Rip the Angels from Heaven

by David Krugler

  “It was for your own good, the both of you,” the commander said. “If the Russians noticed any change in your behavior toward one another, you both were finished, and I don’t just mean for undercover work—I mean for good. As long as Captain Quincy thought you were on the Russians’ string for real and you thought she was working for them too, you both behaved naturally.”

  How long had Paslett known? My decision not to tell him about any of my encounters with “Mara,” starting with the night I’d met her, was now an enormous liability. As soon as we were alone, he’d demand to know why I’d neglected to tell him about “Mara” throughout the operation. For sure, Gail’s briefings to Wilburton had detailed our encounters. Had the general already shared these briefings with Paslett?

  “The very fact you are both sitting here, safe and sound, confirms the wisdom of our decision,” Wilburton added. “Now we’re well situated to merge our respective operations, or hunts, if you will, in pursuit of bigger quarry.”

  “‘Merge our operations’?” I asked with a sinking feeling.

  “They want us to work together,” Gail said. It was the first time she’d spoken since I’d entered the room. Her voice sounded completely different: no trace of either a Southern or mid-Atlantic accent. Where was she from, for real? Who was she?

  “To do what?” I managed to say. I barely heard Wilburton’s needlessly wordy answer about how Commander Paslett would brief me, then we would all meet again. I hardly noticed the general and Gail take their leave, though I must have stood and saluted them. Can’t escape … can’t escape … The realization beat into my head like a metronome. My scheme hadn’t failed—it had succeeded wildly! I’d so expertly posed as a Red agent that my superiors wanted me to keep doing it. Since May, when I’d made the decision to break with the Russians and make amends for my past treason, my greatest fear had been exposure. I had convinced myself, unshakably so, that fulfillment of my scheme would set me free, never suspecting that it might just keep me a prisoner.

  “Voigt!”

  Paslett’s booming voice snapped me back.

  “Sorry, sir, you were saying?”

  “Why didn’t you brief me about Captain Quincy?”

  “Because I was sleeping with her, sir,” I answered promptly. For all the risk such an admission carried, it was the only way to keep Paslett from getting suspicious.

  “Starting when?”

  “First time, the night I met her, sir. She played it like a one-night stand, but it felt like a setup. Sure enough, the night the Russians picked me up, she tried to dope my drink to make it easy for them. I Mickey-Finned her instead, left her passed out in my flat. When I got back from my interrogation by the Russians, she was still there. I decided to try and turn her, figuring she’d tell all to the Russians. It was kinda like life insurance: the Russians were more likely to accept me if they thought I still had some allegiances to our side and so I was trying to recruit her for us.”

  “Did you know she was coming to New Mexico?”

  “Nosir. I figured there was no way anyone could get near me while I was on the base, but after Slater showed up, Colonel Latham sent me into town while he heard Slater out. Mara—I mean Captain Quincy—followed me to the bar where we had lunch. She was posing as a tourist. In order to keep the Russians happy, I had to tell her something, and the only way I could think of to do that without being overheard or recorded was, well, to go back to her hotel and whisper in her ear while we, uh, covered up our conversation by—”

  “I get the picture, Lieutenant.” He drummed his fingers on the table. “Hauling her ashes as part of your cover isn’t a minor detail, is it?” A statement, not a question. He wasn’t as yet satisfied with my explanation—I needed to give him more. Time for another risk, I realized.

  “The thing is, sir, the way Mara—I mean Captain Quincy—found me, it was because the N.K.V.D. found me first.” To appease the commander, I had to tell him about the first interrogation, at the empty factory, which so far I’d kept secret from him. I wished I knew how much he knew about the O.S.S. operation! Although Wilburton and Paslett had told each other about their undercover agents, that didn’t mean they had shared full operational details with each other, so I had to be careful not to share more than I had to.

  “Before they picked up Kenny Newhurst?”

  “Yessir. It was the same two agents that I let pick me up later, after I’d been on the lam and we decided to let them find me.”

  “Why did you go with them?”

  My fate rested on whether or not Paslett believed my answer. If it didn’t ring true, he’d start to think harder about the F.B.I.’s suspicions, he might accept that the Bureau was on to something. He’d scrutinize all my previous operations, looking for irregularities. And he’d find them, including the forged document I’d just filed to cover my tracks regarding my knowledge of N.K.V.D. recruitment. The moment Paslett doubted me, I was finished. What I said next had to be the finest lie of a life already veined and ribbed with lies, falsehoods, and prevarication.

  “Sir, I saw my opportunity and I took it. I was still serving out my spec, and we knew the Russians had made me when I posed as a Red during the last operation. I was sick to death I might never get another chance to do clandestine work again. So when they approached me, I thought I might plant a seed with them that I could be turned. And it worked, sir, that’s why they sent Captain Quincy after me, not knowing she’s an American agent. She was their bird dog.”

  “So you let Quincy think you’d turned even before we put together our operation to send you to New Mexico?”

  “Yessir. And I didn’t brief you because I wasn’t supposed to be doing anything but taking calls on the nutter line til my spec was up. But I couldn’t let a chance to front the N.K.V.D. as a turncoat pass us by.”

  “Jesus Christ, Voigt, how long do you think your leash is?” Paslett started. I bowed my head, the dutiful penitent, and happily took the brunt of the upbraiding that followed. The commander’s anger meant he believed me. For Paslett, the ends justified the means—it was the same for all intelligence officers, whomever they served. The dressing-down was just to remind me who was in charge. Rank and office allowed him to keep me in the dark—not telling me that Quincy was an O.S.S. agent all this time!—but as his subordinate I didn’t have that privilege.

  “I’ll never do it again, sir,” I promised when he’d finished, seizing the opportunity to change the subject. “What did General Wilburton mean we’re going to merge operations?”

  Paslett sighed. “It’s O.S.S.’s bid to keep Truman from axing them. The scientist you nailed in New Mexico, Brode? Wilburton is convinced Brode’s father’s the one who tumbled the Russians onto his son.”

  “Senator Brode’s a Red, too?”

  “They think so, but they haven’t turned up anything on the old man yet. As soon as they found out Mason Adams Brode was the spy trying to give the bomb to the Russians, they went nuts. Lit up Groves’s line, mine too. ‘Merge, merge, we gotta merge,’ they can’t stop saying.”

  “What do you think, sir?”

  “What choice do we have? It can’t just be coincidence that a senator being secretly investigated for being a commie has a son who is a Red agent.” He leaned across the table. “But here’s the deal, Voigt—O.S.S. is finished, no matter what. They won’t let go of this operation, but it’s not going to save them, either, and you can take that to the bank.” Translation: We would work with O.S.S. so that we could take over the operation once Truman liquidated the O.S.S. A brilliant move if we could pull it off—such a mission properly belonged to the F.B.I., but if O.N.I. could ice out the Bureau, we’d start the postwar era as shiny as a newly minted penny. And keeping the Bureau at bay was good for me, for sure.

  “So Captain Quincy and I will stay undercover, then, posing as Reds, to see if we can find the Russian connection to Senator Brode?” I asked.

  “Absolutely, and we need to set our terms pronto so O.S.S. doesn’t shoehorn u
s out.” He checked his watch. “I’m meeting with the director in ten minutes to do exactly that. Come to my office at sixteen-hundred and we’ll get started.”

  “Yessir!”

  I LEFT THE CONFERENCE ROOM FEELING BEWILDERED, CONFLICTED, AND scared. I’d told the Russians I was out because of the heat from the Bureau—now I had to persuade them I’d overreacted. Yet the Bureau really was after me. Paslett had bought my story about why I’d withheld so many details about my undercover work, but what about Captain Gail Quincy? Did she believe I was just posing as a Red, or did she have her own doubts? How would I string her along? How would we work together? To my shame, the thought our operational partnership might require us to “pose” as lovers aroused me. But would the Russians buy us as lovers or think something was amiss?

  Gail was seated at my desk when I entered my office. Terrance hadn’t returned—my note was still out.

  “Quite a mess,” she said, gesturing at the stacks of papers and folders.

  “My partner’s. I’ve been away, as you might recall.”

  She smiled faintly. “Quite a game they played on us, no?”

  “Who are we to complain?”

  “Our duty is just to follow orders?”

  I sat down at Terrance’s desk, facing her, and lit a cigarette. She outranked me, I should have been sir-ing or ma’am-ing her, but the two of us, we were way past the protocol of rank.

  “More like play our part,” I answered.

  “Parts.” She drew out the s.

  “And you, you’ve earned an Oscar in my book. Mara, Elizabeth, Gail.”

  “You’re a pretty good trouper yourself, Ellis.”

  “Are you always play-acting?”

  “Are you asking if I faked my passion, Ellis?”

  That wasn’t my intention, but the directness of her challenge flustered me. “No, that’s not—I’m not—”

  She laughed and waved her hand. “Easy, kiddo, I was just joking.”

  Jesus, she was good—she’d effortlessly taken control of our back-and-forth.

  “Why are you here?” I finally asked. Sitting in my chair, that was an obvious signal. I know you, Voigt, inside out. But what else did she want? Did she suspect me? How could I find out without tipping her off?

  “Thought we might get a drink. I really do like highballs, and you look like you could use a Gibson.”

  “Little early, isn’t it?”

  She laughed again and took out the same gold cigarette case she’d been carrying the night I met her. She withdrew a cigarette, set it between her lips, and leaned across for me to light it. My match hissed, the flame shone on her lipstick. I looked straight at her as she inhaled, the tobacco crackling. Her eyes gave me nothing. She stood, exhaled smoke.

  “It’s never too early in my book.”

  I sank back into Terrance’s chair and studied her, trying not to linger on her figure, trying not to remember her “passion” during the times we’d been together. Tried not to think about what might happen if I said yes to that drink. Tried not to think about how hard it would be to hide who I really was while running a risky undercover operation with her. And I tried, with all my power, to say no.

  I failed.

  “I know a quiet place this side of the Mall,” I said.

  She smiled. “Let’s go.”

  Acknowledgments

  I’M ETERNALLY GRATEFUL TO MY FAMILY FOR THEIR SUPPORT. MY WIFE, Amy, is first reader and dedicated listener—to give just one example of a thousand, her suggestions fixed a story line that had vexed me for months. The novel is much the better because of her help, her love, her inspiration. My parents, John and Dee, faithfully read drafts, and my sister Katie and her family made a long trip to cheer me on at a bookstore appearance in Milwaukee. I’m blessed to belong to a family of book lovers.

  Lincoln Arbogast and Mike Zimmerman helped me plot a realistic gunshot wound (any medical errors are mine alone), and Matthew Gilmore, D.C. historian extraordinaire, assisted with historical facts about Washington. I always enjoy my conversations about writing with Edward Scholz. My agent William Callahan at Inkwell Management read the manuscript in record time; I’m deeply appreciative of his efforts to bring my fiction to the published page. It’s a pleasure to work with Claiborne Hancock and his incredible team at Pegasus, especially Bowen Dunnan, whose editorial suggestions much improved the story.

  I’m fortunate to be part of a wonderful community of writers in the Midwest Chapter of the Mystery Writers of America. I especially appreciate the support of Lori Rader-Day, Shaun Harris, Lili Wright, and Heather Ash.

  I wrote much of Rip the Angels from Heaven while promoting the first novel in this series, The Dead Don’t Bleed, and I want to heartily thank family and friends who came out to my public appearances and who encouraged me to keep working on Rip the Angels: in Minneapolis, the Ryan family (Dr. Agaloff will return!); in Chicago, Dorota and Zbigniew Kruczalak, Dawn Flood, Brian Sandberg, Heather Ahrenholz, Barbara Mirecki, and Paula and Stuart Barb; in Milwaukee, Eric Pullin, Tom and Pam Krugler, Bill and Christie Krugler, Jeff Krugler, Andy Krugler, Scott Lawson, Jeff Harrington, and Joe Adamak; in Washington, D.C., Don Litteau, Eric Christensen, Hannah Yoo, and Essie and Jamey Wagner; in East Lansing, Judith Rowell, Dan DeVaney, and Sara DeVaney; and in Platteville, Laurie Hamer, Kory Wein, Roy Shaver, George Smith, Mike Ira, Tracey Roberts, Winnie Redfearn, my colleagues in the History Department at the University of Wisconsin-Platteville, and Heidi Dyas-McBeth and Bill McBeth and everyone at the Driftless Market.

  ALSO BY DAVID KRUGLER

  The Dead Don't Bleed

  RIP THE ANGELS FROM HEAVEN

  Pegasus Books, Ltd.

  148 W 37th Street, 13th Floor

  New York, NY 10018

  Copyright © 2018 by David Krugler

  First Pegasus Books cloth edition July 2018

  Interior design by Maria Fernandez

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced in whole or in part

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  Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data is available.

  ISBN: 978-1-68177-778-8

  ISBN: 978-1-68177-835-8 (e-book)

  Distributed by W. W. Norton & Company