Ashes Of America

by Fergus McNeill

  Sitting there, Frank was gripped by an uncomfortable feeling. He wondered if Swift had somehow found out about Molly and him.

  ‘Don’t worry,’ he said. ‘I can be discreet.’

  Swift looked at him for a moment, then gave him a faint smile.

  ‘Yes,’ he said. ‘I know.’

  37

  Frank picked up the two steaming cups of coffee and walked slowly through to the office, being careful not to spill them.

  ‘Here you go,’ he said, setting one of the cups down on Rafe’s desk. ‘Just the way you hate it.’

  ‘Can’t be any worse than your tea.’ Rafe smiled. ‘But thanks.’

  ‘You’re welcome.’ Frank sat down, looking again at the illegibly scrawled notes he was attempting to transcribe, and sighed.

  Rafe got stiffly to his feet and moved over to one of the filing cabinets. Propping his walking stick against the wall, he pulled open the middle drawer and started flicking through the files. Frank heard him muttering to himself.

  ‘What’s the matter?’ he asked.

  Rafe looked round at him, frowning.

  ‘I do wish people would learn to put things back in their proper place,’ he grumbled. ‘I say, could you just pop along and see if there’s any files on Swift’s desk? He’s forever borrowing things and forgetting to put them back.’

  ‘Sure.’ Frank scraped his chair back, glad of any excuse to leave the transcribing. He got to his feet and walked down the corridor to Swift’s room. Opening the door, he went inside and took a quick look around, but there were no files visible. On a whim, he went around and tried the drawers in Swift’s desk, but they were locked.

  ‘Nothing there,’ he said, walking back into the office. ‘And it wasn’t me, before you ask. I know how much you enjoy things being out of place.’

  ‘Damn,’ Rafe said, regarding the filing cabinet with trepidation. ‘It’s so tiresome when people just stick things back in the wrong drawer.’

  The telephone started ringing.

  Frank glanced at his watch and jumped to his feet.

  ‘It’s okay,’ he told Rafe. ‘I’ll get it.’

  Moving quickly across the room, he stooped over the phone and picked up the receiver.

  ‘Bern 261,’ he said.

  There was a crackle, then a voice spoke in heavily-accented English.

  ‘This is Stephan calling for Herr Rye.’

  Frank turned his back on Rafe and lowered himself down to perch on the edge of the desk. Swift had pointed Stephan out to him when they went for lunch at the Bellevue. One of the concierge staff, he was a nervous young man, with tidy blonde hair; Frank wasn’t sure what hold Swift had over him, but he was an invaluable source of information on the hotel’s guests.

  ‘This is Rye,’ he said, quietly. ‘Go ahead, Stephan.’

  ‘Your gentleman has just returned.’ There was an anxious pause, and Frank could just make out the muffled sound of another conversation in the background. Then, Stephan was back again, his voice close in the earpiece. ‘No lunch reservation today, but he’s booked a table for dinner at seven thirty.’

  ‘Understood.’ Frank nodded. ‘Any visitors? Messages?’

  ‘Nothing new.’

  ‘Okay. Thanks.’

  There was a click and the line went dead. Frank gently placed the receiver back in its cradle.

  It had only been a couple of weeks, but he was already getting a feel for Levkin’s routine. He’d learned that the Russian invariably spent the morning at the ambassador’s residence, over in the Muri neighborhood, but usually returned to the Bellevue for lunch. Stephan’s information helped him to keep track of Levkin’s movements at other times.

  He walked back over to his desk, picked up his cup, and gulped down the coffee. Rafe was leaning against the filing cabinet, gazing out of the window.

  ‘The place seems awfully quiet when it’s just the two of us,’ he muttered.

  Frank gathered up the transcription notes and dumped them into his desk drawer.

  ‘It’s about to get even quieter,’ he said, walking over to get his coat.

  Rafe turned to look at him.

  ‘What? Oh, not again…’ He shook his head in disappointment. ‘Where are you off to today?’

  Frank jerked a thumb towards the phone.

  ‘I just go where I’m told,’ he said, smoothly. ‘Don’t wait up.’

  In the afternoons, Levkin usually went for a walk. At first, these excursions from the warmth of the hotel had intrigued Frank, and he’d tailed the Russian excitedly, certain that his subject was making for an illicit rendezvous, particularly as he always went alone. Someone from the east might feel at home in this bitter winter climate, but surely Levkin’s afternoon strolls around the old town had more significance than exercise or sightseeing.

  So far, Frank had followed him six times, and nothing out of the ordinary had happened. Levkin’s route varied slightly, sometimes cutting across the Bundesplatz towards the station, sometimes setting out via Casinoplatz, though he usually ended up treading the ancient streets down by the Cathedral. In all these walks, Levkin had spoken to no one, except a brief exchange with the vendor at a station newsstand when he’d bought a newspaper. But something about the man was wrong.

  Today, he was walking east along the covered sidewalk of Marktgasse, pausing every now and then to gaze in a shop window. On the opposite side of the street, Frank watched him from the shadow of a stone pillar, then casually glanced over his shoulder, alert for sudden movements or familiar faces.

  You couldn’t be too careful.

  Satisfied, he set off again, matching his pace to Levkin’s as the Russian drifted along. There was a moment when a streetcar passed between them, briefly obscuring Frank’s view but when it passed there was Levkin again, passing between the vaulted arches.

  At the end of Marktgasse, they emerged from the shelter of the arcades into bright winter sun. Frank glanced up, captivated by the way the light gleamed and glinted on the golden hands of the enormous Zytglogge. He looked across to see which way Levkin would go, but the Russian had already turned his back on the impressive clock tower and was strolling down the broad expanse of Kornhausplatz, stepping lightly over the shining tram lines as he crossed the street.

  Frank held back a little, allowing the distance between them to grow as they made their way down the narrow, cobbled slopes of the old town. Levkin had emerged to walk on the road itself now, but Frank still kept to the cover of the arcades wherever possible, knowing that it was better to lose sight of the Russian than be sighted himself. Levkin showed no concern, rarely lifting his head, as though the idea of being followed simply hadn’t occurred to him.

  They came to the Rathaus, the ancient town hall building with its ornate frontage of carved stone balustrades. Opposite, the mighty statue of a medieval knight holding a banner stood above a large, frozen fountain. Levkin walked past without slowing, turning right to cut along a side street, his pace unchanged. Frank paused by the fountain, waiting until his target was fifty yards ahead before he continued. If the Russian had intended to disappear, or double-back, he would surely have done so by now.

  The side street emerged by the cathedral. Frank made his way around the rear of the towering stone building and approached the tall iron gates of the Münsterplattform, a large square of tree-lined gardens built out from the higher ground of the old town with a hundred-foot drop to the streets below. Open on three sides, it provided stunning views along the edge of the medieval town and across the river, where the winter sunlight touched the mists in the valley with a golden glow.

  There was Levkin, sitting on one of the benches, as he often seemed to do when he came here. Frank stayed well back, leaning up against a stone pillar just inside the gate, trying to figure out what was troubling him.

  Was he wasting his time, trailing round the town like this? Levkin wasn’t doing anything out of the ordinary coming down here. Taking in the Zytglogge, the Rathaus, the Münsterplattfor
m… these were just the places that someone would go for a walk, with so much impressive architecture and stunning views across the Aare valley.

  But as he stood there, watching the Russian, with sunlight glittering on the frosted tree branches, he finally realized what was bothering him: Levkin wasn’t interested.

  He was going to the most beautiful places, but he wasn’t looking at them.

  Shivering a little, Frank rubbed his hands together, then took out a cigarette and lit it. Across the gardens, Levkin sat on his bench, doing nothing.

  What the hell was he up to? If he wasn’t taken by the old town buildings or the stunning Alpine views, what was the man looking at?

  Pulling his coat tight around himself, he frowned.

  Levkin certainly didn’t behave as though he was planning to meet someone. He’d drifted calmly through the streets, no furtive glances, seemingly unaware and unconcerned about who might walk past him.

  But if he wasn’t meeting anyone, what was he doing?

  Levkin stayed for ten minutes, which wasn’t unusual for him. Then he bent forward, hands gripping the front edge of the bench, and slowly got to his feet. Watching him, Frank got ready to follow, then hesitated.

  Something about the way the Russian had leaned forward, something odd. He often seemed to have difficulty rising from that bench…

  …but if the bench was so uncomfortable, why sit there?

  As the Russian turned and made his way towards the exit at the far end of the gardens, Frank stared at where he’d been sitting.

  He knew he had to be careful. If he was obvious, if he just marched over there and felt under the bench like an amateur, he might be spotted; the Russians would know they were being watched and change their routine. No, he had to be smarter than that.

  He waited for a few minutes, calmly surveying the gardens, noting the faces of the people. Then, when he felt sure that nobody was paying him any attention, he set off at a slow pace, his eyes turned towards the river, enjoying the view like anyone else would. He followed the path around, taking his time, his breath rising like pale smoke in the cold sunlight. A couple of yards before the bench, he frowned, then stooped and pretended to tie his shoelace. Kneeling over, head low, he glanced up to look along the underside of the bench… but there was nothing there.

  Damn.

  He got slowly to his feet and continued on along the path, carefully hiding his disappointment. He’d felt so sure that there would be something stuck under there – an envelope, a scrap of paper, something – but he’d come up empty. Levkin hadn’t left any secret messages and now, thanks to this delay, he was gone.

  Frank trudged over to the edge of the garden and leaned on the low stone wall, feeling the cold frost on his palms as he looked over the edge. Far below, there was still a little snow on some of the shadowed rooftops, and he caught the smell of wood smoke as thin grey wisps curled up from the chimneys.

  Unless…

  He paused and looked over his shoulder.

  Unless Levkin wasn’t here to leave a message, but to receive one.

  38

  Frank left his lodgings early the following day, stepping down onto the sidewalk and pulling his coat tight around him. The air was cold, despite the pale sunlight, shocking him into wakefulness, and he looped his scarf about his neck before setting off at a brisk pace. His usual route to the office took him down through the trees overlooking the bend in the river, but today he cut back on himself, following a narrow path down the steep grassy slope towards the bear pit. A large brown bear with a matted, shaggy coat had clambered to the top of the man-made rock-pile within, and he paused to watch it for a moment, steam rising from its muzzle as it yawned. Frank smiled. Then, remembering why he was here, he turned away and hurried onto the old Nydegg bridge, a lonely stone causeway stretching out through the morning mist.

  He’d spent the evening thinking about Levkin, going over the man’s routine, searching for patterns. If the Russian always went for his walks after lunch, then it seemed likely that any messages would be left for him earlier in the day. Of course, it was just a theory, but Frank was keen to test his idea, and he owed it to Jean to learn the truth about the man she’d been watching.

  The cobbled streets of the old town were grey and still as he made his way up the hill towards the cathedral, shadowed spaces filled with a damp chill that the sun couldn’t reach. High above, the bells tolled eight o’clock as he approached the gate and passed through to walk down the broad stone steps. The Münsterplattform gardens were quiet. Looking across the space, he could see a couple of figures strolling among the bare trees, silhouetted shapes against the white mist that hung over the river valley beyond. The bench where Levkin had sat was empty.

  Frank glanced over his shoulder, then started along the gravel path. So far, all of his surveillance had turned up nothing; he didn’t have anything definite that he could take to Swift, but if he could find something here, intercept a secret Russian communication, all that would change.

  The bench was a few yards ahead when he slowed, bending down and pretending to tie his shoelace. Lifting his head slightly, he peered along the underside of the bench, scanning the wooden slats, but there was nothing there.

  Frank bowed his head, swearing under his breath. Scowling, he got slowly to his feet and walked on, his shoes crunching on the gravel.

  Maybe this was just the wrong day. Just because Levkin came here regularly, there was no reason to suppose that there were messages waiting every day.

  Or maybe he was too early…

  Frank looked down at his watch. He would come back later, at lunchtime, perhaps… before Levkin took his walk. It was certainly worth another try.

  Frowning, he jammed his hands down into his coat pockets and strode away.

  Rafe glanced up at him as he walked into the office.

  ‘Not like you to be late,’ he said. ‘Sleep in, did we?’

  ‘I had an errand to run,’ Frank murmured, pulling off his scarf and undoing his coat. ‘Is Swift in today, or is it just us?’

  ‘He’ll be in later,’ Rafe replied, studying a paper on his desk. ‘But you just missed Molly.’

  Frank looked over at him.

  ‘She’s back?’ he asked, being careful to hide his excitement.

  ‘She just stopped in to get a few things,’ Rafe said, leaning over to note something on the paper. ‘Off to Geneva or somewhere this afternoon – no rest for the wicked. Said she’d be in the office tomorrow.’

  Frank nodded. It would be good to have her back again. Smiling to himself, he went through to the kitchen area to make a coffee.

  Swift arrived at eleven. He appeared to be in an unusually good mood, taking the time to perch on one of the empty desks and chat, rather than shutting himself away in his room.

  ‘Have either of you seen the newsreels?’ he asked. ‘There’s a new one showing, with some pictures of the Yalta conference.’

  ‘And how were our great leaders looking?’ Rafe said, grinning. ‘Rather smug, I should think, what with the Germans retreating everywhere.’

  ‘The newsreel said that the allies were making “great strides towards victory and the security of Europe”,’ Swift replied. ‘But they didn’t look too pleased about it.’

  ‘Really?’ Rafe asked. ‘I thought they’d be all smiles. Well, maybe not Stalin… he’s usually rather grim.’

  ‘Truman and Churchill were the ones who looked grim,’ Swift explained. ‘And that ties in with some of the chatter going round the embassy these last few days. I don’t think they’re very happy with Comrade Stalin.’

  Frank looked up, remembering his talk with Swift at the Bellevue.

  ‘Well, Churchill’s never been fond of him,’ Rafe observed. ‘The only thing he loathed more than Stalin’s Communism was Hitler’s Nazism.’

  ‘Maybe Hitler’s time is coming to an end,’ Swift said, quietly. ‘Assuming he’s even still alive.’

  Rafe turned to Frank with a triumphant lo
ok.

  ‘I told you so, didn’t I?’ he said, excitedly. ‘And if Hitler is dead, or dying, then old Göring’s got a tiger by the tail. If he lets on that his precious Fuhrer’s dead, he risks losing his authority, but the longer he hides it, the worse it’ll be for him when it does come out.’

  ‘Hey, let’s not get ahead of ourselves,’ Swift said, holding up a hand. ‘This is all just speculation at the moment. Hitler could simply be lying low after the assassination attempts, which we know he survived. He may still be running things, just as Göring says.’

  Frank nodded thoughtfully.

  ‘But you don’t believe that, do you?’ he asked.

  Swift gave him a long look, then eased himself forward off the edge of the desk and got to his feet.

  ‘It doesn’t matter what we believe,’ he said, quietly.

  At midday, Frank pushed open the tall front door and stepped out into the cold, squinting in the thin winter sunlight. Dufourstrasse was deserted, and he made his way briskly along to the end of the road where he knew he could get a streetcar that would take him into the city.

  As usual, Rafe had wanted to know where he was going, but today the questions had felt a little more awkward, especially being asked in front of Swift. Frank had carefully avoided specifics, explaining that he felt like wandering around the shops in town, then slipping out into the stairwell before the conversation could go any further. He didn’t like lying to his friend, but he was under strict orders not to tell anyone what he was doing. And there was nothing to tell, anyway – just a Russian sitting on a bench, and an uneasy feeling. No secret messages, no proof.

  He got off the streetcar at Casinoplatz. An icy wind was blowing up from the river, and he paused to wrap his scarf around his mouth and throat before striding away down the sloping cobbled street that led to the cathedral.

  Away from the sunlight, the cold air hung heavy, and his doubts began to grow. Maybe he was imagining things. Maybe he’d not found anything because there was nothing to find. If someone wanted to pass information to Levkin, would he really do it like this? Wouldn’t it be easier to leave a message for the Russian at his hotel, or simply telephone the embassy…?