The Folks at Fifty-Eight (20 page)

His eyes followed, as the Russian pointed to each victim in turn.

“Major Christiakov, served with distinction with the Fifth Guards Tank Army, received the Order of Lenin for heroics in the battle for Kursk. He left a widow and four children. Captain Grigolyuk, served with the Third Belorussian Front, awarded the Order of Suvorov, second class, for gallantry in the battle for Königsberg. He is survived by a wife and seven children. This was how we found Captain Valerie Lisovskii. He was. . . ”

Hammond interrupted.

“I’m sorry, Colonel, but I fail to see. . .”

Paslov abandoned the recital and returned his attention to Hammond.

“They were all officers with the Red Army, Mr Hammond, and they were all intimately acquainted with your young friend. You see, the crosses gave her away.”

“The crosses?”

Paslov gave a grim smile and pointed again to each picture in turn.

“You see there, on the chest, and there on the forehead, and again there. They are called reverse fylfot crosses, Mr Hammond. I have to admit they had us puzzled, but then we found her old apartment in Berlin, and there it was.”

“There what was?”

“The picture of Kali, the Hindu goddess of destruction and dissolution. The girl kept the picture by her bed. It showed the reverse fylfot cross in the palm of one hand. I have to assume the girl left hurriedly and had no time to gather her belongings. Our finding that picture explained a great deal.”

Hammond sniffed a nonchalance he was a long way from feeling.

“In America, we would call that circumstantial.”

Paslov grinned.

“Yes, I suppose in America you would. Perhaps such a distinction will act as a source of comfort to you, the next time you climb between her thighs.”

“And so what now, for the girl and the old woman?”

“As I said, you can take them with you. I have no further need of them. Until July then.”

Hammond nodded mutely. Paslov scooped up the pictures, slipped them back into his pocket, and then left without further explanation. Seconds later, the old woman appeared in the doorway. Catherine stood behind her, looking pale and frightened. The old woman ushered her into the kitchen.

“What was all that about?”

“It seems the Soviets have an agent in the State Department. He gave us up to Beria.”

The old woman looked incredulous.

“All of us? The network cells in Magdeburg and Dessau as well?”

“I have to presume so.”

“But they aren’t spies, with guns and knives. They are decent people with families; people whose only crime was to believe in democracy.”

Hammond had nothing he could say, bar the obvious.

“I’m sorry, but they knew the risks.”

The old woman was suddenly furious.

“Of course they didn’t know the risks. They didn’t know that America would betray them. They thought America would protect them. They believed in America, and it has cost them their lives. So, who is this spy?”

Hammond looked blankly back at her.

“I have no idea, but something tells me we had better leave here while we still can.”

“What did Paslov say?”

“Nothing much. He just said we could go.”

“So why spend all that effort trying to find you, and then just let you go?”

Hammond feigned ignorance and shook his head. The old woman didn’t press.

“I think we need a cup of coffee.”

Hammond and Catherine left the guesthouse late that afternoon. The old woman refused to go with them. The memory of her steadfast refusal brought a smile to his face. He had been about to set out, and again asked her to come with him. He stressed the risk of her staying there, and said Beria and Paslov might not agree on her continuing freedom.

He was unable to sway her. She set the wizened features in a portrait of determination, nodded to the bedroom above their heads, and wagged a finger at his presumption.

She had lived all her life in this house. Her mother had given birth to her in the same bed and in the same room as her mother before her. She had grown up playing along the landing outside that bedroom. She had lost her virginity, and given birth to both of her children in that bedroom.

In all that time she had never allowed the Stalins and Hitlers of this world to frighten or intimidate her. She had never allowed anybody to dictate how she lived her life, or tell her where to live, or what to think or say. She didn’t intend changing the habits of a lifetime, not while she still had an opinion left to give and a breath left to draw.

She apologized for her obstinacy, but nobody was driving her away or ordering her from her home, not even him. She had lived all her life in the same house. When she died they would carry her out of it. That was all there was to it.

She told him to stop looking so cross, and get a move on. He allowed the frown to fade as he took her frail fingers in his. He said it had been a privilege to know her. She looked back at him and held his gaze with her own.

“Mr Hammond. . . When you get back to America, you find this spy, this traitor of yours. You explain to him just what his treachery has cost, in terms of so many decent human lives. . . and then you kill him.”

“I will.”

“You promise me now; you promise me that you will.”

“I promise.”

She studied his face for some moments, seeming to assess the sincerity behind the promise, before finally nodding. He leaned forward and kissed her on a wizened cheek, and then left her sitting by the fire, nursing the inevitable cup of coffee and rocking gently back and forth.

It was the last time he saw her alive.

The hastily conceived plan was to head cross-country to the south-west, and then skirt to the north side of Erfurt and Thuringian Wald. The Gaz was less than ideal for a chase, because the acceleration was poor, but off-road it came into its own. Hammond intended using that feature to the full. The cell in Magdeburg had already provided details of known checkpoints. They would bypass each one, until they were close enough to make a dash for Hessen and the American sector. After that it should be plain sailing all the way down to Frankfurt.

“I think someone’s following us.”

Hammond had been looking back for the last few kilometres. Catherine shook her head.

“But Paslov let us go. You said he didn’t need us.”

“I know, but somebody is following us. I can feel it.”

That feeling was like an old friend returning. Hammond knew it well. He respected it. It had saved his life on too many occasions not to. As they passed a copse he suddenly swung off the road, reversed into the shadows of the undergrowth, and switched off the engine.

Less than three minutes later they came past: an M72 motorcycle combination, riding point, with a machine-gunner in the sidecar. The men on point were followed by two fully-manned Kübels, fore and aft of a Mercedes 340 saloon. Bringing up the rear of the main cavalcade was a Gorky armoured car. Fifty meters after that, and straining to keep up, was a canvas-backed Opel, packed with troops. Whoever was sitting in the back of the Mercedes was obviously important.

Even then Hammond might have put it down to coincidence, had he not caught a glimpse of the man sandwiched between two bodyguards in the back of the saloon. He remembered the face from newsreel footage. The peasant features and those round pince-nez glasses. Catherine asked the question.

“Who was that?”

“Beria. . . What the hell is he doing here? He’s not supposed to know.” Catherine didn’t answer. Hammond found himself musing. Perhaps Beria had found out. Perhaps, rather than the ocean-front warmth of sunny California, poor old Stanislav Ivanovich Paslov would be defecting to the freezing austerity of a Siberian Gulag.

Catherine didn’t understand.

“Not supposed to know what? Found out what?”

Hammond didn’t answer immediately, because he didn’t have an answer that was in any way credible. He was mulling over all that Paslov had said. Maybe it was just an unlikely coincidence. If not, there had to be more to it than Paslov’s defection being blown; more, too, than Beria sitting back and waiting for the girl to lead him to Kube.

“I don’t know, but perhaps we should take the scenic route back.”

Apart from a stuttering and spluttering Polikarpov biplane, which circled for a few minutes but didn’t appear to have spotted them, they saw no further sign of a search. Other than the regular checkpoints, they saw nothing of the Red Army, and crossed into the American sector at just after midnight. They reached Camp King two hours after that and drove straight to the debriefing block. The duty officer woke Howard Strecker, who looked less than happy at having his sleep disturbed.

“Couldn’t you have chosen a more civilized hour?”

Hammond growled back at him.

“Sorry if we disturbed your beauty sleep. Beria didn’t give us a lot of choice.”

“Beria? You mean, the man himself?”

“In person. I think he wanted to give us an escort. I declined.”

Strecker looked through the window, to where Catherine Schmidt sat waiting in the Gaz.

“Christ! Who the hell is this girl?”

“What makes you think he wasn’t chasing me?” Strecker stared impassively back at him. Hammond smiled wryly and stated the obvious. “I’m not that important, huh?”

Strecker didn’t answer. He picked up the phone and told the operator to get him the airfield at Wiesbaden.

“The package, for Mr Carlisle. You have an aircraft waiting. The package will be with you within the hour.” He put down the phone and nodded to Hammond. “That means you. The car’s waiting outside.”

“What about the girl?”

“She stays here.”

“Who says?”

“Conrad Zalesie, Marcus Allum, Carlisle, Carpenter: take your pick.”

Three of the names were well known to Hammond, but not the fourth.

“Conrad who?”

“Zalesie.”

“Who the hell’s he?”

Strecker shook his head.

“Like you said; you’re not that important.”

“And the girl? What happens to her?” Hammond held up a lone finger of warning as he saw Strecker mentally rehearse the same perfunctory answer. “And if you tell me I’m not important enough just one more time, you’re going to seriously upset me.”

“I don’t know. When you’re gone I have to call one of them, and they’ll tell me what to do with her. That’s all I know. Don’t worry. Nothing bad is going to happen to her.”

Hammond studied him closely and decided he was telling the truth. He also decided it was time to address the problem of Kube.

“There is a man called Kube; former Gestapo Kriminaldirektor Martin Kube. Do you know of him?” Strecker shook his head. Hammond didn’t believe him, but continued anyway. “He raped her when she was a child. He wants her again. I intend making sure he doesn’t get her.”

Strecker shrugged.

“So?”

“So, I expect you to help me.”

“I have to follow the orders I’m given.”

Hammond was on a short fuse, but spoke quietly and evenly.

“While she is here, you are responsible for her. And your Commander-in-Chief sits in The White House, not the State Department.”

“Thank you for reminding me. Now, if that’s all?”

Strecker’s apparent indifference bordered on callousness. It didn’t sit well with Hammond in his weary and belligerent mood.

“Colonel Strecker, I don’t believe you. I think you know this man Kube, and if I hear that you’ve handed her over to him, I will find him and deal with him, and then I will find you and deal with you. Do you understand?”

Strecker slowly nodded, and then called for back-up.

“Guards!” The two uniforms standing guard outside burst into the room. Strecker spoke calmly. “Mr Hammond is leaving for Wiesbaden. There is an aircraft waiting. Make sure he gets on it.”

One of the guards placed a restraining hand on Hammond’s arm. It was a foolish thing to do.

A moment later the guard was on the floor, with the HDM at his head. His face turned ashen. His partner froze. Hammond turned to a stunned-looking Howard Strecker.

“I would keep your guards here, if I were you, Colonel. Your need is obviously greater than mine. Now I’ve warned you once. I don’t give second warnings. Remember that.”

He pocketed the HDM and sauntered out of the office without looking back. Catherine left her seat in the Gaz and hurried to meet him.

“What did he say?”

“I have to go to Washington. You’ll stay here for a while. Don’t worry. You’re safe now.”

One of the waiting guards stepped forward and tried to usher her away. She ignored him and clung to Hammond. She kissed him on the mouth. She asked why he wasn’t staying with her. He repeated his earlier assurance. She was safe now. She shouldn’t worry.

It was a guarantee he was far from convinced of.

“You will come to see me, when I get to America? I couldn’t bear it if you didn’t come to see me, if you didn’t look after me any more.”

The vulnerable child had returned, uncertain and timid and overwhelmed, clinging to him and pleading for reassurance and constancy. The provocative beauty who had so easily seduced him at the guesthouse had vanished. The cold-eyed and blasphemous incarnation of a Hindu goddess of fear had similarly disappeared. Hammond brushed away her tears and stroked at her hair as he held her close and smiled the necessary words.

“Of course I will. You’re not getting rid of me that easily, and Kali will look after you until then. She always has, hasn’t she?”

“Promise me. Promise me, when you have finished what you have to do, that you will find me again and protect me.”

“I promise.”

“No matter what?”

“No matter what. I swear.”

Hammond thought back to the old woman at the guest house as he made yet another uncertain promise, but the young woman seemed satisfied. She nodded, sniffed back the tears, smiled her gratitude and then walked away with hips swivelling and head held high.

He saw her hesitate at the entrance to the block, and then turn to watch him leave. He waved at her through the rear window as the car taking him to Wiesbaden sped out of the main gate. After that he flew non-stop to Andrews Field, on the same prototype Stratofreighter that had brought him to Germany almost a lifetime ago.