I waited a moment; a fierce, concentrated look had come into his eyes as he'd spoken, and two red spots had sprung up on his cheeks. All this had happened forty years ago, but for Berri that was yesterday. Finally I said, "What was Bright-man's reaction to all of this?"
He shook his head slightly as if, in some obscure way, I was arguing with him.
"He took his cue from Dimitrov. You don't understand what a big man Dimitrov was in those days. To every Communist in the world, he was the model revolutionary and a man you could trust. He told Harry a struggle was going on inside the Bolshevik's guts. Smart people knew Stalin was a fool to trust Hitler, they all saw what was coming, and according to Dimitrov their day would come. So Harry hung on."
"But Dimitrov was wrong."
"So he was. But remember, the war was on, and once the Russians came into it, everything was forgiven for the duration."
"And after the war?"
He gave a bob of his head, and smiled. "He gritted his teeth — we all did — and waited. Of course, that got harder and harder—1948: the German workers; 1956: Hungary; 1968: Prague… I couldn't take any more after Budapest, but Harry stuck it out longer, till Czechoslovakia. Then he told them to go to hell."
"Wait a minute now. You're saying that up till the spring of 1968 Harry was still working for them?"
"So far as I know… which means yes, 'cause I know that far."
"And what was he doing?"
"What in hell could he be doing?"
"Jesus," I said. I leaned back in my chair.
"Actually, they almost got him when Gouzenko defected. He told me there was some sort of trail. But he cut it off and in the end the Mounties didn't get close."
I thought hard for a moment. There was no sense, absolutely no sense, in disputing any of this. It was either true or it wasn't, and there was no way I was going to be able to tell, one way or the other. And at least it sounded genuine enough. But what did it mean? Above all, what did it mean now, in the present? That was the trouble. The past was coming alive, but what was its connection to the present? After a moment, I thought I saw one possibility and leaned forward on the table. "You say he finally told them to go to hell, but I wonder if that can really be true. He was in too deep. And no one tells them to go to hell anyway."
He nodded. "You're no fool, Mr. Thorne. And you're right. He shouldn't have been able to do it — but he did. I don't know how. He had some kind of hold, some sort of threat… they were afraid of him for some reason. He never told me what it was, but it worked. They left him alone."
"Until a couple of months ago, you mean. Maybe it worked for a time, Mr. Bern, but not in the end."
He sucked in his cheeks. "Don't be so sure. Those men, tonight, weren't from the Bolshevik. They were something different. I'm not even sure the Bolshevik knows about this."
"The Bolshevik": I'd assumed he'd meant Stalin, but for him I suppose the word stood for some essence of Sovietism that went beyond any one man — and this was a spirit, a shade, that had haunted him for so long that he would know it better than his own shadow. If the men who'd attacked him tonight were not "from the Bolshevik," Berri would know it — but then who had they been and what had they wanted? I eyed the old man; he glanced away. We'd come full circle at last. Keeping my voice as gentle as I could, I said, "You know what I have to ask, Mr. Berri."
He nodded. "Guess I do."
"And I don't want to bully you, but… it's me or the police. You have to understand that."
The room was very quiet. The foxes were silent now, and there was no sound except the soft rush of the wind past the window. When Berri turned back to face me, his head seemed to hang, and there was a watery film in his eyes. He cleared his throat and swallowed. "It's like I told you, I don't know who they were. I'd just say this. They were Russian, but they weren't from the Bolshevik. And one of them — he was like a little weasel — was called Subotin. The other one called him that."
Subotin… a name for my ghost. But I didn't let this tidbit divert me. "Did they know what you've been telling me?"
"Maybe. Most of it."
"So what did they want?"
He shrugged. "The money, of course. Where to find it."
"What money?"
"I told you — the Bolshevik's. It wasn't all spent, you see, when Harry got free. He told me he was damned if the Bolshevik would get any back, but he didn't want to spend it himself — it would only bring him bad luck. So he hid it away."
"This was still the money he'd made from the furs?"
"That's it. What was left."
"How much?"
A quick shrug. "He told me eight hundred thousand. But it wasn't in money, you understand. He always kept the Bolshevik's share in gold — gold certificates — because that made it easy to travel, and you could always cash them, no questions asked." Berri smiled. "He used to joke about that. 'J. Edgar's right,' he'd say, 'it really should be Moscow gold.' "
I hesitated now, thinking back. Gold certificates are issued by some of the big Swiss banks and a few other institutions. Each certificate represents a certain amount of gold, and as a way of owning the stuff, they're far more convenient than bars or wafers or coins; pretty pieces of paper that can be worth thousands. And that's always what they'd been looking for, something small, something like paper: in Travin's hotel in Detroit; at Grainger's clinic; in Brightman's house, where I'd first seen Petersen… whose real name was Subotin. And— was it possible? — even that first day, at my place in Charlottesville. Up to now, I'd assumed that whoever had broken into my place had been after the telegram from May — had wanted to make sure that I didn't help her — but perhaps they thought she might have sent the certificates to me for safekeeping.
I looked at Berri now, but even as I did so, he got to his feet and went over to the sink and splashed water over his face. As he dried himself with a towel, I said to his back, "Where did he hide it?"
"I don't know. That's what I told them."
I hesitated; I was only telling the truth when I'd said I had no desire to bully him. I kept my voice leveclass="underline" "Mr. Berri, you told me yourself that they got what they came for."
He^was still facing away from me, leaning over the sink, but he nodded. "They knew I didn't have it, you see. They knew that already."
"They killed the fox, Mr. Berri. They killed one of your foxes and they threatened to kill all the others. Why? Because they were trying to get you to talk, to tell them something, or give them something you had…"
I listened. He took a funny, hoarse breath, but only when he spoke did I know he was crying. "They wanted a name…" He cleared his throat, but his voice kept breaking. "They wanted a name… They knew I helped Harry. Somehow, they knew that… they knew I sometimes took messages to the people who helped him. They knew that Harry must have trusted those people, so they thought maybe… maybe he gave them the money to keep. I told them one name, someone who was already dead. But they knew that too, and so they killed the fox, and they said…"
All at once, with a groan, he leaned forward and was sick into the sink. I looked away. I heard him gasping, fighting for breath. Then he panted, "They said they'd kill all my foxes, just like the first one, and then they'd kill me. So I told them." He wheezed. Sucked in more air. "I don't give a damn. I swear to God I don't give a damn…"
After a moment, I whispered, "Who was it?"
"A man called Paul Hamilton."
"Who was he?"
"He worked in the State Department. I don't know more than that."