Chapter 36
The Russian Consulate in San Francisco was a nondescript affair, its modest Victorian facade blending nicely among a row of similar buildings. Surrounded by a fence, the narrow entrance was just wide enough for a pathway that could be flanked by a pair of guards.
The two on duty had every reason to be happy young men — happy to have spent the war battling the menace of capitalism in northern California, as opposed to the Wehrmacht on the European front. Here, the food was plentiful, the weather agreeable, and the guards had little to do beyond scheming with regard to how they could extend their assignments.
That being the case, as the two stood with rifles hung loosely over their shoulders, one was chatting up the ambassador's daughter. She was a plump cow who might have been doomed to spinsterdom if not for her father's lofty position. The other soldier had his nose buried in a Russian-to-English dictionary. He gave particular attention to certain vital words — girl, movie, beer, bed — along with a few verbs to encourage the sequence. Neither man saw the brick coming.
It slid across the sidewalk at considerable speed, hit a rut, and tumbled the last few yards, coming to rest directly at the feet of the language student. He was surprised enough to lower his book, but not so much as to grip his Kalashnikov which was, in fact, not even loaded. He scanned the busy sidewalk just outside the gate. People were scurrying about, and two cars had just passed — a sedan in one direction and a taxi in the other. He first thought that it was an insult of sorts, a pathetic little political statement. He hadn't seen much of it in his two years here, but Russia and America were becoming less allied and more estranged with each passing day. He looked to his partner, who hadn't even noticed.
"Andrei!"
The other man broke away from his shmoozing.
"What?"
"Look! Someone just threw this at us!" He pointed to the brick.
"What do you mean?"
The student picked it up. Strangely, an envelope was wrapped around the brick, secured with rubber bands. It was addressed in English: The Consul General. These words he had been required to learn some time ago.
His partner came over and looked at the brick, then out to the street. The ambassador's daughter got involved next. With one look, she snatched it away.
"Give me that, you idiots! It might be important."
She disappeared into the embassy, leaving the two guards staring at each other in her wake. They said it in English, and in unison.
"Bitch!'
Pavel Kovalenko sat at his desk feeling troubled. It was his Russian nature to be a pessimist, but the more he pondered his future, the more depressed he became. Officially, he was the Russian Consulate's charge d'affaires, a diplomatically useful title that masked his true position — Kovalenko was the head local officer of The People's Commissariat of Internal Affairs, better known in the west as the NKVD. It was Russia's internal security service, tasked to keep a watchful eye over every military unit and diplomatic outpost in the world. Or as Stalin was fond of saying, "Even the purest of revolutions require counsel."
Kovalenko was a colonel, a recent promotion that his wife had begged him to decline. As if there had been a choice. He had long worked under the illusion that the higher up one rose in an organization, the more secure life would be. Perhaps in America, he thought, but not in the People s Commissariat. Here, each promotion brought greater responsibility, but also greater uncertainty. Screwups at this level met a very unkind end, and war had only magnified the stress. Still, Kovalenko reckoned, things could be worse. There were hundreds of NKVD colonels right now enduring far less desirable circumstances — harassing the Red Army, busting heads in Gulags.
Pushing the work on his desk away, he looked out the window. It framed a wonderful view of the Presidio. Kovalenko liked America. He often imagined that he might have gone far in this country. Here, he would have been a businessman, the Ford Motor Company, perhaps. As it was, Kovalenko remained, in best terms, a bureaucrat. He sighed, and decided he needed something. What would a capitalist magnate do?
"Irina! Coffee!" he bellowed through the door to his secretary.
She acknowledged the request.
"And no cream," he added, looking down at his waistline. It seemed like he was finding a new notch on his belt each week. Kovalenko was a broad man, strapping in his younger days — but the straps had begun to loosen at a disturbing pace. Nearing fifty, the years had turned against him, his hair coming full gray, framing a wide Slavic face that had recently acquired jowls. It was all related to the stress of the job, he decided.
These were his weary thoughts when Katya, the ambassador's daughter, burst in. The girl was a pain in the ass, but smart enough to know the true order of things — it was not her father, but Kovalenko who ran this little outpost. She slammed a brick onto his desk theatrically.
Kovalenko saw the attached envelope, addressed to the counsel general. "Where did this come from?" he demanded.
"Someone just threw it at our guards." Katya then smiled wryly. "Unfortunately, they missed."
Kovalenko picked it up, slid off two rubber bands, and weighed the envelope in his hand. It seemed rather heavy. He started to open it, but then saw Katya looking on eagerly. He nodded sharply to the door, shooing her away. With a pout, she waddled off and disappeared.
Kovalenko opened the envelope. Inside were ten pages, all in English, the same meticulous, handwritten script. Kovalenko's English was reasonably good, but much of what he saw was scientific jargon, symbols and equations. On the last page was a cryptic message. Embarcadero, South end. One person only. 21 July 3:00 p. M.
Two days from now, Kovalenko thought. Someone was giving him time. Time to send this information, whatever it was, to a higher level. He read through it all once more, but the science escaped him. Perhaps a professor from one of the universities, he reckoned, trying to sell his research. Or give it away — there were any number of communists in the local academic community. At any rate, it might be important. There was only one thing to do.
He wrote a short, concise statement regarding how the papers had arrived at the consulate. Kovalenko then put it all into a folder. He trundled downstairs to the basement communications room. The officer on duty, a new woman, was sound asleep. She had probably been here all night. It struck him that she was not unattractive — his wife had been in Moscow for the last six months. Never one to miss an opportunity, he gently rubbed her back. "Wake up, dear."
She did. "Um… sir, I'm sorry. I was—"
"It's all right. Take these papers. There are formulas and diagrams, but encode as much as you can, then send it to headquarters."
Straightening up, she looked over it. "There are ten or twelve pages here. It will take—"
"Whatever it takes, please do it!" he ordered, not allowing his libido to sidetrack what had to be done. "And secure it in the safe when you are finished."
He left the room feeling lighter. It occurred to him that the entire matter might be a test. Headquarters relished that kind of thing. If so, everything had been done squarely by the book. Pavel Kovalenko had nothing to worry about.
A soft tropical breeze blew across Karl Heinrich's nearly bald head as he rode in the Navy skiff across Pearl Harbor. Things were already getting better, he thought. He'd only been in Hawau one day, yet for the first time in a year his skin was not cracked from dryness.
In the distance, moored just off Ford Island, was the USS Indianapolis. Heinrich had seen her pull into port this morning, a brute among brutes. But now, as he closed in, she looked even bigger, her gray hull looming like a sleek mountain against the backdrop of the country's biggest debacle.