The Folks at Fifty-Eight (49 page)

“Which was just what Beria wanted all along. Deflect all the attention away from the reason behind the death of Alan Carlisle, and take everyone’s mind off the possibility of spies in the Manhattan Project. That was what you wanted, too, wasn’t it?”

True to his naïveté, Hammond had sought confirmation. An elated Zalesie seemed in the mood for talking.

“Stalin will overrun Europe if we let him, and from there the tentacles will reach out. We cannot rely on another Pearl Harbour to disrupt the isolationists for a second time. We have to shake America from her complacency, and we have to do it before it is too late.”

“Even at the risk of nuclear war?”

“Don’t believe the scaremongers, Gerald. The world has seen the power of nuclear weapons with its own eyes. That power now lies in the fear it evokes, not the devastation it causes.”

“You hope.”

“No, I believe it. I truly do. And so, what now, Gerald, for the two of us?”

“I was thinking about your man Dawid Gabriel, about something he once said to me.”

“Gabriel belongs to Marcus Allum. He’s not my man.”

“Whatever.”

“So, what did he say to you?”

“He told me they were unbeatable. . . The Folks at Fifty-Eight.”

Zalesie stood musing over the title.

“The Folks at Fifty-Eight. I think I rather like that.”

“Yes, but I was also thinking about these other people, these people you claim don’t exist; these Children of Etzel people.”

“What about them?”

“I was just thinking. Wouldn’t it be the darndest thing if the cancer that had so chronically infected our democracy, the cancer Dawid Gabriel said was unbeatable, had itself become infected by an even more malignant cancer?”

Zalesie smiled an enigmatic smile.

“Does it matter?”

“Does what matter?”

“The political philosophy we choose. They all come from the same tree, you know. Does it matter which branch we shelter beneath? Did you know the man who started the Council on Foreign Relations was a Marxist?”

Hammond shook his head.

“Oh yes, House, Edward M. Wilson’s alter ego. So, what does it matter: Marxist, Fascist, a New World Order, or the Old World Order? It all comes down to one simple premise. A governing elite, ruling whatever parts of the world are worth ruling.”

“So the world becomes a collection of oligarchies?”

“But it already is, Gerald. Can you not see that?”

“And Bolshevism. Isn’t that just another branch to shelter beneath?”

Hammond thought he had spotted a flaw in the argument. Zalesie merely nodded.

“Bolshevism possibly, but the gulf between the rhetoric of Lenin and the reality of Stalin is as vast as the Russian Steppes.” Another enigmatic smile followed. “And even the hardiest of growth can always benefit from a little judicious pruning.”

“And what of democracy, our democracy? Is that an irrelevance, or just a casualty?”

Zalesie was clearly in his element.

“In a way they’re all forms of democracy, representation of the people by revolution or ballot, apathy or ignorance. When any regime falls, all that changes over time are one or two personnel of the ruling elite. Or do you believe that Roosevelt and Byrnes and Marshall and Dulles and Rockefeller and Morgan, and all those backwoodsmen who sit up on the hill, see themselves as anything other than ruling elite?”

“Maybe I just like the idea of preserving an illusion of democracy for all us poor ignorant ordinary fools down here. Maybe I don’t like the idea of an American government that constantly lies to the American people.”

“All governments lie, Gerald. Those that lie the best are those we trust the most.”

As Hammond listened to Zalesie’s words and finally conceded the unpalatable truth of it all, he felt so many conflicting emotions; so much sadness and regret, so much anger and frustration. He stood dejectedly on the sidewalk, considering the extent of his own naïveté and impotence. Zalesie changed the subject.

“So, how would you feel about taking over from Carpenter?”

“On recent history, that wouldn’t seem like a job with too many prospects.”

“All tasks in life are like life itself, Gerald. They are what you make of them.”

“Possibly, but there’s already enough resentment from the last time you promoted me over so many heads. This time you’ll probably get an outright mutiny.”

“You won’t be there for long, and I’m sure we will somehow survive. If we are ever to defeat Lavrenti Beria, we will need to put more passion into this new Central Intelligence initiative, with or without Mr John Edgar Hoover’s blessing.

“There will be some major changes and expansions occurring over the next year or so, Gerald. I’d like you to be part of them. I’d like to get you into E-Street, and if you are going to be effective, you are also going to need positioning at a senior level.”

“We’re going back to E-Street? Makes you wonder why they canned OSS.”

“You wouldn’t be the first to say that.”

“And a promotion at the State Department, no matter how undeserved or premature, can mean the recipient shuffling across at a senior level without raising eyebrows?”

“Yes, something like that, but not undeserved. You sell yourself short, Gerald. You’ve done some fine work recently.”

Hammond thought carefully before answering.

“So I’d become your man in Central Intelligence. You know, I’m not sure I want that. I’m not sure I want any of it. It’s all a little too sordid, and the people involved are all a little too tainted.”

Conrad Zalesie continued to smile that same enigmatic smile.

“What are you going to do if you don’t accept my offer? Go back to that insurance company? Spend your days answering the telephone and filling out meaningless forms? Or maybe walk away from it all. Put your feet up and watch the grass grow. Struggle from week to week to pay the rent, and forever regret the chances you didn’t take.”

“At least I’ll sleep at night.”

“No you won’t. . . None of us do.”

Hammond knew the truth of that. He looked across to the house on the opposite side of the street from the Silver Samovar and remembered the five men he had so ruthlessly killed there. As he thought about them, he also recalled the last words of Marat Reznikov. Maybe celestial cognizance comes to us all in the moments before death. Maybe the Russian had seen both of their fates. Maybe there was a hell, and maybe they would meet each other there.

Zalesie followed the direction of Hammond’s gaze and seemed to read his thoughts.

“We are each of us on journeys to hell, Gerald Hammond. We chose that destination many years ago. All we can do now is enjoy the ride.”

As the German wandered back to his car, a movement farther along the street caught Hammond’s eye. He looked beyond the remaining Cadillacs and bodyguards, and saw her there. She had climbed out of Zalesie’s Mark-Three Phantom and was now standing on the sidewalk, her hair cascading over her shoulders and glistening gold in the morning sunshine, her head angled and lips smiling as she gently mocked his amazement.

She was wearing a simple black cocktail dress and high-heeled shoes. They made her appear taller and more sophisticated than he remembered, and more statuesque than he remembered; perhaps even more beautiful than he remembered.

He recalled that night at the guesthouse in Dessau, when he had first seen her naked and shivering and bathed in moonlight, and suddenly realised just what she had come to mean to him. Suddenly everything was clear. Suddenly he didn’t care about age differences or social conventions or chattering gossip. Suddenly he knew that he had to be with her, that he could never be completely happy without her.

He knew something else, too. With or without the lure of Catherine Schmidt, he could never have gone back to his former life of boredom and mediocrity and regret.

With one last glance at the house opposite The Silver Samovar tea rooms, Hammond followed his new and Machiavellian master to where the rear door of the Rolls remained open and a beautiful young woman stood patiently waiting.