The Tristan Betrayal

  “Lana, milaya, listen to me. Listen to me carefully. What I’m about to tell you—I want you to know the truth. I don’t care what you’ll think of me after—no, that’s not true; I do care what you think of me! But you should know the truth, and if it ruins everything, so be it. If it ruins the operation, if it makes you never want to see me ever again, so be it. I can’t have this lie on my conscience anymore. You deserve more, far more.”

  She was no longer looking at him. She sat next to him on the bed, seeming to shrink into herself. He still held her hand, but it seemed to have gone cold and damp. Something inside of him had turned icy as well, but it was not the ice of a man who was past caring; it was the frozen interior tundra of a man who felt alone and frightened, a lost child. “I want to tell you about the operation I’ve led you into,” he said. Why am I saying this? he wondered. Why am I doing this? He had come here with the simple intention of persuading her to defect, of taking part in one last, breathtakingly bold operation that would simultaneously save her and save Operation WOLFSFALLE. But now . . . something inside had given way: a compulsion to tell the truth to this woman he never wanted to live without. “The documents I’ve been giving you. The ones I told you would convince Hitler and his men that Russia’s intentions were peaceful—”

  “I know,” she interrupted. She had opened her eyes, but she was staring at the floor. She looked deeply weary. “I know the truth, dorogoi Stiva. I know what was in those papers.”

  “You read them.”

  “Of course I read them. You underestimate me, milenky. A Russia that poses no threat to Hitler would be an engraved invitation to Hitler to invade. Men like Hitler—and like Stalin—despise weakness. It does not reassure them. It provokes them. If Hitler believed that Russia was weak, he would send his armies in to Moscow and Leningrad, he would have taken us over long ago. No, the only thing that has kept Hitler from declaring war against Russia is his fear that Russia is too strong an adversary. I know this.”

  He was stunned. He wanted to look into her eyes, but she kept staring at the floor as she continued: “But you want Hitler and Stalin to go to war. That’s the real objective. Your documents tell Hitler of Stalin’s plans to attack Germany first. Hitler’s men, if they believe the truth of these documents, will have no choice but to launch an attack.”

  He turned, took her face in both of his hands. “Dear God,” he breathed. “You’ve known this all along.”

  “And I approve, Stivushka. I think it’s dangerous, and daring, but it’s also brilliant. It’s the only hope. If Hitler attacks us, believing that we are weak, he will be led to his own grave. Yes, Stiva, I’ve known this from the beginning.”

  “You’re a beautiful woman, the most beautiful woman I’ve ever met. And the most remarkable woman I’ve ever met.”

  “Then tell me this,” she said solemnly. “And you must tell me the truth: Does the NKVD believe that I’m passing Soviet military secrets? Is that what you’ve come here to warn me?”

  “No. Not yet. But it’s only a matter of time before the NKVD begins to suspect you. The Abwehr—German military intelligence—has an asset within the Lubyanka. There are leaks in both directions. No secret is truly safe.”

  “An ‘asset’?”

  “A spy. Someone who’s working for them, informing for them, reporting to them.”

  “Spies among spies!”

  He nodded. “The Germans have begun to suspect that the documents have come to them too easily. They wonder if it’s a Soviet plant.”

  “And you think their—their ‘asset’ in the Lubyanka will raise questions about me.”

  “It’s possible. There’s always leakage, in any operation that involves more than two persons. It’s always a risk.”

  “But that’s not your chief concern. You are concerned that the operation will fail.”

  “How ruthless you must think I am.”

  “I’m not a child,” she snapped, turning to him suddenly with eyes wide. Her expression was fierce. “I thought you’d figured that out about me by now. We both know what’s important. We both know that the fate of the free world is more important than the life of any ballerina.”

  Her words were chilling. “Maybe I want too much,” he replied gently, “but I want to protect you at the same time that I save the operation.”

  “How is that possible?”

  “Kundrov.”

  “Kundrov? What do you mean?”

  “If you give us the go-ahead, Lana, Kundrov is going to report you to his higher-ups.”

  “Report me,” she said. “I don’t understand.”

  “He will report his suspicions that you, the daughter of a renowned Soviet general, have been passing military secrets to the German diplomat you’re in love with. It will be a thunderbolt in Moscow; it will surge to the highest levels. The GRU will call in the NKVD on this, and orders will be issued at once.”

  She nodded, a terrible understanding dawning in her face. “When I am arrested, the Germans will learn of it through their spy in the Lubyanka. Then Hitler’s men will see that this was no Soviet plant. They will be persuaded that the documents are authentic.” She shrugged; her tone was casual, but she could not hide the strain, the fear. “The execution of one insignificant ballerina is surely worth it if it means the end of Hitler.”

  Metcalfe grabbed her with both hands, wresting her face toward his. “No! I would not sacrifice you!”

  “I would be sacrificing myself,” Lana replied coolly.

  “Listen to me! You will not be arrested. You know how these things work. The NKVD will not arrest you on German soil. They will lure you back home, tell you that you must return at once. There’s an emergency, they’ll tell you. Perhaps something with your father. They will use some pretext, some ruse. They will put you on the first train out of Berlin, and once you reach Moscow, then they’ll arrest you.”

  “Yes, yes,” she agreed. “That is indeed how they’ll do it.”

  “But you won’t get on that train! You’ll defect—they’ll think you were tipped off, that you figured out the truth and you chose instead to defect. You chose life over execution—it’s entirely reasonable.”

  “And how will I defect?”

  “All you have to do is say the word, Lana, and I’ll place a call to Switzerland. The British Special Operations Executive and the RAF operate a fleet of small, light monoplanes—Lysanders—that are used to parachute agents into Nazi-occupied territory. Occasionally to make pickups as well.”

  “They fly into German airspace?”

  “They know the capabilities and schedules of Nazi antiaircraft defenses. They fly in low and fast enough that the Nazi defenses don’t have time to react. These planes have already made dozens of flights like this. But the timing is extraordinarily tricky. The whole thing requires a high degree of coordination. Once we request a plane, we have to be ready to meet it, signaling at a designated rendezvous site outside of Berlin. If everything doesn’t happen with perfect timing, the plane won’t even land. It’ll circle around and return to Tempsford Airfield in Bedfordshire. And then the window will slam shut.”

  “The window?”

  “Once Kundrov has transmitted his report about you to Moscow, we’ll have only one opportunity to get on the plane. If we miss it, the NKVD will grab you. And I won’t have that.”

  “And Kundrov?”

  “We’ve already spoken about this. He’s already arranging his end of the rendezvous. All I have to do is call Bern, and once I know the Lysander is being dispatched, Kundrov will make his report to Moscow. The authorities in Moscow will coordinate your arrest with the NKVD presence here. The machinery will be set into motion. It’ll be unstoppable. There’ll be no turning back then.”

  “You trust him?”

  “That’s the same question he asked of me. He saved your life and mine.” Metcalfe recalled Kundrov’s request to defect. “I have other reasons to trust him as well. But Lana—this is up to you.”

  “Yes.
”

  “I want you to think long and hard about this. It may sound terribly risky, but I think it’s even more risky for you to return to Moscow, where it’s only a matter of time before you’re arrested.”

  “I said yes, Stiva.”

  “You realize that things can still go wrong?”

  “I told you, I’m not a child. Nothing in life is guaranteed. Nothing in our world is safe. Not anymore. Leaving my father—this will tear me apart, my darling. But I have said good-bye to him for the last time, just as I do every morning. So I’m telling you yes.”

  Both of them were silent for a minute or two.

  “I need to place two calls. One to Kundrov, who’s waiting for my call.” He pulled out a scrap of paper on which he’d scrawled the number of a telephone booth in central Berlin. “The other to Switzerland. Von Schüssler’s a diplomat, which means the Foreign Office provides him with the kind of telephone line with international access that few other Germans have.”

  “There’s a telephone in his study. He placed a call to the German embassy in Moscow shortly after we arrived here.”

  He glanced at his watch, something he realized he had been doing with increasing frequency this evening.

  “All right. We have five hours, even less. If all goes according to schedule, once I call Kundrov, he will call Moscow. The wheels will turn quite fast; Kundrov will see to it. You will then be called, very likely within the hour, by someone from the NKVD—only he will pretend to be someone high up in the Bolshoi Theater administration, someone you’ve never heard of. You will be told that your father has been stricken ill, that your presence is required in Moscow, as your father’s legal guardian. You will be instructed to arrive at the Berlin Ostbahnhof to board the Brussels-Moscow train, leaving Brussels at nineteen-thirty and making a brief stop in Berlin at four-oh-two in the morning.”

  “And then?”

  “And then Kundrov will arrive at the schloss and take you to the pickup site. It’s an abandoned movie lot outside of Berlin that’s currently being used as a decoy—a fake town, designed to fool Allied forces, to divert their bombing runs from Berlin. There’s a large field there that’s large enough for a small craft to land. Apparently, since it’s deserted, it’s the most secure location within sixty kilometers of Berlin. Now, in order for this plan to have a chance of working, the plane cannot enter German airspace until after you’ve received the call from the NKVD but well before you’re expected at the Ostbahnhof. Records will be scrutinized later, after the fact. Everything must seem plausible. It must appear that you received this call, that you were suspicious and talked to your handlers—”

  “My ‘handlers’?”

  “The people you work for. I’m sorry. These are words from my world, not yours.”

  “But how do you know you will be able to arrange for a plane on such short notice?”

  “The people I know have an enormous amount of influence. If it turns out an emergency flight can’t be arranged, we’ll postpone it until one can. Kundrov won’t make his report to Moscow until he’s sure we can get a plane.”

  She paused, seemed to consider something. “And what if the plane is brought down by the German air force—or shot down? And the NKVD is already planning to seize me.”

  “I don’t like to think that way, Lana,” Metcalfe said after a pause.

  “You must always prepare for the worst.”

  “Sometimes you don’t have a choice. You hope for the best.”

  “That’s a very casual attitude when you’re talking about the fate of someone’s life. Or even the fate of the world.”

  “There’s nothing casual about it. I’m an American—I’m an optimist.”

  “And I am a Russian, and therefore I’m a pessimist. Only one of us can be right.”

  “But soon, my darling, you’ll be an American yourself. Listen, the time is growing shorter as we sit here talking. We must move, and fast. We must run. If everything works right, by this time tomorrow, my darling, we’ll both be in a place where we can finally stop running.”

  Chapter Thirty-seven

  Metcalfe stood by the door, the same one through which he had entered the schloss, and watched for any trace of the guard dogs. There were none in the vicinity; they had probably returned to their customary stations alongside the gates and stone walls of the property. Too, the Gestapo patrol, having failed to apprehend Metcalfe, was gone, presumably reassigned. In one quick dash he made it to the carport, where, without needing to switch on the light, he located the Daimler’s key on its hook.

  The car started up quietly. He pulled out of the carport and down the drive to the main iron gates, which were locked. He pulled the Daimler to a stop. Several German shepherds and Dobermans loomed in the darkness, peering at the car, their eyes glowing yellow. They stood, several of them emitting low warning growls. Obviously they were unsure of what to do, since they recognized the automobile, if not the driver. But once Metcalfe got out of the car to open or unlock the gates, even assuming he could do so, the dogs would scent him, identify him as an interloper, and pounce. Even if he defended himself with his gun, the noise would alert the servants, perhaps von Schüssler as well.

  The dogs began surrounding the car, whining softly, growling. They seemed curious, puzzled about this strange driver in the familiar car. There were five, six of them now, all standing at attention, all staring with ferocious intensity.

  It was a standoff. Any moment, one of the dogs would start barking, then they all would, and von Schüssler’s servants would be awakened. In order to unlock and open the gates, he had to get out of the car. There seemed to be no alternative, and the clock was ticking. The schedule was set; it was irrevocable. There was no time to waste!

  A gleam of silver caught his eye.

  A thin metallic tube was resting in a small compartment in the dashboard. He reached for it: it was a whistle.

  A dog whistle.

  He remembered seeing the chauffeur use it to call off the dogs several hours earlier. Putting it to his lips, he blew hard. It produced only the faint sound of air being forced out, the whistle sound emitted at a frequency audible only to dogs.

  Suddenly the growls stopped. The dogs backed away a good distance from the car, then sat obediently.

  Tentatively he opened the car door, the whistle grasped in one hand in case he needed it. He got out, walked over to the gates, and was relieved to see the large iron key still in the lock. Picking the lock would not have been complicated, but he had just saved five minutes.

  And he needed every minute.

  Guided by the Berlin map that Chip Nolan had provided him, he drove as fast as he dared, not wanting to attract the attention of the Orpo, the Ordnungspolizei.

  As he drove he mentally rehearsed the arrangements he had made with Corky and Kundrov. The normally unflappable Corky was surprised to hear Metcalfe’s voice on a direct trunk line from Berlin. “Good heavens, boy, where are you calling from, the Führer’s private office?” he’d said. He greeted Metcalfe’s request with a long silence. Metcalfe had expected Corcoran to raise any number of objections to the plan, but to his surprise, the older man did not. He didn’t even complain about being awakened in the middle of the night. He had only one objection: “This is not like calling for a cab, Stephen. I have no idea what the flying conditions are, the visibility.” The aging spymaster set down the phone for a few minutes, and when he returned, he said, “A Lysander will be departing momentarily from the RAF fighter base at Tangmere, on the English Channel coast, arriving at three A.M. You have no idea how many chits I had to call in to pull this off.” He specified the precise location that he had selected for the pickup and rattled off a series of instructions.

  As soon as Metcalfe hung up, he called Kundrov at the pay-phone number the Russian had given him. They spoke for no more than a minute; both men knew what had to be done.

  “I will call Moscow now,” Kundrov said. “But once I make this call, it’s irrevocable. There will b
e no going back.”

  Now, as Metcalfe approached the pickup site, he was astonished. Corky had prepared him, but it was staggering nonetheless.

  It appeared to be a vast complex of buildings arrayed in horseshoe formation around a large, open grass field. In the center was an immense concrete hangarlike building with a corrugated steel roof; to either side were smaller brick buildings. Smoke plumed from their many chimneys. Scattered around the buildings were fuel tanks and waste barrels. It appeared to be an industrial facility of some kind, probably a giant munitions plant.

  In fact, it was a stage set. Although the building at the center was real, the structures to either side of it were all fake, the barrels and tanks and trucks probably bogus, too.

  This was the location of a defunct movie studio, a huge lot that had been expropriated by the Nazis and turned into a decoy fire site. Hitler’s men had swiftly constructed dozens of such sites around Germany in the last few months—fifteen in Berlin alone. They had been inspired, some said, by the British, who during the recent Battle of Britain had set up five hundred dummy cities—airfields, shipyards, and bases, built in remote areas of plywood and corrugated metal, designed to lure the Nazis into bombing these fake installations rather than real cities. The strategic deception had been a great success, causing the Nazis to squander valuable time and matériel and thus reducing the damage inflicted upon population centers.

  The ancient Chinese tactician Sun Tzu had proclaimed, “All warfare is based on deception,” and the Nazis had taken this principle seriously. In Berlin, the Lietzensee, the lake between the Kurfurstendamm and Kaiserdamm, was a useful guide for incoming bombers targeting the city center, so the Luftwaffe had confounded enemy radar by covering the lake with enormous timbered floats that resembled, from above, residential buildings. They had dressed lampposts up as fir trees, strung camouflage netting along the Charlottenberger Chaussée from the Tiergarten to the Brandenburg Gate, decked out with green cloth strips to look like forest. Bogus government buildings were put up in the vicinity of the Ostkreuz S-Bahn station to fool Allied reconnaissance aircraft pilots into believing it was the Wilhelmstrasse.