[Brag]

Chapter 8

Yesterday's events had left Val dry of emotion. There had been a dawn, a short-lived day and it was again dark when the Aeroflot Boeing 767 landed at Sheremetyevo Airport. From his window, Val watched the two huge terminals.
The senior stewardess approached his seat. "Doctor, you'll be the first to deplane."
Val nodded, not happy about the special attention.
The moment the door opened, a border guard armed with a submachine gun entered the airplane, followed by a uniformed health official. The stewardess handed Val his overcoat. "Welcome to Moscow, enjoy your stay."
Val stepped past the border guard.
Two more border guards and a short man with slicked down hair stood at the head of the ramp. "Valentin Georgevich," the man said.
Val recognized Artur Boikin, whom he had met when working with the commission investigating the possibility that Korean War MIAs might have ended up in the Soviet Union.
Val hesitated, trying to remember the man's name and patronymic. "Artur Ivanovich,"
"This way." Boikin opened a side door and trotted down the outside metal-stairs.
Cold air stabbed into Val's lungs. He followed Boikin while putting his overcoat on.
Dodging baggage tugs, Boikin led to the ground floor of the terminal, a cavernous space with a maze of conveyor belts shunting luggage. He had to yell to make himself heard above the noise of jet engines and clanking of baggage handling machinery.
"We're going to terminal two. Your plane for Saint Petersburg leaves in twenty minutes."
"Ah?"
"The Saint Petersburg shuttle leaves in twenty. Don't worry about your luggage, or customs."
"Hey, I'm going to Moscow."
"The person you want to see lives in Peter."
"No one told me that." Peter. Val thought of Hermann's cryptic note.
Boikin laughed. "I've heard you left in a hurry."
"I thought you were in the Army."
"I was in the Army when needed. Today I'm an airport employee. Anything else you want to know?" Boikin approached a Gaz jeep and opened the door. "Climb in."
"I have to go to the American Embassy."
"If by tomorrow you still feel you need to see American diplomats or whatever, there's a consulate in Peter. I have you booked in the hotel D'Angleterre. Good location, not many Americans, reasonably priced. The lady in question is expecting you tomorrow for tea."
"What lady in question?"
"Lidya Stuart."
"The Manchurian lady?"
Boikin started the Gazik and drove, dodging luggage trains going in every which direction. He handed Val a piece of paper. "Here's the address, and phone numbers to reach me. Office, home, cell phone--everything short of the family mausoleum."
"Who's Lidya Stuart?"
"I don't know. You've called her the Manchurian lady."
Val remembered Boikin as an arranger, from picnics outside Moscow to going into archives in the different ministries. He vaguely remembered a wild evening in a restaurant with gypsy dancers and singers where Boikin outdid himself doing traditional Russian dances together with the cast.
The hangover was memorable.
"So you left the Army to become a university professor?"
"History is my passion."
Boikin laughed. "Historians look so much back into the past that they run into the lampposts of the future."

#

A strong breeze blew from the north, dispersing clouds under a waning moon. The taciturn travel agency driver took Val through the straight Pulkovo Chausse, past the Brandenburg-like Victory monument into the maze of streets and bridges of Saint Petersburg's city center.
The driver turned into a diagonal street and stopped in front of a red brick building. "Hotel D'Angleterre." He pointed across the street. "Good view of Saint Isaak's Cathedral."
Val's jaw dropped as he gawked at the illuminated building that reminded him of Saint Peter's Basilica in Rome. Nothing had prepared him for such majesty. The sight made him glad he had come.
"Ten dollar tip recommended. No extra charge for guided tour."
Too tired to argue, Val handed over a ten-dollar bill.

#

Not sure if he wanted to eat or vomit, Val opened his eyes. Gray light filtered through heavy drapes. It took him several seconds to remember he was in Russia. Memory of the assault in his apartment made him groan. He covered his head with a pillow and rolled over, wishing the memory would go away and he would wake. The bad dream of the motor yacht running over his sailing dinghy was benign compared to this living nightmare.
Five minutes later he accepted reality and looked at his watch. It was half past twelve. Four thirty in the morning in D.C. He picked up the phone, ordered coffee, meat, and mushroom piroshki.
A steaming hot tub took away lingering airplane aches. After the bath, he drew the curtains aside and looked out at the city of his paternal ancestors. On his previous visit to Russia, Moscow had left him with a feeling he was lucky to have been born in the States. Looking out into Saint Petersburg filled him with a different emotion. The place had a soul- grabbing effect. This was grander than Paris or even Rome. Saint Isaak's golden dome shone in a wintry bright sky. He remembered his numb brain last night barely registered the magnificence.
"Good morning, Peter," he said, glad the people of Russian intelligence had thought of covering up his tracks. But disgust gnawed over his own inability of dealing with a problem he could not understand.

#

A weak November sun did little to cut the bite of the chill wind sweeping through Palace Square. About a hundred yards way, his back to Val, the man stood apparently absorbed with some feature of the ornate, old General Staff Building across the square.
Since only about twenty people milled about the vast space in front of the Winter Palace it was easy to keep track of the distinctive leather overcoat the man wore.
Had Val not seen the man earlier, leaning on the rail of the Neva embankment, he would not be worrying about him. At that time, the man's attention seemed fixed across the river on the majestic spire jutting above the Peter and Paul fortress across the river.
Ever since he spotted the man, Val's knees wanted to buckle. The memory of the thugs breaking into his apartment filled him with despair. The bastards had ruined his life by destroying his belief in law and order and the basic safety to which a citizen of a civilized society was entitled.
With his hand, Val touched the base of the tall, red granite Alexander Column topped by an angel holding a cross. The monument commemorating Russia's victory over Napoleon seemed like a rod gathering energy from heaven and passing it on to Val. He pressed his hand harder.
Val turned to face the rococo blue and yellow façade of the Winter Palace. He thought of the horrible scene when the Bolsheviks stormed the palace and put an end to civilized life in the Russian Empire.
His problem was nothing compared to what his grandparents had to endure. Val smiled at the memory of Grandfather telling the story of how he had first met Czar Nicholas II on this very square.
Mounted on one of his best horses in front of his squadron of Cuirassier Guards, Captain Nicholas Orloff saluted the Czar inspecting the troops. The Czar returned the salute, and wheeled his horse. Leaving the entourage of generals and senior regimental officers, he trotted up to Orloff.
As he got next to the Guards captain, he leaned over and whispered, "While I cover you from view of your commander, button up your fly."
Grandfather loved to finish the story by saying, "After the parade, my commander asked, 'what did the Czar say to you?' I told him, the Czar wanted to know what stud my horse came from." Grandfather always laughed and winked.
A gust of wind brought back the present and awareness of the man in the brown leather coat. Val had to learn to adapt as his grandparents had. And adapt quickly. His meticulous plan of a walking tour of the city prior to having tea with Academician Lidya Stuart needed adjustment to shake Leathercoat off.
With a determined stride, Val marched towards the vaulted arches of the General Staff building, toward Saint Petersburg's main boulevard, Nevsky Prospekt.
As he approached the building, Leathercoat moved off to the side, pulled out a city map and appeared to study it.
On reaching the Triumphal Arch, Val glanced back and increased his stride. Leathercoat still studied his map.
The bustle of traffic at the end of the street, which connected with Nevsky Prospekt, encouraged Val to keep going fast. He would get lost in the crowds and give Leathercoat the slip.
As he turned the corner by the large bookstore, he looked back. Leathercoat was a good half a block behind. Val checked his impulse to break into a run. For a moment he thought of hailing a taxi, but discarded the idea. He was on the wrong side of the street for a clean getaway.
He hurried across the Zelenyy, Green Bridge. Over the Moika Canal where all bridges were named after colors. On the other side he crossed the street toward the Stroganoff Palace. Maybe that would be enough to dodge Leathercoat.
No. Bad move. There were fewer pedestrians on this side of the street. The block long, curved structure of the Kazan cathedral did not encourage shoppers. Most people stayed on the commercial side of the street. Val tried to hail a taxi. It only slowed him down. All taxis were full. And Leathercoat marched along on the other side, talking into a cell phone.
How stupid to think that Leathercoat would be alone. Val tried to spot other people tailing him.
Past the cathedral, he crossed the Kazansky Bridge over the Griboyedov Canal and with slight relief, found himself engulfed in a sea of shoppers.
Val hurried across Dumskaya Street and had to run as the light changed. He entered the Gostinoy Dvor department store, which occupied a whole block.
Walking through the aisles, he kept close watch on his direction. He planned to emerge on the back side of the giant store and double back along Lomonosova Street to the Greboyedov Canal. Leathercoat would not have enough people to cover every exit of the store. If Val moved fast enough, the rear exits would still be free of watchers.
Quite certain that Leathercoat had lost him, Val stepped outside. Pleased with the fading light, he lifted his overcoat collar and marched at a sedate pace against a stream of students coming out of the University of Economics and Finance.
A good rider must be a quick learner to dominate the animal he's riding, and adjust his style to suit the temperament of the horse. Grandfather had said countless times. Val grinned, he was learning and adjusting. Good night Leathercoat.

Chapter 9

By the time he walked along the almost deserted Griboyedov Canal, Val congratulated himself for having given Leathercoat the slip.
In the badly lit street, it was hard to discern addresses. A black and white cat ran across the way and huddled next to a drainpipe. A car rolled slowly on the embankment, stopped and its lights went off.
Val walked past the old gray Volga. A couple inside were already busy in an embrace. Two doors down, Val peered at the number, climbed three steps and inspected a bank of buzzers with names next to each button. He pressed the button next to Stuart L. A.
The security lock buzzed.
As Val closed the door behind him, a gruff male voice of the Soviet era asked, "What do you want?"
The concierge sat behind a desk next to a column of the hotel-like lobby.
"I'm going to see Professor Stuart."
"Doctor Shephard?"
Like a Pavlov conditioned dog, Val answered, "Miles Standish."
The concierge stood, bowed and waved Val a regal welcome. "Doctor Sandwich you may go through. Third floor."
The marble staircase made Val realize he was inside a palace converted into apartments. For all he knew, this could have been the Orloff residence in the Imperial capital. The building smelled of fresh paint. On the third floor he found a door with Stuart L. A. written on a card.
A thin woman, her gray hair tied at the back opened the door. "You're the first American I've met who isn't punctual."
"It's impossible to walk through this city without needing to stop in awe at the grandeur of some architectural marvel. I apologize."
"And you talk rubbish like a Russian. Come in. Lemon with your tea?"
The apartment smelled of stale tobacco and boiled cabbage. Val sat on an armchair at a round table next to an upright piano.
Stuart poured tea and added hot water from an electric samovar.
"I've read a monograph you wrote on the post-war Manchurian economy," Val said.
She handed Val a cup and chuckled. "One has to write something to justify travel. Help yourself to the Napoleon, it's the best in town."
The tea and the mil foilles cake were wonderful. Val's gaze explored the small sitting room that looked more like a library.
Stuart lit a cigarette. "I've read that what-if paper you wrote about Vlasov's army--thought provoking. Also the what-if on German submarine production. Do you always write what-ifs?"
"Not always, but I like to shatter historical misconceptions my students harbor. What-ifs encourage independent thinking."
Stuart smiled. "That was one of the reasons I suggested we meet."
Val felt his jaw sag. "You suggested this meeting?"
"When I heard of Professor Hermann's death. I immediately thought of his colleague, Professor Orloff." Steward adjusted her glasses as if to better focus on Val. "He spoke highly of you."
She must have noticed his embarrassment. "He said you were the ultimate expert in World War II U-boats."
Val sipped tea while trying to sort out what Stuart had said. "What do U boats have to do with this?"
"Professor Herman said he would query you about some questions we had and he would get back to me. He never returned."
"May I ask why Hermann came to see you?"
"He was interested in the Manchurian Code."
"It wasn't the Gelwitz code?"
"That's what Professor Hermann called it."
Val wondered what Hermann had learned, perhaps in this same apartment. Then he thought of Dedensky's warning that had Val learned this, he could be dead. He caught himself before starting to click his tongue and concentrated on the crunchy, delightfully sweet cake.
"More tea?"
"Yes, please. My confusion is growing by the minute. Do you mind explaining this code thing from the beginning?"
Stuart gave him a quizzical look as she reached for the cup. "You're not Professor Hermann's associate?"
"We worked in the same institute. Actually since my college days, Herman was my mentor."
"I guess we are both confused. Well, never mind." She handed Val his teacup. "Years ago, still in the days of the Soviet Union, while researching the disposition of Japanese industry during our occupation of Manchuria I ran into an interesting discovery. The Japanese had a uranium processing facility there."
"Really?" Val couldn't hide his astonishment.
Stuart's eyes flashed with apparent satisfaction. "Interesting, c'nest pas?"
"I didn't know they were developing an atomic bomb."
"They weren't. This was a combined project by the Ministry of Health and the department of fuels of the Ministry of War. The Germans thought they could put the uranium to better use. Or at least that's my theory."
"Germans in Manchuria?"
She nodded. "A few engineers and scientists. From the Dutch East Indies to Manchuria, Japan had vast sources of exotic ores desperately needed by German industry."
Val shifted in his seat as irritation grew inside him. He hated it when people stated the obvious.
"You being an expert are probably aware of the Japanese submarine--"
"The I-52 which rendezvoused with the U-530 and was later sunk--"
"Yes, yes." Stuart inclined her head to one side and clapped her hands. The I-52 was loaded with exotic metals."
"But the American navy was aware of the rendezvous."
"As you Americans say--we're on the same page. Professor Hermann was extremely interested in what we call the Manchurian code. It is a small number of messages we have been able to partially decode."
"Did you provide Professor Herman with that file?"
Stuart smiled. "He looked at it and said it was of no use to him."
"How important is the Manchurian File?"
"It's not even classified."
Thinking of the binder sitting in the hotel safe, Val made a sour face.
Stuart rose, took a thin folder from a bookshelf and waved it at Val. "This is the Manchurian file. If you'll sit patiently while an old lady rambles, it may make some sense to you."
She sat down and lit a cigarette. "When our forces occupied Manchuria, they didn't realize the importance of the uranium mine. Our troops of the day, including senior officers had little if any clue about atomic weapons production. All they knew was that Hiroshima and Nagasaki were bombed.
"Prior to my retirement, I've been sifting through documents of the Manchurian campaign and the brief occupation before returning the area to Chinese control.
"Once your boy Truman and his partner Churchill started the Cold War, our scientists quickly went digging for uranium in Manchuria. I got curious why no mention was made of any yellow cake already processed before the end of the war. "Further research in Navy archives revealed that a German submarine . . ." Stuart pointed a finger at Val, "put into Dairen on 7 April1945. It offloaded 23 late model acoustic torpedoes."
The T-V (G7 es) version, Val thought. "23. Are you sure?"
Stuart nodded. "The submarine left two days later. This isn't some tale from an old babushka. One of those torpedoes is in the Naval Museum right here in town."
"By the number of torpedoes it couldn't have been but a type XXI U-boat. That's not possible."
Stuart's thin lips arched into an ironic smile. "Now you can fill me in with what you know."
"I just said, it is not possible for a Walter boat--"
"Professor, you can't say impossible before reviewing the facts. On 09 April 1945, a German submarine offloaded 23 torpedoes. Now, with your knowledge of the German submarine service, you explain to me how this could have happened."
Puzzled, Val stared at this unusual lady, then shrugged.
Stuart tapped the table. "That boat never surrendered. Neither Americans nor British have attacked a submarine in either the Pacific or Indian Oceans between 16 April and the end of the War in Europe. We believe that the torpedoes on that submarine were replaced by a cargo a yellow cake uranium."
Val thought for a moment. If true that a German sub had offloaded such a large quantity of torpedoes it had to be a model XXI. As far as he knew only one of these boats obtained operational status a few days before the war was over. Then there was . . . Val cleared his throat. "The U-3503 was launched in 1944 and sailed from Bremerhaven, I think, in early February 1945. It was never heard of again."
"Ah," Stuart said, "and you assume it hit a mine?"
"Either that or attacked and sunk."
"Or it had secret orders and didn't report on normal frequencies, nor used the Enigma codes. So there is an unaccounted type XXI submarine. If we assume that the Dairen submarine was indeed the U-3503 it might help decipher . . ."
Stuart looked at the ceiling, her eyes shining. "You're probably the world's greatest expert of U-boat history. I did some digging in our navy archives . . ." She opened the file and pulled out a sheet of paper.
Val took the paper. He instantly recognized the pattern of the Gelwitz Code in the photocopy of several brief messages.
"These messages were intercepted by our naval station in Vladivostok."
Stuart pulled another sheet of paper.
Val's gut took a tumble when she said, "Here are the decoded versions.
"Once we married the messages to the Gelwitz code it took less than a week to decode."
"Congratulations," Val said, feeling oddly disappointed.
Stuart laughed. "Pick your jaw off the table. We have only decoded the numbers and the words north and east."
Val studied the partially decoded messages, merely position reports giving latitude and longitude. The identification of the vessel remained coded.
"You see, by knowing the identity of that submarine. We can add more data to the computer at the university." Stuart stood. "My dear boy, this calls for a drink."
She disappeared behind the bookshelf that divided the room in two and returned with a bottle or Armenian brandy.
Nothing made sense to Val. The goons who invaded his apartment, the Russian's eagerness to put him in contact with this crazy old lady who could have just mailed him a question.
Stuart handed Val a glass brimming with brandy and said. "Do you realize what something like sixty tons of unaccounted yellow cake represents?"
Val nodded. "A bunch of nukes."
"Na zdorovie." The old lady belted her full glass of brandy like a sailor and sat down.
"Na zdorovie." Val put the glass to his lips and sipped.
"Hmm. You drink like a shy maiden."
Val put the glass on the table.
"Ah." Stuart topped Val's glass. "You do realize that it's impolite to leave without finishing the bottle."
"I keep my limit to two . . ." Val glanced at his brandy. "One of these."
Stuart slapped the table and laughed. Val watched the ripples on his full glass and marveled at the elastic tension of liquids. He carefully slipped his tea saucer under the tumbler and brought it to his lips.
"Tomorrow we'll go to the university and enter the new data into the computer. It is much better than rack one's brains, don't you think?"
Val studied the messages. "We could add the captain's name--"
"You know it?"
"Teicher. Udo Teicher commanded the 7th Training Flotilla before being assigned to the U-3503. I always thought it somewhat strange."
"Now that we have uranium in the picture, is it still strange?"
Val pursed his lips. "Maybe it makes sense for a senior officer to be sent on an important mission."
"Aha. Once we marry this little Manchurian file to the information you are providing, we might find out where that submarine went."
Val read the coordinates of the last message, 22.6 N 119.3 E. Twenty two-north was close to the Tropic of Cancer. If the sub had been sailing along the Chinese coast, the last message intercepted by the Soviets would put the sub somewhere near Taiwan. "So this is as far as your people were able to track the sub?"
"Yes, the German command was somewhat anal about knowing where their units were." She shook her head. "But this is the only submarine that used the new code. I still don't understand how they never caught on that you and the British were reading their messages."
"The Allies were lucky on that one. Had our navy not known the positions of those U-boats the war would have cost us a lot more."
"And over half a century later, somebody doesn't want us to know where that submarine went. As they used to say among the better educated, tres interesant, c'nest pas?"
Val thought of Hermann's sudden wealth. There was more to the Gelwitz code than historic interest and the story of selling the Pissaro was a lie. This last conclusion filled Val with extraordinary grief. Hermann, his guide and mentor, had lied to him.