Stealing Trinity (32 page)

Beria leaned against Kovalenko's desk, his backside up against the nameplate. "Do you know what this involves?"

"Not really. We did not talk about the subject matter. I was only following my instructions to facilitate the exchange." In a moment Kovalenko would later look back on with pride, he undertook a detailed, lucid account of his meeting with Alex. When he finished, Beria exchanged a look with one of his silent underlings.

Beria said, "This man told you that he has thousands of pages of information?"

"Yes. He said it covered every aspect of an American project of some sort."

A knock came at the door. Irina brought in the tea. She was as white as fresh snow. Beria poured two cups and handed one to Kovalenko, who could only think-- Vodka> that's what I need.

"Kovalenko, allow me to explain." Beria s voice assumed a lyrical tone, as if reading a bedtime story to a child. "In the days immediately after the fall of Berlin, our Red Army brothers captured a German in Austria. He was taken into custody and questioned, but it took many weeks to discover his true identity. Does the name Hans Gruber mean anything to you?"

"He was in the SD, was he not?"

"Yes! Very good. He was a colonel, a senior man in the Operations Directorate. Once we realized this, he was brought to Moscow, to Lubyanka. Unfortunately, our hand of persuasion was -- a bit too heavy. He expired." Beria said this as if talking about a loaf of bread that had turn moldy. "This was two weeks ago. In his last hours, however, Gruber did provide some intriguing information. It seems that the Germans were able to insert a spy into a very secret American weapons project."

"The friend that Alex told me about?" Kovalenko managed.

Beria looked pleased. "Perhaps, perhaps not." He put down his tea and walked slowly toward the window. "But there is a way for me to find out. So tomorrow, I will keep the meeting with Alex."

"You? But with all respect, Alex was very specific that only I should come."

Kovalenko saw Beria's head cock slightly to one side. Dear God, he thought, what am I saying? "Of course--"

Beria cut him off with a raised hand. "You should know something else, Kovalenko." His voice was sharper now, brittle. "When I was in Potsdam, with Stalin, word came that the Americans have tested this new weapon with great success." Beria turned toward him, his face now altogether different. The eyes were cold and void, and the veins at his temple spidered darkly. Yet somehow Kovalenko had the impression Beria was not addressing him, but rather talking to himself, airing his frustration. "When Stalin heard of this, he went mad. I tell you, Kovalenko, I have stood by him through a revolution and a war -- a war that has cost over twenty million of our countrymen their lives -- and never, never have I seen him so angry. There was indeed a moment when I feared for my own life."

Beria's underlings had receded to the corners, perhaps having sensed the impending storm. Kovalenko held motionless, his hands gripping the arms of the chair like a man about to fall off a cliff. He knew that Beria himself, as head of the NKVD, was responsible for taking at least ten million lives during the revolution. The consequence of one more -- Kovalenko's, perhaps -- could not be more trivial.

"You see, Kovalenko," Beria continued, "we are at a very critical juncture in the path of our world. The war is nearly done, and the winners are dividing the spoils." He then spoke as if quoting holy verse, "Whoever has this new weapon, this power, will dictate to the rest."

The head of the NKVD then calmed, his eruption over. He looked directly at Kovalenko, and said, "So here is what we will do--"

Chapter 39.

The Embarcadero was less busy. A cool rain and vigorous wind had driven away the casual traffic, leaving the docks and sidewalks to carry only the business of the day. Seagulls sat hunched on pilings, their beaks tucked into their chests. Braun did much the same as he stood in a heavy overcoat and watched Kovalenko from a distance. He did not like what he saw.

The Russian had been right on time, loitering at the same spot they'd met yesterday. But twenty yards away two new men, replacements for Sergei and Dmitri, were blatantly obvious. Even worse, another man had joined them, a short, stubby man in an overcoat who, in spite of his build, seemed strangely agile. The only verse of good news was that this new man carried a briefcase.

Standing near a canvas awning that fronted a busy hotel, Braun considered his options. He could wait, but the extras would not go away. The Russians were presenting not a choice, but an ultimatum -- show up if you want, but we are in charge. Braun decided he had to go forward. But he would meet intimidation with intimidation.

He walked briskly across the street and made a beeline to Kovalenko. The Russian saw him coming and forced a nervous smile. Braun spit out the first words.

"Did you not understand?" he said combatively. "You were to come alone!"

Kovalenko held up his palms, and spoke in a plaintive whisper. "I had no choice." He nodded to a bench where the new man was now seated. The bodyguards had backed off-- out of earshot from the bench, but close enough to help if needed. Kovalenko hissed, "Do you have any idea who that is?"

Braun took a good look at the man on the bench. There was something vaguely familiar, but no name came to mind. "No. Should I?"

"It is Lavrenti Beria, head of the NKVD."

Braun reset his eyes on the man. He had seen a few pictures of Beria, usually standing at the shoulder of Stalin himself. Jesus, he thought, it is him. "Why is he here?" Braun demanded.

"He wants to talk to you, of course." Kovalenko turned and simply walked away.

Lavrenti Beria smiled and moved to one side of the bench, making plenty of room. Braun looked across the Embarcadero. Even in the drizzle, there were people milling about. They would not try to snatch him away -- not here. Braun walked directly to the bench.

Beria spoke in heavily accented English as Braun approached, his voice light, almost glib, "Alex, my name is --"

"I know who you are," Braun said, even more casually. He might have been meeting a new relative at a wedding -- not the man who, by all reliable accounts, was one of the most notorious mass murderers the world had known, right up with Hitler and Himmler themselves. Braun felt himself being weighed, and he continued, "The question is, old man, why are you sitting on a park bench in the rain -- in America?"

Beria rose to the challenge and bantered back, "Comrade Kovalenko is efficient, but I thought that my being here would impress upon you the importance of our work."

"Our work? The importance of our work will be most clear if you are carrying a half million U. S. dollars in that briefcase."

Beria gave the case at his feet a pat. "Three hundred thousand -- not an easy thing on short notice, but I believe it shows our sincere interest. The rest will come, you have my word. But, of course, there are requirements. Please--" he gestured to the bench.

Braun sat slowly. The number had distracted him. It was only a fraction of what he d asked for, yet the thought of being so close to such a massive sum made his head swirl. He tried to keep his wits. "Requirements?"

Beria waxed, "There is a saying where I come from -- 'One does not always swim in waters of one's own choosing.'"

"Are all Russians poets?"

Beria s dead, gray lips curled up at the corners. "Perhaps it is so."

"What are you getting at?"

"This friend of yours, the German. I think I know who he is." Beria looked at Braun intently.

"Good," Braun shot back, "then you know the value of what he holds."

"Perhaps. But your own plan to take his information, dispose of him, and exchange it for cash -- this is not wholly acceptable."

Braun considered it. "You want the German as well."

Beria nodded.

"He won't help you, if that's what you're thinking. He's a Nazi, straight off the SS assembly line."

"I appreciate your opinion, Alex, but our methods of persuasion can be most productive."

"I can imagine," Braun said.

"No," the head of the NKVD replied, "you cannot." Beria paused. "And there is more yet. Once the German is in our hands, it would be very helpful if his disappearance was not noticed."

"That would be a trick. I suppose you have something in mind?"

Beria explained his idea.

When he was done, Braun looked at the Russian more closely. There was a lively glimmer behind the pince-nez glasses, a smirk in the swollen lips. Braun had always considered himself ruthless, albeit in the name of his own good cause. But the man seated next to him was on another level. "You want it to appear that this man remains on the USS Indianapolis after she sails -- and then you intend to sink her?"

"If done correctly, the ship will be only another casualty of this long, terrible war."

"Will I have a hand in it?"

"Yes, Alex. We will pay what you ask, but you must do more. You must carry a package on board this ship and leave it, then take your friend and escape in a way that will not be noticed."

"Package? You can't mean a bomb."

"No, this would not be practical. You must carry a radio transmitter."

Braun began to see the outline, but had not yet come full circle. "How could this work? A transmitter to broadcast the ship's position and then -- a torpedo?"

"Yes, Alex, good. A submarine."

"But a Russian sub could never risk attacking--" Braun paused.

Beria nodded, urging him on. "Figure it out Alex. You have a knack for this."

Of the countries that kept submarines in the South Pacific, only one would be interested in sinking an American heavy cruiser. "A Japanese sub?"

The Russian stabbed a chubby index finger into the air to register the hit.

Braun decided Beria was enjoying his little charade far too much. He said, "How can you get a Jap sub to sink an American ship?"

"We do, as it turns out, have access to a small fishing trawler in this area -- a boat that does little fishing. With a beacon to guide, it could intercept such a large American ship. Remember, Alex, the United States and Japan are at war, but my country is not yet formally engaged with Japan. There are still quiet relations between our countries. We let slip where Indianapolis might be -- perhaps a few radio calls at the right time."

"Why would the Japanese trust you?"

"The Imperial Navy has had few successes lately. I think they might trust us enough to investigate such an opportunity. In any event, this part of the operation would be left to us. I explain it only so that you understand the relevance of what we are asking you to do."

For a moment Braun considered how many men would be aboard a ship like Indianapolis. Eight hundred? A thousand? He was sure Beria had no idea. Braun s thoughts moved ahead to distill more practical matters. "I'll have to get aboard Indianapolis before my contact gets off."

"Do you have any ideas?"

What came to Brauns mind was simple enough. And simplicity was always good. He told Beria what he would need.

"Yes," he replied, "I can get you these things."

"And I'll have to go there right away, to lay the foundation."

"I can give you the aircraft I came in on." Beria then nodded over his shoulder, "My two men will go along to help."

Braun hesitated. He looked squarely at the Russians reptilian features. Here was a man who had just whimsically plotted the death of a thousand men.

"No," Braun said. "Your men do not come. I want the aircraft, one pilot, and -- and Kovalenko."

"Kovalenko?" Beria burst out. "We are going to pay you an incredible sum for your work. Kovalenko is not acceptable."

"All the money on earth is no good to me when I am dead. One pilot and Kovalenko."

"Absolutely not! I will--" Beria stopped in mid-sentence.

Braun knew why. It must now be in his face, in his eyes. The familiar sharpness had come to his mind, the acute concentration. He knew precisely where the two bodyguards were. He knew where Beria's hands were. Where his neck was. In the next ten seconds, Lavrenti Beria would realize who was in control, or he would die. His bodyguards would not save him, nor would his own abilities. The Russian s eyes snapped back and forth between his help and his adversary. Yes, Braun thought -- Beria knew his thoughts exactly.

"All right," Beria allowed, his tone suddenly very different. "I consent to this."

The rising, uncontrolled wave in Braun's mind began to slowly recede. He added, "And I don't want to see anyone else in Guam. When I deliver the German, you will have to trust Kovalenko and the pilot to handle him."

"Agreed," Beria said. "But there is one more thing, Alex."

Braun narrowed his eyes.

"I told you that I think I know who your German scientist is. If it is the right man, his information could indeed be worth all this trouble."

"It is worth much more. I have seen the results with my own eyes."

"Still, if you can answer one question, Alex, it will convince me beyond a doubt. What was his code name?"

Braun wondered briefly how Beria could know this. But then he remembered -- the man was a spy master.

"Die Wespe," Braun said. "The Wasp."

Lavrenti Beria smiled.

Chapter 40.

The USS Indianapolis carved into the crystalline blue waters of Apra, Guam, on the morning of July 27th, 1945. The deep-water harbor was a largely natural formation. Cradled by the Orote Peninsula to the south, and Cabras Island to the north, modest hills of bleached white coral stood protectively around the glistening waters. The few enhancements to the natural breakwater were thanks to the U. S. Navy Seabees, who had been in possession of the island for nearly a year since the occupying Japanese forces had been evicted. The Seabees, starting from scratch as always, had turned a strip of barren coral rock into one of the world's busiest sea ports.

From the highest ground available, a short coral bluff, Lydia watched the huge ship lumber into the center of the harbor, gradually fall still, and then drop her massive anchor. It reminded her of a big dog marking its territory. There were several other ships in the harbor, a mix of sizes and purposes, but none were on the scale of Indianapolis. Lydia looked over her shoulder, wondering where Thatcher was. He had gone to use the telephone in the Naval Operations building. Tomas Jones had sent word that he'd be arriving with a team of FBI men to watch the harbor this morning. Oddly, she and Thatcher had seen no signs of them yet.