Kovalenko held up his palms, and spoke in a plaintive whisper. "I had no choice." He nodded to a bench where the new man was now seated. The bodyguards had backed off— out of earshot from the bench, but close enough to help if needed. Kovalenko hissed, "Do you have any idea who that is?"
Braun took a good look at the man on the bench. There was something vaguely familiar, but no name came to mind. "No. Should I?"
"It is Lavrenti Beria, head of the NKVD."
Braun reset his eyes on the man. He had seen a few pictures of Beria, usually standing at the shoulder of Stalin himself. Jesus, he thought, it is him. "Why is he here?" Braun demanded.
"He wants to talk to you, of course." Kovalenko turned and simply walked away.
Lavrenti Beria smiled and moved to one side of the bench, making plenty of room. Braun looked across the Embarcadero. Even in the drizzle, there were people milling about. They would not try to snatch him away — not here. Braun walked directly to the bench.
Beria spoke in heavily accented English as Braun approached, his voice light, almost glib, "Alex, my name is —"
"I know who you are," Braun said, even more casually. He might have been meeting a new relative at a wedding — not the man who, by all reliable accounts, was one of the most notorious mass murderers the world had known, right up with Hitler and Himmler themselves. Braun felt himself being weighed, and he continued, "The question is, old man, why are you sitting on a park bench in the rain — in America?"
Beria rose to the challenge and bantered back, "Comrade Kovalenko is efficient, but I thought that my being here would impress upon you the importance of our work."
"Our work? The importance of our work will be most clear if you are carrying a half million U. S. dollars in that briefcase."
Beria gave the case at his feet a pat. "Three hundred thousand — not an easy thing on short notice, but I believe it shows our sincere interest. The rest will come, you have my word. But, of course, there are requirements. Please—" he gestured to the bench.
Braun sat slowly. The number had distracted him. It was only a fraction of what he d asked for, yet the thought of being so close to such a massive sum made his head swirl. He tried to keep his wits. "Requirements?"
Beria waxed, "There is a saying where I come from — 'One does not always swim in waters of one's own choosing.'"
"Are all Russians poets?"
Beria s dead, gray lips curled up at the corners. "Perhaps it is so."
"What are you getting at?"
"This friend of yours, the German. I think I know who he is." Beria looked at Braun intently.
"Good," Braun shot back, "then you know the value of what he holds."
"Perhaps. But your own plan to take his information, dispose of him, and exchange it for cash — this is not wholly acceptable."
Braun considered it. "You want the German as well."
Beria nodded.
"He won't help you, if that's what you're thinking. He's a Nazi, straight off the SS assembly line."
"I appreciate your opinion, Alex, but our methods of persuasion can be most productive."
"I can imagine," Braun said.
"No," the head of the NKVD replied, "you cannot." Beria paused. "And there is more yet. Once the German is in our hands, it would be very helpful if his disappearance was not noticed."
"That would be a trick. I suppose you have something in mind?"
Beria explained his idea.
When he was done, Braun looked at the Russian more closely. There was a lively glimmer behind the pince-nez glasses, a smirk in the swollen lips. Braun had always considered himself ruthless, albeit in the name of his own good cause. But the man seated next to him was on another level. "You want it to appear that this man remains on the USS Indianapolis after she sails — and then you intend to sink her?"
"If done correctly, the ship will be only another casualty of this long, terrible war."
"Will I have a hand in it?"
"Yes, Alex. We will pay what you ask, but you must do more. You must carry a package on board this ship and leave it, then take your friend and escape in a way that will not be noticed."
"Package? You can't mean a bomb."
"No, this would not be practical. You must carry a radio transmitter."
Braun began to see the outline, but had not yet come full circle. "How could this work? A transmitter to broadcast the ship's position and then — a torpedo?"
"Yes, Alex, good. A submarine."
"But a Russian sub could never risk attacking—" Braun paused.
Beria nodded, urging him on. "Figure it out Alex. You have a knack for this."
Of the countries that kept submarines in the South Pacific, only one would be interested in sinking an American heavy cruiser. "A Japanese sub?"
The Russian stabbed a chubby index finger into the air to register the hit.
Braun decided Beria was enjoying his little charade far too much. He said, "How can you get a Jap sub to sink an American ship?"
"We do, as it turns out, have access to a small fishing trawler in this area — a boat that does little fishing. With a beacon to guide, it could intercept such a large American ship. Remember, Alex, the United States and Japan are at war, but my country is not yet formally engaged with Japan. There are still quiet relations between our countries. We let slip where Indianapolis might be — perhaps a few radio calls at the right time."
"Why would the Japanese trust you?"
"The Imperial Navy has had few successes lately. I think they might trust us enough to investigate such an opportunity. In any event, this part of the operation would be left to us. I explain it only so that you understand the relevance of what we are asking you to do."
For a moment Braun considered how many men would be aboard a ship like Indianapolis. Eight hundred? A thousand? He was sure Beria had no idea. Braun s thoughts moved ahead to distill more practical matters. "I'll have to get aboard Indianapolis before my contact gets off."
"Do you have any ideas?"
What came to Brauns mind was simple enough. And simplicity was always good. He told Beria what he would need.
"Yes," he replied, "I can get you these things."
"And I'll have to go there right away, to lay the foundation."
"I can give you the aircraft I came in on." Beria then nodded over his shoulder, "My two men will go along to help."
Braun hesitated. He looked squarely at the Russians reptilian features. Here was a man who had just whimsically plotted the death of a thousand men.
"No," Braun said. "Your men do not come. I want the aircraft, one pilot, and — and Kovalenko."
"Kovalenko?" Beria burst out. "We are going to pay you an incredible sum for your work. Kovalenko is not acceptable."
"All the money on earth is no good to me when I am dead. One pilot and Kovalenko."
"Absolutely not! I will—" Beria stopped in mid-sentence.
Braun knew why. It must now be in his face, in his eyes. The familiar sharpness had come to his mind, the acute concentration. He knew precisely where the two bodyguards were. He knew where Beria's hands were. Where his neck was. In the next ten seconds, Lavrenti Beria would realize who was in control, or he would die. His bodyguards would not save him, nor would his own abilities. The Russian s eyes snapped back and forth between his help and his adversary. Yes, Braun thought — Beria knew his thoughts exactly.
"All right," Beria allowed, his tone suddenly very different. "I consent to this."
The rising, uncontrolled wave in Braun's mind began to slowly recede. He added, "And I don't want to see anyone else in Guam. When I deliver the German, you will have to trust Kovalenko and the pilot to handle him."
"Agreed," Beria said. "But there is one more thing, Alex."
Braun narrowed his eyes.