A Spy in the Shadows (Spy Noir Series Book 1) (31 page)

As for the German spy, it was discovered that Leni Boland’s handbag contained two books holding Fields’s stolen documents and photographs taken at the SLU site.  When Mayfield and his men searched her embassy bedroom, there wasn’t much else other than books carefully hidden away in the closet, bundled with white string.  Inside the cover of each written in precise German were the words ‘To Leni, Love Father.’  There were a number of letters not posted in a shoebox addressed to ‘Georgi’.  Traveler’s true identify and background, as Mayfield believed it should be, remained a mystery.

Colonel Boland was buried with military honors among the other fallen men in the Hazarat Abdol Azeem Cemetery within view of his home’s rear balcony where his wife, the German spy,
had been spotted on many mornings staring out among the trees.  A brief article in the local English newspaper mentioned that the veteran of two wars had died after ‘a brief illness’. 

There was a private memorial service for Goli Faqiri at her villa.  Her wishes were that it be attended only by the people who had worked within her vast corporate structure.  According to newspaper reports fighting had already erupted for control for each part of the rich companies.  

Salinger didn’t attend either ceremony.  Instead he passed the entire evening in the bar of the Palace Hotel.  Later in his room, the telephone rang twice, fifteen minutes apart.  He didn’t answer either time.

----

Churchill stayed over in Tehran another twenty-four hours to confer on other long-range political matters.  That night, after a final dinner hosted by Stalin, Roosevelt departed to visit American troops, spending his last night in Tehran at the U.S. army camp at Amirabad at the foot of the Elbruz Mountains.  It was planned that the President would fly out of Gale Morghe Airfield the next day.  Shortly after six that evening, Hopkins, while at dinner with Stalin, placed a call to Salinger’s hotel room, and asked if he could drive out to the airfield.  The President wanted to discuss some matters with him.

----

Salinger arrived at Camp Amirabad after eight that evening.

He was shown immediately to the President’s quarters, an officer’s house built on the outskirts of the camp.  Two army guards flanked the doorway.

The room was filled with boxes, yellowed papers loosely tied with strings.  A stack of books and several maps carelessly lay out on a trestle table.  Even though Salinger knew the president had arrived early in the day, it appeared as though he had been studying the war in this room for months. 

President Roosevelt sat in a canvas chair, his smile large,
a trace of fatigue pinching his face.  The metal braces on his legs were painted black to blend in with his trousers.  He held a martini mixer in both hands, and beside him was a trolley loaded with liquors and bottles of mixers.  A canister of ice sat nearby.

“Ah, Mr. Salinger,” the President said, “just in time.  I suppose you’re off duty with the danger past—now, can you join me for one of my world famous martinis?”  After the President poured two drinks, he leaned back in his chair and seemed to relax.  “These meetings have been very strenuous affairs, Mr. Salinger.  Trust me.”

“I don’t think that I could be a politician, Mr. President.”

“Mr. Salinger, you can thank the Almighty for that fact.  But all in all, the Prime Minister and I walk away with our pockets full.  I came here with my principal interest focused on Russia.  We simply had to find a way to earn Soviet trust and cooperation.  Yes, we had to commit to a Second Front for Uncle Joe, but we owed the Russian people that much, don’t you think?  They have suffered greatly on the plains.  Millions murdered or killed in battle.  No, I don’t mind giving in to Uncle Joe on that one.”  He looked directly at Salinger.  “My point on coming here was to begin to determine what postwar Europe will look like, with valid concerns over British imperialism and Soviet rule and domination of Eastern Europe.  That, I believe to have been achieved.”

While the President talked of political maneuvering Salinger thought of how close the German commandos had come to succeeding, and of Traveler who had possessed their greatest secret.  War was like a football game—a contest of inches.  Near misses.  Narrow victories.  “I’ll leave winning the war to you gentleman,” Salinger told him.

“No, you’ve contributed greatly,” Roosevelt looked at him for a long moment, the mixer in his lap.  “Your father would be very proud of you.  Good enough, Mr. Salinger.  Here we go, best martini in town.”  He poured out two martinis into glasses on the trolley beside him, handing one to Salinger. 

“But political ramifications aside, there is another reason that I wanted to discuss with you.”  He lit a camel.  “You want to know, don’t you?  You want to know when I first knew of Enigma and Ultra.”

“It has come to my mind, sir.” 

“Yes, I owe you that,” he said.  “I admit from the beginning in the years before we entered the war I found Mr. Churchill to be the most interesting fellow.  And—when it comes to his golden eggs . . . his Ultra transcripts . . . it was all an irresistible appeal for the schoolboy within a great man,” Roosevelt said.  “That said, I don’t think our cousins have been totally honest with us.  In a way, I don’t blame him one bit.

“Ultra was one of the few assets Churchill possessed to bargain with.  And I suppose looking back several years when he had his back against the wall fighting Hitler by himself until Pearl Harbor, that is was still hard for him to tell me about his most closely guarded secret.

“So, when did I know?”  Roosevelt’s eyes flashed.  “In late December of 1941 when he paid us a visit to Washington, the Prime Minister told me all about his golden eggs.  Explained in detail what British Intelligence based at Bletchley Park had accomplished.  By now we were intercepting and decoding Japanese naval signals because the Germans had persuaded the Japanese to use their machines.  A fortunate agreement for us.”  Roosevelt stopped and sipped his martini.  “And we were fortunate you were on the scene here, or by now that madman in Berlin would know about Ultra.”             

“I can’t justify the British intelligence group holding back on us as you can,” Salinger said.

“I suppose so, but you have to admit at least the danger has passed.” Something moved in the President’s eyes, then glimmered away.  “Still, once someone has been dishonest with me, trust comes much harder from then on.”

There was a knock on the door.

The President glanced at his watch.  “Oh, I’m sorry, Salinger, I have a meeting to attend.  Listen, I’m glad we had this moment together.  And again, your father would have been extremely proud of you.” 

“Thank you for sharing that with me, Mr. President.”

“Is there anything you need?”

“I could do with a shower.”

“No ambassadorship or political appointment?”

“Just a shower and a night’s sleep.”

The President laughed.  “I think a shower can be arranged after all you’ve accomplished here.”

----

Roosevelt sent him on his way with a last martini.  Salinger was shown to the officer’s quarters where a hot shower was arranged.  The alcohol and warm water relaxed him for the first time in days.  After a dinner of sandwiches and coffee, Salinger was shown to his quarters.  But still he couldn’t sleep.  Something was bothering him, something he should have understood by now, but it had escaped him.

Finally, he gave up, put on his trousers, and stepped outside.  The desert air was cool and he lit a cigarette and stared at the stars in a clear sky.  From off to the right several engines fired up, revved to a tight whine, and then two C-54 transport cargo planes taxied into view.

Salinger watched them take off, the wing lights blinking until they banked left and headed west.  He flipped the spent cigarette at his feet and turned to the door.

He realized what he had missed.

-Thirty-Two-

Goli drove the Gilera into the archaeological site, and extinguished the headlight.  The sun was descending toward purple mountains and she guessed that there was less than an hour of daylight to work with.

She pulled the motorcycle up to the airplane.

Searching in Hance’s tent, she found only personal belongings. 
Notebooks.  Letters.  In one drawer she found a bundle of photographs tied with a ribbon.  One was of Hance standing with a thick woman in a Bavarian Street.  There was snow on the ground and in the trees, and from the smiles on their faces it was a happier time.

The supply hut door was locked.  Goli shot the lock off and behind the supply shelves she found the valise.  It held the papers that British and German intelligence was turning the world upside down to try and find.  She took the valise, walked back to the plane, placing it behind the seat.

Then she spent the next half hour checking out the plane.  Fuel levels.  Tires.  She performed an instrument check on the dash.  When she was finished, and satisfied she was as prepared as she could be, Goli walked the length of the landing strip studying the ground.  She stood over the gorge, lit a cigarette and gazed out over the valley.  The sun was at the desert’s horizon, the camp enveloped in dusk.  Somewhere in the distance a dog yelped.  A man’s voice echoed over the sand. 

She had always thought her people mysterious.  An ancient land that held a great mystery, so much so that men like Hance came to toil in the desert heat to learn about the secrets . . . but they would never know the total truth because it was hidden away too many years ago.

Now her mission was a different one.  No ancient mysteries.  Just the opportunity to change the world, not some ancient world of her ancestors, but the world today locked in a vast struggle.

She should take off before sunset.  Given an option, she would have waited.  To take off from a makeshift landing strip in the desert—one she was unfamiliar with—was too much of a chance.

Goli thought of what was contained in the valise, secrets that people had fought and died for over.  Papers Richter would turn on the British and perhaps change the tide of war.

But first, the men responsible for Bozorg’s death were returning to Cairo.

And she would follow.  She would avenge her husband’s death and then get the papers to Richter.  That was the way it had to be.

----

A villa in the forest north of Berlin.

Snow began falling at daylight as Richter went for a walk.  On his desk, he had left
behind, a communiqué from Schellenberg explaining Berlin was becoming increasingly nervous.  Sleep now seemed all but impossible with the events twisting around in his head, even though he had done all he could do.  Everything—success or failure—lay in the hands of Traveler.

----

Frick arrived shortly before lunch.  He entered the office and handed Richter another telegram.  Richter opened the envelope, placed it on the desk and sighed heavily.  “Hitler has been informed by Himmler that Operation Long Jump is in jeopardy.”

A sedan pulled up outside, tires cracking on the new snow.  Richter placed a briefcase on the desk from beside his chair.  “That would be Schellenberg’s personal courier.  Take this to him, would you?”

But before Frick left the room, Richter stopped him.  “Berlin believes the game is over for us in Tehran.  Those papers will buy us time with Schellenberg’s assistance.  Traveler has given us another opportunity.”

“I thought—”

“That Traveler the spy is dead?  As do the British and Americans we can only hope.”  Richter steepled his fingers in front of his lips.  “Believing the game is over; they have innocently let down their guard.  This plot with Traveler is my greatest game, Frick,” Richter admitted.  “It may seem selfish, but the opportunity was too enticing.  The problem is that by using Leni as a deception, we’ve closed one avenue of escape.  And where Leni’s escape was planned, Traveler has to come up with her own.”

Frick stood spellbound. 
“Absolutely brilliant.”

Richter nodded at the briefcase.  “Turn over the papers to the courier, and let him be on their way.”  His eyes twinkled like Frick had not seen in a long time.  “And when you come back—I’ll tell you about Traveler on her way to Cairo.”

-Thirty-Three-

Salinger was in the shadows when the Russian crossed the street to his apartment.

He had driven back to Tehran in the middle of the night after realizing the part of the puzzle he had been missing.  The plane.  Why hadn’t the German agent used the supply plane to escape?  He had phoned from the base—a late night call to Chubok’s office.  The Iranian chief seemed agitated that Salinger was not satisfied that the German threat was maybe indeed not over.