the chain from the belt loop? … He would find it easier, Blackford decided finally, to unclip the entire key ring from the chain. With infinite care, he did so. He was safe now. It did not matter if Mateus did wake up. Besides, there was always the pistol. He tiptoed to the door, and slipped in the key.
He began to turn it, after which the door would open, letting him slip out. At just that moment he heard the radio announcer say excitedly, “The Vopos have fired tear gas at the West Berlin protesters! The protesters are shouting … and choking from the gas … They are shouting now at the West Berlin police to protest. There’s a flag flying there with huge lettering. It says, ‘America. Where Were You When We Needed You Most?’”
Blackford had ceased all movement, listening to the announcer. Now he found himself letting the doorknob spring back, slowly, to its closed position. America, where were you when we needed you most? Well, Herr, er, Friedburger, I was, you see, in a cellar, and I was playing it real smart, persuading this here old German guy—he was in WWI, and he knew Hitler as a corporal, you bet—that I was blasted out of my mind and he didn’t need to guard me, he could go ahead and plop down the scotch, and after a while I was able to sneak around him and pull the keys out of his pocket and rush to the door! Yessir, there’s no moss growing under my feet; my name is Blackford Oakes, maybe you’ve heard …? Read any spy stuff? Well, we act anonymously, but, you know, every now and then word does get out, nothing you can do about it, understand? What was I escaping from? Well, I was escaping to perform my mission. My mission. M-i-s-s-i-o-n. To do what? Well, to go to the Americans and warn them. Warn them. Warn them about what?
Blackford stood before the door now, for a full minute. He breathed heavily.
And then, slowly, he withdrew the key, walked quietly back to Mateus, carefully refastened the key ring to the chain, eased it into the flappy part of Mateus’s pocket, and replaced the pistol by Mateus’s glass. And went back to his cot.
What would he do now? Nothing of what was coming in over the radio could he in any way affect. Perhaps he should write a letter to Linda Lewis, at the USIA Library in Vienna, and tell her that he had thought of her often with delight, not only biological. Yes, that would take his mind off what was going on, and in any case was true. The radio announcer reported that a West German smoke bomb had been dropped in front of the demonstrators, robbing them of any sense of direction. “Both sides,” the announcer said, “appear determined not to use force.” Right, thought Blackford. The Communists will not use force to deter the Westerners who seek to deter the Communists from taking the offensive, and the West will not use force to deter the Communists from proceeding with their offensive. East-West relations, they call it. Coexistence.
“Mateus!” he called out.
There was no answer.
“Mateus!” he shouted.
No answer.
He reached for one of the books, took sight on Mateus’s stomach, and let fly. With a start, Mateus woke up.
“Yes, sir, yes, sir. I must have gone to sleep myself. What can I do for you, sir?”
“I have run out of vodka. Kindly fetch me some more.”
“Right away, sir,” and Mateus went out, pistol in hand, keeping his eyes all the while on his charge.
36
It was just after dawn that Günther Saxon, followed informally by six men dressed in work clothes, four of them carrying lunch pails, reached the MP gate outside McNair Barracks.
“Hello, Joe,” Saxon said in broken English. “What iss ze hurry? I get telephone call, round up the crew, check tanks, even on Sunday you bet.”
“Big trouble at the intersection border, Günther. The usual crew?”
“Plus coupla special mechanics, Joe. We must check all ze tanks.”
“Good luck, Günther.” The corporal motioned Günther and his men past.
They headed, at leisurely gait, left toward the large armory. When they were hidden from view, and before reaching the armory itself, Tod, wearing mechanics’ fatigues and a fake mustache, addressed them.
“All right,” he whispered. “Everyone knows what he is to do. God bless you all.” Tod saluted his men and then struck off to the canteen, where he would monitor the proceedings.
Günther led the men toward the door at the side of the hangarlike armory. It was pitch-black inside. But Günther knew where the light switch was. “Hang on, men. I’ll get the lights.” The sound of the switch was quickly followed by floodlighting of the vast armory. He looked dumbly at twelve American G.I.’s with machine guns in a semicircle around Günther and his men.
Tod waited inside the commissary, open twenty-four hours every day, sipping a cup of tea and keeping his eye on the window through which he could observe the armory. They had calculated it would take less than five minutes to start up the three lead tanks, swing open the two huge apron doors, and come rumbling out. It took less than five minutes to see coming, not out of the apron doors, but from the little side door into which the men had entered, a squad of soldiers with machine guns, leading six members of the Bruderschaft, their hands clasped behind their heads prisoner-fashion, toward an office building.
Henri Tod stared at the remains of Operation Rheingold. He could not move from the stool he sat on. His vision faded, and he was again a schoolboy, quite drunk, talking to the prefect, Espy Maj
or, and telling him that all Germans weren’t bad, really, Espy. In fact, he leaned forward, causing the attendant behind the canteen to lean away slightly. His lips were moving, and he was saying to Espy, Look, I have a sister, and two foster parents. Listen to this, and tell me if you do not agree that there are some good Germans?
“Sir. Sir? Can I get you something else?”
Tod came to life and spoke now in his St. Paul’s English. “No. Thank you very much. I must have been daydreaming.” He nodded his head, looking through the window to the deserted drilling area, and walked out.
Mateus’s orders were to release Blackford at nine. He opened the door, this time without the prescribed ritual, and both men concentrated on the radio, which told Blackford the whole story. “The West Berlin authorities have issued a warrant for the arrest of Henri Tod. Tod is alleged to be the leader of the Bruderschaft, the clandestine organization of anti-Communist Germans. United States military authorities have said that when Tod is apprehended, the trial judge advocate will wish to question him concerning his activities. Asked whether these included activities relating to the closing of the border last night, the authorities replied that they would not comment on the matter.”
Blackford said to Mateus, “I must speak to Herr Henri. Drive me instantly to his quarters.”
“Oh sir, I cannot do that. He does not permit anyone to know where he lives.”
“Goddam it, Mateus, I am attempting to save the life of your master. Now will you do as I say, or shall I visit him in prison and inform him that I could not help him because you were frozen by old orders?”
Mateus thought for a moment. And then, “Follow me, sir.”
Outside the safe house, Mateus motioned Blackford into a small station wagon. He drove him, without a word, to Kurfürstenstrasse. “There, sir.” He pointed to Henri Tod’s building. “Herr Henri lives on the third floor.”
Blackford opened the door and climbed the staircase through the gutted stories. There was no answer when he rang the bell, and the entrance was locked. He wondered whether to break the lock. Instead he walked back to the station wagon to speak with Mateus. Did he have a key? Mateus reluctantly acknowledged that he did, and led Blackford back into the house, up the stairs, and opened the apartment. Blackford made a single telephone call, to Rufus. He did not tell Rufus everything. He did not tell him from where he was calling. And as he put down the telephone, Henri Tod was at his side. Blackford turned to him. Henri was pale, but apparently composed.
“Did you hear the radio coming here?” Blackford asked him.
“No.”
“I take it Operation Rheingold was aborted?”
“It was. And I do not know who betrayed us.”
“Are you aware that orders are out to arrest you?”
Henri Tod’s eyes widened. “Did you give those orders, Blackford?”
“Henri, for one thing I don’t have the authority to give those orders; for another I am unlikely to give them. They are orders from the civil government. We must assume that Operation Rheingold was exposed, that your part in it is also exposed as having been central, and that somewhere in the books there is a law against taking tanks that belong to the army of an occupying power with the intention of marching against another country and maybe starting a world war.”
“East Berlin, Blackford, is not another country.”
“All right, all right, I’m sure your lawyer will make that point Meanwhile, are you prepared to go to jail?”
“I am going nowhere except to East Berlin, to Friedrichshain, where I shall take Clementa away.”
“Where will you go then?”
“I have not given that matter any thought.”
“Well you had better begin by giving that matter thought right now.” He motioned to Mateus. “Bring coffee, and a roll.” He sat on the corner of the desk and removed his jacket. It was already very warm.
“Now listen, Henri. With the collapse of Rheingold, and with orders for your arrest, it seems to me that that’s the end of Bruderschaft. Oh, it may build up again, somewhere along the line. But for now, it’s dead. And the only chance it has of ever building up again is for you to survive this mess. So what I propose to do is to … transcend … the authority of the government of West Berlin and get your ass out of this place if I can, and I think the thing is to try to get to Vienna.”
“I am going nowhere without my sister.”
“Your sister has a much better chance of uniting with you if you leave for Vienna and let her be our responsibility. The chances are overwhelming that she is sitting right now surrounded by KGB agents.”
“You heard what I said, and I do not wish to discuss it.”
Henri Tod stood up. His complexion was still white, but his manner was sober, authoritative. He had said the final words he intended to say on the subject.
Blackford made rapid calculations. Either Henri was off-his-rocker determined to go after Clementa, in which case the mission was quite simply suicidal, or else he was determined to go after Clementa, but would listen to reasonable arguments about how best to do this. Blackford decided to try.
“Henri, now listen. You do, I assume, admit at least the possibility that Clementa is being held by that Gouzenko man as a part of a KGB operation to get hold of you, correct?”
He was relieved to hear Henri say, “I not only think it is likely, I think it is probable.”
“Why then are you going?”
“I am going because at this point I am not interested in anything other than my sister.”
“But if you are interested in your sister, what is the point in walking into an ambush which neither you—nor she—will survive?”
“We do not know anything that surely, Blackford”—Henri had risen, and was checking out a pistol—“and besides, there is always risk.”
Blackford knew Tod when he was determined, and his mind raced furiously on the possibilities. He could arrest Tod there and then. Yes, he could … True, he thought, this was the least likely moment the Communists would expect to see Henri Tod arrive at the remote apartment building where the sister was being kept. Tod’s timing was as good as could be, this he acknowledged. True, there was the theoretical possibility Tod could bring it off. He paused, but he knew it instinctively, knew that he would not let this man go alone. Blackford’s presence would not hugely maximize the chances of so reckless an operation’s coming to success. But the odds would increase. Better if they had a half-dozen Bruderschaften with them, but what the hell, better if they had an armored U.S. battalion with them. But this was hardly the day to conscript help. He turned to Tod:
“Then you would agree that in approaching Frankfurter Allee we should proceed as if it were a military operation?”
“Why do you say ‘we’ should proceed?”
“Because I’m going with you.”
“You are not going with me.”
“Look, Henri, I’m giving you a choice. Either I accompany you to East Berlin, or you accompany me to jail.”
Henri looked about him, but saw only Mateus whom he could command. For all intents and purposes, the Bruderschaft no longer existed. He was a general without an army.
“Why do you do this, Blackford?”
“Because I choose to, no further questions. Now concentrate. Everyone in Berlin is listening to the radio right now, has been since 1 A.M. The probability that the people squatting around Clementa have heard that there is a warrant out for your arrest I would judge at approximately 99 percent. Agreed?”
“Agreed.”
“So, number one, you are apprehended.”
“Blackford, please. Speak plainly.”
“We need to get word to the radio stations that you have been apprehended and that you are in jail. That will have the effect of disarming the gang around Clementa, if we are correct that that is what we are to expect.”
“I understand your reasoning.”
“Now, I could telephone to the embassy, tell ’em I have you by the
hand and am taking you in to the police. But there are lots of reasons why that is not the ideal way to do it.”
“I understand. The word should go out from the West German police without your involvement in any way.”
“Either from the West German police—or from RIAS, the West Berlin radio station.”
“How RIAS?”
“Routine. Scoop. They find out you have been arrested and they report it.”
“How do they find out?”
“Come on, Henri. A couple of hours ago you were in charge of a clandestine organization of hundreds of people.”
“Forgive me. Of course. And I know the man. News Department, RIAS. He is a member of the Bruderschaft. I need merely to telephone him.”
“Okay. You will telephone him. Five minutes before we leave here.”
“When do you propose that we leave here?”
“In five minutes.”
Henri Tod picked up the telephone book and dialed a number. He asked to speak to Roman Haldi. Haldi on the line, Henri gave a code and the telephone number Haldi was to call back from a public telephone booth. It was less than three minutes. Henri gave his instructions. Five minutes later RIAS’s commentator, broadcasting—among hundreds of reporters and radio and television commentators who had been flying in from all over Europe since shortly after midnight—opposite the Brandenburg Gate, reporting on the gradual consolidation by the East Germans of the obstacle that would soon become a wall, interrupted his narrative. “FLASH. The word has just come in that Bruderschaft leader Henri Tod has been apprehended and is being taken to police headquarters. Asked to which branch of headquarters he would be taken, authorities declined to give an answer, citing reasons of security. We’ll keep our eyes on that story, and now back to the Wall as, already, they are beginning to call that concentration of barbed wire and concrete stanchions going up …”
“That was fast work, Henri,” Blackford said.
“I am not yet entirely without resources,” Henri answered.
Blackford had on him the papers he required: an American passport, a letter or two attesting to his responsibilities in the insurance company that ostensibly employed him. Henri Tod deliberated for a moment, choosing two of a half-dozen passports in his hidden safe, one certifying him as a U.S. citizen, the second as a West German. Blackford selected a Luger from Henri’s armory. Henri also took an automatic, small binoculars, a canister of tear gas, and a smoke bomb. They put all the paraphernalia in with assorted towels and underwear into a laundry bag, got into the car, and directed Mateus to one of the remoter passage points at the Oberbaumbrücke.
The Story of Henri Tod Page 22