“Reports out of Whitehall have a number of members of Parliament and other government officials in high dudgeon due to what appear to be ongoing inquiries by British intelligence into their private lives. Jeffrey Billows, MP from Manchester, rose on the floor to denounce what he called ‘police state’ tactics, claiming that his neighbors had been questioned about him, including his vicar. Another MP, Angus Ferguson, shouted that not only had his neighbors been interrogated, but that his garbage had been rummaged, and the bookstore he frequents asked what books he purchases. Apparently, even the Foreign Office is not immune, as several high officials have declared they will resign before being subjected to such ‘utter nonsense,’ as one put it. Their names are being withheld at the request of the Foreign Secretary.
These events would seem to mirror the news from the United States, where prominent figures in and out of government are experiencing similar invasions of privacy. A story in the Chicago Tribune headlined the question, “Is the Hunt for Unreconstructed Communists or for Reconstructed Fascists?” We here at BBC will keep you informed as the story develops.
Now to the painful, all-too-familiar antics of the Royal family.…”
Mosedale shot out of his chair, turned off the television, and lurched for the telephone on a Queen Anne table against the wall. Frantically, he dialed. “What the hell is going on?” screamed the adviser to the Foreign Secretary.
“You have time, Rute,” said the female voice on the line. “We were going to call you early in the morning, suggesting you not go to Whitehall. They haven’t reached your section yet, but they’re close. You have a reservation on British Air for Munich tomorrow at noon, the ticket’s in your name. Everything’s been cleared.”
“That’s not good enough. I want out tonight!”
“Please hold, I’ll check the computers.” The interim silence was torture for Mosedale. Finally the voice came back. “There’s a Lufthansa flight to Berlin at eleven-twenty. Can you make it?”
“You’re damned right I can.” Oliver Mosedale hung up the phone, walked into the foyer, and shouted at the base of the staircase. “Angel, start packing a bag for me! Just a simple change of clothes like you’ve done before. Quickly!”
A naked “Angel” appeared at the railing above. “Where are you going, luv? I’m about to put on the nightie you like to take off. And then it’s heaven, isn’t it, Ollie?”
“Shut up and do as you’re told! I’ve one more call to make, and when I’m finished I expect my suitcase to be down here!” Mosedale ran back to the Queen Anne table, picked up the phone, and again dialed furiously. “I’m leaving,” he said to the voice which had only grunted.
“My phone indicator tells me that this is Rute’s number. Is that you, code Switch?”
“You know goddamned well it is. Take care of my affairs here in London.”
“I’ve already done so, Switch. The house is on the market, the proceeds to be wired to Bern, when and if there’s a sale”
“You’ll probably take half—”
“At least, Herr Rute,” the voice on the line interrupted. “I think it’s quite fair. How many thousands have I transferred to Zurich at my own peril?”
“But you’re one of us!”
“No, no, you’re mistaken. I’m merely a solicitor who accommodates nefarious men who may or may not be traitors to the Crown. How am I to know?”
“You’re nothing but a rotten money changer!”
“Again, you’re wrong, Switch. I’m an expediter, no matter how it frequently pains me. And to tell you the truth, you’ll be lucky to receive ten pounds for your house. You see, I really don’t like you.”
“You’ve worked for me—for us—for years! How can you say that?”
“So easily, I can’t tell you. Farewell, code Switch, and for your edification, the one thing that remains constant between us is the confidentiality between client and solicitor. You see, it’s my strength.” The English attorney hung up, and Mosedale looked around the huge sitting room, panicked by the thought that he would never see so many mementos of his life again. Then he stood up straight, his posture rigid, and recalled the words his father had shouted from the upper staircase when war was declared. “We’ll fight for England, but we’ll spare Herr Hitler! He is far more right than wrong! The inferior races are corrupting our nations. We will win the temporary conflict, establish a unified Europe, and make him the de facto chancellor of the Continent!”
The young woman called Angel slid a suitcase down the staircase, properly—or improperly, as one would have it—clad in her brief nightgown. “C’mon, luv, what’s goin’ on here?”
“I may be able to send for you later, but right now I have to leave.”
“Later? What’re you talkin’ about, Ollie?”
“There’s no time for explanations. I must catch a plane.”
“Wot about me? When are you comin’ back?”
“Not for a while.”
“Well, isn’t that nice and clear! Wot am I supposed to do?”
“Stay here until someone throws you out.”
“Throws me out?”
“You heard me.” Mosedale grabbed the suitcase, rushed to the front door, and opened it, stunned by what he saw. The London fog had turned into a downpour, and two men in raincoats stood on the brick steps to his house. Beyond them, in the street, was a black van with a lateral antenna on the roof.
“Under proper authority, your telephone has been monitored, sir,” said the first man. “I think it’s best you come with us.”
“Ollie,” cried the scantily clad maid in the foyer. “Ain’t you gonna introduce me to your friends?”
The shouts of children marshalled in groups by parents and camp counselors mingled with the shrieks of myriad birds behind the wired screens of the huge aviary in the Rock Creek Park Zoo. The summer crowds were boisterous, the exceptions being Washingtonians who had come to the park for peaceful strolls, away from the hectic pace of the nation’s capital. When faced with the hordes of tourists, these natives usually cut their interludes short, preferring the quiet of silent monuments. A particularly nasty condor, its wingspread at least eight feet, suddenly swooped down from a high perch, screeching as its claws gripped the wires of the enormous cage. Children and adults alike backed away instantly; the glaring eyes of the giant bird conveyed hostile satisfaction.
“That’s one mother of a predator, isn’t it?” said Knox Talbot, standing behind Wesley Sorenson.
“I’ve never understood the use of the word mother to describe enormity,” replied the director of Consular Operations, looking straight ahead.
“Try tenacity. It was the female’s unrelenting aggressiveness in protecting her young that got us through the Ice Age.”
“What were we men doing?”
“Pretty much the same as we’re doing now. Out hunting while the women protected the caves from far more dangerous beasts than our quarry.”
“You’re particularly biased.”
“I’m particularly married, and that conclusion was drawn by my wife. Since we’ve only been together thirty-six years, why rock the boat at this early stage?”
“Let’s get a hot dog. The stand’s about fifty yards to the left and we can sit down on a bench. It’s usually crowded, so I doubt anyone will notice us.”
“Chili gives me gas.”
“Try sauerkraut.”
“Worse.”
“Then just mustard.”
“Ever see how hot dogs are made, Wes?”
“Have you?
“I think I own a company that makes ’em.”
Seven minutes later Sorenson and Talbot sat next to each other, not unlike two grandfathers taking a much-needed respite from their rambunctious grandchildren. “There’s something I can’t tell you, Knox,” began the Cons-Op director, “and you’re going to be mad as hell later when you find out.”
“Like our removing Moreau’s name from Harry Latham’s list, the one we sent to you?”
 
; “There’s a distinct similarity.”
“Then we’re even. What can you tell me?”
“First, I can openly tell you that the request comes from a former G-Two specialist who operated in the Berlin sectors during the bad times. His name is Witkowski, Colonel Stanley Witkowski—”
“Currently chief of security, Paris embassy,” Talbot interrupted.
“You know him?”
“Only by reputation. He’s a man so bright that he could have been right behind you for my job if he’d gotten the recognition he deserved. But he couldn’t; he worked in the silent zone.”
“Right now he’s apparently working as a conduit for Harry Latham, who won’t risk reaching Langley himself.”
“The AA-Zero computers?”
“Apparently.… Latham wanted a sub-rosa route to you but he doesn’t know you. Remember, you became the DCI with the new administration, almost two years after Harry went deep. So knowing Witkowski from the old days, he used him; and since I’ve known the colonel from those same days, he decided to use me as the sub rosa.”
“Logical,” said Talbot, nodding his head.
“Maybe logical, Knox, but later, when I can come clean, you’ll see it’s so ironic, you may even forgive me.”
“What’s the sub rosa?”
“There’s a man, a German doctor, who may have enormous influence in the Nazi movement, or, conversely, may be a man with a conscience who’s turned against them. We have to learn everything we can about him, and you people are the kings of the hill in that department.”
“So I’m told,” agreed the DCI. “What’s his name?”
“Kroeger, Gerhardt Kroeger. But there’s a catch and it’s a big one.”
“Do tell.”
“You’ve got to go underground with this, and I mean deep. His name can’t be circulated within the Agency.”
“The AA-Zero computers again?”
“The straight answer to that is yes, but there could also be others beyond the computers. Can you do it?”
“I think so. When I took this job, the job you should have taken, I insisted on bringing along my secretary of twenty years. She’s quick and bright to the point that I don’t have to finish sentences. She’s also British; that apparently gives her a certain authority over us colonials.… Kroeger, Gerhardt, medicine man, the works. She’ll go down to the vaults herself and bring up everything there is.”
“Thank you.”
“You’re welcome. I’ll call you when I’ve got the papers. We’ll have a few drinks at my place.”
“Fine, I appreciate it.”
“There’s something else neither of us has said, isn’t there, Wesley?”
“The witch-hunts, naturally. Harry’s list is getting out of control.”
“I said the very same thing to myself only moments before your call. Have you heard the latest from the U.K.?”
“The outcry in Parliament, yes. Even the insidious comparisons to what’s happening here. I suppose it couldn’t be avoided. Sua culpa, Secretary Bollinger, and I hope he knows it.”
“Then you haven’t heard. We get this stuff before you, I suppose.”
“What are you talking about?”
“A man named Mosedale, very high up in the Foreign Office.”
“What about him?”
“Faced with various alternatives, he confessed. He’s been working for the Brotherhood for the past five years. He was on Harry’s list, and he claims there are hundreds, perhaps thousands, like him everywhere.”
“Oh, my God. Gasoline tanks on the fires. Everywhere.”
14
Gerhardt Kroeger walked out to the transportation platform at Orly Airport carrying two pieces of luggage, a medical bag, and a medium-size nylon suitcase, both carry-ons. He veered to the left and proceeded down the long concrete walkway until he saw the area designated as PETITE CARGAISON, small cargo. He scanned the constantly moving traffic, then centered in on the few vehicles parked at the curb in front of the huge sliding metal doors through which precleared cases and cartons of merchandise were wheeled on dollies to those waiting for them. He saw what he hoped to see, a gray van with white lettering on the side, ENTREPÔTS AVIGNON, the Avignon Warehouses, a massive market depot where over a hundred distributors kept their consumer goods prior to delivering them to retail stores throughout Paris. And somewhere within that mazelike complex were the quarters of the Blitzkrieger, the elite assassins of the Brotherhood. The doctor approached a man in a red and white rugby shirt leaning against the side of the vehicle. As he had been ordered to do.
“Has the Malasol arrived, monsieur?” he asked.
“The best caviar from Iranian waters,” replied the muscular man in the rugby shirt, flipping away a cigarette and staring at Kroeger.
“Is it really better than the Russian?” continued Gerhardt.
“Anything’s better than Russian.”
“Good. Then you know who I am.”
“No, I don’t know who you are, monsieur, and I do not care to know. Just get in the back with the rest of the fish, and I’ll take you to another who does know you.”
The ride to their destination was odious for Gerhardt, both in terms of the overpowering smell of iced fish and the fact that he was forced to sit on a hard-slatted bench while the tight-springed van raced over potholed roads that might have been the remnants of the Maginot line. Finally, after nearly thirty minutes, they stopped, and a harsh voice came over an unseen speaker.
“Out, monsieur. And please to remember, you never saw us, and we never saw you, and you never were carried in our truck.” The rear doors of the van opened mechanically. Kroeger grabbed his luggage, bent over so as not to hit his head on the roof, and squat-walked to his exit and fresh air. A youngish man in a dark suit, with close-cropped hair, studied him in silence as the van sped away, its tires screeching in a hasty retreat.
“What kind of transport was this?” exclaimed Gerhardt. “Do you know who I am?”
“Do you know who we are, Herr Kroeger? If so, your question is foolish. Our presence must be the most secret in France.”
“We’ll discuss that when I meet your superiors. Take me to them immediately!”
“There’s no one superior to me, Herr Doktor. I insisted on meeting you myself.”
“But you’re—you’re …”
“So young, sir?… Only the young can do what we do. Our reflexes are at the height of their powers, our bodies superbly trained. Old men like you would be disqualified during the first hour of indoctrination.”
“That said and agreed to, you should be disqualified within two hours for not carrying out your orders!”
“Our unit is the best. May I remind you that they killed one of the targets under the most hostile conditions—”
“Not the right one, you imbecile!”
“We’ll find the other. It’s merely a question of time.”
“There is no time! We must talk further; you’ve missed something. Let’s go to your headquarters.”
“No. We talk here. No one goes to our offices. We’ve made arrangements for you; the Hotel Lutetia, once the headquarters of the Gestapo. It has changed, but the memories are in the walls. You will be comfortable, Herr Doktor.”
“We must talk now.”
“Then talk, Herr Kroeger. You will go no farther.”
“You’re insubordinate, young man. I am now the commandant of Vaclabruck until a replacement for Von Schnabe is named. You’ll take your orders from me.”
“I beg to differ, Herr Doktor. Since General von Schnabe’s removal, we’ve been instructed to take our orders solely from Bonn, from our leader in Bonn.”
“Who is?”
“If I knew, I would have been sworn to secrecy, but since I don’t, it doesn’t matter. Codes are used, and through them we recognize their absolute authority. All our assignments must be sanctioned by him, and only him.”
“This Harry Latham must be hunted down and killed. There’s not a moment to was
te!”
“We understand that, Bonn made it clear.”
“Yet you stand there and say to me quite casually that it’s ‘merely a question of time’?”
“It wouldn’t help matters to shout, mein Herr. Time is measured in seconds, minutes, hours, days, weeks, and—”
“Stop it! This is a crisis and I demand that you accept the fact.”
“I do—we do, sir.”
“So what have you done, what are you doing? And where in hell are your two men? Have you heard from them?”
The young Blitzkrieger, his body rigid but his eyes flickering with insecurity, answered slowly, quietly. “As I explained to Catbird, Herr Kroeger, there are several possibilities. They escaped but both were wounded, how severely we don’t know. If their situations were hopeless, they would have done the honorable thing, as each of us has sworn to do, and taken themselves out with cyanide or gunshots to their heads.”
“You’re saying you haven’t heard from them.”
“Correct, sir. But we know they escaped in the car.”
“How do you know it?”
“It was in all the papers and on the news broadcasts. Also, we’ve learned that there is a massive search for them, a manhunt employing the police, the Sûreté, even the Deuxième Bureau. They’ve spread out everywhere: towns, villages, even the hills and the forests, questioning every doctor within two hours of Paris.”
“Then your conclusion is dual suicide, yet you said there were several possibilities. What others?”
“That is the strongest, sir, but it is conceivable that they are getting their strength back, minimally recuperating, out of reach of a telephone. As you are aware, we are trained like animals to succor our wounds out of sight until we are strong enough to make contact. We are all schooled in advanced aid to bodily punctures and the setting of broken bones.”
“That’s splendid. I’ll turn in my license and send my patients to you.”
“It’s not a joke, mein Herr, we are simply trained to survive.”