‘Number 23,’ he said, walking over to the front entrance. Frank followed him, noting a small plaque beside the arched wooden door with the words Allen W. Dulles, Special Assistant to the American Minister.
Swift rang the bell, then turned to face him.
‘Be honest, be brief, and be useful,’ he whispered. ‘Oh, and if you hear him speaking German, don’t correct him; he thinks he’s fluent.’
They waited for a moment until the door swung gently open.
‘Morning,’ Swift said with easy familiarity, but Frank stiffened. Standing in the doorway was the man who had pulled a gun on him in Brunngasse two nights ago.
‘Good morning, sir.’ The man nodded politely to Swift, then gazed at Frank with calm formality. ‘Good to see you again, Mr Rye. Please come in.’
Swift looked across at him and grinned.
‘I believe you’ve already met Herr Groth,’ he said, gesturing towards the man in the doorway. ‘Come on, we don’t want to keep Mr Dulles waiting.’
Inside, the entrance hall was light and elegant. A polished wooden floor ran all the way to the rear of the building, and a flight of marble stairs with ornate iron bannisters ascended to the upper levels.
‘Second door on the left,’ Groth said, pointing down the corridor.
Frank hesitated and looked at Swift.
‘Aren’t you coming in?’ he asked.
‘We have some things to discuss here,’ Swift explained. ‘But I’ll see you later.’
‘All right.’ With a last wary look at Groth, Frank turned and made his way along the hallway. Stopping in front of the door, he knocked smartly and waited.
The door was eventually opened by a tall man in a tweed sports jacket. He was powerfully built with a small mustache and keen blue eyes behind rimless spectacles.
‘Ah, Mr Rye!’ he said, stepping forward and shaking hands enthusiastically. ‘I’m Allen Dulles.’
‘Glad to meet you, sir,’ Frank replied.
‘Forgive the imposition of bringing you over here,’ Dulles said, beckoning him inside. ‘I’d hoped we might speak at the office, but things have been unusually busy of late.’
‘We live in busy times, sir.’
‘We most assuredly do.’ Dulles led Frank through to a wood-paneled study at the back of the building. Tall red drapes framed a window that looked out over some bushes to a stunning view of the river.
‘Come in and take a seat,’ he said, gesturing vaguely at the two comfortable chairs angled towards the large fireplace. ‘May I offer you something to drink? Whiskey?’
Sitting down, Frank hesitated, unsure whether it was too early to accept a drink. He decided to pass.
‘Nothing for me, thank you, sir.’
Dulles smiled. He walked over and lowered himself into the chair on the other side of the fireplace.
‘I think we can dispense with that “sir” business,’ he said. ‘While we’re here, at least.’
‘All right.’ Frank nodded.
‘Capital.’ Dulles grinned. ‘So, tell me: how do you like our little Swiss outpost? What are your impressions of Bern?’
‘It’s quite a place,’ Frank said, his eyes drawn briefly to the window. ‘I think I’m going to like it here.’
‘I find it most agreeable,’ Dulles observed. ‘Though we’re afflicted by all manner of shortages, and that reminds me… do you play tennis?’
‘Tennis?’ Frank stared at him, wrong-footed by the question.
‘Tennis.’ Dulles eyed him eagerly. ‘How’s your game?’
‘I’m… not sure,’ Frank replied, shaking his head. ‘I mean, I played a couple of times back in college but…’
Dulles sat back with a grave expression.
‘Most unfortunate,’ he sighed.
Frank shifted uncomfortably in his chair, feeling that the interview wasn’t going well. The other man seemed to notice, and he laughed suddenly, his blue eyes glittering and his face becoming genial once more.
‘Put it out of your mind, son. I just wanted to be sure I wasn’t missing the opportunity of a worthy opponent, but that’s not why you’re here.’
Frank sat up a little straighter.
‘Perhaps you can tell me why I am here?’ he asked. ‘I mean, Bern is beautiful but…’
Dulles laughed again.
‘Admirably put, and I like a man who isn’t afraid to ask questions.’ He got to his feet and walked over to the desk, where he picked up a short briar pipe. ‘As well as asking questions, I’m told that you’re also a man who won’t betray confidences.’
Frank met his gaze.
‘I believe in loyalty.’
Dulles regarded him thoughtfully, then struck a match.
‘That’s good, or we shouldn’t be speaking now.’ He broke off to raise the match, holding it to the bowl of the pipe until it was lit. ‘But I want to impress upon you the importance – the national importance – of what we do. Even if someone is loyal, they can still be careless, and that may be every bit as deadly as betrayal. Why, some men let state secrets slip and they don’t even know they’ve done it. That’s no use.’ He snuffed out the match. ‘Loyalty is nothing without care.’
Frank nodded.
‘I understand,’ he said.
Dulles walked back over to his chair, but remained standing.
‘I hope so,’ he said, jabbing his pipe at Frank and raising an eyebrow. ‘You’ve arrived at a time of unexpected significance, so we’ll have to dispense with many of the usual niceties.’
‘Of course.’ Frank glanced up, eager to demonstrate that he was attentive to what was going on. ‘I got the impression that something was happening.’
‘Really?’ Dulles fixed him with a piercing stare. ‘Explain?’
‘I don’t know any specifics, but…’ Frank frowned. ‘…there just seemed to be a change at the office. A sort of quiet excitement?’
Dulles regarded him thoughtfully for a moment.
‘Well, it does you some credit that you’re noticing things.’ He gave a brief smile, then his face became serious again. ‘Better not to volunteer information, though. It’s trusting, and trusting people is a dangerous habit to get into. Watch and listen always, speak only when you need to.’
Frank gave him a rueful smile and remained silent.
Dulles blew out a cloud of smoke and chuckled.
‘That’s the ticket,’ he said, sitting down again. ‘Now, while Bern may well be picturesque, it’s also a city with some rather tiresome bureaucracy. How much do you know about the Swiss police?’
‘I read the briefings but…’ Frank shook his head. ‘Not that much.’
‘Well, the situation’s straightforward enough,’ Dulles said. ‘Switzerland’s a neutral territory, which makes it ideal for running certain types of intelligence and covert action. But the Swiss take their neutrality seriously, and they aren’t stupid enough to trust anyone. So they monitor us to make sure there’s nothing… inappropriate going on.’
‘The police are watching us?’
‘They’re watching everyone.’ Dulles smiled. ‘Phones are tapped, people are followed. It’s downright inconvenient, particularly when there are sensitive matters to be discussed and meetings to be arranged.’
Frank nodded, thinking back to his early-morning walk through the old town, the different faces in the crowd. It wasn’t just the Germans he had to be careful of; it was the Swiss as well.
‘And that’s where you come in.’ Dulles pointed at him with the stem of his pipe. ‘There are times when we’re dealing with matters that are simply too important to let the Swiss anywhere near them.’ He gave Frank a grim little smile. ‘Tomorrow evening, you’re going to help us keep them occupied, while something… significant occurs.’
14
Frank paced back and forth along the narrow, paved area at the back of the building, staring out across the rooftops to the twinkling lights on the other side of the river. He’d watched the night sky darken, seen the last glo
w of red fade below the horizon, and felt the temperature steadily dropping. Glancing over at the back door, he hugged himself to keep warm. It must be nearly time.
Unlike yesterday, he hadn’t been invited into the house. Groth had greeted him when he’d arrived almost two hours ago and sent him round to the back, where he’d been given an overcoat and a hat to wear. At first, he’d waved the offer away, saying it wasn’t that cold and he wouldn’t need them. But then he’d understood: the coat and hat weren’t for his benefit, and they weren’t optional. He slipped his hands into the unfamiliar pockets, glad of them now, and turned back to stare into the night. The bridge was a little way along the valley and he could just make it out in the faint moonlight, towering high above the river that slithered round the base of the old town. The weir was almost directly below him here; in the darkness, he couldn’t see it, but he could hear the constant rushing of the water as it cascaded down. The sound was oddly soothing, but he couldn’t shake the sense of unease that had been growing in his stomach all evening.
This was very different to the nervous excitement he’d experienced when his unit first landed in France. There had been danger then, certainly, and every artillery shell and air attack had been frightening, but he’d been one man in a whole division back then, and there was a kind of safety in numbers. Here, there was no rumble of explosions, no approaching whine of diving airplanes, just a vast stillness that left him exposed and alone.
Shrinking back into the shadows at the corner of the building, he reached into his jacket and took out a cigarette. He knew to look away as he struck the match, knew to avoid staring at the flame so he could preserve his night vision, and he’d need that tonight. Taking a long draw, he blew out a slow stream of smoke and shut his eyes. It had to be time now, surely.
Beside him, he heard the soft click of a lock and a shaft of yellow light slid across the paving slabs. Groth stepped outside, glanced over at him, then quietly pushed the back door closed. He was wearing a coat and hat too.
Frank took a quick drag on his cigarette, then stubbed it out against the wall.
‘Is it time?’ he whispered.
Groth frowned and shook his head.
‘Not yet,’ he said, in a low voice. ‘We wait for the ten o'clock blackout.’
‘Right. Of course.’ Frank jammed his hands back into his pockets, then turned to give Groth a sidelong glance. ‘We look like twins.’ He grinned, noting the similarity of their coats and hats.
‘No.’ Groth gave him a long, serious look. ‘We do not.’
They lapsed into an uncomfortable silence. Frank began to pace again, treading slowly and softly, wishing they could just get started.
Suddenly, the expectant stillness was broken by a booming chime from the cathedral, and the ring of answering bells from other clocktowers in the distance. Gazing out over the river, Frank saw the last few streetlights winking out until the whole city was shrouded in deep darkness.
Any minute now.
Groth glanced back towards the door, then gave a curt nod. Beckoning Frank to follow, he crept around the corner to the walled courtyard at the side of the house.
‘All right,’ he whispered. ‘Remember: calm, steady pace. I'll wait for three minutes before I go.’
‘Wish me luck,’ Frank replied. He took a deep breath, turned up the collar on his coat, and pulled the brim of his hat down. Then, gripping the cold iron handle, he opened the tall wooden gate and stepped through, pulling it closed behind him.
He was on his own.
In front of him, Herrengasse was a corridor of shadows: the dim shapes of buildings described by moonlight, and the occasional faint glow of yellow bleeding out around the blackout blinds. He opened his eyes wide, unblinking as he stared across the empty street, but it was impossible to see if anyone was lurking in the gloom of the arcade opposite.
Three minutes…
Conscious of the time, his lips began moving in a silent count: one Mississippi, two Mississippi, three... four... five. Once he had the rhythm, he shoved his hands into his pockets, lowered his head, and started up the street.
He made his way along between the tall buildings, staying close to the wall where the darkness seemed deepest, walking in time with his count.
Forty-one… forty-two… forty-three… forty-four…
Fighting down the urge to look behind him, he listened hard, but his footsteps seemed to be the only sound in the heavy stillness. Unless…
He kept up his steady pace for a few yards, then took a sudden shorter stride, placing his foot softly so it made no noise… and somewhere behind him, he heard the faint scuff of a shoe on the cobblestones.
Someone was following him.
Heart pounding, he walked on, not speeding up, giving no indication that he’d heard anything.
Sixty-four… sixty-five… sixty-six…
Approaching the end of the street, he peered ahead towards the dark expanse of Casinoplatz, his eyes searching for movement. Here, moonlight bathed the silent buildings and glimmered on the tram rails, but the place appeared deserted.
Seventy-seven… seventy-eight… seventy-nine…
Hugging the wall, he turned the corner and his pulse quickened. This was his chance – he could make a run for it right now, open up a gap between him and whoever was following him, get enough distance to lose him in the shadowy streets…
But that wasn’t why he was out here. He had a job to do, and he was determined to see it through.
He made his way along the front of the casino, gazing up at the towering stone columns and the stars above. He imagined he could hear soft footsteps as his pursuer turned the corner a short way behind him, but he refused to look round.
Ninety-eight… ninety-nine… a hundred…
He passed beneath the trees that lined the casino overlook, gently rustling in the breeze, then stepped out onto the long open span of the bridge beneath the vast night sky.
There were no hiding places now, nowhere to go but forward. He could hear the rushing of the river again, but the valley below was lost in shadow. Approaching the middle of the bridge, a gust of wind caught him, whipping at his coat, and forcing him to hold onto his hat for a moment. He realized that he’d lost track of his count, but it didn’t matter any more; he’d made it this far.
He’d drawn the police away from Herrengasse.
Slowing, he fumbled in his coat pocket and drew out a small flashlight, holding it across his body. Then, glancing back towards the sharp silhouettes of the old town buildings, he flashed it in time with his walk – on-off, on-off, on-off – shining it out into the empty darkness.
Behind him, he heard the footsteps quickening and drawing nearer. Pushing the flashlight back into his pocket, he stopped and turned around. A lone figure was striding towards him, and Frank tensed himself in readiness.
What if Groth had made a mistake? What if this wasn’t the Swiss police, what if it was the damn Nazis? The idea of a fight up here, with a hundred-foot drop beneath him…
The figure drew nearer, a tall man with a long coat that flapped in the breeze. He came closer, peering at Frank’s face as he approached, then frowned and reached into his jacket for something. Did he have a gun?
‘Was ist denn hier los?’ Frank protested. He backed away, then blinked as a flashlight shone into his face, blinding him.
‘Oh nein,’ the man hissed, lowering the light and swearing as he realized he’d been duped. ‘Scheiße!’
He seemed to hesitate for a moment, then turned around and hurried back across the bridge, quickly breaking into a run.
Frank rubbed his eyes, listening to the receding footsteps until they were lost in the sigh of the wind and the steady rush of the water below. His palms were clammy and his heart was pounding, but he took a deep breath and drew his overcoat about him. Turning to look along the jagged skyline, he saw the cathedral spire and, further along, the angular silhouette of the casino. Between them, in the darkness where the rear of Herrengasse 23
looked out across the river valley, an answering light flashed three times.
Frank stood for a moment, wondering who Dulles had been meeting there tonight, who the Swiss police had been so eager to intercept.
A secret courier from across the border? Maybe someone from the German resistance?
Whoever it was, that signal meant they’d slipped safely away into the night. With a grim smile, Frank hunched his shoulders against the wind and walked on into the gloom.
Fall, 1953
Kansas City, Missouri
15
Evening was drawing in and the sun was lost as Frank leaned over to the window, cupping his hand against the glass to peer out. The rhythm of the rails had slowed and dark shapes drifted by as the train clanked over a set of switches, but all he could see was his own reflection, grim and tired, staring back out of the gloom. Around him, passengers were stirring, eagerly gathering their bags and belongings even before the lights of the platform slid into view. Frank shut his eyes and sighed. He was in no hurry. Nobody was waiting for him… or if they were, they didn’t know it yet.
Outside, he heard the steady clanking of the bell, and a rich voice from the end of the chair car called out ‘Kansas City, this is Kansas City. End of the line.’
The train squealed and jolted to a final halt, and people began crowding past, moving along the gangway. Slowly, Frank opened his eyes. It was the end of the line for someone.
He was the last person off the train. Stepping down to the platform, he tipped the negro porter a few coins, then set his bag down as he lit a cigarette.
‘Carry that for you, sir?’ the porter asked.
Frank exhaled and shook his head.
‘It’s okay,’ he said. ‘I got it.’
He hesitated, then held the carton out, offering it. The porter glanced back along the platform, then smiled and took a cigarette, tucking it away into his tunic pocket.
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