Stealing Trinity (31 page)

Ten minutes later they walked into Romans, a classically overpriced Italian restaurant.

Braun addressed the maitre d', "You have a table reserved for Kovalenko."

The man nodded and guided them through a nearly empty dining room. They were seated three tables away from the nearest company. Once free of the maitre d', Braun said, "There will not be a crowd for at least two hours. I selected the time of day and the restaurant so that we might speak freely."

Kovalenko was more comfortable now. He said, "How do you know my name?"

"I've been following you for some time. I know your name, where you live, and I know about that little blond tart you see regularly." Braun had, in fact, only seen her once, but it was a reasonable deduction.

Kovalenko kept an even keel. "And you are?"

"Alex will do."

"American?"

"My nationality is a complex thing. And not relevant."

"But you are here to tell me what is?"

"Have you reviewed the documents I sent?"

"Sent?" The Russian grinned. "You make it sound like a postal delivery."

"The purpose was served."

"I passed them on to higher authorities."

"And?"

"And we are interested in what you present. I've been told that if you have as much information as you claim, we can pay handsomely for it."

The waiter approached with menus. Braun said, "I will put this to a test." He addressed the waiter, "Barolo, 1939." The waiter nodded and disappeared.

"Nineteen dollars," Braun said.

Kovalenko frowned. "I am trying to remember how much I have in my wallet." He gave a Slavic shrug. "Perhaps we should enjoy a good meal first. We can talk business afterward."

"Why not?"

Braun ordered veal, Kovalenko, the duck. The two made small talk, casual banter about the future of Russia and Europe, and how the Americans would pursue the end of the Pacific war. The meal was superb, though Braun did not enjoy it as much as he might have. Kovalenko was soft, a bureaucrat, but such men could be thick with guile --he would have to keep his guard. Afterward, Braun took a brandy. Kovalenko kept a cigarette and a Scotch in constant play. It was the Russian who eventually drifted to the point.

"The information you are offering -- it is scientific in nature. I suspect you are not a scientist. Therefore, shall I assume youve stolen it?"

Braun paused, deciding how much to give. "There is another man. He is deeply involved in this American project. A spy."

"For whom?"

"Germany."

"Germany?"

"And you should know that he still believes his work will go to the Nazis."

Kovalenko scoffed. "Does he not read the papers? Does he not have eyes and ears?"

"I've convinced him that the German Reich is still functioning -- only displaced."

Kovalenko chuckled and lifted a tumbler to his lips.

Braun warned, "He is not a stupid man, I assure you -- only blinded by the same hatred that took so many Germans down Hitler's foolish road."

"What is his name?"

"That I will keep to myself."

"And your friend, this Nazi, he holds the information now?"

Braun explained how Heinrich kept a suitcase jammed with thousands of documents.

"He works with you -- why? Does he think you are a Nazi as well?"

"Something like that. We are to meet next week. He is traveling on a ship, the USS Indianapolis."

"And you wish us to take over this ship?" Kovalenko guessed.

Brauns eyes glazed over. He was disappointed in the Russian. "No. It's a heavy cruiser, you -- " he held back the last word.

Nothing would be gained by antagonizing. "I am to rendezvous with him on the island of Guam. And since I am the only one he will trust, I must meet him alone. Our bargain will be this -- I keep the meeting, dispose of him, and deliver the documents to you."

Kovalenko paled slightly. "And he trusts you enough to--"

"I agree!" Braun interrupted loudly as the waiter approached. He kept blathering in the overt voice of a man who'd tipped one more drink than he was accustomed to, "The Russians alone would never have been a match for Hitler's Wehrmacht!"

The waiter left the check discreetly in the middle of the table, then shuffled away. Braun pushed it toward Kovalenko.

The Russian reached for his wallet. "And I suppose you have a price in mind for your work?"

"One million U. S. dollars -- half tomorrow."

The Russian laughed freely for the first time, still chuckling as he pulled cash from his wallet. "You Americans do have an excellent... how do they say it... sense of humor!"

The two engaged eyes and Kovalenko s smile evaporated. He said, "Surely you cannot be serious! My superiors--"

"Your superiors," Braun cut in, "will agree without reservation. My information can save them a thousand times as much. The fee is absolutely nonnegotiable. I have no affinity for mother Russia. Other countries would easily recognize the value of what I offer." Braun hadn't really considered it, but he suspected there was enough truth in the threat to make it stick. He dictated his final instructions.

"I will deal only with you. Meet me tomorrow, same place, same time, and bring half the fee. If I spot anyone else this time, you will never see me again. Wait ten minutes before you leave." Braun got up and walked away.

Kovalenko sat still. He watched the man he knew as Alex move smoothly to the door. A million dollars, he thought miserably. How could he put forward such an offer to headquarters? They would be livid. Kovalenko wondered how high this fiasco had already gone in the NKVD. Had the chief of the American zone seen it yet? Moscow was clearly interested in Alex's information. The cable had authorized Kovalenko to offer anything -- but they could never have imagined such madness. He wished the stupid brick had never come to him. He wished he was one of the colonels breaking heads in a dark corner of Lubyanka's basement. If he wasn't careful, Kovalenko knew he could soon be on the other end of it.

And it wasn't only his superiors who worried him. He wanted nothing to do with Alex, or whatever his name really was. Kovalenko was a good judge of men. He had risen far in a cutthroat organization, and it was largely thanks to his ability to assess people. Thieves and liars, police and thinkers -- Kovalenko thrived on the accuracy of his instincts. From the initial letter, he thought this contact might be a harmless college professor wanting to support the Communist cause. But at the Embarcadero, Kovalenko had quickly decided otherwise. It was the way Alex moved, the way he eyed Dmitri and Sergei.

Alex was a killer. Of this, Kovalenko was sure.

Chapter 38.

"What kind of airplane is it?" Lydia asked as she and Thatcher walked across the cement parking apron.

The big silver transport ahead of them was one of dozens in a row that looked exactly the same. The only thing to distinguish this particular craft was the markings on the tail -- it was the only one without the star emblem of the U. S. Army Air Force.

Thatcher said, "It's a C-47. The Americans have been building them by the thousands."

"And this ones Australian?"

"Yes."

A young man in greasy coveralls -- the loadmaster, Thatcher had explained -- greeted them at the back stairs."

"G'day. So youre the two that need a lift?"

"Yes," Thatcher replied. "We'll try to stay out of your way."

"Not to worry," the airman said, "make yourselves comfortable."

Thatcher climbed up first. Lydia followed, and as she did, she felt the Australian's eyes on her -- ogling like the boys had in high school. She supposed that's where he'd been not long ago.

Inside there was barely room to move. Wooden crates were piled high, matching the contour of the ceiling. They were all stenciled with labels -- welding torches, powdered milk, light-bulbs, and whiskey. The larger crates were tied down, secured to the floor and walls, while the smaller boxes sat wedged in gaps. Altogether, Lydia imagined it must weigh tons.

She followed Thatcher forward, having to turn sideways to squeeze through gaps in the mountain of cargo. Just behind the flight deck, a pair of webbed bench seats were situated on each side. He dropped his suitcase to the metal floor. "I should go introduce myself to the pilots."

They had tried to find a commercial flight to Guam, but there were none. The only option was military transport, and Thatcher had somehow gotten approval to drag her along. He had a way of doing that, she'd noticed, a knack for getting what he wanted. Lydia took a seat on the rickety bench. It was ridiculously uncomfortable. If father could see me now.

Thatcher came back and took a seat beside her, settling in with ease.

"You're used to this kind of thing, aren't you?"

"Well, yes. I suppose so. Have you flown before?"

"Twice. But it was a better air line than this. I didn't much like that purser."

He laughed. "I'm afraid it will take at least three of these flights to get us to Guam. Can you manage it?"

"I might come to like it, actually. So your boss, Colonel Ainsley, arranged it?"

"Reluctantly. His first inclination was to bring me back to England. But when I told him about all that's happened, Roger had no choice. He insisted I go to Guam. As far as getting the flight, we knew the Americans wouldn't help and the RAF had nothing passing through. The Aussie's were our best bet. He called in an old favor."

"A side advantage of Colonial rule?"

"Well --Australia. I think Roger liked that. It's where we've always sent our undesirables. Although with any luck we won't have to go that far. I think there's a good chance we can find a shortcut along the way."

"Did you tell the colonel I was going with you?"

"No. Did you tell your father?"

"Of course not. He thinks I'm on a flight headed back East right now."

The engines whined and spat as they spun to life.

"It's very loud," Lydia shouted, her hands over her ears.

"Wait until we take off!"

Indeed, engine noise seemed to shake the entire plane as it careened down the runway. The boxes and crates teetered precariously, straining against tie-down straps. Without them, Lydia was sure they'd have been crushed. The young loadmaster was slouched on the opposite bench, grinning, but looking very tired, his head nodding to one side.

The noise lessened once they were in the air. Thatcher unstrapped their seat belts and pulled Lydia to a window. Below, she could see Los Angeles, an impossible maze of concrete and metal. Soon, the city drifted away and there was nothing beneath but the deep blue Pacific.

"We'll be seeing a lot of that," Thatcher remarked.

"And so will Alex," Lydia found herself saying.

"Yes. He might be looking at the very same view right now."

"Do you really think he has a chance, Michael? We know where and when to look for him. The FBI are involved, aren't they?"

"According to your father, Jones has been given everything. He'll have to pursue it now. Of course, he's always seen Alex as a direct threat -- you know, a saboteur. But you proved it on the train, Lydia -- he's carrying information on the Manhattan Project."

Lydia felt a chill. Edward, she thought. The flight instructor, Mitchell. And the poor old Indian who'd gone to help after Alex's plane had crashed. She wondered how many others there had been. "Do you think we can stop him?"

There was no answer, but she felt a comforting hand on her tense shoulders. It was just what her father would have done. She looked appreciatively at Thatcher, who was pretending to look out the window.

"Michael," she said, "what was your wife's name?"

He turned toward her, clearly surprised by the question. "Madeline."

"Madeline," she repeated. "What a lovely name." Lydia turned back to the window and smiled.

Kovalenko strode past his secretary, heading toward his office.

Irina jumped up. "Sir, wait!"

Kovalenko paused. Then he heard voices behind his door.

"In your office--" she began.

"No one is allowed there in my absence!" He burst inside. "What's the meaning of--" Kovalenko went pale. Standing behind his desk was a man he recognized instantly. Bald, short, puffy lips -- and a vipers eyes behind pince-nez glasses. Lavrenti Beria. Head of the Peoples Commissariat of Internal Affairs, or NKVD. After Joseph Stalin, the second most powerful man in Russia.

"C ... Comrade Beria. What a surprise."

Beria s eyes drifted toward him, and Kovalenko suddenly felt cold, as if a Siberian wind had swept into the room. There were two other men -- nondescript bodyguards or aides. Neither said a word.

Beria smiled, or tried to. "Comrade Kovalenko. I don't believe we have met."

Actually Kovalenko had seen Beria once before, at a speech he had given to a group of Foreign Service NKVD officers. Kovalenko remembered him as being quite lively and vibrant. Clearly, the war had taken a toll. Beria had gained weight, and his skin held a gray, deathly pallor.

"It is an honor," Kovalenko prattled, "I did not know you were in America."

"Nor do the Americans," Beria said, his smile broadening. "I came here directly from Germany, the Potsdam Conference."

Kovalenko had read about it in the papers. Stalin, Churchill, and Truman doling out the world like poker players splitting a pot. "You have come a long way, then."

"I have a good reason." Beria pushed a chair noisily across the hardwood floor. "Please, Kovalenko, make yourself comfortable."

Kovalenko sat.

Beria stuck his head out the door toward Irina and asked very politely for tea. He became more animated, his tone unnervingly pleasant. "It has come to my attention that your consulate was approached by a man who has offered to sell a collection of scientific papers."

"Yes, I met with him only an hour ago."

"Good, good. You kept the meeting."

"Of course."

"And you were wise to send this matter immediately to higher authorities."

Kovalenko did not feel wise. If he had known the papers were going to bring Lavrenti Beria to his office, he would have run to the Golden Gate Bridge and thrown them straight into the ocean.