by John Gardner
‘Ah!’ Now Caspar smiled. ‘Your plant was within the réseau known as Tarot, I presume?’
Ramillies merely nodded.
‘Let’s talk about that.’ Caspar put his notes to one side. By now he had no idea whether Ramillies was telling the truth or not. Was Klaubert really missing? Was he dead? Was he in the East? His brother was tricky – tricky as a cheap fairground huckster and twice as professional.
‘You want to talk about Tarot?’ There appeared to be genuine surprise from Ramillies.
‘Why not?’
‘Wasn’t it all obvious? Klaubert’s cover demanded that he should wipe out all Resistance networks in his area of operations. He allowed the one called Tarot to survive – ’
‘Until the end – or almost the end.’
Once more Ramillies nodded.
‘Your people penetrated Tarot early on?’ In his mind, Caspar concentrated on pulling the truth, painlessly, from his brother.
‘From the beginning. Even though we had a nonaggression pact with the Nazis, the NKVD were ninety-nine percent sure that the pact would be broken. Yet nobody expected Hitler to invade Russia with the brutality and ferocity he finally showed. Even our most skilled military analysts had no idea that the Nazis would commit themselves to total war on two fronts. Strategically it was downright folly.’
Caspar let his brother go on in the same vein for some time before he asked. ‘And you, naturally, ran your asset within Tarot.’ It was not even a question.
‘I serviced the asset, yes. One of many, you must understand.’
‘And met him?’
‘Once. It was a her, not a him.’
‘Of course. You said Klaubert had an affair with her. Put me out of my misery, Ram. That was my réseau. I was responsible for it.’
‘Yes, I know.’ Ramillies was calm, quiet.
‘So who was she?’
‘You really didn’t know?’
Caspar shook his head.
‘Her street name was Florence. I never knew her real name, and I only met her once – in a safe house they had in the Rue Barmier, Orléans.’
Caspar’s mind was a sudden whirlwind – Florence, the girl whom Jules Fenice himself suspected. The schoolteacher, Annabelle Sabatier, who had been so violently treated – gang-raped in the cellars of the Rue de Bourgogne, then shot with the priest and the doctor, Celeste and Immortel.
‘She was Klaubert’s mistress?’
‘Of course. Didn’t you know that?’
‘No.’ Caspar said it quietly, in full realisation that he was giving information to his own subject. ‘Then Klaubert really was a monster.’
‘I should imagine he was not averse to carrying out his duty as he saw it – for the best.’
‘He had one mistress done away with because she found out about his work for you. That, even I understand. I don’t see why he should sacrifice his second mistress, who was also his contact within Tarot.’
‘Did he do that?’ Ramillies leaned forward. His face and eyes showed interest. ‘How did he sacrifice Florence?’
Caspar shrugged and told him what had happened. ‘The graves have now been properly marked and tended,’ he said at the end.
‘They were close.’ Ramillies frowned again, as though it was his turn to disbelieve. ‘If Klaubert were capable of love, I’d have said he loved Florence. If it became necessary to show he had no links with Tarot or the Resistance, I suppose he might have done this thing. But it’s terrible.’ Again he shook his head in disbelief. It was like a dog shaking off rain. ‘This is truly shocking. You’re sure of it?’
‘Certain. Now, Ram, now you’ve heard that – and I can bring you proof – tell me what happened to Klaubert. Where is he? Moscow? Or tucked away in East Berlin, in your zone?’
Ramillies all but snarled, ‘I’ve told you – he’s missing. My information is that the Allies are holding him.’
They went on until very late that night, and Caspar still got the same answers. ‘I just don’t know,’ he said to the others over an evening meal. ‘I’m working in the dark and much too fast. At this moment my intellect tells me to believe him, but my instinct tells me to beware.’
‘You mean you believe we have got him?’ Naldo asked. ‘If young Kruger was right, we did have him, didn’t we? Posing as a Norge Waffen SS officer.’
‘But they sent him East at his own request. Assuming that was Klaubert, he would have got to his masters long ago. Ramillies would have known.’ Arnold took a mouthful of food from his fork and chewed methodically.
‘We’d know, wouldn’t we?’ Naldo asked. ‘We’d know if any of our people were holding on to Klaubert?’
‘C would know.’ Caspar’s mind was on the information Ramillies had given to him.
‘So we would know.’ Naldo stopped his mouth abruptly. Caspar was there as an interrogator, not as a member of C’s operation Symphony.
‘Unless he’s gone to ground,’ Arnie ventured. ‘Maybe I should have a look around the Frankfurt Compound.’
They all knew exactly what Arnold Farthing meant, but none would speak openly of it. The Frankfurt Compound, originally the OSS HQ in Frankfurt, contained what was probably the most sensitive Intelligence organisation in postwar Europe – the Gehlen Organisation.
General Reinhard Gehlen was in command of the German Army Intelligence East during the closing years of the war. An almost intuitive Intelligence officer, the General appeared to some to have an uncanny insight into the Russian grand strategy. He ran many agents behind the Russian lines and in Moscow itself. He also turned Russians to fight secretly against their country, and was concerned not only with espionage, but also subversion and sabotage.
Gehlen took a very long view of life and espionage, to the extent that he finally delivered the whole of his organisation, complete with agents in place, documents, and dossiers, into the hands of the Americans. After a complex series of meetings, Gehlen made a deal. His organisation and expertise would be placed at the Americans’ disposal until such time as new German government was set up in the West. It would then become the main Intelligence agency for a reconstituted West Germany.
At the moment, the whole Gehlen Organisation, with its access to vast quantities of intelligence on Russian aims and intentions in the postwar world, occupied the Frankfurt Compound. Even wives and children had been brought in. While highly secret, many thought the very presence of the Gehlen Organisation was a time bomb.
‘You have access to the compound, Arnie?’ Caspar asked.
‘Shouldn’t be difficult. I have to see our liaison man from time to time.’ He could ask Fry if there was a real possibility that Klaubert was in hiding among the Intelligence personnel, and whether he might be flushed out. Yet he did not like seeing Fry while he was working with the Symphony team.
Caspar nodded. ‘It’s a long shot, but – maybe. Maybe. Let’s see.’
‘Arnie’ – Naldo stretched out in his chair – ‘is there any real chance that your folk have Klaubert under wraps and just aren’t telling us?’
‘Unlikely.’ Arnold weighed the chances. ‘It’s not as though the guy’s connected with Intelligence – ’
‘He was connected with Russian Intelligence.’
‘True, but we’re not looking for him in that context.’ He closed his mouth, realising that he could say too much in front of Caspar. ‘You want me to ask about the compound – ’
Naldo broke in quickly. ‘Give it a day or so, Arnie. Least said the better at this moment.’
Young Kruger was baby-sitting Ramillies, and Naldo suggested they should change watches now so that Herbie could eat.
‘He’s big enough already.’ Arnie smiled. ‘That kid’s gonna be a giant by the time he’s full grown.’
‘He still – ’ Naldo was cut short by the ringing of the telephone. He nodded, leaving the room to answer it. He seemed to be out a long time. When he returned, he looked dazed.
‘Cas.’ He sat opposite his uncle. ‘Cas, I’ve got bad
news.’
‘Phoebe!’ Caspar was always convinced his wife would be stricken or die suddenly when he was away.
‘No.’ Naldo shook his head. ‘The Otter’s dead.’
‘What?’ – both Caspar and Arnie in shocked unison. ‘In Washington. Under your people’s protection, Arn. The Otter was apparently murdered.’
The telephone had started to ring again. Naldo hurried away. It was going to be a busy night.
Though they had no details, they all knew that unless it was some crazy accident, Otto Buelow’s murder was somehow tied in with the whole maze which surrounded the Farthing and Railton families.
Maybe they should have asked Gehlen to start looking in the first place. But they had no idea of the full extent of the events which were shaping in Washington.
*
In Washington, Marty Forman had just listened to the recording in which Buelow fingered both Nat Dollhiem and Tert Newton when he heard of the deaths of his other two colleagues.
The Duty Officer had been told to pass on the facts. Question marks poured quietly into Forman’s ear.
‘The cops’re out there now,’ the DO said. ‘I gather that two witnesses say it appeared not to be accidental. They were in cars behind the truck, and they say he just veered over, hit the car broadside, then pulled back and did it again, smashing them off the road. The witnesses say it was cold-blooded.’
Marty said nothing. He always found he got his best results by staying silent – particularly when hearing something bad.
The Duty Officer continued. ‘There are other people who were on the same stretch of road – ahead of the truck. They say they just got the hell out of the driver’s way. They were scared shitless.’
Again a silence.
‘The truck turned off at the next exit. Nobody got its number. One fellow claims the plates were covered by some kind of fabric. Said it looked like sacking.’
This time the silence stretched on. ‘That it?’ Marty Forman finally asked.
‘That’s all for now, sir.’
‘Okay. Keep me posted. Right?’ He cradled the receiver.
Marty Forman had not come into the Agency by the scenic route of Harvard, Yale, or military officer material. He had been a hoodlum and did not care who knew it.
Thickset, short, and with muscles everywhere that counted, Marty had once been a Brooklyn street fighter. If the war had not intervened, he would almost certainly have ended up in jail. After Pearl Harbor he had enlisted, and during his basic training an OSS officer, doing the rounds and trying to spot talent, had seen him fight in the intersquad championship. The OSS man knew Marty Forman could not box to the tune of the Queensbury rules, but he saw the way in which this stocky young boy with a bullneck could handle himself.
Marty was interviewed and found to be intelligent – in those days the Army considered an enlisted man to be intelligent if he knew where London, England, was, and Forman knew a good deal more than that. The OSS needed hoods like Marty, so he was taken away and trained. When he finally got to Europe he was not only disciplined, but also a natural as far as covert action was concerned.
By the war’s end, Marty Forman had learned a great deal more about the work. His combination of brawn, brains, and shrewd instinct put him in line for a good job with the CIA when it had finally been formed earlier in the year. The Buelow business was his first major assignment with the Agency.
He had listened to the recording of Buelow’s evidence with mounting pleasure. Got the sons-of-bitches, he thought to himself. He also thought he would like to tear the balls off Dollhiem and Newton with his bare hands. Marty Forman possessed many interrogation techniques which the Agency would not be happy about using.
He was just considering the next move when the telephone rang and he got the news about Herbert and King – the names of his two colleagues on the Buelow interrogation.
Now, having digested the facts, he picked up the telephone again and asked to be patched through to B28 – the surveillance unit on duty outside Buelow’s apartment building. All was quiet there. Four men and one woman had gone in since Buelow had been delivered. Two men had come out. Nothing was out of the ordinary. Later he cursed himself for leaving things as they were. But he telephoned his superior and gave him the latest news – which included a fairly detailed report on Buelow’s evidence. The result of this conversation was that he did not get to call Buelow himself for almost an hour.
The distant bell rang and rang, and certain warnings began to go off in Marty Forman’s head. He had the line tested, and when the Agency operator told him it was okay he did not even stop to alert B28. He crashed from his office and sprinted for his car, taking off like a racecar driver.
He reached Buelow’s building in eight minutes flat and did not contact the B28 unit, whose van he saw plainly across the street.
Alone, in the elevator, Marty felt the butt of his .38 revolver, which gave him the same kind of comfort a rosary does to a devout Roman Catholic.
He saw immediately that Buelow’s door was open a fraction. Drawing the revolver from its holster, Marty pushed the door open with the heel of his left hand, stepping over a metal object in the hallway. Buelow was sprawled on his back, his face only slightly contorted into a grimace, but enough for Marty Forman to know he was dead.
He went through the small apartment at top speed, kicking open doors, crouching, holding the pistol in front of him in the two-handed grip. There was nobody there, so he went back into the passage to retrieve the piece of metal.
It looked like a malformed air pistol – a tube around seven inches in length, with a trigger and what looked like a firing pin at one end. The barrel was too small to take the end of a pencil, so Marty broke all the rules and inserted his silver ballpoint pen behind the trigger. It was something you just did not do. Marty had known men who had got a bullet in the foot – or, worse, the balls – through picking up a weapon like that; but there was no alternative.
Gently he carried the object back into Buelow’s apartment, gingerly setting it down on the table.
He took out his handkerchief, wrapped it around his right-hand index finger, and dialled Field Support.
They were there within ten minutes – ambulance, disguised as a building-supply-company van, and men who, at one time or another, had worked with the FBI. Nobody wanted the Police Department in on this one. Once the cops came in, they would not only draw stupid conclusions but also give it all to the Press.
By the following morning they had no leads, but a certain amount of information about the weapon. The barrel was really a tube made in three sections. When all the reports were in – traces of cyanide in Buelow’s body and faint traces among the glass and on the inside of the tube – they came to the conclusion that the trigger and firing pin operated a striker in the first tube which in turn ignited a small powder charge in the middle tube, crushing a glass phial in the third. The phial probably contained about 5cc of hydrocyanide, which would vaporise as soon as it hit the air, killing the victim almost instantly. It was a weapon they would all see again in the early 1950s, for it remained in vogue with the Soviet Service for a few years.
‘Wouldn’t that take out the guy who pulled the trigger?’ Marty Forman asked when the experts came to deliver their verdict.
Not necessarily, they said. There was an antidote that could be taken before firing, and another, just to be safe, afterward.
‘Wasn’t Buelow under discipline not to open the door to strangers?’ Fishman later asked of Forman.
‘No way would he open up unless it was one of my guys.’
‘And your guys can be accounted for?’
‘Two were already dead, out on the Jefferson Davis Expressway. Two were in front of the building. One was in back, but never out of contact for more than thirty seconds – he’s okay anyhow. I’ve known him a long time.’
‘And the men Buelow had fingered?’
‘Both accounted for. They’re still under surveillance.’
<
br /> ‘It strikes me.’ Fishman looked out of his window and into the far distance. ‘It strikes me that our teams have also been under surveillance. I gather from sources in Europe that Klaubert certainly worked for the Russians. Therefore Klaubert’s friends, who are now within this Agency and the Atomic Energy Commission, also worked – and still work – for the Russians. The only conclusion is that we have a Russian hit team here in Washington. Maybe they spotted Buelow. Maybe they were afraid about who he could recognise – ’
‘Like Dollhiem and Newton?’
James Xavier Fishman nodded. ‘Yes, like them. Or perhaps like someone else we’ve yet to tie in. They probably thought they were eliminating all possibilities by killing your colleagues Herbert and King; then taking Buelow out. Happily we have the Buelow recordings. So we can go on keeping close surveillance on Dollhiem and Newton – good, invisible street men, Forman. All you can muster.’ It was an order and Marty Forman nodded acknowledgement.
‘Which leaves the problem of the person who killed Buelow – who must have known his murderer and trusted him. I presume your watchers have photographs of all people going in and out of that building?’
‘I’ve got the blow-ups here, sir.’ Marty delved into his briefcase and spread a dozen grainy matt black-and-whites across the desk. ‘If I’ve read everything correctly, there are two here that bear looking at in detail.’
He had ringed one photograph of a tall, bareheaded man entering the building. Even in the grainy photo the man appeared to walk erect, with a military bearing. The second blow-up showed the same man leaving. The photographer had zoomed in to show the face.
Fishman looked at the pair of pictures for a moment, nodded, then scanned the others. Seconds later his arm shot out toward one of them. ‘Now that’s a pretty girl.’ He smiled. ‘A very pretty girl. I’ve seen her before somewhere. You carry on, Marty. I have to make a call to Europe.’
Within the next half hour he was speaking fast and confidently to Roger Fry, who had already set up a meeting with Arnie Farthing.
