THE GELWITZ CIPHER (A Novel)

[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.

[Brag]

Chapter 3

Val couldn't believe his eyes. His jaw dropped when he realized it was David Hermann who emerged from the house.
"Ay, Madonna," Claudia exclaimed and covered her eyes.
Val groaned internally.
"Hey, kids," Hermann said as he approached them.
"You have the elegance of The Great Gatsby," Val said.
"What's wrong?" Hermann asked, then looked down at his striped tee shirt and denim knee-length bib coveralls. "What's wrong with my clothes? This is country casual."
Claudia said, "David, you look like a five year-old children who has been abused." She imperiously pointed at the house. "Subito! Go inside the house and change clothes before the guests arrive."
Hermann smiled ruefully. "It doesn't work, eh?"
Val shook his head and handed him the bottle of wine.
"Thanks, I'm not much good about clothes."
The most casual Val had seen Hermann was taking his jacket off and rolling up his shirtsleeves to wash dishes. He always wore a bow tie.
Hermann inspected the label on the bottle. "How very thoughtful of you. A San Ramon is difficult to find. They only produce 30,000 bottles a year." He smiled and said to Claudia, "Our friend has excellent contacts."
"His contact is very nice. Now I will help you get dressed."

#

While Hermann and Claudia were upstairs, Val explored the ground floor of the huge house. With the exception of Hermann's study, all the furniture was new, or better said, Hermann did not have it before. A couple of Rococo mirrors with slightly ruined edges and a Chippendale grandfather clock dominated the foyer. In the formal living room, Val opened what looked like a Hepplewhite cabinet, inspected the brass hinges and found them non-uniform. Val decided the piece predated 1850 and caught himself clucking his tongue.
No question about it. The stuff inside the house was worth more than the mini estate. In the library, next to a leather club chair, Val found a humidor with panatelas. He took one, lit it with a lighter that looked like a pistol and went outside through one of the French doors.
He puffed on the cigar, watching a bevy of catering personnel set up tables and a buffet under a tent roof.
"I'm glad you found the cigars," Hermann said.
Val turned. Hermann wore a lightweight sport jacket on top of Claudia's silk blouse, which was unbuttoned half way down his navel, displaying a going gray hairy chest and Claudia's pendant.
Claudia wore a button-down blue Oxford shirt. "Now we have professore Hermann in casual country style."
"You two look like you were in a hurry to get out of bed and got your clothes mixed up."
Claudia laughed. "Just don't tell Sarah."
"Let's sit down and sample Val's exquisite present before the hordes arrive. They don't deserve this quality offering." Hermann raised the bottle and pointed at a wrought iron patio set.
Claudia placed three glasses on the table.
"Isn't Sarah joining us?" Val asked.
Claudia answered, "We have murdered her when she caught us exchanging shirts."
"Oh, she's busy making herself beautiful. Then she will harass the caterers, I'm sure." Hermann said, while uncorking the wine.
"Actually, today is a sort of double, if not triple, celebration. Officially it's a housewarming."
"If I came into sudden wealth like this, I'd keep it a secret. Or they'd throw me in jail," Val said.
"Aha, always the suspicious mind, thinking the worst of your friends." Hermann waved his finger while pouring wine. The bottle shook a little and spilled a few drops on the table.
"To your very good health and welcome to Shalom House."
"Salute."
"Remember that Pissaro I had?"
Like a flash, understanding came into Val's mind. "The one that's been in the family and you would not part with for any amount of money?
Hermann nodded, looking either nervous or embarrassed. "It went for twelve million dollars at Christie's."
"We are like thieves," Claudia added while grinning widely. "I found David an excellent replica for twenty thousand Euros, so he can still admire the view."
"You have the Midas, touch. Don't tell me you sold the replica and kept the original."
"Val, caro. You have a twister criminal mind."
"Fortunately, I'm too much of a loser to risk criminal activity."
Claudia turned to Hermann. "A loser, he says."
Hermann's expression became serious. "After the presidential elections, I expect to leave the Institute. I have recommended that you replace me. Last Thursday we had a board of directors meeting and we came to a unanimous resolution that the job should be offered to you."
Val almost dropped his glass. To become a senior fellow at the Institute of Cosmopolitan Affairs with less than a year of service was unheard of. "What are you going to do?"
"The polls indicate fifty four percent of the voters favor Bob Lunsen for president."
"So?"
"He has asked me to be his national security advisor."
Val couldn't believe what he was hearing. Claudia's amused look reminded him to stop clucking his tongue. "But you disagree intensely on practically everything he says on foreign policy."
Hermann gave Val a sly look. "He wants a devil's advocate on his staff."
"Bob?"
"People change."
"Not Bob."
"Just be polite to him tonight."
"You gotta be joking, he's not coming here?"
"Like I said, people change."
Val placed his glass on the table. "Yes, professor. You have changed."

#

The crowd had thinned, a few die-hards hung out at the bar. Val considered the evening a success. There had been enough guests for him to get lost in the crowd, avoid Bob Lunsen, and no one asked him to play the piano.
It was time to call it a night. He took a deep breath and marched toward a table where a congressman, an oil lobbyist and the Italian ambassador, drooled over Claudia.
"Contessa, your husband requires you on the phone."
"Really?" Claudia looked up with a surprised expression. "Excuse me, signori."
Once they were away from hearing distance of the table, Claudia said, "You are a Ludite."
"How so?"
"Husbands now track their wives by cell-phone."
"Did I interrupt something good?"
"Your timing was perfect as usual. But Franco never calls. He has a total confidence in me." She took his arm. "Now when we drive back I can let my hair fly in the wind. That is very romantico."
The way she leaned on him, Val could tell Claudia was tipsy. "After a few glasses of wine everything becomes romantic."
She leaned forward and turned her head to look at him. "This is what I like about you. I can feel like a sexy single woman and depend on you to keep me honest."
Almost as a reflex, Val kissed the tip of her nose. "Don't depend on it too much. I'm also human and had a couple of glasses of wine."
"Why you don't like Bob Lunsen?
"Who said that?"
As they reached the car, Claudia stopped and turned to face Val. "You forgot to congratulate David when he said he would be the president's advisor. That is a big honor--instead, you grimaced like someone eating lemons, and were rude to David."
"He'll find himself in a gang of ideological fools groomed by big business. They'll just simply steam-roll him."
Val opened the door for Claudia. "Haven't you noticed how strange he's acting?"
"He is happy. Is that acting strange?"
Val got into his seat and started the engine. A wild heartbeat accompanied the move of his hand. The palm rested on Claudia's warm thigh. As she didn't protest, he leaned over and kissed her lips. Her lips opened momentarily and became stiff as she pressed them together and pushed his chin away.
"No, caro. My husband may leave me wanting but we are loyal. It is not only the money I married him for. When I will want to go to bed with you, you will be the second one to know."

Chapter 4

Maybe it was his imagination, but David Hermann's unease grew as the black car behind him also turned right on 22nd Street. He went under the E Street overpass, turned left on M and slammed on the brakes to avoid hitting a jaywalker.
A glance at the rearview mirror removed all doubt. The black car still followed him.
His fingers drummed on the red binder with copies of the DSXV messages on the passenger seat. He had been an idiot and should have kept his mouth shut and taken his discovery to the grave. The thought of death surprised him. The sinister presence of the black car took a new, ominous meaning.
He removed his hand from the binder and closed it on the cell phone in his pocket. Call 911?
A Kinko's copy place sign gave him an idea. A simple but elegant solution. Double-park! It would cause a traffic jam while he shipped the binder, and bring in the cops.
Relieved by the discovery of this new escape avenue, Hermann came to an abrupt halt, grabbed the red binder from the passenger seat and left the Saab double-parked.
He pushed the store door open and glanced over his shoulder. The black car, with two men in it, went slowly past and turned the corner.
Inside, a girl who looked like a college student smiled.
Hermann wiped a sweaty palm on his jacket. "I need to FedEx this. I'm in a hurry."
"You have an account?"
"Yes, yes."
The girl nodded and took the binder, which showed a damp spot where he had held it.
Hermann glanced over his shoulder. On the street, traffic was light and cars easily went around his.
"Sir?" The girl slid a form in front of him.
The black car would have gone around the block and be back any second. He took a pen out of his pocket, dropped it when he heard the store door open. Blood rushed to his head as he bent to pick up the pen. He rose and leaned against the counter to offset a wave of dizziness.
A woman eased next to him.
"I need ten spiral bound copies." The woman slapped a file on the counter.
With a shaky hand, Hermann wrote his name down, crossed it, and rewrote: Valentin Orloff, PhD. If there was a man of unblemished integrity, it was Val. Herman put down the office address, then hurriedly scribbled a few notes on the cover sheet. Should anything happen to him, Val would know what to do. Hermann remembered the safe deposit box key and placed it into the FedEx carton.
Outside, a cop was writing him a ticket. Hermann made a small hop with relief. He began to turn to run outside and seek safety. The people following would see him talking to a cop and leave him alone.
"I need your account number."
Torn between priorities, he fumbled in his wallet while glancing over his shoulder, watching the policeman.
Finally he got the right card and handed it to the girl.
"Sign here."
He signed, not listening to what the girl said and headed for the door.
The cop was getting into his car.
Hermann rushed outside, bumped into a young man.
"Hey!" the startled youth exclaimed
"Sorry." Herman pushed his way past, his gaze locked on the cop car beginning to move.
A horn sounded as Hermann ran onto the street, frantically waving at the receding police cruiser.
With shaking hands, he took the ticket from under the windshield wiper.
Hermann looked up in time to see the black car speed toward him.

Continued this weekend.

[Brag]

Chapter 5

"Damn," Val muttered, shaking his head to come awake. It had been years since the dream visited him--Steadily, a green and a red light approached.
Collision course!
Desperate, Val took the flare gun, aimed over the approaching motor yacht and fired.
The red distress signal arced in front of the vessel.
Above the din of music, a woman's voice yelled, "Woo-hoo."
Like the teeth of a sea monster, the fluorescent wake grew and crunched the becalmed sailing dinghy.
In a maelstrom of broken bits of boat and swirling water, Val was tossed into Chesapeake Bay. The high pitch whine of the motor yacht's propellers grew as Val blew whatever little air he had in his lungs to sink out of the way of the murderous blades.
In the dream, he couldn't swim back to the surface.
The rankness of sweat greeted Val out of a state of semi-wakeful terror. He shook his head. With the damp top sheet, he wiped perspiration off his face.
His bedside clock showed quarter past one. Shivering, Val sat on his bed and let his heartbeat slow down. He wondered what had triggered the nightmare. It had been years since he had one.
He turned on the bedside lamp and got up. The damp sheets made the bed uninviting. He pulled them off. One of these days, he would buy a second set. While bundling the linen to dump into the hamper, he decided to take the smelly mess into the shower.
Almost scalding hot water ran on his back and soothed his nerves while his feet stomped on the bedding, getting even with the bad dream. Twenty six years had passed since that night he was sure he would die. A night that changed him from carefree boy to man with nightmares, and his life for the better.
Why had the dreadful vision returned now?
After the shower, Val went to the tiny kitchen and made hot cocoa. Armed with a mug, he sat in one of the chairs of the patio set he kept in the living room of his two-bedroom apartment. Above his head the bright green and white parasol that came with the set gave the otherwise grim room a tropical ambiance. Or at least that was what Val thought. It had also been cheaper to buy than regular furniture.
The only decoration in the room was his grandfather's model 1909 Dragoon Guard's officer saber hanging on a wall. Tonight, instead of representing the spirit of a courageous and noble man, the weapon made Val think of blood it had spilled. He took a long sip of cocoa to dispel the influence of the nightmare. The dream that always came as a harbinger of trouble. Maybe it was his subconscious warning him that he was blind to danger signals. The last time he had the nightmare was just before his wife left him.
To hell with her, he had better things to think about. Claudia.
Val glanced at his watch. It was ten past eight in Italy. Claudia would be going through her Emails. He went to the spare bedroom cluttered with boxes full of books, a small desk, and a door on two trestles.
He switched on the computer on top of the makeshift table and studied the map next to it while the computer booted up. The map represented the area around Stalingrad. Counters depicting German and Soviet units down to battalion level showed a German thrust north of the city in autumn 1941.
"Welcome," the computer voice said, "You've got mail."
Val glanced at the Buddy List, which showed that Claudia was online.
On an Instant Message, he typed: Good morning.
A few seconds later, Claudia answered: You are up late. Did a lady send you home without your just reward?
Val answered: I got up early to enjoy a few minutes of your enchanting company.
That is a charming lie.
You caught me again. I couldn't sleep.
What pity. Maybe you are adjusting to Europe time for your visit?
I'm really looking forward to seeing you and, of course, the Count.
Professor, you are really only interested in my you know what.
Val chuckled and sent a smiley.
She answered: I am pleased to hear from you but I need to get the people in Rome and Milano to pay attention to what I say. Thank you for thinking of me, I must get back to work.
Val sighed and wrote: Have a nice day.
Her next message made him smile: Ciao ragazzo.

#

Val parked his Z3 in the lot of an apartment complex on Rolfe Street in Arlington. Parking here saved him a good bit of money and helped make payments.
To maintain the illusion he was a tenant, Val went into the lobby, waved to the concierge. "Good morning Mrs. Ike."
"For someone who works nights, you sure look fresh in the morning," Mrs. Ike responded cheerfully.
Val took the elevator to the fifth floor. He then trotted down the stairs and went out through the fire escape that opened into a side street.
As he marched the ten remaining blocks to the office, he thought about the weekend he would spend riding his two hunters, preparing them for the season. He kept the horses on a ten-acre plot he owned in Virginia. The only permanent structures on his "country estate" were the horse stalls and an outhouse. A spacious 10x15 foot heavy-duty tent served as his country residence.
Absorbed in thoughts of jumping fences and galloping around the countryside, he hummed and vaguely noticed traffic as he emerged onto busy Wilson Boulevard.
Automatically assuming his learned persona, he stopped humming and entered the building where the Cosmopolitan Affairs Institute had its offices. To keep his legs in shape, instead of the elevator, he used the stairs taking three steps at a time.
On the fifth floor, the maintenance man was removing the door to the Institute off its hinges.
"Morning, Nate. Are we getting a new door?"
Nate looked up. "Bastards must have hid in one of the restrooms."
Val stopped, glanced at the doorsill. Someone had crudely jimmied the door. An unpleasant, light shudder went through him. "What did they steal?"
"From what Ms. Margie said, nothing--Look." Nate swung the door and pointed at the red spray-painted F**k you. "Punks, vandals. Left by the fire escape, setting off the alarm."
"Who would spend hours in the toilet to just break a door and write graffiti?"
"Ah, Professor you don't teach at the university for nothing. That's what I axed myself. For sure, to fool the cops."
Val caught himself clucking his tongue. He went in and stuck his head into the Administration office.
"You just can't wait to get to my coffee." Margie greeted him with a smile and stepped toward the coffee pot on a credenza.
For a second Val's gaze wandered to the trays with croissants and doughnuts, but the idea of someone stealing or messing with his computer contracted his stomach. "My incentive to come early."
"Finicky, finicky. I hope fresh beans from Mount Meru are satisfactory?" She handed him a mug.
Val stuck his nose over the cup as if sniffing the aroma. His gaze rested on Margie's cleavage. Too bad she was married. That was the problem--every woman he liked was married.
"Hmm. Tanzanian coffee is almost as good as Peruvian." After a long sip, he asked, "They didn't take anything?"
Margie sighed. "You'd better check your room, see if anything's missing."
The second sip tasted better. Though he backed his work on disks he kept in a fireproof safe, the idea that someone could have been reading it bothered him.
She went to her desk, picked up a clipboard and looked at it. We're making a collection for a wreath."
"Huh?"
Her gaze centered on Val. "Good thing you weren't here yesterday."
Val shook his head and thought of poor old Pete Garrison. The janitor could hardly push a broom.
"Professor Hermann."
Val almost spilled his coffee. "Nooo."
Margie nodded. "Tragic. Hit and run. I don't know what he was doing. Imagine, double parked in front of the M Street Kinko's." She handed him the clipboard with a list of names and the sum each one had donated.
Wretchedness crept up Val's chest.
Margie touched his arm. "He liked you. And now this door thing." She sighed. "Trouble comes in bunches."
Remembering his nightmare, Val left for his office.
Danger signals, he was missing something.
Trying to put his mental state in order, he thought about the talk he had to give aides to the senators of the Foreign Affairs Sub Committee. With Hermann gone, he would end up briefing the Senators sooner than he had expected.
Checking his computer for signs of tampering, dealing with Emails and reading the file of newspaper clippings took a good part of the morning. He was in the middle of reading yesterday's Le Monde, when the FedEx man walked in.
Irritated by the interruption, Val asked, "What can I do for you?"
"Professor Orloff?"
"Yes, leave the package at reception."
"Personal delivery, sir. May I see your driver's license?"
"Look, I'm busy."
"It's for you, sir, to be delivered in person. Identification required."
After a theatrical sigh, Val took out his wallet and handed his driver's license. He glanced at his watch while the man punched buttons on his electronic clipboard.
After Val signed for it, the man placed the offending package on the desk and left. Val stuck the French newspaper into the clippings folder and put it on top of the stack next to the filing cabinet.
He then looked at the box. A tingling sensation coursed through his head and fingers as blood rushed to his lower extremities. The sender was Hermann.
Val took a letter opener and slit through the transparent tape sealing the manuscript sized box. He removed and opened a red binder. A handwritten title sheet said simply Station DSXV.
It took Val several minutes to decipher some diagonally written scribbles:
this is in Gelwitz code
D'Albano knows

D'Albano? What did Claudia have to do with this? Or was it her husband?
Puzzled, Val turned the page and looked at a photocopy of a message sheet with a Nazi eagle on the top left hand corner. His hands shook as his gaze roamed coded groups. A quick flip through the pages confirmed the box contained a collection of Nazi era coded messages.
Double parked in front of Kinko's. The last thing Hermann did was mail the package.
Val's gaze returned to the binder.
Joachim Gelwitz had been a cryptographer employed by the Nazi Party intelligence section. Had Admirals Canaris and Raeder listened to him, German U-boat losses would have been less severe. Though sure the Allies had broken the Enigma codes, Gelwitz failed to convince the brass to use his unbreakable cipher. Friction between the military and the Nazis had cost Germany dearly.
Not knowing a thing about cryptography, and his interest in the code being purely historical, Val wondered why Hermann had sent him the coded messages collection.
Two or three months ago, Val remembered reading that Christies had auctioned a collection of Gelwitz messages for 12 million dollars. Both, seller and buyer, remained anonymous.
As he was about to place the binder back into its box, Val saw the safe deposit box key.
Hermann's office was bigger than Val's but seemed tiny because of clutter. Val sat behind Hermann's desk and switched on the computer. A blue, blank screen came on, and nothing else. Five minutes of trying, convinced Val that Hermann's computer was blank.
A nasty picture formed in his mind. No, this is real life. You've read too many rubbish novels. Hermann's accident and the break-in had to be a coincidence. Val rummaged through the desk drawers. Inside a checkbook, he found a safe deposit box receipt.

#

Back in his office, Val dialed the Russian Embassy. "Gospodin Dedensky, pozhalusta."
After a few clicks Dedensky came on the line. "Slushayu."
"Do you remember Professor Herman?" Val asked in Russian.
"Who?"
Who? Val felt speechless on hearing the professed ignorance.
"I can see you on Sunday," Dedensky said abruptly.
"I'm going away for the wee--"
"I'll see you on Sunday."
Taken aback by Dedensky's brusqueness, Val listened to the dial tone. It must be the change of weather, he speculated, trying to make sense out of the strangeness of a morning in which the world seemed to have gone crazy.
Time to head for the aides' lunch. Val began to place the binder on top of his news pile, then thought of the broken door and Herman's erased computer. Ridiculous. He stuck the talk notes into a breast pocket, placed the binder inside his briefcase, and went out.

#

Traffic had been bad. The drizzle that started mid-afternoon accentuated the incompetence of drivers. Half of them yakking into cell-phones. It was already dark when Val returned to his apartment. Together with the manila envelope he had taken from Hermann's safe deposit box, Val placed Hermann's binder on one of the chairs of the patio table. After pouring a bourbon, he sat under the flowery parasol, pretending he was on Marie Galante Island in the French Antilles. He had little idea what the island was like, but he liked the name. It made him think of a luscious woman pirate. Claudia.
The binder contained about five-hundred pages, most with several messages. Occasionally a communication would go for a number of pages.
The ice in his glass had melted when he remembered he had made a drink. Val took a long sip and winced. He hated bourbon. But the terrible taste kept him from drinking too much.
Again, he leafed through the messages. After some hesitation he decided to open the manila envelope. After all, if Hermann had sent him the key, he wanted him to see the contents of the envelope.
Val pulled out a half-inch thick sheaf of papers.
His heart beat wildly as he stared at original Nazi message sheets. On each sheet, on the top right hand corner, there were dates written in Hermann's unmistakable scribbles. The earliest date was 8 May 1945, the day after the war ended. The last message was dated 24 August 1945.
Val sat flabbergasted. A Nazi station transmitting for months after the war ended? His eyes darted from the photocopies in the binder and the originals in his hand. Why had Hermann separated the messages sent or received after the end of the war?
Val calmed down and studied both batches. The patterns were the same, but traffic had diminished after the German capitulation. Val's mind buzzed with questions. How in the hell did the Nazis keep transmitting after the Allies occupied Germany? Where did Hermann get the message collection? Why had Hermann sent him the box? What was the significance of the post-war originals?
Did Hermann sell the Gelwitz code collection auctioned by Christie's, instead of the Pissaro?
Val took the binder to the spare bedroom, and dumped it on his little desk.
Though the keyboard was a poor replacement for the piano, Val sat down for his daily half-hour practice. What his father had called the boy's sissy hour. The Old Man, who had lost both legs after stepping on a landmine in Nicaragua, died disappointed in his son who refused to play football.
Normally piano practice soothed Val's nerves. Today he finished playing angry with Dedensky for ruining his sacred weekend.
D'Albano knows. Hermann's cryptic message kept replaying in Val's head. His interest in Count D'Albano's exploits in East Africa during World War II had nothing to do with the code. Except that Hermann had put him in contact with Claudia, who in turn convinced her husband to show Val his diaries and other documents and agree to have Val write about his exploits.
Val wrote Claudia an Email informing her of Hermann's death and added: The good Professor sent me a note indicating that either you or your husband are familiar with the Gelwitz code. Any information you may have will be appreciated.
He hit the Send button, then thought of Dedensky's reluctance to talk on the phone. Val shook his head. Who would be interested in tapping into a historian's phone line?

Chapter 6

Yesterday's drizzle had turned into today's.
The onion shaped cupolas dominating the Saint John The Baptist Church never failed to stir something inside Val's soul. For a millennium his ancestors had attended services in perhaps grander but similar churches. In typical Russian fashion, Val arrived half-hour after the service had started. Inside, he stood engrossed listening to the choir. He seldom prayed but embarked into a passive cosmic voyage of a ritual that remained unchanged for over a thousand years. When in church, he was in God's neighborhood. Today he prayed for the soul of David Hermann.
Val quietly slipped out of church a few moments before the priest started his sermon.
Several people chatted on the church's terrace. Just outside, at the bottom of the steps, Paul Dedensky stood smoking a cigarette, his hands buried deep into overcoat pockets. Val nodded to familiar faces and wound his way toward the Russian.
Besides seeing him in church, Val met Dedensky during opera season, and occasionally they had Sunday lunch together. Though officially listed as a cultural attaché in the Russian embassy, Dedensky was in reality the SVR, Russian Foreign Intelligence Service, liaison officer with the CIA.
"Valentin Georgevich, we finally have been liberated from Washington's tropical discomfort," Dedensky said in Russian.
Val nodded. "Indeed."
Dedensky gave him a curious look, then smiled. "I have two FBI agents tailing me today. Shall we take them to lunch?"
"Lunch with you is always an intriguing experience," Val said, trying to hide his annoyance with Dedensky.
"Let's go to the Europa, prices are reasonable and the food passable."
"You were rather abrupt on Friday. I got the feeling you didn't want to talk to me."
"People listen in on phone conversations."
"The FBI is aware we see each other."
"You're still angry because I caused a change in your plans. I apologize. I have reason to believe the phones in your office are tapped."
"A preposterous notion."
"By someone who doesn't follow the rules of the game." A chuckle escaped Dedensky as he lit a fresh cigarette off the almost spent butt of the one he'd been smoking. Let's take my car, give the Fedias some work to identify who I've met today."
"You've been secretive about our meeting. Now you want to advertise. I don't understand."
"You obviously wanted to talk about Professor Hermann."
"Not about him, but his work."
"I know nothing about his work. You're his colleague."
"Was. He died last Thursday."
"I know. Murdered."
"What?" Of course hit and run was a homicide, but the way Dedensky said it, it raised Val's hackles. "Murdered? You mean like premeditated murder?"
"Seems to me the opportunity to kill him arose and someone took advantage of it."
They reached Dedensky's car, an unremarkable Toyota. Val opened the passenger door, noticed two men get into a gray Ford sedan parked in front of a fire hydrant.
"Climb aboard."
"Why would anyone want to kill Hermann? He was a harmless old boy."
Dedensky chuckled as he slid into his seat. "A man who has spent a good part of his life working for the intelligence community can't be called harmless."
"Sheeesh," Val directed his gaze to the gray sky. "He was a historian and political scientist."
"Yes. But unlike you, he had great political ambitions."
Though Dedensky's remark took Val by surprise, he managed not to show it. "Did he?" He asked nonchalantly.
"You didn't know?" Dedensky gave him an ironic look as he slammed the door shut. "Has it occurred to you that you might be next?"
"Next what?"
"The next victim."
"You must be joking."
"You worked closely with the old boy."
Val turned sharply toward Dedensky. "May I have one of your cigarettes?" he asked to gain time, to think through what Dedensky had said. Surely people didn't get murdered for doing historical research and providing foreign affairs analysis.
Embarrassed, Val caught himself and stopped clicking his tongue.
With a smirk on his face, Dedensky handed Val a cigarette and lit it with a Bic disposable lighter. "From what I understand, Hermann fancied himself as a new Doctor Kissinger who had direct contact with the Kremlin via the KGB."
"You knew he was short-listed for high position if Lunsen was elected?"
"He gave me that indication when he applied for a visa. He went to Moscow to improve contacts and strengthen his position."
This was a completely new angle. Hermann had given Val a completely different reason for going to Moscow. Without inhaling, Val blew smoke and opened his window. "Are you saying he got murdered for having intelligence contacts in Russia?"
Dedensky shook his head. "I don't know. You were his colleague."
"He told me that in Russia he would find answers to some questions on post-war Nazi activities. Of course Hermann was the grand master of the subject."
"Let's go eat."
Val tried not to show he found the conversation disturbing. "Let's go to Maxim's, my treat."
"It's an expensive place."
"Being born here hasn't diminished my genetic penchant for extravagance. Since my divorce I have a yearning for my grandmother's cooking."
A chuckle escaped Dedensky as he lit a cigarette. "Comparing Maxim's with grandmother's cooking. They'd love that."
"I can't wait to get back from my sabbatical so I can report to my students about weekend adventures into the netherworld of spies."
"I'm sure your students appreciate your sense of humor. Life in academia must be like a security blanket. Maybe association with young people has the effect of a fountain of youth. What I'm trying to tell you is that if you have shared Hermann's work, your life may be in danger."
"I wish you would be more specific."
"I could only be more specific if I knew what was going on. All I know is that I have a strong--a very strong suspicion that Professor Hermann was murdered." Dedensky slapped his thigh. "Batz! Gone."

#

A Russian-speaking waiter led them to a table at the rear of the cavernous restaurant. Val allowed that Dedensky had to sit with his back against a wall and facing the entrance. The fellow was like a cinema character. Before the waiter had time to hand out menus, Val ordered fish hors d'oeuvres and vodka.
"Do you like Russian cuisine because you were brought up on it?" Dedensky asked.
"Actually my parents were victims of Americanization. I think it had to do with my father being in the Army. Of course when visiting my grandparents--"
"Eh, babushkihave a talent for messing up parents' plans."
Val's mother died of cancer, his father died four years later of cirrhosis of the liver. Val always got a reaction of guilt when remembering the relief he felt when he moved into his grandparent's house at the age of 13. "Yes, grandparents have a way of influencing one's life."
The waiter brought half a bottle of iced vodka and placed it on the table together with a tray of zakuski. The aroma of freshly chopped dill teased Val's nostrils.
Dedensky poured into shot glasses. "Za vashe zdorovie."
Val answered the toast, gulped the vodka down and chased it with a bit of herring in sour cream.
"Eh. Nothing like vodka to dispel gloom."
Val nodded. Among spirits, vodka did have the property to cheer people. After the second shot he would begin feeling the pleasant effect. He needed it. The last two days have been disturbing. The Email he got this morning from Claudia, curtly said: Have no idea what you are talking about. It wasn't even signed.
By the time Val finished his borsht, the odd sense of unease that had been with him all morning vanished. Dedensky never failed to provide amusing topics of conversation. "Did you know our scientists in Antarctica found interesting viruses which are identical to viruses developed by the Nazis?"
"Yes, I've read about that. Also about the nonsense of a Nazi secret base there, supposedly they communicated with aliens and commuted over the icepack in flying saucers."
Dedensky burst out laughing. "I was always under the impression that historians were serious people."
"Restaurants are places where spouting nonsense is quite acceptable."
The waiter placed chicken Kiev in front of Val.
"And what will you work on while on sabbatical?"
"Researching a book I will write on how art influenced rulers."
"Would anyone want to read it? A bit of an obscure subject, don't you think?"
After sipping his wine, Val chuckled. "Historians write about obscure subjects, but my research shall be brightened by the assistance of Contessa D'Albano, a charming lady who is not only a scholar but an Italian fashion designer."
"I see being a Russian aristocrat still has its advantages."
Val gestured in dismissal. "Nothing to do with aristocracy, it was a lead picked up by Hermann, he met her at an art history seminar, passed on the lead to me. I wrote a book about her husband. Count D'Albano was one of those Italians who didn't surrender when their army in Ethiopia capitulated."
Dedensky laughed. "Sounds like you're having an elegant affair"
"Not an affair. The lady is devoted to her husband."
"I'll call my driver. While we wait for him, we'll have a suitable Cognac to crown this meal." Dedensky signaled the waiter and ordered two Remi Martins.
Glad he would have company, Val thought this as a good plan. "And since we don't have to drive. I'll make Turkish coffee in my apartment to go with another Cognac. We can listen to an enhanced Shaliapin recording I just got."

#

"Interesting," Dedensky said, as the driver pulled into Val's carport. "The Fedias are already waiting for you."
"What do you mean?"
"Out on the street, three men sitting in a black Buick."
"You and your paranoid streak."
Dedensky said to the driver, "Yura, dai pistolet."
Open-mouthed, Val watched the driver dig inside his jacket and hand Dedensky a pistol.
Val realized he was clicking his tongue.

Chapter 7

Inside Val's apartment, Dedensky pulled a curtain slightly back and peered outside. "Interesting. As the Fedias following us pulled in, the other three left. What do you think, Professor?"
"The FBI knows about our contacts."
"Why would they have been waiting for you?"
"We don't know that. Why are you carrying a gun?"
"In case the Fedias following lost us." Dedensky removed his overcoat and stared at the patio furniture. "Do you get too much sunshine through the ceiling?"
"It protects me from harmful radiation generated by aliens."
Dedensky sat under the parasol and pointed at the window overlooking the street. "I doubt the three fellows waiting would respect diplomatic immunity."
Val tried to make head or tails out of what Dedensky was saying. The Russian spook appeared to live on another level.
"Coffee?"
"Thank you, yes."
Amused by Dedensky's paranoia, Val made Turkish coffee while it grew dark outside. He arranged a lemon peel shaving on each saucer, added a bottle of Cognac and glasses to the tray.
Dedensky looked up from a coffee table book on Impressionist art and slapped the covers shut. Val placed the tray on the table, sat down, put the lemon peel into the coffee and inhaled the aroma. "Okay. According to you, Hermann learned something in Moscow that got him killed. I'll accept that. I haven't been to Moscow, I haven't learned anything."
"Are you sure?"
Taken aback by Dedensky's tone, Val stared at the Russian spy. "You seem fixated on that subject. This is Washington. Next week I start my sabbatical and will write a book about how art affected history."
After sipping his coffee, Dedensky put the cup down. "My hunch that you're a prime candidate for the next murder just got stronger."
Val laughed at the incongruous suggestion.
"Are you familiar with the work Hermann was doing for the NSA?"
"No." As consultants, he and his colleagues did so many projects for so many institutions it was hard to keep track of who did what. And there was an awful lot of moonlighting.
"Hermann trying to break an old Nazi code for the NSA. Do you know anything about that side of his work?"
Val poured Cognac. Despite his unease, he tried to make fun of the subject. "You're a master of fashioning an amusing afternoon."
"May I smoke?"
Val nodded and pushed a large glass ashtray closer to Dedensky. "What has historical work, even for the NSA have to do with anything?" He thought of the collection of messages sitting in the next room. If he managed to get someone to break the code, he would probably find a trove of lost Nazi secrets. This would be a dramatic way to firmly establish his reputation as the foremost authority on World War II.
Dedensky smiled thinly. "Have you ever met Academician Lidya Dimitrienko?"
Val's mind searched for a connection with the name. The Economics of the Japanese Occupation of Manchuria. He had read the paper some years ago. "I think she's a Far East expert."
Dedensky grinned. "Her real name is Stuart. Her father, a descendant of the Scottish royal family changed his name during the revolution. She changed back to her real name during Perestroika."
"And?"
"Why would Hermann want to meet her?"
"No idea."
"When someone gets murdered, detectives usually reconstruct and retrace the deceased's history. Maybe you should do that. I can arrange your visa. You'll be safe in Moscow."
Val sighed. "With your imagination, you should be writing popular spy novels."
"Why write when you can live the adventure?" Dedensky stood and gestured toward the window. "I see a little drama developing. When I leave, the representatives of American security will depart following me. I'm willing to bet the three men in the Buick will return." He bent down to crush his cigarette.
"To prove my point I'll go home now. Thanks for a wonderful lunch and your hospitality."
"We haven't listened to Shaliapin," Val said in a hurry as alarm stabbed him. Dedensky's words were having a negative effect. Val knew he had to disregard the melodrama. The Russian spy was probably showing off like a child. Look guys, I have a pistol.
"Thank you, got things to do." Dedensky put his overcoat on and left the apartment.
"Hmm." Maybe it was just the loneliness of living in the stupid apartment that gave him childish heevie-heevies. Copying the Russian spy, Val peered from behind the curtain. He watched Dedensky stride out of the apartment complex, get into his car and drive off.
Val felt strangely alone. Damn it, he had to admit, Dedensky had succeeded in frightening him. Val went to the door and secured the chain.
Ten minutes later, Shaliapin's basso profundo voice had done nothing to ease Val's discomfort. He turned the player off and listened. All he could hear was the muffled hum coming from Rockville Pike.
Again, he cursed the melodramatic Russian who had ruined his day. Val sat and read the Sunday comics. He had trouble concentrating.
His body jerked when someone slammed a door in the corridor.
To relieve the gloomy atmosphere in the apartment, he put on a recording of the Merry Widow. The silly operetta was bound to cheer him up.
When the overture was over, he noticed he had lit a cigar. Damn, His mind was slipping.
As the first act started, the apartment filled with voices as if he had a party going. Anyone wanting to do him harm would hear laughter and music. Val walked to the door and peered through the peephole. An empty corridor. He was imagining things.
He was going to pour another Cognac, put the bottle down.
There was someone outside his door. Imagination.
He forced himself not to get up and peer through the peephole.
"Ta-ta-ta-ta-de-de-dum," Val sang along with the grisettes de Paris.
The front door crashed down.
Val had barely time to realize men in ski masks had entered before a blow knocked him to the floor. He remembered to relax, like when falling off a horse, and managed to roll away as a boot swished past his head.
A knee crashed into his chest, knocking air out of his lungs.
Something shiny, a knife, pressed against his throat.
"Not a peep."
Val tried to breathe. Couldn't.
Something warm slid down his neck. Val knew it was blood. He gulped air. The knife bit deeper into his skin.
"Don't move, pretty boy." The smell of garlic emanated from the ski mask.
A voice came from the corridor. "Narcotics raid, get back inside."
"Where is the book?"
A surprising calm came over Val. The same as at the beginning of a fencing match with sabers. "What?"
"You're gonna die, motherfu**er. Where's the book?"
"What book?"
"The one you got by FedEX."
A strange popping noise came from the entrance hallway. The man standing by the door staggered and slumped to the floor.
Val's attacker turned his head. Skull fragments ripped through the back of his mask. The knife slid across Val's throat.
Vaguely aware of what was happening, Val looked toward the entrance.
Yuri, Dedensky's driver, stood in the hallway, a silenced machine pistol in his hand.
One of the raiders came out of Val's office.
Yuri's machine pistol spat.
The man dropped the DSXV binder and crumbled.
Yuri nodded and stuck the machine pistol under his trench coat.
With revulsion, Val pushed the dead body off him, staggered to his feet and took in the mess. The patio table was broken, the door smashed off its hinges, the Venetian blinds were splattered with brains. Three men bled on the champagne colored carpet. He looked at Yuri who fiddled with a cell phone.
Not knowing how to behave in such a preposterous situation, Val wondered what his grandfather would have done or said. "Can I offer you something? A drink?"
The thick-faced man gave him a wry smile. "Maybe later." He then spoke into the phone. "Boss? Deal's in the hat. A sleeping troika. Yes, immediately." He put the cell phone into a trench coat pocket, and faced Val. "You better pack your things."
"Wait a minute. Pack? I've got to call the police."
Yuri waved his finger in a signal of no. He bent over one of the bodies, pulled out a badge and showed it to Val. "DEA, these are three dead cops."
Val's knees wanted to buckle.
Yuri removed a pistol from the corpse and offered it to Val. "Here, you may need it."
Val shook his head.
"These people report to someone. You'd better don't waste time getting out of here before someone realizes things have gone wrong. There's a flight going to Toronto. Leaves in an hour and a half."
"Toronto?"
Yuri cleared his throat. "I'll drive you to the airport. And I'm out of here in five minutes."
Val's gaze roamed over the bodies. One of them was face down, his back emblazoned with bright yellow letters saying Police. A battering ram, like he had seen used by police in the movies lay in the entrance hallway.
"The boss says you won't survive a night in jail."
Indignation rose up Val's chest. "You killed them."
Yuri chuckled. "You tell that to the police."
Val picked up the binder and took it to his bedroom. He hesitated, looked around. His suitcase was in the closet. Why did he take the binder into the bedroom and not his office? Val realized his subconscious had taken over.
Narcotics people going for the binder? That made even less sense than Dedensky. Maybe Yuri was right. He had to leave.
Val ran his hand across an itchy throat. His fingers came out stained with blood. He went into the bathroom, wiped blood off with a towel. He took a styptic pencil and ran it across the cut where new droplets of blood appeared.
In the bedroom, Yuri threw several shirts into the suitcase, on top of the binder. He handed Val a silk scarf. "You better wrap this around your throat. Five shirts, five set of underwear and socks, two ties, one suit. Do you have money?"
"Traveler's checks." He studied Yuri for a moment. Of course, the man would never admit he killed three policemen. Besides, policemen didn't go around sticking knives on people's throats. This professional killer was right. Val had to get out of here. He went to his office and took his passport and the airline tickets and three thousand dollars worth of checks he had purchased for his trip to Europe.]
"Let's go," Yuri said as he removed Val's overcoat from the closet.
Val remembered the manila envelope, stuck it into his briefcase.
Downstairs, Val handed Yuri the keys to his car. "Could you pick up my car tomorrow? It's parked--"
"I know where it is."
Yuri drove through the back streets frequently turning corners. Val stared at the windshield wipers flopping back and forth.
"It is rather handy to be listed as a chauffeur, the Fedias don't bother much with lowly people like me. On the way to Toronto, relax, have a drink or two. Make sure to eat the peanuts they'll offer you on the flight."
Yuri turned onto the Beltway heading toward Virginia. "In Toronto, someone will meet you. You will be asked if you're doctor Shephard. Your answer will be: Sorry I'm Miles Standish. You think you can remember that?"
"Shephard, Standish," Val repeated.
"With luck, we'll be able to delay the Aeroflot plane for you to get on. By tomorrow afternoon you'll be in Moscow."
"You seem terribly well organized."
"No--fast."
"Care to explain what's going on?"
Yuri chuckled softly. "If we knew what's going on, I would not had to kill those meatheads. People get killed when intelligence fails. I don't know why my boss has taken you under his wing."
Val glanced at Yuri, wanting to ask him who in the hell he thought he was to talk to him as if he was a child. Instead, he clicked his tongue. He might as well keep his mouth shut. In the apartment, he had acted as a pathetic, incompetent victim, and the professional killer had saved him.
There was little traffic when they drove along the Washington Parkway toward National Airport.
"I will leave you in one of the parking lots. From there, take the shuttle. If anyone is watching the terminal, at least they won't spot my car."
The same loneliness he had felt when Dedensky left the apartment descended over Val. Well, he wasn't a baby. His father had taught him how to shoot and his grandfather how to use the saber. Not many modern day killers had both skills. Anger rose up his chest. In his mind, using his grandfather's saber, he skewered his assailant, quickly withdrew the blade, and with a horizontal slice chopped a masked head off.
Feeling better, he said to Yuri. "Thanks for all you've done for me."

#

Once Val had settled in the first class seat he had to buy to get on the flight, his hands began to shake. He followed Yuri's advice and asked the stewardess for a bourbon.
It took two drinks to slow down his agitation and try to make sense of what had happened. He then realized that thinking in the past tense was wrong. Whatever is going on it is still happening and I have only seen the tip of the proverbial iceberg. Without the Russians' intervention, I would be dead.
What incentive existed for people to kill over an old code? Hermann had at least broken the code sufficiently to insert handwritten dates. If station DSXV continued to transmit after the war, it opened a number of possibilities. Maybe it was part of the futile attempt to resist Allied occupation by the so-called Werewolves or maybe it had something to do with Nazis escaping to South America. Where was station DSXV located? How did it manage to operate after the occupation?
Val's train of thought was interrupted by the rumble and thump of landing gear locking and the stewardess on the PA telling passengers to return their seats to the upright position.

#

A young woman in a blue uniform approached Val as he came out of the gate. "Doctor Shephard?"
Though Yuri had told him about the password business, Val was surprised to be approached with one in real life. "No, Miles Standish," he answered, feeling foolish.
She seemed to repress a laugh and looked at her shoes. "Please come with me and let me have your luggage tags."
Admiring her graceful walk and shapely derriere, Val followed the woman through a maze of corridors. She came to a door and punched a key- pad. They entered a narrow passage with doors displaying various airline logos. The woman opened an unmarked door and motioned Val to walk in.
Inside the cramped office a man in a tweed sports coat sat behind a desk. "Doctor Shephard?"
Val repeated the silly password.
"Sit down, professor."
Val sat on a straight-backed metal chair.
The man pushed an airline ticket across the desk. "Toronto-Moscow, in the name of Standish. Let me see your passport."
Val reached into his breast pocket. "One-way?"
The man smiled, extending his hand. "You can make further arrangements at your destination."
Val thought that not too long ago a one-way ticket to Moscow had a completely different meaning. He hesitated, then handed the passport over.
After leafing through the pages, the man opened a drawer dug out a stamp, stamped and signed a page. "Your visa, valid for thirty days. You'll be met at Sheremetyevo." He glanced at his watch. "The flight is almost three hours late."
"Why Standish and not my name?"
The man gave him a thin smile. "That's the name that will show on the passenger manifest. Authorities and other people love to look at manifests."
"I see. Thank you." Val took the free, one-way ticket and his passport and wondered about his judgement in going along with the Russians. The memory of the knife blade against his throat brought out a shiver.
He was glad his real name would not appear on the manifest.


To be continued.

[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.

[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.

[Brag]

Chapter 12

Rutland, Vermon, USA
Sleet had prevented Gordon R. Kowalsky from reaching the Captain's estate by helicopter, but the old man, always gracious, had a limo and two bodyguards waiting at Rutland Airport. Over slippery roads, the driver gingerly worked the armored vehicle toward the mountains, its headlights stabbing at curtains of white.
Kowalsky reached for the decanter in the built-in bar, pulled the stopper and sniffed. The bouquet of a 14 year-old Mackillops, single cask sherry, scotch was unmistakable.
The first sip of the neat dark-amber liquid eased his tension. After all, the old man wouldn't have ordered Kowalsky's favorite scotch placed in the car if he was going to fire him--or worse. Kowalsky wondered if the Captain had someone else lined up to do dirty work. He would. The Old Man always had backups.
Kowalsky had misjudged how things were going to be when the Captain retired and the son took over. Things had changed, but when the chips were down the Captain was still in charge. For fifteen years Gordon R. Kowalsky had taken orders from and answered only to the Captain. If a C.E.O. had to be fired, Kawalsky was the man who delivered the letter of resignation and made the poor wretch sign. If someone had to take the rap and go to jail, Kowalsky made the arrangements and did the persuading. He knew he wielded more power than the director of the FBI. Only a handful of trusted people knew the extent of the Captain's business empire and political influence.
At five minutes past midnight, the driver pulled the limo into the red brick mansion's driveway. Kowalsky wrapped the overcoat over his shoulders and stepped out into the icy wind.
The Captain's valet opened the door.
"Good morning, Stanley," Kowalsky said,
"Indeed it is, Mister Kowalsky, and a beastly night to be abroad. Have you dined yet?"
"I had a sandwich and a bottle of beer, my favorite."
Stanley nodded as he took Kowalsky's overcoat. The Captain is in his private study. You may just walk in. Can I bring you anything to eat?"
"No, thank you."
His apprehension grew with each step. Kowalsky climbed the grand circular marble stairway lined with Roman sculptures. On the second floor, he went past the elevator door, and the library. At the end of the corridor, he hesitated. Then, with resolve and without knocking, he entered the brightly lit old man's retreat.
"Good morning, Captain."
"Ah, there you are." The Captain spun his wheelchair away from the canvass he had been working on, a sun-drenched landscape in the style of Manet. "I apologize for summoning you on a night like this." He gestured toward a drinks cart near the roaring fireplace. "Help yourself to Scotch if you wish, though the weather indicates brandy."
"I had a drink on the way up, Captain."
With surprising agility, the Captain sprung from his wheelchair and flopped on the sofa in front of the fire. "Have a seat."
Kowalsky settled on a overstuffed chair and took a deep breath.
"Have you ever dreamed of being creative?"
"No, Captain." Kowalsky knew his effort at smiling would be lost on the Old Man. "The only creative people I've met were accountants. They're in jail now."
The Captain gestured toward the easel. "When I die, no-one will remember me despite my greatness, but people will go to the museum where a room will be dedicated to me, and someone will say, 'There's a great painting!' Art survives us all, my dear Gordon.
In a way, you're a work of art." The Captain rearranged himself in his seat and momentarily closed his eyes. "You've sculpted your life, your career, to where you tower over the mediocrity of New York and Washington. But, your loyalty cannot be limited to one man. Your loyalty belongs to my creation, my business and my son." The Captain leaned back and closed his eyes as if dealing with a difficult decision.
He reopened his eyes and waved a thin finger above his head. "This is the first time you have failed me."
"Captain, we only found out the professor had another safe deposit box on Friday. Someone beat us to it."
"Orloff?"
"The description fits."
"And three men got killed."
"Yes, Captain."
"You say they were machine gunned?" The old man's eyes seemed to bore into him, exposing his aggressive internal energy.
"They all had between two or three nine millimeter slugs in them, close together, a total of eight rounds. It could have been a pistol."
"Orloff was champion skeet shooter at the Lower Potomac Sports Club." The Captain shook his head slowly. "You should have consulted with me the moment you discovered his involvement."
"I had no idea--"
"My fault. I should have known Hermann's instinct would have been to trust Orloff." The old man breathed heavily and continued to shake his head. "My, my. How stupid can we be? When we sniff, we follow the scent of money. Or we look at those who money buys. We don't look for those invisible, inconsequential individuals on the periphery, or those who seem inconsequential. Orloff is one who flies under the radar. Self effacing, unnoticeable, underestimated." The Captain leaned his head back. He's of a breed that no longer exists. Have you read War and Peace?"
"No, Captain."
"You should. If there's a book that will tell you all you need to know about human nature, that's it. Externally, Orloff is Pierre but internally he is like Kurakin. Stalin was afraid of people like that. False empire builders should fear Orloff."
Kowalsky remembered the film and Henry Fonda playing a fumbling idealistic incompetent and some Italian actor in the role of dashing hussar. He had trouble conjuring one person with such opposing characteristics.
The Captain seemed to come out of his reverie. "But he does have his weak points. Like all disenfranchised aristocrats, he resents the reduced status in what he considers a vulgar society. That chip on his shoulder is his greatest enemy. Anything new on his whereabouts?"
We've shook down Toronto. My contacts in the RCMP haven't turned up anything. A delayed Aeroflot flight to Moscow took off shortly after Orloff's arrival."
"Moscow? Dear boy, pour me a finger of brandy and ruin it with a splash of soda. We have some imaginative, if not creative thinking to do."

Chapter 13

At seven o'clock the next morning, after slipping a ten-dollar note to the receptionist, Val was in the hotel office making photocopies. Once finished, he stuck the new copies into his briefcase. The originals went back into the envelope. Together with the clerk, he returned the envelope to the hotel safe. After breakfast, using one of the public phones in the lobby, he called Stuart.
"I hope I'm not disturbing you this early."
"Early? I only sleep three, four hours a night."
"Good, do you feel like visiting your friend with the computer?"
There was a long silence on the other end of the line, before Stuart said with alacrity, "I'll pick you up in fifteen minutes, I'm driving a red Lada."

#

In the daytime, the gray, beat-up Volga following didn't look capable of doing a trip around the block. Like a mangy sheep dog, it stayed close behind as Stuart dodged traffic on the way out of town. They had crossed the Neva River near the Peter and Paul fortress, and traffic thinned in the suburbs. Now they drove north along Lake Ladoga, its gray waters looking like a sea. Puffy clouds raced across the sky, dragging tails of snow.
Stuart turned the car onto a gravel road, which bounced on the uneven surface. Behind them, the Volga stopped at the entrance of the track, blocking it.
Sliding on gravel, the Lada came to a halt in front of a wooden, fairy tale house.
Val stepped out, stretched, looked at the lake and listened to the whistling wind and creaking of pines. Snowflakes bit like needles on his neck.
"Good, quiet place to do research," Stuart said.
"Looks like a storm is coming."
A young man with freckled face and unruly carrot hair stepped out into the porch fringed with latticework.
"Meet Andrei."
"Please hurry. It is almost time to start." The young man said, and disappeared into the house.
Stuart glanced at her watch. "We were lucky to get computer time today." She smiled. "This is a secure location. We can connect to the computer without having to go into the Admiralty's sanctum sanctorum."
Unlike the holiday villa appearance of the exterior, the main room of the house looked like a large office with a conference table and a bank of computer screens arranged on an L shaped table in a corner.
Val sat on a sofa facing a large plate glass window looking onto the lake.
Stuart handed Andrei a floppy. "Run this and see if it helps any."
"Immediately." Andrei sat down in front of the screens.
Val placed his briefcase on the floor, snapped it open and took out the sheets he had copied earlier. He waved them at Stuart. "I think here I have at least some of the other messages sent from your famous submarine."
She dropped the cigarette she was about to light. "You do?" Ignoring the cigarette on the floor, she stepped toward Val and snatched the sheets from his hands. "Hmm, yes, yes. The pattern is there. She went to the corner, sat next to Andrei, and began typing on a keyboard.
Val watched with detached amusement, a habit he had formed while handling examinations, being fairly certain which students would pass and who would fail. He developed this detachment as self-defense to the drama that failure represented to students with limited financial resources. He thought about the meeting with Dougan tonight. It appeared to Val the Russians were not aware of his possession of the DSXV messages. He couldn't tell what their objective was. At least now, he could create the impression that Hermann had shared with him a few sheets and he had showed them to the Russians.
"Professor?" Andrei stood in front of Val.
Startled, Val opened his eyes.
"I have placed a chart on the table. Could you possibly plot the route of a submarine going at twelve knots as far as the Sunda Straits?" He handed Val a sheet with new semi-decoded position reports.
"Sure." Val jumped off the sofa glad he had something to do. Within minutes he had plotted the reported route with the last position near the Spratly Reef. He then added two day's sailing to the Sunda Strait, marking the noon and midnight estimated positions of the sub. He wrote down the new positions on a slip of paper and handed them to Andrei.
Andrei typed the positions. On getting a ping in return, a map of East Asia appeared with a white, snaking line heading toward the Sunda Strait dividing Sumatra and Java. Dots showed the locations Val had calculated the submarine would be. Val's course coincided close with a red line, which abeam Natuna Besar Island, separated abruptly to the southwest heading for the Malacca Straits.
"That doesn't make sense," Val said.
"We're making progress," Stuart whispered. "Thirty eight times twelve. Gelwitz used twelve dummy letters." She pointed at Andrei's screen. "Somewhere, the U-3503 received orders to change course. At least that is an assumption I'm working on. She stabbed the small stack of papers Val had brought with him. Somewhere in there is the message telling the captain to go through the Malacca Strait."
"But that's crazy. The sub wouldn't carry enough fuel to detour."
"Exactly, Doctor. And why risk getting close to Trincomanlee where the British had considerable forces?"
Andrei laughed. "To go through the Suez Canal and save fuel."
"If you want to rise above lieutenant, save your humor to the junior officer's mess." Stuart turned to Val. "Well, we taught the computer to read positions in Gelwitz. It only takes it five minutes to go through the permutations. You wouldn't happen to have more?"
Glad she asked, Val said, "No, Professor Hermann showed me only these sheets." If he could learn who had been interested enough to pay big bucks for the code, he would have a better idea what to do. And someone else was interested enough to be willing to kill.
Find the seller. He would know. The Russians wanted him to do that without them getting involved. This meant he would lose their protection. "Do you know where I could buy a pistol?"
Stuart winked at Andrei, then smiled at Val. "Look under the pillow in your hotel."

#

The morning snow showers had grown into a full-fledged blizzard. Stuart's driving and reduced visibility made the return trip a test of Val's nerves.
He had half-expected to see Boikin waiting in the hotel lobby. He wasn't. Even the gray Volga had vanished.
In his room, he looked under the pillow. Of course, he didn't find a pistol.
While soaking in the hot tub, Val cursed himself for having provided only part of the messages to Stuart. That had been an overcautious mistake. The ability to track the mysterious U-3503's movements excited him. He could have made a few more copies and known where the U boat went to. At least now the Russians would think he showed them all the Gelwitz messages he had, and maybe this information would filter to the person who was ready to kill to get the code. How he would explain his sudden absence to his employers was another matter.
He could call in sick and he was going on vacation next week anyway.
Seven o'clock was probably a good time to head for the Gvardeisky Bar and meet Dougan. Again, Val looked for Boikin in the lobby. No sign of the humorous little man. Outside, most traffic had surrendered to snow plows. Val hurried, wishing he wore boots.
Three patrons sat at the bar. Dougan ate ice cream in the same booth as yesterday. He nodded at Val and gestured for him to sit.
Val ordered a Scotch from the waitress.
"You're poisoning yourself," Dougan said. "Vodka is the only safe drink and then you must drink it in the banya, with the pores open and sweat it right out. It aids blood circulation."
"Is that why you eat ice cream?"
"Raspberry."
"When are we meeting Bogo?"
"You haven't changed your mind?" Dougan smiled as if feeling sorry for Val.
"The sooner the better."
Dougan stared at Val for a moment, belched into his fist. "Tomorrow. Bring a gun with you."
"I don't own guns."
After unbuttoning his jacket, Dougan opened it. "I'm unarmed also." He smiled. "But tomorrow to meet Bogo, I'll carry a machine pistol."
"Where are we meeting him?"
Dougan's gaze bored into Val as if sizing him up. "Warsaw. Bring an extra set of underwear."
Val had a vision of police at the airport shaking him down. "Flying with guns?"
Dougan doubled up laughing and pounded the table with a fist.
Wondering what was so funny, Val watched Dougan wipe tears with a napkin.
Shaking his head and still chuckling and wiping his yes, Dougan said, "Private airplane."
"We still have to negotiate customs."
"You may have influential friends, but are stepping into an area not recommended for doctors. Those government guys will push you around, use you, and then drop you in the ****. Go back to your Smithsonian, unless you like to lead the life of a roll of toilet paper."

#

When Val got back to his hotel room, He found instead of a mint on his pillow, a compact Tokarev pistol and two extra, loaded magazines.