[Brag]

Chapter 10

Formosa Straits
19 April 1945
Calm waters allowed the submarine to comfortably snorkel just below the surface without the bothersome ear popping created when the flapper valves closed to prevent the diesels from ingesting water as waves covered the air intake. The only drawback was the reduced speed they had to maintain while charging batteries.
The other advance of this new ship was the antenna, which permitted receiving messages while submerged. The only problem Captain Teicher had communicating with his control station was the enormous distance. To span the nine thousand miles, he had to surface and expose the full length of the ship's antenna.
"Sehrohr ausfahren," Teicher commanded.
As he listened to the soft hum of the rising periscope, he nodded at the first watch officer and stepped into the radio cubicle. With his special key he unlocked the bulky briefcase containing the new decoding device. "There you are, Funker."
The radioman nodded.
Teicher turned and headed for the periscope.
The first watch officer already crouched, peered through the scope, turning and bringing it slowly up. "All's clear, Herr Kaleun."
"Danke." Teicher tapped the second in command's shoulder, took his place and made two sweeps. Satisfied no enemy vessel sat in the vicinity with its engines still, he said, "Auftauchen."
Compressed air hissed. Water ejected from the ballast tanks sounded like a toilet flushing.
Teicher took his binoculars from the rack on the bulkhead, hung them from his neck, and went up the ladder.
A soft, subtropical evening air caressed Teicher's face and he could smell land. The scent reminded him of his apprenticeship as a cadet aboard the Rio Bamba and putting into Canton before the war. To sail the Seven Seas, unhindered and on the surface, was now a remote but cherished dream. Teicher treasured every minute he got to spend on the tiny cockpit-like bridge.
"Enemy radar." the cry came from the hatch.
"Alarm!" Teicher pressed the alarm bell.
Spray spurted from the saddle tanks.
A few seconds later the bow buried itself into the light seas, the hum of electric motors replaced the throb of diesels.
Following the lookouts, Teicher dove for the hatch, slammed it shut and spun the wheel dogging the lid tight.
"High speed screws, three five zero degrees, estimated five miles," the hydrophone man announced.
"Periscope depth," Teicher ordered.
The forward and aft plane helmsmen arrested the emergency dive.
"Up scope."
Five minutes later, the silhouettes of two Fletcher class destroyers doing about twenty knots, appeared in the sights. Teicher didn't bother to order silent running. His sub was quiet. This was proven on the outbound voyage when they had sailed undetected down La Manche, what the arrogant Brits called the English Cannel. To stay in practice, he clicked the lever that transmitted targeting information to the torpedo fire control computer. Within seconds the navigator announced, "We have solution."
The destroyers passed less than three thousand meters to port, too bad he didn't have torpedoes.
Teicher detached himself from the periscope, folded the handles and nodded to the boat's chief.
"Sehrohr einfahren."
With the image of the American destroyers racing north still in his mind, Teicher said, "Take her down to seventy five meters. Ahead one half together."
It gave Teicher pleasure to feel the deck tilt in easy response to the plane operator's turn of the wheel. He smiled slightly. It was still a new feeling not to be scared out of one's wits by the presence of enemy antisubmarine units. Too bad he had offloaded his torpedoes. Those two destroyers unaware of his presence would be sinking right now.
With a submarine like this, he looked forward to return to the Atlantic. As more type XXI U-boats went to sea, the Royal and American navies didn't stand a chance.
This time it would take them years to catch up with German technology. By which time with enemy armies starved of supplies, the war would be over. Teicher wondered how Germany would cope with the millions of Allied prisoners.
His ship passed a thermal layer and leveled off at seventy five meters. Teicher took the spare headset at the hydrophone station and listened to the receding noise of American screws.
"Heil Hitler." Ambassador Jorg Palke entered the control room.
Teicher put a finger against his lips. "Not so loud please. The American heil Hitler detectors might hear you."
"Captain, I don't believe the enemy has such a thing," Palke said with complete seriousness.
"In submarines we don't take chances, Herr Botschafter." Teicher turned to the navigation table hardly able to contain laughter.
"Herr Kaleun," the radioman approached. "Latest decoded message, we dove before receiving part number three."
"Danke." Teicher took the message flimsy and read it. Scheisse, he almost muttered aloud. How in the hell did these non-nautical clowns expect me to reach Bremerhaven with this new assignment?

Chapter 11

As he descended the marble stairs, Val imagined Leathercoat waiting for him outside the building. Before stepping out of the doorway, he inhaled frosty air to clear the alcohol-induced mental sluggishness. Little had changed along the canal since he entered the building. No longer embracing, the couple in the Volga smoked cigarettes. An old man, bent by the weight of a rucksack, shuffled across a pedestrian bridge. Laughter came from a group of young people gathered under a lamppost.
Maybe Leathercoat was a figment of his imagination, a tourist who happened to the be following the same scenic tour route he had selected. Nevertheless, his heart beat faster than usual, and he had to make an extra effort of willpower to step out into the street.
His footsteps seemed louder than usual as his eyes darted from doorway to doorway, half expecting to see a shadow waiting for him.
Reaching Gorokhovaya Street he turned right. There were more people here and Val's apprehension eased a little. He attributed his odd feeling to a state of higher awareness. He would have to get used to it. Val stopped in front of a shop window, using his peripheral vision to study the people on the sidewalk. A series of deep breaths brought his heartbeat down. If he was able to jump a six-foot fence on horseback without ****ting in his pants, he could handle his present situation.
With new confidence, he marched toward the Blue Bridge spanning the Moika Canal. Halfway down the arched bridge, a bright sign elicited a chuckle. Pizza Hut. He glanced at the dark canal water and the hint of fog in the air. It reminded him of that awful night in the water when Bob almost drowned. His gaze returned to the Pizza Hut sign. Old Europe and blatant commercialism clashed in a ludicrous collage.
Adding to the sense of the unreal, shoving a huge slice of pizza into his mouth, Boikin, stepped out of the Pizza Hut door. For a moment, Val thought it was his imagination, but the man waved the pizza at him and strode forward. He reached Val and said something unintelligible. Taking another huge bite, he extended his hand. "Hungry."
"What are you doing here?"
"Trying to finish this pizza and pointing you out to the surveillance team taking over the night watch."
"Are you following me?"
Boikin slapped Val on the shoulder and they continued walking toward the Hotel Angleterre. "Have a productive meeting?"
"Interesting."
"So far you are clean. No one is following you."
"The man in the leather--"
"That's Tolya, the daytime team leader. Easy to spot in an emergency."
"The couple in the Volga?"
Boikin laughed. "Heavily armed body guards. You seem to have a good eye."
"I'm learning. Are you with the FSB?"
"SVR today. Like a generous American, you could offer to buy me a drink."
Val could use a glass of fizzy mineral water to ease his heartburn. "Generous American, cut off from his life, his source of income. Cut off from everything."
"You feel that way because your life has been behind the side panels of the proscenium of life. You are now a star on center stage. A glorious moment in the limelight."
"Yeah, a fugitive. And I still don't know why."
"How well did you know Professor Hermann?"
"Reasonably well. I was one of his graduate students. He invited me to his social functions. I guess he was my mentor."
"And you didn't know his secret life?"
"Huh?" What sort of secret life could have Hermann had?"
"90 percent of murder victims have led secret lives."
Val thought what he knew of Hermann. He had a wife, two sons, used to live in the upscale neighborhood of Chevy Chase, just outside the D.C. line. He held a chair in George Washington University. Bureaucrats and politicians sought his opinion. He tended to spend summers in Europe, writing. His wife inherited some money and they had a house in Florida. Then suddenly Hermann surfaces into baronial splendor. The man he though he knew well, was nothing but a front. Val realized his disappointment stemmed from his own perception. He had only seen what he wanted to see.
Boikin led to a dimly lit bar with framed prints of imperial era soldiers on top of velvet wallpaper. Like someone familiar with the place, he headed straight for a black leatherette upholstered booth and flopped into it.
A waitress in short skirt, fishnet stockings and spilling décolletage approached.
"Ah, my beauty, bring us a couple of un-watered down whiskeys and ice and soda separately."
"Would you like company?"
"Not yet, dear." Boikin's gaze returned to Val, "Never order a drink with ice in it, you'll get cheated."
"Best advice I've received in the last three days. Or at least since I've learned Russian diplomats carried guns."
Boikin laughed. "Americans don't have exclusivity in gun nuts."
The waitress placed drinks on the table and a chrome bowl with ice cubes.
Val raised his glass. "Thank you for telling me about Tolya and his leather coat. The guy was accelerating my aging process."
"Na zdorovie."
"Maybe you can explain what you people know about Hermann dying and those goons in my apartment."
Boikin shrugged. "Monday morning my boss calls me into his office, tells me you are arriving. To make sure you get on a flight to Saint Petersburg. This morning he calls me and tells me to take personal charge of your safety. I thought maybe over a drink you would tell me something interesting."
Val decided the Russians were not aware he had the Gelwitz messages in his possession and he'd better hand them over to the CIA or some other authority. One way or another he had to see an American official and get the mess in Washington cleared up. "Do you know the address of the American consulate?"
Boikin sipped his Scotch. "Not a good idea to go there. Your best defense is keeping your whereabouts secret." He waved his hand like a fish's dorsal fin. "Swim quietly and deep until you've collected all the information needed for a perfect firing solution."
Val frowned. "You speak like a naval officer."
Boikin gestured toward the door. "This is a port city, the sea air inspires me into nautical thinking."
"Why should I keep my whereabouts secret from the consulate?"
"Who were those people who attacked you in your apartment? Chinese?"
"I have no idea. They wore ski masks."
Boikin shook his head. "No wonder you need babysitters."
"I appreciate the help I've got from you people. Nevertheless, I see you have a plan. I want to know what it is before I go along any further."
"As I was leaving the office this morning, my boss said: By the way, Boikin, make sure the American learns how to shoot."
"I'm sure he did."
A sly grin appeared on Boikin's face as he leaned forward and whispered, "Do you know what the CIA told Dedensy yesterday?"
"No idea."
"They've said all of Hermann's papers were destroyed in a blaze that burned the Hermann residence to the ground. Can you believe that?"
"Hermann's residence burned?"
"Yes, while the gentleman was being buried. It ruined the canapés the widow had ready to celebrate her dearly departed's life."
Appalled, Val sat staring at Boikin. After a moment, his brain re-engaged. "Are you trying to scare me into staying in Russia?"
Boikin rolled his eyes. "Heaven forbid. We want you out before the Americans find out you've been here." He leaned back and lit a cigarette. "Nothing personal, I like your company. It's the higher ups, the generals like Dedensky who'd like to see you back in circulation."
"I thought he was a colonel."
"He's modest." Boikin signaled the waitress for another round. "You might be interested to know, there had been nothing on the news about a massacre in your apartment building. A flower deliveryman went up there yesterday, says the door to your apartment is fixed. No crime scene tape or seal."
"If you can't tell me what's going on, who do I see to get things explained?"
"Let me see if I can get you an appointment with President Putin."
The waitress arrived with fresh drinks. Her immediate presence helped Val keep his temper in check. His gaze followed her as she sashayed to the far end of the long room. He thought of Claudia and the way she walked as if floating on air.
"Next time you talk to your boss tell him I'm going to the local CIA base chief."
"On his last visit to Moscow, Hermann's behavior was a bit odd. He said he was going to spend a weekend visiting Novgorod, even bought a ticket through the hotel concierge. Instead of Novgorod, he came here, ostensibly to talk with Dimitrienko.
We had discreet surveillance on him, and the people he contacted in Moscow were shady Mafiosi. He also came to this bar."
"Oh, I am being directed in his footsteps?"
"Do you hear music?"
"Huh?"
"In this bar . . ." Boikin leaned forward and spoke in a low voice, "the music stops whenever an interesting intelligence operative comes in. It helps record the conversations." With his thumb, he pointed behind him. "Do you see those two Armenian looking gentlemen in the corner booth?"
Val looked at two men in dark suits talking earnestly.
"The short, heavy set one is George Avetikian. He's the CIA base chief. The thin guy is Dudkin, better known abroad as Dougan. Dougan will see you as soon as he dismisses the American. The man in the brown suit at the bar is an FSB agent. The man pawing the blonde works for the local Mafia. That German-looking guy chatting up the redhead is an arms dealer from Helsinki."
"Did you get them all from central casting?"
Boikin smiled. "It's the neighborhood."
"For a Muscovite, you seem well versed on the local scene."
"Who said I was a Muscovite?"
"You led me to . . ." Val took a deep breath.
"For the lovers of architecture, Peter is the Venice of the north. For art lovers, this is one of the world's greatest repositories of art." Boikin beamed. "For spies it's Casablanca."
Val remembered Stuart's greeting. "And you spout rubbish like a true Russian."
Boikin looked pleased with himself. He flicked away imaginary lint from his suit jacket.
"Are you setting me up to be murdered like Hermann?"
"Do you carry a suitcase with 2 million dollars in its double bottom?"
"Of course not."
Boikin nodded. "Hermann did."
"How do you know?"
"X ray machine at the airport revealed the double bottom." Boikin chuckled. "Since Hermann was a prominent American guest, our border guards didn't steal the money."
Two million bucks? Herman was well off. But, two million bucks?
"When he left Russia, Herman's suitcase contained only dirty laundry."
"And your world-famous security apparatus caught him in some illegal dealing."
"Our world-famous security meatheads failed to observe any major transfer of money. However, Bogoslav Mirolubic stayed in the same hotel and had a room on the same floor as Professor Hermann."
"And who?--"
Boikin gestured Val to wait.
The CIA man shook hands with Dudkin, put on an overcoat and left the bar. The FSB man followed.
The waitress came over. "Dougan will see you now, gentlemen."
Val gave Boikin a questioning look.
"Dougan has interesting information for you. If I can twist his arm."
As they approached, Dougan nodded and gestured for them to sit in the booth.
"This is Miles Standish," Boikin said, pushing Val into the booth.
Dougan again nodded. He didn't seem to have reached forty yet, a thick black moustache made him look older. An empty ice cream cup and spoon stood in front of him. "Put some music on," he told the waitress.
Loud crashing music insulted Val's ear.
Boikin said over the din, "Doctor Standish is a curator at the Smithsonian Institute. He has come to authenticate certain documents you sold to the Americans."
"My business is airfreight, I don't sell documents. You can buy passports at the Astoria, or so I hear."
Boikin chuckled. "So you only transported them and forgot to tell your friends, for which you got a million dollars. My boss says, you introduce Doctor Standish to Bogo and he will overlook your transgression."
Dougan opened his arms as if showing he had nothing to hide.
The waitress brought another ice cream cup and took the old one away.
"No one wants to meet Bogo if they can help it."
Bogo. Val remembered Hermann's scribble on the title page of the message binder.
"You arrange a meeting with him before this weekend. Doctor Standish will come back tomorrow night for an answer."
Dougan gave Val a penetrating look. "I don't know where Bogo is."
"You don't need to know where he is. All you need to know is where he'll meet our friend." Boikin pointed at Val. "Tomorrow!"
Appearing to have forgotten them, Dougan spooned ice ream.
"Tomorrow," Boikin repeated as he slid out of the booth.
Feeling like a stupid dog, but glad to get out of the weird bar, Val followed. Now at least he could think instead of being busy absorbing detail in that nest of scorpions.
Boikin stopped outside the door and lit a cigarette.
Val assumed this was some sort of signal to the surveillance team. Cold tendrils of fog slid along the street, there were few pedestrians around. In the sparse traffic, it was easy to recognize the old, gray Volga as it pulled out of its parking place and went around a corner. "Now explain to me what that scene was all about."
After inhaling deeply, Boikin blew smoke through his nose. "Middlemen, you have to know middlemen in this business. They are the ones who make deals happen, if something goes wrong they are the ones caught holding the ****."
"And who is Bogo?"
"Bogoslav Mirolubic, a Serbian, or Croat or Bosnian. Depends on the day of the week or who's turn it is to chase him."
They headed toward Saint Isaak's Square.
"Why should I meet him?"
"Because we think he sold the old Nazi code to Hermann. Don't you want to know why Hermann paid two million for it?"
"No."
"Herman returns to the States. He's crushed by a car and then his files burn. Case closed."
Val stopped abruptly. "Have you ever been to a Jew's house?"
"Probably. I don't ask for documents when people invite me."
"Let's take a taxi to Palace Square." Val turned toward the street, raising his arm in a tentative gesture to flag a cab.
"What for? You've been there once today."
A taxi parked in front of a restaurant turned its headlights on and crept up to them.
Five minutes later, Val told the cabdriver to wait, got out and strode toward the Alexander Column.
The much shorter Boikin followed slightly behind. "Now what?"
On reaching the column, Val placed both hands on it and looked up at the angel with the cross. He wasn't sure if Jews believed in angels. It didn't matter. There was only one God. In his mind he spoke in a mixture of ancient Slavonic, remembered from prayers, and Russian. "Our Lord, give me the wisdom and strength to right the wrong done to David Hermann. A foghorn seemed to answer and the illuminated angel appeared to fly in swirling silvery fog.
Still looking up, Val took several steps back, almost tripping on the cobblestones.
"Now what? Are we going to Peter the Great's monument and touch his hand for luck?"
Wondering where Hermann got two million in cash, Val turned to face Boikin. "You know what? That's not a bad idea at all."
He needed all the luck he could get.