by Philip Kerr
“Is that really feasible when you’re discussing the fate of the postwar world? This ought to be about as formal as it can be, don’t you think?”
“Nothing can surprise me anymore, Chip. Not on this trip.”
“What’s in the briefcase?” Hopkins asked me, pointing to the case at my side. “A bomb?”
I smiled thinly, opened the briefcase, took out the Beketovka File, and handed it over. I was still explaining the contents when Roosevelt cleared his throat loudly and interrupted.
“All right, gentlemen,” he said quietly. “Let’s get down to business. I’ll have to ask Professor Mayer and Mr. Bohlen to suspend their curiosity for a while longer. A lot of this might not make any sense to you right now, so you’ll have to be patient. All will be explained to you both eventually. I’ve asked you here now for a damn good reason. But I’ll come to that presently. Mike—have all the delegations arrived safely?”
“Yesterday.”
“How’s Churchill, Harry?”
“Sulking.”
“Well, I can’t say that I blame him. I’ll call him myself. See if I can’t persuade him to go along with this. As a matter of fact, I think we’re going to have some problems with General Marshall and General Arnold, for the same reason.”
Hopkins shrugged.
“All the same, it’s a pity.” Roosevelt lit a cigarette, smoking it without his holder, which seemed to bespeak a greater nervousness. Adjusting his position in his wheelchair, he looked at Reilly. “Mike? What’s our cover story to justify moving to the Russian embassy?”
“That it’s quite a hike between here and the Soviet embassy. Which would mean you driving through unguarded streets when there are still some German paratroopers at large. Between three and six still unaccounted for, according to the Ivans. Equally, there might be some kind of demonstration against the British, or against the Russians, in which case we might get caught up in it.”
“Actually, that’s quite true,” admitted Roosevelt. “Did you see the welcome we had on the way from the airport? I felt like Hitler driving into Paris.”
“And there’s no doubt,” continued Reilly, “that the Russian and British embassies are, by comparison with ours, almost impregnable. Did you know that this embassy has been robbed several times in the last month? Anyway, the Brits and the Ivans are right next door to each other, so if something did go wrong while we were there, we’d have plenty of troops to protect you, Mr. President. Anyway, the bottom line is this: that I don’t think anyone would argue if we claimed it was your safety that prompted us to move you into the Russian embassy.”
For a moment I wondered if my ears had deceived me. That Reilly had said something about moving the president of the United States into the “safety” of the Russian embassy. But then Roosevelt nodded.
“You say that, Mike,” he said. “But it’ll cause some comment, don’t think it won’t. Whatever the reason we put out. Everyone in the press corps will say that all of my conversations will be taped by the Russians using secret microphones. Unless we have some kind of line on that, I’ll be accused of being naïve. Or worse. Not on the ball. Lame. Sick.”
“Then how about we say this?” offered Hopkins. “That in an effort to seem like we came to Teheran with no preconceived strategies cooked up by us and the British . . .” Hopkins paused for a moment and then added, “That in the spirit of openness and cooperation, we stayed at the Russian embassy in full knowledge that all our conversations would probably be monitored by the Soviets. But that we had nothing to hide from our Soviet allies. And that therefore it really didn’t matter a damn if they recorded our conversations. What do you think, Mr. President?”
“Sounds good, Harry. I like it. Of course, once we’re in the Russian compound we can close everything down and no one in the press will know a goddamned thing about what’s going on. Eh, Mike? No one’s better at keeping a lid on things than the Soviets.”
“That’s why we came to Teheran,” said Reilly. “To keep a lid on things. But before any of this, how about if we say that we asked Stalin over for a drink and he turned us down? That he refused to come over here. That way we can make it look like he’s the one who is more worried about his personal security than you are. And that this is what prompted us to make the move to their embassy in the first place.”
“Good,” said Roosevelt. “I like that, too.”
“And after all, Mr. President,” said King, “let’s not forget that it’s you who has come halfway around the world to be here. Not Stalin. It isn’t you who’s afraid of flying.”
“True, Ernie, true,” admitted Roosevelt.
“So when do we pull off this charade?” asked Harriman.
“Tonight,” said Roosevelt. “That way we can get things under way first thing in the morning. If the other side is agreeable.”
“They are,” said Reilly. “But Mr. Harriman raises a useful point when he mentions a charade. I mean, it might be best if we arranged some kind of decoy that saw you leaving the legation here and going to the Russian compound. Like before, with Agent Holmes pretending to be you.”
“You mean like a dummy cavalcade? Yes, that’s good. And meanwhile we go there in an unmarked van, through a side door, maybe. The servants’ entrance.”
“Are Soviet embassies allowed to have a servants’ entrance?” Hopkins laughed. “It sounds kind of anti-Communist.”
“I for one am not sure I like the idea of the president of the United States sneaking in and out of buildings like a common thief,” said Admiral King. “It sounds, well, sir, lacking in dignity.”
“Believe me, Ernie,” Roosevelt said, “there’s not much dignity when you’re a man in a wheelchair. Besides, whatever happens I’m going to be having a better time than Hull.”
Harry Hopkins laughed again. “I’d love to see him now, the bastard. Thay, are thoth bombth I heard jutht now?”
Roosevelt guffawed. “You’re a cruel son of a bitch, Harry. I guess that’s why I like you. And you’re right. I’d love to see Cordell’s face right now.”
“What about records?” asked Hopkins. “Stenographers?”
Roosevelt shook his head. “No, we’ll just exchange the position papers that we have each prepared. Otherwise there’s to be no formal record. Professor Mayer and Mr. Bohlen—if you don’t mind I’m going to start using your first names. Willard? Chip? You will make what notes you need to help with your translations, but I don’t want a written record of what’s said here. At least not in the beginning. And all notes are to be destroyed afterwards. Chip? Willard? Have you got that?”
Bohlen and I, both of us now thoroughly bewildered, nodded our compliance. I had started to think that there was something else we hadn’t yet been told. Something we might not like. Averell Harriman was looking even more uncomfortable.
“Sir,” said Harriman now. “The absence of records could be dangerous. It’s one thing not to have a record when it’s you speaking to Mr. Churchill. You and he are on the same wavelength, at least most of the time. But the Soviets can be quite literal-minded about things. You say something, they will expect to hold you to the letter.”
“I’m sorry, Averell, but my mind is made up. That’s the way it’s got to be for now.” He looked at Reilly. “Mike, pour us some of Sir Whatshisname’s scotch, will you? I’m sure we could all use a drink.”
Roosevelt surveyed his drink thoughtfully. “I wish Churchill could reconcile himself to this.” He sipped some of the British ambassador’s whiskey. “Averell? Did he say what he’s doing tonight?”
“He said he planned to make it an early night and read a novel by Charles Dickens, Mr. President.”
“We need to work on Churchill again,” Roosevelt said.
“He’ll come around, Mr. President.”
Roosevelt nodded and, catching my frown, smiled wryly. “Willard. Chip. I guess you boys are wondering what in hell this is all about?”
“It had crossed my mind, sir.”
Bohlen ju
st nodded.
“All will become very clear to you both tomorrow morning,” said Roosevelt. “Until then, I must ask for your indulgence. If ever there was a time in which the president of the United States needed the full confidence and support of the people around him, that time is now, gentlemen. Great risks are involved, but great rewards are to be had.”
“Whatever it takes, Mr. President,” said Bohlen.
“We’re a team, now,” added Roosevelt. “I just wanted to make sure you boys understood that.”
“You have our total support, sir,” I added.
“All right, gentlemen, that’ll do for now.”
We’d been dismissed. I finished my scotch hurriedly and followed Reilly into the hallway, where he handed me an official-looking document.
“‘The Espionage Act, 1917,’” I said, reading the cover. “What’s this, Mike? A little light bedtime reading?”
“I’d like you both to familiarize yourselves with the contents of this document before tomorrow morning,” he said. “It relates to the disclosure of non-security-related government information.”
I said nothing. The Democrat in me wanted to remind the Secret Service agent that the United States had no official secrets act for the simple reason that the First Amendment of the Constitution guaranteed free speech. But, feeling I had perhaps caused enough trouble already, I decided to let it alone.
“What the hell is this, Mike?” Bohlen asked.
“Look,” said Reilly, “the president is pretty worked up about secrecy on this mission. You can understand that, can’t you? That’s why he wanted you along to this meeting. So you could see that for yourself. And so that you might realize that you are an important part of this team.”
I shrugged. “Sure,” I said.
Bohlen nodded.
“The administration has taken legal advice, and all we’re asking is that you both sign a document saying you’re aware of the need for secrecy, that’s all.”
“What do you mean, legal advice?” asked Bohlen.
“Three Supreme Court judges have ruled, in private, that the Espionage Act doesn’t just cover spying. It also covers leaks of government information to someone other than an enemy, such as a newspaper or magazine.”
“You’re trying to gag us?” said Bohlen. “I don’t believe it.”
“No, not gag. Not at all. This is merely to make you aware of the possible consequences of speaking about what might go on while we’re here in Teheran. All we’re asking is that you sign an affidavit after you’ve read this thing, just to indicate that you appreciate the full meaning of the act.”
“What about our legal advice, Mike?” I asked.
“I think this is illegal,” Bohlen objected, smiling nervously.
“I’m not a lawyer. Not anymore. I couldn’t tell you what is and what’s not illegal here. All I know is that the boss wants everyone who’s involved in our effort here to sign this. Otherwise . . .”
“Otherwise what, Mike?” Bohlen asked, coloring visibly around his prominent ears.
Reilly thought for a moment. “Stalin’s translator,” he said, then snapped his fingers at Bohlen. “What’s his name?”
“There are two. Pavlov and Berezhkov.”
“And what do you think would happen to them if they said anything out of line?”
Bohlen and Willard remained silent.
“They’d be shot,” said Reilly, answering his own question. “I don’t think they’re in any doubt about that.”
“What’s your point, Mike?” Bohlen asked.
“Only that it would be a shame if they ended up having to do all of the translations because the president couldn’t find anyone he trusted, that’s all.”
“Of course the president can trust us, Mike,” I said. “We’re just a little surprised that you want us to sign a piece of paper to that effect.”
“I know I can trust you, Professor,” Reilly said, with extra meaning. “We have to go back to Cairo after Teheran, and I’m sure you wouldn’t want to have to speak to the British police again about that unfortunate incident in Garden City.”
It was my turn to feel the color enter my ears. There were no two ways about it. I was being blackmailed into toeing the line.
“Professor, why don’t you have a word with Chip,” Reilly said smoothly, “and point out the expediency of what’s being proposed?”
Reilly walked away to have a word with Pawlikowski, leaving an exasperated-looking Bohlen alone with me.
“We just got tackled by our own offensive linemen,” I said.
Bohlen nodded. “What the hell is going on here?” he asked.
“I have no idea,” I said. “But whatever it is, I could sure use another glass of Sir Reader Bullard’s scotch.”
XXV
SUNDAY, NOVEMBER 28, 1943,
TEHERAN
0700 HOURS
AFTER LEAVING the carpet factory in the bazaar, Ebtehaj had taken North Team to a house in Abassi Street, where Oster, having refined his new plan still further, left all but five of his men there with orders to wait until dark and then try to make their way out of the city and across the border into Turkey. Oster had decided that what was now required was a small commando team of no more than half a dozen men, and after a few emotional good-byes, he, Schoellhorn, Unterturmführers Schnabel and Shkvarzev, and three other Ukrainians were driven to a pistachio farm northeast of the city.
At the celebrated court of Queen Belghais of Sheba, pistachios were a delicacy for royalty and the privileged elite. Luckily for Captain Oster and his men, Iranian pistachios were no longer the preserve of the wealthy, but popular throughout the country. Jomat Abdoli was one of the largest wholesalers of pistachios in Iran, and farmers from all over the major pistachio-producing provinces sold their crops to him. He roasted and stored them at a facility in Eshtejariyeh, to the northeast of the city. Jomat hated the British. When Ebtehaj, the wrestler, had come to him asking that he hide some Germans, Jomat said he was only too willing to help.
Ebtehaj, Schoellhorn, Oster, Schnabel, and the three others had been sleeping in the main storehouse and had just finished a traditional Iranian breakfast of tea, boiled eggs, salted cheese, yogurt, and unleavened bread when news reached them that a truck carrying Russian troops had been sighted at the foot of the hill leading up to Jomat’s warehouse. Shkvarzev reached for his Russian-made PPSh41 submachine gun. Neither Jomat nor any of the six men at the pistachio warehouse were aware that everyone back at the house in Abassi Street had now been shot resisting arrest. Oster had no idea that they had been discovered. Had he known, he might have assumed that it was their turn next and acquiesced with the Ukrainian officers’ desire to shoot it out.
“No,” he told Shkvarzev, “we wouldn’t stand a chance.” Then he said to Jomat, “Can we hide somewhere?”
Jomat was already picking up a pile of empty sacks. “Follow me,” he said and led them through the main storehouse and the roasting shed into an empty brick silo. “Lie on the floor, and cover yourselves with the sacks,” he told them. As soon as they had done so, he tugged a metal chute over the silo and then pulled open a feeder drawer so that the silo was filled with half a ton of smooth, purple, recently harvested pistachios.
Oster had never given pistachios much thought. There was a cocktail bar at the Hotel Adlon that served them in little brass bowls, and once or twice he had eaten some; he thought he would certainly make a point of eating them more often if pistachios ended up saving his life. Besides, Jomat insisted they were a perfect after-dinner aphrodisiac. “Your Bible’s King Solomon was a great lover,” Jomat had told him, “only because Queen Belghais, she gave him plenty of peste.” Peste was the Farsi word for pistachios.
Dust filled Oster’s nose and mouth, and he tried to ignore the impulse to cough. What would he have given now for a glass of water? Not the local water that ran alongside the streets in gaping, unprotected gutters called qanats but the pure water that ran off the glacier in his home town in
the Austrian Alps. It was typical of the British that they should pipe down the only reliably pure supply of water in Teheran, and then sell it by the gallon to their friends. A nation of shopkeepers, indeed. There were plenty of water carts in and around Teheran, but none of the other embassies trusted these. Which was just as well, he thought. The British sense of hygiene and commerce was going to be their downfall.
Nearly all of Teheran’s horse-drawn water carts had been made by an Australian company, J. Furphy of Shepperton, Victoria, and had arrived in Mesopotamia with Australian troops during the First World War, before being sold on to Iranians when the Australians had left the country. The Iranian drivers of these water carts were notorious sources of unreliable information and gossip, with the result that the word “furphy” had become a local synonym for unfounded rumor. On Oster’s orders, Ebtehaj had purchased a Furphy from the owner of the Café Ferdosi, and a Caspian pony from a local horse trader. The Furphy had then been taken to the pistachio warehouse in Eshtejariyeh, where Shkvarzev and Schnabel set about converting it into a mobile bomb.
The tank part of the water cart was made of two cast-iron ends, thirty-four inches in diameter, and a sheet steel body rolled to form a cylinder about forty-five inches long. Filled with 180 gallons of water, the Furphy weighed just over a ton and, carefully balanced over the axle to distribute the weight, was a fair load for a good horse. The frame of the cart was made of wood and fitted with two thirty-inch wheels. Water was poured out of the tank from a tap in the rear, and poured in through a large lidded filler hole on top. It was a simple enough job to use this filler hole to pack the empty Furphy with nitrate fertilizer and sugar, thereby making a bomb that was about half the size of the largest bomb in general use by the Luftwaffe on the eastern front—the two-and-a-half-ton “Max.” Oster had seen one of these dropped from a Heinkel, and it had destroyed a four-story building in Kharkov, killing everyone inside, so he calculated that a well-placed bomb weighing more than a ton was easily capable of bringing down one small villa housing the British embassy.
