Brandenburg Gate

Chapter 14

* * *

Saturday, November 10, 1945
7:09 p.m.
Somewhere in the Spandau District — ?
Berlin

The night was freezing cold and black, now; blacker than any night in any city should be, in peacetime. To my American eyes, anyway.

Here and there, I could see a dull glow of lamplight, or maybe candle-light, in a window. Here and there. Most windows, by far the majority, were dark.

Once, we drove past a street corner with yet another of those ubiquitous, fifty-five-gallon-oil-drums, with some kind of fire burning inside; the open mouth of it was glowing vividly red, a satanic red, in the darkness. It was surrounded by those same shapeless, slow-moving, heavily-dressed figures, obviously trying to get warm, to keep warm. Acolytes, maybe, of fire. I wondered if they were some of the same people we'd passed by, doing the same thing, in daytime.

I wondered what their clothes would smell like, after a day of doing that, a night of doing that.

And I wondered, what they were burning, in those drums …

But for the most part, the only light we saw was coming from our headlights. Headlights that were fully unmasked, fully uncovered now, in this post-war age. Washing the world, and the occasional rubble-pile, yellowish-white and stark, ahead of us.

*

Our driver was MacLaughlin's associate, Davies, again; and we were in the same car we'd used to get from Tempelhof to Gatow, on our first day here.

This time, Davies had a friend along. His name was Ellis, and he said very little, and he looked very much to me like an armed bodyguard. MacLaughlin had told us, before we left, that it wasn't entirely safe to be out on foot at night; it was safer to drive, and even then, the more people in a party, the better.

Just like Paris, I thought to myself. Just like far too many places in the world.

We passed through another intersection, slowly and cautiously, in the dark, and then another; then our car turned one last corner, into a street even blacker than the one we'd just left — 

Except for a glow, in the distance. An oddly colorful one.

As we came closer, I could see that it was — of all things, in this time and place — a neon sign. Letters, vivid in the near-total darkness, in brilliant pink; surrounded by a rectangular double border in equally brilliant blue:

 

Nick's

 

I blinked up at it.

"Here we are, gentlemen," from Davies, as he pulled to the curb. He turned off the engine. Then; "You might want to let the two of us get out, first. Just as a standard precaution."

"Very well," from Mister Grey; easily.

MacLaughlin had also explained that, while very rare, German holdouts — real-life Werewolves — did in fact take occasional pot-shots at Occupation troops. It was why we'd taken a roundabout route to the Pariser Platz, that afternoon. I hadn't known.

The rush of cold air, as the two front doors opened, and then closed; and then a span of seconds, maybe a minute, and then our two rear doors opened.

"This way, gentlemen," from Davies.

*

Nick's, as it turned out, was a cellar bar, in an intact stone building; and it looked remarkably like any Stateside bar Rhys and I had ever been in — not that we'd been in that many. There was ample wood paneling, lots of mirrors, some booths, a scattering of tables, and shelves and shelves of bottles, gleaming in the cheerful, if dim, electric light. A ceiling fan was making lazy circles over our heads. The air was fairly warm.

Of course, a cellar bar at home would probably not have several racks of car batteries against one of the walls, all wired together, clearly powering the whole place and the neon light outside. I wondered how they were recharged.

I did not wonder where they came from. They were all marked, 'PROPERTY OF U.S. GOVT.', in white stenciled letters …

An older, balding bartender in a white shirt and black apron was polishing glasses, as we came in. We saw no-one else in the place.

"'Evening, gents. Please, sit anywhere you like, and I'll be right with you."

I gaped at him, for a moment. The accent was pure American. Or, to be more accurate, it was pure and unmistakable Brooklyn-ese. The last part of what he said came out as, 'an I'll be right wit youze'.

"Good evening, Freddie. The usual, please, for both of us," from Davies; as he led his colleague to a table.

Mister Grey, for his part, led me to a section of the bar a comfortable distance from both the table, and the station where the glasses were being polished. We eased ourselves into our tall, leather-padded chairs; in the mirror facing us, Mister Grey looked distinctly happy to be where he was.

The bartender pulled two pints of some kind of beer, carefully topping them off, one after another, and carried them over to Davies and Ellis; then he came back behind the bar, and approached us, wiping his hands on a bar towel.

"Cap'n," he said to me, nodding; then, "Sir," to Mister Grey. "What are youze gentlemen havin' tonight?"

"Would it be at all possible that you have … ice — ?" Mister Grey asked it, a little tentatively.

"You bet, sir. I got an icebox full of 'da stuff."

"You've made me a very happy man. A gin and tonic, please … and I would be positively ecstatic, if somehow, against all reasonable expectations, you were able to add a slice of lime — ?"

"Can do, sir. Just don't ask me where I got it." He winked at Mister Grey, and turned to me. "An' you, Cap'n?"

"A shot of whiskey, please. Oh; and a glass of water, too — ?"

I saw an eyebrow lift on the bartenders rather wizened face; and in the mirror, an expression of astonishment on Mister Grey's.

"Any particular preference, Cap'n?"

"Um … "

"No; no. If you'll permit me, Jack — ?" Mister Grey scanned the racks of standing bottles, and found one that he seemed to know. He pronounced a name to the bartender — it sounded Gaelic, and nothing at all like the letters of the label I thought he was looking at — and then he added, "Two fingers, please." Then me looked at me, directly. "Make it three."

"Right you are, sir. Sirs. Comin' right up." The wizened bartender bustled away, happily.

A moment's silence.

"If you'll permit me to say, Jack … in our limited, if rather intimate, time together, I think I have yet to see you actually finish an alcoholic drink, much less ask for one. Under the circumstances, I find your ordering a shot rather admirable." He smiled at me, sideways.

I shrugged, a little.

"In the Fifteenth, every crewman was given a shot of whiskey, on getting back from a combat mission. Before debriefing. It helped. I got used to it, I guess."

I saw his expression turn thoughtful. I didn't add, that I felt much the same right then, as I had after a mission. The nerves, the jangling emotions, almost that same feeling of wrung-out exhaustion … 

Well. No. Now wasn't the time.

I shook my head a little, and buried the thought.

I thought about getting back to Rhys in just a little while, instead. That was better. Much better.

As if taking a cue, Mister Grey — Ian — lifted up his attaché case, opened it, and extracted a paper pad. He returned the case to the floor. Then he produced his fountain pen from his inside suit pocket, and uncapped it.

"Here you are, gents. One G&T; an' one single-malt Scotch. Your friend, Cap'n, has good taste in fine spirits." Another wink, this time at me; and he bustled back towards his collection of glasses needing to be polished.

"Ah," from Ian; gazing down reverently, at his dew-bedecked, lime-garnished glass. "Ah. Shall we have a little pleasure, before business — ?" He lifted up his glass, admiring it for a moment; then he turned to me, as I lifted my own heavy glass. His face grew serious. "To Rhys."

"To Rhys," I echoed; and we touched glasses.

*

The pleasure was real enough, if brief. I saw the expression on Ian's face, as he sipped his gin-and-tonic, and I smiled to myself, as I imagined how I'd describe it to Rhys, later tonight. I knew he'd be amused. He'd described similar scenes to me, before, from back when we were boys, and it had been his Mister Grey and his playful, cat-and-mouse flirtation with Rhys in Shanghai; and now the experience of that same blissful expression would be something we shared.

For my part, whatever I was sipping didn't taste at all like the whiskey shots I'd gotten back at Cerignola — 

Well. To the extent that whiskey ever tasted like anything, to me, except some overpowering medicine.

But this, I thought, as I looked at my heavy glass, definitely had some kind of taste, to go along with with the overpowering alcohol. Something … smoky, maybe? Or, was this what peat tasted like — ?

Whatever it was, I knew there was no way I'd be able to finish it all. I hoped I wouldn't disappoint Ian; a shot was my limit.

But it did give me an idea.

*

Back to business; and the business had grown serious.

" … We are, of course, intensely curious about what took place between you, Thorne, and Nosenko. And the other Soviet colonel, of course; Ilyukhin."

He glanced back down at his notes, then he looked up.

"I will confess; I was watching you all the entire time, with my binoculars, while MacLaughlin kept watch on Rhys. We divided our responsibilities, you see." He paused, for just a moment. "I am at somewhat of a loss, to explain much of what I saw." He said it, a little gently, and carefully.

It wasn't just curiosity, I knew. He'd explained a few moments ago, that he and Mister MacLaughlin were to prepare a report for their superiors in London. And that it was to be a report of some importance.

I took a very small sip from my heavy glass. Thinking, about what to say, what not to say.

"I expect you'll be talking to Colonel Thorne, too — ?" I made it a question.

"Yes. Of course." A dry look, from him. "I have left that to MacLaughlin; he is the one to tackle it. Eventually. But we are rather more interested in hearing about what took place from your perspective. You know much more of our business, than Thorne."

One more slow, slight sip, from my heavy glass. Mister Grey — Ian — waited patiently.

"All right," I began …

 

It was the second time I'd debriefed to him. The first had been in Paris, at L'Oiseau Rouge, when all of this had begun. It seemed like a hundred years ago, now.

And now, as then, I kept myself out of the narrative. I didn't say a word about my haring off across the Pariser Platz to — well, to be with Rhys. At the end. And I didn't say a word about my encounter with the Corporal, and his pleading with me to come to Thorne's aid.

I didn't think I had to. It had all played out in front of dozens and dozens of witnesses, both British and Soviet. What had happened, what I had wanted to do, would have been blazingly, transparently clear to everyone.

I wondered how I felt about that.

Ian didn't say anything about that part.

Instead, I recounted in detail everything that had happened after I'd reported to Colonel Thorne, to the best of my recollection, and ability. I kept it simple, and succinct, just as I'd been trained in the Air Force.

I kept my emotions, under control. I tried not to relive the experience, that way. It was hard.

I also didn't mention, that I'd planned on killing Nosenko.

At the end of my report, he'd taken another long sip of his drink; looked at his notes; and begun asking me questions.

 

" … you feel fairly certain, then, about the antipathy between Nosenko and Colonel Ilyukhin — ?" He looked at me, closely.

"Yes. Or rather, on Ilyukhin's part, towards Nosenko. I doubt Nosenko cared. He didn't show it. But whatever Nosenko wanted him to do, really set off Ilyukhin. I'm sure of that."

"Hmmm … It's a pity that our translator, or someone on our side, didn't have at least some Russian. We'll have to do something about that, in future. We would give a great deal to know what Nosenko suggested."

He'd wanted to kill Rhys. That's all that mattered to me. Instead, I asked a question that had been bothering me.

"You know, there's something I don't understand … My impression from my time with the Soviets was, that the Political Officer had a lot of power. At least, everyone in the unit I was with, was afraid of him. That was pretty clear. But Colonel Ilyukhin looked like he wanted to hit Nosenko." I raised my eyebrow, as I looked at him, sideways.

A shrug, and a slight smile from Ian.

"There is power, and then there is power. Lieutenant-Colonel Dmitri Antonovich Ilyukhin, I've recently been told, is a close friend and confidante of Marshal Zhukov, and has served under him for years. That is like being close friends with your General Eisenhower, only much, much more so. Even Stalin is treating Marshal Zhukov very carefully, these days. And Zhukov is being careful around Stalin, in his turn. It is a dynamic we are watching quite closely, and with interest."

The corner of Ian's mouth turned up, in a very slight smile.

Zhukov, I knew, was the Soviet supreme commander of the war; and was now the military governor of Soviet-Occupied Germany. He was like our Eisenhower, and MacArthur, and Nimitz, all rolled into one. And if he and Ilyukhin were good friends, then, it made sense that he'd have Ilyukhin here with him in Berlin.

I exhaled, and turned the heavy glass in my fingers; then I had another sip of the water.

"And if you are correct, that Ilyukhin had not been informed about the, shall we say, arrangements … he would have been quite put out. That is a very interesting thing to know. Thank you."

 

A few more details, then; a few more questions from him, that I tried to answer. I guessed that my debriefing was about done — 

And my conscience was bothering me.

It was an article of faith, in the Air Force, that when it came to debriefings, you held back nothing. Not your own shortcomings; not the shortcomings of others. Because holding back substantive information could get the next guy, and his crew, killed.

Oh, nobody wanted to hear about your feelings, your fears, your momentary cowardice. Everyone had them. But if there was something about messing up your fuel mixture and running low on gas, or something about the way the wing commander had screwed up the run to the IP — you told. You just did.

My chance came soon enough.

 

"Is there anything else we haven't discussed, that you'd care to add — ?" from Ian, at last. He said it a little absent-mindedly, while still marking up his notes.

"Well … yes. I'm pretty sure that Colonel Thorne wasn't reading a real communiqué, while his men were approaching the Soviet side. It was too well timed. I think he was making it all up, as he went along."

In fact, I was also pretty sure that he'd been watching my back-and-forth conversation with Nosenko and Ilyukhin, to get a feeling for the rhythm of the translations; so that he could time his surprise just right. But that in turn led to the next item.

A brief smile from Ian.

"That seems entirely plausible. Anyone in Thorne's position could, I expect, compose a formal communiqué such as the one you described, in his sleep. I'll see that MacLaughlin asks him about it."

Another scribbled note.

"And … there is one more thing, sir. Ian, I mean." I said it, a little hesitantly.

Just a raised eyebrow, from him, as he looked sideways at me.

"Nosenko speaks German, fluently. I'm pretty sure he doesn't speak English; judging by his reactions, to all the translations. But I thought all along that he understood the German side of the translation, and was trying not to show it. I think Colonel Thorne saw it, too. And … I was right. He speaks fluent German."

He blinked at me, for several seconds.

"What happened — ?" he asked, quietly. At last.

I tried not to look down.

"Right after Colonel Thorne and his people left, we were alone for a moment. And we had a few words, together."

A slight silence.

"Which I completely failed to witness," he said, finally. "I turned away too soon. That was a grave error on my part. I apologize." Another, brief pause. Then — "What did you say to one another — ?"

I hesitated. I wished I didn't have to say it.

"He congratulated me on my self-restraint. He said he appreciated it. And then, I … I told him I admired his courage."

This time, after a moment, I did look down.

The implications of the exchange were utterly unmistakable. I'd just admitted to Mister Grey that I'd been planning to murder Nosenko when Rhys was killed, as insane as the idea was. A murder that would have cost me my own life. And, that Nosenko had seen it in me. He'd openly acknowledged it.

A considerably longer silence from Ian, this time.

"Do you remember the exact words you both used, in German — ?" he asked. Gently.

I supplied them. I was unlikely to ever forget them.

I still avoided looking at him.

After he finished writing them down, he capped his pen, and put it down, carefully. A very much longer silence, then. Neither of us touched our drinks.

Finally, he sighed.

"I wish that hadn't happened," he said, quietly. "As understandable, as it may be … I do not know, of course; but I'm afraid Nosenko may take the incident rather personally. It is possible that you, and Rhys, will be objects of his scrutiny, in the future."

Another pause. I felt him looking at me. I looked up.

"You realize, that I need to include this, in my report — ? As deeply personal, and intimate a detail, as it may be. I am sorry. But it may make a difference, in your future safety and well-being. For both of you."

I looked down again.

"I understand. And Ian … thank you. For everything. For absolutely everything. For getting Rhys back."

There were no possible words to add, to that last sentence.

I looked up, and met his eyes. I put my feelings into my expression.

That smile that looked like my brother's, bloomed over his face.

"Of course. The privilege is all mine." He picked up his glass, looked comically disappointed at how little was left of his drink, and then went on, lightly. "Now. Is there anything else — ?"

* * *

Oddly enough, there was something else. My idea, of a few moments ago.

I explained it to him. I was glad to change the subject.

When I finished, he looked at me, in considerable amusement.

"Let me see if I understand," he said. "You want to set up an anonymous endowment — a permanent, anonymous, endowment — to keep the Sergeants' Mess of the 8th Battalion, Coldstream Guards, in perpetual supply of single-malt Scotch whiskey?"

"Yes. If it can be arranged." I looked down at my heavy glass, then back up at him. I made a wry face, and went on.

"If I can do anything to help get medals awarded to the sergeants who rescued Rhys, I'll do that too. Of course. I'll write up the recommendations myself, anytime. I'll talk to anyone. What they did was one of the bravest things I've ever seen." I took a breath. "But, medals aside; I thought the whiskey would be appreciated. Maybe appreciated, just a little bit more, than medals."

"Hm. You might be right … " There was laughter, just under the surface of his words. Then — "You know, that might be a rather expensive proposition — ? The particular dram you're having just now, comes a bit dear." He said it, a little apologetically.

I looked back at him, without saying anything. In my family, we're taught from childhood that discussion of one's money is … well, not done.

I saw the look of comprehension on his face; and then, the amusement was back. He uncapped his pen again, and made another note.

"I have no idea at all if such a thing is possible. But I will ask MacLaughlin. He is the font of knowledge of all matters military. He will know what to do."

"Thank you. Very much."

Ian capped his pen once again, and set it down. He left his notepad open. His expression grew a little more serious, again.

"And now, we come to the reverse of the coin. You have been very generous with your observations, and your time. Thank you. You have filled in some important gaps in our understanding … So now the question becomes, may we do something similar, for you — ?"

I blinked, at this.

"Are you permitted to?"

A wry smile, from him. "Certainly not. That is one reason why we are here. Private conversations in bars are a hallowed and time-honored way of skirting such obstacles, in my business … "

His expression changed abruptly, then, as if a thought struck him. He looked down; and when he looked up, his expression was a little pensive.

"Do you know," he said, slowly, after a second, "I had just such a conversation with Rhys about, oh, eight years ago, now, in a bar in Shanghai?"

He paused, and looked off into the distance, for just a moment; and when he looked back at me, his expression was — complicated.

I guessed he was remembering, that he'd warned Rhys then, that he would likely be pulled into the world of spies, of Intelligence work, when and if the war came.

Well. He'd certainly been right about that.

"I know," from me. Quietly. "Rhys told me all about it, when he got back from Shanghai."

That had been a difficult conversation. For Rhys; because of me, because of the scrutiny we'd both be under. That part about other people, government agents, likely knowing our true relationship …

I'd told him it wasn't his fault, it wasn't really his father's fault, and there was nothing he could do about it. And that we were a team, and we'd face it together.

Well. We hadn't really been able to, before. But maybe I'd been making up for that, just a little, lately.

That, I realized, was going to be a good feeling. Now that this horrible time in Berlin was almost over. Now that I was free to start feeling things, again.

"Of course he would … ", from Ian, into the momentary silence.

He took a last sip from his glass, and set it down, gently. He looked at me, directly.

"In any event. Rhys asked me to brief you, to the extent that I can; and to answer any questions you might have. To the extent that I can. So. Before I launch into the tedious tale, the Who, What, When, Where, How, and Why — have you anything specific to ask — ?"

I didn't hesitate.

"Yes. What is the SIS, and what is the SOE — ?"

MacLaughlin had told Thorne that Rhys had been in the American version of both, at the Pariser Platz. I thought I knew, but I wanted to make sure. Rhys hadn't talked about his work with me.

"Ah." Ian looked slightly chagrined. "You heard that. That was somewhat indiscreet of MacLaughlin. Still; under the circumstances … "

He looked towards the ancient bartender, who'd been watching us from the corner of his eye; the bartender nodded, and began preparing another gin-and-tonic.

"SIS stands for Secret Intelligence Service", he said to me, simply, and quietly. "It is my country's service for gathering intelligence from abroad; and it is the organization to which I belong. It is also known as MI6."

He paused, for a second.

"SOE stands for Special Operations Executive, and that was MacLaughlin's organization, before he transferred over to us; to our great gain. They conduct unconventional warfare behind enemy lines, as you can imagine from his description of his experiences in France."

"And Rhys did both, in the OSS." I made it a statement.

"Yes. Your OSS ran both activities, under different directorates." He shrugged, slightly, and reached for his cigaret case. "Or perhaps it should be, 'runs'. We are not entirely clear, on that matter."

I let that go, for just a moment.

"Here you are, sir. G&T, with lime."

"Thank you."

"And are you doing okay, Cap'n?"

"Yes. Thank you," from me, with a smile. The old bartender nodded at me, took a cloth from his back pocket, and walked down to the far end of the bar, where he started slowly polishing the bar top.

Ian finished lighting his cigaret, then he wordlessly held out his cigaret case to me. To my own great surprise, I took one; and let him light it for me, with his silver lighter.

Well, I thought. It is a special occasion.

A moment's pause, as all that was completed. Then I felt him look at me sideways, for just a moment.

"There is something else you should perhaps know," he said, quietly, and seriously. "Regarding Rhys' service in the OSS."

He paused, to take a careful sip of his very full glass.

"You see, in addition to Secret Intelligence and Special Operations, there is another directorate in the OSS, known as X2; and that is counter-intelligence. And that was where Rhys was assigned, towards the end of the war in Europe."

I blinked at him.

"Okay," from me; cautiously.

"His role was to interview civilians, primarily displaced German civilians, behind American lines, to ascertain if they were who and what they said they were. The Germans tried very hard to infiltrate undercover military and saboteurs behind our lines; and they were actually quite successful."

My mind went instantly back to the conversation I'd had with the American sergeant who'd stopped me, in Paris, suspecting that I was one of them.

"I'd heard that," I said; with a growing feeling of dread.

"Yes … In any case, with his background and language skills, Rhys was unusually good at spotting these infiltrators. But then, in the course of this work, something … traumatic, happened."

Ian stopped, for a moment, and looked at me sideways, again. He took a puff on his cigaret.

"It is not for me to say, exactly what. Rhys will certainly tell you, in his own time. But I can say, it affected him deeply. And, that as a result, he had something on the order of a minor breakdown … "

Oh, no. Oh, no. Poor Rhys.

" … which may, in fact, have also been something of a minor, ethically-inspired mutiny. I suspect it was both. In any event, he was relieved of his duties in X2, and allowed to return to his family home in Paris, and go on serving in a much-reduced, or standby, capacity. Rhys was very highly thought of, in the OSS."

Another puff, on his cigaret.

"Whether that history plays any part in the events we have all just been through, is not clear. But it is something to be kept in mind."

A pause, then.

Oh, Rhys. Poor Rhys.

I looked down, and then up.

"Thank you for telling me," I said. Quietly. Ian answered with a quick flash of his eyes.

* * *

Another pause, then. Ian busied himself with taking another careful sip, of his dew-bedecked glass. I took a careful, tiny sip of mine; and took another draw, on my cigaret. It tasted strange.

I looked around us, for a second. Davies and Ellis were sitting quietly, at their table. I realized, they had positioned themselves so they could watch us here at the bar, and watch the door, at the same time.

The ceiling fan went on turning, slowly. The shine of the neon light outside was visible in the sides of the stairwell, through the glass in the door. The ancient bartender went on slowly polishing his bar.

 

"And so," from Ian; setting his glass down. He gave me a wry, half-smile. "That leads us to, the larger question, 'What just happened — ?'" A slight shrug. "Actually, it leads to all of the questions; Who, What, When, et cetera, et cetera. It is tedious, and some of it I cannot tell. Some of it we do not know. But we know enough."

A careful, controlled flick of his cigaret ashes, into the ashtray between us.

"As to the What — that is easy. Rhys was betrayed, by someone on the American side. Someone very highly placed."

A pause, as he shrugged, very slightly.

"Actually, he was betrayed three times. 'Verily I say unto thee, That this night, before cock crow, thou shalt deny me thrice.'"

He said it very lightly, and dryly, with just a touch of irony, looking away from me. But I could see tightness in his face; and I realized, — he was angry. Angry, on Rhys' behalf.

"Dixon," I said; after a moment. Feeling a rush of blood. Not knowing what I was starting to feel; but afraid of it.

"No." Ian shook his head. "Not Dixon; although we do not know if he was party to the plot. No, Rhys was betrayed by someone very much higher."

He crushed his cigaret out in the ashtray, very carefully.

"We believe, thanks to Rhys' contribution, that we know who it was. We are almost certain of it. But we will leave that part of the tale to last."

Another quick flash of his eyes, at me.

"Here is what we now know happened. Rhys was sent here to Berlin, under false pretenses, to collect some relatively routine information from a pair of contacts he had never met. That is the first betrayal, and also the plotter's first and most important mistake. It is not how things are done."

He said it, flatly. I believed him.

"In fact, it was a remarkably clumsy move. It gave Rhys warning. Perhaps he did not care; Rhys was a serving military officer, and orders are orders. Still …

"Rhys duly collected his information from his two contacts, on his first night in Berlin. But shortly after this assigned meeting, Rhys was approached by another, entirely unscheduled and unexpected contact; who passed along to Rhys some verbal information, of a very, very much more important nature. Some might even say, of an explosive nature."

Another sardonic, sideways glance, at me.

 

I understood at once.

 

It was something to do with the Atom Bomb. It had to be. The Atom Bomb was all the newspapers were talking about, these days. And by all accounts, it was the major source of tension between us, between the U.S. and the Soviets.

But Rhys, mixed up with that — ?

I was dumbfounded.

Ian went on.

"Now we come to the second betrayal. Rhys was arrested in his hotel room, before dawn the next morning. Someone had conveyed information about his meeting with his first contacts to Our Gallant Soviet Allies; who detained him as a matter of routine, a matter of course. But they did not at the time convey the information about the second, unexpected, contact."

He extracted another cigaret from his case, and again offered me one. I just shook my head. He lit his, and exhaled.

"So, as is normal for such affairs, Our Gallant Soviet Allies contacted the American authorities and told them of Rhys' detention, and suggested an exchange. And in the normal course of events, he would have been exchanged for Pavel the Pimp, or someone even less important, at a routine location. Perhaps at the train station. Possibly with handshakes all around, and a wink and a nod."

He paused, for another pull on his cigaret. The tip grew red, for a moment, then darkened.

"But then, our American antagonist closed his trap. He conveyed the information about Rhys' second contact to the Soviets."

 

I thought I understood, at last. It came in a flash. Ian nodded, slowly, at my expression.

 

"Yes. You see it. All at once, the Soviets had a prisoner in their hands, who they very much did not want to give back to us, to the West. They very, very much did not want to give Rhys back to us, with what he knew. But they had already proposed Rhys for an exchange. What to do — ?"

Another quick puff.

"They could have killed him, of course, and reported it as an accident. Or more likely, a suicide; jumping from a window, perhaps."

I just looked at him.

"But that would have been severely embarrassing for Our Gallant Soviet Allies. It would not have been believed; and it likely would have prompted retaliation against their own people. And given who Rhys' grandparents are, his death would likely have involved considerable publicity, and a diplomatic row. It would have been a minor public relations nightmare, between two late Allies … "

And yet another pull on his cigaret. This one, slower and deeper.

" … Which, of course, is the point of this entire, sorry exercise. Our antagonist, you see, is quite the fervent anti-Communist. Assuming we are right about his identity, he has in fact spared few efforts to embarrass the Soviets, wreck relations between them and your own country — and mine too, I may add — and perhaps to drown the United Nations Organization itself in the proverbial bathtub, before it gets a chance to prove itself. He does not care to see a functioning U.N., with the Soviet Union seated on the Security Council. Oh, my, no."

 

The same old, useless obsession. The same old idiocy, that had tacitly encouraged That Bastard Himself, and gotten millions of people, so many, many, many people, killed.

Fuck. Fuck. Fuck.

 

Then, a thought came to me.

 

"Wait a minute," from me. I looked at him. "You said that the Soviets told our people they had Rhys in custody."

"Yes." He flicked some ash from the tip of his cigaret. "Our antagonist presumably has solid proof of that. It is why even making Rhys simply disappear, would not have solved their problem. In some ways, his disappearance would have made the embarrassment more drawn-out."

I blinked at that, and took a deep breath.

"What did they do? The American side. Did they respond? Did they propose an exchange — ?"

I noticed I said, 'They'. Not, 'We'.

I was afraid I already knew the answer. We'd speculated about it all, at Gatow, before.

This time, it was Ian who looked down, for a long moment. When he looked up, his expression was grave, and sympathetic.

"No. They did not."

I took that in, for a long stretch of seconds.

"Why — ?"

Ian regarded me; then he shrugged.

"We think your people were giving the Soviets time to decide what to do, about Rhys." He said it gently, and simply.

 

Fuck. Fuck. Fuck. All over again.

 

After a moment, I felt a light touch on my sleeve. I looked up.

"For whatever it is worth, Jack, I cannot believe for a moment that Rhys' entire chain of command is party to this, this operation." His voice was lower, now, and he was looking at me very directly. "I spent some months in Washington, and in Canada, in '41 and '42; and I became quite well-acquainted with a number of OSS officers, including your General Donovan. They are some of the finest men I know. Several I call, friends."

Silence for a few seconds, at that.

"Then, what — ?" I asked it a little helplessly.

Ian shrugged, again.

"We can only speculate — for now. For now," he repeated. A slight twitch of his lips, then. "But what I think happened, is this. The Special Services Unit, that employs the few remaining core people of your OSS, is a rather ad-hoc group, both within and outside of the War Department. I think that when word of Rhys' detention was received, the decision on what to do was passed to our antagonist. He very likely volunteered to deal with it. His offer would be welcomed; he was very senior, and respected, in the OSS."

A slight pause.

"And of course, that is the third of his betrayals, of Rhys."

That feeling of quiet, controlled fury from him, again. Then, yet another shrug; as if he were putting it all to one side. He stubbed his cigaret out in the ashtray.

"Then, of course — we came along; putting our oar in. Oh, I do so hope we caused some distress, all the way around … it would be most gratifying to think so. But, speculating again — I think that when MacLaughlin contacted his opposite number, regarding the exchange … I think that is when Our Gallant Soviet Allies sent for Nosenko. Their 'fixer'."

Situation Normal, All Fucked Up. It made a horrible kind of sense.

 

One last question, before getting to the real issue.

 

"So … this, this person — "

I almost said, 'This Asswipe' — 

" … got word to the Soviets, about Rhys getting the secret information. He must have known about it happening, somehow — ?"

Ian looked tired, just for a moment.

"It was a setup. Of course. It was all a setup, constructed by our American opponent, from beginning to end; one of those tedious games that intelligence services play, endlessly. Rhys' second interlocutor may have been an American plant; or a double agent; or even a triple agent, such things are unfortunately not uncommon. Regardless; he was in our American antagonist's employ. And that also means that the information for which Rhys was very nearly killed, was already known to the American side, and is and was in no way a real secret of any value, any longer."

He reached for his glass, and took another sip.

"No. The whole point, as I said, was to embarrass the Soviets, and further damage relations between them and the West. And to help embarrass the idea of the United Nations."

He paused, for a moment; and his expression shifted, slightly.

"Do you know, when Our Gallant Soviet Allies find this all out — and they will; their Intelligence Services are second to none, in the world — when they do find this all out, they are going to be, shall we say, irritated? They are going to be quite irritated, at Rhys' antagonist. They do not at all like being played for fools … Now, that's a cheerful thought." He smiled, very slightly, and took a deeper sip from his dew-bedecked glass.

 

I breathed out.

Now, we'd come to it.

 

"Who — ?"

It was all I said. It was all I needed to say.

 

Ian looked at me, sideways, for a moment.

"His name is Dulles; Allen Dulles. And to the extent that you Americans have an aristocracy, he and his brother Foster certainly qualify." He paused, and looked at me more closely. Reading my expression. "You know him."

"We've met. Socially."

My heart was sinking.

"Ah … then you know something about him." He smiled humorlessly, as he reached for his cigaret-case again. "But then, there is a very great deal to know. As in, perhaps, the fact that he and his brother are grandsons of one U.S. Secretary of State, and nephews of another — ? And that both have spent time in your Foreign Service? And so, it is widely recognized that his brother Foster is almost certainly going to be Secretary of State, in the next Republican Administration — ?"

I shook my head. All I really knew, is that both brothers were extremely powerful men, in the New York business world, in government in Washington, and in Society. I'd met them through my father.

"You could say that they both regard United States foreign policy as being something of a family business … as long as they are the ones who get to define that policy."

Another humorless smile, as he lit his next cigaret; leaving his cigaret-case on top of the bar, this time.

"If Foster is set to become Secretary of State, it is clear that Allen Dulles very much wishes to become head of the OSS; or whatever replaces the OSS, as something certainly will. One hopes, for all our sakes, that this does not happen; 'If it be be possible, let this cup pass from me … ' But."

 

A long, silent stretch of seconds, then; as I contemplated all this, in all its horror. The possibility of the future head of U.S. intelligence services, being someone who had tried to have Rhys killed …

 

"Why Rhys — ?" I asked it, quietly. A little desperately.

Another sideways-glance, from Ian.

"Ah. Well, there is a short answer to that; and a much more complicated longer answer."

Another puff on his cigaret; again, the tip glowed red, and then turned to gray ash.

"The short answer is, they know each other, very well. Rhys' first posting, after finishing training, was to Switzerland; unsurprisingly, after all the years he'd spent there. Allen Dulles was the head of the OSS mission in Switzerland, and so became Rhys' superior. It was a small office; they became intimately acquainted. And, according to Rhys just now, they came to despise one another … Honestly, I didn't know Rhys had it in him."

I did. Rhys is gentle, and loving; and so, he reserves his antipathy for people who really and truly deserve it, usually people who hurt other people.

Ian went on.

"The longer answer — ? One can only theorize. It could just be convenience; Rhys fits the profile he would certainly need in a victim, as I said."

He tapped some ash from the end of his cigaret, and looked at me again.

"Then again, it could easily be active malice."

A short, ironic pause, for emphasis.

"Or, speaking purely for myself, I suspect it is possible that Dulles thinks Rhys knows too much, saw too much, of Dulles' rather questionable dealings in Switzerland, and is hence best removed from circulation … "

I took that in, for a moment.

He shrugged.

"Or it could be a combination of all of the above; ours is a dirty business, and motives are often murky at best. But there is a another possibility to consider."

A momentary silence, as he took a sip from his frosted glass. He looked at me, significantly.

"You see, we happen to know that this particular Dulles brother is a strangely ruthless character. Ruthless, as in betraying an odd lack of scruples, of feelings, of emotions, at certain crucial moments … We have seen it in him, time and again. Whatever else one can say about his motives in this wretched affair, one thing is abundantly clear. He is perfectly capable of sacrificing a pawn, a pawn like Rhys, if he thought it was in your country's best interests — as he sees them. I do not think he would disagree, with that assessment."

A short pause between us, then. I looked down at my heavy glass.

"If he does want Rhys, silenced — " I did not want to say, killed, out loud — "what might Rhys have seen, or learned, to put him in that kind of danger?" I asked it, dreading the answer.

Another sideways-flash of Ian's eyes.

"A great many things, I should think. There are all of Dulles' love-affairs, in Switzerland; he pursued women relentlessly, obsessively. By the dozens. He is married, of course."

Another puff on his cigaret.

"And whatever one might think of such things, in terms of morality — and Rhys is no prude — it is simply horrifyingly risky behavior, on the part of such a high-ranking Intelligence officer. It is practically asking to be blackmailed, or otherwise compromised. I expect Soviet Intelligence threw women at him in numbers; and probably the Germans did as well. All of which put not only Dulles in danger, but the people who served with him, too."

Like Rhys; I didn't say.

Another pause; another cigaret puff. Another sideways-glance, at me.

"But his true vulnerability comes from his close ties to certain Germans … including some rather high-ranking officers, in the Wehrmacht."

I blinked at him.

He nodded.

"Yes. You see, the Dulles brothers' law firm had a number of important clients in Germany, prior to the War. And while those professional connections were suspended … ostensibly … when your country entered the war — "

He looked at me, significantly. I caught the slight emphasis, on 'ostensibly' — 

" — the personal connections, remained. We know Dulles had many meetings, many dinners and weekend visits, with important German business figures, and especially ranking Wehrmacht officers, in Bern, during the war. We know the relationships were warm, going both ways; fueled by old acquaintance, and by their shared anti-Communism. And admittedly, we know that as a result, Dulles acquired some important information … such as, the detailed German plans for invading Switzerland after the defeat of France; Fall Tannenbaum … "

Oh, Jesus.

Ian saw my expression, and smiled, wryly.

"Oh, yes; they had a detailed plan, all written up. And the Swiss were very happy to receive a copy of it. Of course, there is always the question as to whether it was given to Dulles deliberately, so as to make the Swiss just a little more compliant, shall we say, with certain German interests — ?"

Ian crushed out his cigaret.

"In any event, that is the hell of it. In this business, one must make compromises. Information is the coin of the realm; and usually, in order to get information, one must be willing to give information … In other words; make compromises. We did not ask Rhys directly, just now, about any of this. We did not really have to. That Rhys has information on Allen Dulles that Dulles would rather he not have, is practically a given."

 

I took a deep breath, and then exhaled. I moved my heavy glass, on the bar top, just slightly.

 

"You seem to know a awful lot about this man."

Another significant look, from Ian.

"We kept a rather close watch on him, during the War; for obvious reasons. I had some small part in that task, off and on. But after he was demoted, and given a less-important posting, I'm afraid we let our vigilance lapse." A slight pause, from him. "I suspect we will remedy that oversight, going forward."

"He got in trouble with his superiors — ?" I had to ask it.

Another wry, slight, humorless smile from him.

"You could say so. In pursuit of his own foreign policy goals, of course. He advocated that the Western Allies explore negotiating a separate peace deal with the Third Reich, a separate Armistice; and that we then provide aid to them in their battle against the Soviet Union. Which, naturally, was always Stalin's greatest fear, throughout the war."

Jesus fucking Christ. Jesus.

"That did not go over very well, in Washington … On the other hand, it may be that the separate, unauthorized back-channel communications with the Japanese that he permitted to be established, was also found, unamusing in their eyes. In any event; at long last, he was relieved of his post in Switzerland, and sent to to a glamorous, but much less important posting, in Europe; although he 'retired', after a short time there."

He raised his eyebrow at me, expectantly.

"Where — ?"

"Berlin."

He brought his glass up to his lips, and sipped, delicately.

* * *

We went on after this, for some more minutes.

I reverted to asking questions. Chief among them; was Rhys in any danger from Dulles, now, after all that had happened — ?

Meaning, were we. Rhys and I are a team.

No, came the answer. At least, not immediately. The gambit to sacrifice Rhys — or silence him — had been 'blown', as Ian put it, spectacularly. Allen Dulles was in the position of the boy whose barn had just burned down, denying to his father and everyone around that he'd been smoking in the hay loft. As he was known to do.

He'd said it in a dry tone, with satisfaction.

He also allowed that the very open interest in Rhys' well-being, on the part of British Intelligence, was something of a clear message. Any attempt to bring harm to him in the future would be … noticed. Noticed, and unappreciated.

He'd said this dryly, too.

I was reassured; as far as it went.

"And finally," he'd said, looking at me — "there is Rhys, himself. He is extremely capable, you know, when it comes to this business of ours. I am quite sure he is already planning the appropriate steps to take, to protect both of you, and your loved ones."

He'd smiled, without humor, again. He'd acknowledged what I hadn't said, about Rhys and me being a team.

"If I am right, about Rhys having compromising information about Dulles, I imagine Dulles will tread very carefully around the both of you. I hope, for a long time."

I hoped so, too. Rather desperately.

* * *

Finally, the flow of information dried up. Ian had clearly told me all he could possibly tell.

 

I was left with a lot to think about.

 

Ian excused himself, and went over to Davies and Ellis, to have a few words. I figured he was alerting them to get ready to drive us back to the hospital. I was more than ready. I needed to be with Rhys again.

I held up my heavy crystal glass again, and smelled the smoky aroma of the Scotch. I took another, tentative sip, a very small one; and felt the fire go down, again.

It had had an affect on me, I realized.

My nerves, which had been screaming earlier, and then jumping and jangled all day, had settled down; I felt something that might be like calm. My stomach, which had been impossibly knotted up, was relaxed; and I realized that I could almost, almost feel a faint echo of hunger …

I lifted up the glass, and looked at it, again. I made a mental note, never to keep a bottle of this, or anything like it, around the house, wherever Rhys and I lived. It would be way too dangerous.

 

'Wherever Rhys and I lived … '

 

I realized I'd just thought it. And I realized, with wonder, it was true. I could start letting myself get used to the idea, again.

 

"Ah," from Ian; settling back down in his chair, next to me. Our eyes met in the mirror facing us. "You will forgive me? I was arranging for our return to the hospital, in a few minutes' time."

"Good. Thank you."

"But before we go, there is one last item of discussion. A happy one, for you and Rhys at any rate; although alas, less happy, for me. I shall miss your company. Have you given thought to your next steps, yours and Rhys', from here — ?"

I blinked at him.

"Next steps? I thought … Doesn't Rhys have to go back to Paris — ?"

Ian smiled. His demeanor seemed lighter than it was, a few minutes ago.

"Theoretically, perhaps. In practice, after an affair such as this, he would be expected to exercise discretion. Rhys has left the choice of destinations, for the next few days or weeks, up to you; given that it affects the both of you."

"He has — ?" I was blinking, again. Then — "Uh … is it safe for Rhys, to go back home to Paris — ?"

"Oh, yes. Theoretically, again; Our Gallant Soviet Allies will have assumed that he has been debriefed, and is therefore no longer of any value to them, as a target. Quite the contrary; they would be careful to avoid causing any harm to him. That likely would rate retaliation, from our side."

A slight pause, and his face took on an ironic expression.

"However. In this sorry world, I have found, one can never go far wrong by over-estimating the stupidity of others. Paris, as you will have seen, is a rather wild place, just now; there are many who were members of the Communist cells of the Resistance, who are still in sporadic touch with Moscow; and rumors spread, and orders miscarry. There are still others who are fellow-travelers, with whiffs of Vichy in their pasts, who might be especially eager to prove their loyalty to the Party; by, say, acting out, foolishly — ?"

I said nothing. I thought about the wooden box in Rhys' flat, with all the guns.

"So. My advice to Rhys was, that it might be best for him to avoid Paris, for the next few weeks. Although I'm quite sure his Sûreté detail will miss him … "

A flash of a smile.

"I offered him, and you, the temporary shelter of one of our safe houses, in Britain. God knows, we have enough of them. Everything from cottages, to country estates, with acres of grounds; 'The Stately Homes of England', you know, faulty drains and all. I'm quite sure we can make you comfortable. Although," he went on, a little mock-apologetically, "I'm afraid we can't do much about the food … "

"Powdered eggs?" I asked it, lightly. I had first-hand experience with British rationing, of course.

"They are a luxury, I fear. As is margarine. And sugar. And most everything else."

"We'll survive. Thank you, very much, Ian; that would be great."

"In any event, it won't be for long. I am sure Rhys' orders home will arrive in very short order. I expect you can manage to accompany him — ?"

 

I gaped at him.

 

"You think so — ?"

"Oh, yes." He turned, to peer at me, directly. "Don't you see? He has been in the custody of the Soviet intelligence services. He has been identified, photographed, and fingerprinted. What happened to him here, in Berlin, was spectacularly public. He is of no more use as a field officer to the OSS, or any other agency; and I doubt they would want him, behind a desk. I expect his release orders will arrive in a matter of a week or two; and you two will be able to go home."

 

It hit me, like an electric shock.

 

Home.

 

I knew I could get us on an Air Transport Command flight across the Atlantic, on a C-54, almost any time … And I knew what that meant.

 

Home. For Christmas. With my family.

 

Home. For Christmas. With Rhys. With Rhys, and his family.

 

Home.

*

After a moment, I noticed that Ian had had the decency to find somewhere else to look; giving me a moment of privacy, as all this ran through my head, and obviously, across my face. So we were both a little startled, when a voice broke in.

"Say, youze guys. Mind if I ask youze a question?"

It was our bald, wizened bartender, hovering nearby. Polishing yet another glass. He'd obviously seen us go silent.

"Mmmmm — ?" from Ian, neutrally.

The bartender didn't take the hint.

"I gotta say, I'm pretty good with faces; it comes with the territory, in this business. It's experience; y'know? An' it's kind of a hobby, of mine. An' when youze guys first came in, I figured youze was family; like brothers, or cousins, maybe. But more like brothers. It's pretty obvious. An' I'm almost never wrong."

The glass twisted in his dish towel, as he looked back and forth between us, critically.

"But one of youze is a Brit; and one of youze is a Yank. An' that don't make sense. So, I just gotta ask. What's the deal? Are youze guys related — ?"

Our heads snapped around, Ian's and mine, and our eyes met in the mirror; and I was looking at his reflection, at the face that looked more like mine than my own brothers', even, and he was looking at me in turn — 

And I thought about the connections we shared with Rhys. The way we were deeply connected through Rhys, over years and years, through love and friendship and affection …

I wasn't the only one thinking along those lines.

"In a manner of speaking," from Ian, lightly and smoothly; lifting up his glass, to drain it — 

And I looked down, and just dissolved into quiet laughter, real, honest laughter, for the first time in weeks …

//end//

* * * * * *