The Domino Conspiracy

by Joseph Heywood

  The Americans were waiting in a truck. A low front was passing over the city, creating a thick haze that made the New Town Hall’s exterior lighting glow in the distance. A young woman in a black raincoat waiting for them on the steps of the front entrance introduced herself as Birgit Nestroy, head of the deeds section; she explained that though the offices were closed she had been asked to assist them. Her section was located off a subterranean tunnel, and both the office and records storage area were neat and uncluttered. “The law requires us to maintain physical records for thirty years,” she explained. “Everything earlier than that is on microfilm but cataloged and easily retrieved.”

  Valentine gave her the list of addresses, and true to her word, she was back in five minutes with file cards.

  While Valentine read, Sylvia asked Nestroy if her records would show who the current occupants were, in the event that owner and resident were different. No, she said, but this information could be gotten quickly from another section in the same building. Phone numbers? Yes, of course, those as well. Sylvia asked her to get them.

  Valentine rubbed his eyes. “This is strange. All properties last changed hands in 1958. All five transactions took place over a two-week period in June of that year.”

  “What about the purchasers?” Bailov asked.

  “All different, but all five are held jointly by couples, husband and wife.”

  “Prices?” Sylvia asked.

  “Each seems to be about fifty percent over the previous sale price.”

  “Inflation?”

  “Ask the clerk,” Valentine said. “All five couples paid cash,” he added.

  “That’s not extraordinary for Europe,” Sylvia said. “Forty percent cash down payments and higher are routine here. It’s not like the States.”

  “All cash,” Valentine said. “Not just the down payments.” He did a quick conversion of Austrian schillings to dollars. “All five buys were in the neighborhood of seventy thousand U.S. How many people have that much ready green to sink into real estate?”

  Bailov shook his head. “A Soviet knows nothing about such things.” Especially a Soviet soldier, he thought. On his pay it would take half a century to accumulate the equivalent.

  When Nestroy returned, Valentine said, “All of these properties changed hands in June 1958. Was there inflation then?”

  The woman tugged her chin. “There is invariably some, but I have been here since 1956, and that was not a period of particularly high inflation.”

  “How many Viennese pay the full price in cash? Is this normal?”

  “More now than a few years ago,” she answered, “but it’s still unusual. Only a few of the very rich would find it possible, but such people would think it senseless to tie up so much cash. The rich don’t accumulate wealth by stupidity.”

  Valentine had already reached the same conclusion. “Are these properties in exclusive areas?”

  Nestroy squinted at the list of addresses, then moved to a huge city map mounted on the wall. “Three are in middle-class areas, two in poorer districts.”

  Valentine looked at his companions. “We can rule out the rich-man angle.”

  “They could be investments,” Sylvia said. “Did you get the other information?” she asked the Austrian woman.

  “Of course.” She handed them an envelope with an embossed city seal on the flap.

  Valentine compared the names of the owners with the current residents. All five were the same. “That rules out the investment angle,” he observed.

  “Who handled the financial transactions?” Sylvia asked.

  “A bank must act as a fiduciary agent,” Miss Nestroy said. “That’s the law.”

  “Even if there’s no borrowing?”

  “The bank’s financial gain is not the point,” she explained. “The law ensures that the government gets an accurate accounting of all transactions for taxation purposes.”

  All five purchases had been handled by the same bank. “The Royal Hapsburg,” Valentine announced. “Big?” he asked.

  “Solvent but relatively small,” the Austrian woman said.

  There were too many coincidences, Valentine thought, and he suspected that Sylvia was thinking the same. “Maybe we need to talk to somebody at the bank. What I’d really like to know is where all these folks do their regular banking, and what their financial situations are. Would anybody expect them to have this much cash?”

  “That would require time,” Nestroy said. “It would also require the intervention of a court; you must show evidence of criminal activity in order to open personal financial records.”

  Valentine grimaced and opened the second set of records. “All the phone numbers except one are the same as in 1958. That one was changed the next year.”

  Nestroy looked at the wall map. “In 1959 there were readjustments in the city’s districting,” she said as she walked to the map. “See? The address in question is on the periphery of three districts. That address may have been assigned to a new district, which would require a new exchange. Such changes are dictated by the law governing redistricting; telephone subscribers have no option.”

  Valentine looked at the wall map. “Show me the city’s railroad stations,” he asked without explaining why. The woman walked to the map and used a pencil as a pointer. If the Albanians were here they would need an escape route. If the hit took place in the city, it would be difficult to get all the way to the airport, much less catch a plane. A train would be a handier alternative, but only one of the addresses was close to a terminal. “I need help, people.”

  “You could check with the postal service,” Miss Nestroy said.

  “Why?” Sylvia asked.

  “Hypothetically it is possible that there has been a recent sale that has not yet come through the system to us. Or the residents might be on holiday.”

  “How long does the paperwork for a sale take?”

  “One day,” Nestroy said. “That’s the law.”

  “That makes a sale pretty unlikely. Why would their being on holiday be relevant?”

  “They would have to notify their post office, which would then collect and hold their mail for their return.”

  Valentine shrugged. “If they chose to.”

  “It’s not a matter of choice,” Miss Nestroy said disapprovingly.

  “Law?” Valentine asked.

  “Of course. Why should the mail carrier make unnecessary deliveries? The postal union sponsored this law. It’s been in force less than a year.”

  “Slim,” Valentine said.

  “Even a thin line may catch a fish,” Bailov said. He was impressed by the rational way the Americans were attacking the problem.

  “Are the postal service offices here?” Valentine asked Nestroy.

  “There is a central administration here,” she answered, “but a decentralized system with a different post office for each district. The law requires notification of the local office, not the central authority.”

  “Can we call the postmasters for these districts?” Sylvia asked.

  “The law forbids any queries before the opening time of eight A.M., and no business is done over the phone. In any event, they will not disclose this information to you.”

  “This is an emergency,” Sylvia said.

  “The postal service is independent by law and required to protect the privacy of those who use their services. Even our national security interests may not override individual privacy.”

  “But we have to try,” Valentine told her.

  She got the names and addresses of the postmasters for them within a few minutes. When they reached the street the haze was thicker. “The Austrians have a lot of laws,” Bailov said glumly.

  “There’s probably a law that requires it,” Sylvia said wryly.

  174WEDNESDAY, MAY 17, 1961, 7:05 P.M.Vienna

  Rakimov was stretched out on the couch in his office snoring, a nearly empty bottle of vodka on the floor beside him, the fumes floating upward, the floo
r littered with papers as if he had been stricken.

  Ezdovo poked the inert form. “The green snake claims more victims than Stalin, comrade.”

  Rakimov rolled his head and half opened one eye. “Cuckolded,” he mumbled.

  “Cuckolded?” Ezdovo repeated.

  “The horns,” Rakimov said with a moan, “the horns.” The eye closed.

  “Where’s the list?”

  “Talked to her this afternoon. She said it straight off, like a man. I went with him, she says. Went. What kind of a word is that?”

  Ezdovo sat in Ramikov’s chair behind the desk and thumbed through several three-by-five cards with handwritten names.

  “Said she couldn’t help it. He wore her down,” Rakimov said as he grimaced with pain and clenched his fists. “I said, he wears you down in days? A few hours, she answers. Hours? I treat her like a princess for a year and this bastard gets between her legs in hours?” The little KGB man moaned, then sighed.

  Ezdovo stacked the cards in alphabetical order and began transferring information to a pad of paper. There were no Soviet names, and it struck him that there were few among the requests so far. “Why so few of our people?”

  Rakimov struggled to sit up, and held his head in his hands. “Nikita Sergeievich always hedges his bets.”

  “Explain.”

  “What is it about women that lets them break a man’s balls?” Rakimov leaned down and tried to grab the bottle, but missed.

  “You said something about Khrushchev hedging his bets,” Ezdovo prompted.

  The other man stared blankly at the Siberian, puffed his cheeks and exhaled. “Information alone is unimportant,” Rakimov said. “What matters is how it’s presented, you see? There’s the true power. A dictionary is only words. How you put them together is the art, and Nikita Sergeievich is a master craftsman.”

  Ezdovo understood. No matter how the summit went, it would be Khrushchev who defined the results, which meant that Soviet reporters were unnecessary. A proverb said that Russia’s history was harder to predict than its future.

  Rakimov collapsed back on the couch while Ezdovo resumed his list making. Before writing down a name, he questioned the other man. Though still drunk, Rakimov stated a few details about each; Ezdovo was astonished by how many Western reporters he seemed to know.

  “Díaz?”

  “Mexican, Columbia graduate, European correspondent for El Diario del Sol, tennis player, socialist. The Americans wanted to veto him because they think he’s one of ours,” the Russian said with a pained look.

  “Is he?”

  Rakimov shook his head.

  “Meier?”

  “A fat Texas Jew; his family owns cotton mills. CBS Chicago bureau, recently moved to New York. Superficial, but handsome and glib in social situations. No apparent personal political ideology. Never drink with him,” Rakimov warned, shaking a finger. “Holds it too well. Like a Russian.”

  “Pelosi?”

  Rakimov tried to sit up again and this time made it. “First name Dawn. Changed her name from Brown. She’s from Pittsburgh. Now works for a syndicate, don’t remember what it’s called.”

  “Unger News,” Ezdovo read from the card.

  “Unger, da. A new organization looking for sensational stories. Right-wing but moderate and easy to misdirect; they’ll go with a rumor, seldom check anything. Dawn Pelosi is a very beautiful woman with hair the color of fire,” Rakimov said. “Like my wife,” he added wistfully.

  “Jensen?”

  “Eric James Jensen. The Times of London. Well educated, astute, respected, served in Moscow in the late forties. Stalin hated his guts, maybe even feared him, which was the closest he ever came to respect. Jensen served as a British agent with the French Resistance during the war. Decorated. Doesn’t smoke, drinks only socially, has a stable marriage: he’s unimpeachable. Some say he senses information through his pores. Eventually there’ll be a ‘K’ for him. He’s acceptable to all parties. A remarkably honest man. You’d like him.”

  The next two cards were stuck together. Ezdovo peeled them apart. “Sirini?”

  Rakimov stared blankly. “Again?”

  “Sirini, Benedetto.”

  The Siberian handed the card to Rakimov, who dug his eyeglasses out of his suit pocket. The lenses were covered with lint and dust as he plopped them crookedly on his nose. “Sirini,” he said, tapping the card against his leg.

  “Sirini,” Ezdovo repeated.

  “New to me,” Rakimov said with a shrug.

  “You approved him.” The team had agreed that anything unusual should be thoroughly investigated. Turn over every stone, Bailov had said.

  “Da,” Rakimov said. “Now I remember. It was a favor.”

  “To whom?”

  “Dickie.”

  “Dickie?”

  “Austrian president’s press officer. Richard Wehrmann, Dickie. He was a famous skier a few years ago. You must have heard of him.”

  “This man submitted the Italian’s name?”

  “Came to see me this afternoon. After you were here.”

  “Normal procedure?”

  “Nyet.”

  “You know nothing about the Italian, but you approved him?”

  “As a favor to Dickie.” Rakimov looked for understanding.

  “But you said yourself he’s unknown.”

  “Irrelevant,” Rakimov said. “A favor now for Dickie, a favor from him later. Small compromise today, large gain tomorrow. Like wooing a woman. We must be patient and give to get, you see?”

  Ezdovo picked up the telephone. “Call him,” he ordered.

  “Who?”

  “The Austrian. Find out what he knows about the Italian.”

  “Won’t be in the office now. It’s late. Austrians arrive and leave on time. They live by the clock; punctuality is their master.”

  “Then call him at home,” Ezdovo said, thrusting the telephone at him again.

  Rakimov hobbled to his desk, opened a drawer, took out a fat notebook, thumbed through it, held a finger on a page and dialed the number with his free hand. Ezdovo picked up a second receiver and cupped his hand over the speaker.

  A woman answered on the second ring. “Sorry to bother you,” Rakimov said, “but is Dickie there?”

  “One moment, please.”

  “Wehrmann,” a smooth male voice said.

  “Rakimov.”

  “You’re working late tonight, comrade,” the Austrian said, his tone friendly.

  “Unavoidable these days,” Rakimov said. “My people insist on having more information about Sirini, the man we talked about this afternoon.”

  “Giving you a hard time, are they?” The voice seemed tighter this time.

  “Nothing so dramatic. It’s a question of procedure, that’s all.”

  “I’ve never met him,” Wehrmann admitted. “I did it as a favor for a friend. She’ll be working with him. She tells me he’s quite talented but has no significant journalistic experience.”

  “She?”

  “Mignonne Mock—you know her?”

  Ezdovo scribbled the name on the card. “‘You know her?” the Austrian asked again.

  “Yes, yes,” Rakimov said, “of course. Is there any truth to the rumor that she’s going to work for Reuters?”

  Wehrmann laughed. “I’d expect you’d know better than I. You’re the collector of rumors, comrade. Anything else?”

  “Her address,” Ezdovo whispered.

  “Where does she live?” Rakimov asked.

  Wehrmann’s voice suddenly communicated caution. “Are you certain there’s not a complication, Vladimir?” Ezdovo clearly heard the edge in the voice this time.

  “You mustn’t worry,” Rakimov said. “You know how my comrades can be sticklers for detail.”

  Wehrmann gave him the address. “Top floor. On Blutgasse. She’s an old friend, a bit flamboyant but not unmanageable.” This was not true, but Wehrmann wanted to cover himself.

  “Thank you for you
r help, my good friend. Consider the matter closed,” the Russian said.

  When he hung up, Ezdovo asked, “Who is Mock?”

  “An Austrian bitch who asks difficult questions, has an excellent network of contacts and is openly anti-Soviet—a vestige of our glorious occupation, no doubt.”

  “She’s already been approved?”

  “Absolutely,” Rakimov said. “Not that I wanted to, but if we denied her credentials she would raise the roof. We don’t worry about the enemies we know.”

  “Really? You approved the Italian without knowing a thing about him.”

  “There are no absolutes in these matters. Do you have an alternative?”

  Ezdovo started to say yes, then stopped himself. If the Italian was not what he was supposed to be, it would be better to leave everybody thinking that everything was all right. “Nyet. That’s your responsibility. I’m simply trying to understand.”

  Rakimov relaxed, smiled weakly, slumped into his chair and put his head down on the desk. “There will be another list tomorrow, comrade.”

  Ezdovo tucked Sirini’s card in his pocket and left.

  175THURSDAY, MAY 18, 1961, 10:25 A.M.Vienna

  Kasi was certain that he dreamed because sometimes he awakened with strange thoughts and atypical emotional surges. The frustrating part was that he could never remember what stimulated such feelings. Today, however, he knew; it was the girl and the temptation, and he cautioned himself to guard against his lust. As a precaution he stopped talking to her except to give instructions, which she obeyed and did not question. It was not clear if she felt any of the urges that had seized him. He hoped for some encouragement, but none came and finally he put her out of his mind. All that mattered was that she do what she was told when the moment arrived.