‘On the big Zirca, the beam would be wider. On a small model it could be made as small as one wished. The beam moves from left to right across the target area in a perfectly straight line. Then it drops down one beam’s thickness, then sweeps right to left across the target in another straight line—on and on until the target has been totally swept …’
Professor Weiss suddenly forgot the presence of Blackford. He was speaking now to himself, but speaking words Blackford could hear. ‘Let’s see—but the paper is coming out of the machine the whole time. No matter, no matter. The Zirca’s scanning speed would prevail. Hmm. The whole thing then repeats from top down again, on and on.’
And then again to Blackford, his eyes suggesting the excitement he felt—‘Like the scanning beam in the TV tube, it excites the phosphors on the tube face, but this beam wouldn’t change in intensity. The Zirca’s beam emits in intense, discrete bursts. So—you would aim it onto this paper here, the punched tape, as it exits automatically from the machine, as the clerk is typing out the message. Yes.’ He paused for a moment. ‘As it sweeps the target its emission level is constant. Each burst is the same intensity as any other, all electronically monitored. The sweeps completely cover whatever size target area is set.’
He stood up and began to pace behind the desk, turning his head now to Blackford in exegetical fervour. ‘The sweeping pattern, you understand, is one of successive discrete XY bursts. Each space is hit by a Zirca burst. So, for instance, the fifth space over on the tenth line down would be Zirca Burst number 5.10. Each discrete burst becomes an XY coordinate. Now,’ his voice became low, thoughtful, inquisitive, ‘the electronic brain keeps these each in mind waiting the return by reflectance. Gauging the difference in energy between what went out and what came back, you adjust for the constant loss—window glass, smog, distance, whatever the beam goes through both going and coming. So,’ he sat down again, ‘so each individual burst is thus fired and recovered, with the difference—adjusted by the constant—’ he looked up as though to admonish his student, ‘recorded in sequence as perhaps something of an analogue recording of intensity. Those intensity levels could later be converted into digital codes. That would be it.’
He paused again.
‘Subsequent processing equipment would take the analogue tape and crudely say to itself: if the intensity is over such-and-such a level of decibels, but not below this other level, then it’s a “5,” and so forth. And the output of this, composited by whatever means, could flow the target area past in time frames. You would need overlays of some kind of additional signal on the recording tape identifying exactly where you’ve recorded the results of the last burst of a given total target frame scan, completing a given total target area frame before the next total scan begins.’ He stopped and was silent.
He looked up at Blackford.
‘Yes,’ he said. ‘Yes. I can see that it would be theoretically possible to do what you say: at a distance of several hundred feet, to discern electronically the configurations of the punched tape that issues out of a teletype. I have to admit I would be astonished to see it actually work. But not surprised. As I say, theoretically it is possible. Quite possible. Practically—I simply don’t know.’
Drummond Weiss was arguing with himself.
Blackford felt as he imagined Newton felt when the apple dropped on his head. Not to break the code, but to read the message before it became coded.
29
Georgi Maximilianovich Malenkov had accepted immediately the invitation to address Parliament, to which had been quietly added, by the British Ambassador, the assurance that Queen Caroline would receive him at Windsor. On the very same day, the U.S. Ambassador called on Foreign Minister Molotov to say that the Secretary of State would be willing to travel to Moscow to confer with Soviet leaders about a number of questions. Malenkov summoned the Politburo and gave them the news, together with his interpretation of its meaning—which attested, he said, to the objective recognition by the West of the growing power of the Soviet Union and the stability of the post-Stalin leadership, whence the decision to sue for a conciliatory relationship. ‘Which means, of course, that we can press our plans under more auspicious circumstances than if the hostility of the West were totally mobilised.’ Malenkov was clearly exuberant.
Marshal Voroshilov wanted to know, did the British Ambassador really say, in as many words, that Queen Caroline of England would actually receive the Soviet Premier? After all, that would be the first meeting between the Soviet head of government and a Western head of state since Potsdam.
‘Those were his exact words, Kliment Yefremovich,’ Malenkov beamed.
There was light banter about the Queen, while several members of the Politburo stole glances at Beria, who finally spoke up:
‘Tell us, Georgi Maximilianovich, did you make any concessions to the British or the Americans in order to—to bring about these developments?’
‘Certainly not, Lavrenti Pavlovich, certainly not. Clearly they are the result of our stable policies—’
‘Nothing on West Germany?’
‘Nothing on West Germany.’ Malenkov quickly changed the subject, and slid into a related matter on the agenda—namely, what kind of a reception was it advisable to give to the American Secretary of State, renowned for his primitive anti-communism.…
In Washington and in London the principal players were well rehearsed. It had been decided that since the Queen was involved, however tangentially, the critical cable would go out of Whitehall. The exact contents of that cable, discussed in personal sessions and by telephone through the scrambler system between Anthony Brogan and John Foster Dulles, were dutifully transmitted by the State Department to the United States Embassy in London by cable, confident that it would be intercepted by the Soviet mechanism they were hunting down. The cable was addressed to the U.S. Ambassador in London:
‘LATER TODAY WHITEHALL WILL CABLE MALENKOV ALL PLANNED DIPLOMATIC VISITS ARE OFF UNLESS WE RECEIVE EXPLICIT ASSURANCES THAT IN OCTOBER WHEN WHITE HOUSE AND EUROPEAN POWERS MEET TO SIGN ACCORD ON WEST GERMANY SOVIET PROTESTS WILL BE NON-MILITARY. WILL ADVISE RESULTS.’ It was signed, as such cables are, simply, ‘DULLES.’
That afternoon, two days before his scheduled departure for London, Georgi Malenkov sat in his office staring at the cable freshly received from London. Granted it had none of the terseness of the American cable to the ambassador in London, the pirated text of which Malenkov had seen a few hours earlier. Still, it demanded assurances about Soviet behaviour after the forthcoming recognition of West Germany. The cable read, ‘YOUR EXCELLENCY MUST REALISE THAT REPORTS HAVING REACHED US IN THE PAST FEW DAYS THAT THERE IS A POSSIBILITY OF ARMED RESISTANCE TO ALLIED POLICIES RESPECTING WEST GERMANY H.M. GOVERNMENT WOULD NEED TO HAVE NEGATIVE ASSURANCES BEFORE YOUR EXCELLENCY’S ARRIVAL AS IT WOULD GREATLY EMBARRASS THE GOVERNMENT IF YOUR VISIT WERE FOLLOWED SO QUICKLY BY ARMED ACTION. AND NEEDLESS TO SAY WE COULD NOT EXPOSE HER MAJESTY TO ANY SUCH POSSIBLE EMBARRASSMENT.’ The earlier part of the telegram had stated that the two governments were acting in unison, and that the trip by the Secretary of State would also be put off in the absence of such assurances.
He summoned his two closest associates. Nikita Khrushchev’s reaction was that he didn’t like to be pushed around like that. But Bulganin, concurring with Malenkov, said that the request was in fact reasonable, and since the Politburo had already decided that no military resistance would be put in the way of West German recognition, actually the Soviet Union was not giving up any alternative it hadn’t already agreed to discard. ‘Moreover, we need to act quickly. It would hurt us even if the rumour got out that there might be a postponement.’
Malenkov rang for his secretary.
After the proposed cable was typed out, Malenkov read it again, out loud, to Khrushchev and Bulganin, and they concurred that it was wise, dignified and, though conciliatory, uncompromising.
‘What about the Politburo?’ Malenkov asked.
Khrushchev used a vernac
ular Russian expression, a rough translation of which was ‘Fuck the Politburo.’
‘And Beria?’
The mention of Beria’s name always brought a pause. But they all knew that to bring Beria into the picture would merely mean incessant delays and recriminations. They felt sure that they had the backing of the majority in the Politburo.
Orders were given to dispatch the cable.
Within one hour of reading the cabled assurance to Whitehall from Malenkov through the mini-Zirca, Comrade Belushi made his transmission to his old friend Mr. Mussolini in the Italian Embassy.
He then went to the processing machine and managed to move the date and hour of the cable he had just recorded for Malenkov exactly twenty-four hours forward. He would take it to Beria tomorrow. That would give the Americans time to act. And give Beria time to act. But less time. And indeed they did act.
The next morning, early on Tuesday, U.S. Ambassador Charles Bohlen sent his deputy to the Kremlin with the message that it was vital that he confer with the Premier, that a great deal hung on the immediacy of that meeting.
When word of this request was given to Malenkov a few minutes later he groaned, wondering what new conditions might now be imposed on the carefully planned itinerary, scheduled to begin on the following day with his departure for England, and to be followed next week by the reception in Moscow of the American Secretary of State.
He nodded to his aide to have the ambassador admitted. In the incredibly short time of fifteen minutes, the ambassador was shown in. He shook hands all the way around—Nikita Khrushchev and Marshal Bulganin were also in the room—and in his fluent Russian, smiling, said that he was authorised by the Secretary of State to give this communication only to Premier Malenkov, in the presence of absolutely no one else, and he did not have the authority to modify these instructions, even on behalf of such illustrious members of the Politburo as Comrades Khrushchev and Bulganin.
Malenkov looked at Khrushchev, who paused, then shrugged his shoulders, signalling to Bulganin. The two men left. Ambassador Bohlen delicately pointed to the interpreter. ‘You have never had any problem with my Russian, Your Excellency.’ Malenkov motioned to his aide to leave. The two men were alone in a hall once used by the Czar to meet ambassadors. The large vaulted windows high above their heads introduced daylight, but it was supplemented by the yellow light of the heavy crystal chandeliers overhead.
‘Well, Mr. Ambassador,’ Malenkov pointed to the couch to one side of the huge desk, and Charles Bohlen sat down. ‘You may proceed.’
‘Your Excellency, we have received word in Washington from a source that has never proved wrong in any particular that a coup is being planned against you, possibly even before you leave tomorrow for Great Britain, by Comrade Beria.’
Malenkov turned white. But said nothing.
‘Comrade Beria has procured an instrument, developed in Great Britain for the purposes of astronomical research, to spy on you. That instrument was activated two days ago by the English inventor Sir Alistair Fleetwood, who is staying here at the National Hotel under the pseudonym of Bjorn Henningsen.’ Ambassador Bohlen passed Premier Malenkov a 3 × 5 card on which the name was written. ‘The instrument has been installed at an office in the War Ministry on Kuibysheva Street, which is of course directly opposite the Kremlin. Indeed,’ Ambassador Bohlen pointed his hand towards the outside wall of the office, ‘the machine sits directly over there.’ Bohlen paused. ‘It is not our function to interfere in Soviet politics, but this gesture of goodwill perhaps will be recorded in your memory on future occasions.’
Malenkov hardly knew how to act. On such occasions, he quickly decided, extreme formality is the best guide. Accordingly he rose, walked slowly toward the entrance door in such a way as clearly to indicate to the ambassador that the conference was over and, as he walked, said stonily, ‘Thank you, Mr. Ambassador, for your trouble. I shall certainly take what you say under advisement.’ The door had no sooner shut than he rang his aide and told him to advise Khrushchev and Bulganin that they were needed urgently—‘At once! They should both still be in the building!’
As the aide rushed out he thought to himself he had never ever seen Georgi Maximilianovich so excited.
V. S. Abakumov, State Security Minister, and Josef, Beria’s closest personal aide, were in the office of the Lubyanka with him. Beria held up triumphantly a copy of the cable dispatched by Malenkov to Whitehall. ‘This does it! This does it! Malenkov can be charged with 58! Article 58!’ Beria proceeded by heart: ‘“Section One, Treason against the homeland; Section Three, Maintenance of relations for counterrevolutionary purposes with foreign states; Section Four, The rendering of assistance, by any means whatsoever, to that section of the international bourgeoisie which is endeavouring to overthrow the communist system!” He is ours! Ours! We can demand a closed, summary court martial, and instant execution! It will not be necessary to proceed with what we had planned for London. Malenkov will not arrive in London!’
Abakumov stared at the cable. ‘That is certainly the meat and potatoes, Lavrenti Pavlovich. A flat promise in effect to cooperate with the enemy in making an arrangement that strips us of any formal voice over the future of West Germany—in the teeth of his guarantee to the Council of Ministers that no concession was being made in the matter of West Germany in connection with his visit. Well done, Lavrenti Pavlovich, well done!’ Josef said he too thought it was well done.
Lavrenti Beria sat down. ‘Let us make our plans.’
He was a very happy man.
30
Sir Alistair Fleetwood leaned back in the comfortable reclining chair aboard the Soviet Antonov AN-2 transport. It had ten seats but Fleetwood was the only passenger, with the exception of the escort officer, Major Somebody—Fleetwood had not caught his name when, at the very last minute, he arrived with instructions to be of any necessary service to ‘Comrade Henningsen.’ Already Fleetwood had waved goodbye to Alice Goodyear Corbett, after a mutual pledge of an early rendezvous in Stockholm, perhaps right after the New Year. The heavily bearded major, before motioning Fleetwood up the ramp into the aeroplane, asked him for his passport, ‘so that I can take care of the formalities for you, sir.’ He spoke in German, and Fleetwood answered him in German, reaching into his jacket pocket and handing him the Finnish passport made out to Bjorn Henningsen.
The major sat in the forwardmost window seat, so that Fleetwood was spared the nuisance of having to make conversation with him, or sharing a meal. The male steward offered Fleetwood cakes, tea, Russian wine, beer, and vodka. Fleetwood settled for the tea and cakes, it being only just after lunch. He leaned back contentedly and opened The Forsyte Saga, a book he had never got around to reading. He simply hadn’t bothered to return it to Comrade Balenkov, the thoughtful librarian of the University of Moscow to whom he had dispatched, via the concierge, the suitcase full of the other books brought in a week ago.
The ceremony in the inner sanctum of the Director of the KGB had really been quite touching. And entirely unexpected. Alice Goodyear Corbett had telephoned him early and said that a little surprise was in store for him on his last full day in Moscow.
And there Beria was, as also the two principal deputies of ‘Lavrenti Pavlovich,’ as he had been instructed to call Comrade Beria. And with great solemnity Alistair Fleetwood had been presented with the Order of Lenin, ‘for conspicuous contributions to the cause of international socialism and devoted service to peace and the liberation of the working man everywhere.’ It was a beautiful gold medal, with of course the profile of Lenin and, on the back, the inscription that had been read out to him. ‘But we left out your name—the space is there for it. Security. When the climate is propitious, you may take it to a jeweller and have your name inscribed. Meanwhile, in our safe, is the authorisation. We cannot for obvious reasons publicly decorate you, Sir Alistair’—once again, Alice was rattling along to keep up her all but simultaneous translation of the fast-talking Beria—‘but your constructive deeds, creativ
e genius, and loyalty will forever be inscribed in the annals of Soviet heroism.’
That was quite a presentation, Sir Alistair Fleetwood reminisced proudly, looking down at the patches of clouds covering the endless snowfields. It was good, he thought, that he had been critically helpful in penetrating a plot that might have brought the Soviet Union international disgrace, as Beria had explained it to him, among the legions who had worked throughout their adult lives, as he had done, for the cause of brotherhood.
He wondered whether, when the revolution came, he would need to give up his knighthood? He supposed so. And it was true he had got rather used to it. But there were other rewards. After all, Lenin was never Sir Vladimir Ilyich Lenin, let alone Lord Lenin—Alistair Fleetwood had to acknowledge that the possibility was overwhelming that sometime in the not remote future he would be given a seat in the House of Lords, where in fact he belonged—that is to say, where he belonged in a society so structured. There would of course be no such thing in the future. Not the immediate future. The forces of fascism were not quite ready to give up, but that would come. Meanwhile, if he had to serve as a peer of the realm—Lord Fleetwood? Rather euphonious—why, he would simply do so.
He began to doze; as he did so, a tiny grain of sand entered his scientific mind—the mildest little irritant, lodging itself in the subconscious of the Nobel laureate. That little irritant said, yawningly, How odd that, flying northwest from Moscow to Helsinki, the gradually setting sun is behind the porthole, rather than abeam of it … But not an irritant quite compelling enough to wake him up.
They landed at 3:30. It was extremely cold and blustery and Alistair Fleetwood had to lean heavily into the wind to make headway down the companionway. He did not recognise the profile of the Helsinki airport, but of course he had seen it a week ago only during the midnight hours. He was vaguely surprised that an officer, indeed an officer and six armed men, were there to escort him to the terminal, where presumably they would disengage, leaving him to embark the commercial airliner to Stockholm as that perennial tourist Bjorn Henningsen. He smiled in the teeth of the wind, holding down his furry cap, the present Alice had given him the day before. The officer at the airfield spoke briefly with Fleetwood’s bearded escort, who thereupon reentered the plane, which taxied to the end of the runway and, before Fleetwood had reached the building toward which they were headed, was airborne.
High Jinx Page 20
