[Brag]

Chapter 16

Seeing Boikin's swift reaction, Val went for his gun. He reached into the pocket of his overcoat hung on a coat tree. Wrong pocket. He turned the coat and took out the little Tokarev. Boikin had already vanished through the door.
The hum of conversation died as Val raced after Boikin.
From outside came a shout, "Stoy!"
Val went through the door.
He pulled right back as plaster showered him.
In the dim light, Boikin crouched behind a bank of gas meters. His pistol flashed and several shots boomed in the corridor.
Something thudded down the stairs.
Val switched his pistol from right to left hand, and extended it beyond the door. Presenting a minimal target, he peered out. A body rolled down the steps. A man stood halfway down, shooting at Boikin.
Steadying his hand against the wall, Val fired. For a small pistol, the recoil was terrific. Don't rush, aim, squeeze.
He lowered the pistol. When it pointed at the staggering man's chest,
He pulled the trigger.
Boikin must have put another bullet into the man who now fumbled changing magazines.
"Give up," Boikin yelled.
The magazine clacked home.
Val pressed the trigger.
A third man ran for the front door and vanished.
The man on the landing stepped forward as if on flat ground, vaulted and like a pillow, thumped at the bottom of the stairs.
Automatic fire rang out on the street.
Boikin dashed up the steps.
Val followed.
Outside, Boikin's driver still leaned on the Mercedes, resting a folding stock Kalashnikov on the roof.
Boikin grabbed a man sprawled on the sidewalk by the shoulder and turned him. "Hey, Gorilla, he's still alive," he shouted to his driver.
People stuck heads out of windows. Val placed the Tokarev in his hip pocket.
Gorilla tossed the Kalashnikov inside the car, picked up a microphone and talked into it.
Boikin squatted by the body, examined a wallet, then placed it on the man's chest. "Let's get back inside. We'll let Gorilla deal with the cops." He dusted his gray herringbone jacket. "Don't forget to clean your pistol before going to bed."
Val nodded, he then noticed he had embraced a lamppost. Remembering the plaster shower, he dusted his hair and wiped his face with a handkerchief.
The crowd from the café poured out and crowded around the body on the sidewalk.
"Swines," someone said.
Boikin strode toward the crowd. "Go back inside or go home if you don't want to sing at the station."
A siren wailed. Several blocks away a blue police light flashed.
Val followed Boikin down the stairs, which now displayed countless bloody footprints.
Boikin studied the two corpses. "Whores," he muttered, "someone stole their guns."
Inside the café, Stuart had a bottle of brandy on the table and sat glass in hand. "I trust you resolved the problem with satisfactory results?"
"If the guy on the street lives, yes, but he had four bullets in his chest. I doubt he'll make it to the hospital."
Back in his chair, Val gulped down the brandy in his glass and poured himself another dollop.
Boikin said, "That was good shooting, Valentin Dimitrievich. Where did you learn?"
"My father was a gun nut, kept tormenting me because I was more interested in reading. He had an inferiority complex and wanted his only son to excel. He used to make me run the Special Forces combat obstacle course in Fort Bragg when I was 11. I hated it."
"And I thought our American friend had lost his marbles," Boikin said to Stuart.
A militiaman entered the café, looked around and approached the table. "Dokumenti," he demanded.
Boikin pulled out an ID card and shoved it in front of the militiaman's face. "Go interrogate cadavers or do something equally useful."
The militiaman clicked his heels, saluted. "Tak tochno, Gospodin Polkovnik."
Val almost smiled. So Boikin was a colonel.
"Now I'm hungry. And where is the owner of the establishment? Out on the street, freezing with the rest of the ghouls."
"She has piroshki behind the counter and pelmeny in the freezer." Stuart stood. "What would you like?"
"Both," Boikin answered.
"Me too," Val added, surprised at his sudden hunger. "Let me have one of your cigarettes. I think one hyperventilates during a firefight."
Boikin offered a box of German HB cigarettes.
Val took a deep drag and sipped his brandy. "So you figured the opposition would have professor Stuart's apartment staked out?"
"That's why we have more security personnel in that building than the Kremlin."
"I want you to recognize something," Val said with newfound confidence, "you faced those killers with extraordinary gallantry, but you were outnumbered and outgunned. Had I not intervened, don't you think the outcome could have been different?"
"Hunting for compliments?"
"No, calling in a debt."
Boikin arched his eyebrows.
"I want a simple answer." Val slapped the table the way Stuart had, "First you people don't want the documents. Then you go through considerable trouble to get access to them."
A thin smile on his face, Boikin nodded. "When someone starts killing people to hide secrets from an intelligence service, that intelligence service gets curious. Reason number two, is that our dear academician, now raiding the kitchen, connected uranium to those documents. We have to assume that someone is interested in preventing us from discovering what happened to this uranium because it has bearing on events about to happen."
"Why did you connect me with Bogo?"
Boikin snorted. "Bogo sells guns to Chechen rebels. If I met him, I would have to either shoot or arrest him. What an American does with him is not my affair. In my business we call this hunting with dogs."
"So I'm your pooch?"
"I don't know yet whether you're the pooch or the hare."
"Dougan called me a roll of toilet paper. I don't think I like that definition. I don't want to experience the future of **** paper after it's been used."
Boikin rubbed his nose. "Interesting metaphor. It reflects the revolution that is taking place in your country."
"What are you talking about?"
"The Neocon's hijacking of your government. The dismemberment of the American intelligence capability. Something sinister is happening in the United States."
"What, another conspiracy theory?"
"No, a toilet paper theory."
The lady owner of the café returned. An argument carried from the kitchen together with the banging of pots.
Boikin Laughed. "We may have to call the militia back in."
The crowd of patrons returned almost en masse. As normality returned to the café, the argument in the kitchen stopped.
Stuart came to the table. She placed a plate piled with golden piroshki and two soup plates of pelmeni, Russian ravioli, in chicken broth.
His ravenous appetite surprised Val. The last exposure to trouble, had made him sick. Then he had been a helpless victim, tonight he was a participant. A victorious participant. He was also glad he didn't know who killed the man on the stairs. He preferred to think Boikin fired the fatal shot.
The café owner brought cups of tea. Val repressed a belch. He looked at Stuart who kept writing in a notebook, shaking her head, scratching what she had written, then starting again.
"Earlier you said you had wonderful news for me."
Stuart looked up and removed her glasses. "Not wonderful, interesting. Instead of heading for the Cape of Good Hope, The U-3503 proceeded toward Africa north of the Equator, thus lengthening it's voyage by about two thousand nautical miles."
"That's crazy, it wouldn't have enough fuel."
Stuart nodded. "So we started looking for messages sent to someone else, referring to our submarine. Actually we have five clerks feeding the computer."
"From the documents you stole from me."
"You'll get your copies back, and the results of our decryption efforts."
"Children, will you quit squabbling?"
"We found a station, code name Spyglass. It really stands out, because Spyglass always repeats its messages three or four times. DSXV has trouble reading Spyglass. The other station is Mermaid." Stuart lit a cigarette. "We believe Mermaid is a ship operating out of Mozambique."
"Hmm, that explains a lot. Mermaid could have been a milk cow." Val knew that in the early years of the war, German subs operating in the Indian Ocean got fuel, torpedoes and fresh food from supply ships. But as the British blockade tightened, that system got strangled. Mozambique, being a Portuguese colony, was the only neutral country in Eastern Africa and could have harbored a disguised German supply ship.
Stuart chuckled. "The Germans were not very imaginative with code names. Scores of people connect mermaids with manatees and dugongs, which many call sea cows. So we're working on the assumption that U-3503 and Mermaid will meet and that Spyglass is somehow also involved in the operation."
Boikin, who appeared to be half asleep, rubbed his chin. "So you just fed the information we already have into the computer and it started coughing up decoded bits?"
"Exactly. Our problem is computer time. But I think, within a month we will have cracked the code."
"And you gave Professor Hermann that info?"
"Yes."
"This means someone in the States could also succeed in breaking the code."
"The original messages were destroyed in the fire at Hermann's house," Val said.
"Do you really believe that?"

Chapter 17

Amazed at the power of the freeze, Val stared out the window of the rustic cabin. A field of ice extended as far as the eye could see. Lake Ladoga had changed from cobalt blue to blinding white. An armed guard patrolled the lakeshore, walking on the ice. An interesting question rose in Val's mind. What would the guard do if he walked out of here?
A bare chested Boikin come out of the hut next door. Val watched him rub snow over his chest and shoulders, then do some calisthenics. Shaking his head, Val went into the shower.
After putting on felt boots, a sheepskin coat, and a fur cap with earflaps, provided by his hosts, Val was ready to face the cold. The sun still hid behind pines as he walked toward the main building where he had lunched only the day before yesterday on what seemed another planet. The odd fit of the felt boots made his pace unsteady, but his feet remained warm.
Boikin, Stuart, and the freckled-faced Andrei, sat by a window in the dining hall with a gurgling samovar on the table.
"Wonderful morning," Boikin said. "I love being in the country."
"And we're having ham and eggs," Andrei beamed. "I did some extra work last night and dug into the historical archives. Spyglass was apparently a British subject of German descent. He was born in Tanganyika and received Abwehr training in Berlin during the summer of 1938. His name was Karl Opitz. After completing his training he returned to East Africa."
Val poured himself tea.
"It's all coming together," Stuart said. "The more info we feed the computer, the easier it will become for it to read Gelwitz. We also have a Moscow psychologist studying Gelwitz's life history. We hope to find a quirk in his character that will give us an insight into his thinking when he developed the code."
Once again, Val wondered what happened to Gelwitz. "At the end of the war, Gelwitz disappeared. Did he end up in East Germany?"
Stuart shrugged. "That's the odd thing. A talented man like that could have built a good life after the war. Like Gehlen who made a career leading Americans by the nose." She waved a teaspoon in the air. "Gelwitz simply vanishes."
After several sips of tea, Val felt ready to speak. "Psychiatrists, teams of cipher clerks, wonderful hospitality at a naval officers' resort. The Russian government appears to have pulled all stops--"
"If you want a Russian passport, you can have that, too," Boikin said, grinning.
Indignation brought a rush of blood to Val's face. "Is that it, a recruiting pitch?"
"Not at all. Just a way of showing that Russia always has been generous to its friends. Once you know who your enemy is, you'll be able to chose between fighting or running for safety."
Val stared into the orange colored tea in his cup, trying to divine what motivated the Russians, how would he ever return to Washington? "I need a phone line so that I can Email some people."
"We can arrange to route your messages in such a way that it will appear you are in the States. But someone already knows you are here."
Val shook his head. "Only if the SVR is leaking that info. Yesterday's gang followed Professor Stuart, in the hope she would lead them to me." He remembered giving Bogo his Historik489 Email address. Anyone with resources could trace it and find out who Standish really was. Val made a face. He still was a babe in the woods of spies.

#

Excited chatter stopped abruptly when Val, Boikin and Stuart entered the cabin accommodating the computer terminals. Four young people, two men and two women, stood at attention. The apparent leader of the group said, "Good Morning, Gospodin Kapitan."
"Volno, at ease," Boikin grumbled softly. "Noo­ chto? "
The leader handed Boikin a computer printout. "It's in German."
"I'd be surprised if it was in Mandarin."
Val peered over Boikin's shoulder at a list of semi-decoded messages, his eyes fixed on the U-3503's last position. One degree and six minutes south of the equator. He turned and studied the chart spread on the table. His finger tapped the Somali coast. "That's crazy, no one would take a submarine into those tricky waters." He then looked at the date--the day before Germany surrendered.

#

06 May 1945
Indian Ocean, 41°59'E - 01°06'N

A couple of triangular sails disrupted the neat line of the horizon. Teicher clicked to X4 magnification on the periscope. The patched up, dirty sails looked golden in the sunset. Despite the heat, Teicher wore his cap to protect his head from the steady drip from the periscope gland. The drip was more annoying than the droplets gathering on his eyebrows. He wiped sweat with a filthy towel he wore around his neck.
The boats were two fishing dhows crewed by turbaned Somalis. They appeared to be racing home ahead of an approaching rainsquall. "We'll see the quality of your navigation very shortly when we rip our belly on one of these reefs."
"Herr, Kaleun. I must insist we fix our position at dusk before proceeding," answered Krabbe, the navigator.
"We'll surface as this approaching squall cuts down visibility. With luck you'll be able to get a star fix before twilight's end." Teicher stepped back from the periscope and gestured for Krabbe, to look. "See if you can make something out of that jumble of reefs ahead."
Whoever planned this damned rendezvous was a nautical idiot. Not only the area was badly charted but also it was impossible to identify the mess of islets and reefs from each other. Beyond the reefs, low coastal sand dunes didn't offer decent landmarks--and the approach had to be at night.
Once rain obscured the retreating fishing boats, Teicher commanded, "Auftauchen."
Cold wind took Teicher by surprise as he scrambled up the bridge. Icy drops of rain pelted his shirt damp with sweat. A mile in front of them, water churned white over a shallow reef. Before a curtain of rain cut it from view, Teicher spotted calmer water of a possible passage two hundred meters to the north. "Hard starboard rudder, engines ahead slow together." He would position the ship the best he could in case squalls prevented them from getting a good star fix.
His last orders were specific: Imperative you pick up passengers no later than night 06-07 May. Pursuers closing in. The success of their mission and the fate of the Reich depend on you. When he commanded the Seventh Flotilla, if any of his captains did what he was about to do, he'd put him in command of a harbor scow. Teicher kept track of the time and factored an estimated current of one knot stirred up by the Southeast Monsoon.
While the Somali coast remained hidden, to the east, a star blinked between the clouds.
"I've got Regulus." Krabbe brought the sextant to his eye.
While the navigator called out readings to his assistant, Teicher spotted Suhail, one of the seven pre-selected stars.
Before darkness swallowed the horizon, Krabbe managed four sights and scurried below to work out their position.
Breaking his own orders of no smoking topside after dark, Teicher lit a small cigar. Having a smoke in the fresh breeze was too rare an occasion to pass up. Besides, he hardly expected any Brits to be around looking for subs.
"Herr Kaleun." Krabbe returned to the bridge, we're half mile form our intended position." He shone a red light on a clipboard with a folded chart.
"Very well. This passage here is just as bad as the other one. Adjust your final plot accordingly."
"Zu befellen."
"Ahead one third. Muster the anti-boarding party on deck." Teicher raised his Zeiss 7X50 glasses and peered into the murk.
"Depth is twelve meters."
"Thank you." According to the chart, it was supposed to be sixteen. Teicher swore softly. Another doubt added. Expecting his hull to strike coral any second, he glanced at his watch. "To new course, zero five five."
Like a giant with feet of clay, the rainsquall crept away to die in the desert.
Through his glasses, Teicher studied the black blur of the African Coast. Almost a surprise, two fires burned close together on the beach. Teicher swung his glasses to the right and saw the third fire. "Signalman, aim at the middle of those two fires. Signal the challenge."
Theicher listened to the clacking of the signal lamp.
A few seconds later, a weak light blinked from ashore.
"Answer is correct."
For the first time since commanding this wonderful submarine, Teicher wished he had a deck gun. On the surface, he was an unarmed sitting duck.
"Signal from shore: We are coming. Don't send boat."
From the new type cockpit, Teicher could barely see the tip of the submarine's bow. He jumped up and bellied his way to the front of the conning tower. "Bosun Kachinsky, prepare lines to receive boat alongside. Whistle every two minutes to guide them in. When the people come aboard, disarm them."
"Jawhol, Herr Kaleun."
Teicher turned the boat to face south, ordering slow ahead every so often to keep the sub from drifting.
The blasts from the bosun's whistle were enough to drive anyone out of his mind, but it was better than showing lights. Teicher wondered how much of Germany would be left when he and his precious cargo got back. Bremerhaven had already fallen to the Allies.
A flapping noise nearby startled him.
The dark shape of a sail appeared and went down.
Teicher leaned over the starboard side to see a ten-meter fishing dhow turn smartly and come alongside. Whoever sailed that dhow was an accomplished seaman.
The deck crew and boat occupants carried out an exchange in low voices.
Teicher waited impatiently. Whatever it was, it was taking forever to transfer the cargo on that boat to the submarine.
Finally, he watched the little dhow drift away.
"Front hatch is secured. Cargo and two passengers aboard."
On the UZO, the bearing to the southernmost fire had remained the same. "Hard to port, starboard engine ahead one third." In twenty minutes they would be out of this maze of reefs an islets and Teicher would breathe easier.
The bow rose to a wave, and gave Teicher a thrill that never got old. To feel the deck raise to the first swell when leaving harbor. Tonight, the movement indicated they were past the barrier reef. Teicher waited for the whoosh the bow made sinking into the second swell. "Start and engage diesels. Ahead one third, together."
Before leaving the bridge, Teicher told the second watch officer, "Keep this course 'til we're in deep water."
The bosun was waiting when Teicher descended to the Zentrale. "These are the weapons they carried." He handed Teicher a book of receipts.
Teicher read:
1 Webley revolver, cal .45,
1 Beretta pistol, cal. 9mm,
1 Holland and Holland rifle, cal .458,
1 Mauser rifle cal .375.
"Thank you." He returned the receipt book and went forward to the torpedo room. A number of wooden boxes with rope handles were strapped down with chains next to the steel drums. Each box bore a black stencil Reggie Italiano. Teicher counted twenty boxes.
"Heavy," the bosun said standing behind Teicher. "Each box weighs more than a car battery."
"Is that why it took you so long to load?"
"Yes. We used one rope on the first box, almost dropped it and put a hole on the Jahazi."
"Is that what they call those boats?"
"Yes, mein Herr."
"Thank you, you did a good job."
One of the luxuries in this new submarine was the tiny wardroom that allowed the officers some privacy and where the two watch officers had their own bunks. As he entered, Teicher stood amazed at the sight of a bottle of Dom Perignon on the small table.
"We're saving some Champagne for you, Captain, it isn't only a wonderful vintage but it's also well traveled." A heavily sunburned blond in a sun-bleached, frayed bush jacket grinned at him.
The other man was even darker and had curly black hair. The lighter color of his cheeks and chin showed he had only recently shaved off a beard.
Both men stood.
"I wish I could correctly introduce myself and my friend, but Charlie and Franco will have to do. Franco doesn't speak German."
"Do both of you speak English?"
"But of course," Franco answered, showing a toothy smile. It is a pleasure to meet you, Captain?"
"Teicher."
"We are grateful to you and admire your skill in entering this hell hole of a coast," Charlie said.
"At least one of you knows how to sail."
"Thank you, Captain. A nautical compliment from a U-boat commander is twice as valuable."
Teicher sat in his chair while Charlie poured Champagne.
Franco reached under the table and handed Teicher a rolled up piece of leather. "A token of appreciation. A zebra skin, something you can hang on the wall of your home."
"Thank you, when I get back, I'll tell my wife I've been on safari. I imagine reaching that inhospitable spot must have been quite a land journey."
Charlie said. "If we could tell you, you'd never believe it."

#

Boikin laid out a large-scale chart of the Somali coast and plotted Spyglass's position. The little X he made with a sharp pencil was on a beach. There was a notation on the British Admiralty chart: Prominent clump of palms on dunes.
This didn't make any nautical sense. It would take the US Navy almost twenty years to build a submarine comparable to the Walter boats. To risk such a valuable asset in a badly charted area full of hidden reefs and treacherous currents was sheer madness. Val said. "They risk one of their greatest technological assets to pick up someone from the most desolate beach on earth."
"Sailors like to travel to exotic locations," Boikin said.
Val glared at him for a brief moment. "Now, let's see what progress you have made on the rest of the collection."
Andrei now sat before a computer terminal. Val approached him. "For messages on the seventh and eight, hunt for the words disregard orders to surrender."
Boikin said, "What makes you think he didn't act independently?"
"He didn't have enough fuel to get much beyond the Cape of Good Hope. So unless he went to that deserted strand to scuttle his ship--"
"He scuttled it in the Rufiji Delta," Stuart said. She stood by the charts with a sheaf of papers in her hand.