"Indeed."
"Oh, your buddies wanted me to pass along that they'd meet you in the officer's mess at five."
Price and Hudson, both engineers, had escorted the components all the way from Los Alamos. "I will be there," Heinrich said.
"We've had a safe installed in your room. You can keep your papers there. Set the combination to whatever you like — the instructions are on top."
Heinrich saw the industrial gray steel box bolted to the floor in a corner. "Yes, that is good." Very good.
Twenty minutes later Karl Heinrich was settled. He stretched out on his bunk and stared accusingly at the vent in the ceiling. Little, if any, air was circulating. The room was hot and uncomfortable, and he felt his clothes already sticking to his skin. Heinrich sighed. It was a small thing. He had to appreciate the rest — everything was going according to plan. Perfectly.
He began to drift off, feeling the toll of his travels. Heinrich dreamed about of the coolness of Bavaria, the crispness of summer in the mountains. Like winter in Argentina…
The message to the Russian Consulate came that morning:
KEEP MEETING AT EMBARCADERO. NOTHING CAN TAKE HIGHER PRIORITY. YOU ARE AUTHORIZED TO OFFER ANYTHING TO RECRUIT THIS CONTACT. COMRADE KOVALENKO, YOU WILL BE HELD PERSONALLY RESPONSIBLE FOR SUCCESS OR FAILURE.
Pavel Kovalenko read it only once. He then headed straight to his liquor cabinet.
Chapter 37
Braun watched the Russian pace nervously across the heavy wooden dock at the head of Pier 1. The Embarcadero was busy. Travelers and office workers scurried in and out of the adjacent Ferry Building. Others strolled more casually, tourists and sightseers enjoying the cool, sun drenched afternoon.
It was 3:15, well past the instructed rendezvous time. He saw the man take a flask from his jacket and, none too discretely, take a hard swallow. Braun knew what he was thinking — I don t even know who I'm looking for.
He had been watching the consulate for two days. A small operation, it didn't take long to deduce by the reactions of the guards who was in charge. He had found out the name, Kovalenko, and Braun supposed he was NKVD, though it really wasn't important. He was a marshmallow of a man, at least fifty years old, probably fifty-five. And not very fit — Braun had watched him become winded climbing the hill to the consulate. He had the aspect of a civil servant, not a soldier — Braun suspected he could have found either, and he registered this as a positive.
Today, Kovalenko was not alone. He had brought help, two men who looked in far better shape. At 3:20, Braun decided it was time. He approached from behind, masked by a threesome of chattering women.
Braun spoke in Russian, "Hello, Kovalenko."
Kovalenko turned, tension deep in his soft veneer.
"Hello," he replied.
Up close the man looked even older than Braun had supposed. His cheeks were florid, the eyes bloodshot. He looked like he hadn't slept well. Braun held out an arm, suggesting a stroll. Kovalenko fell in at his side, and Braun set a casual pace. He switched to English, "My Russian is passable, but I think we should use English. Others will pass near. Also, it is important that we have no misunderstandings."
"Of course," Kovalenko replied, his voice surprisingly thin and reedy for such a big man.
"Tell your men to leave."
Kovalenko stuttered, "What do you mean?"
"The one by the Ferry Building, and the other at the end of Market Street. Give them a nod, whatever it takes. Make them go away."
The Russian hesitated.
"Do it now or I will leave!" Braun insisted.
Kovalenko turned and stared obviously at each of his men, shooing them away with a wave of his arm. They looked mystified, so he amplified the effort. The two joined up and, like a pair of hunting dogs with their tails between their legs, disappeared to a side street.
"Now, come with me," Braun said. He took Kovalenko by the elbow and guided him to a waiting taxi.
"Where are we going?" Kovalenko asked, concern clear in his voice.
Braun pushed slightly to get him into the cab. The driver started off — he already had his instructions. Braun looked at the Russian and smiled. "You are going to buy me dinner."
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.