“Please don’t blame yourself,” I said.
“I’ve been walking around in a constant state of shock for over a month; in utter awe of not only how you managed to survive the camps, but the specific acts of barbarism you had to endure, the friends you were forced to watch die. I can’t grasp how you had the strength or wherewithal to think up an escape plan in the midst of the entire mess. And again, I can’t help but beat myself up over it.”
“Don’t,” I said. “I’m focused on what’s ahead, on Dallas.”
“He’s going to stand at the entryway so that we can see him,” said Bobby, opening a notebook and scribbling something. “I’ll go retrieve him when he appears.”
“Then you should probably stand up,” I said, sipping my coffee. “I believe that’s our man with the silver head of hair standing next to the maître d’.”
Bobby took a sip of water, wiped his mouth with a napkin, and stood. I watched him walk across the large café, winding his way through the many tables until he reached Dallas, who was standing about twenty feet in the distance. The Military Intelligence vet appeared to be in his late fifties or early sixties. He was average height, trim, finely tailored, his silver hair fashioned like Bobby’s, in the mode of one Clark Gable. The two shook hands and then headed my way. Just before they arrived I stood.
“Prescott,” said Bobby, “this is Dallas Conrad.”
“Thank you for coming,” I said, shaking his hand. “It’s nice to meet you.”
“Likewise,” he said with a deep smoker’s voice.
“Please,” said Bobby, offering Dallas up a chair, the three of us sitting. “Coffee, Dallas?”
“No, I’m fine,” he said, petting his perfectly behaved dog.
“I don’t want to waste a second of your time, Mr. Conrad,” I said, taking a file from my briefcase and placing it in front of him. “I think you’ll find the plan clear and concise.”
“Good,” he said, taking a pen and blank card from his suit pocket before opening my file and beginning to read.
Bobby and I sipped our coffee and watched Dallas carefully running his finger down my typed outline. I scanned the café and wondered if Stalin had designated someone from day one to shadow me, a person who had perhaps traveled on the same train from Berlin to Brussels. It didn’t matter if Stalin had done such. All this possible spy would be witnessing was my boss meeting with some important-looking official.
“Anything in Latvia is possible,” Dallas finally said, jotting down a note, his clean-shaven, pinkish, rough-skinned face remaining completely calm.
“Good,” I said.
Dallas looked at me. “My men can start by poking around the secondary schools. Not to state the obvious, but every one of us was a child at one point.”
“Your men?” I said.
“My men,” he said, writing again. “The next phase of your plan sounds like a job for… I don’t know… say… two young officials from the Central Statistical Bureau of Latvia. My men can certainly look the part. I’m sure when they knock at the door with their proper-looking badges, your targets will welcome them in for a cup of tea and a nice chat about their family. Most Latvians speak Russian. So do my men. Any covert operative worth his salt these days has to speak it.”
“Good,” I said. “And I’m assuming they can pick most locks?”
“In their sleep. But back to the idea of them dressing as Central Statistical Bureau officials. My men will simply say that they are updating the country’s census. Questions surrounding this topic never draw the target’s suspicion. This process should allow my men to specifically identify all of the players involved here, their histories, their relationships with one another, etcetera. Believe me, my men will ask the right questions.”
“How long?” I said.
“Could be two weeks. Could be two months. Hard to say. They’ll stay in a simple apartment until your targets are confirmed to exist or not exist. If they do exist… then… as you’ve suggested here in your outline, they’ll rent a two-bedroom apartment somewhere off the beaten path, a real secure one. Easy. They operate with plenty of cash on hand.”
“Speaking of cash,” said Bobby, sliding an envelope full of money across the table toward Dallas. “This is triple what I was told you might require. And there’s more to come as the job progresses, and certainly when it’s finished.”
“I’ve got one shot at this,” I said. “All I ask is that your men take that into account.”
Dallas nodded. “Look, my men are highly skilled, highly trained professionals. They’re not choirboys. They’re not hired assassins, but they’ve killed. Bobby here is an American diplomat. That’s all I need to know to trust him. It’s obvious that this isn’t some sort of damn game to you, Mr. Sweet. My men will see the job through until you and Bobby are satisfied. No one needs to die, but if it means protecting either of you, that is certainly part of their job description. They’re private contractors.”
“When your men finish their investigation, Dallas,” said Bobby, “cable me at the embassy with a standard message regarding how your wife and children are doing, etcetera. Act as if we’re long-lost friends. And, if it is indeed confirmed that the targets exist, make this one of the sentences in your cable: ‘My family is looking forward to our annual trip to London on the blank of April.’ You fill in the actual date, Dallas. That date will signal to us when Prescott is to meet your men in Riga. Where do you suggest?”
“The Riga Hotel,” said Dallas. “And they will have with them what you’ve requested.”
“Fine,” said Bobby. “They will meet Prescott in the lobby. He will likely be the only person of color staying there. If not, they can walk up to the other few and ask if their names are Prescott Sweet. The time of this meeting, no matter what, will be noon.”
“Got it,” he said, petting his dog. “You’ve got me wishing I actually had a wife and children.”
“Sorry,” said Bobby.
“Not a problem.” Dallas half smiled.
“Continuing,” said Bobby. “If, on the other hand, your men confirm that no said targets exist, or that they exist but not in the nature we need them to, make this one of your sentences in your cable message: ‘Unfortunately, my family will not be taking our annual trip to London.’ And if our plan does not bear any fruit, I’ll be cabling you thereafter about our next idea. We would convene here again in that case.”
“What if my men hit a snag?” said Dallas. “A myriad of things can cause delay or hang-ups. Targets could be traveling. If two months roll by and there’s no news either way, then what?”
“Send a friendly cable that doesn’t mention London,” said Bobby, “one that has a line in it somewhere involving your wife not feeling well lately and being in and out of the doctor’s office.”
“Good,” said Dallas. “If and when my men meet you, Prescott, what will be that day’s next order of business?”
“For your men to show me where their apartment is.”
Two weeks later Bobby and I found ourselves at the French Embassy sitting down with Robert Coulondre, France’s ambassador to Germany. He had actually invited Bobby because he wanted to share some news with him in person. We hadn’t heard from Dallas yet, but I was thinking positive and trying like hell not to dwell on it.
The middle-aged, mustached, dark-haired Mr. Coulondre sat down with us in his library—a fire ablaze in the corner. Bobby and I parked ourselves on a velvet-covered maroon couch in the middle of the room, and Coulondre made himself comfortable in a thick, leather chair just on the other side of a coffee table.