A CODE FOR TOMORROW: A Ingram Novel (The Todd Ingram Series Book 2)

by JOHN J. GOBBELL

  “I may start smoking, too.” Amador looked up studying Helen’s ebony hair and quick, brown eyes. A pang of guilt struck as he took in the gaunt, overly sharp, angular features of her otherwise young face. And the cigarette burns. He’d seen it in others, a sign of constant fear, of sleeplessness and depravation. And with Amador, she had to keep moving, day and night like a monkey, losing weight as she lived on near-starvation rations. But there was nothing Amador could do about it.

  The fighting troops had long ago shipped out to prepare for a major campaign in the South Pacific. In their place was the Kempetai; criminals, thugs and malcontents wearing the uniform of occupation troops. Beheadings were commonplace in the streets, as were machine gunning of civilians, robbery, the cruelest rapes and hangings, even crucifixions. In a way, Amador preferred living in the bush, so he wouldn’t have to hear the screams that pierced the night. For Helen, it was worse. She was a nurse. Each time someone lived through their torture, Helen was called. She’d seen gruesome things and often didn’t sleep. Amador heard her moaning in the night, dreaming her all too real dreams. He often wondered which was worse, the nightmares or the human wreckage Helen was called on to patch up. Living in the bush, the constant running from the Japanese, slapping mosquitoes, and pulling leaches off one's skin day and night was a harsh existence. Still, the alternative was far less attractive.

  “Cigarettes will kill you.”

  “Better way to go than by the Hapons.”

  She grunted and kept dabbing.

  Amador said, “He is very lucky.”

  “Who?”

  “Lieutenant Ingram. He is very lucky to have one so beautiful.”

  Without thinking, she patted her mud-encrusted blouse. Inside, his ring hung from her neck by a thick leather lanyard. She looked away. “Please, don’t.”

  He raised a palm to her cheek and ran a thumb over one of her cuts. “Why?”

  “I don’t want to think about it.” She sank back and laid her hands in her lap.

  “Why not?”

  In a small voice she said, “Todd is probably in America now. And America is where people laugh and eat all they want and watch Snow White and the Seven Dwarfs on long Sunday afternoons.” A tear ran down her cheek.

  “Yes?” To think of Todd and home was a luxury she couldn’t afford lest she let go and become a drooling lunatic. Someday, she would think about home when the enemy was dead; when she could once again step into broad daylight and walk down a sidewalk without fear. And think about her parents rocking on the front porch on hot summer evenings...”What?”

  “I said, ‘That’s all that keeps me going.” Amador put a hand on her shoulder.

  “Yes?”

  “Mariveles. My wife. And my son and daughter in New Mexico. I think of them. It helps.”

  “But you’ll make it.” She was convinced that Amador would survive to see his wife and children again. It just seemed that’s the way things were to be.

  He patted her arm and smiled. “And so will you, my dear.”

  A tightness pulled at her throat and her eyes welled. Forcing the images deep into her subconscious, she managed to say, “we’re almost out of iodine. And we need quinine, and aspirin, and penicillin, and ether, and bandages, and...”

  Amador let her ramble. After she ran out of things to say, he called over to Wong Lee, “Does Carillo’s radio still work?” Now part of the resistance, Manuel Carillo had once been foreman of Amador’s lumber mill.

  Wong Lee took a long puff. “Batteries are flat.”

  “Then we steal batteries. It’s time to get a message out.”

  “What about Japs?” asked Helen.

  Amador nodded with determination. “We’ll be more careful this time.”

  “I don’t know,” said Wong.

  “Relax, Wong. I grew up here, remember?”

  Wong took a long drag and blew smoke rings. “I don’t know. Too many Japs.”

  CHAPTER NINE

  24 August, 1942

  Consulate, U.S.S.R.

  San Francisco, California

  Dezhnev stepped to the radio room door and looked in at Yuri Moskvitin, a Starshina vtroy stat’i Telegrafist -- telegraphist second class --- sitting at his typewriter, taking traffic effortlessly from Moscow Center. The NKVD had scooped a grateful Moskvitin off the Baltic Fleet destroyer Tucha, the night before she stood to sea and was blasted to the bottom of the Gulf of Finland, courtesy of a stick of bombs from a German Heinkel 111. In his short time in San Francisco, Dezhnev had discovered Moskvitin was not just a skilled telegraphist, but was also accomplished on the guitar, played the piano, and was a near-master at chess. It seemed Moskvitin was one of those with a combination of strong intellect and good looks who could do anything well.

  While typing the traffic, Moskvitin shouted to the coding officer in the next room, “Three messages, Sir.” Finally, he signed off and, sensing Dezhnev in the doorway, nodded a greeting and winked--a signal meaning one of the messages was for him, and that he should wait until it was decoded. Moskvitin yanked the message forms out of his typewriter, shoved them through a wall-slot to the crypto room, then leaned back in his chair and stretched. Dropping the earphones around his neck, he grabbed a softbound book of music and flipped pages. After a few moments, he picked up his guitar and softly strummed, seamlessly moving from one song to the next.

  Dezhnev checked his watch to make sure there was time to get ready for the party tonight. He’d been invited to a farewell function given by Admiral Spruance at the St. Francis Hotel.

  He hadn’t seen the Americans since the day Babcock had surprised him. As soon as DeWitt dismissed him that afternoon, Dezhnev took a bus to the Hunter’s Point Naval Shipyard and walked a half mile to the pier where the Dzhurma was moored, undergoing extensive boiler and engine repairs. There he hobbled up the gangway and found Sergei Zenit. Quickly, he told the NKVD agent about peeking at the documents after the lights went out. Zenit actually smiled and clucked his tongue approvingly until Dezhnev added the part about Babcock walking in on him.

  Zenit sat straight in his chair. “Are you sure he didn’t see anything?”

  “It was too dark, I think. It all happened so fast.”

  Zenit slammed his fist on the table. “You think?” he shouted.

  Dezhnev shrugged.

  “We must make sure,” said Zenit. “I’ll handle this.”

  Together, they went back to the consulate where Zenit took the matter to the reclusive Georgiy Voronin, the beefy, pock-marked NKVD resident they found watering potted tomatoes outside his second floor window. With a grunt, Voronin picked up the phone and dialed the Scapini Custodial Service. After a stilted six minute conversation, Voronin's pigeon-Italian was horrible, the NKVD resident hung up the phone and went back to watering his tomatoes. Leaning out the window, he told them in so many grunts that the Babcock situation was in good hands and not to worry. The next evening, Voronin reported that Babcock would be missing from the U.S. Navy muster for a long, long time, that Zenit and Dezhnev there was no cause for alarm. Ever.

  Dezhnev's forehead became clammy as he thought about it. Babcock was most likely dead, while Zenit played with his crypto machines and Voronin watered tomatoes. He leaned against the doorjamb and closed his eyes, trying to separate Moskvitin’s chords and melodies from the sound of clacking typewriters and jingling phones. After a while, he gave up and gazed out the third-floor window where a renegade mid-day fog had finally burned off, giving a spectacular view of the city, the bay, and the reddish-orange structure to his left called the Golden Gate Bridge. Selected for its commanding view of San Francisco Bay, the Soviet Consulate was a thirty-one room four-story Georgian mansion. Built in 1910, it was located at the highest section of Divisidero Street in the posh Pacific Heights area. Squeezed into a special top floor cubicle were two GRU intelligence officers who each day scanned the Bay with hi-power binoculars. At this moment, Dezhnev was sure their log-book would reflect the passage of a cruiser, menacing in
her dapple-grey camouflage, as she slid beneath the Golden Gate into the Pacific. Moskvitin picked up a new piece of sheet music and strummed a compelling tune. In a low voice, he sang in Russian, “One day, under the rainbow.”

  Dezhnev recognized it as a selection from a new American musical. “Psst. Moskvitin.”

  Moskvitin, absorbed in his guitar, was startled, not realizing, Dezhnev had remained in the doorway. “Sir?”

  “In English, it goes, ‘Somewhere, over the rainbow.’“

  “Ahhh. Better.” Moskvitin smiled and penciled a note on his music. “And does the next line sound right? ‘Up in the--hmmm, sky?’“

  “Way up high.”

  “Of course. ‘Way up high.’“ Moskvitin wrote again and looked up. “How do you know all this?”

  Dezhnev shrugged. “I listen to the radio.”

  “It’s because his mother is a gorgeous actress from Tbilisi, you see. She sent him to the finest schools in Georgia, teaching him flawless English.” Sergei Zenit stepped from the crypto room next door and walked up to Dezhnev, handing him an envelope. He leaned through the doorway and winked conspiratorially to Moskvitin, “Don’t tell me you haven’t heard of René Dezhnev?”

  Moskvitin, a mere Telegrafist, knew when it was time for molchi-molchi--shut up. Or you’ll either end up in a gulag, or with a bullet in your brain. “I’m not sure, Sir,” he gulped.

  Zenit’s eyes flicked to Dezhnev. “Ah well Moskvitin, René Dezhnev raised her son to be an actor. That’s how he knows all about your singing.”

  Dezhnev looked at Zenit. Where are you going with all this?

  Zenit smirked, “Tell us Dezhnev, did she really have the affair with Viktor Sorokin that we all heard about? And what about Stalin’s trysts in Georgia? I hope there isn’t any truth to those rumors either.”

  With Zenit’s canard, a fire rose in Dezhnev’s belly. He’d only been twelve years old at the time and hadn’t seen his mother for weeks. But he was sure that gossip hadn’t traveled to Moscow. René Dezhnev was not that well known outside Georgia. It must have been in his folder with Zenit enjoying his demented form of amusement. Perhaps Zenit was still angry that he’d been snubbed by the Americans for the party tonight. Zenit would have given anything, Dezhnev knew, to attend a sumptuous cocktail party at the St. Francis Hotel.

  Three days ago, Zenit had walked through the consulate’s doors with a temporary appointment to the cryptography department. Word spread within minutes and the staff became morose, quiet, and avoided him. The Dzhurma was well known in Soviet circles; Zenit and his special branch of slave ship Zampolits carried the stench of the tens of thousands of wretched humans they herded to the dark promise of life in the gulags. Perhaps Zenit was retaliating to everyone’s reaction.

  “Aren’t you going to read the message?” Zenit raised an eyebrow.

  It was all Dezhnev could do to suppress the living rage boiling within him.

  “Report to me after you’ve done so.” Zenit turned and walked to his crypto-room, closing the Dutch door. Dezhnev nodded to Moskvitin then hobbled down the back-stairs to his closet-sized room on the second floor in the back. Next to Voronin’s room, it was about eight feet by five with a small window and tiny desk. But it was neat and, like Voronin's, was decorated in a light violet wallpaper. Next door was a bathroom, which was the bad and the good. The bad, in that all night, he was awakened to the groaning of swollen bowels and ancient pipes and flushing toilets. But the good was the unlimited showers where everyone stood as an impresario, singing gloriously, with Eduard Dezhnev taking his turn, bellowing his songs and reveling in the steam and magnificent hot water, a phenomena rarely available at home.

  His room was stuffy. He opened the window, locked his door and sat down to read his message:

  TOP SECRET ---- OPERATION KOMET ---- TOP SECRET

  EDUARD DEZHNEV, LT, VMF., SFO/CON

  INFO: SERGEI ZENIT, SFO/CON

  24 AUGUST, 1942

  DATA ON U.S. SAVO ISLAND LOSSES VERIFIED. ALSO OTHER REPORTS FAULTY AMERICAN TORPEDOES FILTERING IN, BUT ARE SKETCHY. WE NEED MUCH MORE

  EXPECT COMPLETE REPORT ON WET OPERATION VIA SOONEST POUCH. YOU WERE INSTRUCTED TO TAKE NO CHANCES.

  LAPTEV FOR BERIA

  Beria’s admonition rang in Dezhnev’s mind, “...you were instructed to take no

  chances.” How the hell did Beria find out about Babcock? Voronin would not have spilled the beans. It wasn’t his style and he simply didn’t care about such things.

  Dezhnev jumped to his feet.

  Zenit! The only other one on the Consulate staff authorized to send messages at will.

  He rammed his fist into the wall and glared at the mute, pale-violet flowers. Zenit! A man responsible for the deaths of thousands, perhaps tens of thousands. And now, the little bastard sat in his little cubicle upstairs making jokes about Dezhnev’s mother. He was typical of the NKVD bureaucrats who killed by doing nothing, by indecision, by trickery and self-indulgence, while contriving intricate schemes to cheat Americans, Japanese and, worse, Soviets. Plus, Dezhnev ground his teeth, it was Zenit and Voronin who ordered Babcock’s liquidation, the matter taken out of his hands.

  Stuffing the message in his pocket Dezhnev ripped open the door and bumped and scraped up the stairs to the third floor. Three quick strides found him at Zenit’s office, the Dutch door open. But then he took deep breaths and leaned against the hallway wall for a moment.

  There is a better way to handle this.

  Then he looked into the crypto room seeing Zenit seated at his desk. “You know, you just may be right about Stalin and my mother.”

  Zenit looked at Dezhnev suspiciously.

  “May I?” Dezhnev opened the Dutch door.

  “Stay out,” ordered Zenit. He rapped on the wall and shouted, “Moskvitin, call Voronin!”

  Dezhnev held up the message. “It’s all a sham isn’t it?”

  Zenit’s eyes darted around the room. “You disobeyed orders.”

  “It was you and Voronin.”

  “You failed. And it must be reported, you see.”

  “Voronin is the NKVD resident here. It’s his decision to report wet operations. Not yours.”

  “Beria will decide. Now get to work on that report.”

  “You’ll have it. It’ll be plain that you lost your head.”

  “That’s for you to find out.” They glared at one another. Finally, Zenit found his tongue. “What’s this about Stalin?”

  Dezhnev stepped closer. “Have you ever met Josef Vissarionovich face to face, Sergei?” Premier Josef Stalin’s real name was Josef Vissarionovich Djugashvili. He’d taken on the name Stalin, ‘steel,’ when he went into politics.

  “St-stay back.”

  “Well?”

  “No.”

  Dezhnev’s shoulders slumped. He rested his buttocks against a low table, “I have.” He stroked his chin. “Pulled guard duty for him while I was a senior warrant.”

  “What?” Zenit’s mouth dropped open.

  “You know. At his summer villa in Sochi in ‘37.”

  Doing his best to look nonchalant, Zenit lit a cigarette.

  Dezhnev paused for five seconds. “One night a dog barked into the wee hours in an adjacent villa. Josef Vissarionovich couldn’t sleep a wink. He called the guard shack. I was on duty and heard him tell the sergeant to find the dog and shoot it.”

  Moskvitin peeked in the doorway. “Comrade Voronin is in the garage greasing the car. Shall I tell him to come up?”

  Zenit’s eyes darted from Moskvitin to Dezhnev who by now was totally relaxed against the table.

  Dezhnev gave an imperceptible shake of his head.Leave it, Sergei. You need me. I am your ticket off the Dzhurma.”

  Zenit thought that one over. “Tell Voronin to finish greasing the car.”

  With Moskvitin gone, Zenit said, “Now get out.”

  Dezhnev continued as if nothing had happened. “So the sergeant and I went out and found the dog’s home. And his master. It w
as only an old man. Blind as a bat. His son was the Commissariat of Georgia’s Agriculture. The dog had been given by the son to help the old man through his declining years. So we threw dog and old man into a truck and sent them to the son’s house on the other side of town.”

  Zenit took a puff. “Your story doesn’t interest me.”

  “Next morning at breakfast, Josef Vissarionovich summoned my sergeant and asked if we’d shot the dog.”

  “‘No, Sir’ said my sergeant, ‘We sent them to his son’s to stay.’“

  “Well, Josef Vissarionovich became very angry. Very angry.” Dezhnev leaned toward Zenit. “Have you ever seen Josef Vissarionovich when he is angry?”

  Zenit slowly shook his head.

  “It’s like looking into the soul of hell.” Dezhnev wiggled a finger at Zenit. And summoned his crispest baritone. “Never, never make Josef Vissarionovich angry.”

  Imperceptibly, Zenit nodded, then, confused, shook his head.

  “Do you know what he did?”

  “No,” squeaked Zenit.

  “He ordered us to bring back the old man and his dog. An hour later, we returned with both. And then he told us to take the dog into the park and shoot it.”

  “Yes,” agreed Zenit.

  “Guess who had the honors?”

  Zenit shook his head.