At the table opposite sat a rather imposing couple, the only one of its kind that Thomas had hitherto seen in Zwickau. The woman had a taut, well-developed figure, glorious corn-colored hair, sensual Slavonic features and piercing blue eyes. She wore a close-fitting green summer frock. A leopard-skin jacket hung 'on the back of a chair.
Her companion was a muscular giant with gray hair cut very short. He wore the typical blue, standarized suit of the Russian civilian, with exaggeratedly wide trouser legs, and had
his back to Thomas as he talked to the lady. The pair could not have been anything but Soviet citizens.
Suddenly Thomas gave a start The lady with the corn-colored hair was flirting with him. She smiled, showed her little teeth, and winked at him, half closing one of her eyes.
Good Lord, thought Thomas. Surely Tm not going crazy? He turned away and ordered another bottle of substitute lemonade. After his third sip of it he looked across at the opposite table again.
The lady smiled at him. So he smiled too. After that things happened fast The lady's companion swung around. He looked like a version of Tarzan made in the U.S.S.R. Leaping to his feet, he reached Thomas in four strides and seized him by the lapels. Shrieks resounded among the tables, infurating Thomas. He was still more infuriated when he caught sight of the blonde with the corn-colored hair behind the jealous giant She had risen and seemed to be enjoying the scene tremendously. You slut, thought Thomas. So that was a trick, was it? You get a bit of a thrill when ...
This train of thought was interrupted by a blow in the stomach from the giant's fist This was too much for Thomas. He dived for the Russian Tarzan's legs. Judo for the second time that day. On this occasion the "glider" hold.
As the Russian Othello happened to be standing in front of the cloakroom counter, he sailed over it and dropped down on the other side. Thomas saw out of the corner of his eye that a Soviet non-commissioned officer had drawn his revolver.
Courage must be accompanied by intelligence. One has to know when one has had enough. Thomas ducked, raced to the exit and out into the street. Luckily there were no Red Army men about The Germans he met took little notice of him. In those days, when a German ran, other Germans immediately felt sorry for him.
Thomas ran on until he reached the Swannery. In the beautiful old park he dropped, panting, onto a bench. After a while he felt better. Then he made his way cautiously back to his hotel.
The next morning, punctually at nine o'clock, the interpreter ushered Thomas Lieven, duly shaved, smartly dressed aad self-assured, into the office of the military governor of Zwickau, Thereupon, however, our friend almost had a stroke. For the Zwickau commandant, rising from behind his desk to greet the visitor, was none other than the jealous Soviet Tarzan whom Thomas had transported, by means of the
"glider" hold, to the other side of the cloakroom counter, the previous afternoon, at the Palace Caf6.
Today the giant was wearing a uniform. Many decorations could be admired upon his bosom. He scrutinized Thomas in silence.
The latter was meanwhile reflecting. This office is on the third floor. No point in jumping out of the window. Farewell, Europe. Some people say that Siberia can be quite delightful.
At last Colonel Vassili L. Melanin spoke, in guttural accented German. "Gospodin Scheuner, I beg your pardon for yesterday's behavior."
Thomas could only stare at him.
"I'm sorry about it. It was Dunya's fault." Melanin suddenly roared, as if he had gone out of his mind: "That ac-. cursed she-devil!"
"Do I understand you, Colonel, to be speaking of your revered consort?"
Melanin hissed through his teeth: "That infamous wretch! I might have been a brigadier by this time. Twice they've demoted me ... on her account... for brawling."
"Colonel, you should compose yourself," Thomas said soothingly.
Melanin struck the desk with his fist. "For all that, I love my little pigeon Dunya. But enough, let's get to business. A drink first, though, my dear Scheuner."
Accordingly, they shared a bottle of vodka. An hour later Thomas Lieven was hopelessly tight, Colonel Melanin was " stone-cold sober and they were both discussing the business in hand fluently and wittily. But they didn't make the slightest progress.
Colonel Melanin saw the situation as follows. "You wanted to sell the Czechs that MKO sighting mechanism. So you sent your friend here. You can return to the West with him if you hand us over the plans."
"Sell them to you, you mean," Thomas corrected him severely.
"I mean hand over. We shan't pay anything," the colonel said. He added with a cryptic grin: "I don't think you're quite a fool, Thomas Lieven."
Sometimes one's knees seem to turn into jelly, thought Thomas. He murmured faintly: "What was that you said just now, Colonel?"
"I said Lieven. Thomas Lieven. That's your name, isn't it? D'you think we're complete idiots? D'you think our secret
service doesn't know what's in Allied files? Our people in Moscow have been laughing themselves sick over your doings."
Thomas pulled himself together. "If you ... if you already know who I am ... why haven't you locked me up long ago?"
"What could we have done with you? You're such a— forgive me—such a ludicrously bad agent!"
"Thanks very much."
"We need first-rate agents, not comic characters like you."
"You're very polite."
"I hear you're fond of cooking. Well, Fm fond of eating. Come to my place. Dunyasha will be delighted. We'll have pancakes. Fve plenty of caviar. Then we can have a further little chat. What do you say?"
"Thafs an excellent idea," said Thomas Lieven. At the same time he thought remorsefully, A thoroughly bad agent? A comic character? Well, perhaps I am. So what?
Accordingly, he set about preparing a Cotelette Marechale in the kitchen of a requisitioned villa. He felt extremely uneasy meanwhile. Colonel Melanin kept out of the way. But just as Thomas was cutting off a big leg of chicken for the cutlet the colonel's wife came in. She was in fact, so to speak, entering Thomas Lieven's life, though he didn't yet know that
She was a most beautiful woman. Hair, eyes, lips and figure were all magnificent. She had a skin the color of ground almonds and looked so fresh, healthy and strong, positively unique! It was instantly evident that Dunya had no need of corset, brassiere or any other vital accessories required by normal women.
After entering she closed the door and gazed at Thomas in silence, with a brooding expression, parted lips and half-closed eyes.
Exquisite but mad, was the thought that flashed through Thomas's mind. Heaven help me! If I don't kiss her, I believe shell strangle me with her bare hands. Or else shell call a National Security police officer and accuse me of sabotage.
Elsewhere in the villa footsteps resounded. The couple parted. About time too, Thomas thought.
Dunya absently prodded the leg of chicken. "Save me," she whispered. "Fly with me. My husband doesn't love me any more. Hell kill me or 111 kill him."
"Bu-but—madame—what makes you think that your husband doesn't love you?"
Dunya uttered a fiendish laugh. "You won your fight with
him yesterday in the cafe. The other men he used to half kill. He used to half kill me too. But now he never hits me, never! I don't call that love ... Don't you think I speak good German?"
"Yes, very good."
"I had a German mother. I liked you from the start m make you happy. Take me over there with you ..."
The footsteps were coming nearer.
Dunya was still prodding the leg of chicken when the colonel entered the kitchen. He smiled enigmatically. "Ah, there you are, my little pigeon. Are you learning to cook as they do in the capitalist West, where the workers are so oppressed? What's the matter, Herr Lieven? Don't you feel well?"
"Just a momentary f aintness, Colonel. Might I . . . might I ask you for a glass of vodka?"
MEJSTU
Caviar
Qotelette cMarechale with
Caramel
ZWICKAU, 28 may 1947
Dunya the Russian enters Lieven's life with a leg of chicken.
Caviar Pancakes
For each person two very thin pancakes, about the size of one's hand, are cooked in butter, then immediately placed on preheated plates. Spread one pancake with caviar and place the other on top of it. Pour hot melted butter over the two pancakes and cover them thickly with sour cream. (The true Russian Mini [pancake] is made of buckwheat flour, difficult to obtain in the West.)
Cotelette Marechale
Bone the legs of a tender capon without breaking the skin. Prepare a stuffing from the chopped breast, with one table-spoonful of butter, a quarter of a teaspoonful each of chopped shallots, parsley and tarragon, a quarter of a cup of fresh
bread crumbs soaked in wine, one tablespoonful of chopped mushrooms, pepper and salt. Put this mixture twice through the mincer. Then leave it to cook very slowly, stirring continuously. Add one tablespoonful of butter and one of double cream. The mixture must not harden. After cooling, this stuffing is inserted in the boned capon legs, which are then sewed together, rolled in fine bread crumbs and fried in butter till golden-brown. The breast may be stuffed in the same way, the two halves being sewed together after boning and some veal added to the stuffing. *
Caramel Pudding
Put one quart of milk on to boil with half a cup of sugar and a little vanilla pod. After the milk has boiled allow it to cool slightly and then pour into it five eggs beaten up with a little salt. Prepare a caramel from one cup of sugar, not too dark, add a little water and pour the mixture into a warmed pudding basin. Tilt the basin to all sides so as to spread the caramel around before it hardens. Then add the milk mixture, close the basin tightly and boil the contents for three quarters of an hour in a pan of water. Chill for a few hours. When the pudding is turned out the caramel will cover it as a sauce.
One thing was quite clear to Thomas. He would have to take care to get back as fast as possible into the West. He didn't feel capable of dealing with this couple. So the Soviet Union would get those falsified plans for nothing. It was lucky, at any rate, that they were worthless.
Over the meal he still put up a show of stubborn resistance but only because he knew that Russians enjoy that sort of tug of war. The colonel, indeed* was obviously delighted as he heatedly pursued the argument Dunya sat between them, watching both gentlemen with her brooding expression. Everyone ate and drank a tremendous lot. But after those rich pancakes Thomas managed this time to keep a clear head.
"Very well, Colonel. Ill make you a different proposal. You get the plans for nothing and in return you let my friend and another gentleman go back to the West."
"Another gentleman?"
"Herr Reuben Achazian. I don't know whether you are acquainted with him. A little more leg, madame?"
"Yes, I should like a lot more, Herr Lieven."
"I should say I am acquainted with that scamp," said the colonel scornfully. "Damned profiteer. What do you want with him?"
"Profits," said Thomas modestly. "Youll pardon me for saying so, Colonel. But as the Red Army has just deprived me of all my expectations, I shall really have to see how I can recoup."
"Where did you get to know that American swine?"
"Here in Zwickau, Colonel."
In fact, Reuben Aehazian, a stout little fellow with sharklike eyes and a small mustache, had turned up at the Stag Hotel that morning while Thomas sat at breakfast. Herr Aehazian had come straight to the point without more ado. "Wait, let me talk, don't interrupt me, I'm in a hurry and so are you. I know who you are—"
"Who told you?"
"Reuben Aehazian knows everything. Don't interrupt. I've run into trouble here. With the Russians. To be quite frank, Fve been taking part in a very big trade organization racket and they won't let me work here."
"Now look here, Herr Aehazian..."
"S'sh. Help me to get across to the West and Til make you a rich man. Did you ever hear of the ZVG?"
"Yes, of course."
The ZVG (Zentrale Verwertungs GeseUschaft or Central Disposals Company) had its headquarters in Wiesbaden and had been organized by the Americans. The company collected in vast dumps the aftermath of war, worth millions of dollars. There were weapons and ammunition, railway engines and trucks, bandages, scrap metal, wood, steel, entire bridges, medicaments, aircraft and textiles. The managers were Germans. But the Americans allowed them to sell only to foreigners.
"Only to foreigners," Reuben Aehazian, looking as sharp as a weasel, told Thomas Lieven. "Not to Germans. But I'm a foreigner and the company can sell to me. I have a cousin in London who will advance us, you and me, funds to found a trading firm. I can make y©u a millionaire within a year if you help me to escape to the West"
"Fll think it over, Herr Aehazian," Thomas Lieven replied.
He had thought it over. Accordingly, as he sat over that magnificent luncheon in the confiscated villa of a Zwickau Nazi he said to the Russian military governor of the town,
Vassili Melanin: "If you'll allow Herr Achazian to leave with me you can have the plans."
"Herr Achazian stays here. And FU have those plans just the same."
"Listen, sir. I've left Herr Marek, the Czech agent, whom of course you know, in the custody of the American jcounter-intelligence corps at Hof. Hell stay in prison unless I come back and release him."
"Well, if he does it'll break my heart, naturally. You give me those plans or you stay here yourself."
"Very well then, 111 stay here," said Thomas.
[6]
On June 1, 1947, Thomas Lieven, Bastian Fabre and Reuben Achazian reached Munich. They were tired but in good shape. They drove out at once to Thomas's villa in Griinwald. He had been obliged to eat several more meals with Colonel Melanin and to participate in even more drinking sessions with him before he could persuade that officer to change his mind. At last they actually parted as friends. But the plans, of course, had to stay in Zwickau.
The three travelers only remained a few days in the Bavarian capital. Thomas explained to Bastian: "We've passed on those plans to the British, the French and the Russians. They'll soon find out that we've altered them. We shall have to assume different names and go for a while to Wiesbaden."
"That's all right with me, boy. I can't stand that character Achazian, though. He's a real racketeer, that chap, wanting to sell weapons and ammunition even today!"
"He won't," said Thomas. "Wait till we get to Wiesbaden. Hell find a surprise waiting for him."
Talking of surprises, the night before the three travelers left Munich they were just finishing a bottle of wine—it was about 7:30 p.m. —when the front doorbell rang. Bastian went to answer it He returned white to the lips. He could only stammer: "C-c-come, please—"
Thomas accompanied him back to the hall. When he saw who was standing there he shut his eyes and reeled, clutching at the doorknob.
"No," he murmured. "Oh, no—"
"Yes," said she of the corn-colored hair, the beautiful consort of Colonel Melanin of Zwickau. "Yes, yes, it's me!"
It was. There she stood, with a huge trunk, looking as youthful and healthy as ever.
"How ... how did you ... I mean, madame ... how did you get across the frontier?"
"By air. There were a whole lot of us. I'm a political refugee. I've been given political asylum. And I want to stay with you and go wherever you're going."
"No."
"Yes. And if you won't let met stay with you I, shall go straight to the police and tell them you took plans to my husband ... and everything else I know about you ..."
"But why? Why should you want to give me away?"
"Because I love you," she calmly declared.
Well, man is a creature of habit
Two months later, in August 1947, Thomas Lieven remarked, in a large apartment which he, Bastian Fabre and Reuben Achazian had rented as working and living accommodation in th§ Pa
rkstrasse at Wiesbaden:
"I really can't imagine what you have against Dunya. She is charming. She cooks for you. She works hard. I find her delightful."
"But she makes too many demands on you," said Bastian. "Just look at your hands shaking!"
"Nonsense," Thomas retorted. But he spoke without conviction, for he did find his new mistress a bit of a strain. Dunya lived in a furnished room close by. She didn't come every evening. But when she did—
In Thomas's few moments of leisure he often thought of Colonel Melanin. He could well understand why the colonel had never been made a general.
At Wiesbaden Thomas Lieven was known as Ernst Heller, with forged papers to match, of course. He had founded a private firm in the name of his foreign colleague, Achazian. The undertaking bought up large quantities of the most various kinds of merchandise and stacked them in the dumps of the Central Disposals Company adjoining the devastated city.
The vast depots contained for sale not only former property of the German Army but also jeeps, trucks and supplies belonging to the American troops which had become obsolete or would not be worth sending back to the United States.
Thomas explained to his friends: "We can't do any business with America because we all have too dubious a past. We shall have to stick to other countries. And they'll have to be
countries at war, which are not allowed to buy from the Disposals Company."
"I can put you in touch with a certain Aristoteles Pangalos, representing Greek partisans, and with one Ho Irawadi of Indo-China," said Reuben Achazian.
"But you can't sell those fellows weapons!" Bastian cried angrily.
Thomas Lieven gave them a ruling. "If we don't sell them weapons somebody else will. So we will sell them weapons. But they won't like them."
"What do you mean?"
"Listen. I've rented an empty factory near Mainz. Well take the powder out of the ammunition and replace it with sawdust. As for tommy-guns, they're packed in chests with certain letters branded on the wood, which is also nailed down and sealed with lead. Tve found a carpenter's shop which will supply us with exactly the same sort of chests with exactly the same sort of lettering. Even the lead seals can be imitated. And soft soap will give the chests the proper weight."
The Monte Cristo Cover-Up Page 44
