The Double Image

by Helen Macinnes

  Holland was saying, “At the very beginning of January, we noticed that this special code was being used in a strange way. It would appear, for one sentence, right in the middle of a message being sent in a quite different code.”

  “And these messages,” Partridge explained quickly, “were on the steady three-a-week basis beamed at Berlin. They varied, naturally. But that one sentence, in its own special code, remained constant.”

  “A general directive to all areas of Berlin?” Duclos asked, frowning.

  “We found it was going out to certain other areas in West Germany too. So we checked quietly with our friends, and we pooled all our discoveries. But—” Partridge looked at Holland, becoming conscious of his silence—“that’s your story. Sorry,” he finished lamely. And don’t let your excitement carry you away again, he told himself; you keep quiet, junior!

  Holland resumed. “The sentence was very simple. It repeated the same warning and the same question, three times a week for three weeks running.”

  “It said?” Rosenfeld, about to light his cigarette, paused. This had to be really important.

  “UTMOST CAUTION: IS THERE ANY TALK OF HEINRICH BERG?”

  Rosenfeld took the unlit cigarette out of his mouth, staring at Holland.

  Holland said quickly, “Oh no, Rosie, no! Blast you, man! Here I make this bloody journey to Paris, and you know all about Heinrich Berg.” He threw up his hands, exchanged a wry smile with Partridge. Duclos was puzzled but gloomy; if Rosie knows, he was thinking, then he hasn’t been cooperating fully with us. And I liked him, I really liked and trusted him. He looked reprovingly at Rosie.

  Rosenfeld said quietly, “I didn’t. I only heard his name mentioned tonight at the Meurice party.”

  “By whom?” Duclos wanted to know. He was relieved, though.

  “By a young American, John Craig. He didn’t say much. And perhaps that was just as well. He’s intelligent, I think—” Rosenfeld was frowning. He put the cigarette back between his lips and lit it. He decided to wait. “Go ahead, Chris. You have the real story. All I have is a small piece of conversation. It can be added later, as an interesting footnote.”

  Holland nodded, said briskly, “We all went to work to find out who Heinrich Berg was. You can imagine the files we examined, the search through old Nazi documents and newspapers, correspondence, everything. We put a silent team to work.” A smile showed in his eyes, touched his lips briefly. “We, too, were using the utmost caution. There was no need to tip our hand and show we were intensely interested in Heinrich Berg. We found out, in short, that he had joined the Nazi party in 1934 after graduating from Munich University. He was a bright lad, took an advanced degree in psychology. He got into the brain-power group of the Nazis, and was attached in a seemingly minor capacity to the German Embassy in Moscow for four years. In 1941, he was back in Berlin, working unobtrusively under Himmler. Then he invented a special job for himself, in 1944, got Himmler’s full approval, and—as a remarkably self-effacing officer in the Security Police—he made inspection tours of the concentration camps where political prisoners might be found and he would make a list of names of those whom he considered dangerous to the future of the Reich. That is, men who could be future leaders of anti-Nazi movements or regimes.”

  “1944...” Rosenfeld said thoughtfully. “He was foreseeing a possible Nazi defeat, then?”

  “Now, Rosie,” Holland said with amusement, “you’re jumping ahead of me and stealing some of Jim’s thunder. He did a great deal of work on this. All I’m stating is that Heinrich Berg was removing all possible future opposition. The men he selected were sent to an extermination camp. But some, strangely enough, never arrived there at all. They seemingly managed to escape, and their escape was always expertly concealed, usually listed as ‘dead in transit.’ That is where Jim discovered something very interesting. But”—he looked at the younger man with a grin—“that’s your story, isn’t it?”

  Partridge said, “The men who escaped turned out to be very much alive. After the war was over, they appeared in their own countries—mostly Eastern European—where they helped establish Communist governments. That was what they were, Communists. And that was what Berg was really doing in 1944–45 getting rid of the democrats, keeping alive the Communists. Clever fellow?”

  “A double agent,” Rosenfeld said slowly.

  “No. A Communist agent who had thoroughly infiltrated the Nazis. Another Richard Sorge, in fact. I began to get a glimmer of something like that when I puzzled over the lists of the politicals he had marked for extermination. So we began to dig deeply into his early life. We unearthed some secrets. He had become a member of the Communist party in 1931, recruited at Munich University. Spent three summers abroad, ostensibly to study psychology in Vienna, but I think he learned more Pavlov than Freud. He made at least two side trips into Russia—one to Moscow, one to Minsk. Ready to infiltrate by 1934, anyway.”

  Holland laughed softly. “A clever fellow, that’s definite at least. He was registered as dead, April 1945, and buried in Berlin. So we had a special squad dig up his grave one night and smuggle his coffin out where the experts could examine the remains of Heinrich Berg. The bone structure made the corpse some three inches taller than ever Berg had been. Also, Berg had a couple of molars missing—so his dentist’s records said. The corpse had a full set, top and bottom. Careless? No. I’d imagine that in the holocaust raging around him when he was selecting a corpse for his coffin, he hadn’t time to examine its teeth or measure it from tip of heel to crown of head. The remnants of an SD uniform, correct rank, had been thrown around the body. He was in a bit of a hurry.”

  “So where do you think he is now?” Rosenfeld asked too innocently.

  Holland studied him. Partridge, who didn’t know him so well, plunged right ahead. “Well, with that record, it was pretty obvious he slipped into the Russian lines and headed east. But we have uncovered surer proof than that. He had a wife and two children. They stayed behind, in the French zone—she got a job as a cleaning woman in a canteen. Then about three years later, in 1948, she suddenly packed up and left with the children. The French didn’t quite like the way her departure was so secret, so well arranged. Cleaning women don’t have that kind of influence. So they opened a file on her. It didn’t collect much. Just one postcard to her mother from Minsk, saying she would write when her new address was settled, and then nothing for several years until one letter slipped through to the West, asking for warm clothing. The letter came from Yakutsk, in Siberia, and she asked that no German name be used, but gave a new one: Insarov.”

  “She said nothing about her husband?”

  “Nothing. But we did find out that in 1956, among various people returning to Moscow from different parts of Siberia, there was an Igor Insarov, who was once more very much in favour. He has become important, no doubt of that. He is back with Intelligence again. Security, we think. We hear he heads a special unit on psychological control. That fits, all right. Insarov could be Berg.”

  “You got all that information in three and a half months? See what co-operation can do?” Rosenfeld smiled for Duclos.

  “Three and a half months were one hundred and six days and one hundred and six nights,” Partridge said wearily. “We knew we were working against time.”

  “Because,” Holland explained,” in February, that special code was used in the same way, again. But this time the message was longer. IF FILES CONTAINING ANY IMPORTANT REFERENCE TO HEINRICH BERG STILL EXIST, REMOVE PERTINENT DATA AND DESTROY. REPORT ON FINDINGS AND ACTION TAKEN BY REGULAR CHANNELS. Fortunately, we were in a position to make very quick copies of those references, and replace them in time. We didn’t even arrest the agents who were suddenly interested in those files. Some of them had been totally unsuspected, but now—although they don’t know it—they are helping us. That’s quite a nice little bonus.”

  “So Berg was trying to blot out his identity?” Rosenfeld asked. In that case he could very well risk coming to
Paris.

  “Someone was. And why? I think the answer is in a report we had from one of our best sources in Moscow. At the beginning of this month, Igor Insarov left Moscow for Prague under the name of a Russian doctor. From Prague, we learned that a Soviet medical official had arrived and left the same day for Zürich, travelling now as an Austrian business-man. And from Zürich—well, we are still evaluating some of the reports that have come from there. One was much too definite, too quick. It came from a man we suspect is the kind of double agent who plays both sides for cash. He reported that the Austrian business-man had left for Rome. But we heard, two days ago, from one of our own men who has infiltrated a Soviet spy network in the Zürich area and works in its passport bureau. He says that the passport for an Austrian business-man had been turned in, and replaced by all the necessary papers for entry and residence in France.” He smiled at Duclos. “You’ll have your work cut out, I think.”

  “Very difficult,” Duclos agreed worriedly. “If he has taken over the name and history and papers of a real French citizen—possibly of Alsatian origin, to account for any slight accent—then that is hard to trace. And if the French citizen has disappeared or died a long time ago, behind the Iron Curtain? Almost impossible to trace.” He paused. “You really believe that Insarov is in France?”

  “Frankly, we don’t know. We only think he might be. We are checking in Rome, too. But one thing is certain. He is on the loose. And he wouldn’t have come out so secretly if he wasn’t up to something very big.”

  “What?”

  “That’s what all of us had better find out.”

  “And you really believe,” Duclos insisted in his practical way, “that Berg and Insarov are the same man?”

  “Again, we don’t know. We only deduce from the facts we found that he could very well be.”

  “Did Berg’s wife follow him to Moscow from Yakutsk?”

  “No. She has vanished, and the two daughters as well. Insarov—as far as anyone knows—is unmarried.”

  “What about photographs?”

  “None of Insarov. He is a most self-effacing and careful man. Perhaps his exile in Siberia taught him to be that. Of Heinrich Berg, we have two photographs: one when he attended a Nuremberg rally with Hitler, Goebbels and Himmler—but that black Security Police cap made Himmler’s boys all look the same grim-faced type; the other was taken when he joined the Nazi party in 1934.”

  Rosenfeld waited. The silence continued. “Finished?” he asked Holland and Partridge. They nodded. “Then here is my footnote to your obstreperous ghost.” And now it was making some real sense, Rosenfeld thought. “Heinrich Berg was seen yesterday in Paris. He was identified by a Professor Sussman, who had been a prisoner in Auschwitz. Sussman could have made a mistake, of course, but I’ll check. I’ll do that through John Craig. I think I can arrange to meet him tactfully. I’ll start finding out what Sussman is doing here. If he is a French citizen, I’ll get Yves to help me. You two”—he looked at Holland and Partridge, who were still staring at him in amazement—“can concentrate on Insarov. We’ll concentrate on Berg.”

  “Fair enough,” Holland agreed. “And we’ll keep in close touch. Usual channels. I’ll be leaving in a couple of days. Too bad we can’t have a nice, relaxed dinner together.”

  “That’s what comes from being a notorious character. You shouldn’t have arrested a Communist agent right in the middle of the Piazza San Marco.” Rosenfeld turned to Partridge. “You’ll be around for some time?” I bet you will, he thought.

  “He’s unsullied, simon-pure,” Holland said with a bright smile. “He has been just as self-effacing as Colonel Insarov.”

  “Then let’s keep him that way. Don’t contact me at my office.” And then, as Partridge looked surprised—no doubt he had already worked out a nice role as a visiting salesman—Rosenfeld added, “Just a small premonition. Let’s play this very carefully. Which reminds me—”

  “Don’t worry,” Yves Duclos said, “I’ll get them safely into the van by five-thirty, before young Androuet comes down into the garage at six and opens the doors.”

  Rosenfeld glanced at his watch, and got to his feet. “You have four hours for sleep. I’d better climb home. I’ve just invited myself to breakfast at the Meurice. I have to see the Farradays anyway.” And now he looked grim and tired. “We think we may have an American on our hands who is devoted to Russian ideals,” he said very quietly.

  Holland looked at him with real sympathy. “Any clue?” So that was the reason that Rosie’s usual jokes had been missing tonight.

  Rosenfeld shook his head. “Well, good luck with everything.”

  Christopher Holland shook hands warmly. “Here’s to our next meeting, Rosie.” And let’s hope it is one of those happy post-mortems, with all friends intact.

  Perhaps Rosie had the same thoughts. He nodded, turned away without speaking. To Partridge, he said as he buttoned up his black raincoat, “I’ll ’phone you tomorrow at noon. Where?”

  Partridge gave him a number. He was certainly efficient, well prepared.

  “Thanks, Jim,” Rosenfeld said, and won a startled smile. Could he have been scared of me? Rosenfeld wondered in amazement. He looked almost natural, there. Scared of me? My God, I must be getting old.

  Yves came out into the hall with him, turned on the light as he climbed towards the door in the roof. He paused as he unlocked it, signalled for the light to switch off before he opened the little panel of solid wood and stepped out on the roof. Now for all that locking, unlocking. Some months ago, when he had organised this route of arrival and departure, he had been inclined to laugh at his overcaution. Tonight, he blessed it. He blessed the soft clouds, too, that had covered the sky again with broken patterns of silver fluff, casting vague shadows over the rooftops. The street was asleep, its windows shaded and quiet, strange contrast with the glow from the far-off boulevards, with the sound of traffic from the avenue.

  It had all been a very cosy set-up, a neat arrangement, he thought as he readied his own bedroom. Too bad he would have to stop visiting the studio for a while. He cursed Androuet’s quick eye for a fast franc; and then laughed softly. Perhaps he ought to be thanking Androuet and his garage; they had supplied the first small warning signal. And for that, he was always grateful.

  4

  The smart girl-show had opened two months ago near the Rue d’Amsterdam. It was part of the new wave in small night clubs, rolling west and away from the clichés of Montmartre towards the unlikely surroundings of the Gare Saint-Lazare. Here, on a narrow, workaday street climbing the cobblestoned hill above the busy station, the club had taken over a cheap bar along with a neighbouring cheese-and-sausage shop, converted them into one building, and used their rabbit-warren back premises for dressing-rooms and offices.

  Its patrons were a mixture of the restless rich and the pseudo avant-garde. It captured their trade with a room, subdued in décor and lighting, where the dance floor was twelve feet square and the music was both insistent and sour. Scotch was the correct drink at the crowded tables. Conversation was in French, Italian and English, with many references to the past season at Arosa, or the imminent trek to Sardinia and Elba (St. Moritz and Ischia were now definitely out), or the film festival (Venice was out, too), or the New York galleries, or the Dalmatian beaches. And occasionally, with correct unconcern, eyes would turn to watch the small stage, backed by black velvet, where the amusing revival of a real girl-show was now in progress. The girls were pale pink and white, no sun tan allowed, buttocks and bosoms thinned out into a streamlined contour so that the addition of surrealist items on the long lank bodies would have richest effect. Abruptly, unexpectedly, there would be a highly inventive interruption to their fertility-cult vibrations and rhythmical spasms: a moment of intellectual excitement combined with mental shock; an occurrence with content; a serious comment on the absurdity of life. It was to this interruption-moment-occurrence-comment that the club owed its newest name: Le Happening.

 
In the small entrance lobby, near the cloakroom, a young woman was waiting for an escort who was ungallant enough to be late. (By arrangement. The number of late minutes was part of the recognition signal.) She was expensively dressed in simple black, a small green satin bag clutched in white-gloved hand, no jewels except for earrings. And they were very much in the atmosphere of the club. The right ear wore a ruby, the left ear an emerald, both encircled with pearls. Her face, pretty and cool, was deeply tanned; her eye shadow was green, her lips the palest pink. She slid her small watch back into the handbag. It was almost time: fifteen minutes after midnight. Quickly, she looked at the man who had just entered. Raincoat belted but not buttoned, thick-framed glasses, newspaper under one arm, new pigskin gloves, and a book with a red-and-white jacket. Yes, this must be he. Thank heavens he was presentable. He was eyeing her, too, looking at the red and green earrings, at her green bag and long white gloves.

  “Sorry I’m late,” he said, glancing at his watch. “Four minutes.”

  “Seven minutes, darling.”

  They both relaxed, smiling. “Then I’m very sorry.” He jammed book and gloves into his coat pocket and handed it over, his face averted, to the elderly woman who looked after the cloakroom. The folded newspaper, its Greek type clearly shown in the part of headline visible, was replaced under his left arm. “The train was late,” he said. He was so sure that this was Erica that he had started leading her towards the curtained door even as she murmured correctly, “Next time, you must take a plane.” Foolish but necessary, he supposed, like his car parked on the Rue Liège, where he had waited a full ten minutes for this entrance.