A Gathering of Spies (8 page)

“If you'll just take a minute to think about it, you'll see that it makes perfect sense.”

“What makes perfect sense is the story that six of Military Intelligence's top strategists have spent the past three months putting together. The one—”

“The one that has me betraying my country for a few shillings? I don't think so,” Winterbotham said. “If the Nazis check on me at all, they'll find that I'm not especially wanting for funds. They'll smell a rat. And since I'm the one who's going to be putting myself in danger, I'd like a story that stands up. Now, if Schroeder were to tell them that I'm worried about my wife, and they were able to find her alive, and he were able to dangle that in front of me as bait,
that
would be a motivation for treason.”

“Harry—”

“Yes?”

“We both know that Ruth is dead.”

“I know no such thing.”

“The chances—”

“If they check and find that she's dead,” Winterbotham said, “then Schroeder simply offers me money. But he starts by looking for his strongest move. You've got to admit, Andrew, it makes sense.”

Taylor opened his mouth, then closed it again. He shook his head. His mouth opened and closed several more times, impotently. His face was beginning to return to its usual shade of red.

“Goddamn it,” he said, “you're right. It does make sense. Why didn't you suggest this sooner?”

Winterbotham shrugged.

“Never mind, I know why. Because now we're stuck with you.”

“You think the worst of me, Andrew.”

“Christ, but you put me in a bind, Harry.”

“I don't mean to.”

“You sure as bloody hell do. Now, come on. We've got ten minutes for me to clear this before Schroeder goes on the air.”

Ten minutes later, they were sitting in the dank room again, Schroeder and Taylor wearing matching headphones. Schroeder, who had set aside half of his box of chocolates and was smoking a cigarette, had just sent a burst of Morse identifying himself to Hamburg. Now they were waiting for acknowledgment and the order to proceed.

Taylor had hastily rewritten the message Schroeder would send, after receiving a reluctant OK from his highers-up at the War Office. Now the message identified Harry Winterbotham by name. It mentioned that his wife, called Ruth, had vanished in Warsaw in 1939. It suggested that if she were alive, she could be dangled as very effective bait in front of this man. It requested an update on her circumstances, if at all possible.

Schroeder had read the new message without comment. Then he had given Winterbotham a tight, knowing smile, followed by a small nod. Winterbotham hadn't liked that. It was a bit too familiar.

Taylor was pacing endlessly around the small table. “I hope you know what you're doing,” he muttered. “Good Christ, I hope you know what you're doing.”

Winterbotham, sitting calmly at the table, smoked his pipe and held his tongue and looked for all the world like a man at peace.

LOS ALAMOS

“You're not dressed,” Richard Carter said.

His wife lay sprawled across their bed, one hand draped over her forehead. She inclined her head a few degrees, looked at him, and said: “I'm not feeling very well, Richard.”

Concern immediately creased his face. He moved toward the bed, crouched beside her, and placed his palm on her temple. The skin was warm and dry. He frowned, turned his hand over, and left it there for a few moments.

“I don't think you've got a fever,” he said then.

“I'll be fine. Go on and have a good time. I just want to lay here.”

“Maybe we should bring you to the infirmary. Just to make sure.”

“I'm fine,” she said. “I must have had too much to drink last night, that's all. Just go on. I'll see you when you get back.”

“I'll stay here with you, if you like.”

“No, go. Go.”

“I wouldn't mind—”

“I just want to sleep, Richard. Please go.”

The frown was replaced by a look of hurt. He stood up; his suit flapped with the movement. The suit was two sizes too big for him. It looked ridiculous. He stood by the side of the bed, undecided, in his ridiculous suit. She had to resist an urge to scream at him:
Go! Just go
!

“Really, truly,” she said, mustering a weak smile, “I just want to sleep.”

“Well …”

“Go, Richard.”

He hesitated for another moment, then nodded. “I'll stop by the infirmary and ask them to bring over some aspirin, if you like.”

“You know I can't stand it when you push, Richard. I just want to sleep.”

He bristled. “All right,” he said. “If that's what you want. Sleep. I'll see you when I get back.”

“Have a good time,” she said.

“Feel better,” Richard said, and turned to the door. Before stepping out, he looked back at her one more time. She had rolled over to face the wall, showing him her back.

It was the last time Richard Carter ever saw his wife.

He stepped out of the room, closing the door softly behind himself.

Catherine gave him ten minutes. She would have liked to have given him more, but time was of the essence—they would be gone for only a few hours, and the hunt would begin as soon as he got back and found her missing. By then she needed to have changed trains.

She counted the ten minutes without moving. Then she sat up, threw her legs over the edge of the bed, and dressed quickly.

It was a Saturday, and while work at Los Alamos did not stop on a Saturday, there was a certain laissez-faire attitude around the camp that weekend. Several of Los Alamos's residents, Richard included, were going into Albuquerque that night to have dinner at the new ten-story Hilton hotel. Rumors had been flying that Conrad Hilton himself was staying at the hotel, along with his glamorous wife. The residents of Los Alamos were not immune to the lure of celebrity. Even Oppenheimer, something of a celebrity himself, had spoken avidly at the previous night's party of the chance to meet the beautiful Gabor woman.

Catherine found her purse and then ran through a mental inventory one last time, to make sure she had everything she needed. The conclusion she reached was that while she had everything she could reasonably get, she was very far from having everything she needed.

Her chances were not good.

But she felt excited, even happy; nonetheless. As of this moment, Catherine Danielson Carter had ceased to exist.

But Katarina Heinrich had been reborn.

She found Tom Bradley sitting alone in the canteen, eating a sandwich and drinking a cup of coffee. Tom, one of the theoretical physicists at Los Alamos, was smitten with her; Catherine had seen it clearly in his myopic eyes. He was a mousy little man with thick glasses, barely twenty-four, and would never dare to approach her. But that was fine. She could approach him.

She had expected to find Tom Bradley left behind—socializing was not one of his strong suits. She had, moreover, depended on it. Tom was one of the lucky few at Los Alamos who enjoyed the unsupervised use of his own car. It was a military staff car, a Studebaker, deep black with flared fenders. Tom made frequent trips to Oak Ridge, Tennessee, where some other part of this project was going on—Catherine wasn't exactly sure what—for which he served as some sort of liaison.

She moved to the table, smiled disarmingly, flipped her hair, and took a seat.

“Tom,” she said, “what are you doing here, eating all alone? Didn't you want to see the new Hilton?”

Tom blushed. He put down his sandwich awkwardly and tried to return the smile. The thing his face made was closer to a grimace.

“I had an idea,” he mumbled. “I wanted to check it out in the lab.”

He was unable to meet her eyes as he spoke. He leaned slightly away from her, as if she were exuding some terrible heat. She felt touched, and a bit heartened. If Tom was so overwhelmed by her beauty, then maybe Fritz would react the same way. Ten years had passed, but she still had an effect on men. One tended to forget, living with an ancient husband like hers, that one could still have an effect on men.

“That's a shame,” she said lightly. “I was hoping you could give me a ride somewhere.”

A tendril of desiccated lettuce clung to his mouth; he wiped it off self-consciously. “A ride?”

“Just down to the station at Santa Fe. I wanted to run and catch up with my husband. I wasn't feeling well, you see, so I told him to go on ahead, but now I'm feeling better. And I'm just dying to see that hotel. It sounds marvelous.”

Tom licked his lips. “I'd be happy to give you a ride,” he said.

“No, no, not if you're working. I was just hoping—”

“I'd be happy to, Catherine.” His blush had deepened.

“Really?” she said. “It wouldn't be too much trouble?”

“I'll take you all the way to Albuquerque, if you like. My idea isn't so important that it can't wait.”

“No, don't be ridiculous. If you could get me to Santa Fe, I'll just hop on the train.”

“You might have to wait awhile, this time of day.”

“Well,” she said, “it's a chance I'll have to take. I do want to see that hotel.”

“I couldn't leave you stranded in Santa Fe, Catherine. Let me take you to Albuquerque.”

“No, that's ridiculous.”

“Please,” he said, blushing furiously now. “I'd really like to. I'd like to see that hotel myself, now that I think of it. I could use a break.”

“What about your idea?”

“It can wait. It'll probably work out better if I give it some time to settle.”

“You're sure?”

“Sure,” he said, grimacing wider than ever. “Sure I'm sure. You ready now?”

“Anytime,” she said. She reached out and put a hand on his knee and squeezed softly.

As the sun went down, they were just leaving Santa Fe.

Tom drove slowly and carefully, both hands on the wheel, staring straight ahead. Between the poor quality of the road and the poor quality of the tires—rubber was scarce these days—driving required most of his attention. Above them, stars were starting to glimmer through the gloaming like precious stones scattered carelessly on dark velvet.

Catherine sat in the passenger seat, one hand inside her purse, touching the scissors there and trying to prepare herself to commit murder. She had not intended to use these scissors as a murder weapon. She had brought them along only so she could cut her hair, at some point. But now …

It was a stroke of luck, Tom insisting on driving her all the way to Albuquerque. It meant she would have a car. Not just any car, but a military staff car. That improved her chances dramatically.

For Tom, on the other hand, it was not a stroke of luck. Quite the opposite. But Katarina Heinrich, trained by Hagen himself, would never have allowed herself to think of that; that was a product of living as Catherine Danielson Carter for so many years. She shut it off.

Tom Bradley had to die—because in her mind was the secret that could win the war.

The letter she had memorized read:

Albert Einstein

Old Grove Rd
.

Nassau Point

Peconic, Long Island

August 2nd, 1939

F.D. Roosevelt
,

President of the United States
,

White House

Washington, D.C
.

Sir:

Some recent work by E. Fermi and L. Szilard, which has been communicated to me in manuscript, leads me to expect that the element uranium may be turned into a new and important source of energy in the immediate future. Certain aspects of the situation which has arisen seem to call for watchfulness and, if necessary, quick action on the part of the Administration. I believe therefore that it is my duty to bring to your attention the following facts and recommendations:

In the course of the last four months it has been made probable
—
through the work of Joilot in France as well as Fermi and Szilard in America—that it may become possible to set up a nuclear chain reaction in a large mass of uranium, by which vast amounts of power and large quantities of new radiumlike elements would be generated. Now it appears almost certain that this could be achieved in the immediate future
.

This new phenomenon would also lead to the construction of bombs, and it is conceivable
—
though much less certain
—
that extremely powerful bombs of a new type may thus be constructed. A single bomb of this type, carried by boat and exploded in a port, might very well destroy the whole port together with some of the surrounding territory. However, such bombs might very well prove to be too heavy for transportation by air
.

The United States has only very poor ores of uranium in moderate quantities. There is some good ore in Canada and the former Czechoslovakia, while the most important source of uranium is Belgian Congo
.

In view of this situation you may think it desirable to have some permanent contact maintained between the Administration and the group of physicists working on chain reactions in America. One possible way of achieving this might be for you to entrust with this task a person who has your confidence and who could perhaps serve in an inofficial capacity. His task might comprise the following:

a) to approach Government Departments, keep them informed of the further development, and put forward recommendations for Government action, giving particular attention to the problem of securing a supply of uranium ore for the United States;

b) to speed up the experimental work, which is at present being carried on within the limits of the budgets of University laboratories, by providing funds, if such funds be required, through his contacts with private persons who are willing to make contributions for this cause, and perhaps also by obtaining the cooperation of industrial laboratories which have the necessary equipment
.