The Folks at Fifty-Eight (34 page)

Stanislav Paslov kept his private office well away from the more celebrated and intimidating government buildings and the notorious departments that did his bidding and ruled the Soviet-occupied territories. Paslov liked it that way. It reduced the possibility of interruption, it allowed him to think, and thinking was what Stanislav Paslov did best.

Beria was up to something. Paslov knew it. He could sense it; he could almost touch it, but he had no idea what. The capture of Hammond and the girl had taken so much manpower and so much effort, and yet Beria had simply let them go. ‘A sprat to catch a mackerel,’ he had said, but who was the sprat, and who was the mackerel? Was the girl the sprat? The obvious answer was yes, but maybe it was Hammond, or maybe even Paslov himself? And who was the mackerel? Was it the Nazi turncoat Gehlen, or even fat Martin Kube? Paslov thought not.

It had to be Carlisle. That was the obvious answer, but maybe the obvious was too obvious. It usually was whenever Beria was involved. But if the mackerel was Carlisle, the sprat couldn’t be the girl; or could it?

The mackerel could even be Marcus Allum or Daniel Chambers, or any one of a dozen more, but if Carlisle was the mackerel, which seemed more likely, then why Frankfurt, and why him?

To Paslov’s knowledge, Beria had three separate Smersh teams working in Washington. In New York City he had three more. If he’d wanted Carlisle removed, a speeding car on Dupont Circle could have done that on any night of the week. Why use Paslov’s promise of defection to entice Carlisle all the way back to Frankfurt? Why take so much trouble to ensure Hammond and the girl reached Camp King? Why invite Hammond as a spectator, just to witness such a tawdry and unimaginative blackmail plot? Why risk the cover of Beria’s most important agent in the State Department? Beria had to realize that once the Americans became aware of a mole’s existence it would only be a matter of months before they dug him out, maybe less. Why sacrifice him so needlessly?

Stanislav Paslov knew Lavrenti Beria as well as anybody could. Beria was a master at directing watching eyes to the wrong place at the wrong time; the supreme illusionist, performing a sleight-of-hand conjuring trick while everyone looked the wrong way. He was paranoid and clever, but most of all Beria was a consummate magician who knew his audience and exploited their gullibility.

Paslov knew it had to be a diversion of some kind, that was obvious, but a diversion from what? Where should he look, and what should he look for?

Was it all simply about Nazi turncoats, or was it something else? It had to be something else, or why make such a fuss about milk already spilt, and why use Paslov to try to mop it up?

A knock at the door interrupted his thoughts. An attractive young woman dressed in a plain grey skirt and white blouse stood waiting.

“What is it?”

“Comrade Colonel, I have Comrade Demidov on the telephone. He says he has to speak to you, in person. He says it is important he comes to see you.”

Paslov knew the name and person well. Vladimir Demidov was one of Beria’s former bodyguards, a senior sergeant plucked from his job as an infantry sniper. He was now one of the MGB’s most gifted assassins. When Demidov spoke it was in sullen monotones. On those odd occasions he listened, unless the subject was to do with mindless brutality and slaughter, the information usually went in one ear and out the other.

“Does he want to meet me here?”

“Yes, Colonel.”

Paslov nodded his consent. The girl hurried back to the telephone. She returned moments later and told him that Demidov would be with him in ten minutes. Paslov’s mind began racing.

Demidov made the journey from local Soviet offices to Paslov’s hideaway in less than eight. He stood framed in the doorway to Paslov’s office, dressed in a crumpled blue serge suit, grey open-neck shirt and scuffed brown leather shoes. Demidov had a surprisingly small head for such a large man, but the legs were hugely powerful as were the arms. The clothes were threadbare and dirty, and his barrel chest strained the buttons on the tattered shirt to such an extent that one was hanging at the end of a thin thread of cotton. Another was missing altogether.

“Comrade Colonel.”

He waited until Paslov turned to acknowledge his presence, before snapping to attention and saluting, catching his hand on the door frame on the way up. Saluting a superior officer out of uniform was unheard of, particularly in occupied territory, and especially when the soldier doing the saluting was an ex-sniper who should have known the danger of directing watching eyes to a high-ranking officer. Paslov ignored the salute. Demidov introduced himself in a high-pitched voice that elevated his bizarre appearance and behaviour to the brink of farce.

But, as Paslov was only too aware, Vladimir Demidov was anything but that.

“Come in, Comrade. What can I do for you?”

“The files on the Nazi girl and Carlisle, I need to see them. They tell me you have them here.”

Paslov nodded to the files, clearly marked among a number of similar-looking files on the cluttered desktop, but as Demidov made a move toward the desk the Russian spymaster snatched them up.

“Why do you need them?”

“It is confidential, Colonel.”

Paslov wasn’t about to let him get away with that.

“The files are here because I am responsible for them and the information they contain. Now I asked you a question, Comrade. I expect an answer.”

Demidov cautiously eyed Paslov and then puffed his barrel chest.

“Comrade Deputy Premier Beria has approved my. . .”

Paslov had expected as much. He angrily interrupted.

“Comrade Beria is not here, and he is not responsible for the files. I am. Now you either answer the question, or get out of my sight and have Comrade Beria call me.”

Demidov hesitated.

“I have a plane to catch. The flight leaves in two hours.”

Paslov smiled coldly.

“Then you had better hurry, Comrade.”

Paslov remained unmoved. Demidov relented.

“Very well. Carlisle had a woman at Camp King, a lover. I need information on her.”

“He had many lovers at Camp King. Which one especially interests you?”

“This one was special, and recent. The affair lasted for many visits. It may still be going on.”

Paslov nodded and passed him the file on Carlisle. He explained as Demidov grabbed at it.

“Her name is Melody Strand. He recently arranged her transfer to Fort Hunt in Virginia, where her husband works for the army as an interrogator. I believe Carlisle still sees her there. They continue to be lovers. The husband knows nothing of the affair.”

Demidov nodded and scanned the file as he spoke.

“She is black, this woman called Strand. He likes to fuck the blacks?”

“Part African slave, from the mother, and Cajun from the father.” Demidov was obviously unaware of the term. He looked puzzled. Paslov elaborated. “This one is more brown than black.”

“He likes them, the girls with brown skins? He has a weakness for them?”

“That is what it says in his file. So why do you want the file on Catherine Schmidt?”

Again, Demidov hesitated. Paslov remained unwavering. Again, the assassin relented.

“Her father, the Nazi colonel. Comrade Beria wants to know who in the Prague Headquarters signed the death certificate and report.” Paslov handed over the relevant file. Demidov scanned the pages. This time, the assassin failed to discover the necessary documents. He looked questioningly at Paslov. “The documents are not here. Is there a file on the father?”

Paslov shrugged.

“He died some years ago. There was, but we may have destroyed it. I will check, if you like, but it will take some time. If the documents still exist and we have them, I will call Comrade Beria personally and give him the information.”

Demidov looked anxious.

“I am sorry, Comrade Colonel, but if Comrade Beria finds out that I have told you anything about this. . . well, he will. . .”

Paslov smiled a comforting smile.

“Not a problem, Comrade. I can call you when I have the information, and you can tell him. I will call you tomorrow. Where will you be?” Demidov still looked nervous and failed to answer. Paslov offered a reassurance. “Do not concern yourself with Comrade Beria. I will not mention our little chat.”

Demidov didn’t seem any happier with that. Paslov knew he had little choice. He stood quietly waiting until the assassin answered.

“You can contact me at our embassy in New York: from tomorrow at noon.”

Paslov nodded, wondering why Beria would send his top assassin to New York with information on Carlisle. They’d only just turned Carlisle, or maybe they hadn’t. Paslov wanted to ask, but knew that Demidov would lie, and so he said,

“It is not a problem, Comrade. I will call you at the embassy.”

Demidov returned the folders to an outstretched hand, and then walked to the door. He reached the doorway and turned to face Paslov, then dramatically snapped to attention and saluted, taking care to avoid the door frame. Paslov tried not to smile.

“Thank you, Comrade Colonel. You have been very helpful.”

The most awkward of assassins turned and marched away. Paslov finally allowed the smile to escape as he called after him,

“Have a good flight, Comrade. I will call you tomorrow.”

Paslov waited on the balcony until he saw Demidov crossing the street below. Once the assassin had disappeared into the crowd, Paslov returned to his desk and reached under a pile of photographs. The hand reappeared clutching a file marked ‘Prague: Non-Wehrmacht personnel 17/42’. Underneath the location and reference number was a white label. Typed on the label were the words, Josef Conrad Schmidt, Waffen SS-Oberführer.

Paslov quickly flipped through the file, but then paused when he came to the death certificate and studied the information. Army doctors always signed German army officer’s death certificates in times of war. Platoon leaders or junior administrators usually witnessed the signature. The doctor’s name was Oberleutnant Hermann Spengler, and that seemed genuine enough, but the witness was nothing to do with administration and anything but junior.

Paslov smiled as he compared the signature to the same signature on the incident report below and realised why he’d missed it before. Both signatures were the same partially-legible scrawl and difficult to decipher without the aid of negative entropy. However, when compared side-by-side, redundancy compensated and the name became obvious.

It was Gestapo Kriminaldirektor Martin Kube.

Dawid Gabriel turned out to be every bit as colourful as Allum’s intimation: modestly overweight with a receding hairline, and dressed in a crumpled brown suit and plain white shirt. He would have appeared unremarkable, were it not for the huge bull neck that sprouted from the unbuttoned collar of his shirt, and a bright red face that grew ever redder with each successive and constantly-recurring expletive.

“You’re telling me you wanna find Nazis, fucking Nazis, right here in the middle of New York fucking City? You’re fucking with me, right?”

Hammond, slightly taken-aback, gathered himself before answering.

“No I’m serious, I couldn’t be more serious. Why, what’s the problem, Mr Gabriel?”

“Dave, for fuck’s sake; can’t be doing with all this mister fucking shit.”

“Sure. So, uh, what’s the problem, Dave?”

“What’s the problem, he says? I’ll tell you what the fucking problem is, my friend. You take a good look around Times Square or Forty-Second Street on any night of the week, or kick open any other stall door in this fucking toilet. . . I promise, you’re gonna find more cock-sucking Nazis out there than you could shake your dick at.”

He continued to rant, crimson-faced.

“You think intolerance in this country’s all about a bunch of red-necked fucking hillbillies down in Alabama, fucking over the cotton-pickers? Maybe you think it’s about all those whooping and hollering fucking redskins, refusing to forgive the Seventh fucking Cavalry for sticking sabres up their asses? Well, listen up, my friend, and listen good, because when people first get to this city and wanna take a bite, I guarantee it ain’t gonna be out of no worm-ridden fucking Big Apple. It’s out of any bastard who looks, or lives, or talks, or prays, or eats, or sleeps, or shits, or fucks, different to them.”

“It’s that bad here?”

“Is it that bad, he says. Let me tell you something. In this city you find the Micks hate the fucking Limeys, and that’s o.k. cos that little tête-à-têtes been going on since the battle of the fucking Boyne. But don’t get into feeling sorry for the Limeys, because they still hate the fucking Frogs, and have done since way before fucking Agincourt. And don’t get into feeling sorry for the Frogs either, cos they hate the shit outta the fucking Krauts.

“And if you’re still partially compos-fucking-mentis, it goes on. Cos then you find the Krauts hate the Ruskis, the Ruskis hate the Czechs, the Czechs hate the Polacks, and the Polacks hate the fucking lot, especially the fucking Wops. The Wops hate the Niggers, the Niggers hate the Spics, and the Spics hate any mother who ain’t another fucking Spic.”

Hammond stood open-mouthed. Gabriel took a well-earned breath.

“Wait up, I ain’t finished. You don’t need the colour or nationality. You pull any address in this city, my friend, and I’ll tell you who the asshole living there detests the fuck out of.”

“How’s that?”

“Real fucking easy. . . You live in Manhattan, you hate any fucker who uses a fucking bridge or tunnel to get to you. You live up in the Bronx, you hate every mother who lives down in Harlem. You’re born in Black Harlem, you hate any fucker who ever got their bare ass slapped in Spic Harlem. You live on the Upper West Side, you hate all those even-richer fuckers on the Upper East Side. It goes on for fucking ever.”