The Red Eagles (7 page)

His guide knocked at the door, but Kuznetsky pushed past him and entered without waiting for a reply. Old habits die hard, he thought. Never surrender an initiative.

The man sitting behind the desk seemed unperturbed. He’d probably received the same training. Kuznetsky took the seat offered by the man’s flourish of the jade letter opener and for several moments neither spoke.

His host, Kuznetsky observed, was a medium-built, middle-aged man with graying hair. He was dressed in civilian clothes, a well-cut dark blue suit, white shirt, and dark red tie. Most unusual, the shirt collar and tie were loosened at the neck, giving him a vaguely dissolute appearance. He had high cheekbones and deep-set dark eyes – Tartar blood probably – and a mouth that seemed on the verge of an ironic smile. The eyes contained the same air of amused condescension. Whoever this man was, Kuznetsky thought, he was sure of himself.

Sheslakov examined Kuznetsky with the same thoroughness. He was tall, over six feet, with thick, dark hair and the sort of profile you saw on hero-of-the-revolution wall posters. He
did
look American, but he could have passed for a Russian easily enough. The eyes – Fyedorova always told him to look at the eyes
first
– were quite extraordinary. Not because of anything intrinsic – because of the total contrast they offered to the rest of the man. The mouth, the posture, the sense of physical power, all shouted “Fighter”; the eyes whispered “Calm,” the calm of killers and saints. He knew now what Fyedorova had meant by a wild card.

“Colonel Kuznetsky,” he said, “you have been provisionally selected to lead an operation outside the Soviet Union. It is not an NKVD operation, nor a GRU operation. Both apparats are working together under the direct authority of the Atomic Division, which is itself responsible only to the
Secretariat.” He paused. Kuznetsky said nothing, only nodded slightly. “Your participation will be on a voluntary basis; you will understand why when you read this.” He passed across a thin folder, the words “American Rose” stenciled on the cover in red.

Kuznetsky stared at the words. “The United States?” he asked.

“Yes.”

He read for twenty minutes, increasingly absorbed, pausing only once to examine the old woman who came in and lay back on the cot under the window. Who the hell was she? And why was she staring at him?

Finally he closed the folder and placed it gently on the edge of Sheslakov’s desk. “When will the bait be offered?” he asked.

“At the moment of maximum psychological impact. After the Allied invasion of France, which we expect on June 6, and before our summer offensive, which is set for June 22. The combination of a known disaster and an imminent one usually provides a potent mixture.”

Kuznetsky looked amused.
Very neat
as Americans would say. “And what if the Germans throw the Allies back into the English Channel?”

“That is unlikely.”

“I wouldn’t know. There are a lot of hopeful assumptions built into this. Maybe correct ones. But it
feels
like thin ice.”

“There is very little margin for error,” Sheslakov admitted. “But that is unavoidable when we have to be more concerned with avoiding detection and exposure than anything else … You are willing?”

“I am not a believer in voluntary work, Comrade, but in duty. I will go for that reason.” And, he admitted to himself, out of curiosity. What would America look like after twenty-six years? And how would it feel to be back there?

“Come in, Anatoly Grigorovich,” Zhdanov boomed, “sit down, tell me some good news.”

Sheslakov took the proffered chair. “Thank you, Comrade Secretary. I do have good news – the First Priority is within our reach.”

Zhdanov’s ears pricked up almost visibly. “How?” he asked, offering Sheslakov the first Havana cigar he’d seen since the war’s beginning.

Sheslakov lovingly applied the match, savoring the moment and taking an almost sadistic delight in the other man’s ill-concealed impatience. “You recall your submission to Stavka on” – he consulted his notes – “April 28 concerning the possible theft of American Uranium-235. To summarize – you pointed out that the amount we could steal would be militarily useless even if we could contain the political damage.”

“I have not forgotten.”

“Both problems can be avoided.” He took another puff on the cigar. If only Cuba were run by Communists! “The Americans, knowing how much material had been stolen, would know how many bombs we could make.”

“That seems self-evident.”

“Ah, but there is a hidden assumption, that our building of atomic bombs would necessarily be linked with our theft of the material.”

“But it would be.”

“Indeed, but the Americans need not know that. If we can both steal the material
and
convince the Americans that we have not stolen it, then the problem is solved. Our possession of atomic bombs will then be ascribed to our own domestic development program, and the Americans will have no idea how many bombs we
really
have.”

“We’ll still have only two, which the military say will be worse than useless.”

“We will have only one. We must explode the first to
show the Americans we actually have the capability. I’m afraid the military, as usual, is behind the times. They just don’t understand that these atomic bombs are not ordinary weapons; the mere threat of using them will be enough. If both sides have them, no one will dare use them, and the calculations that matter will concern men and tanks and ships again. What is important is not actually having the atomic bomb, but instilling that fear into the Americans.”

Comprehension dawned on Zhdanov’s face, then swiftly made room for more furrows of concern. “Who else would steal it then?” It was such a stupid question that Sheslakov let Zhdanov answer it for himself. “A
ruse de guerre
. Soviet soldiers in German uniforms.”

“No, no, nothing as” – he was going to say “crude” but Zhdanov was notoriously sensitive about his peasant background – “nothing as direct as that. The Germans themselves will steal the uranium. And we will help them.”

Zhdanov looked at him as if he’d gone mad. “Explain,” he said grimly.

Sheslakov did so, going over each point in his plan until he thought Zhdanov had grasped it. When he had finished the head of the Atomic Division leaned back in his chair and looked into space. “Very well,” he said at last, “I can see the possibility. Put it in writing and find the people.”

Sheslakov pulled the file out of his briefcase and handed it across the desk. “We already have the people,” he said.

Stalin pushed the report to one side of his desk and closed his eyes. Why “American Rose”? he wondered. Only the Germans and the Americans made a habit of flattering nature and themselves by applying such names to human enterprises. Sheslakov was a strange man, an oddity. But for now an affordable one.

Would it work? he asked himself. It felt right. The Americans had the scientists and the money and a country
that wasn’t in ruins. And ambition. Unlimited ambition. But it wasn’t a calculating ambition. Socialism might be weak now but it saw the way forward, it calculated, it planned. Capital, for all its power, was blind as a river. And what could be more easily bluffed than blind ambition?

There was only the one flaw – the number of foreigners who would know, who could expose the bluff. A German-born woman: an American-born man, the agents in America who would inevitably have been softened by the capitalist life. But that was a flaw that could be corrected at the end of the game.

He called in his aide. “Telephone Zhdanov. Tell him yes.”

“The diagram was drawn by a German scientist who’s now working at Site Y in New Mexico. He was apparently trying to impress his secretary,” Amy told Wim Doesburg as they strolled through the small Manhattan art gallery.

“It will impress Berlin, I think,” he replied, stopping in front of a canvas depicting a dark, almost ominous flower. “What do you think of this one?” he asked.

Amy forced herself to look at the painting. “Depressing,” she murmured.

“Isn’t it?” Doesburg agreed jovially. “But beautiful just the same.”

They walked on, continuing their conversation in the spaces allowed by other visitors to the gallery. Amy couldn’t remember ever feeling as nervous. At the meeting with Faulkner the previous day, he’d been almost unrecognizably tense, and once he’d shared what he knew with her, she wasn’t surprised. Now the strain of listening to Doesburg’s urbane chatter, observing the usual security precautions,
and
following Moscow’s script was stretching her to the limit.

Doesburg was excited by the diagram – she knew that much. His face and steady stream of conversation might not betray anything, but his walk had become noticeably jaunty in the last few minutes. Now was the time.

“There’s also some other unsolicited material,” she said casually at the next opportunity. “Of rather dubious value,” she added. “Sigmund insisted on explaining it all to me
despite the security risk, and he’s included all the necessary information. You’ll see what I mean.” She paused to let a young couple meander by. “He’d just read the
Picture Post
article on Mussolini’s escape to Germany, and, according to him, it gave him an idea. He says at first he thought it was ridiculous, but then he realized it was feasible. Apparently there’s a train that takes the bomb material made in Tennessee to New Mexico for the bomb production process, and Sigmund has visions of Skorzeny dropping out of the sky and holding it up.” Catching Doesburg’s expression of amused incredulity, she said, “I thought the same, but he has looked into it all with great thoroughness, and the whole idea does have some lunatic logic to it. I can find no fault in his plan, but then I’ve no experience of planning such operations. Of course,” she added almost wistfully, “it would be a spectacular, tremendous coup.”

Doesburg said nothing for a moment, seemingly engrossed in a funereal painting. “I shall find the flaws for you, my dear,” he said finally. “But we must humor Sigmund, if only to keep the flow of diagrams coming.”

An hour later Doesburg was back in his Brooklyn home, spreading the contents of the envelope across the kitchen table. The diagram fascinated him – so much scientific advance represented on a single sheet of paper. His wife, Elke, looked at it over his shoulder. “Is that all?” she asked, unconsciously echoing his thoughts. “One page for a bomb that can destroy a whole city?”

It was only after dinner that he bothered to read Sigmund’s report on the uranium train. He had to admit the idea was attractive, and read on expecting to find the point where fantasy took over from practicality. There was a timetable, a crew schedule, a map with the escape route plotted in, even photographs of the train. There was no mention of Skorzeny; Sigmund specified a long-range U-boat, even the precise class required.

Doesburg scratched his head, ignored Elke’s attempts to interest him in the latest Victory Garden competition, and started from the beginning again. A U-boat drop-off on the coast of Georgia – simple enough. Two English-speaking German officers to be met by American operatives and transported to the hijack point. It was hunting country, so strangers hiring a lodge for a week would not seem unusual. The hijack itself seemed to present no difficulties, provided the information was all accurate. It was certainly comprehensive enough. Then a twelve-hour drive back to the coast for the pickup, with the FBI presumably in pursuit. But probably in total disarray, Doesburg thought. Sigmund had pointed out that the escape route crossed a state line in the first fifty miles, which would suitably complicate police reaction.

He walked out onto the backyard porch and lowered himself into his rocking chair. It was a beautiful evening, the distant towers of Manhattan silhouetted by the setting sun, the street full of children playing stickball. It was hard to believe that America was at war. In Tennessee and Alabama it would seem even more unreal. What a blow to American pride it would be! A coup.

And something of an opportunity. Doesburg knew only too well that when the Allies reached Berlin, as it seemed certain they would, there was every chance that they’d find a file with his name on it. He hadn’t said anything to Elke – there was no point in worrying her in advance – but he had for some time been preparing in his mind for their discreet withdrawal from American soil. If the Abwehr could be interested in this operation, they would pay, and pay a lot. No one in Berlin, he knew from lucrative past experience, had any conception of how cheap espionage really was. He could ask for $10,000, and 80 percent of that, plus the proceeds from selling their brownstone, would set them up very nicely in Brazil or Argentina.

There was even the faint prospect of a successful operation altering the course of the war, leaving his file in safe hands. There were no risks involved that he could see; everything would go through Rosa, and she knew neither his real name nor his address.

He went back indoors, addressed an envelope to his contact in Rio, and enclosed the diagram.

“You must mail this tomorrow morning,” he told Elke, “somewhere on Fifth Avenue. I must go to see Kroeger in Syracuse – there’s something I want sent immediately on the radio.”

After her meeting with Doesburg, Amy took the train back to Washington and went to bed.

The next morning Richard was waiting in her office, looking no better disposed than he had on Friday.

“Good weekend?” he asked sarcastically.

“Yes, thank you,” she said calmly. “You?”

“Wonderful. I listened to the radio Saturday night and listened to the radio all day Sunday—”

“Look, Richard,” she said, suddenly feeling angry, “I’m not obliged to give up my plans just because your wife takes it into her head to go away for the weekend. You don’t own me—”

“I’m going to tell her.”

She stared at him. “Why? To punish me?”

He grabbed her arm. “We had the chance of a whole weekend together. Is your father’s family more important than that? You see them every month. They’re not even real relations.” He stopped, releasing her arm. “Is that where you really were?” he forced out.

“No, Errol Flynn invited me to his yacht.”

“Don’t joke!”

“What do you expect me to say? What do you think I am? Richard, if I wanted to start another love affair with
someone, I’d do it in the open, and only after I’d ended this one with you. It’s you who’s in love with secrecy, remember?”

“Okay, okay, you’ve made your point.”

“I just wish I didn’t have to keep on making it. Richard, I know it would have been fun to spend the weekend together, but I am not,
not
, going to spend my life waiting around for you to be available. Some women might put up with it, but I’m not one of them. And I’ve never pretended any different, have I?”

“No,” he said wearily. “I know you haven’t.”

“Good,” she said, and kissed him on the cheek. “Now leave me alone. I’ll see you Friday.”

He went, leaving her feeling unsure of what she should do. Richard was a habit, one that she’d always considered distracting and harmless. One that helped fill the gap left by the impossibility of a real relationship. Now she was beginning to realize how dangerous a habit he had become.

Twelve days after Wim Doesburg’s trip to Syracuse, Obergruppenführer Walter Schellenberg sat brooding in the back of a limousine as it wound up the hairpin turns toward the Führer’s mountain retreat. His interview with Himmler the previous day had proved less than satisfactory. Not only had the Reichsführer sprayed him with germs, occasioning his present sore throat and runny nose, but he’d also abdicated all responsibility for the matter.

“Take it directly to the Führer,” Himmler had advised, the tone of his voice implying that nothing would persuade him to do so himself.

Himmler thought it too risky because it broke the infamous Goering Law – never offer the Führer anything that you don’t already have at your disposal. Well, no one could accuse Himmler of a surfeit of imagination.

But the Führer would appreciate the plan, Schellenberg
was sure of it. There really was no risk; it was just the enormity of the prize that made it hard to believe. If they failed, it would cost them only two soldiers and a U-boat. If they succeeded, then at the very least defeat could be avoided. With an atomic V rocket they could reduce London to rubble in a single strike or, more to the point, threaten to do so. Then the Western Allies would come quickly enough to the negotiating table to talk about the real enemy, about saving Europe from Stalin’s barbarian hordes. A few photographs of disemboweled German soldiers might wake Roosevelt up, and Churchill had always been an anti-Communist at heart.

There seemed no reason why success should elude them. The people in America seemed very efficient, the
Kriegsmarine
said there were no difficulties involved in the transport, the scientists had confirmed that they could make a bomb if they had the Uranium-2.35. There had been nine English-speaking officers to choose from with the necessary combat experience and firsthand knowledge of America. One of them had even been a physics teacher before the war. An omen, if ever he’d seen one. Himmler was a fool.

The car drew up outside the Berghof. Schellenberg was greeted by Hitler’s adjutant, General Schmundt, and informed that the Führer was still involved in the afternoon military conference. This explanation was somewhat unnecessary: as soon as he entered the Great Hall, Schellenberg could hear Hitler’s raised voice through the open door of the conference room. He sat down as far from the blazing log fire as possible and tried to ignore the suffocating perfume exuded by the myriad bowls of fresh flowers.

Hitler stopped shouting. Schellenberg could hear the obsequious tones of Jodl and Keitel taking turns to explain something. They obviously were not successful, for suddenly Hitler’s harsh voice was echoing through the house once more.

“Rommel does not see the whole picture. The rest of them are cowards and fools. I try to make the orders so clear that even a child could understand them, and what do I get? Requests for authorization to do the exact opposite!” There was silence, then the Führer’s voice again, this time sweet and reasonable, as if he were talking to a favorite young nephew. “I understand the military arguments for withdrawal, but war is more than a purely
military
matter. It is about people, individual soldiers, about their will to win. Retreat is addictive. It doesn’t matter whether it makes sense
militarily
. It is psychologically disastrous. Always. Always.”

Keitel and Jodl started talking again. Schellenberg could visualize the scene from past experience: the Führer leaning over the map, his arms rigid at his sides, while all the toadies murmured yes and shrugged at each other behind his back. Why did he bother with them?

The door behind him opened, admitting another perfume.

“Good afternoon, Herr Obergruppenführer.” the woman said. “Or is it evening? I never know when one turns into the other. We haven’t had the pleasure of your company for a long time.”

Schellenberg rose from his seat and bowed. “Good evening, Fraulein Braun. I’m afraid the demands of the war leave little time for the pleasures of life.”

She pouted. “If anyone knows that, I do.” She looked around, as if, Schellenberg thought, she was wondering where she was. “I hope you have some good news for him,” she said absentmindedly. “It’s been so hard on him these last few months,” she added, lowering her voice as if she were betraying a state secret.

“Of course,” Schellenberg said sympathetically, wondering what else to say.

He was saved by the reappearance of Schmundt. “The conference will end shortly, Herr Obergruppenführer. The Führer suggests you wait for him in the upstairs study.”

It was as hot in the study as in the hall, but like everyone else who entered that room, Schellenberg found his attention captured by the huge picture window and its breathtaking view of Alpine peaks fading into the distance.

An hour passed and the mountains receded into the gathering darkness as the stars brightened above them. He was beginning to feel vaguely hypnotized by the effect when the door finally opened to admit Hitler and his pet Alsatian.

“It’s a wonderful view, isn’t it? I designed the house myself, you know.”

“Yes, my Führer.”

Hitler sat down in one of the leather-covered armchairs. He looked pale, but there was none of the trembling that Schellenberg had heard about. There was a half-smile on his face as he stroked the dog’s back and stared out into the night. “When there are difficult decisions to be taken,” he said, “I often come and sit here by myself. I sometimes think that it is the majesty of all this” – he indicated the panorama of the outside world with a sweep of an arm – “that really makes the decisions. I am only its voice.”

Schellenberg said nothing.

“I have studied your plan with the utmost care, Walter, and I have every hope of it succeeding. Of course,” he added, turning to face Schellenberg, “it is doubtful whether we shall need atomic bombs for this war, but a leader has a duty to think ahead, and science never stands still. No, what excites me about your operation is its psychological dimension.”

Hitler paused to pour himself a glass of distilled water from the decanter on the table. “Nations are wonderfully distinctive, and more and more I have been thinking about the resemblance each bears to a particular animal … yes, animals. It is no coincidence, Walter, that throughout history different nations have identified themselves, through flags, crests, emblems, whatever, with certain animals. The Russian
bear, the English lion, the German eagle – these are only the most obvious examples. Note the differences – though each is a fine fighter, the bear is stupid, the lion lazy, the eagle perhaps overprone to flights of the imagination. Yet within these nations one rule prevails. The strongest lion, the strongest bear, the strongest eagle – each assumes the leadership. It is the law of history.”