“Unless you learn subtlety, you’ll just stir up the Reds.”
“My people are dying, Mr. Dunlop. We aren’t concerned about stirring up the Reds. We’d like to annoy them so much that they pack up and go home.”
“I know something about the Reds and the Baltic. I’ve lived here my whole life and I’d never be involved in anything that would harm you. My wife is Estonian. The real interest of Britain is to make the Baltic States independent again.”
Dunlop was likely using some kind of mixture of truth and lies, but Lukas could not distinguish one from the other. His sixth sense, his nose for deception, which had served him so well back in Lithuania, did not function properly out here in Sweden. It was clear enough that Dunlop wanted Lukas and the partisans for some purpose. The question was, did Lukas and the partisans want the British, given that they would do nothing to free the country and were so much weaker than the Americans since the war?
“We appreciate you,” said Lukas. “At least someone knows we’re dying and knows what we’re dying for. But what I need to know is what you can do for us. I’m beginning to understand that we shouldn’t hope for a war?”
Dunlop’s look answered that question.
“In that case I need to know what you can deliver. We need weapons, for example. With every passing year it gets harder to find new weapons, and ammunition for the ones we have. We need regular radio contact, crystals and at least two sets of radio transmitter/receivers, as well as men who can operate them and who have been trained in ciphers. We need money, preferably rubles, to buy food and other supplies, like printing presses. If there were some way of getting duplicating machines into the country, that would be very good for us too. We need medications: gramicidin for wounds, aspirin and morphine for pain, ether for operations, as well as cyanide capsules.”
“That’s quite an order. Why should we give any of this to you?”
“For compensation, for one thing, for letting us drop out of your conscience for so long. And you said you wanted to see the Baltics free.”
“Spare me the discussion of my conscience. You’re not going to free the Baltics, not alone. We need something too. We need train spotters who will let us know the schedules. We need to understand the movement of troops, especially any massing that could mean mobilization. We need the command structure of the Baltic Red Army, including names of officers and descriptions of ones who can be turned if possible. We need general economic news—five-year plans and so on.”
“You need spies.”
“I need people who are clear they work for me first and for themselves second.”
“I work for my country first.”
“A very noble sentiment. We can discuss sentiments later.”
Dunlop started to tell stories of the Russian Revolution, which had happened when he was a young man. He had intended to throw a bomb at Lenin himself, but his father, a Moscow merchant, had hustled him out of the country and soon enough there was no going back.
Lukas listened to Dunlop with half an ear, wondering what the right course of action was. On the one hand, he was making contact with a representative of the mythical West, as he had been instructed. It was not much of a reception, but it was something. But if the British were so eager to have him, maybe others would be too. And maybe they would provide him with a little more than what Dunlop was willing to give. The British were losing power, their empire deflating like a balloon with a slow leak, whereas the Americans were rising. Who knew, even the French might be interested. Back in the twenties they had provided training to the new diplomats of Estonia, Latvia and Lithuania. And this business of being a spy for the British stuck in his throat. He didn’t want to be a mercenary in his own country.
There was a gentle rap on the door and Zoly came inside. “I was just wondering if you wanted anything to eat,” he said. “It can’t be good, drinking on an empty stomach like this.”
Dunlop told him to sit down and join them. Ever the diplomat, Zoly took off his coat and accepted two fingers of whisky. The suggestion of food was ignored.
Dunlop did most of the talking and Zoly did most of the listening, prompting Dunlop and laughing appreciatively at his anecdotes. Lukas looked at Zoly, and the more he looked, the less he liked what he saw.
“Are you out of your mind?”
Lozorius walked in, leaving the warehouse door open behind him. He had his coat, gloves and hat still on, and he had not even greeted Lukas.
“Close the door and we can talk about it.”
Lozorius slammed the door behind him and threw off his overcoat. It was the middle of February, but the cold had not let up yet.
“I’m just keeping my options open,” said Lukas. “Why should I go with Dunlop? There are sixty thousand Lithuanians in Europe in displaced persons’camps. The government-in-exile is in Germany and the remains of the diplomatic corps are in Rome. What business would I have committing myself to the British when I haven’t looked around thoroughly yet?”
“But I have. What do you think I’ve been doing out here? The DP camps are full of people who want to emigrate to America. They don’t care about your war anymore. And the ones who do are not the best ones. They want to go home and rule the country once the Americans free it for them. You have to be a realist. The Brits are the only ones who are committed.”
“I didn’t like the smell of him,” said Lukas.
“I’ve been sniffing around longer than you have, and Dunlop stinks less than the others.”
“Who pays your salary?” Lukas asked.
“That’s not fair.”
“It doesn’t answer my question.”
“So let me answer it with a question. Who do you think is going to pay your salary? Do you think you’ll pass the hat at some émigré lecture and live from that? They don’t have anything themselves. The only ones who do are the governments.”
“But why the British?” asked Lukas.
“Because they know the territory. I understand you saw the boat.”
“I did.”
“How would you like to go for a ride on it?”
“How soon?”
“Very soon.”
“I’m not ready yet, and I’m not going to work for the British and save my country in my spare time. I wasn’t sent out to get crumbs like this. And neither were you.”
“You expected to rouse the West to help you? Is that it? You mean what I’ve been doing out here isn’t good enough? You just got here. You barely understand the place. I know the landscape and I represent the partisans out here. You might be missing a very good opportunity.”
“I’ll take that chance.”
Lozorius was furious. He gathered up his coat, hat and gloves, but he did not put them on. He stepped out through the door and slammed it behind him.
FOURTEEN
KEMPTEN
DISPLACED PERSON’S CAMP, BAVARIA
APRIL 1948
WHEN LUCAS STEPPED out into the yard that night, he could smell the late thaw coming on, finally sense the drip of melting water under the remaining snowbanks. He was glad to get some air after the intensely smoky meeting with the émigré Lithuanian government followed by a talk to the hundreds of persons who lived in the camp. He was getting used to speaking in front of audiences.
The place had been intensely cold during the first part of the meeting, but it heated up with all the bodies in the room. Three hundred people sat on chairs and as many again stood at the back or on the sides. Some of the seated women had children on their laps, and most of those who stood were young men, many around his age. They had all been eager to hear what he had to say about the partisan resistance in Lithuania, and that was gratifying. But the most pressing questions were ones he could not answer, requests for news of the relatives the refugees had left behind.