It was impossible that he was working on his own. The British would have had him inside a week. Alexsi thought quickly. It had to be that one remaining SS sabotage team, the one Matushkin said they hadn’t caught yet. But the fact that they were still free meant that Ressler could not possibly be in command.
Alexsi snapped the safety back on his pistol and holstered it behind his back. This was one of those nearly unbelievable coincidences that life sometimes threw your way. “Sit down,” he said pleasantly. “I see you finally managed to become operational.” And escape from wherever Uncle Hans put you.
“You know each other?” Erna said.
Alexsi could tell from her tone that she was lying. Ressler had already told her. “Oh, we knew each other well in Berlin. But I can’t seem to recall any mention of you in my mission briefing.”
“I received a signal from Berlin,” said Ressler. “I will be meeting the advance party when they jump in.”
“Says who?” Alexsi demanded. They had both retaken their seats. He was still standing.
Erna got up and handed him the decoded message.
Alexsi read it over. Yes, it was for them. New orders. Not making any sense, but … Actually, now that he thought about it, better for him. “Fine. You can take one of the trucks I’ve already purchased.”
Ressler seemed surprised not to be arguing about it. “No, I’ve already made arrangements.”
“Oh?” Alexsi said pleasantly. “Do you need petrol?”
“I’ve come up with a better idea,” Ressler said proudly.
“Is it a secret?” Alexsi inquired.
“I’ve bought seven camels,” Ressler said.
“You what?” said Alexsi, not quite believing his ears.
“Camels,” said Ressler.
That stopped Alexsi in his tracks while he absorbed the news. “You’re taking camels. You went out and bought camels?”
“Of course.”
Of course. He could just imagine the flea-bitten monsters Ressler would have picked up at market. “I can’t help it. I have to ask. Why camels?”
Now Ressler was the one talking to the fool. “To remain secret, of course. Men on camels will blend in.”
Yes, how could he have been so stupid? They would look exactly like seven Germans on camels. “So you intend to ride camels to the dropping zone, and then on to Teheran? Sixty kilometers?”
“Of course.”
“One more stupid question, if you please. Have you ever ridden a camel?”
Ressler gave him a contemptuous look. “When I bought them.”
“Excellent. Now, will you bring the party to the house I prepared in Teheran, or somewhere else?”
“The house in Teheran,” said Ressler.
“Would you like the address? Directions, perhaps?” Alexsi inquired.
“I already gave them to him,” Erna broke in. “Along with radioing Berlin,” she added. Until then she’d prudently stayed out of the ring while punches were being thrown.
“Yes, the lieutenant has briefed me well,” said Ressler.
“No more questions, then,” said Alexsi. “Anything else I can help you with?”
“I have it all in hand,” said Ressler, smirking.
“When will you be leaving?”
“Almost immediately.”
Yes, it would definitely take some time on camel. “Some food before you go? A drink perhaps? I’m sure it’s been dry with the Qashqai.”
“What do you know about the tribes?” Ressler demanded.
“Probably more than you,” Alexsi said pleasantly. “Unless you’ve picked up Farsi to go with your schoolboy French.”
“I have a few words,” Ressler said defensively.
“I’m sure you do,” Alexsi said, prodding openly now. “Still a captain? I’m one myself now.”
“Yes, I heard.” Ressler forcing himself to be pleasant now. “Perhaps a drink.”
“Vodka?” said Alexsi. He’d gotten it for Erna. The only thing keeping her nerves in check.
“Russian vodka?” With the kind of suspicious emphasis on the word that only a former counterintelligence man could achieve.
“We’re much nearer to vodka right now than schnapps,” Alexsi observed. A nod to Erna. She got up and fetched it, handing them three glasses.
“I thought you didn’t drink,” said Ressler.
“I’m still the same,” said Alexsi. “But I’ll have a sip to wish you good luck before I leave.”
“You’re leaving?” said Ressler.
Alexsi glanced at his watch. “I have to meet a man about another truck in a half hour.”
“You don’t say,” said Ressler.
“Yes, I do,” said Alexsi. “They don’t grow on trees in this country, you know. I assumed you knew that, since you’re not driving one. Though your horse looks quite even tempered,” he added quickly.
Ressler just glowered at him.
Alexsi stared back. It wasn’t Berlin. They were on his ground, now.
Lieutenant Fuchs came up off her chair and held up her glass to them. “Prost,” she said quickly, with that woman’s instinct for impending conflict.
Alexsi would have paid admission to watch Ressler mastering the basics of camel handling. Not to mention what was going to happen out in the desert. At night. With a whole string of the filthy beasts. And six SS signalers who had most assuredly never ridden a camel in their life. Forget about the Russians. Ressler and the signalers might never be seen again due solely to their own volition.
Instead of “prost,” as they touched glasses he said, “Tschuss.” The German word seemed more correct. This wasn’t Until I see you again. This was good-bye.
58
1943 Qom, Iran
Alexsi walked down the street to Mr. Ebrahimi, the grocer. Who had a telephone.
“Ah, my dear Swiss friend!” Mr. Ebrahimi announced.
Alexsi smiled. The neighborhood grocer knew everything about everyone. Everyone shopped there. He delivered food to their homes. He gave them credit. A fine intelligence source, if he had cared about Qom. Which he didn’t. He just needed the telephone. They shook hands, because Mr. Ebrahimi thought that was what you did with a European. “Peace and health,” he said in Farsi.
“Peace and health,” Mr. Ebrahimi said, returning the Salam. “You will have coffee with me?”
“As soon as I impose on your generosity for a brief but important telephone call,” Alexsi said.
“Regard it as yours,” Mr. Ebrahimi said, gesturing toward the old wooden wall phone behind the counter where he settled the bills.
Alexsi slipped through the shoppers to get back there. The counter with its glass displays ringed the store, the walls of shelves behind it. Mr. Ebrahimi’s sons were pulling goods off the shelves for the male customers, his daughters for the women. Because it was Qom and not Teheran.
Alexsi plucked the earpiece from the cradle and turned the magneto crank to ring the local exchange. He had to do it five times before the operator woke up. He gave him Matushkin’s number. Everywhere in the world the telephone operators were women. Except the Middle East. And Russian embassies. And in all cases they were about as efficient as you’d expect men to be in that job.
The embassy switchboard finally tracked Matushkin down, and he picked up. Alexsi spoke in Russian to confound the vast majority of those listening on the line. Plus the fact that he had to shout through the mouthpiece to make himself heard. He made a quick but cryptic explanation. “Yes, that’s right. On his way now. Him, and the six new arrivals I assume you’ve heard about from everyone. Yes, camels. I know, I know. You need to take that into account, so just blocking roads may do you no good. Yes, if worse comes to worst, at the assembly house. But knowing this fellow the way I do, the end result may be all of them lost in the desert forever. Yes, I am heading to the house myself, just in case they make it there. You will have people in the area to back me up, if needed? I know who is coming in today—don’t tell me you don’t have en
ough men. I know you have as many as you need. Yes, I am aware that I am being impertinent again. Very well. I will be driving north soon.” Alexsi hung the earpiece back on its hook.
“No problems, I hope,” Mr. Ebrahimi said.
Alexsi put some money in his hand that Ebrahimi tried to give back. Not very convincingly, but for the sake of form. Alexsi closed the grocer’s fingers around the bills, and they disappeared into Mr. Ebrahimi’s pocket. “You know how it is in business, my friend. Always something.” Churchill was flying in today after having met Roosevelt first in Cairo. Either that or Stalin already being in Teheran had set Matushkin into a dither.
“Shall we have our coffee now?” Mr. Ebrahimi asked.
Alexsi was sorely tempted. Especially since Mr. Ebrahimi’s wife made a wonderful sherbet that went perfectly with her coffee. But he wanted to get to Teheran well before dark. The British checkpoints on the road made the drive twice as long. And between the British soldiers and now the NKVD special troops out hunting German parachutists, that was too many jittery trigger fingers to suit him. At least he wouldn’t be waiting out there in the desert in the middle of the cross fire. “I would enjoy nothing else, my friend. But urgent business calls me away. I promise you, another time.”
“God protect you,” Mr. Ebrahimi said.
59
1943 Qom, Iran
Standing before his Fiat, Alexsi patted his pockets. Where the devil were his keys? Another search, a bit more frantic this time, and then he realized: he had left the keys on the table.
Damn it. He’d almost been grateful to Ressler before, because he’d gotten him out of the house without Erna’s usual withering interrogation on where he was going. Well, there was nothing else to do about it.
Alexsi went in through the front door, without any preliminaries. But the sitting room was empty. Walking through the kitchen, there were no keys on the table where he usually dropped them. This was crazy.
He heard the voices through the open kitchen window, and quickly dropped down out of sight. Ressler and Erna were in the back.
“He’s always out,” she was saying. “Mostly in Teheran. I think that’s why he got the house here in Qom, contrary to orders. He leaves me here, refuses to bring me along, and never says what he is doing. And you know Teheran is full of British and Russians.”
“Is that why you left the control signal out of your messages?” said Ressler.
“Yes,” she said. “I was suspicious of him.”
Alexsi’s mouth fell open in outrage. The lying bitch. She’d fucked up and was now trying to put the blame on him. And Ressler the perfect audience for it. That’s what he got for not shooting her out in the desert.
“I haven’t been sure about sending a signal about him to Berlin,” she said.
“Do it,” said Ressler. “By all means.”
Alexsi quietly slipped back into the sitting room, pulled the frequency crystals from the radio, and crushed them underfoot.
Back in the kitchen he heard Erna say, “Was I correct not to tell him about the second variant?”
“Yes,” said Ressler. “If the main drop doesn’t take place, for any reason, we will carry on regardless. It’s fine, now. I’ve been waiting for years to deal with that traitor.”
That was enough. Alexsi drew his pistol and stepped through the kitchen door. They were both startled. Ressler was quicker getting to his gun than Alexsi would have given him credit for, but then Alexsi already had his ready.
He’d learned to keep shooting until his opponent went down, and Ressler took quite a few shots. In fact Alexsi thought the thirteen-round magazine might run out before Ressler hit the ground, and it gave Erna time to dash around the corner.
Ressler was on his back. His eyes were open in surprise, and his mouth was moving soundlessly. As he ran by, Alexsi put a bullet between his eyes. At least he knew who had done it to him.
By the time he got around the corner Erna was just disappearing around the next one. Alexsi sprinted hard, but he already knew she was light on her feet. And what happened to Ressler wasn’t giving her reason to run any slower.
In another of those coincidences that were doing their best to madden him this day, the street she’d picked to run down was exactly the one where he’d parked his Fiat earlier. And now he knew where his keys had gone, because when he turned that corner she was just climbing into the automobile.
Alexsi fired two quick shots at her, and then the magazine ran out. By the time he got a fresh one into the pistol she had roared off.
All the shooting had aroused the neighborhood, so he was totally blown. As he was tucking the Browning out of sight, two of the Russians who had been watching them came running up, their own Tokarev pistols out.
“After her!” Alexsi shouted in Russian. “She knows about us, and she’s headed for Teheran. You have to tell Matushkin: there’s another German team. That’s the second variant—he’ll understand. They’re prepared to attack, and they may already be in the city.”
“What of the other fascist?” one of the NKVD demanded.
“Dead,” Alexsi replied.
He had to give them credit; they didn’t dawdle. An instant later they were off in their own automobile. Alexsi hoped they had a radio.
He ran back to the house and grabbed the keys to the other vehicle parked in the back. A Citroën P45 truck. He wouldn’t be catching even a Fiat in that, but it would get him to Teheran.
60
1943 Teheran, Iran
The old French truck wheezed and coughed and bounced as it transitioned from the sand-swept and rutted Qom road to the paved streets of Teheran. There were still more automobiles on the streets than horse-drawn carriages. And now, coming in to the southern edges of the city, just shy of the bazaar, soldiers in the uniforms of many countries. Or, in the case of the British, soldiers of one country in many uniforms.
Past the railway station the rickety wooden homes of the outlying poor transitioned to sturdier brick and better streets. Alexsi had chosen this house away from the busier center of the city, with its noisy street-level shops.
Someone was there. He’d been careful to leave the window curtains open. Now they were all shut tight. Could Erna have reached it and managed to get inside, with the Russians on her tail?
Alexsi drove right by and kept going. He stopped the truck at the first place he knew would have a telephone, a pharmacy. It was all old dark wood and glass cabinets filled with bottles. Old-fashioned scales on the counter. You could practically smell the dust.
“I must use your telephone,” he barked as he charged inside.
The pharmacist was an old, gray man who looked as if he might die at any moment. He sputtered under the attack. “I … you cannot … I have orders coming in…”
Alexsi literally threw money at him and took sole possession of the candlestick telephone.
The Soviet embassy switchboard finally picked up. The usual suspicious voices, as if only an enemy of the state would dare to call them. Matushkin wasn’t available. And of course the operator wouldn’t dare to connect him with any NKVD. It was the Soviet embassy, after all. The neighbors didn’t exist. This had to be a provocation to smoke out their identities. Alexsi blustered and threatened, but it did no good. He slammed the earpiece down on the hook and dashed outside.
He left the truck there, trotting down the street and making up a plan on the fly. Of course he had marked out an escape route from every house he ever set foot in. And for this one it would be his way inside.
There was a low wall in the back, where horses had once been tied. All good Iranian houses had walls, as protection from that uncertain world outside. Alexsi climbed up and walked along it until it turned and traveled near the side of the house. Then he was up a trellis attached to the outside wall, which took him up to the second floor. From his days as a thief he’d learned to always go in an upper story. They were never as well locked or guarded as the ground floor. Hanging on to the trellis, he swung over and
slipped his knife into the jam of the nearest window. A twist of the wrist and it slid up enough for him to get his fingers under and open it all the way, very slowly and quietly.
Getting a firm grip on the window frame and pushing off from the trellis, Alexsi dangled for a moment in midair before pulling himself through the window. He walked himself in on his hands until all the way inside.
He crouched there, reaching all the way to the back of his waistband to unholster the Browning. He waited carefully, just listening. If you were patient a house eventually gave up the secret of who was inside. Minutes passed. Nothing.
Carefully, to keep the floor from creaking, Alexsi passed through the room and out into the upstairs hall. He held the pistol cocked and at the ready. It would be a hard day if anyone suddenly appeared behind him, so he checked all the upstairs rooms first. Nothing, though someone had been using the bath. More than one man. Women always left their telltale traces, and never towels on the floor.
Now the dicey part. Down the stairs. Because if anyone was there, and they had heard him, that’s where their weapons would be aimed, waiting for him to show himself.
Alexsi resolved not to make it any easier for them to shoot him. He mounted the wooden banister and slid down it sidesaddle, just like he used to do at the orphanage when the staff wasn’t about. He leaped off just before reaching the bottom and landed in a crouch, arm extended, pistol presented. No one took a shot at him.
He saw something strange in the living room, but he was too wary to go directly to it. Instead he slid around corners, checking the rest of the ground floor first. Even, in his caution, throwing open closets and cabinets. No one there. But the bit of food he’d laid in the pantry was eaten, the sink filled with plates. What in the hell?
Now that he was sure he was alone, back to the living room. And sitting in the middle of the floor was exactly what he thought it was at first sight. A Waffenhalter. A beveled cylindrical container, one and a half meters long, that German paratroops used to airdrop their weapons. A parachute pack on one end, empty on this one, and a corrugated metal shock absorber on the other. Painted in sand camouflage, it sat open on the floor in the midst of the detritus of war. A lot of open and empty sixty-four-round fiber boxes of 9mm ammunition for the MP 40 machine pistol. Hand grenade cases. Blasting cap and safety fuse boxes. A discarded test lamp for a field exploder. And empty wooden crates he had never seen before. They were sitting open, with a rack inside for two of some kind of munitions. But what?
A Single Spy Page 32
