Straits of Power

by Joe Buff

  He glanced at his appointment book, then at the ornate antique clock on his big cherry-wood desktop. He had a few minutes until his next engagement. Although Germany’s trade mission to Turkey was important to the Fatherland, Mohr considered this part of the day as his special quiet time. The routine paperwork and meetings with foreign businessmen never taxed his energy or nerves. There were too many other things weighing on his mind already—and the really serious stuff, about bilateral agreements, tariff and customs arrangements, and investment cooperation was taken care of by genuine experts on the embassy and consular staffs.

  Mohr got up and paced to one of the windows. An oil painting of the new kaiser, crowned Wilhelm IV less than a year ago, looked down at him from the wall. Knowing that the man was a figurehead, and as used as anyone else in Germany by the ruthless new regime, Mohr felt slightly sorry for him.

  Mohr was also feeling sorry for himself. The excitement of surviving the brothel ambush had worn off. But his superiors were still angry with him for taking such serious risks for his own selfish pleasure; Mohr, for all practical purposes, was confined to the consulate grounds until further notice. His two bodyguards had died on Turkish soil, and the Istanbul police and Turkish counterintelligence service were both investigating hotly. Mohr’s diplomatic credentials might grant him immunity from any prosecution, but that couldn’t prevent him from being declared persona non grata and expelled from the country. He’d really been an innocent victim at the legal brothel, but his involvement in the subsequent foot chase and multiparty shootout exposed him to piercing questions by local law enforcement. This, Germany could not and would not allow. Mohr was still needed for Plan Pandora; to be forced to leave Turkey soon could be a disaster for the Axis war effort. Yet because of his own good work, Mohr was needed less and less each day. This, he knew, made him increasingly vulnerable not only to Turks but to fellow Germans.

  If I slow things down, backpedal, try to subtly sabotage the technical work, others will eventually know. My life expectancy then would be very short.

  The window of his second-floor office was half open, since it was a very warm and humid day and the air-conditioning in this older part of the building was weak. The noise of street traffic and babbling voices and snatches of exotic music came in through the window, from beyond the high concrete wall that protected the consulate. In one direction, Mohr could see modern skyscrapers. In another, he saw palace towers and mosque minarets. The huge city really had something for everyone.

  Everyone but me. Mohr stretched, feeling trapped. He was still very sore from his recent physical exertions in surviving as bullets flew. In one way, being confined to the consulate was a blessing. At least I got caught up on sleep, with nowhere else to go at night after work. But in another more important way, the confinement was terrible. I don’t see how the Americans can possibly extract me, or even tell me if they’re on the way.

  A commando raid on the consulate, in the middle of downtown Istanbul, was doomed to fail, aside from being an act of outright war. The consulate had its own concealed but heavy defenses, and neutral Turkey would tolerate no attack by American special operations forces, even if the consulate itself technically was sovereign German territory.

  Mohr was also feeling down, racked by remorse and depression, because he was actually happily married, and had three lovely kids back at home in Berlin. His sexaholic behavior was all an act, a subterfuge on several levels. It had let him shop around until he found a prostitute who was a plant of the Americans’. He also meant for his frequent nocturnal excursions to make it look like he was callously abandoning his wife—his real aim was to protect her from Axis retribution if he did succeed in defecting, or got caught. He’d been censured repeatedly by his superiors for the marital infidelity, but it always came down to dismissing his penchant for hookers as a character flaw that paled compared to his rare brand of genius.

  This whole multitiered gambit was increasingly wearing and draining on Mohr, even before the twin mortal perils of possibly being found out by Imperial German State Security, or being killed by the too-suspicious and ever-vigilant Mossad.

  Mohr’s secretary knocked on the door.

  “Come!”

  The young man stuck his head in and told Mohr his eleven o’clock appointment had arrived five minutes early. Mohr said he’d see the man now.

  His secretary showed the guest in and closed the door. The slender man wore a fine white linen business suit. He introduced himself.

  Awais Iqbal was Pakistani, in his mid-forties, and seemed the nervous and excitable type. Iqbal spoke good English, as did Mohr, so Mohr decided a translator wouldn’t be needed.

  He showed Iqbal to an opulent, overstuffed guest chair in front of his desk, then sat in his own expensive leather high-backed swivel chair.

  A bit much, but we do have to make a good impression on the outside world.

  Iqbal tried to move his chair, but it was so heavy he had no luck. He seemed flustered and embarrassed. Mohr offered to have coffee or soft drinks brought in, but Iqbal declined.

  After brief pleasantries they got down to details. Iqbal, a long-term resident of Istanbul employed by a Pakistani firm, said his company wanted to do business with Germany.

  Mohr asked what his business was, exactly.

  The man said it was sensitive, which was why his firm preferred not to deal directly with Berlin. Since Pakistan was neutral, doing so would be legal, but doing so directly might have negative diplomatic, economic, and even military ramifications with certain other countries. Mohr took him to mean Allied countries, or maybe India, also neutral but on a hairpin trigger with Pakistan these days—a serious problem since both were nuclear powers, and psychological restraints against using nuclear weapons had been badly weakened lately by world events.

  Mohr saw where Iqbal was going, but let him speak: dummy corporations, as cutouts routing trade from Pakistan by air to Istanbul, from there by ship across the Black Sea to Odessa in Ukraine—part of the pseudo-neutral expanded Russian Federation—and from there sent up the long, navigable part of the Danube River, or by rail, into German turf. All this made sense to Mohr. It wouldn’t be the first time such deals were made and devious routes were used.

  Mohr asked Iqbal what product he proposed to sell to Germany. Iqbal said missile parts, and other weapons.

  “I’ll need to refer this to my superiors,” Mohr said, which was true. “Do you have any documentation I can show them about your products?”

  “Not at this stage.”

  Mohr wasn’t surprised. Usually there’d be a courtship ritual first, establishing rapport, building trust, the usual salesman dance.

  “I do have something else for you.” Iqbal smiled, and began to reach into his briefcase.

  Here it comes.

  Iqbal brought out something wrapped in bubble pack, with brown paper under that. He placed it on Mohr’s desk. “Open it, please. It’s a personal present.”

  The item was flat, rectangular, and heavy. Mohr carefully undid the tape until there was quite a pile of wrapping material on his desk.

  Inside it all was a book. The book was bound in maroon leather. The lettering and cover art looked like gold inlay. The book was obviously very old, the binding certainly handmade. The title was in classic, florid Germanic script.

  Mohr read the title. His heart began to pound.

  The book was a treatise on ancient Greek history and mythology.

  “Go ahead, open it,” Iqbal said. “Admire it.”

  Mohr took a paper napkin out of a desk drawer and carefully wiped the skin oils from his hands. He knew this book was something you didn’t want to get greasy fingerprints on. The title page said the book had been printed in Mannheim in 1752.

  Iqbal stood up. “May I?” He reached for the book. Mohr nodded.

  “Let me show you the quality of the printing, the exquisite etchings. Some are in color, hand painted, you know? Read it to yourself, not aloud, or you’ll spoil the whol
e effect.”

  There was something strange behind how Iqbal said that. He opened the book to one page, and held it for Mohr to look. Beneath a rather dramatic and beautifully done illustration was an entry discussing the myth of Pandora’s box.

  Mohr blinked. It might be just a coincidence.

  “Allow me to show you something else.” Iqbal turned to a different page. He made eye contact with Mohr and held it, and his gaze seemed to bore into Mohr’s soul. “This is for you. For you.”

  Mohr was almost afraid to look, because of what the page might show—or what it might not show.

  He looked. The entry covered the philosopher and mathematician Zeno. He was surprised to learn that Zeno was really Italian, and hadn’t moved to Athens until he was forty.

  Mohr did everything he could to cover up his emotions. He was sure the room was rigged with listening devices, and feared there might be hidden miniature video cameras too. He noticed that Iqbal was carefully shielding the book against his body as he held it out for Mohr to read.

  Klaus Mohr knew he had to think very fast. The Americans are making contact! How do I respond? What am I supposed to say? What do I do next?

  He decided to try a dangerous gambit.

  “I, I can’t possibly accept this. It must be worth thousands. This belongs in a museum.”

  “Yes, it is very valuable, I’m told.”

  Told by whom?

  “We’re not permitted to accept personal gifts of more than nominal cost.”

  “Why not take it on behalf of your government, and if it belongs in a museum, why not one in Germany?”

  Again Mohr had to think fast. Then he caught on. He was meant to say no. He had to say no.

  “The, uh, the paperwork involved, the approvals needed, delays for something like this in time of war . . . Mr. Iqbal, you have no idea how much trouble that would cause. Why don’t you, or your company, donate it somewhere yourselves?”

  Iqbal sighed, his exhalation a bit overdone, even ragged. Mohr saw that he was under terrible stress, going through this ritual.

  “I suppose I shall have to do something like that.” Iqbal began to gather up the wrapping material, and put the rare book back in his briefcase.

  “You’re permitted to have dinner with people, at least, aren’t you? The theater, sporting events, and even . . . parties?”

  Iqbal once again made that intense eye contact with Mohr. But this time as he spoke he seemed confident and knowing, suggestive even, experienced, almost . . . leering?

  Is he saying what I think he’s saying?

  Of course! The book was just to prove his covert purpose for being here. He knew I’d have to refuse the gift. Then, when he made a counteroffer of a sales-related get-together, I couldn’t turn him down without appearing rude—and risk spoiling the deal.

  He knows where I like to go at night. He’s obviously been briefed, up to a point. He knows they need to get me out of the consulate, and he’s provided a perfect cover plan.

  Mohr was pretty certain that Iqbal wasn’t a German agent sent to check his loyalty. Axis counterintelligence wouldn’t be this indirect, this ambiguous, and leave so much room for Mohr to protest his innocence. But still, Mohr needed to proceed with great caution.

  “I’ll have to ask my superiors. There are concerns these days, you understand. Kidnappings, shootings on the street . . . As I say, my country is at war.”

  “Herr Mohr, I assure you, my firm does pay attention to what some would call executive protection. . . . If I come collect you at the consulate front door in an armored town car, would that not be satisfactory? . . . The party will likely go on all night. Don’t you live in a safe house or apartment, where you can change clothes and pick up anything else you might need?”

  Mohr cringed when he heard the phrase “safe house”—it could be taken more than one way, and he was sure Iqbal intended it so. Mohr thought ahead, and an icy feeling ran through his body. Special hardware and software would need to be grabbed from the hands of the Kampfschwimmer who were training to use the quantum computer field gear under combat conditions soon; they and Mohr were stationed here for final calibration under climate and terrain conditions as similar as possible to the coastline and mountains of Israel.

  Mohr knew he had to answer very carefully. Iqbal had just asked him a hidden question—about logistics and resources needed for the extraction by the Americans. “Something like that sounds good. I do share a house with a few other Germans. . . . Will your friends have a pool? Should I bring swim trunks? I’m glad I remembered to mention that. Many people I know here rather enjoy exercising that way.” Mohr was trying to convey that German battle swimmers were part of the picture for this all-night party: exercise, as in a military exercise. In a way these back-and-forth veiled hints and signals seemed silly, but Mohr didn’t think they had any choice. Iqbal has started it, so he assumed this was the way spies sometimes worked.

  “A pool? Yes. Swim trunks? Of course.” Iqbal appeared to get the message.

  “Where will the party be?”

  Iqbal gave the name of a wealthy neighborhood near the Bosporus. Mohr at first was surprised. He’d expected someplace seedy or secluded.

  Then he saw that the arrangements would be most plausible this way. He was sure that Iqbal’s employer was legitimate, so everything would check out. Missile parts from Pakistan. Mohr didn’t think his superiors would say no to this too quickly. . . . They would definitely put a security tail on the town car.

  And that quantum computer equipment is vital. The U.S. has no idea how absolutely vital. What I think of as the attack software and operating system for it would be opaque gibberish to any American machine, even a quantum computer of their own. . . . This could all get very messy, but I can’t turn back now.

  “When do you suggest we have our little outing?”

  “Alas, I’ll be traveling for several days.”

  Mohr’s heart pounded. Iqbal made a show of removing his calendar book from his briefcase. The briefcase and the calendar book were also bound in a nice maroon leather.

  “As you see, I appreciate the finer things, as I’m sure you do, Herr Mohr. Date books one writes in by hand for some people, computer gadgets for others. Perhaps we are opposites, no?”

  Chapter 17

  Grand Admiral Doenitz had obeyed the procedures announced by the Allies for neutral submarines to transit the Greenland-Iceland-UK Gap submerged. Egon Schneider’s hardest job had been to act like a Russian captain would: cooperative, but impatient.

  Schneider smirked. Things had been very suspenseful. There was always the risk that enemy spies had pierced Doenitz’s cover story. But Allied inspection platforms bought his ruse. Active and passive sonars, dipping laser line-scan cameras, human divers—Schneider watched and listened to them all through his ship’s sensors while they watched and listened to him, the first-ever 868U to venture into the Atlantic.

  As he’d expected, Doenitz was picked up by an Allied nuclear submarine that, two days later, still followed in trail, using the hull flow noise and propulsor wake turbulence that Schneider intentionally gave him by making a steady twelve knots. He was half-surprised that it wasn’t what he considered one of the Allies’ first-line fast-attacks. The Dreadnought, Seawolf, and Connecticut must have been given other, more pressing duties.

  After all, their war opponent is Germany, not Russia.

  The trailing sub was one of the refurbished Los Angeles class. Though the earliest ones had been broken up for scrap years before, the later models were upgraded repeatedly. Within their speed and depth envelope they were good, very quiet and even retrofitted with sonar wide-aperture arrays. The captain of this particular Los Angeles boat was surely eager to learn about the 868U’s own maximum speed and depth capabilities.

  And this, of course, as a pretend Russian captain, Schneider was not supposed to allow. What I am supposed to do, and what fits with my mission orders from Berlin, is lose him, evade the trail—without betrayin
g my true identity.

  At the command console, Schneider thought over how he would do this. All around him his crew were intent on their screens and instruments. The air-circulation ducts gave off a constant rushing sound—though the fresh air couldn’t dispel the compartment’s aroma of ozone and stale sweat, and brought with it the pungent smell of amine from the carbon-dioxide scrubbers aft. The control-room lighting was bright because it was daytime on the surface.

  Schneider felt just enough pressure to make his analysis interesting. He knew he might have committed some error back in the gap, or that the Allies might have picked up something about his ship at point-blank range, and at any moment they could deduce that Doenitz was really German, and the Los Angeles would be ordered to open fire. But that hadn’t happened yet, and every hour that passed made it seem more unlikely. Meanwhile, he enjoyed toying with the American captain, lulling him before Schneider gave him the shock of his life.

  “The most important thing is not to rush.”

  “Sir?” Knipp asked from the seat to his right.

  Schneider sent a duplicate of the large-scale nautical chart he was using to Knipp’s console screen. Doenitz was off of Ireland, running at 300 meters in water four kilometers deep. “We’ll continue our base course southwest, until we get here.” With his joystick he moved a cursor on Knipp’s chart, marking a spot on the endless Mid-Atlantic Ridge where the water for a stretch was barely seven hundred meters deep—a high plateau in the underwater mountains along the volcanic spreading seam that had formed the ridge.

  “We need to lose the American without him understanding why he lost us.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “We can’t exactly accelerate to sixty knots in plain view, and suddenly vanish on his passive arrays while he listens.”