by Jack Freeman
In the CIA London Station situation room, Jack Johnson reviewed the latest reports on Max’s movements and wondered what the meeting at Alt Solutions in West Berlin was about. An aide had found that Alt Solutions was run by a guy called Joseph Murphy. From the files he was ex-IRA, and had been charged with murdering two B Special Police officers in North Belfast in 1952, but the case had fallen through. Jury nobbling was suspected. He was strongly suspected of involvement in a string of bombings, police shootings and bank robberies. He had been interned from time to time and was definitely pegged in the files as a hard core IRA active service man. What the connection between an apparently ex-IRA man like Murphy and the RPI might be wasn’t at all clear. And why was the character identified as RPI operative Ali Saeed accompanying Max? Maybe as a minder? Maybe this operation was going to be the something big he had heard was in the works?
Jack called his contact, Smith, at MI5, and confirmed that only low level RPI associates would be rounded up in connection with the Grosvenor Square incidents and that his intel on IRA resurgence was a good swap for not pushing investigations too hard in the double cop killing case.
Chapter 4. Something big
Once they were inside their large twin bed room in the hotel’s modern annexe, Max put his finger to his lips in a silence gesture to Ali and began to search the room for hidden listening devices. Berlin in 1961 was a city full of agents from all the European countries on both sides of the Iron Curtain and from all the other major powers in the world, so, in theory, a large number of agencies might be eavesdropping. The RPI and Alt Solutions might also like to keep track of their conversations. Max found no sign of disturbances on the walls or skirting boards or behind the prints of the Tiergarten on the walls. Unscrewing the bases of the table lamps and the phone also revealed nothing. A search of the cupboards and wardrobes and under the beds again found nothing untoward. Finally the carpet was felt carefully for unexplained bumps and the ceiling lamps were closely examined. Again, all seemed secure.
“It all looks ok. No sign of bugs. But if there’s anything we’d rather not be overheard saying, we’ll go into the bathroom and put the taps and shower on while we talk. Meantime, put the TV on loud and keep watch through the door spy hole while I go in the bathroom to get the bomb ready. I’ll get it prepared now, so we can go straight out in the morning,” said Max in a whisper.
The TV news reported loudly on the terrorist outrage in Amsterdam. According to the commentators, the long arm of Savak was suspected to be behind the assassination of Makki. Naturally, the Iranian authorities denied this and pointed to factional fighting among militant opposition groups as the explanation. A spokesman for the RPI was shown in silhouette and condemned Makki as a splittist who had betrayed the revolution time and again and who thoroughly deserved his fate. Western ministers deplored this violence on Europe’s streets and urged that all opposition to the Shah remain peaceful. The UK Foreign Secretary went on to suggest that anyway, overall, the Shah was a progressive figure who was widely loved by his people. Sure, he had to be firm sometimes but his people expected no less and respected him for it. The Iranian people were grateful for the many benefits that the Shah had brought them with his White Revolution. If the Shah went, it was all too likely that the Soviets would engineer a communist revolution and then waltz in and bang would go one of the West’s most dependable oil supplies. So, it really was best to keep on good terms with the Shah and his regime and support the Shah in every way. In Her Majesty’s Governments view, Makki was a terrorist who had lived and died by the sword. Who exactly had wielded the sword to make the world safer was immaterial.
Max came out of the bathroom and joined Ali in front of the television for a short break from bomb making.
A second news segment reported that police in London had detained two RPI activists for questioning in connection with the Grosvenor Square shootings. Grainy pictures were shown of two young men with wild hair and wispy beards.
Ali laughed out loud, “Hah, those clowns can hardly hold a placard straight at a rally let alone attack a nest of spies or kill coppers. I know them and this is a joke. The cops must be struggling. This is a fishing expedition. These guys know nothing, so this won’t damage the cause at all. In fact, our campaign to free them will bring in more recruits, even. I can see it now, there will be crowds in the streets chanting “Free the Grosvenor Square Two”, placards will be flying, there’ll be street fighting, police brutality, the works! It’ll be great!”
“Glad you like this. And I’m sure you’re right. These saps will be convicted one way or another. Everyone knows the Yard have a black forensics group that could fit up the Pope if need be. These patsies will likely be hung for cop killing. That will be great for the cause. Two excellent martyrs. If they are true comrades they will be happy to help the cause in this way! Hell, they’ll probably confess for the glory of it. Anyway, now I’ve still got work to do,” replied Max and went into the bathroom where he prepared two bombs by connecting up the detonators, timers and explosive materials. One bomb was made using only a small portion of the plastic explosive available and the other larger device used all the remaining explosive material. Both bombs were then put into black plastic bags. Once bagged both bomb packages looked similar. Max put the slim packages in the attaché case, locked it shut and came out of the bathroom. He explained to Ali that on no account should he open the case or even touch the case. Ali readily agreed that he had no wish to touch anything explosive even if it was now theoretically safe until the timers clicked round to the appointed hour. Max and Ali decided to get dinner delivered by room service and try to sleep early.
Ali arranged for the room service food to be left in the corridor and then retrieved it when the server had knocked and gone.
“Ok. Lets eat…and drink!” said Max, taking a white beer from the tray, adding “Frankfurters and sauerkraut. What could be more ethnic?”
Over the meal, Max asked Ali about his past and Ali began to talk freely. Apparently, he had decided that Max really was now part of the RPI.
“My Father was a long time supporter of Mossadegh. After Mossadegh became Prime Minister, Father worked in Mossadegh’s private office and helped with arranging travel, getting the protocol right for visiting delegations, and even helping with some speech writing. I met Mossadegh a few times and he was a very approachable old gentleman. It was too good to last. An Iranian leader standing up to big oil and seeing off the West? Unheard of! Intolerable! Soon he was overthrown and the overthrow was organised by the CIA and by the Brits with the help of local traitors. Did you know that the then old Winston Churchill was personally involved in the planning of the thing? He loved the excitement of it all. Made him feel young again, apparently. At first, Ike didn’t want anything to do with it, but eventually he played along too. The Dulles brothers in Washington no doubt persuaded him that Mossadegh was a commie stooge. However, since the Brits had already been booted out by Mossadegh, your CIA did most of the plotting and bribing on the ground that got the coup actually going with the help of assorted traitors. After Mossadegh’s arrest, we had to go into hiding for a while. Then things seemed to be settling down and previous bureaucrats began being taken back into the Ministries to help the new regime. My father was taken on by the Oil Ministry as he had some technical training in that area. But, one day it was announced that a coup plot by Mossadegh supporters against the Shah had been uncovered and hundreds of alleged conspirators were rounded up. My father and older brother were arrested that day by Savak and I never saw them again. You can take it they were tortured, killed and disposed of. That was and is standard Savak procedure. So, as you can guess, this had to be avenged. I was still quite young but we had to go underground and, after a while, my mother and I linked up with the RPI and they looked after us from then on. They got us to London through a secret network, gave us new identities, jobs and protection, so, we owe them a lot. Initially, we lived with an uncle of mine in the East End, near Brick Lane, and
that’s why I ended up with an East End accent. Of course, once you are in the RPI, there is no going back – not that I want to, you understand.”
“I am very sorry to hear about your father and brother. So, I’m sure you were and are ready to kill for the cause and to avenge your father and brother?” asked Max.
“Of course! I have already done that many times. You saw that last night. How do you think I have got close to the Inner Circle people, except by proving loyalty through killing our enemies? That’s how it’s done. Promotion by results, you could say. In the RPI, loyalty to your boss is everything. If my boss ordered me to act against his boss and the action was unsuccessful, then my boss will be executed and I would be passed on to another boss as an admirably loyal foot soldier.”
OK, thought Max, I was just checking. For sure, you would kill me with no hesitation, when the order came, of that there is no doubt. I had better watch out, or maybe pre-empt you after the bomb is planted, in case I’ve been declared disposable after this big job. It’s just as well that I kept hold of the Luger from the Amsterdam job. It’s a pity there are only two bullets left. On the other hand, I only really need one, so that’s ok.
“Anyway,” Ali continued “enough about me. How did you get into this business, Max?”
“It’s a long story now. I told your colleagues a lot of it but you were sent out to guard the door so didn’t hear it I guess. I’ll give you some edited highlights. My family have a history of service in our US military and related outfits. The way I was brought up, I guess I really did believe that Communism was a huge threat to America and to the world as a whole and that fighting it would be a very good way to serve, not just my country but humanity in general. So, even before finishing studies at Harvard University, in psychology of all things, through family contacts, I was approached to enlist in the CIA. I had a couple of uncles who were involved in the wartime Office of Strategic Services, or OSS, and who continued after the war with the CIA. I guess they put my name up to the recruiters. The training was exciting and fun. We all felt that we were working for a great cause, basically for individual freedom against dictatorship. My first missions were tough. We tried to roll back the Soviet Empire in Europe by supporting local resistance groups. Turned out these groups were riddled with double agents planted by the KGB and it was just down to luck that I wasn’t caught or killed early on in Estonia or Poland. Next, I did a little early work in Viet Nam. That’s an ongoing story and I’m sure it will get worse before it gets better. Then I was in the Middle East. The Sovs would love to get their hands on the Middle East and deny us the oil there but we couldn’t let that happen and so far the oppressed masses there have been kept in check. Next, I had a spell in Cuba. First, I tried to help Batista but that was a losing patch. About then, I began to start wondering about what we were doing. Why were we always helping complete criminals like Batista against their own people? Maybe revolution was what the world needed, like the lefties said, if we really wanted to help the most people. I began looking at alternatives to free market capitalism and the imperialism it always led to. I felt the alternative did not have to be a revolution on the Soviet model, but something socialist that allowed more freedom than the Sov system. Probably not anarchism either, but there must be something in between communism and anarchism I thought. I had to keep all these thoughts to myself while in the Agency. Finally, my bosses nearly got me killed in a double cross deal with some enemies in the Caribbean and that was when I decided I had to get out of the Company. But before I could get out, I was sucked in to an assassination in the Caribbean which the local assets screwed up and I got plenty blame for that one. Plus, I was involved a bit in the fiasco you will know as the Bay of Pigs operation and that didn’t help my mood or my c.v. as far as the Company were concerned. Anyway, I quit the CIA but without giving details of my real reasons, got an honourable exit and joined the Peace Corps with good intentions. Pretty soon I was deployed to Iran as an early volunteer to help run a hostel for younger Peace Corps members in Tehran. I soon realised the Shah is up there with Batista as an arch criminal, stealing the people’s aid and oil money with the help of his hired killers in Savak. I began seeking out and talking to dissidents and resistance people in Tehran and eventually met Azar that way. When she was busted by Savak and flung in jail I had to get her out as soon as possible and thanks to my old training and know how, was able to do that before she was tortured and bumped off. We made it to London and we got asylum for her and residency for me. With some inheritance money I set up the bookshop and began getting more and more into the revolutionary take on political change plus getting more into Beat movement ideas of personal change. The final thing that got me into this situation with you and the RPI, is that Azar’s brother was killed in cold blood by Company operatives while he was on a mission in Washington just a couple of weeks ago and we both want to avenge his death. I’ve burned my boats with the States now. It’ll be the electric chair or gas chamber for me if I’m caught before the Revolution wins there…and that won’t be anytime soon, so let’s be real careful!”
“Ok, Max, that’s quite a story. I never thought I’d be working with a CIA guy, even an ex-one. Maybe some of your old CIA pals were buddies with Savak types and used them to do the dirty work? Still, I can’t blame you for that. If you can pull off our mission here, all will be forgiven. You’ll be a hero of the Revolution. Believe me. The Shah is a bloodthirsty, evil tyrant and dying in a bomb blast is better than he deserves.
Anyway, we have our orders and if the Inner Circle think this is the right course then that’s all we need know. Now, better sleep on this, if possible.”
Setting alarms for 5 a.m., Max and Ali lay down on top of the beds in their clothes and slept intermittently until the clocks went off in the dark morning. Again, Max tried to focus on a koan to induce the ideal mental state before the time for action. He also hoped that it would be dry weather, as setting a bomb on a high flat roof in rain and wind would not be pleasant. Sleep did not come easily and he began to re-live, in a state between sleep and waking, his first mission with the anti-Soviet partisans in the forests of Estonia in 1953.
The alarms in the Berlin hotel room burst through Max’s mental re-run of the Estonian mission and he saw Ali already fully dressed to go out, gesturing for Max to get up.
“Come on, sleeping beauty,” said Ali, “We got to get this action under way.”
“Ok, Ok,” replied Max, “I was reliving an earlier mission. Nearly didn’t get out of that one alive. Let’s hope this goes better, with no double crossing, sell outs, traitors and such like scum. At least this one doesn’t involve Russkis or Brits.”
“What do you mean? Are you saying because this one is just Iranians it’ll be easy?”
“Take it easy. We’re up against the Shah’s stooges. Not smart guys like you.”
Ali seemed mollified and smiled. Max got the case of explosives out of the bathroom.
“Now, you are finally ready, let’s go get’em cowboy,” said Ali, still grinning.
Only a few potential witnesses were awake and of those only two men, wearing heavy leather coats and pork pie hats, paid any attention to the maintenance men leaving the Bristol Hotel and walking over to the tall Hilton building with their large bags of tools. It was a dry windless morning. Perfect weather for planting a bomb on a high flat roof, thought Max. Once inside the Hilton, a flash of the passes was enough to be waved through by Reception and into the elevator. Following instructions left in the attaché case, Max and Ali got out at the floor below the Penthouse level and made their way by stairs to the roof level. One of the cards issued by Murphy operated a key-card lock on a door that opened out onto the roof. From the roof, they could see over to East Berlin which still looked as though the Second World War had but recently ended, with a sprinkling of modernist buildings among the bombsites, to suggest that the Soviets did care about appearances after all, but needed many more years to build the new workers’ paradise; on the western
side, the economic miracle was looking quite believable, despite a few gaps in the skyline that awaited filling.
Max checked Alt Solutions’ sketch map of the roof’s numerous hatches and ducts and identified the ventilation hatch that led down directly to the Master bedroom in the Penthouse suite below.
“Ok. Ali, keep a look out, especially keep an eye on that door on to the roof. I’ll set this thing, then we get out as soon as possible.”
Max took one device out and fixed it as far down the shaft as he could get, setting the timer for 0300 hours. He pressed the timer start button and as he was closing the hatch, saw to his dismay that the device had come loose and was tumbling down the duct. After a few seconds the rumbling made by the falling device ceased. “Probably stuck at a bend,” thought Max, “so that should be ok.” Anyway Ali didn’t seem to have noticed. Max went over to Ali and said, “We’re done. Let’s go.”
As they went to the door, it suddenly opened and a heavily built security patrol man appeared. The man was well padded, with layers of fat beneath his thick heavily insulated jacket. Poorly shaved jowls hung down to his sheepskin collar. He looked hard at Max and Ali and began addressing Max in German while fingering a large calibre automatic pistol which Max was glad to note was still mostly in its holster.
“What are you doing here? There is no record of any arrangement for work on the roof. This is most irregular. Explain yourselves.”
“That dumb Turk in reception must have forgotten to note it down and pass on the message. You know what they’re like! Useless. This Turk idiot they’ve given me to work with can’t even speak German. Straight out of an Anatolian dump. Comes here taking work from good Germans. Makes me sick,” said Max in his best working man’s Berlin accent.
