The Nazi's Son

by Andrew Turpin

  “The situation is now very different,” Johnson said. “Yezhov is no longer alive, and with him has gone the information he held, possibly for good.”

  “But don’t you want to consider the possibility that the reason Yezhov is dead is because of the nature of that historic information? Doesn’t that pique your interest?”

  “I think that’s unlikely,” Vic interrupted. “Let’s be honest. It was almost certainly a self-protective move, given that Yezhov was about to blow the mole’s cover. That was the prime reason. It’s obvious.”

  “We don’t know that for sure,” Nicklin-Donovan said with a faint grin. “It could be either reason. Or maybe both. But my thinking is that if Joe were, hypothetically speaking, of course, to go away and do some private investigative work into why a mole might want to suppress historic information, he would need to find out who that mole is. Or am I barking up the wrong tree?”

  Vic paused and sipped his coffee. “Then if he finds out, you could take the credit for unearthing the bastard.” A thin grin crossed his mouth. “But if he doesn’t?”

  “In that case, everyone goes home quietly, and Joe gets on with his next search for a ninety-year-old Nazi commander hiding in Baltimore or somewhere,” Nicklin-Donovan said. He inclined his head toward Johnson. “It’s somewhat off-piste for me to be suggesting this rather than getting my own teams to investigate, I know. But I need to know what secrets Yezhov had, and I need to know how the operation leaked. I don’t want to make such inquiries out on the open prairie, so to speak, and I know you do that kind of thing very well.”

  “I don’t think it’s for me,” Johnson said. “I think you guys need to deal with this now. Isn’t it more about the present than the past? I feel the dead hand of the Russian president—he must have given the green light to what happened in Berlin.”

  “If I launch an official inquiry, I’ll need to ask C to inform the foreign secretary about what happened,” Nicklin-Donovan said. “And included in that intel report would be details of the failure of the CIA operation on the ground to bring the defector in safely. She would then most likely feel obliged to brief the rest of the government and perhaps have to make some sort of public statement. You can imagine the media frenzy that would ensue. Alternatively, Joe could just stay for a couple of weeks and see what might emerge from a rather more unofficial inquiry.”

  Which you could deny was ever taking place, Johnson thought. Typical bureaucratic ass-covering.

  Johnson glanced at Vic. At the back of his mind there was still the feeling that Vic probably did want him to do this. If he could somehow find out the information Yezhov was intending to pass on, it would represent Vic’s last chance to get closure on what had happened to his brother—and so many other victims—in La Belle years ago. And he figured Vic must also be almost as desperate as Nicklin-Donovan to find out who the mole was, if only for the sake of all the joint operations that could be blown in the future if the SVR agent continued to operate unimpaired.

  Should I give it a couple of weeks?

  “All right,” Johnson found himself saying, almost instinctively. “I’ll do a couple of weeks, and that’s all. If nothing turns up, I’m heading back home. You two can split the cost or agree on whatever suits you both.”

  Nicklin-Donovan smiled. “Thank you.”

  “You’re going to owe us for this,” Vic said.

  “I’m sure the tables will be turned at some point,” Nicklin-Donovan said. “As you’ll doubtless discover in your newly elevated position at Langley.”

  Johnson folded his arms. “There’ll be a few conditions, though.”

  “What?” Nicklin-Donovan asked.

  “First, no hassle from your guys. I don’t want to find counterintelligence hounds from your service following me around Western Europe like our family dog, Cocoa, when we’re late giving him dinner. Hands off, okay?”

  Nicklin-Donovan threw up his hands. “Okay, okay. And the other conditions?”

  “I’ll need help with this. So second, perhaps you can both ensure I get access to whatever equipment, resources, and information I need. Including phone, email, data monitoring, and so on, as needed, from both the MI6 and CIA sides.”

  “Not officially, no. Unofficially, yes.”

  “Thanks. Third, I bring in Jayne Robinson to work with me on this, even if it’s only for a short period.”

  Nicklin-Donovan exhaled a little. “Does that mean doubling my budget?”

  Johnson shrugged and spread his hands wide.

  “Anything else?”

  “Is this investigation being kept solely between us, or will you need to inform others?” Johnson asked. “I would prefer the former.”

  Nicklin-Donovan hesitated. “So would I, in theory. But we live in the real world. I will probably need to inform a very small circle—that is, the people who were at Vauxhall Cross earlier. If I didn’t, and they found out, there would be hell to pay. I’d lose my job.”

  Johnson glanced at Vic, who shrugged. It wasn’t ideal.

  “I am having some analysis done on the leaks that have happened over recent months to see if there is a pattern and also whether there is any correlation with known changes in personnel at the rezidentura here,” Nicklin-Donovan said. “That work should be completed imminently, so I will let you know the outcome.”

  “That’s sensible,” Johnson said, turning back to Nicklin-Donovan. “But if we are to get involved in an investigation, there is also the issue of where to start, or rather with whom. Can you give me a clue?”

  Nicklin-Donovan stood and walked to the window, looking down the garden toward the River Thames across the other side of the street. He tapped his fingers on the window ledge.

  “This might sound like an odd suggestion from me, seeing as I’m second in charge of the service.” He turned and leaned back against the window ledge, supporting himself with his hands behind his back. “But this is another reason why I’ve brought you all the way out here to discuss this. I would like you to start by having a close look at someone in my camp.”

  “Who?” Johnson asked.

  “Our head of Berlin station, Rick Jones. I’ve been considering putting him under the microscope for some time. Now I’ve got an excuse.”

  “There were certain aspects of the operation involving him that I was concerned about,” Johnson said. “He seemed a little disengaged, and there was the late arrival of his bogus taxi. That meant BLACKBIRD was standing on the sidewalk for quite some time before he was shot.”

  “Yes, and why didn’t he get the taxi to stop?” Vic asked. “He drove straight past. Then he was more concerned with concocting a story to feed to the German media.”

  Nicklin-Donovan nodded. “Those are things we need to look at, yes. But there’s more to it than that.”

  “Such as?” Vic asked.

  “A few reasons. One is purely administrative in that as head of station, he’s frankly been an underperformer who’s been struggling somewhat to develop the sources and assets we need. He’s got a slight booze problem, apparently, according to my sources. I’ve been seriously considering removing him from that role—possibly removing him from the service altogether.”

  “That’s a performance issue. You could probably say that about a lot of people,” Johnson said. “Anything else?”

  “Yes. I’ve also been told that he might have some sources about whom he’s not reporting back to us, which is not just odd for someone in his position, it’s dangerous and it’s worrying me. Those worries have multiplied massively given what happened to Yezhov.”

  “You think he might be on someone’s payroll,” Johnson said. “And if so, might he have knowledge of the historical information Yezhov was going to pass on?”

  Nicklin-Donovan shrugged. “Don’t know. I’m not ruling anything out. That’s why I want to find out more.”

  Chapter Nine

  Sunday, March 23, 2014

  London

  The two boarding passes that Johnson had
printed at his hotel sat side by side on Jayne Robinson’s dining table.

  Jayne emerged from the bathroom at her apartment in Whitechapel, in the east end of London, wearing a bathrobe around her slim frame and with a towel wrapped around her short dark hair.

  She had always been naturally attractive, and Johnson couldn’t help noticing the glow that she had following her shower. His eyes lingered on her face for a while as she stopped next to the table and glanced down.

  “What the hell are these?” she said. “Berlin?”

  Johnson had arrived at her second-floor apartment twenty minutes earlier than he had indicated to find Jayne answering the door in her robe, about to take a shower after a gym session. The traffic back into central London from Datchet had been light, and unusually, there had been no holdups. Likewise for the cab journey to Jayne’s place from his hotel in west London, near to Vauxhall Cross, where he was staying.

  He then had to wait while she disappeared into her bathroom to get ready.

  “Yes, Berlin. We’re going tomorrow morning. That okay?” Johnson said with a straight face. “Although you don’t have to, if you don’t want to.”

  Jayne placed her hands on her hips.

  Like a double teapot, Johnson thought.

  “Can you just explain what’s going on? You’ve been to see Mark—I thought that was for a final washup over what happened in Berlin?”

  Before leaving the German capital, Johnson had texted her briefly to explain he was traveling to London with Vic to see Nicklin-Donovan for a final briefing before heading back home.

  “Yes, I thought so too—Vic said it was just going to be a washup. But the conversation took a somewhat different turn,” Johnson said. He explained as briefly as possible what had happened in Datchet during the conversation with Jayne’s former boss and the details he had been given, along with the background relating to the La Belle bombing and Vic’s brother and the suggestion they start by checking out Rick Jones.

  “I committed to a couple of weeks of work,” Johnson said. “Mark wants an arms-length inquiry, below the radar, into who leaked the operation. He understandably wants to cover his ass.”

  “Why you, though?” Jayne asked.

  “It seems quite possible that one reason the mole wanted Yezhov dead was the historical factor—because of what he was about to tell us about La Belle. Mark asked because of my track record, and I thought it was up my alley. It’s potentially an interesting case, and it means a lot to Vic. I did, however, lay down a few conditions before agreeing.”

  Jayne surveyed him from beneath furrowed brows. “What?”

  Johnson gave a faint smile. “One of them was that you came on board with me. Mark agreed.”

  “For God’s sake, Joe. What right have you got to—”

  “Sorry, I thought you’d be interested. It’s only a short job.”

  Jayne walked to the end of the living room of her apartment, a modern place within a building on the corner of Portsoken Street and Minories, above a Starbucks coffee shop.

  She stood gazing out across her small balcony toward Tower Bridge beyond, her back toward Johnson, who sat on a black leather sofa.

  “You said Mark suggested starting with Rick Jones,” Jayne said eventually. She turned to face Johnson.

  “Yes, that’s what he said.”

  “I worked with him for a while at Vauxhall Cross a few years back. Then he went to Moscow station. He was good out there, made a few recruitments, but got very close to some of his assets in the SVR. Too close, some people thought—he seemed sometimes more concerned about them than about the intel they were delivering. Then he was promoted to head of Berlin station.”

  “Interesting that you should say that,” Johnson said. He gave Jayne more details about the concerns that Nicklin-Donovan had about Jones.

  Jayne listened, then frowned. “How do you feel about all this? Are you really interested in pursuing it?” she asked.

  “I’m interested in La Belle and what happened there. I told Vic I’d help him with that. If one thing leads to another, I’ll go with it for a while. Frankly, I can’t see us making any progress in two weeks, though.”

  “Well, I don’t have anything on currently,” Jayne said. “And it sounds interesting. I like Mark—he’s a decent guy—although we’ll need to be damned careful with Rick. And I’ve worked in Berlin before, remember. La Belle was still a massive sore, open wound when I was there. So yes, I’ll join you if it’s going to help.”

  Indeed, Johnson knew that Jayne had done a stint for MI6 in Berlin starting in 1989, after leaving Afghanistan, spanning the period when the Berlin Wall came down in November that year, during the collapse of communism. That was when she had become fluent in German to add to her other languages, including French, Spanish, and Russian. That was one reason why he thought she might be interested in the operation he was now involved with.

  Johnson got up from the sofa, walked over to her, and gave her a hug. It was a spur-of-the-moment thing. Having not been able to do so earlier, on account of her disorientation at his early arrival and desire to get back into the shower, he realized he had subconsciously been looking for an excuse.

  “Thank you. That’s good to hear,” Johnson said. “To be honest, having seen what happened to Yezhov, the Russians worry me.”

  Jayne, who at about five foot nine was only about four inches shorter than Johnson, extracted herself from the hug. Keeping her hands behind Johnson’s neck, she held him at arm’s length. “Don’t worry. We’ve got a track record of seeing off the Russians.”

  Chapter Ten

  Thursday, March 27, 2014

  Berlin

  Johnson adjusted his plain black-rimmed reading glasses and pulled down the woolen cap over the short-cropped blond wig he wore. He glanced at Jayne, who suppressed a smile. She too was wearing a light disguise: a shoulder-length brunette wig and stylish designer glasses. Both were wearing smart casual clothes: the type of attire worn every day by thousands of office workers and tourists across Berlin.

  They were simple changes, but effective.

  “Sie sind Berliners,” Vic said. You are Berliners.

  Vic, who was fluent in German, had watched with interest as the CIA station’s disguise officer quickly changed the appearance of his clients for that morning.

  It had been many years since either Johnson or Jayne had run a proper street surveillance operation. They both felt it important to participate in the operation to tail Rick Jones, which meant using the light disguise, but also recognized the need to draft in a small team with current experience and practice who wouldn’t be burned by rusty skills if the unexpected happened.

  Johnson hoped the surveillance operation would be a good starting point in his investigation.

  So after Vic had quietly taken recommendations from Mary Gassey in the CIA’s Berlin station, they opted for three retired BND officers who occasionally worked for the Agency—Otto and Maria, who were a couple, and a single woman named Gertrud, all in their sixties—together with another woman in her thirties named Renate who had recently left the BND. The four of them were supervised by a BND surveillance team leader Klaus Ortner.

  Johnson immediately dubbed them die Rentners, the German word for “pensioners.”

  To avoid an obtrusive gathering at the CIA station at Pariser Platz, they held a planning meeting instead at a safe house near the Botanic Garden—an anonymous detached two-story property in Limonenstrasse, a quiet cobbled residential street. It was the same place where they had been planning to debrief Yezhov.

  There they agreed on a strategy with Ortner, under which the professional surveillance quartet would spearhead the work, while Johnson and Jayne would fit in and play a floating role as instructed.

  The three retirees, plus Johnson and Jayne, would be the foot soldiers, while Renate would be on standby in a car if Jones took to a vehicle. The idea was to get some eyeballs on Jones to see if he met with any of his agents and, if appropriate, to put sur
veillance on the agent afterward.

  The logistics were slightly awkward, given that Nicklin-Donovan wanted to keep the operation at arm’s length from MI6 and obviously did not want his head of Berlin station to have any idea of what was going on. But eventually, a workable plan was devised.

  For the first two days, nothing happened because Jones had no meetings scheduled and sat at his desk in the MI6 station at the British embassy on Wilhelmstrasse, a modern sandstone building with a slightly garish purple-and-blue structure at the entrance. He hardly ventured out of the embassy, less than two hundred yards from the American embassy, for any unscheduled reason either, apart from a stroll down the road to buy a sandwich and some chocolate.

  On the third day, Thursday, Jones’s diary was fuller. He had two external meetings in the morning, one with a counterpart at the BND, another with a lecturer in German politics from the Humboldt University of Berlin, apparently as part of efforts to broaden his knowledge in that sphere.

  After a sandwich lunch, he then set off on foot again. First, he headed south along the broad open expanses of Wilhelmstrasse, then cut into a clothing market and quickly examined some T-shirts and jeans before leaving by another exit. Johnson, some ninety yards behind, watched as, on the other side of the street, a nondescript elderly couple, Otto and Maria, followed Jones as he cut left into Französischestrasse beneath a covered ancient stone footbridge connecting two buildings.

  It was by now obvious that Jones was undertaking a surveillance detection route. He stopped twice to make calls on his cell phone, each time using them as cover to stop and check his tail. After a couple of zigzag stair-step turns, still heading broadly south, he went into a bank, emerged a few minutes later, and then bought chocolate at a small grocery shop.

  The retired but sprightly couple on the other side of the street scrutinized the flowers on display under the cover of a sunshade outside a florist, and another woman with gray hair, Gertrud, found change for a beggar. Johnson had to admire the former BND officers’ skill; Jones had shown no sign of having detected surveillance.