He then explained what he supposedly had in his possession, not just in terms of the items they had expected to find, but something vastly more important – the actual name and whereabouts of the man Bailey’s client was probably looking for.
“No ... no fuckin’ way,” he responded to a suggestion. “Not until I get the money ... and I can’t call from here anymore,” he added. “Meet me in Austin, on Monday, at the airport ... Shit, that’s right ... Okay, Tuesday. Just give me a couple of hours, email me the time. After this call there’s no other way to reach me. I can’t call the call-back numbers from the room and I’m sure as shit not going out again ... Exactly ... Don’t forget the money,” he reminded Bailey. “Tuesday ... No, no way, outside in the pickup area, I’m not goin’ in there ... No shit! ... G’bye.”
Boland hung up the phone and looked at the Calders then shrugged his shoulders and flinched at the pain in his neck. “I think we’re set,” he said then got in the car. “Sometime Tuesday ... he’ll let me know.” He looked a little sheepish and asked, “What now?”
“Dinner, dude,” Marty announced as Alex started the car.
- # -
After dinner, with Boland secured in his room, the Calders and their guests sat outside on the covered patio amidst citronella torches, trying to relax in the cooler evening temperatures. Under the circumstances the atmosphere was subdued but a thought about something Catherine had heard made her casually asked Alex, “Did Michael tell you his father flew planes in Korea?”
Not entirely surprised that the professor’s very deliberate wall of privacy had been breached by Catherine, Alex responded quickly, “Air Force?”
“I don’t know,” she answered.
Kirkland overheard and clarified. “Yes, South African.”
Alex leaned forward in his chair and looked at him incredulously. “Your dad was one of the Cheetahs?”
Cheetahs? Kirkland thought then looked a little confused about the term he couldn’t recall his father using. “He never said much about it.”
“He’s still alive?” Margaret asked.
“Very much so.”
Excited about the possibility of meeting a combat aviation veteran from that era Alex said, “I’m willing to bet he flew P-51’s.”
Knowing something about military airplanes but not so much about his father’s intentionally down-played career with the SAAF, Kirkland couldn’t adequately answer the question. “I don’t recall him mentioning a unit, not even a plane, but I’d have thought he was in jets at that time.”
“From what I remember they went in with Mustangs and transitioned to Sabers,” Alex said.
Kirkland thought for a few moments then said almost reluctantly, “To be perfectly honest, my father avoids the subject ... steadfastly.”
“Politics?” Marty asked.
Kirkland nodded seriously. “I’m almost sure there’s a political component to it ... that was an unpleasant era he makes little or no mention of. I’ve always assumed it had something to do with apartheid.”
Margaret looked at him sympathetically and said, “Avoiding your past is much harder than you can imagine.”
They all turned to look at her and Kirkland nodded as he said, “Indeed ... you, of course, had to flee your homeland.” He took a drink of wine and seemed to be staring into the distance as he added, “My father didn’t have a madman like Joseph Stalin running the country.”
Margaret nodded slowly and adjusted her position in the lounge chair. “We were scared, Michael. At least I was. Anton tried not to show it ... but I could tell. Then again, everyone lived with fear of one thing or another.”
Catherine scowled slightly and said, “What an awful way to live.”
“We had to teach ourselves to act ... it all had to look so normal in those last days,” Margaret offered as she looked at the faces of the people around her then tried to make some light of it. “I could barely eat. The only thing I could keep down was tea and bits of dry bread I dipped in a little broth. I was skinnier than you,” she teased, pointing at Catherine.
“I’m not skinny!” Catherine responded defensively. She turned to Kirkland for support and asked, “Am I?”
Alex shot a warning look at Kirkland as he said, “You do know you’re doomed no matter what you say.”
Marty rescued him by returning to the story with a question. “What was grampa doing in Berlin?”
Margaret smiled and shook her head and it took several moments for her to formulate an answer. “It wasn’t glamorous ... not a bit ... believe you me, Germany was a sorry-ass joint in nineteen forty-seven.”
“It didn’t get better for a long time,” Alex suggested.
“He would rarely talk to me about what he did – he couldn’t. I was just a young woman.”
Catherine couldn’t help asking, “What was it like? What were you doing there?”
“It’s an awful thing to say,” Margaret began again then sighed before going on, “but honestly? I would say we were all a bunch of vultures on road kill.”
Alex chuckled at his Mother’s sometimes blunt way of explaining things. “There was a race for German technology.”
Margaret nodded in agreement. “Well yes, that was the rationale.”
“Was he a spy for the British?” Yamaguchi asked.
“Oh, Lord, no ... double-oh-seven he wasn’t.”
Kirkland gave her a questioning look as he suggested, “But he reported to this General Kovpak ... he probably knew what the General knew.”
“He ... that’s why we were able to get to the U.K. Not the treasure ... it had nothing to do with this treasure ... they knew things about some of the Germans.”
Catherine asked after a few seconds of silence, “What about them?”
Margaret shook her head in a kind of resignation about the secrets from so long ago. “He did tell me some things he shouldn’t ... there were, there were some of them being taken to Russia and some that weren’t.”
“It must have been worth extracting you,” Kirkland noted.
“It was,” she replied then seemed to struggle with any further revelation. “It was ... I also know it involved men who should have been prosecuted.”
“War criminals?” Marty asked quickly.
“Uh huh,” she began, “Anton told me there were men who should have been tried that weren’t. They were being protected.”
Alex nodded and said, “A lot of that went on.”
“But, we, we were so close to the West ... everyone was watching everyone.” Margaret touched her napkin to her mouth and sighed. “People were disappearing.”
“Escaping?” Yamaguchi asked.
Margaret shook her head and a pained expression crossed her face. “No, no ... not very many. There were always rumors. We’d hear things about escapes.” She sighed and added, “But of course the propaganda focused on how much better things were getting.”
With everyone considering the implications of that statement Catherine sipped her drink then looked at her older friend and smiled. “What was he like when he was young?”
Margaret’s returned smile was accompanied by a twinkle in her eyes. “Anton? He was tall ... and so dashing.” She set down her glass and added proudly, “He was taller than everyone around him ... he was also very sure of himself. And once his mind was made up he wouldn’t take ‘no’ for an answer.”
Elanore grinned as she offered matter-of-factly, “Well, he sure as hell didn’t change much.”
The patio remained utterly quiet then Margaret raised her hand and glanced at all of them. “Enough of my going on ... the General saved us from that. We had a new life. New opportunities. Now you understand why we have to find him.”
CHAPTER 24
Berlin, Soviet Sector and the USSR, November and December, 1946
After returning a sharp salute, Major Anton Nuryev handed the orders to the Lieutenant in charge of security at the isolated section of the airfield where aircraft were kept ready for
use by senior officers. General Kovpak’s personal aircraft, a white Yak‑9U was in view in the distance and Nuryev saw a fuel truck pulling away from it.
“One moment, Comrade Major,” the younger officer announced dutifully. Nuryev waited patiently in the rear seat of the staff car, knowing it could take several minutes to reach the General’s offices and get an answer. Remarkably, there was almost no waiting.
“My apologies, Comrade Major!” the Lieutenant said quickly as he stepped out of the tiny guard station and passed the orders back through the window.
“Not at all, Comrade ... I would have put you on report had you not sought confirmation,” Nuryev advised quietly.
With a signal from the officer a man raised the mechanical barrier gate quickly then the driver pulled onto the tarmac and drove directly to the plane. Another guard immediately came to attention as the vehicle stopped and as the driver climbed out and opened the passenger door Nuryev said, “Put my valise on the wing, Comrade.”
Nuryev checked out the General’s plane thoroughly then walked quickly to the ready room to get the latest weather report. Gratefully, while it was cold and overcast and even snowing to the north and west, the dense cloud cover reportedly did not extend above 1,500 meters. Back at the parked aircraft he dismissed the guards and quickly loaded his gear and climbed into the familiar cockpit.
Off the runway only minutes later and climbing, he soon punched into the layer of clouds and after flying in what seemed to be a bottle of milk for over a minute he suddenly broke out into a startling, brilliant blue sky that made him squint. Soon the sea of clouds was far behind and below him.
Time was of the essence and he kept the General’s plane at higher than normal cruise speeds which necessitated two stops for refueling before he arrived at his former base in Lipetsk. From the ready room he telephoned the hospital in Moscow where Helena was assigned and left a message to call him back as soon as possible then he settled in and tried to not look anxious as other officers came and went.
A few airmen remembered and recognized him; some nodded or gestured on their way to something more important but two that he knew well took the time to stop and get reacquainted, even asking unanswerable questions about his recent assignment in Berlin.
During a discussion with a friend and former squadron mate the orderly brought him a note. Nuryev broke off the conversation and rattled the slip of paper. “I ... it is Helena—”
“Well then, you should not just sit there like a fool ... has Berlin dulled your senses?” his fellow officer goaded, knowing full well who it was.
“No, no ... good luck, Comrade,” he said as he rose and walked as calmly as he could to the row of phone cabinets.
“Anton!” he heard her say excitedly after he answered. “You are back!”
Knowing there were always ears listening he was careful about his response. “Only for the day and tonight. I leave again tomorrow. Can I invite myself to supper? I have transportation. Just tell me where to meet you.”
“I cannot wait to see you,” she said almost breathlessly. “When can you be at the apartment?”
Nuryev knew the answer from experience. “Two hours. Good-bye Helena,” he said then breathed an enormous sigh of relief.
- # -
Because of his status as an officer Nuryev was provided with privileges that enlisted personnel and ordinary Soviet civilians were not, including access to the zakrytye magaziny, the places where shopping for food meant more than just having one or two kinds of bread to chose from in a country in the throes of widespread famine. On the way to the tiny apartment Helena shared with her cousin Adriana and her husband and their one child, Nuryev had the driver divert to one of those stores where he purchased several items he knew she and her family could not possibly afford, let alone find. The presents also included a bottle of wine and a bottle of vodka suitable for a celebration and instead of rubles, those items he traded for with black-market American cigarettes he brought with him from Berlin.
Over their surprisingly enhanced supper, Helena caught him up on what had been going on in her life in Moscow and Nuryev told them of the devastation of Berlin while conscientiously avoiding any mention of what his duties were.
As the meal was ending he decided it was time to do what he had planned for so many weeks. After a toast to the Motherland, Anton set his glass down and nodded solemnly, feeling only slightly inebriated. “Sergei,” he said to the man who was the closest thing to a male relative Helena still had, “there is no one left to ask this of but you.” He paused while that comment registered. “I have come tonight to ask Helena to marry me.”
The big factory worker’s eyes twinkled knowingly even before the smile crossed his rugged face. Adrianna covered her open mouth nervously to hide her own joy.
Helena simply looked stunned.
Sergei knew where the younger woman’s heart was but he did his best to sound as if he were passing his authority to her to make that decision. “Our Helena ... she is a woman of her own mind, Anton.”
Nuryev slid his chair back, took Helena’s hand and knelt at her side. “Will you marry me, Helena?”
With tears in her eyes she managed to say, “I will, Anton. I most certainly will!”
- # -
You are very sure of yourself, Major Nuryev, Helena said to herself, looking again at the packet of official travel documentation he had prepared in advance and left with her.
With Anton away again that evening on his way to some assignment he could not discuss, all she really knew was that he was going to make arrangements for the wedding in Moscow. After their marriage, he would have to return to Berlin and would send for her when he had arranged a suitable place for them to live.
She was buoyed by the thoughts of Anton as a husband as well as the life ahead; she knew what it meant to be a career officer’s wife, especially one advancing as Nuryev had. While it pained her that it would take so much time to finally be able to live with him, she knew her existence would become infinitely more comfortable and that evening she found it difficult to fall asleep.
- # -
Nuryev arrived at the Orsk base commander’s office unannounced and after presenting the communiqué from General Kovpak he received immediate cooperation. One of the small, rugged trucks was placed at his disposal to facilitate his transportation to and from supposed highly-confidential meetings at the nearby metal works and rail facilities over the next several days. When he was offered a driver who knew the area well he explained firmly that he had been thoroughly briefed on the environs and, after all, he was a skilled navigator.
A brief stop at the officer’s mess for lunch also resulted in a rapid, highly-confidential trade of more of his American cigarettes for a small burlap sack full of apples and carrots – without any questions on the part of the mess cook.
The drive to the small village of Kuvandyk took several hours even in the cooperative weather and near what he thought might have been the center of the seemingly deserted town, he saw a turn-off to a road running northeast. Instead of turning, he continued further until he came to a cluster of two-story buildings that had been cobbled together over time to serve as an inn.
Still in his uniform, he was greeted coolly by a innkeeper with a face that reminded him of a dried, rotted apple; the Great Patriotic War had done nothing to improve the lot of the people in most of the Soviet Union, especially among the ethnic peoples that had been taken from places not unlike Kuvandyk and hurled into near-suicidal combat.
“I am looking for someone,” he said to the wizened little man. “Someone with a team of sturdy horses ... I need a work team, one that will allow a rider. I need them for a few days. And I will pay well. I’ll also need supplies.”
The innkeeper nodded and thought for only a moment, then called out loudly, “Nicholas!”
A young boy quickly clambered into the small area from somewhere behind the wall that divided the front desk and bar from the kitchen. “You, you ru
n to Dimitri’s ... someone is in need of a team of horses. Have him come right away.” When the boy seemed to stare at the officer and didn’t move the innkeeper barked at him, “Go, go!”
With the boy dispatched the innkeeper looked back at Nuryev. “You will need a room for the night, Comrade. There are two with stoves up the stairs. There is firewood in the room and we have coal in that bin,” he added pointing to the corner of the room. “Five kopeks per lump. We serve supper at eight.”
Nuryev looked at his watch then out the blurry window at the rapidly waning afternoon light. “Very well,” he said as he signed the registry with a scrawl and fished out a few rubles for the man.
- # -
Before supper a knock came at the door of Nuryev’s crude, drafty room and he opened it to see a large young man holding a battered cap in both hands.
“You are seeking a team of horses, Comrade?” the man asked meekly.
“I am ... I want one saddled to ride, one pack horse. I’ll need their work collars as well. And three days of their work rations.”
“Where are you taking them Comrade?”
“You are?”
“Dimitri, Comrade ... Comrade Major. “Dimitri Yakolevich.”
“Dimitri ... I am taking them into the mountains,” Nuryev said evenly. “I am a geologist. Do you know what that is?”
The question was met with a blank look.
“Do you know what a mine is?”
“Yes, Comrade.”
“I am a mining engineer. I am conducting a survey. Looking for ore.”
“Yes, Comrade.”
“Have them ready, here at dawn,” Nuryev added as he handed over several rubles. “You’ll get that much again in the morning if they’re suitable.”
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