A misleading project identity was only a first line of defense, Philby recognized. Like an ordinary door lock or the ignition on an automobile, its intent was not to discourage the serious professional, but only to warn off the dilettante, the casual thief or intruder, the unobservant. Penetrating this initial line of defense was not something that created much risk for Philby, but he was certain that additional defenses would surround such a program. Fortunately, if the same amateurism that characterized the naming of the program had helped design the additional defenses, he would be in good shape. Still, it never did any harm to overestimate one’s opponent, and he resolved not to lessen his personal security. He planned to be in this game for a long time to come.
Continuing to jot notes on his pad, he summarized his process and results to date and began to list the next questions and steps. His first step had been a survey of current programs and projects. This was fairly straightforward research, involving little direct risk. While there were black projects—so secret that even their names were classified—most secret projects were hidden in the same way as “tube alloys,” buried under ordinary-sounding names and dropped into general lists. It was not a bad approach, in general, though it wouldn’t stand up to a Kim Philby. Fortunately, there weren’t many Kim Philbys out there.
While “tube alloys” was his best candidate, he had five or six other projects that he needed to probe a bit. Depending on the yield from his next probes, his target might change, but for now, he would continue on the course of highest probability.
Of course, the next question was to discover what “tube alloys” really concealed. For that, Kim Philby would draw upon years of personal contacts and relationships throughout government, contacts built from family, from public school and university, from clubs, from positions held, from the web of social class and education that knit the capitalist class structure together. He had developed a large network of agents, many of whom he had recruited to the Communist cause, others who were utterly unaware of their role. As usual, he used the tools of the system he planned to destroy against its own structure, the thought of which never grew tiresome or stale.
A good first step would be to look at the personnel records and organizational structure of the project. Who was who and how did they fit together?
Of course, lifting the personnel records of a classified government program, especially one that served as a cover for an even more secret program, was a dodgy exercise under the best of circumstances. From Kim Philby’s perspective, it was complicated further because it crossed over the respective spheres of influence between MI-5 and MI-6. Because Philby had no intention of sacrificing his cover and his career over this mission, regardless of its importance, he needed plausible deniability should his inquiries receive unwanted scrutiny, which was all too possible no matter how well he ran this operation.
He needed two things: first, a legitimate excuse for the inquiry that was connected with his own operational area, and second, “trade goods” with which to bargain for reciprocal cooperation from the rival service. The second usually posed no problem. The number of favors each service needed from the other tended to be large, and as was the case in bureaucracies, formal requests had to go up the chain to cross over, then down to operational levels, where they automatically enjoyed far lower priority than requests generated internally. Only peer-to-peer requests received active support, and the lack of direct peer-to-peer channels frustrated cooperation and tended to increase mutual hostility. He would have to pay for the cooperation he needed, but he had the necessary currency.
For the legitimate excuse, he needed to create an ostensible German intelligence thrust at “tube alloys,” which would necessitate his own investigation as part of turning or defeating the threat. This was a matter of simulating incoming traffic from his network of agents over a period of time—a few weeks would suffice—allowing him to build a case and generate a memorandum, for surely nothing in this world was real without a memorandum to certify its reality.
As Deputy Chief of Section 5 of MI-6, Philby was high enough to arrange direct peer-to-peer contact with MI-5. He had relationships of long standing, and by offering his own services in support, soon he would be in possession of the critical details of the Directorate of Tube Alloys.
And then he would have enough information to justify a report to Moscow.
His next steps developed, he decided that this day was done. Time to burn his notes, take up his pipe, and do some pleasant reading before bedtime.
HEADQUARTERS, SECOND GUARDS TANK ARMY, EAST OF POZNAN, POLAND, 1954 HOURS GMT
Colonel Krigoff took a breath of the cold night air and willed the frigid temperature to cool his nerves. Nevertheless, he felt sweaty and agitated, almost giddy, as he approached the gate of the compound where the staff officers were encamped. He had been called from his trailer office by a sentry, who had reported to him—breathlessly—that there was a woman asking to see him. That, he assumed, could only mean one thing.
Indeed, Paulina Koninin was pacing restlessly outside the gate. She smiled nervously when she saw him approaching, even stood at a semblance of attention as he spoke to the captain of the guard post.
“She is an official visitor,” the colonel explained. “I assume you have already checked her identification papers?”
“Yes, Comrade Colonel! She has proper documentation, as a member of the State Film Bureau, but no pass for this compound. As you know, regulations require—”
“Yes, of course, an official escort. You did well to summon me immediately.” Krigoff nodded at the man, then turned to Paulina, his expression forcibly masked to conceal his current state of delight from the lower-ranking officer. “Comrade Koninin, would you care to join me in the officers’ mess? It is somewhat warm in there, at least, and at this hour we will be able to talk, uninterrupted.”
“Thank you very much, Comrade Colonel,” she said, coming through the gate. Feeling rather dashing, he extended his arm, and felt a tingle of delight as she took his elbow. They walked through the compound, which had once been a village square but was now surrounded only by a few tattered walls indicating where buildings had stood. The vehicles of the army headquarters, massive trucks and heavy trailers, were parked around the periphery, looming larger than the small houses they replaced. The ground was covered in slush, which the two Russians easily kicked out of the way, their worn boots slick and wet.
The officers’ mess was simply a large, walled tent. A sentry pulled aside the door flap and they entered, immediately surrounded by humid warmth. Kerosene lanterns cast enough light to illuminate long tables and benches, with a few groups of men sitting here and there, engaged in quiet chat or sharing bottles of vodka. Two large coal stoves radiated heat, and they sat beside the nearest of these while Krigoff sent an orderly for two cups of tea.
“Forgive me for coming to see you like this,” Paulina said, tugging at her eyepatch and nervously looking around the cavernous enclosure.
“Nonsense! It is always a pleasure to see you!” he replied at once. This was the truth, and in fact he didn’t really care why she wanted to see him; he was just glad she was here. He waited for her to speak, enjoying the faint flush that seemed to color her ruddy, weather-chapped cheek.
“Perhaps you know that the State Film Bureau is assigning photographers to cover the advance of Comrade Marshal Zhukov’s armies?” she said tentatively. “Of course, the objectives of the operation are secret. I in no way wish to breach this security!”
“Of course not,” Krigoff said soothingly. “But I do know that the heroic exploits of the Red Army are subjects of historical interest, and it is important that they be recorded. As to the First Belorussian Front—well, you certainly know that I am with the Second Guards Tank Army, and that we form the spearhead of Comrade Marshal Zhukov’s advance.”
“Yes, I do know that. There is a crew that will be assigned to accompany the leading elements of your army, as a matter of fact. My superiors are cur
rently making these selections. However, the director bears some outdated ideas regarding the respective roles of his female photographers, and it is becoming apparent to me that he has me in mind for some rear-echelon task, instead.”
Krigoff felt a rush of indignation sweep through him, and he almost pounded his fist on the table. Instead, he leaned closer and, feeling exceptionally daring, reached out to take her hand. “That would be an outrage!” he snapped. “I was with you in the airplane over Warsaw—I saw your courage, your steadiness firsthand!”
“I was hoping you would remember that,” she said, with a reassuring squeeze of his fingers.
“Tell me, is there something I can do that might help? I cannot countenance such a waste of your skills, especially for a fatuous concern like this—does your director not understand the important role that the women of Russia have played in this great war?”
“I believe that he knows,” she said. “But I am not sure he approves.”
With a shake of his head, Krigoff all but condemned the man to a lifetime in the gulag—though that could come later. For now, he would deal with the immediate problem. “I will speak to my commissar,” he told her. “And specifically ask that you be assigned to our headquarters. If necessary, I will personally see that you have a place with the leading battalion of our tank army!”
“Thank you, Alexis Petrovich—”
“Please, call me Alyosha … Paulina,” he said, staring into her one eye, wondering if she could perceive the passion burning within him. It was not merely the passion of a man for a woman, of course—although that passion was certainly present—but the passion of two people toward a cause that was destined to transcend all of human history.
She squeezed his hand again, and he knew that she understood. He smiled, and led her from the mess back toward his quarters.
509TH COMPOSITE BOMBING GROUP, WENDOVER FIELD, UTAH, USA, 2345 HOURS GMT
General Groves got out of the car and stretched. He liked this place—it was perfect for the purpose it served. The great salt flats of this remote valley extended to the horizon to the north and south, allowing for smooth runways many miles long, with clear, unobstructed flying space beyond. To the east and west the ridges of dry mountain ranges framed this very secret base, served to keep operations safe from prying eyes.
Nearby, a line of B-29s was arrayed beside a hangar, while farther off another one of the big, silver bombers revved its engines for takeoff. Groves stood still and watched the sleek aircraft rumble down the runway, looking oddly stilted on its tripod of landing gear. The takeoff ran for more than two miles, bringing the bomber right past the general. He turned and watched, waiting for it to rise from the ground, following the image of the long metallic wings shimmering in the late-afternoon heat over the desert—until there was a slight falter in the pitch of the big Wright engines.
“Damn,” he muttered under his breath, knowing that takeoff was aborted. The bomber was clearly slowing down now; it would idle back here over the next hour, and the ground crew would go to work on the temperamental engines one more time. How long would it be before they got those bugs worked out?
“General Groves. We’ve been expecting you, sir. Would you like to come inside?”
He turned to see that Colonel Tibbets had come up behind him. The commander of the 509th led the visiting general into a spartan office at the end of a Quonset hut. They sat on hard folding chairs, across from each other at a small desk, and Groves knew the colonel well enough to understand that he wouldn’t be getting a drink stronger than a Coke.
“When can we move out, General?” asked Tibbets, sort of plaintively. “We’ve been training here for near six months now! I understand they have space set aside for us on one of those Marianas bases—Tinian, right? General, these men deserve to get into the war before this whole thing is over! Now I hear the marines have landed on Iwo Jima—look at the map! Are we going to let the foot soldiers win this war—and God knows how many of them get killed—when we could do it from the air?”
“Relax, Paul.” Groves was not in the mood for his subordinate’s zealotry. “Yeah, we have Iwo—and it was a bloodbath. And there’s space for the Five-oh-ninth on Tinian. The plan, last I heard, is still to get you guys over there. But the gadget’s not going to be ready for months, yet—”
“Still, we can practice with the dummies! You had the pumpkins made, didn’t you?”
“Yes. You convinced me to have all seventy-five made. I still don’t like the idea of dropping them outside of the country, though. You can get plenty of practice right here in Utah. And if that’s not big enough, I can get you Nevada, too.”
Tibbets pursed his lips and drew a breath through his nose. Any normal man would have resorted to profanity at this point, but not the devout colonel. “Then, what is the holdup? What can you do about it?”
Groves leaned forward, and looked the pilot right in the eyes. He kept his voice low, and Tibbets shifted in his chair, moving closer to hear. “There is a chance—just a chance, right now—that the Five-oh-ninth will be needed in Europe.”
The colonel’s eyes widened. “You don’t mean … ? But the Germans, they’re finished, right?”
Without wavering his gaze, the general continued. “It is possible that Japan will not be the greatest enemy facing us by the end of this year. And if that’s the case, Paul, then this country is going to need you. And I mean, really need you.”
20 FEBRUARY 1945
SHAEF HEADQUARTERS, REIMS, FRANCE, 0817 HOURS GMT
Eisenhower looked out the window at the railway station. He drummed his fingers on the desk. “What the hell is the matter with Rommel? Dammit, we’ve got to get the goddamn Germans moving eastward again, or else we’re going to be looking straight in the face of a Russian occupation!”
“Ike, this concentration-camp thing has thrown everybody for a loop,” Bradley replied. “We knew it was there, but nobody could imagine what it was going to look like close up. And Rommel … well, hell, Ike, how would you feel if this was a marine-run prison camp in Louisiana?”
Eisenhower stretched his neck and reached a hand back to rub a sore spot. “Dammit, I understand,” he said. “It was unbelievable. And you’re right. If I discovered it was Americans behaving like that, I don’t know what the hell I would do. Jesus Christ, how could the Nazis do something like that? There were children in that place. Children!” He threw up his hands in disgust.
Bradley nodded. “I’m seeing some of the preliminary reports from last night. It looks like there’s another one outside Munich—Dachau, I think they called it. And, if you can believe it, they say the worst ones are all in Poland. That means the Soviets will find them first, and God knows what kind of propaganda they’ll put out.”
“Lampshades made of human skin—barbaric!” Eisenhower shook his head. “But what are we going to do about Rommel? I understand he’s just ordered everybody to stand still or help clean up the camp.”
“That’s right,” Bradley replied. “Von Manteuffel’s chief of staff, and so he’s technically running things. It’s a Junker-style army, you know, where the chief of staff basically keeps things moving while the Prussian aristocrat struts around the front lines and looks brave. Rommel, of course, is a lot more hands-on than most, but even so, he’s laid down the law. Von Manteuffel’s not planning to move unless it’s on Rommel’s say-so. And Rommel isn’t saying so.”
“So, what is Rommel doing? Carting food and dead bodies?”
“That’s about the size of it. He’s basically taking over as latrine orderly for the camp, shoveling shit and sweeping the barracks. I expect he’ll put himself on KP next and we’ll find him peeling potatoes.” Bradley shook his head, disgusted.
“Oh, hell, Brad, I can understand it all right, even sympathize to some extent. But we can’t afford to have him do a whole atonement production. We need him back in action. He ain’t exactly Gandhi, you know.”
“Don’t let Winston hear you say that,” said Bra
dley, grinning. It was well known that Churchill strongly disliked Gandhi and his movement for Indian independence.
“We’ve got to go talk to him,” Eisenhower said, swiveling around and placing both hands on his desk. “Tell him what he has to do. Hell, maybe we can tell him that getting moving is the best way to liberate the rest of these camps. Find the guilty and lock them up. Whaddaya think?”
“Worth a shot. We’ve got to do something.”
“I’ll have Kay drive us there right after lunch. Dammit, I’ve got to see this for myself.” Eisenhower’s voice became firmer as he made a decision.
“Yeah. I think I probably need to see this too,” Bradley replied. “What else have you got?”
Eisenhower shuffled through a few more papers and came up with a memo. “From the president. See what you make of it.”
Bradley ran his eyes quickly over the memorandum, and picked out the important section.
I HAVE INFORMED PREMIER STALIN THAT UNDER NO CIRCUMSTANCES ARE SOVIET TROOPS TO ENTER BERLIN. AS A RESULT OF THE SOVIET/GERMAN SEPARATE PEACE, PREVIOUS AGREEMENTS AMONG THE ALLIES WITH RESPECT TO POST-WAR AREAS OF OCCUPATION NO LONGER APPLY. NOW THAT THE SOVIETS HAVE RESUMED HOSTILITIES AGAINST THE NAZI FORCES, THEY MAY CONTINUE TO ADVANCE AGAINST OPPOSITION, BUT ONLY AS FAR AS THE ODER RIVER. YOU WILL OCCUPY BERLIN AS SOON AS PRACTICAL, AND ENSURE THAT SOVIET FORCES FOLLOW THE GUIDELINES SET FORTH ABOVE.
Bradley shook his head. “So, we’re going to walk into Berlin and when Zhukov and his boys show up, we’re going to say ‘Shoo!’?”
“Yep. That’s what it looks like.”
“And you expect them to turn around and walk back across the Oder like good little Russians?”
“That’s what the president expects to happen, at least according to this memo.”
Fox at the Front (Fox on the Rhine) Page 40
