“Not at all,” Alexsi said, still smiling.
Down in the signal section he signed the post log for one of the transmitter rooms reserved for training. “I’m going to do some speed work training to Hamburg,” Alexsi said to the duty sergeant. “Do you have a useless old message in code I can send without anyone getting upset?”
The sergeant pulled a paper flimsy off a pile impaled on a metal spike. “Here you are, Lieutenant.”
“Thanks,” Alexsi said.
Ressler coughed.
“I’ve signed you in as an observer,” Alexsi said.
“Finally got someone to let you sit in, eh, Captain?” The sergeant said it with borderline insolence, confident in the impunity his technical expertise gave him.
Ressler just glowered at him.
There were already two chairs in the booth, for an instructor if needed. Ressler took one and shook a cigarette out of his pack.
“If you don’t mind,” said Alexsi. “Smoke isn’t good for the electronics.” Actually, he didn’t want him stinking the place up. The room reeked of stale tobacco anyway.
“Oh, of course,” said Ressler, putting it away.
Alexsi switched on the transmitter and let it warm up.
“Tell me what each one does,” Ressler demanded, eyeing the wall of dials, switches, and needles with childlike delight.
“Here, you set the frequency,” said Alexsi, pointing to the dial. “Abwehr Hamburg is twenty-one meters. There, that’s it.”
While Ressler was ever so carefully dialing the number in, Alexsi disconnected the power switch to the Morse key.
“Is that it?” Ressler asked anxiously.
“Close enough,” said Alexsi. “We’ll probably have to adjust it once we start.”
“All this marvelous technology,” said Ressler. “Vacuum tubes and crystals and electric wires.”
When he finally sat down, Alexsi put his hand on the key and tapped out RESSLER LOVES TO BE BUGGERED IN HIS ASS. Not even a twitch of recognition came across the captain’s face as the key clicked away. He was the type who would find it impossible to keep his composure in the face of any insult, so he definitely could not read Morse code. This radio fascination wasn’t an act after all, he marveled.
“What are you sending now?” Ressler asked.
“Just warming up the fingers.”
Alexsi switched the power key back to on and began tapping out code. “Hamburg is call sign AOR. And I’m sending a series of V’s until they come in.” He tapped, and paused. In a moment faint dots and dashes came through the static of the speaker. Alexsi leaned forward, adjusted the tuning dial slightly, and kept sending. The Morse from Hamburg came in clearer now. “All right, we have each other.” He tapped away. “Now I’m telling them in the clear that this is training, transmission speed practice, I’m sending a message that doesn’t need to be decoded, and I’m sending it more than once.”
Ressler nodded without looking at him, his face rapt at the sight of the bouncing power needles.
Hamburg acknowledged, and gave him GA for “go ahead.” With the message paper clipped to the metal holder, Alexsi began sending rapid Morse. Except he wasn’t sending the message in front of him. He was sending his own coded message about Operation Barbarossa, the invasion of the Soviet Union.
When he’d lost his radio and nearly been caught, Alexsi had sent an invisible writing letter to the NKVD postal box in Berlin, letting them know and telling them to listen for him sending practice messages to Abwehr Hamburg. Which they monitored as a matter of course. The Abwehr had him practicing wireless for his mission anyway, so it would be good cover, though very risky. Anyone looking into it closely might ask questions he would have a hard time answering.
Abwehr agents used a hand code since they couldn’t very well carry the standard Enigma coding machine along with them. Their columnar transposition hand code was based on a keyword and sent letters in groups of five, so he also gave the Russians a simple letter substitution for the 0–9 numerals of his Soviet code. In any event he had memorized the message he was sending, because now there was no way in the world he would carry anything incriminating around on his person.
He sent the message, and AR to indicate the end. Then KA to begin and repeated it faster as if it was part of the exercise. “That’s it,” he said to Ressler.
“How do you do it so fast? I couldn’t even make out the difference between the dots and the dashes.”
“It’s just a matter of practice. An experienced operator can even identify you from the way you tap out a message. They call it your fist.”
“I’ve heard of that,” said Ressler.
Actually, the Russians had taught him a few simple tricks to disguise his fist. You just had to send with a few specific quirks as a matter of routine, then be careful to transmit smooth and either fast or slow when you wanted to conceal yourself. “Now we’ll see what Hamburg says about my speed.”
The dots and dashes came over the speaker, and Alexsi translated them out loud. “They say that the speed of the first was well above the standard operator, and the second was first class.”
“Well done,” said Ressler.
“I hope that wasn’t too boring for you.”
“Not at all.” Now his face was nothing but longing. “I’ve always wanted to train in wireless. But I never had the opportunity.”
“Perhaps one day,” Alexsi said. He signed off with Hamburg and powered down the transmitter. “You can have that cigarette now.”
“Oh, right,” said Ressler.
Alexsi signed out in the log, and gave the message flimsy back to the sergeant. Who stuck it back on the sent-message spike, to be forgotten. That was that.
“Now what about some lunch?” he said to Ressler.
41
1940 Berlin
The new maid went to the window to check the blackout curtains, even though the British bombers hadn’t raided Berlin in four months. And then only one night when they barely even managed to hit the city. But predictably Hitler had flown into a rage, made one of his bloodthirsty public speeches, and the air force had been blitzing London ever since.
“Thank you, Elke,” Hans Schultz said.
The way Elke looked at his uncle on her way out made Alexsi think he was fucking her. He just lay back in the padded leather club chair, stretched his legs out, and shook his head when his uncle held up a cigar. The rump steak had to have come from the black market—nearly an entire week’s ration almost crowding the potatoes and winter cabbage right off the plate.
“Was your farewell dinner all right?” Hans Shultz asked gruffly.
“Delicious, thank you, Uncle.”
“So, do you feel ready for this?”
“I do, Uncle,” Alexsi said.
“Well, I know you have wits,” Hans Shultz said. “Just make sure you keep them about you.”
Alexsi grinned, knowing this was the German equivalent of a Russian weeping with emotion. Though you always had to watch the hands of a Russian weeping with emotion. For weapons. “I will, Uncle. There is something I wanted to talk to you about, though.”
“So?”
“There is an SD captain in Abwehr counterintelligence. Not a bright fellow by any means, but a certain cunning. He seems quite suspicious of my Russian.”
Hans Shultz was fully alert now. “How much trouble has this fellow made?”
“He has no proof, nothing but suspicions. He has no credibility within Abwehr, but he is energetic.”
Hans Shultz produced a small leather-bound notebook and a silver mechanical pencil from his jacket pocket. “What is his name?”
“Ressler, Uncle. Hauptsturmführer Kurt Ressler.”
“SD you say?”
“Yes, Uncle.”
Hans Schultz jotted down a note. “This fellow probably needs to burn off all that extra energy hunting Jews in Poland.”
Alexsi just nodded. That was that.
Echoing his own thoughts, Hans Shultz said,
“It is probably better you are leaving Berlin.” Now he coughed, as if he were embarrassed. “When you told me where you were headed, well…” He hesitated, and then, “I wonder if you would do me a service.”
Ears prickling with suspicion, Alexsi still said, “Of course, Uncle.” This was classic Hans. Even though you both knew you were obligated, he would still remind you that you owed him, however subtly.
Alexsi had mentioned that he would be leaving for Vienna and Switzerland. But nothing else. He wasn’t about to risk any unintentional loose talk that might result in people whose acquaintance he didn’t wish to make awaiting his arrival in Iran. After all, he couldn’t be the only spy in Berlin.
Hans Shultz rose and unlocked a door in the wall cabinet, withdrawing a leather case. He sat it on the table in front of his nephew and resumed his seat by the fire. “For when you are in Zurich.”
Alexsi made a “may I?” gesture, and his uncle nodded. He opened the case. It was filled with neatly banded stacks of high-denomination Reichsmarks. A tidy sum. Uncle had been doing deals for more than rump steaks. Well, the world ran on blat. If you had influence and you didn’t present a bill for your services, then you were a fool. And Uncle Hans was no fool.
“The bank and account information is in the envelope, nephew. You will deposit these marks, but the account is in Swiss francs. The Swiss will give you no problems. There will be a fee for the currency conversion, of course. With the Swiss there is always a fee.” He paused. “I assume you will be able to pass over the Reich borders without undue difficulty?”
Alexsi was still gazing down at the money. Because he was Abwehr there would be no German search at the Swiss border, and the Swiss were happy to let you bring in as much money as you wished as long as you were going to leave it there. “This will not be a problem, Uncle.”
“Good. Good. I certainly appreciate it.”
Alexsi opened the envelope. “It is a numbered account? No name?”
“Yes. Better to keep these things confidential.”
Alexsi nodded. It was illegal to hold a foreign bank account. The Nazis didn’t keep that airtight seal over every single aspect of your life the way the Soviets did, but they still liked their thumb on you and your money. A Swiss bank account, they felt, was a sign you didn’t think the Third Reich was really going to last a thousand years after all.
He took the letter over to the fireplace and set it in the flames. “I will remember the bank information, Uncle. And the case will remain in an Abwehr safe until I leave for Switzerland.”
“Of course. Very wise. Very wise, indeed. You know, nephew, I must tell you frankly that my own son was a great disappointment to me. I do not feel the same of you.”
Alexsi was neither surprised nor overcome with emotion. After all, he did everything the old man wanted. “Thank you, Uncle. That means a great deal to me. I will never be able to thank you properly for taking me into your home.”
“No need for that. Just bring yourself back to it, safe.” Hans Shultz was on his feet again, and gazing at the silver-framed photographs on the shelves of his cabinet. “When my father sent me off to war he told me he would have a mass said every week for my safe return. And unlike so many others I did return. But I know I was not the only soldier who had masses said for him, and the others died by the millions.” Now he turned and faced his nephew. “It’s pleasant to think of God as the driving force of our lives, isn’t it? But I will tell you, my boy, God is not the driving force of our lives. Nature is. And nature is not kind.”
42
1940 Berlin
Alexsi woke early the next morning and turned on his radio. It must have been a fine day in the ionosphere, because the Morse code from Moscow came in crystal clear.
The message was very short. Well, they wouldn’t be effusive in their congratulations, would they? Regardless of the magnitude of his information. That was all right. A simple well done would be sufficient. He consulted his almanac and deciphered the message. And it stared up from the paper at him, in block letters.
YOU ARE CATEGORICALLY ORDERED TO CEASE RELAYING BRITISH PROVOCATIONS.
Fuck all their mothers!
How in the devil could he, sitting in Berlin amongst a sea of Germans, even know what a British provocation was?
Alexsi crumpled the paper up in his fist and tried to calm himself. He sat back, closed his eyes, and concentrated hard, trying to reason out an explanation for this madness. No one in the NKVD would have the courage to do this on their own. It had to mean Stalin himself had decided there would be no German invasion, and any intelligence to the contrary was just a British trick to try to drag him into the war on their side. That was the party line, and everyone was following it. Well, Alexsi thought, if that’s how it is, then good luck to you, Iosef. That’s the last you’ll hear of it from me.
This was probably going to be one of those very rare times when everyone would get exactly what they deserved.
PART III
Operation Countenance
43
1941 Turkey
It was a disappointment. The vaunted Orient Express was a casualty of war. The victorious German Mitropa rail line had replaced the conquered Belgian Wagons-Lits, and the luxury sleeping cars had gone the way of mundane sitting cars and couchettes. Bread and coffee for breakfast, and if you didn’t care for the brief menu of soups and stews, you were free to go hungry. Alexsi just listened with amusement to the other passengers complain. They should try a Soviet prison train sometime.
It had been difficult leaving Zurich. A wonderful country, Switzerland—as long as you had money, which he did courtesy of the Abwehr. He’d learned many things there. The textile business from a Swiss company whose majority stockholder was German intelligence. The ins and outs of both Swiss banking and the financial affairs of Uncle Hans. And the perfect excuse for keeping away from the NKVD.
At least the journey from Zurich to Istanbul was incredibly fast. Only six days. The political situation in Yugoslavia made the shorter line through that country too dangerous for German trains. Hungary was all right, as long as you liked your food heavy and full of paprika, but Bulgaria in the wintertime made rural Russia look like Switzerland.
He recognized his contact immediately when the man boarded the Istanbul to Ankara train at Eskisehir. Still wearing a Russian suit, a mistake that made him stand out like a lighthouse beacon. He dropped down next to Alexsi in the sitting car and rubbed his jaw morosely.
Alexsi set his book down on his lap and regarded him. “Feeling all right?” he asked politely in German.
“Terrible toothache,” said Sergei from Moscow and that very first meeting in the park at Munich. “But I have a dentist appointment in Ankara.”
“Make sure you go to one who uses the nitrous gas,” Alexsi advised. “It’s quite painless.”
“Thank you,” said Sergei. “Would you happen to know what time it is?”
Alexsi held up his wrist so his watch was visible.
“You’ve filled out,” Sergei observed. “You look quite well, actually.”
I’m not so hungry anymore, Alexsi thought. No more feeding dishes of sausages into my face, and mistaking bandsmen for policemen. He reached into his jacket pocket and took out a large cardboard packet of Turkish cigarettes. He handed it to Sergei. “Here, keep the pack.” There was no one else within earshot, though everyone still had eyes.
Sergei opened it so only he could see. There was one cigarette and the rest of the space was filled with tightly packed onionskin. He removed a cigarette and lit it, casually slipping the packet into his pocket. One puff and he removed it from his mouth, staring at the burning cylinder between his fingers. “These will take some getting used to.” And then, “You’ve done well.”
“Really?” said Alexsi. “Listening to the radio gives the impression that everyone is unhappy with me.”
“No one expects your information to be one hundred percent accurate all of the time,” Sergei replied smoothly. “
Your penetration of German intelligence has been beyond all our dreams for you. You give us gold. Never think this has not been noticed.”
“You don’t say. Were you aware that they threw me out of the Soviet consulate in Zurich as a provocateur? I nearly had the Swiss police on me after the scene they made.”
Sergei said, “Rest assured, the fools involved have been disciplined.”
“I had to follow one of the neighbors,” Alexsi said, using the Soviet slang for an intelligence officer, “and make him accept a message at knifepoint. A blade under his chin as I stuffed the paper into his pocket. Picture that.”
“You must understand that these are troubled times,” said Sergei. “The Organs are in a state of flux at the present.”
Alexsi paused to translate that statement. Stalin was still more interested in shooting Russians than in being invaded by Germans. He was purging State Security as well as the party and the army. It was just like the French Revolution. Terror devouring itself. Well, Stalin had to keep killing off his band of murderers, didn’t he? Before they woke up one day and decided to kill him. “You know the Germans are poised to take advantage of that,” he said.
“Have no fear,” Sergei replied. “We are ever on guard against our enemies.”
Of course you are, Alexsi thought. Another Russian parrot, squawking out his slogans. Well, that was the last he’d mention it. “So how is my old master?”
“He sends his fraternal greetings and commends your work as a true Soviet fighter.”
Alexsi leaned back in his seat. So Yakushev was purged, also. If he wasn’t dead or in a camp somewhere, there would have been a message characteristic of him. “What of you?” he said to Sergei. “Moving up in the world?”
“We all serve the Soviet Union,” Sergei said quietly.
“How true,” Alexsi replied.
“How will you reach Iran?” Sergei asked, as if the conversation had gotten too hot for him.
“I’ll try for a plane in Ankara,” Alexsi said. “I don’t relish a horseback trip through the mountains. Who knows what mood the Kurds are in.”
A Single Spy Page 24
