XPD, Page 29

  ‘It all fits together neatly,’ said Breslow. ‘They must have got this information from young Billy.’

  ‘The Englishman was carrying catalogues from Schiff, the well-known Swiss locksmiths, and he actually asked my old friend for some assistance in translating the German language. We know the make, the model and the year.’

  ‘You are not thinking of raiding the house?’ Breslow asked.

  ‘A burglar will not have enough time, or the sort of equipment, to open the door of a strong room such as this,’ replied Kleiber.

  ‘I beg you to reconsider, Willi,’ said Breslow. ‘A burglary is one thing, an armed raid is going too far. You can cut anything open with an oxyacetylene flame, or one of the new thermic lances. Get a really good safecracker and let him do the job in the way that professional thieves do it.’

  ‘Is that what you have learned from your movie scriptwriters?’ Willi Kleiber made a noise of disparagement. ‘You are years out of date, my friend. The oxyacetylene flames and the thermic lances generate too much heat. Thieves find cinders and ashes inside a safe they’ve cut open by those methods. I fit such safes for my clients, Max. I know what can be done to make a door impregnable. There is an inner cube of glass; heat it and a complex of bolts are sprung, and the door locks so solid that even the makers take two or three days to cut it open.’ Willi Kleiber chuckled and rubbed his hands. ‘I don’t even know where I could find a thermic lance expert these days – in retirement in the Italian sunshine perhaps. Safe-crackers are extinct, Max. They’ve been replaced by men who carry shotguns and automatic weapons and take a bank by assault.’

  ‘How terrible,’ said Max Breslow.

  ‘Terrible?’ said Kleiber. ‘Wonderful, you mean. How do you think I could have got my security company to its present turnover without the dedicated gunmen? The improvement in safes, which gave the armed bandits their chance, gave me my chance too, Max.’ He laughed.

  ‘Aren’t you worried in case Colonel Pitman’s safe is wired to alarm the local police station?’

  ‘Yes, I am, Max. That’s why I must not plan this project in the style of a thief. We have to get into the house and talk to Pitman. We have to convince him that it’s in his interest to open the safe.’

  Max Breslow picked up his empty coffee cup in an automatic gesture of alarm and dismay. He knew exactly what methods Willi Kleiber would use to ‘convince’ Colonel Pitman to open the safe. He shuddered.

  ‘What’s the matter with you, Max?’

  ‘It was filthy coffee,’ said Breslow.

  ‘Come along, Max. It will be wonderful. It will be just like old times.’

  ‘You’re mad, Willi,’ said Breslow, but his voice lacked conviction. ‘You’ll get yourself killed.’

  No comment could have been more encouraging to Kleiber. He swelled with pride. ‘I’m not afraid to die,’ he said. ‘We lost some good comrades in the war. It would not be so terrible to join them once again.’

  Max Breslow was saddened by the answer but he smiled. It was as much a nervous reaction as anything.

  ‘Why are you smiling, Max? Have I said something funny?’

  ‘No, my friend. I am smiling because only last week I heard Stein express the same idea, in virtually the same words.’

  ‘You’ll have to be in Switzerland too, Max.’

  ‘There is so much to do here.’

  ‘This is more important than your film,’ said Kleiber. ‘I want you with me.’ From his pocket he got a recent newspaper cutting. It was a Washington newspaper; the headline said, ‘US government allocates $2.3 million for Nazi-hunters.’ The piece continued, ‘After six years of lobbying, Congresswoman Elizabeth Holtzman of New York saw US Justice Department set up an Office of Special Investigation on Nazi war crimes.’ Breslow read it through and returned it folded to Kleiber.

  ‘You should have changed your name, Max,’ said Kleiber.

  Max Breslow shook his head. ‘I didn’t want to meet old friends in Germany and have to explain why my US passport bore a different name.’ He sighed. ‘Surely someone else could go?’

  ‘Be ready to go early next week, Max. That’s an order from the Trust.’

  ‘Very well, Willi. I’ll be ready to go.’

  ‘The Trust has money, Max, and lawyers. The denaturalization and deportation proceedings take place in a civil court. Good lawyers and good advice – and a good word in the right place – can work wonders in this country.’

  ‘I said I’d go,’ said Max Breslow. He was angry and a little afraid.

  Chapter 33

  Willi Kleiber’s ‘amazing stroke of luck’ had its origins on the afternoon of Friday, 27 July, following Sir Sydney Ryden’s difficult meeting with the Prime Minister. The DG went back to his office, poured himself a large gin and tonic and looked again at the tiny black notebook filled with cryptic initials and hieroglyphics which were meaningless to anyone but himself. Sometimes he needed this when answering the Prime Minister’s questions. Never had he needed it more than this afternoon when she had subjected him and his department to some particularly telling criticisms. When he’d finished his drink he went to the window to look at his cactus collection, prodding the dry earth and using his tweezers to manicure the plants. For a moment his hands were still. He stared out of the window to Westminster Bridge, over which came streams of men and women, hurrying through the rain to Waterloo Station and the suburban train services. Soon the streams would become torrents and finally, as the rush hour reached its peak, hordes of these dark-suited figures would be filling the pavements and spilling over into the roadways and clogging the motor traffic.

  Suddenly the DG’s hands moved once more, touching the plants with brisk deftness – the sort of displacement activity that often marked the end of a difficult working day. The Prime Minister was right, Sir Sydney regretfully concluded: his department had produced no tangible results since his last report to her. It was no use reminding her that nothing disastrous had occurred, that Stein and Co. had not published the Hitler Minutes and created an international scandal. While Secret Intelligence Services thought that staving off disaster was a considerable feat, politicians always wanted tangible results. Politicians were not interested in the status quo, they wanted results: files closed, fears eliminated and accounts rendered. She had virtually said as much, and Sir Sydney knew that she was right to do so. He touched the most fragile of his new plants. It was tempting to give it just a trace of water but he resisted the temptation – better that it was forced to adjust to its new environment. Too much care and attention could ruin it – it was a characteristic that cacti shared with agents in the field.

  ‘There has obviously been a leak, Sir Sydney,’ the PM had told him. His first reaction was one of anger, but he had learnt to hide his emotions. He had learnt that during his first few weeks at prep school. The bullies had soon taught him to cry inside without permitting any sign of it to show. Stick it out, his father had written in those letters from Simla in the Indian hills, and Sydney had stuck it out. For years his only visitor at school had been his dear old nanny. It was not her fault that one year she had let him down by weeping when she said goodbye. How cruel children were to each other; the other boys had never permitted him to forget the old woman with the working-class accent who had shamed him with her tears. His only consolation then, as now, was hard work.

  ‘A leak, obviously.’ The PM’s shrewd deduction could not have been based upon the scanty facts he had provided, so was it that famous intuition of hers? Or was it no more than the natural hostility that all politicians show to the civil service, in order to keep them on the defensive?

  The DG picked up another plant. It was not in good condition. For weeks he had been trying to persuade himself that it would recover its strength, but there was little chance that it would. A pity, for it had been a fine specimen once, one of his favourites. Actually, he knew exactly how the PM had concluded that there was a leak from his department, and that it had led to the King’s Cross mu
rders. The truth was that the PM had stated what she saw clearly reflected in Sir Sydney Ryden’s own troubled face. If he searched deeply into his innermost thoughts, he would have to admit to some unease about that lunch he had given to the chap from the BND. Now, every time he fussed and fiddled with the potted plants, he recalled the conversation. Had it been one of his subordinates, Sir Sydney would have described it as indiscreet, if not insecure.

  He looked at the clock. It was almost time to go downstairs. His car had been ordered and the driver was always a little early. He was dining with the German BND official tonight. He had carefully rehearsed exactly what he intended to say but now, at the last moment, he was having second thoughts. Sydney Ryden had never worked as a field agent. There was nothing unusual about this, hardly any of the senior officials of the department had ever spied upon anything more secret than their colleagues’ expense accounts. Like them, Sydney Ryden was a desk man, skilled in administration, but ignorant of all the rigmarole of spying. He was well aware of his limitations, and it was quite obvious that good men’s lives were at stake if he handled this evening badly. If, on the other hand, he could get this German to believe that the Hitler Minutes were at the Pitman house in Geneva, he might be able to make up for some of the harm already done. And given a little additional luck he might be able to put this man Kleiber into the bag, despite the ‘hands-off’ assurance he had given the Americans. He picked up the phone and dialled Operations. ‘Hello. Director here. Anything new on the Stein business?’

  There was a delay while the duty officer checked not only the locked ‘current’ filing cabinet but also the pigeonholes and the message pad. ‘Nothing since the dossier went to your office at five o’clock, Director.’

  ‘Thank you.’ He put the phone down. That was it then. It was worth a go. He picked up the heavy, illustrated catalogue of Schiff locks, bolts and strong rooms. On the cover there was a burglar with a black mask and a bag of swag over his shoulder. He folded it and slipped it into his pocket.

  Chapter 34

  From the East River to the Hudson, 10th Street cuts right across Manhattan at its widest place. Property speculators tried to call the east side of it ‘the East Village’ but there were not many takers among the Russian émigrés, Italian waiters or Puerto Rican delinquents who lived there. Still less interest was shown by the drunk sprawled near the Russian Baths not far from the intersection with First Avenue. It was the morning of Monday, 30 July, and the hot summer had made the city into a stone oven which, even at night, did not cool. Two old men had put a table on the pavement to continue the chess game they started inside the old brownstone house. Kids were working to get the fire hydrant opened, cheered on by some teenage girls who were sunbathing on the rusty fire escape above.

  Three men emerged on to the flat roof of the property next to the all-night grocery. They vaulted effortlessly over the low wall that separated this roof from the one next door, dodging between washing hung on the roof clotheslines to dry. Their sweat shirts were dirty and stained, their jeans worn white at the knees and frayed at the pockets. The first man was dark complexioned with an Afro haircut and Zapata moustache. The other two men were white. One, a slim youth with tattooed arms, laboured under the weight of a blue metal toolbox. The third man of the trio was Melvin Kalkhoven, whose clean face and short haircut ill suited his grubby clothes. He detoured to peer into the street below.

  The three men stopped at the dilapidated little shed which gave access to the building’s interior staircase. Once they were inside, the stale heat of this old building hit them like a hot towel. The black man – Pete – put on a set of Con Edison coveralls which he had been carrying under his arm. The other two waited for him and listened to the sounds of the street and watched for any movement inside the building. A fire engine could be heard somewhere over on the west side, and below them the janitor was arguing with a drunken tenant; their raucous voices echoed in the stair well.

  ‘These old houses smell bad,’ said Pete.

  They moved quickly to the top landing. Pete went to the window and with difficulty got it open. He looked down into the street. The other two men donned white cotton gloves.

  Melvin Kalkhoven looked at his watch, ‘Ready to go, Pete?’

  Pete nodded. The tattooed youngster put down the toolbox and began working on the door lock of apartment No. 8. The lock had already been examined by a CIA team the day before. The skeleton keys they had been provided with were the correct choice. It was only thirty seconds before the door swung open.

  ‘All clear,’ said Pete. He too looked at his watch.

  Kalkhoven and his assistant moved quickly inside the apartment and closed the door behind them. ‘What a lousy little lock,’ said the youth. ‘Are you sure this is the right place?’

  ‘Expensive locks in a district like this could draw just the sort of attention these people are trying to avoid,’ said Kalkhoven. ‘This is a safe house … nothing secret, nothing valuable here … just a place to meet.’ He looked quickly into the tiny rooms. There were two telephones: one in the bedroom and a wall phone in the sitting room. No, not the telephones, he decided, the electricity supply sockets would be more suitable. It was very hot and airless inside the apartment – the windows had not been opened for weeks; they were secured by screw locks. The two single beds in the smaller room were neatly made up, bedclothes and matching green nylon overlays folded in envelope-corner style, as beds are made in hospitals.

  ‘They haven’t been slept in in months,’ said Melvin Kalkhoven. ‘It’s just a meeting place.’ Already he was at work removing the cream-coloured plastic cover from the electricity outlet by the bed. His assistant began work on the one behind the refrigerator. His name was Todd Wynn, a thin, wiry twenty-five-year-old – he looked no more than eighteen.

  ‘Watch that screwdriver,’ said Kalkhoven. ‘We don’t want scratch marks on the plastic covers.’

  ‘Why are we using such old-fashioned equipment, Melvin?’

  ‘“Be not curious in unnecessary matters,” it says in the good book. “For more things are showed unto thee than men understand.”’

  ‘Don’t kid around, Melvin. Why aren’t we fitting voice-activated bugs, or something more sophisticated?’

  Kalkhoven said, ‘Because the guys who use this place are pros. Like I tell you, don’t mark the plastic. These are the kind of people who will check the place.’

  ‘You didn’t answer the question.’

  ‘OK,’ said Kalkhoven. Working quickly he removed the screws holding the wall plate and pulled the cover off. From his pocket he took a tiny carrier transmitter, no larger than a packet of razor blades. He fitted it into position, squeezed it to bend the wires and replaced the plastic cover. ‘Because if we put voice-activated sets into this room anyone could locate them using a vest-pocket detector. Blast off any powerful sound and the voice activator will sing for you. Easier than hell to find them.’

  The youth was slower in putting his carrier transmitter into position. ‘So someone’s got to sit outside and monitor this baby?’

  ‘Right,’ said Kalkhoven. ‘But at least they won’t be transmitting until we switch them on. These are good sets. They’re small because they take their power off the mains supply and use the wiring as far as the junction box as an antenna. They’re old but they’re good. I’ve got no time for some of this space wars junk that the Technical Services Division has developed; it goes on the blink too often. You done that one? Now do the other room. And don’t get jumpy. We’ve got all the time in the world. We get anyone showing up here and Pete outside will hold them off. Pete’s a good guy.’

  From the landing outside, Pete was watching the street where a uniformed police sergeant walked as far as the grocery, helped himself to an apple and stood eating it while watching the traffic pass. He was not one of the regular precinct cops; he was a nursemaid sent from police HQ to watch over such capers.

  The kids had abandoned their efforts to get the fire hydrant going
. The cop studied the chess game for a moment. ‘He’s going to take that bishop,’ he advised.

  The old man who was the subject of this good advice gave the officer no word of appreciation. ‘Why don’t you go find Dillinger?’ he asked.

  ‘Come on, pop,’ said the police sergeant good-naturedly. ‘The FBI got Dillinger back in the thirties. You’re smart enough to know that.’

  ‘So why wouldn’t I know how to play my bishop?’ said the old man.

  The decline of the US dollar in world money markets during 1979 played havoc with Edward Parker’s budgets and plans. Suppliers in Taiwan and South Korea had contracts expressing their payments in Japanese yen, but virtually all the companies buying Parker’s radio components were in the United States and Canada. Now Parker was being squeezed by the movements of the world’s economy. His profit margin was getting thinner day by day and he knew that, unless some miracle happened within a year, he would have to start laying off workers at his assembly plant. If he was eventually going to be forced to a closure, he knew it would be better to face that fact sooner rather than later. He had seen what happened to other businesses where the management had refused to face the facts; the results had been total tragedy for everyone concerned. One man he knew, until recently a senior partner in a small but profitable radiophone company in Michigan, was working as a gas station manager in Ohio and, let’s face it, gas stations were not a growth industry. Poor man.

  ‘He complains all the time. He was always like that. In the army he was the same way,’ said Kleiber.

  Parker wrenched his mind away from the capitalist problems that faced him in his business affairs. Truth to tell, he had become obsessed with the technical tasks of capitalism. He had to remind himself that he was the USSR’s illegal resident and, whatever happened to his radio components company, Moscow Centre would demand that his espionage work be exemplary. He concentrated his mind upon the man sitting opposite him in this seedy New York apartment. He was a plump, cocksure man with a cropped head and ready smile. Willi Kleiber was not someone Edward Parker would choose as a dinner companion but he was one of his best agents, and they were on the brink of a success that might well enable Parker to go back to Moscow in a haze of vodka fumes and accompanied by the sound of clinking medals.