The Folks at Fifty-Eight (9 page)

Despite his bluster, Marcus Allum was already on the raggedy edge. News of this latest set-back almost sent him over the top.

“But he has to sanction it. Jesus! This isn’t a game. Don’t they understand the position we’re in? They set up a Central Intelligence Group to counter Sov expansionism, tie one hand behind their backs, and then expect them to take on Beria with a fucking water pistol. And lest anyone forgets the reason we’re in all this shit, the reason we had to use Hammond for Magdeburg was because Truman wouldn’t sanction covert ops.”

“I’m sorry, Marcus, but it’s still not going to happen; not in the short-term, not officially.”

Allum’s mood was deepening by the second.

“For Christ’s sake, Daniel. I’m not asking for any great advantage here. Beria may have pissed away most of the old NKVD in the shake-up, but he’s still running more covert crap out of the Lubyanka than you can shake a stick at. I can beat him. I know I can. All I’m asking Harry Truman for is a level playing field.”

The response was sympathetic, but unyielding.

“I know that, and so does the president, but give it time, Marcus, give it time.”

“So what the hell happened this time?”

“You tell me. What always happens?”

“Hoover.”

Daniel Chambers nodded moodily and continued walking. To the uninitiated and those few passers-by who ventured out on a chilly late-spring afternoon, the men’s stroll would have appeared innocuous enough. The pauses, frequent features of that same casual stroll, similarly appeared as innocent gaps in conversation, rather than any need for confidentiality.

They could have been regular businessmen discussing sales strategies or their favourite baseball team, but the reality was anything but that. Daniel Chambers explained the latest setback.

“Hoover’s still looking to steal a piece, no matter how small. Since he lost out on CIG he’s been claiming all sorts of nonsense about the Soviets, and Truman’s been buying it.”

“I don’t see why he doesn’t just back off and get on with his own damn job.”

“You mean, apart from having an ego the size of Washington?”

“It can’t just be that. He’s lost before.”

“Not this big, he hasn’t.”

Allum could see the truth of that. He moved the conversation along.

“How’s he doing with the White House sweep?”

“Morton Simmonds is still viewing the world through the bottom of a glass, and Hoover still hasn’t got a scrap of worthwhile evidence. Pretty much business as usual.”

Allum smiled malevolently as he thought of J. Edgar Hoover’s massively-expensive and on-going operation to purge the Federal Government and White House of communist sympathizers. He was also thinking about the man Hoover had picked to head up the 250 agents assigned. Allum chuckled as he recalled his old adversary, the philandering and hard-drinking FBI senior agent, Morton Simmonds.

“So you’re saying, despite all this time and expense, the only thing Hoover’s got that’s guaranteed to hold firm under the spotlight of a grand-jury investigation is Morton Simmonds’ dick.”

Even the prudish Daniel Chambers smiled at that. He said that was why J. Edgar Hoover had needed to distract Truman. Hoover had picked on Soviet expansionism and the inability of the CIG to combat it, because it offered a distraction from his own failings. They couldn’t argue their case by telling Truman about the European networks, because he had already forbidden any such covert activity. Once again, J. Edgar Hoover had played his hand to perfection.

Allum nodded. Suddenly it all made sense.

“Of course. That’s what all this is about. We don’t get covert ops approved, because Hoover screwed up on his bid to run CIG?” He saw Chambers nod, and vented his fury. “He lost, for Christ’s sake. We all did. What the fuck’s the point of kicking at a corpse?”

Marcus Allum’s hatred of Hoover was almost as obsessive as his hatred of communism. He raged on. “That’s the trouble with these fags; they get so damn bitchy when they lose.”

Daniel Chambers seemed more positive.

“Don’t let him get to you, Marcus. We’re still in good shape. We keep building the networks, quietly and efficiently, and we keep Hoover so busy he won’t have time to draw breath. When I get through with Mr John Edgar Hoover, he’ll have commies coming out of the White House woodwork; even Harry Truman’s gonna be checking under his bed every night before he turns out the light.”

The uncharacteristic fire in Chambers’ eyes slowly dulled.

“Anyway, what was so important we had to meet like this?”

Allum gave him the good news.

“Strangely enough, it was on that very subject. Zalesie just approved the funding on a new Czech network. Carlisle’s in Frankfurt now. He says we just need to line up a couple of ducks and we’re all set.”

“Who’s doing the horse-trading?”

Allum didn’t want Chambers knowing everything, at least not yet. He talked briefly about Kube, but didn’t give any specific details. Chambers looked straight at him.

“You’re not going to say Gestapo, are you? Tell me you’re not going to say Gestapo?”

Marcus Allum hated these stupid mind games. If Chambers already knew the answer, why ask the question? He shrugged his indifference and held his anger.

“It’s the nature of the beast, Daniel, and we’ve taken worse.”

Neither man spoke for a while as they continued their stroll. They stopped to admire a well-tended bed of azaleas in full bloom and allow a passing couple to wander on by before resuming both afternoon stroll and clandestine conversation.

“OK, Marcus, let me have the figures, and I’ll transfer the funds. Have you called Carlisle?”

“Yeah, called him earlier. He’ll run with this, and keep us briefed on the situation with Hammond and the girl. He’s due back here Wednesday. Hopefully, Hammond will have come through by then. We’ll organize a meet in Connecticut for Thursday.”

For the second time that morning, the sombre Daniel Chambers smiled.

“So Carlisle’s in Frankfurt over the weekend. God help the fräuleins.”

Later that day, on the other side of the Atlantic, Alan Carlisle sat in the deserted lounge of his Frankfurt hotel. He had chosen an intimate corner and told the waiter not to disturb him unless called. He was now sipping at a scotch and waiting for his guest to arrive.

Following Marcus Allum’s telephoned approval, Carlisle had sealed an agreement with the fat Gestapo spymaster. Further progress would have to wait until Monday, or at least progress on that particular agreement.

For Alan Carlisle weekend stopovers in Frankfurt consisted of extravagant room service and crude indulgence, in the company of working fräuleins. However, on this particular weekend an unprincipled rogue had more devious entertainment in mind.

“Mr Carlisle?”

He studied her as she stood before him, and smiled inwardly at her coyness. Howard Strecker had been less than forthright. The doe-eyed and statuesque Melody Strand was exquisite.

“Melody, I presume?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Come, come and sit.”

He patted the seat next to him. She sat down.

“You wanted to see me, sir? Something about my transfer?”

He smiled his usual disarming smile.

“Yes, that’s right, I did. Can I get you something to drink?”

“No, thank you, sir.”

Carlisle shrugged and produced the form.

“I’m afraid the Colonel wasn’t able to approve your transfer. I’m sorry, my dear.”

He watched anxious features fall.

“Why not? He told me he would.”

Carlisle nodded. A devious plan was progressing nicely.

“Yes, but since then they’ve changed the rules. This is a top-secret base. Everyone has to be checked, double-checked, and positively vetted. We can’t just transfer people in and out. Nowadays, it needs State Department approval for unscheduled transfers. I’m so sorry.”

Her face fell further.

“But you’re with the State Department. Couldn’t you approve it?”

Within seconds Carlisle had feigned surprise, deliberation, reluctance and indecision.

“Well, I could, I suppose, but I shouldn’t really interfere. I mean, you seem like a charming girl, but I hardly know you. I couldn’t. . .”

“Please, Mr Carlisle. Please say you’ll help me.”

“Well, I suppose we could get to know each other a little better. I am stuck here until next week. Perhaps we could have dinner, discuss it over a bottle or two of champagne.”

He looked for a reaction, and got it as her brown eyes widened in shock.

“Mr Carlisle, if you’re suggesting what I think. . . I’m a married woman.”

“Who loves her husband?”

“Yes, of course.”

“How much?”

“I’m sorry?”

He grinned and qualified the question.

“How much do you love your husband?”

An expression of shock suddenly turned to one of outrage.

“You’re saying, if I have sex with you, you’ll approve my transfer?”

He answered with feigned nonchalance.

“I wouldn’t put it so bluntly, but, yes, I suppose I am.”

She stood up to leave.

“You go to hell, you bastard!”

It was a bluff. Carlisle could tell. He could see she was intrigued by the suggestion; perhaps a little outraged, too, but definitely intrigued. He tried a bluff of his own.

“No doubt in time, but right now I think I’ll have a lie down before dinner.” He finished his drink and made ready to leave. “Goodbye, Melody. Pity about that transfer.”

“God, you’re a bastard. The other girls were right. They told me about you. They warned me not to come here. They said what would happen.”

“Perhaps you should have listened to them.”

As he spoke, he watched her watching him. She was obviously considering his offer. He could almost read her thoughts. Then he saw her shrug and felt the elation rise.

A moment after that, she sat down again.

“All right, you bastard. Just this once, and then you’ll approve my transfer. You swear?”

Carlisle felt that old familiar rush of sexual adrenaline as he sat down alongside her, this time sitting closer, much closer. He began stroking the small of her back, and, when she didn’t flinch or protest, reached down with the other hand to squeeze and fondle her knee.

Still she didn’t resist or complain, and so he inched his fingers all the way beneath the hemline, and then began idly stroking a path along her inner thigh.

“Just this once, did you say? Good god no, my dear. I’ve got the whole weekend to kill.”

He saw her mouth open as his fingers slid higher. It described a gasp, but made no sound. He tugged her thighs a little wider, teased a little more, and watched her brown eyes struggling to focus. A low groan of lust and despair confirmed the guilty pleasure as her thighs relaxed and her eyelids fluttered. When she finally spoke, it was in whispered syllables that lacked conviction.

“No, not here, please.”

A hand clutched at his arm, a slim and dainty hand, with trembling fingers and crimson nails. It tried and failed to deny the intrusion, but then gripped a little tighter and guided him higher, encouraging him beyond the stocking’s perimeter, to where his fingers toyed and caressed before worming their way beneath that final flimsy barrier.

A suddenly jolt greeted the first electric contact. Another groan announced a helpless young beauty’s erotic dilemma and increasing arousal. He tormented for a while, and explored for a while, and watched her fighting the urge to respond. He found himself whispering disgraceful thoughts of lust, and crude predictions of pleasure, intending to compound her confusion, knowing she was almost ready.

“What is going on here?” And then. . . “Herr Carlisle. This is a respectable hotel.”

Despite instructions to the contrary, the waiter had come in from the bar, under the pretext of checking to see if he needed another drink. The waiter was a bumptious individual. Carlisle remembered him from a previous visit and a situation not entirely unlike this. He scrambled to his feet and began to bluster a pointless and ridiculous explanation. It was then the waiter saw the extent of young Melody’s dishevelment. He wagged an index finger and scolded her.

“And as for you, fräulein. . . you should be ashamed of yourself.”

When Melody Strand pulled down her skirt and stood up, she didn’t look in the least bit ashamed of herself. She calmly patted her hair into place, carefully straightened the seams of her stockings and looked deep into Carlisle’s eyes.

“Room number?” she asked.

He swallowed hard as he processed the words, then rediscovered his voice.

“Uh, one-o-five.”

“Key.”

She held out her hand. He fumbled in his jacket pocket for the key, found it, and dropped it into the open palm. Her fingers closed around the fob. She smiled briefly and enigmatically, then turned to the waiter.

“Frau, not fräulein. Do try to remember. Does the restaurant have oysters?” The waiter nodded mutely. She looked concerned. “We’re almost into May. Are you sure they’re fresh?”

“Of course.”

The waiter both looked and sounded insulted. He seemed to have momentarily forgotten the circumstance that caused his intervention. She haughtily studied him as she gave her order.

“Send a dozen to room one-o-five, with a bottle of decent champagne and two glasses. In about an hour, not before.”

“Certainly, Frau. . . uh. . . ?”

She failed to answer the unasked question and returned the stare to a delighted Carlisle.

“Well, you talk a good fuck. . . Let’s see if you give one.”

Carlisle’s mouth hung open, but his mind was racing. Could this possibly be the same vulnerable young newly-wed described by the over-protective Howard Strecker; the same helpless and innocent beauty, who had so naïvely fallen into his dastardly trap?

He followed in rapt attendance as she sashayed her way towards the foyer, then saw her stop, turn back to the still open-mouthed waiter and cheekily amend the order.

“On second thoughts, perhaps you’d better make that two dozen.”

She smiled a wickedly mischievous smile and nodded to where Alan Carlisle stood silently marvelling at the sheer audacity of her performance.