[Brag]

Chapter 18

Only after a few hours, the cramped quarters and hot, damp atmosphere inside the submarine started driving Karl, "Charlie," Opitz out of his mind. No matter which way he looked, someone stared back at him. Sardines were more comfortably packed in tins than the people inside this narrow steel tube. At least sardines have their own place to lie down. The bunk he and Franco shared was a disgusting, soggy, smelly pad a dog would refuse to occupy.
The idea of languishing in a British prison no longer seemed so horrible. Despite all, he must have fallen asleep.
"Charlie." Franco's voice pulled Charlie out of a sweaty stupor.
"Huh?" Charlie refrained from scratching his itchy body.
"The captain is holding a meeting in the wardroom. The war is over."
Though he knew the war was coming to a disastrous conclusion, Charlie had expected it to last a few weeks longer. For a moment, he thought of the consequences of defeat. His heart contracted and he felt as if falling into a void. He then thought of the vast, sparsely populated expanses of Africa. His mind cleared and new resolve filled his brain. "****, not for me."
Franco nodded and smiled ruefully. "Let's hear what the captain has to say."
Looking grim, Captain Teicher and the two German civilians already sat in the wardroom when Charlie and Franco arrived.
"Gentlemen," Teicher said once everyone was seated, "today the German High Command signed a surrender agreement and ordered all German forces to cease hostilities. As far as submarines are concerned, we have orders to surface showing either a white or a black flag. For us Mombasa is the nearest Allied base."
For Charlie the idea of going to Mombasa was worse than staying on the sub. The Brits would immediately arrest him and he would face the gallows. If they caught him together with the Germans, there was little a barrister could do for him. He would hang.
"Captain, what's our present position?"
"Approximately 30 miles East of Lamu."
Charlie did some quick thinking. "I fear for my life in British hands. Could you drop me off tonight?"
One of the civilians said, "Did you get authorization to surrender from Eagle's Nest?"
Teicher gave him a hard look. "This ship belongs to the Kriegsmarine."
"But you are under orders of Eagle's Nest until our cargo is delivered."
"There's no place left to deliver it to, mein Herr."
The mustachioed civilian gave Teicher a thin smile. "As plenipotentiary consul to the Japanese Empire and the Emperor of Manchuko, I'm the senior representative of the Third Reich on this vessel. There will be no surrender until authorized by Eagle's Nest. Captain, kindly provide me with paper so I can draft a message."
Teicher shrugged, reached into a cupboard behind him, and handed a notebook.
While Plenipotentiary wrote, the older civilian said, "Captain, you don't realize how powerful we are. With the cargo we carry, we can still defeat the enemy. What our friend Goebbels been saying about secret weapons is true."
"Goebbels committed suicide."
"You believe Allied propaganda? Do you believe the Führer committed suicide also?--Kwatch!--Eagle's Nest has planned for this eventuality."
His heart pounding like a schoolboy's badly prepared for examinations, Charlie watched the Nazi official scribble on the notebook. Maybe the man could produce a miracle.
Finished writing, Plenipotentiary said, "Please send this message."
Back in the crew compartment, Charlie took advantage that music was playing, and said to Franco. "Maybe tying up with Eagle and this sub was the greatest idea. Those two Krauts were talking about going to Argentina."
Franco chuckled. "I have a cousin there."
"You don't mind going?"
"Not really. But the return to Ethiopia will be more complicated."
Charlie grabbed Franco by the sleeve. "They won't be looking for us in Argentina."
Franco made a face. "I don't like having that pleniwhatever on board, a man too big for his boots."

#

Val glanced around. The Russians kept feeding Gelwitz text into the computer, while two printers spewed info back. Stuart would glance over the new text, make corrections on the screen, and feed the info back. Today they didn't seem to have computer time restrictions.
The previous night's shootout kept replaying in Val's mind. The thought that someone powerful enough to hire killers, was after him filled him with indignation. You might be rich, but you're rubbish. A gentleman, if he must, does his own killing. Grandfather would have said something like that.
After the revolution and civil war, the old boy arrived in the States destitute. The only evidence of his former stature was a folio with his father's speeches when vice president of the Duma, and a cigar box where he kept three Saint George Crosses, and a Vladimir medal with crossed swords.
It took him some time to earn enough money doing menial jobs to buy decent clothes, a pair of boots and land a job as riding instructor at the Lower Potomac Sports Club. The only reason I stayed with this job is the prestigious address, the old man used to joke. Val smiled at the memory of the ramrod-straight octogenarian who inculcated him with values that now seemed to have disappeared from the world.
Val's anger subsided. His enemy was rich, powerful, and had contacts in government. That narrowed the field. If he was to feed a list of names into a computer, he would probably narrow the suspects to a few thousand. Funding was the first thing needed to start a project. Val looked at Boikin who sat in an overstuffed chair writing on a pad. "Artur."
Boikin lifted his head.
"I need to contact Mozhkniga in Moscow. They owe me some royalties. But I doubt they would pay direct without some incentive. Can you send some goons and threaten to wreck their presses?"
"We already wrecked the presses for publishing your book, but I'll call anyway." Boikin got up and went to the adjacent room.
"You were so quiet I didn't want to interrupt your brilliant thoughts." Stuart said.
"Making progress?"
"Plot thickens. Goering kept in regular contact with Cloud Dancer. That was the codename of Gerhardt Palke, a sort of roaming Gauleiter in the Far East. He interrogated Sorge after the Japanese Kempetai caught the great Soviet spy. Neither the KGB nor GRU ever figured out exactly what he did. They suspected he lorded over the German embassy in Tokyo. He popped up aboard your famous submarine. Right after war ended he's sending and receiving messages."
Val caught himself clicking his tongue. He had wondered how Palke had avoided capture by American or Soviet forces. He had been Hitler's personal representative to Hirohito.
"Then we have an interesting hiatus," Stuart said, "Station DSXV stopped transmitting for nearly two weeks but continued to receive messages. Not that the transmitter was out. It did transmit messages saying stand by for further orders. Then it goes back to full operation."
"They probably had to move their gear. I'm sure the occupying forces created some inconvenience for them."
Stuart shook her head. "If that station was able to reach a submarine in the Far East, it wasn't a portable installation."
"It could have been a truck."
"Not if it was capable or reaching a submerged boat."
"We show a similar hiatus just before the fall of Berlin."
"Ok. The station was not in Berlin. Something or someone had to move. First, out of Berlin. Then again after the surrender."
Stuart lit a cigarette. "Now you are thinking. The two week period tells me whoever was giving the orders had to move to a remote location. Probably to the site of the powerful transmitter, outside Germany."
"Hmm, yes it had to be."

#

In the resort's banya, Russian sauna, Val lay on his stomach, sweating, while an attendant flayed his back with bunched birch twigs. Val signaled he had enough and staggered off the long wooden bench. Wrapping a towel around his midriff, he lurched for the door.
"Not too bad for a beginner," Boikin said, following. "I could have stayed another twenty minutes."
Outside, they ran to the lake where a large, square hole in the ice had been cut. A million needles tingled Val's skin as he dove into the water, breaking a thin layer of new ice.
"Ookh. This is good for the circulation." Boikin laughed as he emerged on the surface. "You, Americans have banyas only for queers, I hear."
"Depends where you go. I have a plot of land in Virginia where I have a stable for the horses, a small banya and a swimming pool." The pool was actually small dam Val had built himself that raised the water level of the stream running through his property. "When I stay there, I live in a tent."
"No dacha?"
"Someday I'll build a cabin." Wondering if he'd ever be able to go home, Val dove back into the water.
While drying his tingling skin, Val came to a decision. So far, fear had been driving his reactions. The Russians had been more than helpful, but like good chess players they thought several moves in advance, while he'd been improvising. Hermann had come into new wealth and didn't hide it. He had used part of it to buy the Gelwitz messages. Claudia knew about the Pissaro sale, while Val learned about it only at the housewarming. That had been an evening full of surprises. Images burst into Val consciousness--a black car speeding along K street; a black car following as he slowed looking for the turn off to Hermann's house. Damn! Someone had followed him that day. Hell! It wasn't him the car had been following--it was Claudia!
Standing naked in subzero temperature, Val marveled at the starry sky. The idea for Val to write the book about D'Albano's adventures in Africa had come from Herman.
"Time to bathe the interior with vodka." Boikin interrupted Val's train of thought.
Val followed to a room adjacent to the banya where a bottle of vodka and a tray of zakuzki, hors-d'euvres, stood on a low table.
"Only Nordic people and Turks appreciate a good sweat." Boikin poured vodka into shot glasses. "To your success."
Val downed the vodka thinking the ceremonial process of Russian bathing as a step closer to heaven. He felt refreshed, emboldened and saw things with a new clarity. "I don't care what you people say. I'm going to England."
Boikin shook his head, then gestured around him. "You're safe here. You have our staff at your disposal. "Don't forget snipers in the hedges.""

Chapter 19

"Ladies and gentlemen, we are on approach to Gatwick Airport, please make sure your seat belts are fastened and the seat is in an upright position, the local time is fourteen fifteen." Val half-listened to the announcement, peered at green fields as the plane descended below the overcast, gray as his mood.
He had purposely taken a circuitous route. First to Vienna, where he took a train to Amsterdam. He then sailed on a ferry to Kingston Upon Hull. Now he was arriving in London on a domestic flight. If anyone had followed him, they had to be damn good not to be spotted.

#

After the supervision by the SVR, Val enjoyed the freedom of travel through Europe. An oppressing feeling squeezed his chest as he approached the gate and studied the light crowd meeting the flight. A neat young man in a light gray suit held a sign with: Dr. Sammich written in red magic marker.
The young man nodded back and grabbed Val's bag. At a brisk walk he led the way to one of the multi-story car parks outside the terminal. They got into a French-registered Peugeot 505.
"The papers are in the glove box. You came on the ferry from France yesterday," the young Russian spook said in English.
Val opened the glove box and removed a Sig Sauer 229 in deadly .357 caliber. He stuck the pistol in his waistband, then examined the French registration papers and replaced them into the glove box.
Val shifted in his seat trying to get comfortable. He didn't like the idea of driving a car with distinctive French license plates. "How come not a British car?"
Contact shrugged. "They told me to give you this car."
He didn't know much about this business, but common sense told him to blend in as much as possible.
"You are booked at the White Swan just outside Oxford. Your reservation is in the name of Monsieur Fougat."
At least Val spoke a passable French and could pass off as a Frenchman for a minute or two. That was an improvement over his Argentinian false passport.
They entered the town of Reigate. Contact stopped at the railway station. He handed Val a sheet of paper. "Here are the directions to the White Swan. Someone will be waiting for you at the pub." He smiled. "It has a nice view of the Thames. Enjoy your stay."
Val watched the man enter the brick station building. Then he switched seats and cursed the Russians for giving him a car designed to drive on the right side of the road in a country where one drove on the left. He would have to be extra careful.

#

It was still daylight with a sun shining through a slit between cloud and earth. Val pulled up to the stone building surrounded by weeping willows going bald for the winter. The White Swan was a pub-restaurant with a few upstairs rooms. His room did have a view of the river and swans gliding in a millpond. After leaving his suitcase, he went to the pub.
Boikin and a bald, long-nosed man sat at a table by a window. Val ordered a pint of bitter at the bar. Glass in hand, he ambled to the table. "May I join you?"
Boikin gestured toward a chair. He said in English, "Meet Monsieur Colonel Shapquine."
Val noticed the little emblem of the Legion d'Honeur on the man's lapel.
The French colonel stood and extended his hand. "A pleasure, sir."
Puzzled, Val shook hands, sat down and took a deep draught of what he thought was the best thirst-quencher in the world.
"Colonel Shapquine works for Interpol's Art Theft and Fraud Division."
Shapquine leaned back in his seat, entwined his fingers on top of a flat belly and gave Val a slight smile. "Some years ago I read your article on art works looted by the Nazis. It was most interesting, especially your conclusions, which have guided many of my investigations. Mostly fruitless as you can imagine."
Val vaguely remembered the article, he wrote for an obscure history magazine. His conclusion was that art collectors who bought stolen goods were not the solitary secret hoarders of treasures but an exclusive club of powerful tycoons with enough influence to squash any police investigation. An Interpol publication, later reprinted the article.
Boikin grinned. "Colonel Shapquine, like you, is of Russian ancestry. So here we are, three Russians representing three countries. I'm sure this isn't Stalin's idea of the International."
Shapquine chuckled.
"You gave us a bit of a fright when your train was delayed and you missed the ferry," Boikin said.
Val's jaw sagged. How in the hell did they know? "Congratulations, I never spotted a tail."
"In these days of modern technology it's difficult to shake surveillance. Most of your clothes carry a transponder microchip, and your position is relayed to Moscow every few minutes."
Val closed his eyes and counted to ten.
"May we return to our business?" Shapquine took a sip from his glass, and said, "Terrorism and art theft are natural partners. Stealing a masterpiece is more profitable than holding up a bank, and a lot more efficient than getting donations from sympathizers to the cause."
"Let me have a cigarette, meeting cops is a lot more traumatic than shooting it up with assassins."
Boikin smiled and offered a box of Silk Cut.
The Frenchman continued, "Art theft was considered upscale crime--almost respectable and like you said in your article, no one buys stolen art not to show it, at least to members of the club. Unless you are mentally ill and enjoy secretly admiring the stolen piece, you just simply don't spend thirty million dollars to hide the piece in a bunker beneath your mansion. So, we have a network of the very rich and powerful who now support terrorism. This has become glaringly evident with the looting in Baghdad."
"French intelligence has an interesting theory," Boikin added.
Val took a long sip of his dark beer. He still couldn't understand what Boikin and the Interpol man had in common.
"Now let's take a look at the Baghdad Museum operation. A specialized team arrived sometime before the war started. Considering Saddam's security apparatus, these were world-class operatives who knew the American attack schedule. They also knew what the American Army would do or not do on entering Baghdad." Shapquine lifted his stem glass with what Val thought was scotch and tapped it with a fingernail.
"Getting caught in a crossfire is a dangerous situation. These fellows knew they would have a window of opportunity. The most valuable pieces stolen had similarities. They were priceless, of handy size, weighing a total of roughly four hundred and thirty kilos. Light enough to fit into a small airplane. This cargo was too valuable to carry in a truck over dangerous country, and guess who had total control over Iraqi airspace. I estimate the black market value of the forty-three top pieces stolen at nearly a billion dollars."
Val glanced at Boikin who sat with his hands folded on his lap and looking like a sleepy satisfied cat. Val raised his eyebrows wanting Boikin to explain.
"The list of people who actually knew the Americans were going to attack Iraq, regardless of what the UN inspectors reported or what the Security Counsel decided, has to be small."
"So we meet in this charming pub, to discuss Iraq. It reminds me of my college days when we sat solving the world's problems."
"Don't forget the summers you spent giving riding instruction at the
Lower Potomac Country Club," Shapquine said.
"You seem to be well informed."
"My apology if I may seem intrusive. You come from a distinguished family and some of us keep up with family histories. Before the revolution, your grandfather and my father served in the same regiment, and maintained, an infrequent, but steady correspondence."
"It's a small world," Boikin said. "And a peasant brings together two notable aristocrats."
Shapquine laughed. "You owe me a drink for making untimely remarks."
Val remembered his grandfather's unflappability, exquisite manners and a seldom-found inner toughness. He charmed American ladies, and had a way of awing millionaires and political bigwigs who frequented the Lower Potomac Sports Club.
"Gentlemen, I'm totally befuddled by your tale of Iraqi looted artifacts," Val said. He had trouble with reconciling Shapquine as a cop.
"I'm not sure who Monsieur le Coronel Shapquine really represents, maybe SDEC? Or the Elisee Palace?"
Shapquine nodded as a thin smile appeared on his face.
"I received a cable from General Dedensky," Boikin said. For once, the little Russian looked serious.
"And?" Val sensed the news from Washington wouldn't be good.
"Does the name Martin Curtis mean anything to you?"
Val knew the CIA senior analyst quite well. "I've met him a few times."
Boikin nodded. "His wife found him in the basement of their house, hanging from an overhead pipe. He used a silk bathrobe chord."
Val caught himself clucking his tongue. He had trouble imagining the bulky and usually jovial man committing suicide. The last time he met the unhappy analyst, Curtis had put in for retirement as he found a job in the private sector. He and his drop-dead gorgeous second wife were planning a vacation in the Caribbean.
"Police found a suicide note in his computer."
"He was a good friend of Hermann's," Val said.
"It figures. According to Dedensky, Hermann was on his way to meet Curtis when he got the chop."
"Got the chop," Val repeated. "He wasn't happy with the demands to please the customer. Politicizing intelligence was abhorrent to him. That's why he was leaving the CIA. I can't see him committing suicide."
"I'm glad we all agree on that," Boikin said.
Shapquine shook his head slowly. "I've been watching with interest how the Neocons entrenched in the Pentagon have been working at dismantling the CIA. But I never expected them to resort to murder."
Though Val felt strongly the Neocons and their absurd ideas were doing great damage to the U.S.A. and needed to be neutralized, Shapquine's remark rankled. "Colonel, I find your remark in poor taste."
"Count, I find the whole situation in poor taste. When working with swine, one is bound to absorb the odors of the sty."
"Prince, in the United States titles of nobility are not recognized."
Boikin said, "Gentlemen, we're in an English pub, one of the cornerstones of civilization and democracy. So let's move on. Colonel, why don't you bring our professor up to date on your investigation."
Shapquine took a silver cigarette case out of a pocket and offered black tobacco cigarettes to Val and Boikin. After receiving two nos, he lit one and sent an acrid column of smoke toward the beamed ceiling. "On the surface, Professor David Hermann never used his degree as an art historian. His expertise in international relations is what will be remembered. What is little known is the assistance he provided the Simon Weisentahl organization."
"He wasn't a Nazi war criminal hunter." Val almost jumped from his chair.
"Correct," Shapquine said. "He helped track down art looted by the Nazis. One can say this was his secret hobby. He did it discretely and very tactfully. Americans unwittingly purchased a lot of this looted art. On a number of occasions, Professor Hermann was able to convince the purchasers to quietly return it to its rightful owners."
Val had been aware that Hermann traveled a lot and often been elusive as to where he'd been. It had never entered his thoughts that the professor could have done anything more than the talk circuit or attend conferences. "Ah, so maybe he found someone who didn't want to separate himself from a precious painting and this someone, as Boikin so crudely put it--gave him the chop?"
Boikin said, "I don't think you'd create great competition to Inspector Poirot."
"I'm not a detective."
"Hermann was one, a good investigator," Shapquine said. "Like most private investigators, he bent the rules."
"He must have blackmailed one person too many," Boikin said.
"He was a man of impeccable ethics."
"He had a secret life."
"Gentlemen, let's not get emotional," Shapquine said.
Val smiled, imagining he probably projected the image of an idiot. "And what has stolen art and blackmail have to do with the Gelwitz Code?"
A grin appeared on Shapquine's face. "During World War Two, our naval radio stations in Oran, Casablanca and Beirut became aware of Station DSXV, and obtained a position by triangulation. Of course in those days, due to the distance there was a slight margin of error. Since the station transmitted in a strange code, they initially assumed this radio was Swiss and located on the Italian border. When our forces retook Marseilles, it was established the station could be on the Italian side of the frontier. The French Navy passed this information to the American Air Force, but being so close to the Swiss border, they were afraid to bomb it." Shapquine paused and gestured with an open palm toward Boikin. "A vous."
Boikin responded with a nod. "According to a debriefing of Kim Philby in Moscow, the OSS mounted a ground operation against the station."
Philby, the Soviet mole in MI-6, avoided capture and escaped to the Soviet Union. He died in Moscow in 1988. If what Boikin said was true, the Russians had been interested in the Gelwitz Code for a long time.
Shapquine produced a sheaf of papers and handed them to Val.