Opening Moves (The Red Gambit Series) (10 page)

Her aunt spoke of so much more; of ideals, of politics and of a future classless society where all were of equal status and worth, and she wove such a spell that the young Emilia was swiftly hooked into the communist ideal.

More than that, her Aunt cultivated the darker side, the like of which had been Emilia’s father’s domain in his final years. Again, this appealed to the young woman and she found pleasure in hiding her true feelings from everyone save her aunt and older cousin Victoria. Indeed, it appealed to her ego, to be clever enough to hide what was true from those around her. Recruitment into the shady world of espionage followed, in keeping with her cousin and aunt, who both clandestinely served the Red Banner. She learned much from her relatives and the gentlemen who came calling. To the outside world, they were probably suitors for the young women favours. They always brought flowers or candy but in reality, they were communist agents charged with the task of secretly preparing the young Emilia for a life of espionage.

Educationally, her progression under the guidance of the US state was impressive, and she was offered a senior place in a government research programme on her twenty-second Birthday, two days before the attack on Pearl Harbor.

She moved from project to project, gaining trust and, more importantly, higher clearances as her credentials were carefully scrutinised, checked, and re-checked. The fact that she showed no interest whatsoever in politics was noted, and that one of her two living relatives, both of whom resided in the US, was employed as a laundress in the Turkish Embassy was not considered unusual.

Victoria Alejandra Calderon was twenty-seven and had no adverse history; her name only appeared in a file associating her with a US Air Force major, since killed in an accident in the Philippines during June 1941. The other, her Aunt Marta Alejandra Calderon, worked as a sales clerk in a local shoe shop, housed in a building mainly used by a clothiers business belonging to a Michael Green, a gentleman of slight interest to the FBI for no other reason than he met with many military men in the course of his work.

Notes indicated suspicion of some relationship between Michael and Marta, but none was confirmed. Maybe Green just bought a lot of shoes, surmised one annotation. Another noted that he fulfilled private uniform contracts for senior army officers, based in Washington, contracts including the provision of shoes. In any case, neither he nor the women were of concern to the FBI and therefore, by dint of association, neither particularly was Emilia, until she was slated for Manhattan.

Perversely, it was any communist links that were considered more of a threat and prioritised accordingly. Her father’s service with the Nationalists was explored but his clandestine belief in the Republican cause was not uncovered.

The Nationalist link did still cause some concern to investigators and, for a while, it was touch and go as to whether her higher security clearance would be passed.

Emilia applied for US citizenship on her twenty-third birthday, which actually helped clinch her acceptance and she was soon moved to the secret facility at Los Alamos, New Mexico, wherein “Manhattan” was making huge strides forward in understanding fission.

As agreed with her aunt and cousin, there would be no coded exchanges for six months regardless, as her letters were bound to be scrutinised carefully, which they most certainly were. They were just full of the things that girls speak of to each other and the FBI must have been sick to death of reading about dresses, make-up, and boyfriends. Which was most definitely the plan.

Long before that self-imposed time was up, her risk category was downgraded and Emilia had become less of a priority, but the women stuck to the agreed time scale and so it was late 1943 before Victoria started to receive information from her cousin.

Because of Emilia’s existing ‘professional’ contacts, a more complex system of reporting and ordering had been set up to protect all involved. There was delay as a result but even Beria felt it was safety first with this asset. There were occasional doubts about the security within the Soviet Embassies, so those premises were avoided as much as possible, as was the case with every important Soviet agent at this time.

Whatever came in from Emilia was decoded by Victoria and re-encoded very precisely with her own special cipher, then passed to her aunt, who secreted the message in shoeboxes purchased by her contact, Iskhak Akhmerov, the resident illegal in America, also known as Michael Green.

He then further encoded in the appropriate NKGB code and then passed it to Hakan Ali Hakan. Hakan was a Turkish intelligence officer who gave his loyalties to the communist ideal, and who, in his turn. further encoded the message, this time in an ancient Turkish Intelligence cipher and forwarded it to the Foreign Ministry in Ankara.

Here it landed on a desk in the American business section, marked for the personal attention of one Teoman Schiller, son of a First World War German officer who happened to be good communist, as was his son. Schiller then passed it, by dead drop or brush pass, to Vice-Consul Konstantin Volkov of the Soviet Embassy who decoded both the Turkish and NKGB codes before encoding again, this time in NKVD code. He was Deputy Head of the NKVD in Turkey and knew exactly what it was that he was handling. He tried to break Victoria’s special cipher, for professional satisfaction as well as for his personal insurance policy, but he had been able to understand very little of its content, despite his best efforts. He sent the NKVD coded version on its way across the Black Sea, from where it speeded to Moscow.

There it was decoded by a senior cryptographer using the NKVD code and Victoria’s special cipher and the translated version was then placed in the hands of the head of Soviet Intelligence services, namely Lavrentiy Pavlovich Beria.

It was by this method that Emilia Beatriz Perlo, known as Alkonost, had dispatched the report that arrived in Beria’s hands on the 12th June, the first that made the USSR aware of the advanced nature of US atomic weapon construction .

The arrival of the petite Minox camera had been both a bonus and a challenge.

All mail for the personnel at Los Alamos was addressed to PO Box 1663, Santa Fe NM, which meant that at least once a month she took an official excursion with the mail run to the market in the Plaza around the Palace of the Governors. This had been communicated to her cousin via letter as a possible exchange point, even though she and her fellows were always accompanied by security staff. As secretly directed in her cousin’s latest letter about Washington fashion, she made her way to an eye-catching stall buying and selling clothing and fabrics, investing $16 in a flowing ivy green dress with an extravagant and gaudy decoration on the shoulder. Her minder thought to himself how gorgeous the Spanish beauty would look in it, especially with that low cut front. He would lose the decoration himself as it just did not look right but Emma waxed lyrical about how she loved it, so who was he to comment.

On her return to Los Alamos, she carefully examined the dress and quickly discovered the Minox miniature camera and film within the decoration. The bonus of it was that she could be swifter in her habits, photographing rather than sketching or writing, reducing the risk of discovery. The challenge was to find a place to secrete it but she had previously discovered a small void behind a loose tile in the pedestal of her shower, which she hoped, would be perfect, and it was. A swift ‘grouting’ with toothpaste and the tile looked no different to those around it. Emilia immediately determined that it would never venture into the complex with her, but would be solely used for sessions such as this evening, in the comfort of her own bedroom.

The sex had been average at best but, as was her habit, she moaned and screamed her way through the brief session before collapsing on top of her spent lover as if he was her best ever.

It was not the first time she had slept with this one and he certainly was a looker, and had the equipment, but no expertise in using it. Well, there are other fish in the sea, thought Emilia, but not any with the knowledge that this one possessed and not that were sufficiently senior within the project and crossed all the boundaries not open to her. He also carried a secretary’s notebook in his back trouser pocket wherever he went, contrary to regulations, in which he jotted notes when a thought occurred, or swiftly recorded a fellow scientist’s idea to think through more carefully later.

Emilia had slept with a number of members of the Manhattan Project; actually quite a number. Always those she felt she could extract information from or those who, like Irving Zbrynevski, carried a notebook or diary in which they were often indiscreet about their work. Sex was a bonus if it was good.

The last time Irving had been permitted to sleep with Emilia, she had discovered drawings of geometric shaped explosive charges with extremely precise measurements annotated alongside so she was keen to see what new entries there were tonight.

His orgasm would probably have knocked him out for hours anyway but to be on the safe side Emilia had plied him with a bottle of Bourbon too. The empty lay on the carpeted floor, testament to his capacity. He slept on his back, arms and legs splayed like the Vitruvian Man. A gentle, almost feminine snoring marked him as out for the count.

A quick check of the clock reminded her that it was nearly two in the morning and if she wanted sleep, she best get moving quickly.

The camera retrieved and made ready, she extracted the notebook from Irving’s trousers and quietly pulled the door of the toilet shut behind her.

From memory, she turned to the page she had last read a week ago, turned the paper over and skimmed the first new entry for anything of note. Frustratingly, it was solely a list of things to do around his own living quarters. The next page was more fruitful with some complex electronic circuitry, most certainly in the hand of another, possibly trying to show Irving what he had been talking about. A swift click of the button and it was captured by the Minox. Another shot to make sure the image was captured, just as she had been taught.

After that, there were a few pages of notes on what looked like physics and a page of doodling followed by some amateurish pictures of female breasts. Pervert. No picture of that was necessary.

Another turn of the book and then the Holy Grail gazed up at her from the paper.

Emilia was looking at an impressive sketch of an atomic bomb, apparently called ‘Little Boy’, accurate dimensions boldly recorded and with precise annotations on critical masses.

The camera rolled four times on that and she felt the perspiration trickle down her cleavage, although the bathroom was cool enough.

On the next page was a list of ‘favourite women’. Emilia had no interest in that so failed to notice she had made number three.

She stopped dead when she turned the next page over.

There in a bold hand were the words ‘16th create a rainbow, 17th all go home.’

‘Create a rainbow’ was an expression she had heard a few times. It was an insider’s jokey comment about the expected visual effects of a full-scale explosive fission reaction.

She took no pictures. There was no point. She understood perfectly. Suddenly the sweat dripped off her as she stood naked, digesting the enormity of what she had just read.

Thinking quickly, she re-hid the camera and unlocked the bathroom door, slipping quietly back into the bedroom and returning the book to Irving’s trouser pocket. Ensuring everything was at it was before, she quietly ran the hot tap until warm water came out. A quarter glass was enough and she moved to the bed and lay down. Pulling back the sheet, she made a swift movement and the liquid was spilled on the mattress around Irving’s groin. Putting the glass on the floor by her side, she rolled back to Irving and started to violently shake him.

A sleepy Irving moaned “Wassup honey? You want more? Huh baby?”

The tone of the reply quickly made him aware that not all was rosy in the garden and that his services were not to be needed again that night.

“Get out you dirty bastard! You’ve peed in my bed! Go on Irving, get out!”

His hand shot down and was greeted with warm dampness.

“Shit! Ok honey… quiet… shit… I’m sorry… oh gee… sorry” Every lean to recover an item of clothing or bend to hook out a shoe was punctuated with an apology. Emilia would have found it comical, had her mind not been consumed with more pressing matters.

“Please don’t tell anyone Emmy. It musta been the Bourbon honey. Sorry”