The Folks at Fifty-Eight (45 page)

The barman put down his paper and delivered the beer. As he turned to go, Simmonds looked up at him in bleary-eyed inebriation.

“There you go. Now what did you say your name was again?”

The barman looked to the heavens.

“Charlie.”

Simmonds grinned drunkenly across at Hammond.

“See, told yer; they’re all called Charlie.”

The barman shook his head and returned to his newspaper. Hammond asked about Manhattan. He knew Simmonds had helped Carlisle dig into it.

Simmonds nodded. Yes, and he wished he hadn’t, because that was why they killed Alan Carlisle. He drained the glass and poured another. He said Alan Carlisle had been a great orator, because he believed in what he was doing and what he was saying. As a result, several high-profile people in Washington had begun taking him seriously.

Hammond was suddenly confused. Why was that a problem?

The FBI man didn’t answer. Instead he related a story. He said for people like Chambers and Zalesie, it had been one of the most damaging tales of the Second World War. It had been during Barbarossa, Hitler’s invasion of Russia, when Russian officers forced thousands of Russian soldiers to charge German machine-guns with only a few rifles between them. Whenever the Germans shot a rifle carrier, the next man picked up the rifle and used it. When they shot him, somebody else did the same, and so on, until they either overran the machine-gun nest or ran out of men. The Russians lost thousands of men doing that, for next to no territorial gain.

Hammond remembered reading about it, but why was that so damaging?

“Because any army with only half-a-dozen rifles between every thousand troops hardly represents a threat to the U.S. military. Establishing the threat is what all of this is about.”

“So you’re saying the Russians aren’t seen as a serious threat?”

“Not with the current public opinion and post-war euphoria. Not since the Bolsheviks flooded into Berlin. A bunch of ignorant peasants, the papers said; a disorganized rabble of pillagers and rapists, with holes in their boots and patches in their pants. We could see them off with one airborne division. That’s how the average American voter sees the so-called Red Army menace today, because at the time it suited certain people to portray them that way.”

Hammond still didn’t understand. Simmonds took another drink and leaned closer. He said, politically speaking, the war in Europe hadn’t been like the war in the Pacific, which most Americans had seen as a legitimate retaliation for Pearl Harbour. In Europe, America had lost over three hundred thousand men fighting a war that many Americans didn’t support. The U.S. administration needed something to show for the sacrifices made. They needed to stop the spread of communism into Western Europe, and show the public they hadn’t lost all those lives just to replace one lunatic dictator with another. They needed to take a chunk of Berlin and block Stalin’s advance, but didn’t want it to seem as though they were risking another war.

Hammond nodded his understanding.

“So we portrayed the Russians as little or no threat to us doing that. Does that matter?”

“Of course it matters.”

“Why?”

“Well, how about this for a speech? ‘It is essential to our interests, the Soviet Union remains strong. We can only defeat the evils of communism if the public continues to view it as a threat to our lives and our liberty. If it is only ever seen as a distinct and separate philosophy, babbling Marxist gibberish and managed by bellicose impotence, it might well confound us and flourish.’ Do you know who said that?”

Hammond shook his head. Simmonds answered his own question.

“I was there at the time. I remembered it word for word. I even wrote it down. It was Conrad Zalesie, speaking at a treasury dinner in nineteen forty-three, when some ragtag bunch of republican senators suggested prematurely pulling lend-lease aid to the Sovs.”

Hammond was feeling distinctly dull-witted. Simmonds explained further.

“Don’t you see? Zalesie wants Stalin and the Bolsheviks to remain a threat, because that’s the only way he can eventually destroy them. Thanks to Hiroshima and Nagasaki, right now the average American feels like his homeland and the American way are all but fireproof. Add in our recently claimed successes in blocking Sov expansionism in Europe, and suddenly Stalin isn’t a serious threat any more.”

Hammond’s eyes widened. Now he understood.

“But a hostile Stalin with an atomic bomb will be a serious threat. Suddenly America’s in real danger. Suddenly it’s game on again. That’s it. They’re letting Beria steal the atom bomb, because that’s guaranteed to increase the communist threat in the eyes of the American public.”

“Way beyond paranoia. The Sovs think it’s Christmas. I’m told they send anything coming into the Sov embassy marked ‘Enormoz’ directly to Beria. No deviation, no delay, on pain of death. Everybody knows, but nobody does anything about it.”

“The Soviet project to steal the bomb: it’s code-named Enormoz?”

Hammond couldn’t believe what he was hearing. Simmonds seemed to have come alive.

“I hear certain people who meet in a certain limestone-fronted building in New York City have known about it for months. But I wouldn’t want to try proving that.”

Hammond spotted the obvious flaw. If Simmonds’ theory was right, wasn’t the risk too great? What would happen if it got to confrontation? What would happen if it got to dropping atom bombs on each other? Surely the risk of nuclear war would be unacceptable.

Simmonds said as long as America stayed ahead in the race and the Soviets were trying to catch up, the risk was acceptable. The Soviets didn’t have the financial muscle to keep pace with America, and with their economic capacity being hamstrung by the same political philosophy America wanted to destroy, they never would. That was the theory and that was the paradox.

“Some paradox. . . You mean, we hope they don’t?”

“Right. And guess who America’s gonna turn to, to make sure everything stays that way?”

“Conrad Zalesie.”

“He’s the man with his finger on the button, and I use that term advisedly.”

“But it’s still a hell of a risk.”

“No more of a risk than a certain jumped-up little Austrian corporal and the German Nazi Party were willing to take not so long ago.”

“What German Nazi Party? Conrad Zalesie’s a Lithuanian.”

“You bought into that Lithuanian count horse-shit?”

“No, not at first, but I had a man check into it. Conrad Zalesie’s genuine.”

Simmonds asked who did the checking. Hammond talked of the colourful Dawid Gabriel. Gabriel was straight. Hammond said he’d bet on it. When a clearly sceptical Simmonds asked how he came to use Gabriel, Hammond suddenly remembered. . . Marcus Allum had recommended him.

Simmonds nodded. He said the FBI had tried to look into Zalesie, but every time they got to the interesting sections the shutters came down. He asked how a burnt-out ex-cop managed to get to places the FBI couldn’t. To a red-faced Gerald Hammond, the question was painfully rhetorical.

He asked if Simmonds thought that Conrad Zalesie had killed Alan Carlisle. Morton Simmonds shook his head.

He said three days before Alan Carlisle’s death a new cultural attaché arrived at the Soviet Embassy in New York. His passport claimed he was Sasha Gromyko from Chelyabinsk, but Simmonds knew him from way back, when the only thing cultured about him was the fungus on his feet. In reality, Sasha Gromyko was an old adversary of the FBI called Vladimir Demidov. In his time Demidov had been both infantry sniper and bodyguard to Lavrenti Beria. Nowadays he was the finest assassin in the MGB. At four a.m. on the morning they discovered Alan Carlisle’s body, Vladimir Demidov flew back to Moscow on an Aeroflot charter.

“If you knew all about him, why didn’t you refuse entry?”

“Oh we did, but someone overruled us. The word came down to let him in.”

“But a sniper didn’t kill Alan Carlisle.”

“Don’t let the sniper handle fool you. Demidov’s a true artist. You wouldn’t pay good money to hear him recite Shakespeare, but if you want a body to die just right and look just right, he’s the best there is. You should know about him. I’ll let you have a copy of his sheet. You never know when paths might cross.”

“Thanks. So you think it was Beria?”

“Had to be. That’s not to say there weren’t others waiting in line. Alan constantly screaming about Manhattan spies was getting everyone edgy. Beria just got to him first.”

Hammond had one last question. What happened to the evidence that Carlisle had gathered?

Simmonds said he had no idea, but guaranteed if Hammond went through Carlisle’s office and effects, he wouldn’t find a shred of it. He said someone would already have destroyed it and suggested Beria’s man in the State Department as the obvious suspect.

“How the hell did you know about that?”

“Most of the time we’re good at what we do. Don’t believe everything you read in the newspapers.”

When Hammond suggested starting the investigation again, Simmonds shook his head.

“This ain’t Hollywood, my friend. The good guys don’t always win, and the bad guys don’t always die. It took Alan over a year to gather enough evidence to make him a threat, and he knew people. You’re the new kid on the block. How are you going to do the same? Even if you did somehow manage it, in months rather than years, you’d already be too late. Beria already has most of what he and Kurchatov need. It’s only a matter of time before the first test.”

“How long?”

“My guess would be a couple of years. . . three, tops.”

“So what do we do now?”

“Well, now it’s dick-measuring time. Now we make damn sure our atom bomb’s a hell of a lot bigger than their atom bomb.”

It was on a familiar Washington sidewalk. Hammond had been on his way home when the voice disturbed his concentration.

“Yes? What can I do for you?”

“My name is Schulman, Mr Hammond, Alfred Schulman. I work with a man called Wiesenthal in Linz, Simon Wiesenthal. Perhaps you have heard of him?”

“Of course I’ve heard of him. What can I do for you, Mr Schulman?”

They stepped back from the busy sidewalk and into a doorway.

“I was talking to your Mr Carpenter, but nowadays he has become such an important man. I don’t think he has the time to spend on me any more.”

Hammond studied the grey unshaven features beneath the spotless black homburg, and then took in the shabby raincoat and ill-fitting corduroy slacks slumping over scuffed shoes. He suddenly felt guilty and smiled kindly into the whiskered features.

“Well, I’ve got a few minutes to spare. Fancy a coffee?”

“Yes, that would be fine.”

They wandered farther along the street to a coffee shop, found a table in the corner and sat down. Hammond ordered the coffees.

“Can I get you anything else?’ he asked. “A sandwich or something?”

The old man shook his head and smiled.

“No, thank you, Mr Hammond.” He waited until the waitress had hurried away to fetch the coffee. “I am not a pauper, Mr Hammond; not especially wealthy, I admit, but not in need of your charity either. I happen to dress this way because I have discovered there are more important things in life than personal appearance.”

The waitress returned with two coffees. Hammond grinned his embarrassment.

“I apologize, Mr Schulman. I didn’t mean to patronize or insult you, or suggest that you’re in any way. . . Sorry, I’m getting myself in deeper here. So, what can I do for you?”

The old man took a sip of his coffee. His mood was suddenly more serious.

“Mr Carpenter told me that Heinrich Müeller now works for a man called Beria. It was good of him to save me so much time and trouble, but he didn’t talk about all the others.”

“The others?”

“Yes, Mr Hammond. . . People like Martin Borman, Josef Mengele, Adolf Eichmann, Alois Brunner, Martin Kube, Klaus Barbie, Josef Conrad Schmidt and Josef Schwammberger. There are so many others, it is difficult to know where to begin. I think your Mr Carpenter knows a good many of these people, Mr Hammond, as do you. Or do you not?”

Hammond looked straight into the blue-grey eyes and lied without flinching.

“No, Mr Schulman, I don’t. I’ve heard of them, of course, but I have no special knowledge of them, or their whereabouts. You think they’re hiding in America?”

Hammond had surprised himself with how easily the lie had come to him, and how convincingly he had delivered it. His question clearly amused the elderly Jew.

“Good heavens no, Mr Hammond. I would have to believe that they are in hiding all over the world. I also believe that your Mr Carpenter tricked me the last time I spoke to him.”

“He tricked you?”

“Yes. Because I only mentioned the name of Heinrich Müeller he cleverly only talked about Heinrich Müeller, and not about the others your government undoubtedly shelters and protects. I rather think he outfoxed me. He is a clever man, your Mr Carpenter.”

Hammond could only agree.

“Yes, I’m beginning to think so, too. When did Davis Carpenter tell you about all of this?”

“It was months ago, but he has not spoken to me since, and so I decided to talk to you.”

“I see, and how did you get my name?”

The blue-grey eyes twinkled.

“From an old friend of mine, and yours, too, I understand. . . Stanislav Paslov.”

“You know Paslov?”

“We were in Mauthausen together. We became good friends. Adversity sometimes forges the strangest of alliances, between the most unlikely of people. Do you not agree?”

“Yes, I suppose so. So, why didn’t Paslov tell you about Heinrich Müeller’s whereabouts?”

“Because at that time he did not know about Müeller, or I do not believe he knew about him. You see, Mr Hammond, I do not believe that Stanislav Paslov would lie to me, at least not knowingly, but I rather think his Comrade Beria is as tricky as your Mr Carpenter.”

Hammond smiled.

“Oh, I would say at least, Mr Schulman.” A thought suddenly occurred as Hammond recalled the list of Nazi fugitives. “You mentioned Josef Conrad Schmidt among the list of people you’re searching for. I understood that he died in forty-two?”