The Folks at Fifty-Eight (19 page)

“But Attila wasn’t German. I thought he was Asian. . . or was he?”

She set her jaw in determined pose.

“In the
Nibelungenlied
, Etzel married the Burgundian princess Kriemhild, the sister of King Gunther; that is enough for me. Anyway, nobody knows who he was, or what he looked like, or exactly where the Hunnish people originally came from, but over the centuries the tribes united and the race became pure. Now we are all of us his children. We feel it. We know it.”

“And just how do Hindu gods come into all of this?”

“Oh yes, that’s right. I’d forgotten. Drink your coffee before it gets cold.”

He dutifully sipped at the coffee. She resumed her story. She talked of her days in England, and how the girls at boarding school had bullied her because of her German nationality and accent. At first she had been so miserable and frightened, but then one of the older girls had helped her to deal with them.

Ashna had been the daughter of a diplomat from Calcutta. She stopped the bullying and introduced Catherine to the truths of the Veda. She spoke of the Hindu gods and goddesses: of Vishnu and Shiva and Durga and Kaushiki and Ganesha, but she especially spoke of Kali.

She gave Catherine a book on the Hindu gods, and told her how understanding their teachings could help to overcome so many problems. Catherine studied the colourful assortment of mythical characters in juvenile fascination.

When Hammond confessed he couldn’t see her as a practicing Hindu, she said she only remembered the bits that interested her, the bits she liked, and she had always liked Kali. She added that she had liked the goddess Kaushiki as well, because Kaushiki had been Durga’s most beautiful form, but said she preferred the wrathful form of Kali.

From that moment on, she kept a picture of Kali by her bed, and confessed to talking to the picture whenever she felt afraid or needed to fight back. Somehow, having a picture made Kali so much more real than an abstract Christian god she couldn’t see or imagine. Kali had been different. Kali had sat by her bed and taught her to face her fears and walk through them.

“And since then, understanding this goddess has helped you in other ways?”

“Yes, she has. Kali killed demons, you see. She cut off their heads, and drank their blood, and danced on their corpses, and so do I.”

“You’re talking about the Russian officers?”

“That’s right.”

“And what about these Children of Etzel people? I’d always thought the Allied troops used the term ‘Hun’ as a form of insult. So who are these people?”

“Yes, they did. I asked my father about that. He laughed, and said, if they thought it insulting, all the more reason for us to use it.”

Appearing to suddenly realize an indiscretion, she waved away the question.

“Anyway, forget it. Let’s not talk about that now. We’ve only just found each other. Can’t we do something else: something fun?”

Hammond relaxed the formality as he looked across at the seemingly endless contradictions of Catherine Louise Schmidt. Despite her youth, there was a complexity to the young woman that he was finding both dangerously hypnotic and seriously disturbing.

In the space of a few days he’d seen her play precocious child and compassionate woman, dutiful servant and erotic seductress, articulate protagonist and racist bigot, playful teenager and lunatic fanatic. Hammond’s problem wasn’t so much that he couldn’t keep pace with the personality changes and mood swings. Hammond’s problem was that he found each more seductive than the last.

“If you don’t want to talk, you don’t have to. I didn’t mean to pry.”

“Yes you did. You keep asking questions because it’s part of your job, and I understand that. It’s all right. I don’t mind. You’re my lover. You saved my life. You have a right to know. Perhaps one day I’ll tell you all about it; we’ll have to see.”

“All right then, so tell me about this other god, this Shiva, what does he stand for?”

“Shiva is part of Kali, and Kali is part of Shiva. They are one. Shiva is the destroyer and restorer, the Lord of the Dance and the Herdsman of Souls, and he is the Linga.”

“The Linga?”

“The symbol of sensuality, the phallus.”

That familiar childlike simplicity was there again. It was a trait that Hammond found both delightfully amoral and shockingly wanton. But there was nothing childlike about the tongue that skimmed across her lips. He mumbled a half-hearted protest.

“No, Catherine, this is getting too serious. We have to talk. I’m old enough to be your. . . well, I’m a lot older than you. I have a responsibility to ensure. . .”

“Oh, don’t be so silly.”

Mischievous fingers slid beneath the covers and he jumped at the contact, but then felt the blood surge and mentally cursed his own weakness. An infatuated middle-aged fool lay submissively back against the pillow. A forceful young seductress slid back the covers and lifted her skirts. Smiling happily, she added a playful observation.

“There, now, that’s much better. You know, I do believe my Lord Shiva wants Kali to dance for him again.”

He dressed quickly and hurried downstairs, fully expecting the old woman’s acerbic wit to greet his tardiness.

“I’m sorry, I didn’t realize how late. . .”

The ominous sight of five ten-inch barrels, pointing directly at his midriff, caused his arms to rise and his words to falter into silence.

On the other side of those same five, pah-pah-shah forty-one sub-machinegun barrels stood five regular Soviet army troops. Standing at the sink and rattling two coffee cups together, stood a smiling individual who addressed him in faultless English.

“Ah, the warrior has risen. Mr Gerald Hammond, I presume. Come along in, Mr Hammond. I trust you are recovered from your earlier exertion? I apologize. I neglected to introduce myself. My name is Stanislav Paslov.”

There was no sight of either woman. Hammond held his arms high, while a nervous-looking soldier removed both knife and automatic. The soldier stepped back and nodded to Paslov, who replaced the cups on the draining board and then gestured to Hammond.

“Sit down, please, Mr Hammond.”

“Where are they?”

Paslov was clearly enjoying himself.

“Oh, they are safe enough, but let us not concern ourselves with them. Let us talk about you, Mr Hammond, and some of your friends in Washington. So how is my old friend Davis Carpenter, and how is that harridan of a wife of his?”

Hammond could see little point in small talk or denial.

“How do you know my name?”

“You are not the only one with friends in the State Department, Mr Hammond.”

Hammond shrugged a nonchalance he didn’t feel.

“So, what do you want from me?”

“What makes you think I want something from you?”

“Well, my testicles aren’t attached to a generator. I’m not dead, and I’m not in chains and on my way to the Lubyanka. That can only mean you must want something from me.”

Paslov gave an enigmatic smile, and then nodded to the troops, who began withdrawing from the room. One of them handed him Hammond’s weapons. The emaciated spymaster weighed the automatic in his hand.

“You do realize that by carrying this little technological marvel, you have committed an act of war against the Soviet Union?”

“I don’t see how.”

“Carrying a weapon across borders is an act of war. Unless of course I am mistaken, and the Hi-Standard Company now produces these in Magdeburg?”

“Whose borders? Russia’s a thousand kilometres to the north.”

“Soviet borders, Mr Hammond, Soviet borders.”

Hammond sniffed his contempt.

“Much as he may wish otherwise, international law and international boundaries aren’t determined by Joseph Stalin’s IS2 tanks, Comrade Colonel Paslov. . . And I found that.”

“Oh, I see. And where did you stumble across it? On a train perhaps?”

Paslov suddenly looked bored. He rested Hammond’s automatic alongside the cups on the draining board and then drew a Tokarev from his jacket.

“This is just a precaution, Mr Hammond. I am told that for a man of your age you move quickly, and might not otherwise give me time to explain.”

Paslov waited until the last of his troops had left the room and closed the door, before matter-of-factly dropping a bombshell.

“I wish to defect. I and my wife wish to become citizens of your United States. I want a new identity, and a home in Florida, or perhaps California. Precisely where does not concern me, as long as it is somewhere warm, somewhere I can look at the ocean. I want enough money to provide an income for the rest of our lives, and I want you to arrange everything.”

Hammond tried a bluff.

“I work in risk assessment, but we pay out on insurance policies, not welfare claims. As for the rest of it, maybe you should contact U.S. Immigration.”

He should have saved his breath. Paslov continued issuing orders.

“You are to arrange matters with Alan Carlisle, and nobody else. That is vital. You are not to mention this to anyone else, not to Carpenter or Allum, not to Daniel Chambers. No one but Alan Carlisle. That is critical. Do you understand?”

“And what do we get in return?”

“Your freedom, Mr Hammond.”

“You think too much of me, Colonel. That doesn’t begin to balance the books.”

Again Paslov ignored him.

“I will be in Frankfurt during the first week of July to discuss border controls with your people. I will bring my wife. She could do with a few days holiday, or should I be saying vacation now? Make sure that you have everything ready by then.”

Hammond stood his ground and repeated his comment about balancing the books. Paslov studied him closely. At first he seemed unwilling to answer, but then the enigmatic smile reappeared and he dropped the second bombshell.

“Beria has an agent in your State Department, an important one, which is why you must deal only with Carlisle directly.”

Hammond suddenly understood how Catherine Schmidt had been captured so easily in Magdeburg. He had initially suspected a leak in one of the German cells, but now it all made sense. He similarly realised how Paslov had found them at the guest house. The Office of Occupied Territories had a mole.

“He’s the man who gave me up to you, the man who told you where we were?”

Paslov shook his head.

“You do not really expect me to answer that, do you? How I found you is of no consequence, but I will give you the name of that agent, and. . . ”

“And what?”

“I will give you another name, an even more important name.”

“Why is it more important? Who is it?”

“Another of Beria’s special people; one of his top people.”

“Another agent?” Paslov nodded slowly. Hammond pressed for more. “So who is he, and where is he? In Washington?”

“I did not say ‘he’ but you must tell Carlisle that Beria’s agent lives in ‘The Poplars’. Carlisle will understand, and I will see you both in July. Oh, and remember, Mr Hammond, you are to speak only to Alan Carlisle about this; not to the old woman, not to the girl, not to anyone but him. Your future, and our lives, may depend on it. Tell Carlisle I will only meet him if both you and he are there, in person, in Frankfurt, in July.”

Hammond said he could understand why Paslov wanted to meet Carlisle, but he didn’t understand why Paslov wanted him at the meeting. Paslov said he needed a favour, a personal favour. Hammond didn’t like the sound of that.

“I can’t make promises of that nature.”

“Oh, I think your government will happily sanction this, Mr Hammond. They may even give you that medal you never got for your efforts on Jedburgh and in Rouen.”

Hammond’s eyes widened and the weather-beaten features formed into a frown. Only a handful of people knew any details of his background and trip to Germany; each of them enjoyed a senior position with The State Department. A few pregnant moments passed before the spymaster answered the unasked question.

“I know a great deal more about you than that, Mr Hammond. I would like to stay and chat, but I have work to do. I shall direct my teams to the south-west, nearer to Leipzig. We have reports of two people hiding there, people who fit the descriptions of our fugitives. Have a pleasant journey home, Mr Hammond. I will see you in Frankfurt, in July.”

“I don’t understand. Why are you doing this? You’re a powerful man in Russia. You have friends in high places. Why give all that up?”

The Russian shrugged.

“You will undoubtedly discover, on your rise through The State Department, that power is a transitory commodity, Mr Hammond. Those friends in high places you spoke of are equally fickle, and often the highest placed boast the lowest standards. That is also true in America, is it not?”

“You’re saying you’ve fallen out with Beria?”

“Let us say that Lavrenti Pavlovich and I are not as close as we once were, but now I must go. If you take my advice, you will leave quickly. We brought a vehicle for the prisoners. It is only a Gaz, I am afraid; not as fast and reliable as the Jeeps your president so kindly loaned to us during the war, but it should get you to Frankfurt.

“Oh, and one more thing. Although I shall pull my search teams across to the Leipzig area, I cannot countermand orders already given to the rest of the army. There will be guards and checkpoints, and they will be looking for you. Take care, Mr Hammond, take care.”

“What about the girl?”

“You can take her with you, the old woman, too, if you wish, but before you do there is something you may wish to see.”

Paslov replaced the Tokarev and fished a stack of photographs from an inside pocket. He moved to the table, and spread them out on its surface.

“Come here, Mr Hammond, come and look.”

Hammond wandered over and began studying the photographs. Each showed a man’s corpse. If the horror of each death mask hadn’t told him, the wounds where the genitals had been cut away and the crosses gouged into each torso left him in no doubt as to the agony suffered by each man at the point of death.