He was nearly to his feet when a sound caused him to freeze. Voices and heavy boots tramping on the sodden ground. Silently, he dropped to his stomach and pressed his body into the wet grass as the voices drew nearer.
He had waited too long.
Straining his eyes, Keppler peered through the foliage. He could distinguish the shapes now. Two of them, heads crowned with peaked caps and rifles slung carelessly over their shoulders. Coming right toward him.
East German border guards.
There was no time to pull back farther into the woods. His dark clothing, the shadows and undergrowth would have to be enough. Tiny beads of perspiration broke out on his forehead as the guards approached. The blood pounded in his ears as he tried to quiet his breathing.
The guards passed agonizingly close. One grunted and kicked at the foliage. Keppler held his breath as a tiny leaf floated through the air and settled inches from his face.
He listened to the fading footsteps, the muffled voices and after what seemed an eternity, the guards disappeared from his line of sight. Their voices became fainter until finally, there were no sounds other than the trickle of a nearby stream, the light breeze rustling through the leaves.
Releasing his breath slowly, Keppler lay immobile for another two minutes, then cautiously sat up and massaged some feeling back into his legs. He crawled a few feet away to a tree, rose to a crouch and scanned the clearing.
Satisfied he was once again alone, he moved off to his right, away from the tree to the stream. Lining up a point with the tree at the bank, he paced off seven steps and kneeled over the water.
He rolled up one sleeve of his shirt and slipped his hand into the water, recoiling slightly at its iciness. Working fast now, he felt around the stream bed and removed the second stone from the bank. In the hollowed out opening, his fingers closed around a small cylinder. He glanced around quickly, then replaced the stone in its original position.
Wiping his hand on the heavy dark twill trousers, he shook off the excess water and put the cylinder in his shirt pocket and buttoned it securely. He stood up and retraced his steps back to the tree. After one final scan of the clearing, he turned and headed back into the woods in a low crouch. Once into the woods, he began to jog, then broke into a full run.
Keppler would never know the contents of the cylinder that had nearly cost him his life, nor did he care. That was for others to worry about. It was just one more film canister like all the others. His own mind, flooded with the rush of adrenaline and relief, focused now on a large brandy, a cigarette and the warmth of Helga’s bed.
Keppler would probably not even have been surprised to learn that the cylinder in his pocket contained the plans for the Soviet invasion of Czechoslovakia.
Prague—July 1968
In the Old Town square, Josef Blaha, white-haired, slightly stooped, his face covered in weathered lines, paused to gaze at the enormous clock on top of the town hall. Dating back to the 15th Century, it displayed not only the time, but the paths of the sun and moon.
Blaha watched, fascinated as always, as the hour struck. Two narrow doors in the clock face opened for the procession of the Twelve Apostles, life-sized wooden figures preceded by a skeleton. Blaha checked his own watch and smiled as he compared it to the clock. It was old and much used, but like the clock, it kept good time.
He turned out of the square and strolled slowly, but with some purpose, shoulders bent slightly as if he carried a heavy burden. Twenty years ago, on this very spot, President Gottwald sounded the socialist commitment of Czechoslovakia. The memory was still vivid in Blaha’s mind. He sighed and felt a twinge of longing for the ideals of his youth, but he realized sadly, they were gone now, impossible to retrieve.
He turned on Pariska Street, a wide boulevard known to all Prague as tourist street, renowned as it was for the abundance of travel agencies and airline offices. Continuing on, he headed for the Intercontinental Hotel, Prague’s most luxurious. Even at this hour, the street was alive with couples arm in arm, bustling groups of noisy students and workers, tipsy with beer and now heading home to the gray blocks of apartments.
Blaha studied their faces as he passed them, noting the lively eyes, the smiles promising contentment and hope, the voices ringing with gaiety. But he was struck only with a profound sadness for all of them.
Soon. Soon it would all be over.
He quickened his step as he neared the hotel. Then almost as what would appear to anybody watching, nothing more than an afterthought, he stopped at a news vendor to buy a copy of Rude Pravo from the old shabbily dressed woman in the kiosk. Blaha nodded to her as he placed the coins in the tray, acknowledging that the paper came from behind the counter rather than the copies displayed in front of the kiosk. He folded the paper and continued up the wide thoroughfare to the taxi stand.
A battered gray Skoda stood at the curb. The driver was slouched behind the wheel, a cigarette dangling from his mouth, a black cap all but obscuring his eyes.
“It’s a very warm evening,” Josef Blaha said.
“Aren’t they always in July?” The driver sat up and started the engine.
“Yes, that is so.” Blaha opened the door and got in the back of the taxi, annoyed with having to perform these childish rituals, but they were necessary. He was comforted only by the knowledge that this would be the last time he would have to endure them.
The taxi pulled away and headed for Wenceslas Square then turned across the Vltava River that winds through the center of Prague. As they crossed the bridge, Blaha glanced at the thirty Baroque statues silhouetted on the nearby Charles Bridge.
He closed his eyes as the taxi continued its journey toward the outskirts of Prague. Neither Blaha nor the driver spoke during the twenty minutes it took to reach a small deserted building in an industrial complex, long abandoned. Both got out of the taxi and walked along a path behind the building. They spoke quietly, their voices muffled by the light breeze.
“Well, old man, what have you got for me?” the driver asked. He was American, but Blaha always marveled at his flawless command of Czech. His features, hard and sharply etched were briefly illuminated by the flame of his lighter as he lit a cigarette.
“Something important,” Blaha began. He avoided the American’s eyes.
They too were hard, like stones.
“I hope so. Washington is getting pretty jumpy.”
“They should be.”
“What do you mean?” The driver had been gazing around, but now his head snapped back to peer at Blaha.
“The plans are genuine,” Blaha said.
“What? You said they were a plant. Our reports are—”
“I don’t care about your reports. I was wrong. Things have changed again.” Blaha faltered. For a moment, he was unable to go on. He felt the American’s eyes boring into him.
“Changed? You mean the invasion is on?”
“It’s almost certain.”
“Jesus Christ!” The American flipped his cigarette angrily into the darkness. “Almost? When?”
Blaha noted the American could not keep the alarm out of his voice. It gave him renewed resolve to continue. “When I know more, but not now.”
“Not now? Listen I—”
“No, you listen,” Blaha said, choosing his words carefully. “I will not meet with you again.” He registered the American’s confusion. “You nor anybody else will get anything more from me until I have a totally safe contact.”
The American shook his head. “Oh, c’mon. I don’t know what you’re trying to pull, but you can’t—”
“I can and I will,” Blaha said. “A safe contact. Tell Curtis a safe contact or there will be nothing.”
Blaha wheeled suddenly and stalked back toward the taxi, leaving the American in stunned silence. But he recovered quickly, caught up with Blaha, grabbed his arm and spun him around. “Do you know what you’re doing?”
“I know exactly what I’m doing. I’m finished. This is the last time fo
r me.”
He jerked free of the American’s grip. “Tell Curtis that too, but get me a safe contact. And hurry. Do you understand? Hurry.” He got back in the taxi and slammed the door.
On the ride back to Prague, Blaha was aware of the driver watching him in the rearview mirror. His head rested against the seat and his eyes remained closed until they reached the Metro station. He sat up then, blinked, leaned forward and pushed some notes into the driver’s outstretched hand. He got out of the taxi and left without so much as a nod.
The American watched Blaha until he disappeared into the crowd rushing for the waiting trains. Angrily, he jammed the car in gear and pulled away from the curb, nearly colliding with another car as he raced away.
Had anyone been close enough, they would have heard mumbling curses about Prague drivers and crazy old men.
One
London—August 15, 1968
“A musician.” Walter Mead nodded and glanced at Curtis, bemusement spreading over his face like an uncomfortable mask. He stopped walking and looked at Curtis. “Risky, but I like it. It’s original.”
“That’s right, a drummer,” Curtis said. He pulled open the heavy glass door of the Soho jazz club and followed Mead inside. It was hot and smoky and already crowded. There were a dozen or so people in line ahead of them. Past the line, Curtis could see people were three deep at a long bar along one wall. From somewhere around the corner they could hear the sounds of recorded jazz.
Curtis paid the cover charge for both of them and guided Mead toward the bar. Arty, poster-sized photos of jazz greats adorned the walls. Mead pointed at one. “Charlie Parker and Miles Davis,” he said. Inside, the tables were tiered and arranged in a semicircle facing the stage. For some reason it reminded Curtis of pews in a church. This was where tourists and London’s faithful came to worship at the altar of jazz. Ronnie Scott’s. At least that’s what Curtis had been told. Curtis had never been a jazz buff himself. Some Dixieland maybe, but this modern stuff was too far out for him.
He’d made a table reservation, but with Mead’s plane being late and the traffic from Heathrow, they were told they’d have to wait for the second set. They wouldn’t need that long. Curtis ordered two lagers in pint glasses. He and Mead managed to wedge themselves near the back of the bar against the wall and through a smoky haze, still had a good view of the bandstand.
Three musicians—bass, piano and a saxophonist—were warming up, adjusting instruments, joking, checking out the crowd. Only the drummer was missing. All the tables were full and out of habit, Curtis scanned faces, trying to determine which were tourists, which were locals.
A gray-haired man in a blazer and light slacks walked on stage, said something to the pianist and they both laughed. He took the microphone off its stand and turned toward the audience, one hand shading his eyes from the bright lights.
“Who’s this?” Mead asked. Somehow he’d managed to get his pipe going with one hand.
“Ronnie Scott. Owns the club. A musician too. Saxophone, I think.” Curtis scanned the area around the bandstand, found who he was looking for just to the side, near the opening to the backstage area. “That’s him, talking to the piano player.”
Mead nodded and pushed his glasses farther up the bridge of his nose. The man was very young, less than thirty, almost boyish looking. Dark curly hair, easy smile. “Jesus,” Mead said. “Not a care in the world, eh? A god dammed jazz musician.” He glanced again at Scott as he began to introduce the musicians.
“…and on bass we have John Harvey deputizing for our regular bassist who has taken suddenly drunk.” Scott’s corny, but totally deadpan delivery brought a few chuckles from the audience.
“Is he kidding?” Mead said. He continued to watch the pianist and their man talking.
Curtis shrugged. “Tradition. Ronnie Scott is famous for his corny jokes. They publish them in one of the trade magazines every year. Ronnie Scott’s ten favorites.”
They watched as Scott turned once again to the band, nodded and made a last announcement. “In addition to our current bill, we have negotiated for,” he paused briefly, “Miles.” He let the audience digest this and listen to the murmurs of anticipation before he went on. “That’s Miles Schwartz, a very fine clarinetist from Liverpool.” The laughs were there again along with some moans and obviously some of the people had heard this one before.
“And don’t forget our waitresses,” Scott said, as a petite blonde with a tray of drinks passed in front of him. “I asked one the other night if she liked Dickens. She said she didn’t know as she’d never been to one.” There were more groans and a mock frown from Scott as he tapped the microphone.
“Seriously, we do have a special treat for you, ladies and gentlemen. In a special guest appearance with our own Graham Lewis this evening, the very fine American drummer—-but we won’t hold that against him—who is, I believe, on his way to Prague for the International Jazz Festival. Please welcome, Gene Williams.”
Over the applause, Mead and Curtis watched as Williams stepped on the stage and took his place behind the drums. He raised one of the cymbals and scooted forward. The pianist snapped his fingers for the tempo and they took off in a fast version of an old Broadway show tune that Mead recognized immediately.
Curtis sipped his beer and watched Mead study Williams. He seemed almost as caught up in the music. “What do you think?”
It was actually Curtis who had proposed the plan, worked out the details, amassed enough information to make Langley listen and send Mead over to see for himself.
Mead put down his beer, shook his head at the questioning barman and relit his pipe. He watched Williams, head cocked to the side, an almost pained expression on his face as he slashed at the cymbals. “If it’s handled right, if there’s cooperation, the risk can be minimized,” Mead said. “Anyway, we don’t have much choice. We can’t afford to lose Blaha as a source.”
He turned back toward the stage again to watch Williams. The young drummer was deep in concentration, eyes half closed, but a slight smile on his lips now. “And you think this guy is the best choice?”
Curtis shrugged and nodded. “He’s the only choice. Consider him a gift.” Even with the obvious drawback— running an untrained amateur into a hot spot like Prague—Curtis could think of a host of others—Blaha’s demand made it a special case. A safe contact, a total stranger to the intelligence community. Curtis knew that’s what the old man wanted and he could think of no one more a stranger than a jazz musician. Or, he reminded himself, one with better cover.
“Don’t forget,” Curtis said. “Blaha is a music copyist, which adds to the case for using Williams. It shouldn’t be too difficult to get them together without arousing any suspicion.”
Curtis hesitated for a fraction of a second, a pause that was imperceptible to the ear, but registered in his consciousness. No, it was too early for that. For now, it was enough to sell Mead on using Williams.
“My guess is Blaha’s on to something big for him to pull this. He’s never been demanding in the past. It’s out of character, but he’s kept his word. No contact since the meet he had in July and well, we need a break on this.”
Mead took one last look at Williams. The drummer was in full flight now, hands a blur around the drums, playing a solo that had the attention of the other musicians as well as the appreciative audience.
“Let’s walk,” he said to Curtis.
They pushed out through the crowd and stuffiness of the club. Outside, it had started to sprinkle. Mead looked up at the sky and turned up the collar of his raincoat. “Doesn’t it ever do anything, but rain in this fucking town?”
Curtis smiled in spite of himself. He knew it wasn’t the weather Mead was angry about, but rather that he was going to have to approve Curtis’s proposal. There was no choice.
They walked to Shaftsbury Avenue, then turned toward Picadilly Circus and were soon caught up in the theater crowd spilling out and clogging the already busy sidewalks. Turning
toward Mead’s hotel down Regent street, Curtis caught a headline at a newsstand.
WARSAW PACT FORCES
MASS ON CZECH BORDERS
Most of the pubs were closing, but the hotel bar was still open. Curtis and Mead settled in a corner table with a double Scotch each and managed to wrangle a few small ice cubes from the bartender.
Mead leaned back, took a long pull of his drink and peered at Curtis. “You know what I keep thinking? Hungary, 1956 all over again only worse. We can’t afford to get caught out of this, Alan. We’re up to our neck in shit in Vietnam and LBJ is pissing and moaning about the lack of solid information coming out of Prague.” He shook his head and smiled ironically. “Some genius at State has convinced him we’d have at least two weeks’ notice on anything like this.”
Curtis looked up from toying with his glass. The tiny ice cubes had already melted. “I’ve been out there two years now. The people have been lulled into a sense of security with all of Dubcek’s reforms and little static from Moscow,” he said. “I don’t think so.”
“Neither do I,” Mead said. “Neither does anyone on the Eastern bloc desk, but all we can do is provide information. We can’t act on it. We want to protect Dubcek, but he’s playing very hard ball with Moscow and they don’t like it one damn bit.” Mead downed his drink and signaled the bartender for another.
Curtis had already accepted the assassination of Alexander Dubcek as another Soviet option. Was it because this seemed the year of assassination? Bobby Kennedy, Martin Luther King, Alexander Dubcek? Eliminating Czechoslovakia’s new leader would effectively cripple the government and put an end to the liberal reforms now taking place in Prague. On the other hand, it would also create a new martyr for the Czechs, something the Kremlin didn’t need.
Mead nodded at the bartender and took his drink. “I think we’re looking at a full-scale, armed intervention. There’s no doubt the plans West German intelligence intercepted were genuine. Everything was there—troop movements, supply projections, equipment, the whole lot. And they have these Warsaw Pact exercises as legitimate cover.” Mead paused for a moment looking out the window. The rain had increased now. “But something happened to delay things, set the timetable back.” He shook his head again and looked at Curtis. “Maybe Blaha has the answer, huh?”
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