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.

[Brag]

Chapter 14

At quarter to eight in the morning, it was still pitch dark. The driver who had come to pick up Val, turned the car off the well-lit Pulkovo Chausse onto a dim road lined with factories.
"I thought we were going to the airport."
"Yes, the airfreight side."
Fingering the Tokarev in his overcoat pocket, Val peered outside. Last night's blizzard was replaced by a sky of unblinking stars frozen in bitter cold. The desk clerk had predicted the Neva River would freeze today.
The driver showed an ID and drove through a gate. They went past a modern airfreight building with trucks backed against cargo bays. Beyond it, a number of airplane fuselages without wings lined one side of the road.
"Here we are," the driver said. "World headquarters for Aerovoz International Airlines."
Val thanked the driver and studied a small, two-storied building. A Yellow light over a door revealed scabby paint flaking off the walls.
He entered what looked like a reception room with ancient furniture. One man slept on a worn-out sofa, another snored on a frayed, overstuffed chair.
Light and the sound of voices came from an interior door. Val went through.
Dougan leaned on a counter talking with two men wearing leather bomber jackets.
"Good morning," Val said.
Making a face, as if realizing his worst fear, Dougan glanced at Val. "Ah, here's our passenger." He then turned to the two men. "Let's go."
Val followed the trio to the back of the building and out. On the ramp stood an airplane the size of a Boeing-737 with wings above the fuselage and two jet engines protruding above the wings.
Dougan took Val by the elbow and made him stop. He pointed at the plane. "Nice, don't you think?"
"Yes." It was the ugliest flying machine Val had ever seen. Even in the gray light of dawn, the blue and white paint looked faded. In Latin letters, Aerovoz was painted on the side of the fuselage.
Gesturing like an opera singer about to break into an aria, Dougan said, "Best cargo plane in the world. It can land on short dirt strips and can easily be converted into a bomber. I own the most versatile airline in the world. Welcome to Aerovoz." He slapped Val on the shoulder.
To climb inside, they had to step over a foot in diameter, yellow tube snaking up the front door of the plane, blowing hot air into the cockpit. The almost empty cabin seemed cavernous. Dougan led toward the rear, past four pallets with crates strapped to them in the center of the cabin. In the aftermost part, stood a row of three passenger seats.
"Fasten cigarettes and no smoking belts," Dougan said in English. He dropped into what would have been the aisle seat in a passenger airplane. Val sat next to a lone window.
One of the pilots kicked the hot air duct out of the plane and closed the door. The temperature in the cabin was well below freezing. Val raised the collar of his overcoat.
"I told the pilots to simulate a short field takeoff so that you can see the impressive performance of this machine. If the Smithsonian has valuable cargo to ship anywhere in the world, we can do it."
"You own this airline?"
"I invented it, nursed it and raised it. Twelve years ago, I borrowed sixty thousand dollars and bought three airplanes. We went to fight wild fires in Southern France. After that, some of my Afghan friends needed help to fight the Taliban. In less than a year I had those airplanes paid off."
After the engines started, hot air blew out of bare ducts on the fuselage and the temperature became more bearable. The sun came up as the plane got to the front of the queue of aircraft waiting for take off.
A sudden stop pushed Val against his seatbelt. Engines whined to a crescendo. Val was pushed against the seat as brakes released. His stomach sank when the airplane rotated to a sharp angle and leapt off the runway.
"Noo kak?" Dougan shouted. "Look outside."
Val had the sensation of being in a helicopter. "I'm impressed. You have cowboy pilots."
"Best pilots in the world, and I treat them right. They know that if they go to jail, I'll get them out. The Taliban locked up one of my crews in Wagram. It took me a year, but I did not rest 'til I got them out. I tried bribery, it didn't work. Having exhausted my options, I loaded an airplane with former Spetznaz soldiers and we fought our way in. That's the way I do business."
"Some business." Val thought of the period after WW II, when American adventurers in rickety airplanes flew all over the planet. Now, apparently the Russians dominated the murky world of unscheduled cargo. Baby Boomers were not exactly an adventuresome lot. Americans had turned inward and were lost in an orgy of domestic self-contemplation.
The airplane reduced its climb angle and turned southwest.
"I'm not an office man and believe in personal contact with my customers. Most heads of Middle East states know me. In Africa they welcome me with drums. They love me in Paraguay. And what am I doing today? Delivering a piddly shipment to a stupid gangster."
"Sorry to inconvenience you," Val said relishing the idea he was inconveniencing what was probably an international criminal.
Dougan opened his briefcase and handed Val a compact machine pistol. "Do you know how to use one of these?"
An odd thrill traveled through Val's body. The weapon looked like a toy but had a satisfying heavy feel to it. Like the first rifle he got as a present for his twelfth birthday.
"This is a Bison-2. The best machine pistol in the world. You insert the magazine here. Use both hands to shoot."
Five minutes later, Val thought he had learned how to handle the gun. He handed it back. "It won't fit in my briefcase."
Dougan laughed. "We disembark showing guns, to earn respect."
"What sort of place Warsaw has become?"
Shaking his head, Dougan said. "Our departure flight plan said we're going to Warsaw. As we enter Polish airspace, we identify ourselves as a Finnish airplane flying to Rumania. Over Rumania, we change to Sharjah registration. Have you been to Tiraspol?"
"In Moldova?"
"You need to get your politics and geography updated. Tiraspol is the capital of Transdniestr."
"That's not recognized by anyone as an independent state."
"True. But don't tell it to the people there."
Transdniestr, Val thought, a narrow strip of land on the left bank of the Dniestr River. When Moldavia seceded from the Soviet Union, the Russian inhabitants rose in armed rebellion. Dissatisfied Cossacks from the Ukraine poured into the region and a mini-war ensued. Val considered the geopolitical situation in the southwest corner of the former Russian Empire as ridiculous. Ukraine, the historical cradle of Russia had gone independent. This created a problem for the ethnic salad in Moldavia. Some, afraid of being absorbed by Romania, others by Ukraine. So they created Moldova, and now Transdniestr sandwiched in between wanted to be part of Russia.
They must have crossed into Poland. The airplane made a ninety-degree turn and headed southeast.
"So this mini-rogue state must be a convenient transshipment point for the arms trade."
"People in small countries have the same right to business and prosperity as the largest countries." Dougan beat a fist against his chest. "I help small countries. I'm the champion of the underdog."
Val was in no mood to argue with the self-righteous Mafioso. He tried to sleep, but it didn't work. Two cups of tea out of a thermos later, they landed in what looked like an abandoned air base and parked in front of a rusting hangar.
While Val watched from the forward door, Dougan stepped out of the airplane and shook hands with soldiers in an open GAZ jeep flying a huge, ugly Transdniestr flag. Red with a narrow horizontal green stripe on its middle.
Finished talking, Dougan returned to the airplane. "Bogo hasn't arrived yet, so we wait." He looked at his wristwatch and shook his head. "People from the Balkans have not yet learned punctuality. How can we form a Pan-Slavic empire with people like that?"
Val was going to roll his eyes. Instead he found himself clicking his tongue. He descended the four steps to the tarmac and added two countries, to his list of places he had been to.
A truck and a forklift pulled up as the rear cargo door opened.
The soldiers drove off.
"I'd like to have ten rubles for every hour I spend waiting at an airport." Dougan said. "Then I could retire. Have you been to Nice?"
"No."
"That's where I want to retire. Warm weather . . ." He looked wistfully into the opaque sky. I could sell my airplanes and live there comfortably the rest of my life. But people need me. I don't know what the world would be like without me."
"They'd be fewer guns around for people to kill each other with," Val said, sure Dougan was a gunrunner.
Dougan tossed an arm up in a gesture of dismissal. "We save a lot of refugees from starvation. My company also sponsors an orphanage."
Val pointed at the truck, now loaded with two pallets. "What is that cargo?"
"Just rifle ammunition. Bogo's consignment is Kornet antitank missiles. That's a best selling item after the American invasion of Iraq. It goes through an Abrahms tank as if the Americans built it out of old cans. Someone tested a few just before Baghdad fell. Eighty percent kill ratio from four thousand meters. The Syrians immediately bought all available stock and the belligerent talk by the Pentagon stopped. A balance of power creates peace." Dougan gave Val a broad smile.
The truck drove off. The forklift operator lit a cigarette and went inside the airplane. The weak sun warming Val's back gave him little comfort over the eerie quiet on the vast open space.
Dougan paced up and down the length of the airplane.
"Here he comes," Dougan said, shielding his eyes.
At first it sounded like the buzz of a bee. A four engine turboprop flew alongside the runway, made a tight descending turn. It almost vanished from view before it lined up with the runway. A cloud of blue smoke marked the place where the wheels touched ground.
"Good job," Dougan said. "Now we get our machine pistols out. The transfer of goods is always a delicate, formal ceremony."
"I like your euphemisms."
"Formal relationships help in international business. Everyone knows where they stand."
Val covered his ears as the turboprop with Netranscargo written on its sides taxied in. He had visions of men pouring out of it and grabbing Dougan's missiles without paying.
The Gazik with the soldiers and big flag reappeared, but this time parked a respectable distance away from the two airplanes.
The screaming of the engines died. Only the soft noise of spinning propellers remained as a door flipped open, converting into stairs.
Two men armed with submachine guns stepped out and marched toward Dougan and Val.
"The big one is Bogo. Was champion wrestler in the Yugoslav army. He has the manners of a medieval bandit," Dougan muttered.
Val's fingers tightened around the pistol grip.
Looking like a black headed bear, Bogo and his younger blond companion stopped five paces away.
Dougan and Bogo nodded at each other.
Val gave Bogo a mental nickname--Stone Face.
"Care to inspect the merchandise?" Dougan said in English.
Bogo nodded.
"We'll be right back," Dougan said to Val.
As the two men went into the airplane, Val was left facing the blue- eyed, red-faced blond who rested a finger on the trigger guard of his submachine gun.
"I'm reaching inside for a cigarette, don't get nervous," the young man said.
Val realized he had been aiming the Bizon at the blond. He gave him what he hoped was an ironic smile, and lowered his gun. He wanted this hood to believe that he was a badass. From his days in boarding school, Val knew that bullies had to be warned off early if one was to avoid trouble.
With one hand, the man shook a cigarette from a pack and lit it with a gold lighter.
Dougan and Bogo returned discussing something. Bogo extended his hand. Blondy reached inside the pocket of his black leather jacket and handed Bogo a sock, who in turn passed it to Dougan. There was a clang of coins as Dougan shook the sock, weighing it. He looked inside and signaled the forklift driver.
The forklift headed for the airplane and took a pallet out.
"Bogo, I want you to meet Standish," Dougan said.
Bogo nodded.
Val nodded back.
Dougan waved at the soldiers in the Gazik. They dismounted and the car, with only the driver in it, approached.
"Time for lunch," Dougan said.
Blondy slung the submachine gun on a shoulder. Bogo lit a small cigar while Dougan looked as if he had won the lottery. Val relaxed, glad the exchange had gone peacefully and everyone seemed friendly.
Dougan, Val, and the Blondy clambered to the back of the open Gazik. Bogo sat in the front passenger seat, cradling his submachine gun as if expecting an ambush.
Twenty minutes later they were in Tiraspol, and drove through a neat park-like boulevard. Apparently oblivious of the cold, elderly men sat around tables playing chess.
On Suvorov Square, the sight of a huge statue of Lenin gave Val a shiver. Val thought he had traveled back in time. Faded socialist slogans adorned some of the buildings. The car turned left then drove alongside the bank of the wide Dnestr River, which once divided Russia from Romania.
The Gazik stopped in front of a Low-walled garden with tables scattered around. Behind an orchard of neatly pruned trees, stood a two storied villa with balconied wings.
"The best restaurant in town," Dougan said.
The smell of roasting meat greeted Val's nostrils as they marched through the garden.
Blondy placed his weapon on a table and sat facing the street.
A man with bow tie, white linen jacket, and a long white apron that made him look like a Parisian waiter before WWII, greeted them at the door and led to a back room.
They sat at a round table. The waiter took a bottle of Hungarian Bull's Blood wine, and poured into Bogo's glass then into Val's. He poured Narzan fizzy mineral water into Dougan's glass.
Dougan sniffed the water as if testing a fine vintage wine, took a sip and said, "Standish is with the Smithsonian Institute and has influential friends."
Bogo nodded and leaned back in his chair, his eyes boring into Val. "You already indicated that."
Val wondered if the man was capable of changing his facial expression. The salt and pepper brush cut hair accentuated an appearance of uncompromising toughness.
Val said, "I'm here to authenticate the origin of certain documents you sold. The Smithsonian institution is interested in acquiring them if the authenticity can be confirmed."
"I don't deal in art."
"But you did sell those documents to an American entity which shall remain unnamed."
"Smithsonian, don't play games with me."
"Standish," Val corrected.
Bogo clenched his fists, his shoulders arched forward as if he prepared to leap.
The waiter came into the room with a tray of sizzling and still smoking skewers loaded with meat, peppers, onion and tomatoes.
This seemed to distract the stone faced Croat, who unclenched his fists and flattened his hands on top of the table.
"Best shashlik in the world," Dougan said.
Despite the tension, Val's mouth watered at the aroma of grilled, marinated lamb and spices. He took a sip of wine, which was excellent.
The waiter slid chunks of meat, tomatoes, green peppers and onions off the skewer onto Val's plate and added what Val recognized as chelo, Iranian long grain rice.
Dougan had a tomato and onion salad on his plate.
"Good," Bogo said after chewing a piece of lamb.
Val, kept quiet, savoring the delicate blend of seasonings of the wonderful Georgian dish. It was indeed the best he had ever tasted.
After making some um, um noises over his tomatoes, Dougan said, "Nothing in the world beats tomatoes from the Balkans--Bogo, this is the last shipment of Kornets, unless you help Standish authenticate those documents. Like I said, he has influential friends."
Bogo's fork clattered on his plate and he leaned down as if to pick up his submachine-gun on the floor.
Dougan's glass of fizzy water spilled as a pistol materialized in his hand.
Bogo froze.
Val's gaze darted between his lunch partners, taking in the absurd tableau. "Gentlemen," he said. "The smell of gunpowder ruins the taste buds."
Bogo and Dougan looked at Val.
Val cut a chunk of lamb into a smaller piece, and placed it in his mouth. Trying to keep from shaking, he chewed slowly, amazed at himself, wondering where this sangue froid had come from.
A faint smile appeared on Bogo's face. Dougan returned the pistol into a shoulder holster.
Bogo stood. "Let's go outside," he said to Val.

Chapter 15

Chickens clucked inside a coop in the backyard. Bogo took out a cigar and made a production of heating the tip using two kitchen matches one after the other until the cigar ignited without touching the flame.
After a couple of long puffs, he said while exhaling, "So you have delicate taste buds, too?"
Val considered what Rick in Casablanca would have said if someone got shot in his joint. "I hate to see people bleeding during a meal."
Bogo nodded. "Smithsonian, you've got class. That stupid Dudkin thinks that if he calls himself Dougan and eats vegetables like a rabbit, people will think he is elegant."
"You don't sound happy with your business partner."
"Happiness kills you."
Val had to agree with Bogo's logic. Happiness did set one up for a fall. He had been happy when married.
Bogo watched him with a curious look. Val realized he had been clucking like a chicken in the coop. He straightened and switched his gaze to a pen with five sheep in it.
"I came here to--"
"What do you want to know?"
The question took Val by surprise. Bogo didn't seem like the type to volunteer information. "How certain are you of the documents' authenticity?"
"I need to know nothing, I'm a trader. Someone wants something, if I have it, I sell it."
"To get two million dollars, you had to convince the buyer that the product was worth it."
"To do it twice it's too much work. Do you have another two million?"
Val wondered how many people Bogo had killed in anger. He was sure had not Dougan been fast with his pistol, the lunch would have ended with someone getting shot. "The Russians have a saying, it is better to have a hundred friends than a hundred rubles. I have the friends."
"That cheap ass Dougan keeps reminding me of that. What do the Russians want? Are they pissed because the Americans outbid them? And who in the **** are you?"
"Kindly watch your language. It affects my sensitivities. I'm what people call a bookworm. A war historian."
Bogo turned to face Val, blew smoke out of the side of his mouth. A historian, eh? Really?"
Val nodded, imitating Bogo.
"You research and write?"
"Yes, I write about World War II."
Bogo nodded as a slight smile appeared on his face. "A writer. I read The Hobbit, in Serbian and English and The Three Musketeers in French."
Val smiled, hoping the brute wouldn't take it as a sign of weakness.
"My father fought in World War II. The Americans who supported Tito betrayed him. What have you written about that war?"
Was Bogo's father with Michaelovich's Chetniks or the Croat Legion? Val saw an opening and advanced cautiously. "Many short papers, and three books. "Destiny Without Honor is a history of Vlasov's Russian Army of Liberation."
To Val's amazement, Bogo chuckled. "Write anything about the Schutzkorps in Yugoslavia?"
This was like stepping into quicksand hoping it wasn't. The Schutzkorps had been organized by the Germans to fight communist partisans. A good portion of its members had been Russian émigrés living in Yugoslavia.
"Just one article, dealing with the Russians in it."
"Forget about the Croatians?"
Val took another cautious mental step. "World War II was a lot more complicated than people think nowadays."
"World War II was a Jewish plot to end European civilization."
Still wary, Val said, "According to General Fuller, the need to force guarantees on Poland by Great Britain, was influenced by the bankers who didn't like Hitler's barter program, which excluded London banks from participating in international trade."
"The Rothchilds won the war, my friend." Bogo showed a row of gold- capped teeth. "Maybe my father will agree to share a bottle of wine with you. He is war hero. He can authenticate those documents. Give me your Email address." He slapped Val on the back, forcing him to take a step forward to keep his balance. "Let's go finish that lunch."

#

The aroma of apples filled the cabin on the return flight. It made Val think of the lack of smells in American produce. Though he couldn't really tell because of the cloud cover, the return flight took a straightforward route. They overflew Kiev, Smolensk, Novgorod, landing in Pulkovo at eight thirty in the evening.
Over Novgorod, as they began descent, Dougan, who had had been working over some papers said, "I hope never to see you again, unless you want a job. You are the only person I know who gets along with that brute."
"You seem to do good business together."
"Doing business with Bogo is never good. Hardly even profitable. But it keeps his pirates from hijacking my goods. I do business with him for the sake of peace."
The remark made Val think of medieval warlords. How little had the world changed. Despite the bourgeois veneer of the industrialized nations, predators still ruled. Val felt pleased with himself the way he had handled Bogo and what he had learned from him.
A soft touch of rubber on concrete and the rumble of wheels turning told Val they were on the ground. He smiled. He no longer needed the SVR to find the origin of the Gelwitz message binder.
As Val stepped out, a black Mercedes drew up to the airplane. A chauffeur opened the rear door for him.
"Have a good trip?" Boikin smoked a cigarette in the back seat.
"Either you or I have improved our status. This morning I came to the airport in a Lada," Val said as he slid inside.
"When traveling with you I prefer a bullet proof car," Boikin said without looking at Val. To the driver, he added, "Poekhali. Lets go."
If the Russian was curious where Val had been or how the meeting with Bogo had gone, he wasn't showing it. He crushed the cigarette in the ashtray and slouched in his seat as if preparing to sleep.
Val crossed his arms and imitated the Russian spook.
Past the Victory Monument, instead of continuing toward Petersburg's center, the driver turned right.
"Where are we going?"
Boikin stretched his neck and looked around as if he had really been asleep. "To get your picture taken. My boss thinks that since you flew out of Washington in your real name. Whoever organized the visit to your apartment might put two and two together. Three days is long enough to get people here."
After a pause, Boikin added, "And someone been making phone calls to hotels asking for Professor Orloff."
A light shiver went through Val's body. "I would like to know why you people are going through all this trouble on my behalf."
"It would be disloyal of me to comment on my boss' stupidity."
Val thought he wouldn't get anywhere by asking more questions.
The car stopped in front of a seedy apartment block.
As they got out, Boikin said. "We've moved your luggage out of the hotel. You'll be staying at a safer location. Out of sight."
Great. New problem. How would he get his binder out of the hotel safe without Boikin and the rest of his gang knowing?
Val followed Boikin inside the building that held the same, not unpleasant odor, as the subway. A unique smell found only in Russian cities or where large numbers of Russians congregated. It was odd how different nationalities acquired a collective scent. Probably had to do with the diet. They took the elevator to the seventh floor.
The sign on the apartment door said:

E.V. Zhukov


Photographer


Baptisms, weddings, funerals.

Boikin rang the doorbell then rapped a code on the door.
A short man with tufts of hair pointing every which way opened the door and nodded them to come in. He pointed at a chair against a white wall and motioned Val to sit. "What nationality?"
Boikin answered, "Argentina."
Tufty switched on a bright light, wheeled a Polaroid, took a photograph, and then pushed the camera back to its corner.
Boikin handed Tuffty a blue passport. "Stamp him in and out of Germany and Italy."
"Wait fifteen minutes." Tufty vanished through a back door closing it behind him.
"Good artist," Boikin said, lighting a cigarette.
"What I'm I to do with an Argentinean passport?"
"Most people show them to some officious border guard's face."
"I couldn't pass for an Argentinean, I don't speak Spanish."
"Learn to say buenos dias. But limit your border crossings to the morning hours."
Boikin unbuttoned his overcoat and paced the room, hands clasped behind his back.
In his mind, Val composed various Emails he would send to begin straightening out the mess he got himself enmeshed. He would call in sick at work, this would take care of his time until he reached his sabbatical.
Tufty reappeared wearing a plastic green visor. "Here you are, Señor Diaz."
Val leafed through the passport loaded with visas, entry, and departure stamps.
"Let's go." Boikin waved at Tufty and opened the door. Once they were out in the corridor, he said, "When you go to England, show this passport if they ask. Once inside the country, revert to your American one. Who knows you're going to England?"
Val thought while the elevator descended. "Just the people at the office."
"So any idiot could call your office and the people there would say he's gone to England."
Val's spine tensed as anger threatened to reach boiling point. "Keep your observations to yourself. Besides, they would only say I was out of town. Our people are very discreet."
"How about the invitation, did you bring it with you?"
"Oh ****!"
Boikin shrugged. "Maybe you should reconsider going. In England, they have a tradition of snipers in the hedges. They will probably hire an Irishman."
"You really know how to ruin one's day."
"There's a worker's café just down the street. No one will know either of us. We can have a drink and relax."
The café was in a basement half a block away. A room full of smoke, hubbub of voices, clacking of domino tiles and moderately loud Russian popular music. They found an empty table in a corner. Boikin ordered coffee and Cognac.
Maybe Boikin was right. After all, no matter what the incentives, the event at Sir Reginald's was just a party. First, he had to meet Bogo's father. If the man was able to squeeze two million dollars for the message collection, he had to be aware of the importance of the documents to someone like Hermann.
Val became aware he had stopped clucking his tongue to say, "****." Hell, two million was nothing. Collectors of Nazi memorabilia would pay a lot more. Hermann's purchase was a steal. D'Albano knows. Learning the source of the documents was almost as important as the contents. Either Hermann had shared with someone that he had the file or he was double crossed by the seller.
Boikin smiled at the chubby lady who plunked two coffee cups, a small plate with lemon slices sprinkled with sugar, and poured Armenian Brandy into large glasses.
"Cheers, as they say in England."
Val wished the ever-amiable Russian would shut up and let him think.
"While you were socializing with those armaments hooligans, Professor Stuart and the Navy managed to decode several other messages that U boat sent after passing the Malacca Straits."
"After the straits?" Val couldn't hide his surprise.
Boikin took a large gulp of brandy, then sucked on a slice of lemon. Placing the lemon rind on his saucer, he answered. "After the straits."
"But how? They didn't have any more intercepts."
"They do now."
"Where did they get them from?"
"I believe they found a binder with messages in a hotel safe."
Val grabbed the edge of the table and clenched his teeth to control his outrage. "I thought the belief and respect for private property had returned to this country. Respect for the individual, the rule of law."
"No one stole anything from you. It was taken for safekeeping." Boikin shrugged. "Nothing wrong with accelerating your research."
"Accelerating my research? You have the gall."
"Don't you want to know why someone wants to kill you?"
"Maybe you should explain."
"There's something in those papers, the messages. That someone in the US government doesn't want known. We are trying to find out why and who."
"Did Bogo try to sell you the collection of messages?"
"We weren't interested enough to pay the outrageous price." Boikin's expression changed to one of surprise.
Val turned his head toward the door.
Wearing a fluffy fur hat, Stuart stood by the door undoing a muffler. She inclined her head, squinting over fogged glasses.
"What in the devil . . ." Boikin stood.
Stuart wiped her glasses with the muffler, put them back on, waved, and came to the table.
Val rose to his feet as she extended her hand.
"I have some exciting news."
"What are doing here?" Boikin asked.
"Delivering great news to the professor." She took a chair and ordered tea.
"How did you find us?"
"Your stupid driver tells the truth when reporting to the dispatcher."
Boikin glanced at his watch. "We haven't been here half an hour--you came directly here and didn't check for a tail."
"Oh, my Lord . . ."
Boikin jumped to his feet, rushed for the door, pistol in hand.

[Brag]

Chapter 16

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

Chapter 17

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

#

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

#

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

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

#

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

[Brag]

Chapter 18

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

#

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

#

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

Chapter 19

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

#

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

#

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

[Brag]

Chapter 20

Italian Alps, August 1945.

"I don't like those men."
"Do they scare you?"
"Of course not."
Pietro gave the orphan Umberto a hard stare. "In war you often deal with people you don't like. Go feed the mules."
The boy lowered his gaze and stared at the boots he had to fill with grass to snug his feet. "The war is over."
Pietro sighed. "For us it ends tonight. Now go."
Amazed at the accuracy of children's instincts for sensing evil, Pietro watched the boy amble down the slope toward the clump of pines.
When peace came, Pietro had dreamed he would again guide elegant Englishmen with walking sticks into the mountains. The war had ended. Instead of Englishmen, an American, Captain Jack, came armed with a Thompson. Pietro shook his head at the irony, tightened the pistol belt over a sheepskin jerkin, then pulled out his knife and stroked the edge with a thumb.
He glanced uphill where Lorenzo and Captain Jack sat by the entrance to the stone shepherds' hut. Normally he would have waved, but since the arrival of the American, Comrade Lorenzo had been remote, and Pietro felt excluded. They now sat talking in low voices. Except for the lace-up boots with double buckles, Captain Jack dressed like an Italian shepherd.
Pietro replaced his knife in the scabbard and descended into the clump of pines where Umberto measured the mules grain ration with his hat.
"Bona sera, comrade," the boy said as if they haven't seen each other all day.
After patting one of the mules on the shoulder, Pietro nodded mirroring the gravity displayed by the boy. "How are the animals?"
"The last of the grain is gone."
"Tomorrow we'll return to the village." He said mainly to relieve his own anxiety. He hoped Captain Jack and his men would go away, never to return. Pietro sat on the grass.
Umberto scurried off to where the uniformed Americans sat drinking Nescafe. A minute later, he returned with a tin full of coffee and handed it to Pietro.
"Grazie."
The boy sat next to him. "Those men aren't Americans."
"Keep your mouth shut. If they want us to think they are Americans so be it." The boy was far too clever for his own good. Though they wore American uniforms and carried Thompson submachine guns, Pietro thought they were Croats who had served with the German Army. He didn't trust them as far as he could spit.
As it grew dark, the column of men and pack mules set off up the mountain. Leading the mortar bombs mule, Pietro climbed the steep goat path careful not to dislodge stones. Even though lookouts had the Germans under observation, at night many things could happen. Pietro had not survived the war by giving his enemies advantages.
Sometime after midnight they reached the rock formation from where the lookouts had been watching the Germans. Pietro and the other former partisans moved toward the Swiss border to prevent any Germans from escaping.
The "Americans" began their stealthy approach toward the bunker near the peak of the mountain.
An hour before dawn, an explosion shattered the silence of the night and the distinct slow fire of the Thompsons followed. A few rips of Schmeisers answered but soon died.
Comrade Lorenzo said, "Finito. Let's go."
Pietro pulled on the mule's lead and followed uphill.
The sky had turned gray when they reached the radio station. A group of soldiers stood watching on the Swiss side of a wire fence running along the ridge line.
Ignoring the Swiss soldiers, Pietro followed a steep path down the Italian side of the mountain that led to the bunker. In gray half-light, the steel tower antenna rose like an obscene monument against nature.
Several German soldiers sat on the ground, their hands tied behind their backs. Captain Jack held a book with red covers and paced in front of three civilians, who stood by the bunker's wall, their hands also tied behind their backs.
Captain Jack yelled at them in German. He stopped in front of one of them and hit him in the face with his fist.
The German staggered. "Schweinhund," he yelled back.
Captain Jack beat him until the German fell. He then waved the book at the next German.
Disgusted, Pietro went to the tower and tied the mule to one of the tower's legs. He took out a packet of Lucky Strikes and lit a cigarette. At the bottom of the Venosta Valley, like a centipede, with it's lights on, an American convoy of trucks wound its way toward Passo di Resia and Austria.
With the taking of the radio station, the war in Italy was truly over.
Three Croats, one of them carrying a coiled rope, interrupted Pietro's relative moment of peace.
"Move that beast," the one they called Gaucho said.
With a shrug, Pietro untied his mule and took it to the edge of the flat shelf. He had seen enough hangings of collaborators.
To his surprise, the Croats hung a balding German by his wrists and lifted him a meter off the ground. One of them removed the German's hiking boots.
Captain Jack came, placed his chrome Zippo lighter under the German's foot and lit it.
The German swung his leg.
Two Croats held the man's legs in place and the American again lit his lighter.
The German jerked and screamed.

#

Indian Ocean 07'34"S - 41'03"E
"Strange," the radioman said. They have changed funkers at DSXV. I sort of miss the Morse beat of the other guy. This one sounds like a novice." He handed Teicher a message.
Teicher went to his curtained nook to read it. He drew comfort from the idea that despite the occupation of the homeland by foreigners, some German authority survived. But he wondered how his wife would collect next month's family allotment.
He sat on his bunk and studied the message. The last paragraph said: As long as you believe it is safe, hiding in Rufiji Delta approved. Spyglass plan aproved. But do not jeopardize security of vessel. Expect arrival of key personnel in approximately two-three weeks.
Teicher slid off his espadrilles, swung his feet onto the bunk and leaned against the bulkhead. With only five tons of fuel left he didn't have much choice. Either surrender or go along with Charlie's mad plan. He also considered the welfare of his crew. Most everyone suffered from heat rash. Several men had open, festering sores. If he could give them a couple of days out in the sun and fresh air, that would solve the problem.
Charlie insisted that the Tanganyikan natives were friendly to the Germans. For added security, the shore party would pose as up-country farmers on a holiday safari. What Teicher wasn't sure about was how Charlie's proposed act of piracy would affect the submarine's legal status.

#

Something bothered Val. He stopped studying the partially decrypted messages provided by Shapquine, and looked out the window. A light mist drifted over the swans as the outside lights came on. "So if Phillby was right about the raid taking place in May. The station continued to operate for almost three months."
"A common practice in the spy business," Shapquine said. "To send misinformation or whatever."
Val nodded slowly, hiding his growing excitement. Everything was beginning to make sense. Somehow he had to make contact with the CIA without his enemies or his so called protectors knowing. But then, Hermann was killed on his way to a meeting with a CIA officer. He looked at each of his companions in turn, thinking of the old expression that the world of espionage was a world of smoke and mirrors.

Chapter 21

What amazed Val was not the level of Franco-Russian collaboration, but the number of years the Russians had been working on the mystery of Station DSXV. One nagging question remained. How come the American government wasn't involved in investigating the disposition of the uranium? Sure, the international situation was tricky and a number of governments no longer considered the United States a reliable partner.
Val put the basic facts together. A WWII German submarine, which never surrendered. An old code no one been able to completely break. Art theft investigations, blackmail, murder. Where was the connection?
When an answer eluded him, Val would go to sleep concentrating on the question and in the morning the answer would seem obvious.

#

This time it didn't work.
After a luxurious English cooked breakfast of eggs, fried tomatoes and mushrooms Val left the inn.
The day before, they had exchanged cars. Shapquine gave Val the keys to a Jaguar XKJ and drove off with Boikin in the French registered Peugeot. Val guessed that Boikin was using a French identity.
As always, the English weather astonished Val, today it felt like summer and it caused a totally unwarranted light hearted mood. Logic told him that that the people after him would cover their bases and stake out Lemming Hall in case he showed up. Even without the threat of ambush, seeing Claudia would be a tense experience. She had a husband, and they belonged to different economic strata. So no reason to get excited, old boy, he mentally said with an English accent.
Driving with the window open, he absorbed the country smells and allowed hormones take over his mood. Enjoy it while you can, he told himself. He felt like a soldier on leave from the front. Live for today because tomorrow you'll die. With the knowledge that there was no way he could come out of this crazy situation alive, a new calm assurance came over Val.

#

He parked in the shade of the four-story red brick Lemming Hall surrounded by immaculately kept gardens. Val sighed. His family had owned an even grander estate in Russia before the revolution.
"Good afternoon, sir." A frail looking old man in black jacket and striped trousers said as Val pulled his suitcase out of the trunk. "Are you Count Orloff?"
"His grandson."
"I am Phillip, his lordship's valet. May I have your luggage?"
"Thank you, Phillip. I'll carry it myself. I need the exercise."
Phillip tilted his head to one side. "Very well, sir. I will show you to your room."
The clinking of silverware being set in the dining room rang as they crossed a hall with stuffed heads of African big game mounted on the walls. The old boy slowly led Val up a set of creaking stairs. He paused on the second floor landing. "There will be tea on the terrace shortly. His lordship looks forward to meeting you for drinks in the library at six thirty and begs you not to dress for dinner."
Val smiled inwardly. This was like stepping into a period piece coached by an aging actor.
Phillip resumed the climb to the third floor.

#

Puffy scattered clouds drifted lazily over green fields. The sun was hot enough that entering the shade of the marquee over the terrace was welcome.
A tall man in a tweed jacket, riding boots and breeches poured tea into Claudia's cup.
Val stopped for a moment admiring Claudia's shapely derriere melted into tight riding breeches. She wore a sweater draped over her shoulders, with sleeves wrapped around her neck.
They both turned as Val approached the table set up as buffet.
"Hello, you must be Professor Orloff?" the man said. A mop of unruly hair gave him a friendly aspect.
"Yes."
"Bond, Tony Bond." He gestured toward Claudia. "Contessa D'Albano."
"We've met before. Was it two years ago? You must call me Claudia." She offered Val her hand. "I am fascinated, the way you write."
Val stood almost frozen. He hesitated then brought her hand to his lips. "Pleasure to seeing you again."
She rewarded him with a regal smile.
Val smiled back, intrigued and pleased with this new conspiratorial relationship.
"Tea, old chap?"
"Thank you."
Val put a couple of scones on a plate, poured heavy cream and plopped strawberry preserves on top.
They sat at a table at the edge of the terrace.
"You must be an old Africa hand," Bond said.
"Not at all."
Claudia said, "Professor Orloff is a historian, he wrote my husband's history."
"Without having been to Africa?"
"Historians learn about the world in libraries. That's why our writing is so dull."
Claudia covered her mouth as she chuckled.
"Touché, old chap. I have never learned to keep my mouth shut."
The way Bond said it, Val thought he meant exactly the opposite. Claudia's strange behavior rang alarm bells inside Val's mind. He decided to be extra careful with Bond. "I gather you've been to Africa."
"Dear me, yes. Spent too much time there. It's almost a family tradition. The tea business, you know."
"Tony recently escaped a terrible revolution, with the skin between his teeth."
Claudia must have misunderstood Val's amused expression and smiled back at him. "I so admire men of dashing adventure. It is so romantico."
Val thought if his ex had been Italian that's what she would have said when she left him to shack-up with the CIA guy. He was going to say romantic men were a bunch of jerks. Instead, he said, "Admirable people."
"Do you ride, old chap?"
"My parents tried to get me on a carousel once."
"You must have been a comical child," Claudia said.
"Delicate."
She tilted her head to one side and looked at him with appraising eyes. "I think you are indecently pulling my leg."
"You have lovely legs to pull, my dear," Bond said, a devilish grin on his face.
"You always say such nice things."
Val's discomfort and dislike for Bond increased. He had obviously interrupted a tete-a-tete. But for some reason Claudia did not want Bond to know they had met a few weeks ago or he was more than a passing acquaintance. Maybe Bond was her jealous lover? Val thought he had entered a social minefield.

#

To bring his shyness under control, Val poured himself two fingers of cognac out of the bottle he bought at the duty free store. From his window he watched the sun go down while smoking a thin Agio cigar. His mind confused, he speculated what really caused Claudia's zigzags.
At 6:25 he checked himself in the full length mirror in the bathroom. He should have stopped somewhere long enough to have his clothes pressed. For a moment he contemplated putting on his Bugs Bunny tie to distract attention from his rumpled charcoal gray suit.

#

Two men couldn't contrast more. Tall, slim with curly white hair and an aquiline nose, as always, Count Franco D'Albano looked the part of Italian aristocrat. Despite his advanced age and bad leg, he stood ramrod straight. Sir Reginald Nesbitt had a pudgy red face and pale liquid eyes. A few wisps of hair plastered to his head and a suit as shabby as Val's made him look like a destitute porcupine. He turned and smiled as Val entered the library. "Karibu Bwana, I trust you're happily installed in Lemming Hall. You've wrote a splendid story on Count D'Albano, my erstwhile enemy."
D'Albano inclined his head slightly. "It is so good of you to have come." He turned to Sir Reginald. "I am now totally convinced that Val is a man of integrity. Quite frankly it was my wife who persuaded me not to treat him as another paparazzi."
"Franco," Claudia exclaimed from a corner of the room.
Sir Reginald said, "Tonight we shall have a nice quiet remembrance about how this mokoro. Evaded me for three years. Sherry, or would you prefer a stronger stay-loosener?" He led Val to a little table with bottles of sherry and brandy.
"Stay-loosener?"
"Half sherry, half brandy. It fools the ladies."
"Let's see if it fools me."
Sir Reginald laughed. "Good chap. Though the official celebration is tomorrow. Today is the actual anniversary of when Franco and I exchanged shots for the first time."
"Too bad I was suffering from an eye infection," D'Albano said, "or I would have killed you."
"If I had my hunting .375 on that day, you wouldn't be here drinking my best sherry."
Claudia, dressed in a black skirt and loose cream blouse approached the table as Sir Reginald filled glasses. She said to Val, "Now that you have met Sir Reggie, you can better appreciate the special friendship they have."
Sir Reggie chuckled. "My dear girl, Franco is a very lucky man to have such a devoted and beautiful wife."
As they all clustered around Sir Reggie, D'Albano raised his glass. "I would like to offer a toast to those who fought like gentlemen on both sides of the war. There must be a special place for them near the pantheon of the gods--to their eternal memory."
"To good old boys," Sir Reginald added.
Val thought of the vivid scene he had written of D'Albano walking into the posh Muthaiga Club in Nairobi shortly after the war ended and meeting up with his old enemies.
Leaning on the cane he had to use after the crocodile attack while crossing the Tana River, D'Albano paused at the entrance to the bar and surveyed the room still heavy with military uniforms. Several he had met during his safari in 1939, shortly before the start of the war. Pimm's cup in hand, Reggie Nesbitt saw him first and shouted for all the bar to hear, "Gentlemen, surrender. The Italians finally invaded Nairobi."
Over 50 years later D'Albano still limped. Something in Val's mind tugged at his memory--crocodiles, rivers.
Spyglass also had gone to a river with a delta but 300 miles further south to where D'Albano said he had been. In Russia, Andrei had said, Spyglass was apparently a British subject of German descent. He was born in Tanganyika and went through Abwehr training in Berlin during the summer of 1938. His name was Karl Opitz. After completing his training he returned to East Africa."
"Did any of you ever meet Karl Opitz?" Val asked.
D'Albano gave Val a curious look. "No."
"Those were the good old days." Sir Reggie said. "The world has changed, it has become vulgar. Breeding no longer counts, people are judged by their bank accounts, and business empires they control." He glanced at Val and smiled. "That's why tonight our gathering is limited."
The implied compliment pleased Val, but it was obvious Sir Reggie was eager to change the subject. And D'Albano's negative was a bit too quick. Could he remember that clearly whom he knew or had met more than half a century ago? Val decided, D'Albano had just lied and Sir Reggie knew this.
Everyone's closets were full of skeletons, and Val accepted it.
The idea that he might have written a book that included historical inaccuracies began to gnaw at his mind. "A safari in 1939 must have been a great experience," Val said to D'Albano.
"Heavens, my dear chap. In those days Kenya was called God's Country," Sir Reggie said. But let's not dwell in the past. Nowadays we have to act responsibly toward Africa. Franco and I do just that, we participate in a number of charities. And as you will see tomorrow we plan to raise quite bit of money."
Val smiled back at Sir Reggie. "I'd be delighted to hear your side of the Abissinyan campaign."
"Nothing much to tell beyond my own memoirs and what you have written about Franco. You have mentioned the two skirmishes in which Franco and I participated. That is the limit of my war experience."
"Who with did you go with on that safari?"
D'Albano put his hand against his forehead. "My photographic memory is still good, but I have trouble with names." He removed his hand, shook his head and gave Val a big grin. "But you know, I finally did find that diary."
"You did? Would it be possible to see it?" Better late than never. Val wondered how many inaccuracies he would find. Working from notes written by D'Albano had been a bitch. If there ever was a second edition, Val would make corrections and include photographs of the diary.
"My dear friend, of course. I brought it with me. We can go through it on Monday, if you like."
"That would be fantastic." Going through the diary would assuage the doubts that had risen in his mind and confirm that D'Albano had nothing to do with Spyglass.
"Just thinking of going through diaries gives me a thirst. How about a refill before we're called to dinner?" D'Albano said.
Claudia said, "Val, theirs is a romantic story of a great friendship."
Val remembered how when working on the count's notes, whenever he'd find a discrepancy she'd move her chair closer and rub her breasts on his arm as she leaned to see better. Maybe that's what made her explanations convincing. Sure, blame it on her breasts.
It surprised Val that the aroused suspicions still bothered him, he caught himself at one cluck and smiled jovially. He looked at Claudia. "Of course, it is one of the greatest stories I've ever ran across."
Dressed in a swallowtail coat, Phillip entered the room and announced, "Your Lordship, dinner is served."
During dinner they talked about the theater, opera and international current affairs. Despite his internal agitation, Val had no trouble in holding his own and explained his interest in little known events of World War II.
As they finished the roast pheasant, Claudia said, "So you are interesting in events no one cares to know?"
Val smiled at her. "Obscure events that could vanish into the historical well of darkness if someone doesn't retrieve them in time."
With a glint in his eyes, Sir Reginald said, "You mean to say that mystruggle was an obscure event?"
D'Albano chuckled. "Reggie, your illustrious guest is elevating your pathetic wild goose chase to a footnote in history."
"Am I too late to toast the best of enemies?" Tony Bond strode into the room.
"Bloody tea merchant."
The way Bond looked at Sir Reginald, Val guessed there wasn't any love lost between uncle and nephew.
"You may join us for coffee," Sir Reggie told Bond.
Finished with Queen's pudding. They moved to the trophy hall.
After quickly downing one brandy and soda, Bond said, "If you'll excuse me I'm off to bed. Early start tomorrow." To Claudia, he said, "Will you ride Nyati tomorrow?"
"Love to."
"Very well, will have it saddled by eight."
"You are a big dear. And saddle some gentle horse for our dear professor." She looked at Val. "Riding in England is to be not missed. Phillip will find you boots."
The image of a black hooded sniper lurking in the hedges appeared in Val's mind. He immediately dismissed the thought that Claudia could be part of a trap. No, that was carrying suspicions way too far. It was totally inconceivable.
The eyes of the trophies on the walls reflected flames in the fireplace. With a generously filled balloon glass in hand, Val settled in a wing chair. Part of his research for the book on D'Albano was Sir Reginald's memoir, Man Hunter. Since Val was now sure that D'Albano sailed out of Somalia in a U-boat, Nesbitt's book was also a lie. "Sir Reginald, I found your book fascinating reading, especially your vivid descriptions of Ethiopia and your adventures in Somalia and Northern Kenya. But your service in Tanganyika at the end of the war gets only a sketchy mention."
"The adventure was over, there was nothing else to add."
Val nodded. "An anticlimax?"
D'Albano chuckled. "Walking into a bar full of former enemies, you can hardly call it an anticlimax."
"Ah," Val said, beginning to see the two old boys more as partners in crime than in shared adventure. If his suspicions were right, he had been royally bamboozled into writing some sort of whitewash.
Claudia said, "I have studied old issues of the Naval Institute Proceedings you write many articles about German submarines."
His glass rattled against a side table as D'Albano placed it down.
"Have you been investigating me?" Val asked.
"Researching." She smiled from behind a balloon glass she held with both hands. "You also wrote about General Vlasov's renegade army and the real liberation of Prague."
She was masterful about changing the subject into an area from where there was no escape. His mind working on two parallel tracks, Val spent the rest of the evening explaining how Vlasov's Russian Army of Liberation moved into Czechoslovakia in futile attempt to ward off that country's fall into the hands of the Soviets. While going through the practiced lecture, he thought of the puzzle pieces coming together. De U-3305 sailed to the Rufiji Delta in Tanganyika and Nesbitt served there at the end of the war. By now Val was almost certain D'Albano and Nesbitt were using him to cover their tracks. Only Hermann's role in this still remained a mystery.

#

As Val had expected, his horse wasn't a half dead nag suitable for a novice. The fifteen hand chestnut pawed the cobblestones of the stable yard and snorted as a groom with wicked eyes held him while Val lengthened the stirrups, which had been set for the legs of a child.
Mounted on a roan hunter, Claudia quietly clomped about the yard. Val loosened the bit straps two holes, and gave the groom a dirty look. The horse seemed to calm down a little. After tightening the girth, Val took the reins, patted the horse on the shoulder, and mounted.
A tremor rippled through the horse's neck. Before it had time to buck, Val pressed his legs forcing the horse to move forward. "I'm ready," he shouted to Claudia.
Claudia was an experienced equestrienne and familiar with the local set up. Yet she hadn't said anything about the groom giving Val a neurotic dropout from the race course.
Despite its nervous temperament, the horse had been well schooled. Val eased on the rains and the horse followed the bit, lowering its head until the nostrils almost touched the ground. Satisfied with the horse's reactions, Val gathered the reins.
They moved at a brisk walk down a lane bordered by naked trees.
"I see the doctor no longer keeps you off horses."
"I'm better now." She laughed. "I know you try to look the city slicker professor. But when you ride, you have that relaxed posture of the old cavalry. Andiamo." She broke into a trot.
With a slight pressure of his fingers, Val checked his horse's impulse to race, then pressed him into a trot. With satisfaction, he thought how he had done the same thing with Boikin and Shapquine. They were like thoroughbred race horses, difficult to control when at full speed.
"That gate ahead. We open or jump?"
The metal barrier looked like four foot tall. A bit high for a first jump with an unknown animal. "Do you know this horse?"
"He was steeple chaser."
"Then we jump."
Claudia broke into a canter. Val extended the trot, keeping up with her. Six canter strides away, he shortened the reins, broke into a left lead canter, and felt the powerful beat of the hooves as the horse's spine compressed.
Slightly ahead of him, Claudia took off. Out of the corner of the eye, he appreciated her perfect form. His own arrival was slightly off. He extended the horse's last stride before takeoff.
The horse jumped cleanly over, with height to spare.
After landing, Claudia looked back. "Bello," she yelled.
They cantered over a wide pasture with scattered sheep. The sun rose from behind a line of trees turning the dew on the grass to gold.
Val took a deep breath of the brisk air and wished he had never seen the Gelwitz Code. He scanned the edges of the pasture for suspicious movement and felt the bothersome bulk of the Sig Sauer in a shoulder holster under the loose borrowed sweater.
They jumped over another gate, and Claudia broke into a gallop. It didn't take Val long to pass her. "You should have asked for a horse instead of a donkey."
"It is polite to give older men the bester horse."
Val checked the horse a little. They raced on a path between a plowed field and a hedge. The next gate was a good five feet tall. Best to go through rather than over. "We open the next one."
"Are you afraid?"
"Yes." Val brought his mount into a reluctant trot. He looked back as Claudia caught up with him, laughing.
For no reason at all, Val laughed, too.

When his gaze returned to the gate, he saw the man.

[Brag]

Chapter 22

The man wore a brown cloth cap and had a shotgun in the crook of his arm. Val brought his horse to a walk, removed the hand from under the sweater. The double barreled shot gun was cracked open.
"Jolly good morning." The man opened the gate. "See any pheasant?"
"Just some wild, man-eating sheep about a mile back."
"Congratulations on your miraculous escape."
The flippant answer jarred Val. He wasn't sure if the man was carrying on with the silly banter or referred to the assassination attempts.
"Are you staying in Lemming Hall?"
"Yes, we are," Claudia answered.
"In that case I shall see you tonight. Christopher Burton, one of Sir Reggie's neighbors."
Val touched the brim of his trilby, wondering why Burton didn't have a dog with him. "Valentin Orloff, Contessa D'Albano."
"Have a pleasant ride."
As they trotted off, Claudia said, "Burton is a great grandnephew of Burton the African explorer. You must get us invited to his house. He has great art collection. Tonight that is your mission."
"And if I fail?"
"I will not speak to you, ever."
"Any reward if I succeed?"
"You may taste this." She leaned over puckering her lips.
Like in a dream, their lips touched. Val heard the swish of her whip, and Claudia took off at a full gallop.
The business of controlling his horse brought Val out of the briefly stupefied state. This time, Val had to push his horse, yet he kept loosing ground.
Coming to a hedge, she slowed a bit and flew over, disappearing on the other side. Val went over expecting a large drop. The horse landed inside a wide ditch splashing water, stumbled. Val let go of the reins to give the horse full freedom of the neck and leaned back. The horse shot forward, making another leap.
Out of balance, Val felt himself sliding off the saddle.
He gathered his arms around him and tried to relax as he and horse separated.
Icy water took Val's breath away. He crawled out of the ditch before checking for damage. At least all his limbs worked. With his hat, he wiped mud and water off his face.
In the distance, Claudia had grabbed his horse's reins and standing on the stirrups, brought both animals to a halt.
Val staggered to his feet, wondering how the ammunition in the pistol was doing. He turned his back to Claudia, pulled the pistol out, removed the magazine and shook water out. He replaced the Sig into the holster as he heard Claudia trot up.
"If that fall didn't kill you, you will die with pneumonia." She leaned forward to hand him the reins.
"Thank you." Val took the reins, turned away from his horse, swung his left leg across his right, kicked sideways, and vaulted onto the saddle.
"Mr. Carousel you know how to impress."
"Trying to warm up."
"We must go back quickly."
Before she had time to take off. Val leaned over and grabbed her reins right under her horse's mouth. "Before we go, will you explain why do you pretended we haven't met recently?"
"Take your hands off my horse, signore."
Val looked into angry eyes, and let go of the reins.
"That's better."
"I'm confused, will you explain?"
"Of course. When you sent the Email saying Professor Hermann had an accident and asking about a code, Franco said we know nothing, nothing about any code.
Val resumed the walk across the pasture. His teeth were beginning to chatter. "Professor Hermann mailed the code to me just before he got killed."
"He must trust you very much." Claudia lowered her head as if thinking. "Franco said to here pretend we hardly know you. He doesn't trust Tony Bond."
"Andiamo." She shot off at a gallop.

#

With all the hired help, some who obviously were temporary, Lemming Hall bustled like a hotel. Val said he would skip breakfast. To get rid of the chill that had settled into his bones, he soaked for a long time in a hot tub, sipping a glass of brandy.
He chose a sports jacket and the paisley silk scarf he had worn the night his throat got almost cut, to wear to lunch.
When Val descended the stairs, a crowd of people milled in the trophy hall, drinks in hand.
Tony Bond detached himself from the mob and handed Val a glass of champagne. "I hope you like it. It was the handiest thing to grab."
"It will do fine, thank you."
"I had a busy morning putting up arrows leading to the Hall, picking up people at the train station and airport."
"I didn't expect so many guests."
"Every decent bed for ten miles around has been taken. People from all over the world have come. Let me introduce you to a few."
Luis Komora, the Kenyan Ambassador, Karl Von Arent, a German businessman, Tristan Lewkovitz from Austria, Lorenzo Castagnola owner of the Archeologia hotel chain, Sir Edmond Lathrop, were some of the names Val could remember as Bond herded him through the room.
Val got the impression Bond kept him busy by introducing him to all the wrong people. He searched the crowd for Claudia. He spotted a familiar face, Peter Carr who had been one of his equitation students at the Upper Potomac Sports Club.
"Will you excuse me? There's someone I got to see." With relief, Val disengaged from Bond.
Grabbing a glass of red wine from a passing waiter, Val approached Carr. "Remember me?"
Carr, who had been talking with a youngish couple, turned. "You do look familiar."
"Have I changed that much?"
"Well, well, if it isn't the Mad Russian. I still have saddle sores. Didn't expect to run into you. What a pleasant surprise. It's like good old times." To the couple, he said, "Will you excuse us?"
He took Val by the arm and dragged him through a half open French window.
"I didn't mean to interrupt."
"No interruption. Glad to see you. What are you doing here?"
On the terrace, the abrupt change in temperature brought out a slight shiver in Val. "Like everyone else, freeloading off the Viscount. I find the English countryside relaxing."
"So do I. So do I, great excuse to take the weekend off."
"You live in England now?"
"No, flew over."
Val wondered what kind of airplane Carr got around in. Surely it would be more comfortable than Dougan's "best in the world."
"Tell me about yourself. Heard you've become an influential lobbyist."
"Consultant, and not the least bit influential. How is your father?"
"The old boy is still ticking."
"Give him my regards when you see him."
"I will, I will." Carr slapped Val on the shoulder with what Val thought was excessive bonhomie.
"Brr. It's getting cold here." Val stepped toward the door.
"You still haven't told me what you're doing here."
Val waved his wine glass. "Getting another one of these and then attacking the promised curry lunch."
"Need a ride to the States?"
"Thanks. I have an invitation to go to Russia." Val was grateful at the opportunity to toss a red herring. Carr and Bob Lunsen where like peas in the soup in college.
"Really? What will you be doing there?"
"I'm going to dig in the basements of museums. See if I can find some Nazi stolen goods." Val went inside, not looking whether Carr followed or not. At the Potomac Club, like his grandfather, Val was often invited to the social functions and showed up because he was expected to. When the conversations turned to money or politics, which was most of the time, Val felt uncomfortable and at a loss. He would wander about say hello to people and vanish as soon as he thought polite. Today he had the same feeling of alienation. Rich people were a different breed. Carr's excessive friendliness made him feel as if ants ran inside his trouser legs. "Brr, I was getting cold."
Over the babble of voices, Carr said, "Has it ever occurred to you to retire early? Get a horse farm?"
"No."
"I have an estiuancia in Argentina, breed horses and raise cattle. I could use a new manager. It's a good life, like running your own country."
Val chuckled. "If I didn't have my own land-holding, the offer could be tempting. Thanks for asking."
"Hundred and twenty thousand head of cattle. Fifty brood mares, fabulous stallions, polo field next to the main house. I'm sure it pays more than teaching and working at the institute."
You look familiar. For someone who he hadn't seen for fifteen years, Carr was well versed on Val's current situation. "I'm a historian, not a cattle baron, comfortable with my ABCs, that's analysis, books and cobwebs."
"You still retain that sense of humor. Think about it. I am staying with Sir Christopher Burton 'til tomorrow night." Carr nodded stiffly and walked into the crowd.
What was that all about? The memory of the nightmare brought out another shiver. Maybe he was suffering from hypothermia after this morning's dunking.
As Val approached the queue to the curry buffet, he spotted Claudia almost at the head of the line. She waved a plate she had in her hand. "Come, you almost lost your place."
"How nice of you, Contessa."
"Franco limits his lunch to a crust of bread, two olives, cheese and a glass of wine. He is resting for this evening, so you will escort me." She then whispered, "Today I'm not comfortable in big company."
To make more space for guests, tent walls had been added to the marquee over the terrace. Val pointed at a table next to the tent wall.
"Yes, perfect. If we sit and growl like mad dogs in the English sun, not more people will sit out our table."
Val laughed heartily, almost spilling food.
"Did you talk to Sir Christopher about wanting to see his paintings?" Claudia asked, as they took places at the table for four.
"Haven't seen him. But oddly enough, I think he may be expecting me."
"Oh, caro, you're brilliant."
"How come you haven't been answering my Emails?"
Claudia lowered her eyes and toyed with her fork. "I was busy."
"Oh"
She looked up with a pained expression on her face. "Not been trying to avoid you."
"No, problem. I was simply curious," Val said nonchalantly.
Claudia put her fork down, clanking it lightly against her plate. "Oh, Val, you are such a dear . . . I was in the hospital."
"What happened?"
"Nothing, nothing. Just a routine check up."
Val could see she didn't want to talk about it. "I forgot to tell you how great you look."
She beamed a smile at him. "I feel good, too."

#

Feeling sleepy, Val stood by his window watching a crew erect a large yellow and white-striped tent in the back lawn. It reminded him of Hermann and the last time he has seen him socially. Val brushed off gloomy thoughts.
The various curries had been excellent. Maybe they tasted better because of Claudia's cheerful company. Val hadn't enjoyed himself so much in a long time. She told him that after dinner and a charity auction, there would be a dance.
"Do you like the Glen Miller?" She had asked.
"Yes."
"Good, we will dance with cheeks together."
Val smiled, Claudia was an unguided missile. He stretched to ease the stiffness that reminded him of his fall.
An urgent knock brought him to the present. Irritated, he went to the door, and opened it.
Claudia stood wearing a pearl-gray silk robe. Her face had a similar pallor. "Franco is dead," she said in a hoarse voice.
Val stepped back as the words hit like a slap in the face. "Are you sure?"
"He is still warm but looks blue."
"There must be a doctor among the guests."
She pointed a finger at his armpit. "Franco also bring pistol. Before he died, he shoot it."
Val stepped back, reached for his jacket on the bed and put it on. "Take me to his room."
Claudia led down a hallway toward the front of the manor. She opened a door and stood aside.
The old count stared at the ceiling, his mouth and eyes open. The vitality and humor gone, his face frozen into an expression of effort or determination. It seemed like the count was surprised when death came.
Val noticed the little hole through the comforter. Had Claudia not have said the old boy had shot a pistol, Val wouldn't have paid attention to it. He lifted the covers expecting to find a pistol in the count's hand.
The hand was empty.
But the sheet also had been torn and showed a light scorch mark and powder residue. Val gently lifted D'Albano's head, pulled a pillow from under and flipped it over. A damp spot probably from saliva, told Val the old man had been suffocated with the pillow.
He glanced back. Claudia stood by the door, her hands pressed against her cheeks.
On a nightstand stood what was left of D'Albano's lunch, a cheese board with what looked like goat cheese, the remains of a baguette, a small plate with some black olives and an empty glass.
Val replaced the pillow under the head.
"I am glad I know you didn't do it," Claudia said. "He was afraid you came to kill him."
"What?"
"He was always afraid."
"Why?"
She shook her head. "I do not know."
Val looked back at the count. He had come for nothing. "We have to tell Sir Reggie." He headed for the door.
"We must say he died in his sleep. He had a weak heart."
"We can't do that. He was murdered."
"It will ruin the party."s
Val took a deep breath. "You can't be that frivolous."
Claudia closed the door. "He was a great man. We can't filthy his life with murder."
"You didn't kill him, did you?"
"You are a monster. How can you say that?"
"And let the murderer get away with it?"
"You carry a pistol because you know trouble come. You come here looking for the trouble." She pointed at the bed. "He was right, you killed him."

Chapter 23

At a loss for words, Val stared back at Claudia.
Leaning on the door, holding onto the door knob, she glared back. "Ever since you wrote your first letter, Franco said you were to bring trouble. I'm sorry I convinced him to meet and work with you. I thought you were honorable. Now you want to dirty the name of a great man. You're worse than paparazzi."
"I have trouble understanding, maybe you should sit down."
"I'm going to find and kill the murderer. Me, you understand?"
"How are you going to do that?"
Claudia folded her arms under her breasts. "First, I will tell Doctor Pescetto Franco died, he will make the necessary papers to ship Franco back to San Luca." She stopped abruptly, her face twisting into a frown as if thinking hard.
At least the poor girl wasn't proposing some Agatha Christie Murder in the Manor scenario. "And the clue to the killer is in Italy?"
"Tony Bond did it. He appears, pouff, from someplace in Africa. He doesn't come to lunch. He is a mercenary. Somebody paid him. If they think we don't know Franco was murdered, they will drop their guard."
"And why would he or they have murdered the count?"
"Because Franco knew something terrible was done. It will ruin many reputations. They were afraid he would tell you." She shook her head. "How mistaken they are. Franco had a fancy story ready for you, and a false diary he supposedly wrote during the war."
Val nodded. "The diary Franco mentioned is a forgery?"
"Yes."
"But the book is written and published. The objective of making Franco's version seem like the truth has been accomplished." And I've been used to perpetuate a fraud, Val wanted to add but restrained himself.
Claudia opened a closet door and rummaged inside. After a minute she turned. "They took the diary," she said, putting a hand on her forehead.
"So they study the diary, realize it's a fake and come after the real diary that you have."
Claudia put a hand over her heart and gaped at Val as if in shock.
"You do have the real diary, don't you?"
"It's in a safe place."
"That doesn't matter. They'll come after you anyway, and make you talk." The picture Val's mind conjured was unpleasant to the extreme.
She looked at him expressing concern. "What, you have pain?"
"A nasty thought crossed my mind. "Torture will not make you prettier."
She crossed the room and stood looking at her husband old enough to be her grandfather. After a few moments she unfolded the top sheet and covered his face.
What did Hermann's face look like when he died? This was the second death of someone who wanted to tell Val something. A new thought came to him. He had been after D'Albano for years, but Hermann was killed only two weeks ago. Like a photograph in an acid bath, revelation came slowly. Comparable to some chemicals, separated, the DSXV file and D'Albano's diary were stable, but if brought together, the mixture would be explosive. It had probably been through d' Albano that Hermann learned about the existence of the DSXV file. Whatever it was Hermann had discovered gave him wealth and power. But he hadn't known how to use it and it got him killed.
Val realized Claudia asked for the second time, "Are you trying to scare me?"
Val shook his head slowly. "I need to see the real diary."
"That's what I thought. First I must consult his will."
"We're not dealing with a normal passing away. Time could be of essence."
"I must respect the wishes of the dead."
Something nagged on Val's mind. He looked around the room. Claudia leaned against the wall, her hands behind her back. By the shape of the robe she wasn't wearing anything underneath. "Where you in the bathroom while they killed him?"
"I don't know where I was. Maybe having lunch with you. Maybe in my room. I don't know exactly when him or they killed him. I came to see if he was comfortable."
"Oh, you have separate bedrooms?"
She nodded and bit her lip.
Val stood, uncomfortable. He always managed to say the wrong thing, ask the wrong question at the wrong time.
Claudia finally said, "He was like a father. It was simpler to marry me than to adopt and he had a fascination for beautiful women." She shook her head slowly. "He was a good man."

#

The murmur of conversations and the sound of laughter struck a discordant note in Val as he emerged from his room dressed in a tuxedo. Only Sir Bertie and Doctor Pescetto were aware of D'Albano's death. And of course the murderer. Pescetto had looked at the body, found no pulse and wrote out a death certificate. The other guests would be told the count was indisposed. Val had found a telephone outlet in the library and sent an Email to Boikin: Spyglass partner is dead.
Val went down the creaky stairs.
Even though dressed like every other man in the room, he felt conspicuous. A ten piece band played nineteen forties music. Claudia stood surrounded by a group of jolly people and appeared to be having the time of her life. What was fake, her affection for Franco or the show she was putting on tonight? No doubt she was a superb actress.
After picking up a Scotch and soda at the bar, Val added the Pakistani or Indian waiters to the list of suspects. This party seemed like a grotesque joke. He wondered who in the crowd also had a list. A list of victims in which Val's name was included, and Claudia's recently added.
The music stopped.
"Ladies and gentlemen, signori e signoras, Mesdames et monsieurs, meine Damen und Herren" Sir Reggie spoke into a microphone. "To celebrate the anniversary of a great friendship, Count D'Albano and I have donated a million pounds each to the Ethiopian and Eritrean Orphans Fund. We shall now pass the pith helmet where you can deposit your generous contributions to this worthy organization. Euros are accepted."
Laughter rippled through the crowd.
He then pointed at a painting on an easel. "We then have this splendid Matisse authenticated by Christie's, on which you can bid in silent auction."
The band broke into God Save the Queen, then played the Italian national anthem as waiters distributed champagne glasses.
"Ladies and gentlemen, tonight we drink to those who can't be with us and those who have fallen in the field of honor."
Val drank to Hermann's memory and wondered who the Germans in the crowd were.
A waiter pushed a pith helmet toward Val who slipped a hundred dollar check into it. Probably the smallest donation tonight.
"Enjoying yourself?" Cristopher Burton with a stunning redhead hanging onto his arm approached.
"You missed an excellent curry lunch."
"That's Reggie's weekend staple." Burton showed a set of perfect teeth. "You and the Contessa seem quite chummy."
Val looked around. "Haven't seen her since lunch."
Burton gestured toward his companion. "Meet Leonora, the former Miss Belgium."
"Enchante." Val bowed slightly.
Leonora extend her hand and Val brought it to his lips.
"Count Orloff, a cutting edge historian, I hear."
A light shiver rippled through Val's spine.
"I just love history," Leonora added.
Val had trouble not gaping at the woman's figure that seemed poured into a snakeskin-like dress.
"I have never danced with a historian, do you mind, Chrissie?"
Burton smiled. "Whirl away, my dear."
Leonora took Val's hand and dragged him to the dance floor.
The orchestra played a slow number. Leonora turned and pressed herself against Val. Her breasts pushed against his chest and belly rubbed against his in a disturbing manner. Val hadn't been intimate with a woman since his divorce.
"You're a divine dancer, Count."
"I'm not really a count."
She pulled her head back and looked him in the eye. "But you are a real man, I can feel it."
Embarrassed, Val tried to pull his pelvis away from hers.
"Do you believe in love at first sight?"
"Well, ah, I suppose, it happens."
"I don't mean the Romeo and Juliet type of courtship love, but a savage desire, a flash fantasy. Do you ever feel that?"
Her pelvis rubbed against his growing hardness. He glanced at generous cleavage as his knees trembled. "Maybe we should get a drink."
"Yes, let's do that. The punch is marvelous."
After the music stopped, with relief, he felt his hardness subside as she dragged him to the punch table. Val's heart seemed to jump and lodge in his throat as he saw Claudia accept a punch cup from a tall man with a perfectly studio tanned face.
Leonora wrapped her arm around his waist.
Claudia glanced at Val, her eyes stopped on him long enough to give him a shiver, she then turned to Studio-tan and gave him a dazzling smile.
Trying to keep his hand from shaking, Val poured punch into a cup and handed it to Leonora.
"Aren't you having any?"
"Yes, of course." He picked up another cup and poured himself some punch. He glanced at where Claudia had been, she was no longer there. A breast pushed against his back. Wet lips touched his neck. "I'm going to suck you dry," Leonora whispered.
Again he allowed himself to be towed. Leonora led out of the ballroom, past the trophy hall, into a corridor under the stairs. She opened a door and pushed Val in.
It was a small guest bathroom. Leonora locked the door. "I wanted to do this on the dance floor." She let out a small laugh, while her hand massaged his crotch. "Yes, you are a man."
Val closed his eyes, not believing this was happening to him.
Holding onto his cummerbund, she sat on the commode and unzipped his trousers.
Val's hands touched silky hair as he pulled her head closer. Leonora's lips took him in.

#

Like a thief who stole a chalice from church, Val stuck his head out the toilet door. Seeing no one, he stepped out.
"Too bad we can't spend the night together," Leonora said, taking a cigarette out of her little gold-chain handbag.
Val looked up and down the dimly lit corridor, and lit the cigarette.
"I'm staying at Crissey's place." She glanced at her watch. "We're leaving early because they are going shooting pheasant tomorrow." She took Val's hand and placed it on her breast. "You could come in the morning, after they go off for their stupid sport. I'm staying in a cottage."
Val felt an erect nipple under his palm. "I don't know if I can."
"You wouldn't abandon a lady in distress, would you? I gave you relief; I need it, too. Was it good?"
"Yes, thank you." It had been phenomenal. He had almost screamed as she skillfully brought him to climax.
Leonora whispered, "The first cottage on the right after the gatehouse." She then strode off.
Val watched her mesmerizing derriere as she disappeared beyond the swinging service door.
The conversation and laughter had become louder. At the bar, Val ordered a double, neat Scotch. Leonora was the most physically delectable woman he had ever been with, and getting blown by her stopped being disconcerting. Orloff you're a devil. Val imagined himself in the eighteen hundreds dressed in a Hussar's uniform and making women sigh just by entering a room. He chuckled.
"Are we enjoying ourselves tonight?" Claudia placed a half-full punch cup on the counter. "This convolution is terrible." To one of the barmen, she said, "A Cinzano and tonic, please."
His cheeks hot, Val said, "Nice evening."
Claudia rested an elbow on the bar. "That woman was clinging to you like American bubble gum to a shoe. Who is she?"
Val shrugged. "A guest of Christopher Burton, I think."
"And you were drooling like a frog in front of the princess."
"You were busy."
"I must look busy, I must look like I am enjoying this. I look for you to help me." She placed her hands in front of her eyes as if peering through binoculars. "And were do I find my escort for tonight? With miss big-chest."
"You were surrounded by people, I--"
"You were looking down her dress."
"I'm awfully--"
"Chin-chin." She clinked her fresh Cinzano against his glass and smiled. "I feel better now."
"Yes, cheers." Val sipped his Scotch.
"Now don't dare leave me. If another man invites me to spend a week with him in Mustique, I will scream."
"You are in luck, I can't afford Mustique."
Claudia covered her mouth and bent as if choking. Val handed her a paper napkin.
"That's the funniest thing I've heard all night."
He was going to say his bed was just upstairs but he couldn't stay a week. But changed his mind. The little bathroom episode, instead of bringing relief had increased his sex drive. Had D'Albano not died, he would have tried to get Claudia into bed.
"You look funny."
"The presence of a pretty lady makes me feel maladroit."
She placed her hand on his arm. "Val, I'm sorry I placed you through so much inconvenience today. You have shown yourself a true friend. You are a real comfort."
Val wanted to squirm inside his tux. "Don't mention it."
On the other side of the Trophy Hall, wearing a fur coat, Leonora hung on to Burton's arm as they left through the front door.
"Anyway," Claudia placed her glass on the bar. "I managed to finish arrangements. Tomorrow at ten, an ambulance will come and we'll transport Franco to the airport. Another ambulance will meet us at Ampugnano, from there it is a short drive to the house. I told Rosalia to have dinner ready for two."
"For two?"
"You're coming, yes?"
"Of course. We haven't had time to discuss--"
"We don't need to discuss."
Light headed, Val smiled and said, "Yes, we have like telepathy."
Claudia's facial expression changed to one of anger. "No. No telepathy," she stabbed a finger into Val's throat. "You haven't been honest with me. You told me David had accident, but you come here carrying a pistol. In San Luca you will sit quietly and explain to me."
Val took at step back.
"Caro, did I hurt you?"
Val, tried to speak, shook his head while clearing his throat.
"Will you still invite me to dance? After that, I will go to bed."
Befuddled by Claudia's flip flops, Val offered his arm and led to the Ballroom.

#

The pressure in Val's loins screamed for relief. Hell, he wasn't going to wait until morning. If Burton's car wasn't parked by Leonora's cottage, he would let her have what she wanted right now. While the engine of his car warmed up, Val shivered. After saying good night to Claudia at the foot of the stairs, he had left the house by way of the tradesmen's entrance. Burton's estate was less than two miles away in a straight line. But six miles via roads. A series of left turns.
Two ideas bothered Val. One was stupid, he felt as if he was cheating on Claudia. The other was the mistrust he had developed in the past two weeks. Leonora could have set him up for Boikin's Irish sniper in the hedges. He wasn't sure where his thinking was flawed. Leonora had breached the shyness barrier or inadequacy complex he had developed since his ex left him. *******? Here was a woman who couldn't wait to get at his physical attributes. A dashing professor? Val chuckled. Not a bad self image. He decided to cultivate this newly discovered self.
The moment the heater started blowing warm air, Val placed the Jaguar in gear. Once out of the manor gate, the bramble-lined road seemed awfully narrow. Val got the first intersection and turned left. The road here was a little wider but still his was the only car out. He went past a dark village and came to the next intersection with a sign: Wellensbourne Mountford Airport. An arrow pointed right.
Val decided to turn right. This way he could delay a little and give Burton more time to clear out of Leonora's cottage should he be lingering on goodnights. Her words earlier that evening kept reverberating in his head. "Do you believe in love at first sight? I don't mean the Romeo and Juliet type of courtship love, but a savage desire, a flash fantasy. Do you ever feel that?"
The road led through woods. Approaching a sharp turn, he slowed. Headlights coming the opposite way illuminated shrubbery. Val edged to the side of the road.
A car shot onto the curve, blinding Val as it turned.
To avoid collision, Val slid into the ditch and stomped on the brakes. There was a scraping noise followed by a sharp bang as the side-view mirror slammed back.
Val came to a stop.
His heart thumping, he leaned back and looked into the rearview mirror at the retreating taillights. "*******."
He engaged the gear and drove out of the ditch, scraping something underneath. Judging by the oil pressure and temperature gages, no damage had been done. Val tested the brakes. They worked.
The airfield was much smaller than he had imagined. There were two hangars and a couple of single engine airplanes parked on a ramp surrounded by chain link fence. Val drove beyond the hangars and turned into a driveway with a closed gate. The headlights swept past a twin-engined airplane with propellers facing to the rear. Obviously most guests landed somewhere else. Val backed the car and returned the way he had come.

#

The gate to the Burton estate was open. Val drove around the gatehouse and parked behind it.
Staying off the road, he walked through park-like woods looking for the cottage. He had not gone a hundred yards when he saw lights.
Disappointment swept through Val. A car was parked in front of the cottage, blocking the drive. Val was about to turn back. A Ford Escort would not be Burton's car. With all the jewelry she wore, he couldn't imagine Leonora driving one either.
As he approached, he saw a Bentley and a Mercedes convertible parked on the other side of the cottage.
A clack and the sound of a door opening made Val duck behind a bush.
Tony Bond and another man walked out of the cottage.

Bond carried a hunting rifle with a telescopic sight.

[Brag]

Chapter 24

Bond got into the passenger side of the Ford Escort. As the driver turned the car around, Val noticed the side-view mirror was missing.
Curious. Bond didn't wear evening clothes. With all the guests, It would have been easy for Val not to have seen him. But this confirmed Bond hadn't been at the party. And what had he been doing at the airport?
After the Escort drove off, Val waited, wondering on the meaning of Bond's hunting rifle.
The tux was scant protection from the night air. Val began to shiver. The answer to his earlier question was pure and simple. Bond came to the cottage to pick up the rifle. My dear Leonora, I hope Burton won't be staying long.
The shivers had become serious when the door opened and Burton strode out. He got into the Bentley and drove toward where Val presumed the main house to be. As soon as the taillights vanished. Val, filled with anger at being duped, moved toward the cottage. He removed the Sig from its shoulder holster and tried the door. It was locked.
Val knocked.
A bolt slid back, Leonora opened the door. "Crissie what--"
"Gutt iffnincks." Val pushed the door open and swept a small sitting room with his pistol.
Her eyes bulging, Leonora stepped back.
Val kicked the door closed.
"I came to let you know I won't be coming in the morning."
Leonora stared at the gun.
"Any more rifles in the house? I feel at a disadvantage with only a pistol."
She shook her head.
"My dear lady, you're mixed up with the wrong people. How much did Burton pay you to give me a blow-job?"
Leonora backed two steps and dropped on a stuffed chair.
"You won't look pretty with a bullet between your eyes." Val hoped he sounded convincing. But he doubted it. The shivers caused by the cold made his gun tremble.
"Don't be a fool. You know I wanted you."
"Maybe you get your kicks by blowing men about to die."
"You're vulgar."
Now what does the great Val Orloff do, shoot the redhead? Thinking how to coerce the woman into confessing, Val replaced the pistol in its holster and took a seat.
The expression of fear on her face vanished. She shifted in her chair and crossed her legs. A slit on her long dress revealed a lot of leg. "You do make a dramatic entry, and look sexy even pointing a gun."
"Lady, don't try the sex thing on me. It won't work."
"Ah, Mister Tough Guy. Do you want to dominate me? Do you want me on my knees? Do you want to simulate rape? Tie me up?"
Val felt himself grow hard.
She stood slowly and turned her back to him. "Unzip me please. All you need to convince yourself I want you, is feel between my legs."
Val rose and pulled the zipper down, exposing the crack of naked bottom. "I'll tell Burton, you warned me about Tony planning to shoot me. And let him take care of you."
Val took two steps back.
Leonora twirled to face him. "You . . ." Fear had returned to her face.
"I'm going to see him right now." Val side stepped toward the door, his hand reaching the knob. "Pleasant dreams, my dear."
"No, please--wait."
Val let his arm drop. "Are you willing to negotiate for my discretion?"
She nodded.
"That's better."
Even as frightened as she looked, the woman still oozed sexuality. All Val had to do was tug at her unzipped dress to expose her breasts.
"Do you have a brandy?"
She nodded, and went to a sideboard.
Val placed his hand on the pistol but in case she tried something funny.
Leonora returned with two glasses, handed one to Val. "I didn't want to do it. I don't mean what I did with you . . . you taste good." She smiled briefly. "But I knew they were planning something. What, I don't know. This is Tony's cottage, I thought he was going shooting pheasant with Chrissie."
"With a big game rifle?"
"Men do strange things, I don't know guns. They want you here in the morning. That is all I know." She gulped down half of her brandy.
"And what scares you so much about Burton?"
"He's powerful, a big man at MI-6."
"And Bond?"
"Tony travels all over the world, does jobs for Chrissie."
Val had trouble believing what he heard. Having British Intelligence against him had never entered his mind. And like a fool he was in their home turf.

#

Even if he managed to find and ambush the snipers, having a shootout with MI-6 was not an option.
Satisfied that Leonora would not reveal his visit to her accomplices, Val drove the Jaguar and left it on a cow pasture approximately five miles due east of Sir Regies estate. It would take Burton and his men some time to find. Partially familiar with the area from the ride he had taken with Claudia, he studied the sky to be able to maintain his direction. It wouldn't be easy. Black holes told him clouds were moving in.
To keep from freezing to death, he ran with an easy jog and was glad he had only brought regular street shoes. Running through the fields in pumps would have been hell.
After twenty minutes, he felt warm enough and slowed to a walk.
A cow path along a hedge still showed under a darkening sky. He thought he recognized the gate where he had met Burton the other morning.
The woods on the hill protected him from the drizzle but he lost the path in the darkness. After several stumbles, he came out of the woods and followed a hedge and found a gate. The bleating of sheep confirmed he wasn't lost. Now he knew how to get back to Sir Bertie's mansion. No longer worried about finding the manor, his mind cleared and he knew how to avoid the snipers. The Brits where a thorough lot who wouldn't let things to chance. He was sure if this was an MI-6 operation there would be more than one sniper. As he trotted across the field with the sheep, it occurred to him that MI-6 and the CIA, in recent years, were as thick as fleas on a fox. He slowed down wanting to drop to the ground with despair.
Ahead, lights reflected on the drizzle and he could hear music. Approaching the manor, Val moved quietly along the stable walls.
No longer a beacon, lights in the manor, gardens became hindrances to unobserved approach. The back lawn was flood-lit. He was a mud-splattered mess, ambling in and mixing with guests was bound to draw attention.
He circled the house and worked his way down the gravel parking lot.
A number of voices approached.
Val hid behind a Rolls Royce. Several people crunched past the Roller. The darkness beyond the parking lot seemed ominous. Tony Bond and his rifle could be there waiting. Or more likely the watcher who would notify Bond Val had left the house for his tryst with the irresistible Leonora. It was five past four, time for the actors to take their places.
Car doors slammed. An engine started. Gravel popped and faded into a ripple.
Val continued toward the service entrance taking advantage of every shadow he could find. Twenty yards from the house, he straightened and walked as if he belonged.
A dozing waiter sitting on a bench under a row of pegs with waiters' jackets in the hallway, opened his eyes and looked up as Val passed him.
With his car gone and him not in his room, the ambushers would presume he had left the manor. Val took the service stairs. On the third floor he went to Claudia's room. A light showed under the door. He knocked softly.
There was no answer.
A harder rap still didn't elicit a response.
He tried the door handle. The door was locked.
"Who is it?"
"It's Val."
A moment later, a key turned and the door opened. With squinting eyes and a hand over her mouth, Claudia peered out the partially opened doorway. "Hmm?" She muttered over a yawn. Her eyes opened wide and she stepped back, holding a silk robe closed with her hand. "What happened to you?"
"Long story, went for a walk."
She closed the door and turned away from Val to tie the robe belt. "What time is it?"
"Four twenty."
"What do you need?"
Val glanced at the bed with its covers thrown back. "It is best I don't go to my room and your husband's killer think I left the house."
After rubbing her eyes and pulling her hair back, she looked around. "You can't stay here."
"Go back to bed, I'll take the chair."
"This is crazy." Claudia covered a yawn with her hand.
"I need a place to hide. I won't bother you, I promise."
She looked at the chair then at Val and shook her head. "The maid brings tea at seven. Can you imagine the gossip she will start?"
"I'll hide in the closet."
"Ay Madonna, like in a bedroom farce?"
Val opened the closet door. "See, I can fit easily."
"I'm too tired to think. This is crazy." Claudia climbed into the bed and pulled the blankets over her.
Val dropped on the chair, undid his tie and opened his wet shirt collar.

#

Full realization of how cold he was came with the rap at the door. Val glanced at his watch, 7:04. He lurched into the closet.
Through the closet door he listened to Claudia exchange good mornings with the maid and thank her.
"You may come out," Caludia said.
Val came out wearing a mink stole over his shoulders.
Claudia shook her head. "I was too sleepy to think when you came. You may share my tea. Milk and sugar a la inglesa?"
"Please."
She handed him a cup. "You look a mess."
"No improvement?"
"No, now you look like you've been out all night. Please explain yourself."
"I think someone wants to shoot me."
"Coming here at four in the morning. You deserve to be shot."
"When we wheel the count's body into the ambulance, I'll wear a white jacket so it will look like I am an ambulance attendant."
"And if you don't go to your room, how do we get your luggage?"
"You can get my laptop. I'll write to Sir Reggie later about shipping my stuff."
Claudia took the cup away from Val and took a sip. "So I go to your room and they kill me by mistake."
"They won't kill anyone else in this house. Two people dying would draw the police."
"You are so practical. How am I going to get dressed with you in the room?"
"I'll turn my back."
While Claudia got dressed, Val faced the window and studied the fields surrounding the manor. Of course the window faced in the wrong direction. If a sniper was waiting to plug him, chances were he would be somewhere in the northwest corner from where he could cover the service entrance and main entrances. It gave him little consolation to note that a shot from this sector was highly unlikely.
"Do you have the key to your room?" Claudia asked.
Val dug into his pocket as he turned. Claudia wore a beige skirt and a knit jacket with flower-like patterns. He handed her the key and she left the room.
After three minutes Val asked himself, What's delaying her?
It should take no more than thirty seconds to reach his room, maybe five-ten seconds to open the door, five seconds to grab the laptop on the secretaire--she should have been back.
Floorboards creaked. Someone went past the room.
Four minutes.
When five minutes went by, Val took the pistol out of the holster, cracked the door open, and stuck his head into the corridor.
Someone was coming.
Val pulled the door shut.
The footsteps receded.
Six minutes. His hand holding the pistol in his jacket pocket, Val stepped into the corridor. He moved swiftly past portraits of overweight gentlemen with bulbous red noses. Boards creaked. He stopped at the corner, pulled the pistol out, and peered into the connecting corridor.
In the dim light, someone carried an object over its shoulder.
Val recognized Claudia's walk.
Back in the room, Claudia said. "It's gone."
Val's gut contracted. "The laptop?"
"No, I went to get corn to feed the chickens. I looked everywhere." She handed Val a hanger with his hound's tooth jacket, a pair of slacks and a shirt. "You'd better change into something presentable."
"The laptop is gone?"
Claudia placed her hands on her hips. "You ask one more stupid question, and my confidence in you goes to zero."
Val wondered how in the hell he would contact Boikin.
"I imagine you have your work backed up somewhere. Don't look so victim of disaster. I'll buy you another one."
Val nodded. At least if someone tried to open the secret files without the password, a virus supplied by Stuart would activate and wipe everything clean. Val forced a smile. "Thanks, you are very kind. I can get another one."
"Oh, yes. This was on top of your bed." She handed Val a white envelope. "You can change while I go to breakfast."
Val grasped her arm as she turned to leave. "It could be dangerous."
"Breakfast dangerous?"
"Well, ah . . . something could happen. I worry."
She shook her head. "You said, two killings in this house would rouse suspicions. Also two people missing at breakfast will alert the, what would you call it, opposition?"
"Okay, you win."
When Claudia left the room, Val inspected the envelope addressed to him in precise manly handwriting, flap sealed with transparent tape. Val used a metal nail-file he found on the dresser to open it.
Dear Val,
This is your last chance to accept the offer to manage the Argentinean estate, a great opportunity to work with Olympic class horses. Bonuses and profit sharing are included in a generous compensation package. Don't let this last proposal pass you by. I'll be at Christopher Burton's place until noon.
Peter.
Val frowned. They were still trying to get him into Burton's place. It bothered to think Carr was seriously mixed up in what Val was beginning to see as a vast conspiracy. Maybe Carr's offer was a bona fide deal. A polite offer to get him out of the way. Go to Argentina and don't cause problems.
The job had its appeal. It would certainly end the nightmare he'd been living lately. Val took a deep breath and began changing clothes. Finished buttoning the fresh shirt, Val strapped on the shoulder holster. He then re-read the letter, crumpled it in his fist. "**** you," he said aloud.
When Claudia returned, she handed Val a cup filled with scrambled eggs. From her jacket pocket she produced two slices of toast.

#

Claudia went out of D'Albano's room when the ambulance attendants arrived. Val watched their cold efficiency in placing the count into a white PVC body bag and strapping it to a stretcher.
He followed the attendants down the stairs. Next to the kitchen door, he removed a waiter's white jacket hanging in a row of pegs and put it on.
The attendants looked at him in surprise as he rushed past them and jumped inside the ambulance.
"Doctor Watson," Val said as he pulled the stretcher inside.
Claudia climbed up front with the driver. "Take us to Wellensbourne Mountford Airport."
"Is that where you have your airplane?" Val asked.
She turned around looking at him as if he was the village idiot. "No, we are going to play cricket there."
Val pursed his lips before he started clucking. Next stop was the airfield surrounded by woods. Val thought of the near collision with Bond's car. That's where they were going to get him.

Chapter 25

The ambulance turned into the airport road. Approaching the sharp bend, Val spotted the skid marks he had left. The broken-off mirror of the Ford escort lay in the middle of the pavement. Anger grabbed him at the memory of the reckless driver.
Low clouds scudded over the airfield. The gate was open and Claudia directed the driver to the funny looking twin engined airplane.
Val got out and positioned himself so the ambulance covered him from the nearest trees.
A young man in a navy blue suit who had been waiting took the head of the litter and squeezed it through the narrow airplane door. The sleek bullet-like airplane had the semblance of something out of a science fiction film with winglets sprouting off its nose.
As the ambulance pulled away, Val followed Claudia inside.
The count's body lay strapped to a gray sofa. Claudia moved forward and stopped by the cockpit door. She motioned Val to sit in a chair that would have made a first class section in an airliner proud.
After closing the door, the young pilot spoke briefly to Claudia in Italian
"Ever fly in an Italian airplane before?" Claudia asked Val.
"No."
"We will cruise at four hundred knots, as fast as most jets. Our flight time to Grosseto will be three hours and ten minutes."
"That's amazing for a propeller plane."
"Turboprop." Claudia smiled. "We have a passion for speed. The fastest cars, ships, airplanes. This is a P-180 Piaggio Avanti, with it I can go into airfields a jet cannot. After takeoff you may come up front." She went into the cockpit leaving the door open, and sat on the left-hand seat. The copilot read off a checklist. Claudia answered and flipped switches.
The Initial whine of engines softened to a hum. As the plane taxied, Val's attention was on the woods on the other side of the fence and paralleling road. A rifle bullet could easily penetrate an airplane's skin. A question entered Val's head. How did Tony Bond know he would be leaving with Claudia?
"Have your seat belt fastened?" Claudia yelled from the cockpit.
The whine increased as they approached the end of the taxiway next to the sharp turn on the road.
The answer to the question hit Val like a slap in the face.
What was the Ford Escort doing at the airport at that time of the night?Bond and his cohorts wouldn't have guessed he'd be on the plane. Hell, they've been monkeying with the plane to get Claudia!
"Hey," Val yelled trying to get up. The seat belt held him fast. Engine noise grew.
"Stop!"
Val realized, with headphones on, Claudia couldn't hear him.
He undid his seat belt and was thrown against the window as the airplane turned onto the runway and accelerated.
Grabbing the cockpit doorsill, he pulled himself forward. The only way to stop the airplane in time was to pull the throttles back.
He reached forward, stretching his fingers.
The copilot gave him a sharp karate chop on the arm.
The nose rotated sharply and Val slid back into the cabin. He hit his head against an armrest as the airplane yawed. Val shook his head and stood, propping himself against a chair.
In the cockpit a bank of red lights glowed. The copilot had a check list in hand. Claudia pushed a button that lit red. A glance through the window, told Val the left prop was winding down.
He stuck his head into the cockpit and yelled, "Sabotage."
Claudia gave him a quick glance. Her attention returned to the instruments as the right engine surged and began to die.
Looking over Claudia's shoulder, Val could see furrows of a plowed field racing by. Forward visibility was restricted by cloud. "We must turn back."
Claudia flipped a switch.
A calm, British accented voice came over a cockpit loudspeaker. "Charlie Mike are you declaring an emergency?"
Claudia's voice answered, "Request radar vector to nearest ILS. Have one engine feathered, other loosing power." She then pulled her headset back, baring an ear. "What are you saying?"
"Sabotage."
"Switch to auxiliary tank." She then said to Val, "Take your seat, we're about to crash-land."
The airplane dropped out of cloud. Ahead, a fuzzy line of trees rushed toward them.
"Charlie Alfa, we have lost radar contact, turn left to one two zero for Cranfield Airport runway two-two."
Claudia pulled the yoke. The view ahead disappeared.
The right engine vibrated, surged and coughed.
Solid mist changed to a ragged ceiling as the airplane mushed toward the ground. Cattle scampered over a green field.
"Vola, vola." Claudia struggled with the controls.
It was evident there was little she could do. The airplane yawed to the left, heading for the square stone tower of a Norman church. The whine of the right engine increased as it stopped coughing. Claudia banked to the right. The plane shuddered and a whoop-whoop alarm sounded. The left wing barely missed the church.
Cloud vapor hid forward visibility.
Claudia brushed a strand of hair from her brow, then patted the glare shield. "Bene, bene, bona machina. I think we have contaminated fuel."
"Charlie Alpha, squawk two-two three-five."
Claudia turned to Val and pointed at the altimeter. "We are now at six hundred feet, two hundred feet above the ground--and climbing."
"Charlie Alpha, radar contact, turn to heading one-two five. Climb to and maintain two thousand five hundred. Radar vector to Cranfield outer marker. Weather at Cranfield eight octas two hundred feet, visibility five hundred meters, light rain. Contact Cranfield approach on one twenty-nine seven. Good day, sir."
"Climb. He must be joking," Claudia said.
The copilot said. "Cranfield Approach, Piaggio India Echo Charlie Alpha, Good morning."
"Charlie Alpha, Cranfield approach. you're number one for landing. Understand you're unable to climb to minimum safe altitude?"
"We have only one engine--developing sixty percent power."
"Roger, be aware of radio towers north west of the Charlie Foxtrot beacon. We have emergency equipment standing by."
Although they were still flying, Val realized they were far from out of trouble. Breaks in the clouds showed they were still dangerously close to the ground.
The copilot lit a cigarette.
"May I have one?" Val asked
"Piacere." The copilot extended a hand with a pack of cigarettes over his shoulder.
"I didn't know you smoked cigarettes," Claudia said.
"Only when scared out of my wits."
"Remember to put it out if we have to crash-land."
"How much longer?"
"Vito hasn't had time to look at the chart, and I'm too busy keeping Petronella in the air."
"Petronella?"
"The name of this wonderful machine."
"Ten minutes," Vito said.
Val glanced at his watch, then outside. They were enveloped in milky gray. If they crashed into something, they'd never know what they'd hit.
Pretending he was in an airliner at thirty thousand feet, Val sat in the plush seat and got his breathing under control while leafing through an Italian fashion magazine.
He leafed back when he realized he had seen something familiar. It would have been easy to miss the group photo of Claudia flanked by two thin women who looked like models. The article was titled Bravo Moda Unbeldi.
"Toot-toot-toot-toot." Val's heart almost stopped at the sound. He jumped and stuck his head into the cockpit.
"We're much below glide path but on course," Claudia said. "You can help by looking outside and tell us when you see the runway or runway lights."
Val peered at dirty milk beyond a windshield streaked with water droplets.
"Glide slope is alive," Vito said.
"Stand by for gear, we will not use flaps or reverse."
"Treshhold lights in sight," Vito said.
A row of white dots stood out brighter than the surrounding cloud.
"Coming up on glide slope."
"Gear down." Claudia pulled back the throttle lever.
Two rows of yellow lights appeared as a runway materialized, with a fire engine and ambulance standing on the edge.
Claudia pulled the throttle all the way back. The airplane settled and wheels chirped.
Val returned to his seat knowing their problems were just beginning.

[Brag]

Chapter 25

While waiting for Claudia to come back from the maintenance hangar, Val paced the plush passenger lounge of Cranfield's executive terminal.
If Bond and company had sabotaged the airplane, they would be anxious to know the results of their nefarious act. They probably been monitoring air traffic control radio frequencies and would be aware the airplane didn't crash.
As he watched the parking lot through glass doors, Val wondered how long it would take the opposition to reorganize. It wouldn't take much longer than an hour for Bond and his cohorts to reach Cranfield by car.
Claudia stormed in. "Assassini," she muttered. "Somebody added laundry detergent to the fuel. Good thing we switched to auxiliary tanks before number two fuel nozzles gummed up. It will be several days until we get fixed."
"Great."
Claudia's expression changed from furious to one of concern. Val realized he'd been clucking his tongue.
"It's not all lost," she said. "I make phone call." Before Val had time to say anything, she whirled around and disappeared behind a door with a sign: Employees and pilots only.
With a growing feeling of hopeless doom, Val resumed his watch of the parking lot. He then realized that Bond and his thugs could also fly in. He moved to a center location in the lounge and sat on an over-stuffed couch from where he could observe both ramp and parking lot entrances. They had to rent a car and get out of here. Then change cars, go to London where he could try to make contact with Boikin. How would they haul the old count's body, he didn't know.
Ten minutes later, Claudia came out.
Val stood and stepped toward her. "We need to rent a car."
Claudia shook her head. "In half hour a plane will pick us up."
"Oh?"
"Yes. I chartered a King Air. It is coming from Luton. I will leave Vito here to look after Petronella." She took out a cell phone from her shoulder bag.
While Claudia talked into the phone in Italian, Val noticed two men get out of a car in the parking lot. They did not seem in a hurry to go anywhere. One of them was talking into a cell phone. Everyone in the world had a cell phone except Val.
He pulled at Claudia's sleeve and pointed at the two men. "We need to get going."
She shook her arm off. "Wait," she said to him and continued her conversation.
"We have to go, those men are after us."
Claudia gave him an annoyed look, glanced at her watch and continued talking.
The man put his phone away. He and his partner exchanged a few words and split up. One of them, in a sheepskin bomber jacket, disappeared from view as he approached the terminal.
The other, wearing a cloth peaked cap and a trench coat moved directly in front of the terminal door.
Val fingered the pistol butt in the shoulder holster.
Claudia finished her conversation.
"There are two men outside. They'll be coming in any second now."
Claudia looked out. "I only see one."
Val took her by the elbow and pulled her toward the ramp entrance. "Let's go to the hangar."
"Yes. That's where I told the charter service to go and pick up Franco."
Almost running, Val dragged Claudia outside. He glanced around hoping to see an airplane taxiing in--nada.
A gray haired man in white coveralls and a clipboard in his hand strode toward them. "Contessa, could you sign this work order?"
Claudia stopped an took the clipboard.
Val glanced over his shoulder.
"Mr. Hawkins," Claudia said, "There are two men doing indecent exposure to me. Can you stop them to do that?"
"Someone bothering you?"
"Yes, very indecent. My gentleman friend, he can't do anything."
Hawkins looked at Val as if Val was guilty of exposing himself to women.
"I'll tell Security. We certainly won't tolerate anyone annoying our customers. He took a handheld radio clipped to one of his pockets.
Val pulled Claudia by the elbow. They had to get out of sight and he had no confidence that a couple of unarmed watchmen could protect them.
The sound of an engine drew Val's attention, he turned to see a red and white plane taxiing in. "Is that it?"
Claudia shook her head. "That's a Cessna, our airplane is larger and has two engines."
Val glanced at his watch. Only a couple of minutes had elapsed since Claudia said the airplane would arrive in thirty minutes. Besides, no one ever arrived in half an hour, the pilot was not a fighter jockey sitting in his plane ready to scramble.
They went past a hangar with several small planes inside.
"When they said they'll be here in thirty minutes, is it just flight time?"
"I think so. Yes it would take twenty minutes to fly here, plus taxi time. They said they had pilots ready to go."
"So we're really talking about an hour's wait?"
"Less if they hurry. I told them to hurry."
"We have to find a place to hide."
"Mister Hawkins will get Security here, he seems very competent."
"I don't think you realize what kind of people are going after us. They're probably armed."
"This is England."
Val took a deep breath. "Look, if I'm armed--"
"They throw people in jail for that."
She was right. Running around an airport with a pistol was more of a liability. Val wondered why MI-6 would be involved in hunting him down. After all they were not a domestic security service.
Wishing he was familiar with airport layouts, he glanced back. The ramp was empty of people. Where does one hide in a small airport?
As they approached the hangar with her airplane inside, Claudia took the lead. "We will go inside the maintenance office."
Val imagined the two men in the parking lot now inside the executive terminal showing credentials if not outright forcing their way through to the ramp.
They hurried past Petronella. Vito and a mechanic stood on step ladders doing something to an uncowled engine. Claudia went through a door on the side of the hangar.
Beyond a counter, a young woman sat at a desk. She looked up from a computer screen. "Can I help you, Contessa?"
"We need a toilet."
The woman gave Val a quick glance. "We have nice facilities at the lounge, ma'am."
"We are coming from there. We want to wait for my airplane out of sight. In the toilet."
Val closed his eyes.
"There are paparazzi who want to catch me with this man. It will be scandalous for me."
Val opened his eyes and held his breath.
"There shouldn't be anyone in the ladies' loo. Through that door, in the corridor, second door on the left ma-am. I will call security."
"Thank you, will you let us know when my airplane arrives?" Claudia took Val by the hand and strode out the door at the back of the office.
"I will give you two knocks followed by one on the door," the office girl said, before Val slammed the office door shut and entered a corridor.
Claudia opened the door marked Ladies and said, "Hello?" She pulled Val in and locked the door behind her.
Val's knees felt wobbly and he leaned against a wall. His heart made an extra beat as the picture of Leonora fellating him flashed through his mind.
"Excuse me, I will sit down," Claudia said as she inspected the small room. She lowered the top lid of the commode and sat on it.
"We better keep our voices down."
Claudia nodded, then shook her head. "First you come uninvited into my bedroom. Now I have to sit on the toilet with you keeping me company." She gave him a thin smile. "Some scandalous behavior. Don't you think?"
"Yes, almost a laughing matter." Val tried to smile back, wondering how he would deal with the gorillas as they broke the door down.
"You must think me frivolous, but I try to find humor in difficult situations. You are so cool blooded when there is trouble, and you think quick."
Getting cornered in a toilet, what an ironic way to end one's life. Val thought of the microchips the Russians had placed in his clothing. Would a screen in Moscow flash: Orloff is in an English ladies' loo?
A door slammed in the corridor.
Val held his breath.
Hurried steps went by. A door opened and closed. Probably the Gents' next door. Val let his breath out, slowly.
Too bad the only way he had of communicating with Boikin was via computer. But even if he could call him on Claudia's cell phone, what could the Russian do?
Val remembered the desperate night when he had to swim for his life; dragging a semiconscious, delirious wounded shipmate. Did fate spare him that night to have him end his life inside a crapper?
Claudia gave him a curious look.
Val stopped his clucking. Embarrassed, he glanced at his watch. They still had 45 minutes to wait. By now Tony Bond could have been here with an army of goons. Even if they weren't found in the toilets, how would they board the chartered airplane without being seen, especially carrying the body of the Count?
"That was quick thinking, during take-off," Claudia said, "How did you know it was sabotage?"
"I saw a suspicious car coming out of the airport last night. Didn't put two and two together 'til it was too late."
"It wasn't too late--just in time to give me idea to switch tanks before second engine fuel nozzles gummed up in total. We would have crashed into those trees at the end of the runway."
"The way I saw it, it was a feat of airmanship to get us here in one piece."
"I still haven't calmed my nerves."
How could anyone expect to calm one's nerves while a bunch of goons were after them was beyond Val's imagination.
The sound of loud voices reached inside the toilet as someone opened the door to the office.
"Here they come," Val said.
Heavy steps rang in the corridor, went past the door.
There was a clack as someone opened the Gents' door.
"Nobody here," a male voice said.
Someone knocked on the door.
Val fingered the pistol butt.
He thought of opening the door fast, grabbing whoever was knocking by the collar, and jamming the pistol against his temple. With a hostage he might be able to dissuade the goons from further action. Of course the goon would be armed and would shoot Val.
Val pulled the pistol out of the holster.
Claudia shook her head.
A louder rapping on the door resonated.
"Occupied," Claudia yelled.
"I'm sure that helps," Val murmured under his breath.
"Madam, you may come out now," a male voice said.
"There is a toilet in the lounge, use that. I will be here some time." Claudia made a puking sound.
"Come out whenever you like. Do you require assistance?"
Assistance with barfing? Val thought. He really didn't expect the goons to have a sense of humor.
Someone opened a door, again revealing a number of loud voices in the office.
High heels clacked in the corridor.
"Contessa, are you alright?" The office girl asked.
Claudia answered, "I am fine, thank you."
"You may come out. The police are here."
"Police?"
"Yes. They need to talk to you."
"Uniformed police?" Val asked.
"Oxfordshire Constabulary," A male voice said. "Madam, are you alright?"
"Yes, I am fine."
"Is that man bothering you?"
"No, he is a friend."
"Sir, please come outside, or we'll use the pass key."
If the guys outside were cops, God knows what they would be thinking. It sounded like they thought he could be molesting Claudia. Holding her hostage?
These sounded like real cops. If he stepped outside, they would pat him down, find the gun and throw him in jail.
"Alright, I'll be out in a second." Val dropped his jacket on the floor, took his holster off. He then reached over Claudia and dropped the holstered pistol into the water cistern.
He put the jacket back on. To his amazement, his heartbeat, and tremors running down his legs subsided. He felt as if moving in slow motion. He gave Claudia a mock salute and smiled.
"Coming out," Val said loudly, flicked the lock and opened the door.
The first thing he saw was three blue uniforms.
"Contessa, are you alright?" The oldest of the cops asked.
"Of course I'm alright," she said right behind Val.
"I'm Inspector Appleton. Heard you had a spot of trouble, with. . . is it the press?"
"Paparazzi."
"Sorry, we can't do anything about them . . . and this gentleman? Appleton pointed at Val. "He's not causing you distress?"
"No, inspector. He is a perfect gentleman."
Appleton gave Val a curious look and said. "We're here to secure your aircraft for the CID and the CAA, the Civil Aeronautics Authority to investigate, and get a statement from you about the suspected sabotage to your aircraft."
"Very well, we must do quickly because I need to continue my journey."
Val stayed back as the cops, Claudia and the office girl headed out.
He waited for the door to slam shut and went back into the Ladies'.

Chapter 26

While Claudia made her statement, Val watched out of the office window. Cops were placing barrier trestles and circled Petronella with crime scene tape.
The two King Air pilots assisted by a couple of mechanics had just finished transferring D'Albano's body to the chartered airplane. With all the cops around, Val felt reasonably safe.
Inspector Appleton said, "That should do it, Contessa."
Val took a deep breath of relief that Claudia hadn't mentioned Val's role in discovering the sabotage. While she and the inspector exchanged pleasantries, Val headed outside.
He scanned the ramp. No sign of bad guys.
"We're all set to go, sir," the captain of the King Air said.
"How long will it take us to get there?"
"Four hours and 20 minutes, to Grossetto."
Val liked Grosseto, the closest large town to where Claudia lived, in the Maremma on the southern edge of Tuscany. He had known about the Butteri, legendary cowboys who inhabited the Maremma delta even before visiting the D'Albanos. This knowledge had impressed Claudia in the early days of their friendship.
"What's the weather there like?" He asked, looking forward to returning to this little known part of Italy.
"It is deteriorating fast, sir. We expect rain and gusty winds when we arrive."
"An evil south wind?"
The pilots laughed. "A south wind is hardly ever good news, sir."
"Let's go," Claudia said as she came out of the hangar. She stopped and addressed the captain, "What route have you filed?"
The captain seemed surprised. "Paris, Tour de Pines, Nice, Elba."
"Very good. What flight level?"
"Two three zero," I should keep us out of most of the weather, ma'am."
"Thank you, captain." She climbed the steps into the cabin.
The airplane had an air ambulance layout and the Count's body was strapped to a gurney. Claudia crossed herself as she went past toward two front seats.
As Val strapped himself to the seat next to her, she said, "We will have the funeral tomorrow, and put Franco to rest in the land he loved so much. I will miss him. It still doesn't seem real . . ."
She shook her head. "And to be cheated of his last years . . ."
Val didn't know what to say. So far, Claudia hadn't shown signs of grieving. Maybe it was denial or maybe all the nasty distractions. Val wanted to reach across the aisle and take her hand.

#

A few minutes after take off, leaving the white blanket of cloud covering England, the airplane broke out into brilliant sunshine.
As tension in his body ebbed, Val's eyelids became heavy and he caught himself nodding. For some reason his mind kept fighting the tendency to doze and Val would jerk awake.
Claudia had the back of her seat in the reclining position and seemed to be asleep. The airplane leveled off at cruising altitude. Val found the reclining lever and let the back down as far as it would go. He might as well get a good refreshing nap. He rearranged himself to where he felt comfortable, entwined his fingers over his belly and closed his eyes.
Gratefully he allowed his mind to drift. Since his trek through the fields the previous night, his feet had been cold. Now, they were warming up.
Sunshine on his cheek suggested a woman's warm caress. Val felt like smiling as he drifted deeper into sleep.
The warm hand left his face. Why? Why do you leave me?
Val jerked awake.
He glanced outside. The horizon was at 45 degrees to the airplane. The sun moved from left to right.
They were heading north and still turning. What?
Val shook his head. This didn't seem right. But of course the pilots would know better which way they were supposed to go. His unease increased. After a moment's hesitation, he reached over and shook Claudia's shoulder.
She moaned and opened her eyes.
"Yes?"
"I think we're heading back."
Claudia blinked and looked around. "Something is wrong." She reached for the intercom on the bulkhead. "Why are we going west?" she asked.
Her facial expression became puzzled. She hung up and turned toward Val. "Strange."
"What's the matter?"
"ATC, Air Traffic Control orders."
"Air Traffic Control?"
"They want us to proceed to the Stanstead VOR."
"What's that?"
Claudia reached into her briefcase, pulled out, and unfolded an air navigation chart.
"Here is London Heathrow." She pointed with her finger, then moved it to the north of London. "This is Stanstead. The VOR is a navigation beacon."
"Is this normal?"
"Of course it isn't. They want us to hold over it."
Val imagined Bond or someone else making phone calls, coordinating a cumbersome bureaucratic machinery. "We're screwed," he said, feeling crushed under the invisible power of the bastards who called themselves the ruling elite.
"Screwed?"
"Adequate words escape me," he said, with the weight of impending doom hovering over him.
Claudia gave him a sharp look. "Now that we need a pistol, you left it in the toilet. You are the most useless I man I have ever met."
Val touched the still damp shoulder holster. "I'm not going to shoot it out with the cops after we land."
Claudia's face brightened. "You saved the gun?"
"I have it with me."
"What are you waiting for?" She unbuckled her seat belt, reached over and opened the cockpit door. "Signori--turn this airplane back on course to France," she said in a commanding voice.
Val couldn't make out what one of the pilots replied.
"If you don't, my gentleman friend will shoot you."
"You don't believe? He will show you."
"Caro, show them your gun." Claudia stepped aside to where he could see the captain who sat half turned.
Like an automaton, not believing it was him, Val pulled the pistol out and heard himself say, "Do as the lady tells you."
The captain swallowed, his gaze locked on the pistol.
A most unusual feeling of being in total control of a situation came over Val. This was raw power. His gun was not aiming at a hapless pilot caught in the middle, but challenged the authority of a government. A government manipulated by obscure forces. The idea of being a rebel made him smile. "Shall I shoot the copilot to make my point?"
"That won't be necessary, sir."
The airplane began to turn.
"No more talking to ATC," Claudia said.
"Whatever you say, ma-am."
"What is our position?" Claudia asked.
"Five miles south east of Biggin Hill," the captain answered.
"Proceed direct to Abbeville."
Val wondered what their legal status was. Would this qualify as a hijacking? After all, Claudia was the charterer who insisted on going to the destination she paid to go. She was simply forcing the pilot to disobey air traffic control instructions. Soon they would leave British airspace. Val wondered what the reaction of the French would be. He was sure there would be some major hassle after they landed in Italy. "Maybe we should turn on the radio speakers so we can hear what the Air Traffic Control has to say."
The captain flipped a switch.
"Golf Echo Hotel, Golf Echo Hotel," overhead speakers boomed, "Do you read me? Over."
"Golf Echo Hotel, if you read me, squawk two eight one one."
"Do not touch the transponder," Claudia said. "You better go into the cabin where my gentleman friend can shoot easier. I will take the copilot seat and handle communications."
"Golf Echo Hotel, turn left to heading three six zero."
The copilot squeezed out of his seat. Claudia let him pass into the cabin and took his place.
"Take the chair and fasten your seat belt," Val said to the young man.
Val wasn't familiar with air law, but he assumed it would be based on the laws relating to piracy on the high seas. Something like interfering with the lawful operation of a vessel and that the captain had ultimate authority. He was now sure he had gotten himself into big trouble. He was the guy holding the gun and threatening violence.
"Golf Echo Hotel, this is London Control, you are to turn left immediately, proceed direct to Stanstead VOR." The voice on the radio had taken an urgent tone. "Golf Ech--"
Claudia turned one of the tuner switches to 131,350. "The English can be so annoying." She picked up a mike. "Paris Control, this is Golf Echo Hotel, do you read, do your read?"
"Golf Echo Hotel, bonjour, this is Paris Control, read you loud and clear."
"Paris Control, this is Golf Echo Hotel, do you read?" Claudia repeated.
The voice from Paris Control repeated several times that he read loud and clear.
Claudia said, "If you read me, we are maintaining flight level one nine zero, destination Grossetto."
Val smiled. Maybe they could get away by faking loss of communications, if they could convince the pilots not to bitch about having a gun pointed at them. Fat chance. Nevertheless, Claudia's quick thinking impressed him. She was certainly more suited for skullduggery than he was. He thought of his imaginary pirate queen of Marie Galante Island and gave her Claudia's face.
"Golf Echo Hotel, this Paris control, we have radar contact three zero miles from Abbevile. Descend to and maintain flight level one zero zero. Standby to be intercepted by French Air Force."
The transmission hit Val like a bucket of cold water.
The copilot said, "Sir, you'll end up much better off if you put that gun away. The game is up."
Val didn't answer.
Claudia stuck her head out the cockpit door. "I think they mean business."
With a deep breath, Val accepted the inevitable and nodded.
"Golf Echo Hotel, after crossing Abbeville, turn to heading zero six three, descend to three thousand feet. Altimeter setting 1017 millibars."
Claudia said something to the captain and the airplane began descent. At the new angle, Val could see ahead. The cloud layer ended shortly after reaching the French coast, exposing fields of winter-brown. "Do you have a cigarette?" He asked the copilot.
The copilot shook his head as a tremor seized the airplane and a roar replaced the hissing noise of the slipstream. With its afterburner glowing, a Mirage fighter appeared on the King Air's windscreen. It pulled up and disappeared from view.
Impressive. Val wondered if the French jet scorched the paint of the little turboprop. The damn Frogs weren't messing about. This wasn't Val's day for flying. It really wasn't his day for anything. The whole world had turned against him. One couldn't win. Angry at his own stupidity, he jammed the pistol into the holster. "Now we have machine guns pointed at us."
"As they say in France, c'est la vie," the copilot answered. He then yelled, "I say, Jock, do you have a fag for our passenger?"
The captain handed a box of Senior Service cigarettes to Val.

#

Depression was the right word. Val watched the two Mirage fighters flank their airplane as it lined up with the runway of a French military base.
"Welcome to wherever we are," the copilot said as the wheels of the King Air kissed the runway.
The man's calmness irritated Val. Of course pilots were trained to deal with crisis. This was even evident in Claudia, who took everything in stride. In this situation there was only one thing left for him to do.
He had to behave with dignity.
After all, he was an Orloff, the last survivor of an illustrious family.
The airplane stopped in front of a two-storied yellow building and was immediately surrounded by paratroopers in camouflage uniforms and red berets.
The copilot opened the door and scampered to the ramp with his hands up.
"You go now," Claudia said to the captain, who left the cockpit and then the airplane with alacrity.
Claudia sighed above the hum of gyros winding down. "They will separate us for interrogation and then send us to separate jails, but we will write to each other, yes?"
Val tried to smile. "We'll meet again after serving our sentences."
"Yes, we will meet again."
"I'll go out first," Val said, getting up from his seat.
An officer in khaki and wearing the four metal bars of a commandant, a major, greeted Val. "You are under arrest, monsieur."

#

Commandant Chabass leaned back in the high backed chair in his office and lit a Marlborough. "Now explain to me with calmness . . . why did you threaten the pilots with a pistol?"
Sitting on an arm chair next to Val, facing the desk, Claudia said, "Because they did not obey my orders. I'm the charterer of this airplane. Here is the faxed contract."
Chabass nodded. "And then, you flew the airplane?"
"I did, I always fly my own airplane."
"But this is chartered. Not your airplane."
"What I mean is I'm a pilot."
"You threatened to shoot the pilots?"
"I did."
"Why?"
"To keep them from flying back to England."
"But you were over England when that happened."
"Yes," Claudia said. "So you have no jurisdiction."
Chabass rolled his eyes. "The Gendarmerie or the Criminal Police, whoever gets here first will sort out these details. I just need some sane information for the report I must write."
Half-hour later, Chabass finished tapping a computer keyboard. A printer buzzed. Chabass slid a printed page across his desk. "Please read it, and sign stating the contents are what you have told me."
Val read it. "This paragraph where it says forcibly took command. The Contessa took command after the pilots were threatened. She didn't use force."
Chabass sighed. "Let's start from the beginning."
One of three telephones on the desk rang. "Alo? Oui, show him in."
After hanging up softly, Chabass said, "Air Force hospitality is about to finish." He stood as the door opened.
Val turned, felt momentary relief. Though the face was familiar the expression was grim and spelled more trouble.
"Bon soir, Commandant," Shapquine said, showing an ID card. He then nodded toward Val and Claudia. "Yes, that's them."
"Leur histoire est tres bizarre." Chabass shook his head and handed Shapquine the declaration.
"Hmm," Shapquine said after reading it. "They didn't include they almost crashed another airplane this morning."
"Another airplane?" Chabass shook his head with disbelief.
Shapquine looked at his watch. "When was the last time you ate?"
"Breakfast," Val said.
"Is the kitchen still open for the colacion?"
"Yes, of course."
"Let's take your guests to the mess. I'm hungry, too."

#

The small mess looked like a McDonalds divided by trellises and artificial creepers. Chabass joined several officers who sat at a long table, having their afternoon meal customary in the French armed forces for duty personnel.
Shapquine chose a table on the opposite side of the room.
A waitress brought plates of fried eggs with French Fries and a carafe of red wine.
Shapquine said, "In England eggs have a slight fishy flavor. Contessa, I congratulate you on your superb airmanship this morning."
"There was no other recourse, Colonel." Claudia poured wine into her glass.
Shapquine smiled. "Last night, Moscow raised the alarm. Professor, what were you doing traveling cross country at a speed between five and nine kilometers an hour? Your friend was worried. And you failed to check in this morning."
"Someone stole my laptop."
"We thought we lost you when you headed back to London."
"Thanks to the Contessa, we turned around."
"I have to get Franco to his funeral."
"The British government has issued an international arrest warrant for both of you. And the French government is happy to comply."
"You can't do that," Repressing a shout, Val growled.
"Professor Orloff, Contessa D'Albano, you are under arrest."

[Brag]

Chapter 27

"Arrest me, I threatened the pilots. The Contessa had nothing to do with this."
Shapquine nodded. "Now that you have been arrested, we can inform the Brits. We don't need to tell them you are released on parole. We'll provide you with an aircraft tomorrow."
Relief made Val's hands shake.
"Contessa," Shapquine said, "Do you have a couple of spare rooms at your residence?"
"Yes, why?"
"I plan to accompany you to Italy and there is a lady who wants to talk with our dear count."
Claudia gave Val a sharp look. "Another lady?"
"Academician Lydia Stuart," Shapquine said.
"Colonel, I don't run a hotel."
"Of course we could stay somewhere else, but providing security will be more difficult. And then there's the risk of Italian authorities acting on the British warrant."
"With the funeral, the airplane to fix, business obligations, the professor wanting perusal of documents; now you throw Italian authorities into the basket of problems. And then, to boots, you propel another woman into my house."
Val stopped eating. "This lady is quite fun. You can think of her as my mother checking on her errant son."
"Madre mia," Claudia said to the ceiling. "This lunatic wakes me up at four in the morning, now he wants to bring his mother."
Val chuckled. "The trouble with the Contessa, she doesn't like how other people fly."
Shapquine said. "I'm informed that Academician Stuart has found a lead to uncover Captain Jack's identity."

#

Rain and wind swept across Grosseto Airport's concrete apron. The French Falcon Jet taxied to a remote corner of the airport where a black Mercedes hearse and an old green Range Rover waited.
Two men in black hats and raincoats took D'Albano's body, placed him inside the hearse and drove off.
"From here on he will be treated with dignity," Claudia said, opening a red umbrella outside the airplane door. Getting drenched, Val followed her to the Range Rover wishing he had a hat.
Shapquine, wearing a trench coat festooned with D rings, flaps and straps caught up with Val. "Perfect weather for a good Italian bean soup."
"The way she likes cops, the Contessa will pour it on top of your head."
"No, she'll be too angry at Boikin who's been camping at her Palazzo since last night."
"You could have told me yesterday."
"He didn't tell me 'til a few minutes ago on the cell."
Val imagined the little Russian ransacking through the D'Albano papers.
"You two climb to the back seat." Claudia said after greeting the driver.
Water ran down flooded ditches on the side of the road. In the fields along the narrow country road, miserable looking Cattle stood their backs to the wind. Because of the clouds dragging wet bellies along the tops of hills, Val had no way of telling in which direction they were going. Soon the terrain became flat and the driver pulled off the paved road onto a muddy track.
Four kilometers later, they entered San Albano, a one street village Val remembered as sun drenched. The car turned into a square where in the summer people sat on benches eating ice cream. There was something extra melancholic about Italy on a rainy day. They stopped in front of the modest village church.
Claudia said, "I have to see the priest." She jumped out and hurried into the church. A wind gust shook the car. Val's bones absorbed the chill of his wet clothes. So much for warming under the famed Tuscan sun.
"Our friend Boikin would have commented how suitable the weather is for a funeral," Shapquine said in Russian.
"Are you his stand in?" Val wiped his fogging window with the back of the hand.
"Have you considered that the young wife might have murdered her aging husband?"
"What for?"
"The obvious reasons. And she could be using the situation to commit the perfect crime."
Indignation rose up Val's chest. "I find the suggestion preposterous if not offensive."
The French policeman, or whatever he was, shrugged.
"The next thing you'll say I offed the old boy."
"In France you'd be a suspect, at least as an accomplice."
Val wondered if Shapquine's words were a threat. He was going to tell him to watch what he said when Claudia ran out of the house next to the church.
"Andiamo." She climbed back into the car.
Shortly after leaving the village, the driver slowed, turned into an open gate with cattle guards. A herd of fallow deer, hoof-deep in water, watched the car drive by.
"Our plot borders the Uccellina Nature Reserve. And those cattle you see are wild," Claudia told Shapquine.
"A splendid location, Contessa."
Among scattered umbrella-like Mediterranean pines several white cows with large horns grassed sticking their snouts into water covering the tableland.
The place looked completely different from the summer he had spent here.
They passed a group of houses and sheds built on slightly elevated ground. The Range Rover stopped in front of the white, three storied main house that was the D'Albano ancestral home. Without blooming flower boxes on the iron balconies installed in the late 1800s, the house had the architectural merit of a stone box with small windows.
Inside, the temperature was colder than in the open. Rosalia, a chunky middle aged woman in a black dress and wrapped in a black shawl, gave orders to the driver and a thin young man, who took luggage up a wooden staircase.
Val thought that originally the ground floor was used to shelter animals. He scrutinized statuary lining up the foyer walls and once again had the feeling of entering a museum. Incongruously, a row of parkas hung from pegs next to the door.
Claudia removed her scarlet raincoat, took a parka off a peg and handed it to Val. "Before you die." She then took another and put it on. Turning to Shapquine, she said, "This house was built in the medieval time. In the twelfth century. Franco believed if we put heat to it, the house would crumble. The cold keeps the mosquitoes away in the summer."
Rosalia whispered something into Claudia's ear.
Claudia's eyes quickly shifted between Val and Shapquine as she nodded.
Her expression became stern and she said to Shapquine. "You follow Luciano to your room." She then studied Val. "Yes, you have similar size to Franco. He won't mind if you wear his clothes."
The second floor had a corridor girding the building. Potted palms and benches alternated between interior doors. Claudia led into a dark bedroom and switched on the light. A small chandelier illuminated a military cot, a folding field desk with chair, and a well worn, overstuffed arm chair. "This is the room where Franco really lived."
She opened an armoire. "Use whatever you need, but not his uniforms."
"Thank you," Val said, trying not to show his reluctance of ransacking a dead man's wardrobe.
"I will show you your room, it's the same one you had before. Then I will go to Grosetto for shopping. You have freedom of the house. But the top floor is closed."

#

In the guest room Claudia assigned to him, Val got into dry clothes. D'Albano's trousers were too long. Val rolled the cuffs up. Chilled to the bones, he put on two pair of wool socks. The ancient house made him think how history influenced the thinking of people. Here, even an ignorant peasant was exposed to the monuments and architectural art of the past and became aware of the human greatness of mind. In the States only the East Coast offered anything resembling a historical tradition and the American lower classes had less cultural development than isolated African tribes. Maybe he should write a paper on the subject. He cringed at the outrage such thoughts would cause if made public.
His musings were shattered as the door flew open.
"Valentin Georgevich," Boikin said.
Val restrained himself before answering. "Don't you believe in knocking on doors?"
"I was hoping to catch you and the Contessa in bed."
"You're too late. She's gone shopping."
Boikin shook his head as he sat on a rococo armchair. "Shopping? You let her go shopping by herself?"
Embarrassment and anger at his own stupidity mixed in Val's mind.
Boikin waved his arm in dismissal. "Never mind, it will take your friends some time to discover where you and she are. Lunch will be served in twenty minutes."
"Did you have a productive night searching the house?"
"Didn't find a thing," Boikin probably lied.

#

The room was small, heated by a portable kerosene stove. Stuart rubbed her palms together as she sat at the round table. "Ah, wonderful, zakuski."
"Antipasti in Italy," Val said.
"I found a piano for you."
Boikin took a bottle of vodka out of an overcoat pocket. "This converts Italian antipasti into good Russian zakuski."
"The magic of vodka," Shapquine added.
Val studied the different dishes on the table. There were the obligatory pickles, salami, mushrooms, some fish.
Boikin poured vodka into wine glasses. "To your two extraordinary escapes. May you not run out of miracles."
After downing the vodka and chewing some salami, Val said, "I understand you made some meaningful discoveries."
Stuart waved a mushroom impaled on a fork. "A new call-sign appears after a week's hiatus. We have been unable to decipher it. But Colonel Shapquine says French intercepts indicate the new station communicating with DSXV was located in Alexandria."
The British occupied Egypt at the time. "It would have been impossible for Germans to transmit from Alexandria. Maybe some lost patrol of the Africa Corps, holed up in the desert. But they never got east of El Alamein."
Shapquine said, "French intercepts in Bizerte and Beirut were in excellent position to triangulate precisely."
"For 23 days this station communicates with DSXV almost daily. Then stops for a week. This station also communicates with U-3503. The next transmission . . . Colonel drop your bomb."
Shapquine grinned. "Count, brace yourself."
The vodka, kerosene heater and the two pairs of socks, gave Val a feeling of wellbeing. He laughed and poured vodka. "The next transmission was made from the top of the pyramid of Giza by space aliens."
Shapquine's grin disappeared. "Wadi Haifa, eight-hundred kilometers south of Cairo."
Val thought for a moment. "Interesting. Moving toward U-3503, which by now has run out of fuel."
"From then on, our Beirut station intercepts only one more transmission the following day. So there is no triangulation but the line goes over Khartoum."

Chapter 28

July 1945
From the narrow cockpit window of the war surplus PBY Catalina amphibian Capella had bought in Naples, Captain Jack watched the heel of the boot of Italy slowly slide underneath. Ahead lay nothing but blue Mediterranean with the horizon blurred by summer haze.
It felt good to sit in the copilot's seat. Jack had not been in an airplane cockpit since that bitter day he got washed out from flight training in San Antonio. The Army Air Corps was unfair and brutal. If the stupid instructor said a cadet was not ready to solo in ten hours, that was it. There was no appeal, no recourse. Despite his later success in the OSS, Jack never forgave his instructor nor the Army for shattering his dream of becoming a pilot.
The dream was born in Berlin, where Jack's father was second secretary at the embassy. A humble job he had stoically taken after losing the family fortune during the depression. While visiting the Third Reich, Charles Lindbergh, the great aviator came to dinner. His enthusiasm for the future of aviation got Jack fired up with a burning desire to become a pilot.
At 110 knots, it would take them 11 hours to reach Alexandria. Jack glanced at Capella who still wore his military khakis and smoked a cheap cigar.
"Do you mind if I fly for a bit?"
Capella nodded. "Just keep this heifer on course and altitude."
Jack pulled his seat forward and took the controls.
"Easy," Capella said, and pushed the yoke forward with his index fingers.
The airplane had climbed 50 feet.
Jack pulled the yoke back just a touch and then brought it forward, nailing the altimeter on the twelve o'clock position.
"Use the trim wheel when those *******s in the back move around."
Having his men called *******s, rankled. "Hey, they might not smell too good, but they aren't *******s."
Capella chuckled. "I guess I should be more respectful of this airline's first passengers."
"Now you understand the business aspect of this airline." Jack's gaze swept the sea below. Three white wakes drew his attention. Ships no longer sailed in convoys. Jack chuckled to himself, wondering what Capella's reaction was going to be when they landed next to a German U-boat.

#

Capella's loud snores weren't helping Jack's drowsiness. Showing they were making progress, the red ADF needle pointed toward Tobruk, eighty degrees off the nose. Capella sprawled like a Dali masterpiece with one foot on the glare shield, the other resting between the rudder pedals. His head hung to one side, and his headset had dropped to the floor.
Jack reached for the thermos with coffee
Though lukewarm, the coffee soothed Jack's dry throat. He was pleased to see the airplane stayed nailed on its altitude without him touching the yoke. The Croats riding in the back were probably asleep and weren't moving about screwing up the trim.
The drone of he engines broke into loud, banging belches. Jack spilled coffee on his lap and dropped his cup.
Capella's foot got caught in the yoke as he attempted to sit up. The nose of the PBY lifted. Jack fought to regain control.
A strident bell rang.
"What the ****?" Capella said, as he disentangled his foot.
Jack looked out of his window. "****, the engine is on fire."
Capella sang, "Happy days are here again . . ." He punched the right feathering button, as he took over the yoke. "Look outside, tell me when the prop has stopped."
Jack watched the propeller come to a halt, its blades turned to offer least resistance to the slipstream. "Rotation stopped."
"Do you see flames?"
"****ing A."
"Turn that ****ing bell off."
Capella pulled the right CO2 discharge handle.
It took Jack several seconds to find the alarm mute switch.
"Is the fire out?"
"I think so."
"Okay, panic's over. Read me the checklist."
Jack glanced at the dropping airspeed, as Capella pushed the throttle of the good engine to climb power. Trying to keep his voice even, Captain Jack read off the Engine Failure Checklist.

#

7° 48' S
39° 32' E
With the war over, lighthouses functioned again. Teicher was fascinated by the periodic sweep of Kilindoni Light-beam on Mafia island. Below the horizon, the lighthouse itself couldn't provide the precise bearing Teicher needed. His gaze returned toward the bow, and he peered through his glasses. In the moonlight, the mangrove coast looked like an ancient army of pikemen walking on water.
Shortly after dark he had surfaced and dropped off Charlie and Franco in an inflatable life raft one mile upwind of his present position. According to Charlie, the Southeast Monsoon wind would carry him to the Komboni mouth of the Rufiji Delta. Now Teicher searched for the beacon the two lunatics were supposed to light.
Four hours had gone by. Still nothing. "Ten degrees port rudder," Teicher commanded more out of instinct than observation. The mangrove mess ahead didn't allow precise navigation.
A grunt from the port lookout made Teicher swing his glasses left.
"Light off the port bow," the lookout called out.
"Thirty degrees port rudder. Engines one third ahead, together."
The whine of the electric motors increased. Teicher wasn't taking chances of someone ashore hearing the thump of diesels.
"New heading zero seven three," Krabbe said as he took a bearing with the UZO.
"A bit stronger current than we anticipated."
"Jawohl, I hope those two landed in the right place."
"Depth fifteen meters, fluctuating to thirteen."
Teicher studied the steepening swell. "Danke."
"I hope our friend is right about coral not growing in muddy water," Krabbe said.
Teicher chuckled. "He is right out of a Salgari novel."
"A modern day Sandokan."
They were less than a mile from the coast. "Dead slow ahead." Teicher searched for the opening. He could see spume, and hear thunder of breaking waves. "Hard to port, ahead full." Teicher winced. His commands were like those of a raw junior officer caught with his pants down.
The boat accelerated as it turned beam to the seas.
Like a rearing monster a wave rose and broke on deck. Teicher slammed against the rail as the boat rolled. "Engines stop. Hard starboard."
The boat turned toward the inlet.
As if crossing a magic barrier, they entered calm water.
The boat started to drift back to sea, Teicher understood what formed the freak waves. "Engines ahead one third."
The most primitive navigation beacon on earth, a fire built on a raft Illuminated surrounding mangrove trees. Teicher watched Charlie and Franco pull themselves from tree to tree, working their way upstream against an ebbing current. "What's the depth?"
"Depth twenty four meters."
"The tide turned early on us, Herr Krabbe." Teicher couldn't resist in saying.
"I did my best with what we have, Herr Kaleun."
That had been an unfair comment. All Krabbe had to work with was the tide information given by a commercial radio station in Mombasa. "I've meant it as a compliment."
The sub was doing five knots against the current and stood still maintaining station. Teicher hoped Charlie and Franco moved sufficiently well upstream to be able to paddle up to the ship. "I want four men with lines on the forward deck and four by the stern. If those people get swept to sea, I'll have someone's neck." He then turned to Krabbe. "You have the con."
Teicher sat at the bottom of the cockpit and lit a cigarette. With envy, he thought of his men who soon would enjoy a break under the sun.
"Here they come," Krabbe said.
Teicher sprung to his feet.
With naked eyes, he noticed the disturbance on the water. His heartbeat accelerated as he focused his glasses on the two men furiously paddling the life raft. It didn't take a genius to see they'd never make the sub. The current swept them down four meters for every meter of progress.
Teicher glanced back where the outpouring current met the ocean waves in a maelstrom of white water.
The life raft was clearly visible to the naked eye. Charlie had overestimated their capability of propelling the clumsy craft. Or misjudged the current. It didn't matter. Throughout the war Teicher had not lost a single man. He wasn't about to start now.
"Engines astern, full." Teicher wondered what damage he would do to screws and rudders if he hit something.
The wine of electric motors rose, the sub began moving backward. The life raft was almost abeam the bow, still a good thirty meters away from U-3503.
One of the men on deck tossed a line. The wind blowing above the treetops sheered its course. The monkey fist splashed into water behind the raft.
As the sub's forward speed dropped, the raft's relative position stabilized. The second line flew neatly over the raft and one of the occupants grabbed it.
"Both engines ahead one third together." Teicher looked back as the stern headed for the huge breakers.
"Man overboard."
In all his time at sea, Teicher had never heard the dreaded call except in drills. He leaned over the port rail to see the head of the line-handler reappear on the surface.
"Stern crew toss your lines."
Teicher was going to yell more instructions. But that would add to the confusion.
Someone threw a line, wrapped the bitter end around a cleat. The life raft swung as the line tightened.
The idiot in the water had let go of the line to the raft and swam for it.
U-3503 slowly pulled away from the surf.
"Ahead one half." Now he had to prevent the raft from entering the surf. With relief, Teicher saw the swimmer reach the raft and someone grab him.
Relieved, his attention returned to maneuvering his boat deeper into Africa. Above the soft hum of the electric motors, he thought he heard the trumpeting of elephant in the distance.
Five minutes later, all his charges were back aboard.
Charlie came up to the bridge. "Yes, Herr Kaleun?"
An odd holiday feeling, generally absent in war engulfed Teicher. He patted Charlie on the shoulder and chuckled. "Now you'll act as pilot, show me your famous beach with palm trees."

#

Alexandria, Wadi Haifa, Khartoum. The route Imperial Airways used. It took four days with overnight stops for this airline's plush flying boats to reach Lake Naivasha in Kenya. "Moving up the Nile," Val said. "And it wasn't at the speed of a boat."
Boikin who had been sitting looking pensive, leaned forward. "Time for a perikur, a smoking break." He lit a cigarette. We have the route and the dates of an airplane heading toward East Africa."
"Absolutely brilliant," Val almost chuckled. "All you need to do is have some of your bright young men working in Cairo and Khartoum, dig through the records and we get the names, aircraft registration, everything."
Boikin ran a hand over his head. An exaggerated scowl appeared on his face. "In Cairo we can't sneeze without Tel Aviv getting a report. Mossad has that part of the world under the closest surveillance. They have thoroughly penetrated the Egyptian security services and the police."
"What do the Israelis have to do with this?"
Stuart, with a cigarette hanging from her mouth, said, "Without Israeli intelligence, the US is blind in the Middle East. So the plethora of American intelligence organizations keep in close touch with Mossad."
Boikin added. "If we start investigating, Washington will know immediately. Mister X will make his conclusions and you will have to spend the rest of your life hiding in some remote shack in Siberia."
"The way Mossad has North and Eastern Africa covered is simply Amazing," Shapquine said. "Aid programs, hotels, transport, import-export and trading companies, provide an excellent network where it is difficult to move without them knowing."
Rosalia entered the room carrying a large steaming tureen and placed it on the table. "Signori mangia niente."
While Rosalia ladled soup, Val shifted uncomfortably in his seat. There was little doubt in his mind the Russian and French spooks would propose he go to Egypt.
With MI-6 already after him, all he needed was to another intelligence organization joining the hunt.
"We'll give you an Austrian passport and you'll go as a tourist," Boikin said.
"I just learned to say buenos dias."
"Tourists outnumber security operatives," Shapquine added. "You'll get lost in the hordes."
"They all go to the pyramids, bazaars and the museum. They don't dig into airport archives. Nowadays airports are high security zones," Val objected.
"There's another high security zone you may want to avoid," Shapquine said, "Wormwood Scrubs Prison in London."
"I see, and you would deliver me there?"
"The trial would be rather sensational. The sort of thing British tabloids love."
"The Italian press is quite colorful, too," Boikin added."
The fury rising inside Val was hard to contain. For a moment he visualized pulling the pistol now comfortably lodged under his arm and shooting all three spooks. The image of the massacre brought out the icy calm he was beginning to learn how to summon in critical moments. He smiled at his lunch partners. "You make interesting suggestions. Of course I'd love to go to Egypt."

#

The rain had stopped and the overcast lifted higher than the steep, rock-strewn hills bordering the alluvial plain. The ruins of a yellow sandstone tower atop one of the hills fascinated Val. Several other towers sprouted here and there. Nowhere else in the world were there so many reminders of the past as in Italy. He was about to go back into his dark room when he saw the Range Rover drive up to the house.
He had to talk to Claudia alone. Stuart's idea made a lot of sense. But unlike the spooks accustomed to using people, Val was loath of involving Claudia.
Val went downstairs and helped the driver and houseboy unload groceries, which they took to an enormous kitchen with a large brick oven.
After the two men left, Claudia said, "Coffee?"
"Yes, thank you." Val sat on a stool by a huge, ancient table that must have been built inside the kitchen and watched Claudia manipulate a complex espresso machine.
In a few minutes, she placed two cups of aromatic coffee on the table and sat across from Val. "This is beginning to look like the United Nations. You really need to do some explanations. Who are all these people?"
Val took a deep breath. "I'm still trying to figure it out. It all goes back to Hermann. I thought I knew the man. He was like a benign uncle who taught me in College, helped me defend my dissertation and eased my career. Obviously I held him in the highest esteem and had an idealized picture of him. But now I came to realize my picture of him was incorrect."
"Incorrect? He was the most correct man I have known."
"What I mean is I had a wrong picture of him. Maybe an idealized one. How did you see him?"
"See him?"
"Yes, paint me a portrait. He and your husband were well acquainted."
"Acquainted?" Claudia inclined her head to one side. I would say they were more like partners. Now that both are dead, I can tell you. They worked together tracking down, is that the correct word, tracking?"
Val nodded.
"They tracked down stolen art work. David Hermann was mostly interested in searching for art looted by the German Nazis and then sold illegally. When David spent his summers here he and Franco traveled a lot. Franco told me, David was obsessed with what he called the silent tower."
"What is the silent tower?"
"Franco took me there once before we were married." Claudia chuckled. "I think he wanted to demonstrate in what an excellent physical condition he was. We climbed to a beautiful place in the Alps next to Switzerland."
"What does it have to do with art, or stolen art?"
Claudia shrugged. "There was an old radio antenna there. Franco called it the Silent Tower. He always laughed at David who often said, 'If only I could make that tower talk."
Hermann probably did make that tower talk, Val thought, and that was what got him killed. "Did Franco ever mention a submarine?"
"You ask the craziest questions and don't answer any of mine. What are all these people doing here?"
"They also want to make the silent tower talk."
"You are riddling me." Claudia slid her coffee cup to the side.
"If we can look at Franco's real dairy, I think we will find most of the answers to your questions."
A frown made Claudia look as if she couldn't make her mind. "I don't think we can do that until I see his will. I have an appointment with the lawyer day after tomorrow."
Exasperated, Val grasped the edge of the table. "A lawyer? Two people got killed already and someone tried to kills us. Once they realize they have a phony diary they will come here and take the real one."
"They won't find it."
"They'll make you talk."
"I am safe here. The Butteri protect me."
"They're just cowboys. Maybe ok against some Mafiosi. But not against the people who have been hunting me down."
"Ah, you don't trust your French and Russian friends."
"The only reason they've been protecting me is because they need me. Or maybe I have already outlived my usefulness and all they need now is the diary."
"So while the Butteri look for people who try to come in, like a Trojan horse, you bring your friends into the house so they can rob the diary."
Val sighed. "We didn't have much of a choice."

[Brag]

Chapter 29

Seeing Claudia was adamant, Val let the subject lie. "I need to check my Emails, can I use your computer?"
She led the way to the second floor into a corner of the house he'd never been to before, and now had to wait while she inserted keys into three different locks.
"Do you keep your gold in there?"
"In the fashion business we have many secrets. I do all my designing here and no one sees my collection until we go into the manufacturing stage."
Claudia's corner studio had an outside view and large windows had been knocked out of the stone walls. Several rough sketches were pined to a drafting table. Unlike the work areas of most creative people, this room was clinically orderly. Only an old fashioned rotary phone and an appointments book sat on top of a large mahogany desk.
Val approached a window and looked outside. The rain had stopped. Half a mile away, large waves churned up into a line of white breakers on the beach. A clump of Mediterranean pines barely hid the dock where Claudia kept her sailboat.
"Your friends tried to come inside here last night and set off the silent alarm. Rosalia is very persuasive when she aims her submachine gun."
"Rosalia?" Val turned to face Claudia. He had trouble visualizing the old chunky housekeeper with a gun.
Claudia laughed. "You look incredulous. Rosalia is an old fashioned Communist, still waiting for the uprising of the working classes. She marched your friends into the cellar and locked them up up."
"You mean she took on Boikin?"
Claudia nodded, then switched on a computer on a small desk. "I told her to release them when we arrived."
"She had me fooled."
"Never underestimate old people."
"She was living dangerously. I'm sure Boikin is armed."
"He was." Claudia opened a desk drawer and took out a pistol. "He was carrying this."
"She must have been a convincing sight for Boikin . . ."
"When she parades her gun at the party meetings, she calls everyone tovarish and speaks a smattering of Russian."
Val shook his head and sat in front of the large, flat computer screen. He had about ten Emails. He started by deleting Spam. He was about to press the key on Subj: Penis enlargements by Bogo. His finger froze in mid air and he opened the Email.
The message read:
For penis enlargement come alone to my Riviera & Split Uvala Baluni 24 1105 1700.
Val stared at the message. It didn't make any sense except the text would probably evade interest by security services Email interception programs. 24 could be a telephone country code. "What country is 24?"
Val smelled Claudia's peach scent as she looked over his shoulder.
"I see, very important for you to have penis enlarged now."
"Well, you see ah . . . " Val stopped clucking his tongue.
"That's not a telephone number. Uvala Baluni is in Split."
"Split?"
"The Dalmatian Riviera. Uvala Baluni is a picturesque harbor."
"Ah," Val said as the message became clear. Split was an ancient town in Croatia, founded by Roman Emperor Diocletian in the 4th. Century. Now the numbers made sense. 241105 was 24 November 2005 and 1700 meant five PM. The day after tomorrow.
"Why are you getting your penis enlarged in Split?"
"I have to meet someone's father."
"Mama mia, you need to take your medicine."
"I won't be able to attend the funeral," Val was pretty sure he would have to go to Rome in order catch a plane for Split.
"To get penis enlarged to meet someone's father is more important than a funeral? Caro Valentino, you need some rest. Then, with a clear mind get your priorities straight."
"My penis has nothing to do with this!" Val swiveled the chair, his nose ending up inches away from Claudia's belly.
She placed her hands on his shoulders. His nose sank into her jeans. Drunk with the smell of woman, Val wrapped his arms around her.
After a few moments, Claudia pushed his head away. "Caro Valentino. First I must bury Franco--Now let go of my posterior!"
Reluctantly, Val released the embrace.
Claudia squatted to bring her face to his level. "Tomorrow, like a civilized friend, you come to the funeral. The airplane will be fixed and Vito will have it here tomorrow night. After we finish the customary formalities required by society, I will fly you to your bizarre meeting in Split."
Val took her hands, stood, and pulled Claudia up. "Thanks, but I have to go alone."
She shook her hands free of his and placed a finger on his nose. "Of course, you will hike over the mountains then swim the Adriatic. You need a pilot to get you there in time. Capice?"
"You're impossible."
"Tonight, Don Marco, the village priest will come for dinner. Don't you dare tell him Franco was Muslim. And tomorrow as a world-famous historian you will deliver the eulogy glorifying Franco as a great hero of World War Two, a great human being and much beloved leading citizen of the Maremma and Tuscany."
"Ok," Val said, thinking of the implications, "But at a funeral I can only tell the truth. Let me see Franco's real diary."
"The real diary is in a safe place. You can't see it today, you can't see it tomorrow. Because you are going to Split, you can't see it until you come back. But I will tell you the real story."

#

21 January 1941
Kassala, Sudan.
It was still dark when Captain Franco D'Albano crept to the edge of the ridge where he was greeted by the smell of cooking fires. Everything was working in his favor, even the light movement of air. Some Englishman in the encampment outside the town, also helped when he started the engine of a tank. The noise would cover the approach of D'Albano's 1500 mounted Spahis. For a moment Franco hesitated. The last time cavalry attacked tanks was two years ago in Poland. Was he also going to sacrifice his men for nothing?
So far, the British Army had nothing but contempt for the Italians who had surrendered in droves in the Libyan Desert. Now. Gazelle Force, with its trucks and tanks, had taken the frontier stronghold of Kassala without firing a shot.
Franco quickly identified the British positions reported by his scouts and spies as he scanned the enemy through binoculars. In the faint light the British lined up by field kitchens to get their morning tea.
"Allah akhbar." Franco muttered and crept back to where Saidi, his orderly, held their horses by the rains.
Franco mounted and rode back into the wadi where his troops stood waiting. The silence of the morning was only broken by the soft snort of a horse. Franco drew his saber.
Following his example, Saidi drew a carbine from its scabbard.
Franco listened to the swish sounds as his squadron commanders pulled their swords in signal to begin the charge. He wheeled his horse around and broke into a trot.
His force climbed out of the dry riverbed. Only the sound of dislodged pebbles gave away movement but the Brits had failed to cover this crucial geographical feature that had allowed the stealthy approach of cavalry.
Out in the open, Franco glanced back. In parade precision, the Spahis deployed in rows of 200 horsemen advanced brandishing carbines and scimitars.
Ahead, the Brits were deployed into two main groups, the elite 25th. Indian Field Regiment with artillery, and the other composed of Sussex and Surrey Yeomanry equipped with tanks.
More engines were starting as the muezzin called for prayers from the mosque in town.
Like a warrior of a millenium ago, Franco waved his saber and broke into a moderate canter. Behind him, the thunder of hooves grew.
Three hundred meters ahead, soldiers ran in every direction. A few muzzle flashes blinked.
"Allah akhbar!" Franco yelled at the top of his voice.
The yell was answered by a thousand voices as the Spahis broke into a full gallop and the cornet blew the signal to charge.
Franco knew this was the last order he would give in this world.
His horse jumped over a concertina wire entanglement and entered a truck park. Franco's saber descended and sliced into a running soldier's shoulder. He twirled the saber free and stabbed into a rifleman's chest.
Grenades exploded. The early dawn light took a rosy hue as fires erupted.
Franco led his horse toward a street packed with soldiers. Next to him, Zaidy had dropped the reins and kept firing his carbine. Terrified Indian soldiers ducked into doorways.
He couldn't see them, but behind the crumping of grenades told him his riders were tossing them as they passed the enemy trying to take shelter.
Franco turned a corner and jumped over a field kitchen. On reaching the mosque and again turning right, he heard the dreaded sound of artillery and the screeching of a shell. The artillery was responding faster than he had anticipated.
He rode out of town where the British combat troops were deployed and reined his horse.
The scene was a chaotic melee of riders slashing soldiers on foot. Another shell screamed across the field. It hit a British tank. The Indian gunners unable to see across the tumult were not aware the shells were passing almost harmlessly amid the cavalry and slamming into their own equipment.
The crack of British Enfield rifles was rising in volume. It sounded like the enemy was organizing and beginning a counter attack. Three tanks exploded one after another. Smoke added to the confusion. It was time to get out.

#

Val interrupted Claudia. "Nothing new in this story and I have verified the facts."
"There, you see, you know the truth. What is not true, is he did not dismiss his troops after the capitulation signed in Asmara."
"Oh?"
"Yes, he stayed fighting in Abbisinia until the end of the war. But you don't need to say that in the eulogy."
"You mean he did not even accept Badoglio's armistice in 1943?"
"His Amhara warriors were totally loyal to him, they accepted him as one of their own. He couldn't leave them as they fought the new colonialists."
Val sighed. "You have used me to perpetuate a fraud. And you're still using me to confirm it."
"Franco was a man of honor. That's all you have to say." Claudia crossed her arms. "And you, Mister Honesty and academic integrity, have no right to say I am using you."

Chapter 30

Confused, was the best way Val could describe his state of mind. Claudia and her husband had razzmatazzed him, yet he felt guilty about the count's murder. When it came to his feelings toward Claudia, he dismissed them as lust. Nevertheless, her Get your hands off my posterior words, rankled or hurt.
As Val headed downstairs for dinner, he wondered how the tense situation in the house would play out. He entered the sitting room and surveyed what looked like a frozen tableau. Enveloped in an electric silence, Boikin, Stuart and Shapquine sat together on a sofa.
Claudia sat on an armchair, leafing through a magazine. A martini glass next to her. Except for Rosalia who served him a scotch and soda, no one seemed to pay him any attention. The old lady wore a formal maid's uniform with white, starched collar. Bordering the absurd, over her apron, she had strapped a leather belt and a holstered Mauser pistol.
Val took a chair and fought the urge to say something.
Rosalia returned to her place at the far end of the room, where she stood looking more like a prison matron than a housekeeper.
The gathering had the charm of a dentist's waiting room. Val sipped his drink, the atmosphere made the scotch taste like disinfectant.
After ten minutes, Val was ready to scream.
Don Marco, the village priest, arrived armed with a double barreled shotgun. After a perfunctory, "Bona sera." He carefully placed the gun in a corner of the sitting room and accepted a Cinzano with a slice of lemon from Rosalia.
The priest made himself comfortable in an armchair and said, "May God protect those who wish harm on the Contessa. The whole village, including atheists, is ready to defend her." He raised his glass. "To the memory of the highly esteemed Count."
"Thank you, Father," Claudia said.
Don Marco said to Val. "What a pity you never came to church during your last visit."
"I'm of a slightly different religion, Father."
"Ah, yes the ancient Byzantine branch. A rite somewhat more elaborate than ours, I hear." Don Marco chuckled. "Don't tell the Pope, but tomorrow we will be honored to have you as a member of a religion older than ours speak and eulogize the Count. He was a great Monarchist leader in our region and many people will come to pay their respects."
He gestured toward the couch where Boikin, Shapquine, and Stuart sat like a chastised trio of juvenile malefactors. "Dona Rosalia says if you promise me that you will not abuse the Contessa's hospitality, she will return your weapons." Don Marco's lips parted in a horsy grin showing huge teeth. "Then we can call our defense force an international coalition."
Stuart pointed at Boikin, "As the rightful heiress to the Throne of Scotland, I can guarantee the word of my colleague." She then gestured at Shapquine. "He hasn't done anything dishonorable yet, so he deserves our trust."
Val had a hard time keeping a straight face.
Don Marco nodded at Rosalia, who took a silver tray loaded with pistols and solemnly passed it in front of the trio.
Boikin's gloomy look vanished as he stuck a pistol under his jacket. Stuart took a nickel-plated small number and stuck it in the waistband of a long black skirt.
Val wondered if Claudia was armed.
"Very well," Claudia said, "now that we have things straightened, I can say benvenuti. Welcome to San Luca."
"As to the evildoers, who tried to kill the contessa," Don Marco said," the Carabinieri have set up ro*******s on all roads leading to the area. So we no longer need to worry about her security."
Val wondered how long it would take the likes of Bond to figure out that coming from the sea was the easiest way to get inside the estate.
He was glad Claudia had suggested coming with him to Split. When one was hunted, one had to keep moving.
Apparently satisfied the guests no longer required armed supervision Rosalia left the room.

#

The following morning, Val found an appropriate black suit and black tie. With the help of pins, he managed to shorten D'Albano's trousers to fit him. Outside the yellow winter sunlight gave the country the aspect of a Renaissance painting. Wearing a black hat, veil and a black outfit resembling a riding habit, Claudia looked the archetypal Italian grieving widow.
The square in front of the church no longer appeared forlorn. A line of Butteri mounted on tall chestnut Maremmani horses solemnly lined one side of the church's main entrance. To the other side stood a platoon of Carabiniery shouldering carbines. A large crowd in their Sunday best watched from the square.
Claudia's driver stooped by a bullock cart parked in front of the church entrance. She stepped out of the Range Rover.
With a drill similar to a sword salute, The Butteri paid their respects with l'unsino, their traditional long, thin wooden cattle prod. In their gleaming riding boots, gray breeches and charcoal vests, they looked like as sharp as any military ceremonial mounted guard.
They made Val think how deeply the equestrian tradition was ingrained in the Italian psyche.
Don Marco greeted them at the church door and led inside.

#

Church bells pealed slowly as eight Butteri and carabinieri pallbearers took the flag draped coffin outside and placed it on the bullock cart. Following the honor guards, the townspeople lined into a long procession to the cemetery.
The sight of television crews bothered Val.
Ignoring the cameras in the cemetery, Val had no problem reading the eulogy, he had written and Claudia had translated into Italian.
After the coffin was lowered into the grave there was a disturbance as reporters tried to break through the security cordon demanding interviews.
Deftly using l'unsinos, the Butteri prodded the journalists back and herded them like cattle to their vehicles.

#

"Even your Italian accent was perfect," Claudia said as the Range Rover left the cemetery. "You have improved our self-image we have since the Second World War. Now your book will become a best seller in Italy. Can you say again I have been using you?"
Still bothered by the TV cameras, Val said, "We need to get out of here as soon as possible."
"The airplane will not arrive until evening. You must have patience. And I have to host the pranzo. Widows are put under many obligations to keep them busy during their time of grief."
After a few minutes of silence, Claudia said, "Once we get to Split, you can take me to one of those smoky cafes and minister me a good, large brandy. By God I need one now."
"We have to sneak out without my baby sitters noticing."
"That will be no problem. The crowd will stay, eat and drink 'til after dark. I will have Rosalia park the Fiat car behind the granary, we leave at sunset and will not be noticeable in the traffic of departing guests. You like my plan?"
"Excellent, you would make a perfect spy."
"We will leave behind three perfect spies who have been driving me crazy."

#

Truckloads of people arrived at the estate and feasted off trestle tables loaded with food and wine. Everyone wanted to say something to Val and shake his hand. The wave of Italian effervescent goodwill almost made him forget his problems.
Like good house dicks, Boikin and Shapquine patrolled the edges of the crowd. God only knew what they carried under their raincoats.
The chatter of the crowd died as four Butteris rode into the middle of the throng and stopped in front of Claudia. After saying a few words, by some unobserved signal they made their horses kneel. They got off the saddles as the horses rolled onto their sides. Impressed by the equestrian skill of the Butteri, Val applauded enthusiastically with the rest of the crowd.
Maybe the honest country wine had an effect. At the moment it was difficult to imagine wanting to live anywhere else. He glanced at Claudia. With sadness, he realized this was an impossible dream. Once this mess was over, he was doomed to living in a two bedroom apartment and briefing elected hayseeds from Ohio and Oklahoma about an outside world they had no knowledge of and worse yet, no interest in learning about it. The only net results of his efforts were free lunches.
Val looked around. Another free lunch. Like a shipwrecked sailor he had been swept here by a wave of violence. But this was only an illusion of a safe harbor. The Tsunami was yet to come. Slowly, he worked his way to the edge of the thinning crowd, in the direction of the granary. If he ran into Boikin or Shapquine he would tell them he had to piss.
He searched for Claudia, couldn't see her anywhere. It was almost sunset. He picked up a chicken leg from a table and ambled away from the crowd. Someone munching a piece of chicken wouldn't look like sneaking out.
The red Fiat was parked behind the granary. Val froze at the sight of a man inside. It took him a few seconds to realize Claudia had exchanged her widow head dress for a wide brimmed gray Buttero felt hat.
Val quickened his pace and got into the car.
"I thought you forgot our rendezvous." Claudia put the car in gear and drove behind the improvised parking lot and joined the trickle of cars leaving the property.
By wearing Franco's clothing, Boikin couldn't track Val's movements via the microchips he had sneaked into his clothing.
"What's the matter, you're not talking to me?" Claudia said.
"Sorry. Was relaxing."
"Vito called. He landed half an hour ago and I told him to file a flight plan to Sarajevo. We will change enroute after leaving Ancona. Is that sneaky enough for you?"
"Quite crafty."
"Rosalia will tell your friends I had to go to my office in Milano and we went by train. It will take them some time to discover my airplane is fixed."
"You're good at misleading people."
"Women must use their brains to survive in a world of predatory men."
"Not all men are predatory."
"A few men are saintly. You for example. You missed your calling, you should have been a priest."
Val turned sharply to look at Claudia. "How do you figure that?"
"With all the time we have spent together, except for yesterday, you have never made a pass."
"And that bothers you."
The car bumped across cattle guards, and they entered the paved road. Claudia turned on the headlights and accelerated. "Men always make passes at me, it gets boring. They say I'm exotic."
Val shifted in his seat.
"You don't think I'm exotic?"
"Most men would find you attractive."
"Bene, next month I have a show in Dubai. Is not as crazy as the Paris Fashion Week but the sheiks and princes will shower me with invitations to spend time on their yachts and villas in the Antilles."
If we're still alive in a month. "I suppose the fashion business has its glamorous social whirl."
Claudia laughed. "Social whirl? It has the glamour of an elegant whorehouse."
"A colorful description."
"It's full of women who know they depreciate with each year and men so insecure of their manhood they must proposition every skirt they meet.
"Not like you, who appears to be a worm book but that is a wrong impression. Now is time to be honest. What is the connection of your penis enlargement meeting and David's and Franco's murders?"
"I think David Hermann wanted to protect Franco from the repercussions of something that happened during World War Two. That's why he convinced me to write the book about Franco. Hermann wanted to create the illusion that Franco was somewhere else and not involved in this event."
Val paused, he was still trying to put the puzzle together. The pieces that didn't fit in the puzzle were the Russian and French involvement.
It had grown dark and they were now on the main road to Grosseto.
"I still don't know, but I hope to find another piece to the puzzle. Once I have most of the pieces, I will know who ordered the murders."

#

A bowser truck was still pumping fuel into Claudia's Piaggio when they arrived.
"Fueling will be done in five minutes, Contessa" Vito said holding Claudia's door open.
"Grazie, you may go home now."
Claudia opened the trunk and took a small suitcase out. She said to Val. "Rosalia packed the few things you have."
Val looked into the trunk and closed his eyes. Bloody microchips would be telling Boikin they were at the airport.
"Valentino, what's the matter. You look like you have seen a ghost."
"We'll leave my jacket and trousers here. And let's get out in a hurry."

Chapter 31

The one hour and thirty minutes flight across Italy, then over the Adriatic had been uneventful. Val enjoyed sitting in the darkened cockpit from where, even at night, the view was spectacular.
He was also glad not have to talk with Claudia who had enough to do as she handled the airplane and communications by herself.
The lights on the Croatian coast were in sight briefly before vanishing under a veil of silver cloud lit by a new moon. The airplane shook a little as it settled inside puffy cloud tops. After ten minutes of flying blind, they broke out of the clouds. In front, the runway was lit up like a welcome marquee. Once again, Val was impressed by the technology of blind flight, how a pilot could find a precise spot hundreds if not thousands of miles away without seeing a thing. And he marveled at the woman who could do all these things.
It wouldn't take Boikin long to discover they had flown to Split. Val decided to use his real passport to enter Croatia.
Claudia parked to the side of the passenger terminal. Reluctantly, Val stuck the pistol into a small locker on the side of the copilot's seat. "Thanks for the ride, have a nice flight back."
Claudia looked up from the logbook she was filling out. "What is the matter with you? I'm coming, too."
"No, you're safe with Boikin, Shapquine and the Butteri."
"You need a complete examination of your head. I flew you in and will fly you back."
"But--"
"Basta! Claudia slapped the logbook shut.
Seeing that arguing was hopeless, Val shrugged and wiggled out of his seat.

#

Done with customs and emigration, they stepped out of the passenger terminal where the overhang was held up by illuminated futuristic columns that looked like giant martini glasses. Claudia said, "I know a little hotel which is quite charming."
"We won't go there." Val took Claudia firmly by the arm and made her stop as she extended her other arm to flag a taxi.
"Why not?" She looked at him, a puzzled frown on her face.
"First things first. We'll wait a few minutes and choose a taxi instead of the taxi choosing us. Then we go to the hotel Split to make the driver think we are staying there. After that we'll walk and find a place to stay."
But I like the Adriatica."
"They know you there. You are now Mrs. Diaz from Argentina. That way if the other team will look for us, we simply vanish in this charming town."
A chilling gust of wind made Val shiver, he shook his head at a taxi driver who yelled, "Taxi?"
Other people were coming out of the terminal and taking taxis. Except for his black suit, Val thought, they weren't too conspicuous.
"And by chance, are you Mr. Diaz?"
"Yes, ma-am."
"And you plan for us to stay in one room?"
"Yes, ma-am."
"You are taking too many indecent liberties."
"Okay, you wanted to come with me. Now you can go to your charming hotel but I will try to hide. So when the bad guys come they'll only have you to amuse themselves with."
"I will amuse myself when I watch how they enlarge your penis."
"Come." Val marched to the second cab waiting in line.
"Valentino, we don't go to the Split Hotel but to the bus station."
"What for?"
When taxi driver is questioned, he will tell people we left town by bus, capice?"
"That makes sense." Val hated to admit Claudia was better at this business than he was.
Thirty minutes later, he watched the taxi drive off and the driver thinking they were taking a bus to Zadar.
"Now, Señor Diaz, we go up the street into the old city where I pretend to be Señora Diaz and we look for an adequately seedy hotel suitable for immoral purposes. This is the first time in my life I go into a hotel and use a false name."
"You have to start sometime."
The streets were empty. Not auguring well, like a rattlesnake, cold wind rustled in the palm trees lining the waterfront promenade. Val was eager to get off the streets, out of sight and out of the cold. The more he thought about it, the surer he became this was a trap. A soldier survives by having good instincts, his grandfather had said many times.
Two blocks from the seafront, they found a small hotel. A desk clerk well past retirement age hardly looked at the blue passport Val presented, accepted euros as payment in advance, gave Val a key and mumbled something in Croatian.
Room 12 was a corner room on the second floor. The furniture was modest but it was clean.
Claudia stood in the middle of the room and looked around. "This room doesn't even have a decent chair for you to sleep on."
"Like a good war-horse I'll sleep standing up."
"In this wintertime it looks like everything is already closed." Claudia sighed loudly. "So there goes my dream of a cozy quiet cognac in pleasant surroundings." She took her large shoulder bag and placed it on a chest of drawers.
Val spotted an electric space heater and turned it on.
"Even though I'm not an experienced Argentinean bride, I am an experienced traveler." She produced a pint bottle of cognac out of her bag.
To his surprise, Val found a couple of glasses in the bathroom. Returning to the bedroom, he said, "We have the basics, and you have me as your brilliant and entertaining drinking companion."
Claudia sat on the bed, opened the bottle and patted the space next to her. Val sat down and held the glasses while she poured healthy dollops.
"Well, Señor Diaz," Claudia took one of the glasses and raised it, "You do bring quick changes into my life. From grieving widow to blushing Argentinean bride." She clinked glasses. "Here's to us."
Val's gut tightened. He nodded wondering what she meant and drank a large sip.
She put her glass down on a nightstand and placed her hand on Val's knee. "You may think I'm a harlot. I'm glad we left San Luca where I had to play a role. Not that I didn't love Franco. I did, I still do. He was a wonderful man. But he was not my lover." Claudia paused and her lower lip trembled. "Val, I only tell you so that you understand."
Val nodded cautiously.
Her fingers dug into his leg.
"You won't tell anyone?"
Val hated making promises over something he was about to learn.
"Promise you won't tell."
Reluctantly, Val said, "Yes."
Claudia nodded and bit her lip. "Val, Franco . . . he couldn't do it."
His astonishment must have shown, for Claudia said, "You don't believe me?"
"I should have guessed, I imagine at his age--"
"Nothing to do with age."
Even when he could understand the frustration and the lowering of self esteem of a woman who could not arouse her husband, the sharpness of her retort surprised Val. "I see," he said softly.
She shook her head. "No, you don't see." Her mouth curved into a bitter smile. "You only see me and only part of my suffering."
Though she sat next to him, Claudia seemed to float some distance away, her voice an echo off the walls. "You can't understand the intense loyalty I had for that man."
"It must have been frustrating."
"You don't know the pain he suffered. A mental agony. A lifetime of agony. Once he said I should go out and get pregnant. Of course, I didn't do it." She gulped a good portion of cognac.
"Do you understand now what I want, what I need?"
"I think so."