[Brag]

Not so long ago I was close to finishing this novel when I found out a a book using the same premises as mine had been published.. Rather than letting it languish and die in a drawer, I thought I´ll share this novel of intrigue with Subsimers. I will be issuing one or two chapters a week.

Several people have asked not to comment on this thread to make it easier reading. Please post your comments and critiques on the GELWITZ COMMENTS thread.

http://www.subsim.com/radioroom/showthread.php?t=187007

I hope you will enjoy this tale of international skullduggery and the secret voyage of U-3305

Now that the whole novel been posted, your comments are appreciated. You mau post them at the end of the thread.

The Gelwitz Cipher

A Novel by Alexey Braguine

© 2011 Alexey Braguine

Chapter 1

Moscow
Not far away, the Spasky Tower clock chimed twelve times. As if ordered by that midnight signal, the dinner in Professor David Hermann's stomach threatened to surge. He was a fool to take such risk and could be minutes away from becoming a victim of robbery--maybe even murder.
He swallowed, trying to get rid of the sour taste in his mouth, stood from his chair and paced the small hotel room.
His gaze rested on the laptop sitting on an art decco chest of drawers. A matching armoire gave the room a stodgy, claustrophobic feel.
The laptop screen showed the clock face of the Greenwich Royal Observatory, its second hand ticking away.
0032
He glanced at his watch. Reassuringly the timepiece also showed the same time, almost seven minutes past midnight. Hermann presumed his caller had also synchronized his watch with the Royal Observatory, and would disallow any errors in timing.
How clever to use time as a danger signal. On his first and hopefully never to be repeated physical foray into the deep bowels of international machinations, Hermann feared the people of this world but admired their methods.
He couldn't argue against the wisdom of prudence. After all, it wasn't every day one handed two million dollars to a perfect stranger.
The minute needle on the screen clicked to seven minutes past midnight. Seven seconds to go.
He only had three seconds to open the door. Any further delay constituted a danger signal and scrubbed the meeting.
The two knocks came precisely on time.
His heart beating wildly, Hermann reached for the door and jerked it open.
A tall, bulky man in a tan overcoat stepped into the room. In his left hand he carried a fat suitcase identical to the one Hermann had received a week ago via UPS. He stopped on the other side of the bed, looked around and brought his finger to his mouth, indicating silence.
Hermann closed the door.
The man placed the suitcase on the bed, and removed something resembling a thick fountain pen from inside his overcoat. Using it like a wand and coughing to trigger sound activated switches, he swept the room walls and the furniture.
Hermann's jaw dropped when the man opened his suitcase and produced a machine pistol. With his free hand, he took out a black binder and laid it on the bed. "You can look," he said just above a whisper.
Afraid of disappointment, Hermann opened the binder and leafed through it. The contents seemed authentic. Despite his fear of the gun, he asked, "And the book?"
"Let's see the money."
Appreciating that the man didn't trust him either, Hermann moved carefully into the closet and returned to the bed with the suitcase. "Voila." He opened it, then slowly reached into his pocket for the garage door remote and pressed it.
Locks clicked and the double bottom sprang open revealing bundles of hundred dollar bills.
"And the book?" Herman asked again.
The man didn't seem to hear. With his free hand, he rummaged through the bundles and thumbed the crisp notes Hermann had withdrawn from the bank in Zurich. After a few minutes, the man nodded, reached inside his overcoat and handed Hermann a little book with red leather covers.
"The transaction is satisfactory."
Hermann forced the tremor out of his hands and took the book as if it was a sacred scripture.
The man placed his machine pistol inside the suitcase with the money. Without a word, he left the room.
Hermann wiped sweat from his brow and sat on the room's only chair, placing the binder and the book on his lap. After studying the red book for twenty minutes, he took a pad out of his briefcase and went to work decoding the dates and addresses of each message in the binder, starting with the last page and working backwards. When he reached a message dated 08 May, he removed the pages he had checked, placed them in an envelope and sealed it.

Chapter 2

Washington D.C.
Initial delight vanished when Val Orloff re-read the concluding paragraph of the book review in The New York Times:

This masterful biography reads like a thriller. Professor Orloff's curiosity for the less known aspects of WWII not only informs but entertains.

As an academic, he was not meant to entertain. People would ask, is your scenario another entertaining thriller premise?
This fabulous review could be the kiss of death to his career as an international political consultant.
Dismissing his slide into pessimism, he placed the newspaper on the glass-topped table and walked away from the patio set, complete with parasol, in the living room. He sat on the piano stool in front of an electronic keyboard, which had replaced the piano. He called the stool the dunce's seat. The stool and his books were the only things remaining in the house when he returned from work two years ago. His ex wife had taped a note to the stool, Goodbye, As**hole.
Val played a couple of Chopin Etudes. Music always calmed his nerves and his immature anger at the reviewer subsided. He stopped playing when the phone rang.
Who would be calling on a weekend?
Irritated by the intrusion, he went to the kitchenette to answer it.
"Profesore Orloff?"
Val recognized the voice by the accent. "No, It's my butler, Contessa."
"You must not pull my legs."
"It is pulling a leg, one leg."
"But I have two."
Val wanted to tell her she had the most beautiful legs. Instead, he said, "A pleasure to hear your voice."
"David called me and said to read the New York Times. I'm happy to read that Hunt For The African Fox is masterful. I called my husband and he is euphoric."
"Are you in Milano?"
"I'm in Washington."
Val almost dropped the phone. "What are you doing here?"
"I am talking to my favorite professor. Will you pick me up?"
"Yes, of course. Where, when?"
"David said to come early."
"Oh, you're going to the party?" Too late Val realized he had asked a stupid question. Of course she would be going to David Hermann's party. He was surprised she wasn't staying at his house. Hermann and Count Franco D'Albano were close friends.
"I'm staying at the Ritz Carlton. You know where it is?"
"Yes."
Val thought of the limited space in his new car. "Is Franco with you?"
"No, he will not travel west of England and East of Austria."
Though the Count looked fit and moved sprightly, he tired easily. "I remember him telling me that, but I thought he was joking."
"You never believe anything before you check the facts."
"I'm a historian, it comes with the territory."
"My husband says you are very annoying."
Val took a deep breath, interviewing D'Albano and checking discrepancies in his diary had been trying. But the old boy's adventures after the 1941 Italian capitulation in Ethiopia were fascinating. "Again, I apologize for all the inconveniences."
"You are a charming inconvenient. At what time will you pick me up?"
"How about four? It's an hour's drive to David's new place."
After hanging up, Val caught himself clucking his tongue. A nasty habit he was trying to overcome.
The prospect of seeing Claudia made Val's heart flutter, but he would have preferred to avoid her. While he stayed at the D'Albano ancient villa in Maremma, Val spent many hours working alone with Claudia. She had the bad habit of pulling her chair close to his when helping Val read the old count's diaries scribbled in Italian. After two months in the villa, Val had been glad to leave. At least for him, sexual tension had built to nearly an unbearable level. But cuckolding an old man who trusted him was simply not done. He also knew that despite her youth and over-friendly demeanor Claudia was devoted to her husband.
Val had thought a lot about Claudia in the last year. And now that he had brought his mind back under control, she had re-entered his life.
"Cluck cluck cluck." Val slapped his own face.

#

Approaching the carport, instead of admiring the silver gleam of the BMW Z-3 roadster Val bought two weeks ago, he swore. Today he wished he had his old, rusty Volvo station wagon full of junk, a car that would make any woman run away rather than get inside. Besides, for a man of frugal tastes and modest income, this was an extravagant luxury. He looked at the still summery late September sky. Perfect, he almost said aloud. Thinking of Claudia sitting next to him, he caught himself before starting to cluck his tongue.
Val got in and started the engine. Listening to the soft hum, fully aware he was acting out a childish fantasy, he wondered how a WWII era fighter pilot must have felt before taking off on a combat sortie. His stomach contracted when he again thought of his present mission.
He lowered the top and chuckled. Like the proverbial light bulb in the comics, Val discovered the car gave him a roguish confidence. Maybe there was something to material possessions. Or maybe he was falling into the trap of materialism. Did the car improve his knowledge? No. Did it make him a better person? No. For a moment he entertained a vision of him and Claudia in her hotel room. The stupid car caused him to invoke roguish thoughts. Sure, blame the car.

#

Val eased the Z into the driveway of the Ritz Carlton and stopped behind a Rolls Royce.
The doorman approached, tipping his top hat. "Shall we park it, sir?
"No, thanks, I'm picking someone up."
"Count Orloff?"
"Yes," Val said reluctantly. He hated being called by a title that no longer existed.
The doorman signaled a bellman, who promptly turned and rushed inside. "The Contessa will be right out, Sir. She's waiting in the lobby."
Appreciating the man's efficiency and courtesy, Val handed the doorman five dollars, a day's parking fees at the Metro station.
Val got out of the car and stretched. He always marveled at the contrasting atmosphere of Downtown DC on a weekend. Traffic was light, the streets almost devoid of pedestrians. No problem finding a parking space. Only two cars occupied the curb across the street and two men leaning on a black car talked while smoking cigarettes.
Like a bloom of fireworks, Claudia burst out of the hotel door. Her dark-bronze face revealing her Ethiopian ancestry, framed a dazzling smile. With the grace of the fashion model she had been, she seemed to float toward Val.
"Caro Valentino," she almost shouted, as she wrapped her arms around his neck.
Val kissed her on the cheek, feeling dizzy from the smell of peach and the push of breasts against his chest.
Realizing he was holding her far longer than was proper, Val took Claudia by the shoulders and pushed her away. Her huge dark eyes looking slightly down on him gazed into his and she kept smiling.
"You look pale," she said.
"You have grown taller."
"You lie."
"One always lies to beautiful women."
"You should have come this summer, we could have sailed to Corsica to eat fish and lay under the sun."
"Maybe next year." The sight of Claudia, topless by the tiller of her little wooden sloop still haunted Val. He thought of her chocolate nipples as bonbons. Today, a silk, striped blouse covered them. She wore navy blue trousers and carried a white blazer in her hands.
She slid into the car and the doorman closed the door.
"You should have told me we are going in an open car. I would have brought a scarf."
Val's cheeks burned as he got behind the wheel. "I'll put the top up."
"Don't you dare."
She dug into her handbag, handed Val a silk handkerchief and bunched her black hair at the back. "Please, tie it up."
As he knotted the handkerchief, he could not help touching the back of her neck. The contact sent a current into the pit of his stomach.
"Thank you." She let out a soft laugh. "Now I can enjoy the adventure without arriving looking like a harp."
"A harp?"
"Yes, an ugly woman."
"Oh, harpy."
"My English is deficient, but one must practice to perfection."
Trying to drive as smoothly as possible, Val turned onto K Street and decided to take a somewhat longer but more scenic route along Clara Barton Parkway, bordering the Potomac.
"With my bad English, I gave a talk at George Washington University yesterday. Imagine me, giving a talk at a prestige American university."
"Oh, I didn't know that." Val stopped for a red light on the intersection of 18th Street.
"David is such a sweet man. He asked me to talk about how sporting activities of the elite affected fashion throughout history. History I don't know, but fashion, yes."
A nagging hurt mixed with relief that she didn't call him on arrival. Even if she wasn't married, Claudia belonged to a different social stratum. Val wondered why Hermann had not told him Claudia was coming.
"The honorarium covered part of my expenses for coming here."
"Yeah, like half a night at the Carlton."
The honking of a car behind him made him realize the light had turned green. Val engaged the clutch and glanced at the rearview mirror. Three cars were behind him, one just like a black Buick parked in front of the hotel.
Furious with himself and hating whoever honked at him, he stomped on the pedal and accelerated just short of peeling rubber.
"Bene, bravo, a powerful machine," Claudia exclaimed laughing.
They were going at 65. Val eased on the accelerator and searched for cops. In case he had been seen by a policeman in a plain wrapper, he continued driving above the speed limit. He glanced at the rearview mirror before turning onto 22nd Street. The black car was a block away, overtaking the other traffic. Approaching M, Val slowed and saw the black car entering 22nd.
"I think the police are after me."
"The police? Why?"
"They are strict on speeding here."
"Americans drive without spirit." Claudia laughed.
As usual on weekends, traffic on M Street was heavier. Val essed his way around several cars and tucked the Z in front of an SUV.
"Caro, you drive like an Italian--no, more like a Parisian."
Val didn't answer. Toward the end of M, traffic was close to snarled. He smiled to himself. The cop had no chance of catching him now.
Claudia studied the crowds on the sidewalks. "Maybe this is a good place to open a boutique. In New York the rents are too expensive for a small house like mine."
"I don't know, real estate has skyrocketed here lately."
"One can have dreams, even when unrealizable."
Val chuckled. "A woman in your position can realize all her dreams."
"You are kind." She sighed. Not everything is always possible."
Traffic thinned as they passed the entrance to the Key Bridge.
"This is beautiful," Claudia exclaimed as the Potomac River came into view. "So much water, so many trees. In America is everything sooo big."
Claudia's exuberance was contagious. It made Val laugh.
30 minutes later, they left suburban Olney, north of Washington.
"The farms are so neat here," Claudia said.
Val had the directions to Hermann's new house memorized and slowed as they entered the prim little hamlet of Brookville.
"What an adorable place."
Val thought he had overdone the scenic drive. By skillfully avoiding the ugliness of Washington's suburban sprawl, he had given Claudia a wrong impression of the area. "It's adorable if you don't have to work in the city. Traffic is nightmarish on working days."
"Che bello." Claudia pointed at a house with acres or parkland and a large pond with a flock of geese waddling on its grassy banks.
It seemed like every other house on Route 97 had a large pond. These were multimillion dollar estates. Val slowed the car so as not to miss Hermann's road. Traffic began to pile up behind him. Three cars followed close. The fourth, a black car kept a more respectful distance.
"Are you going to the anniversary party at Sir Reginald's?" Claudia asked.
"Yes, I got the invitation and already bought the airline ticket." He glanced at Claudia.
"I'm happy to hear. Reggie has wonderful horses. We can go riding together."
That was an aspect Val had not considered, Claudia's suggestion filled him with pleasure. "That will be fun, I've never ridden in England."
Every year Claudia's husband and Sir Reginald Nesbitt got together to celebrate the day on which they tried to kill each other during World War Two.
"Do you want to ride in Virginia?"
"That would be fabulous."
"Good, we can go riding tomorrow."
Claudia sighed and shook her head. "Another time."
"Have a hot date?"
"No, caro. Doctor's orders."
"Oh, something wrong?"
"It's impolite to ask about doctors."
Val shrugged. It was improbable she was pregnant, or was it? He turned onto a road bordering the Rachel Carson Conservation Park and stopped by a gate. He couldn't believe his eyes. He took the directions out of his pocket and checked the address. Yes, it was the address Hermann had given him.
Val had no clue of real estate prices but the pseudo-Tudor manor must have cost several million. And this one, too, had a pond. The maintenance of the grounds alone would cost a fortune.
A Latino-looking man in black trousers, white shirt and bow tie guided Val off the driveway to a spot at the edge of the lawn. The modestly priced bottle of Chilean wine, Val brought as a house-warming present seemed totally inadequate for the palatial setting of Hermann's new digs.

Continued next Thursday.