Crate of Lies, page 20
The day proved overbearingly hot but Gruber felt no relief that night. The air was still and very humid. Hundreds of small midges and insects flew around him, some landing and crawling through his short, red hair and over his sweaty face. He walked in an ungainly waddle next to Abdul, similarly dressed in workers overalls, behind the small freight manager who led them across the yard toward the shunting offices.
As they reached the single storey brick building the freight manager stopped and pointed into the distance. A single headlamp shone through the darkness, getting bigger as the distant roar of a diesel engine got louder.
"Right on time." The little man took a pocket watch from his waistcoat and looked at it. "It will take a while before we have things sorted but you can wait in here. I've got the authorisation dockets and Christian has the new labels. Your people gave us quite a headache. Changing things at the last moment can sometimes lead to mistakes."
"Your work here is much appreciated," said Abdul, without smiling.
Gruber nodded and grunted as he followed them into the office.
They spent a short time watching an engine unhook the long line of wagons into three sections. It then shunted them around the yard, hooking two of them up with other lines of wagons and pushing the third, consisting of twelve wagons, over to a siding on the far perimeter where it disappeared amongst dozens of lines of other rolling stock.
The manager came back with the supervisor of the yard, a well-built man in dirty overalls. He gave a handful of labels and a staple gun to Abdul and removed his worn, black, peaked cap before wiping his forehead with a piece of mutton cloth.
Abdul was restless. The longer they stayed there the more chance of discovery.
"All ready?"
The manager nodded at Abdul. "Yes, but we only have twenty minutes before she's out again." He turned to the supervisor. "Paint?"
"Outside." The man left the office followed by the rest of them.
Carrying one pot of black paint, several spray cans of white paint, a large paintbrush and numeric stencils, the supervisor stalked off ahead of them to the far side of the tracks.
"It's just a straight switch but we've got to paint both sides of both wagons," said the manager, hurrying along.
Abdul followed the man, leaving Gruber stumbling over the rails as he tried to keep pace with them.
By the time he caught up with them, they were in amongst hundreds of wagons and the supervisor was standing on the bottom rung of a ladder that ran up the far end of a refrigerated wagon. The manager was handing up a spray can. On the side of the wagon, the number 5329 vanished, overpainted in black. Within seconds, the stencils covered the wet paint and the number 6826 sprayed on top. He repeated the process on the other side before Gruber moved with the railwaymen to another line of carriages some distance away. Again, he selected another wagon and painted on the number 5329.
Abdul, meanwhile, climbed up onto the first wagon and opened the door. Quickly checking the contents, he ripped off labels and replaced them by the light of a torch. When he finished, he closed the doors and jumped back down to the ground. By the time he reached the other men, they were completing the last stencil.
"Just a quiet word." Abdul motioned for the manager to join him out of sight of the others.
As the man stepped behind the nearest wagon, there was a dull pop followed by a second before the man hit the ground. Abdul picked the lifeless body up by the armpits and dragged it along the track to where Gruber stood over the body of the supervisor. The man's neck was broken.
"Open the doors and let's get rid of them quickly. The train will be here shortly."
After dumping the bodies inside the wagon, they walked down the line and up to a vantage point on the grass bank. They lit cigarettes and waited.
Five minutes late, the shunter arrived and hitched up to the string of wagons including 6826. They rolled away in a noisy jerking motion for several minutes and then stopped. There was a moment's silence before the wagons started rolling back in the direction from which they had come. Reaching a set of points, they ran onto a line that took them past the sidings and up line to where another larger main line diesel stood waiting. After hooking up with the engine, the train was on its way.
"Come on, we haven't finished yet." Abdul walked fifty metres to some stone steps leading into the employees' car park. "We have a house call to make."
Gruber grunted.
Inside the car, Abdul pulled the radio from the glove compartment. "Anton, you are there?"
There was a crackle and a distorted voice replied, barely audible. "Oui, mon ami. Go ahead."
"Are they still there?"
"Yes, but the lights are on. They might leave."
"Follow them if they do. Don't try to do anything else. We are on the way."
"Oui."
The Opel left the car park quietly, its engine purring. With luck, he would be on the way to Prague within the hour. Abdul felt pleased.
***
"What you go for? Is dangerous to go out in dark. Maybe you are hurt. What do I do?" said Nina.
"Nothing. No one knows where we are. They'll be watching the embassy, thinking we are in there. I'm going to the city centre and I'll call Harry from the station. There's a motorbike in the shed outside. I'll be back in an hour at the most. Keep the doors locked."
"What if you are not coming back?" she pleaded. "Let me come with you, Raithe."
"Sorry, but this is a trip I do on my own. Keep the doors locked." He remembered something about American safe houses that his instructor told him about during training. "If you need it there will be a loaded automatic in the refrigerator salad box or the toilet cistern. Only use it if your life is in danger." He kissed her and was gone.
The bike, an old Norton that someone lovingly restored, reminded him of his schooldays when Lambretta scooters were all the rage. The bike started with a roar, first kick. He flicked the lights on and drove up the narrow dirt drive to the road. The city centre was about ten kilometres away. Stopping at the end of the drive, he pulled the zip up on his jacket before accelerating away.
The road got busier the nearer he got to the city. Warsaw at night was a city of shadows. Street lights dimly illuminated small round patches of concrete every thirty metres. Across the skyline, stood block upon block of tall ugly apartment buildings, symbols of a past communist frugality.
Further into the city, there were overgrown patches of wasteland between shops and on the corners of streets, reminders of the city's painful past and the time warp it had endured for over forty years. Driving into the centre, he saw new blocks of buildings under construction. He passed busy nightclubs and restaurants, some standing between derelict buildings and run-down shops.
He reached the station and found a telephone kiosk. The girl at the embassy asked him to come over right away. As he left, he failed to notice the car pulling out behind him, or the one without lights that drove out of a side street travelling in the same direction.
A Marine opened the embassy gate after Raithe showed his passport. He followed the guard up to the building and a female member of staff opened the door. She was in her forties, wore a dark blue trouser suit and red horn rimmed glasses. Raithe eyed her sceptically.
"I'm Georgina May, second secretary to the ambassador. Ambassador Garret left this number for you to ring your colleague," she said, giving him a sealed envelope. She closed the outer door behind them with a thud and locked it. "You may use the telephone through here, Mr. Babcock."
A Marine followed them into a side office off the reception hall. Raithe sat at the desk and motioned to the guard. "This has to be a private call."
The woman walked out without saying a word, followed by the Marine.
"You're doing it again, dear boy," were Harry's first words. "How do I make you do as you are told? I hope you have a good reason for having that girl with you."
"Harry, we got on the train and found a bogeyman. He's here in Warsaw but I don't think he knows where we are. The problem is Nina. If I send her back, Liebermann will have her killed, now that he knows she's with me. As you said, he'll know where she lives even if she made it back to Moscow. We can't leave her out on her own, Harry. Can't you arrange for her to stay here until this thing is over?"
"I don't think the Americans would go for that. The Israeli Embassy is out of the question. She only has to say one wrong word and all hell will break lose. Jerusalem is still smarting over your escapade in Moscow. Let me think a moment. This is a problem we have made for ourselves. The trouble is you wouldn't have got far without her."
"No further than the steps onto the train," said Raithe.
He told Harry of their encounter with the Russians at the station. "Abdul was on that train, Harry. They must have been following Nina all day. That means they know about the apartment. Good job we left after she was taken home to pack or none of us would be here tonight."
"All right, but now you have broken cover, Abdul will be waiting. At least the girl is safe for now. I think the best thing to do is leave her where she is. I'll arrange for someone to pick her up shortly. Garret gave me the address. You must not go back there under any circumstances. In the meantime, the train is due in Warsaw. I'll have a report on its progress in a few hours. We are so close, dear boy."
"Any news about the other situation?"
"It's too complicated to explain over the phone, if you see what I mean, but I am certain we will be successful. I'll brief you on that later."
Raithe realised he was sitting in what Harry called an unsafe seat. "Yes, of course, I understand."
Raithe felt a wave of excitement. The launchers were all but in the hands of the Americans and Lightfoot had things sewn up in Vienna. The Amber Room was something else. His joy diminished as he remembered Nina. He left her, telling her he would be back within the hour. There were no phones at the house and no way of communicating with her.
"Harry, I told Nina I'd return within the hour. If someone else turns up, she'll panic, maybe run."
"My dear boy, someone will be there with her fifteen minutes after I put the phone down. Our friend lives in the city centre."
Raithe knew better than to ask any more about Harry's contacts.
"Will you tell him to tell her I wish her well and hope the dacha becomes a reality?"
"Call me at eight in the morning and I'll tell you where I want you." The line went dead.
There was a lump in Raithe's throat as he replaced the handset. He felt sadness that he would never see her again but glad she was out of danger.
"Finished?"
He got up from the chair and turned to see the secretary standing in the doorway. "Yes, thanks. I'll be leaving now."
Raithe followed the Marine out to where he left the bike just inside the gates. With a roar, he drove down the road to the city centre, looking for road signs to the airport that lay to the south-west.
He pulled into the forecourt of a small garage, topped up the petrol tank and paid with a credit card. The attendant pointed out the right road and warned him that the airport road was a death trap. There were many accidents, particularly at night as people drove home to the outskirts after a night's drinking.
A car crept out from the shadows across the road as he stopped at the edge of the forecourt. It followed him, tailed by a second. In his mirror, Raithe saw the leading car as he accelerated away. The road ran straight to the airport. If he were going to lose them, it would have to be in the city. After reaching the next road he turned into it. Several minutes later he was back in the city centre. If he could hide in one of the all night bars for a couple of hours until dawn he would be all right. There was a regular bus service to the airport. He turned into a small square and saw a covered alleyway between two buildings to his left. Aiming the bike at the opening, he switched off the ignition and coasted into the dark alleyway.
CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT
"Harry? Harry Cohen?"
"Yes, General. He told me to tell you that." The aid's voice faltered. "He could smell your rat."
General Zalesky burst into laughter and thumped the desk with his clenched fist. "Put him on, put him on," he said, still laughing.
After a brief pause, a voice said, "Good morning, General, I trust you are well?"
"You sound as though you have something on your mind, Harry. Tell me, how long has it been? Five, six years?"
"Seven. The Human Rights conference in Helsinki. Your foreign minister was telling the world what a nice place Russia was, despite what was happening in Kazakhstan at the time."
"Harry, Israel didn't have a lot to shout about either. Now, today, we are all friends together along with your Arab neighbours and the Americans. Tell me, what I can do for you, Harry?"
"Your two dead men."
"Ahhh, yes, an unfortunate thing happened there, Harry. So this Ravelle is your man, eh?"
"You know he is. He had nothing to do with the deaths. You know that too."
"Do I, Harry? Does this mean he didn't kill the Marine either? Three dead men in one room and the man who rented the room made a hurried departure. How suspicious would you be?"
"I thought we had an understanding, General. No bullshit. Two men shot and the other stabbed. My man didn't have a gun."
"Now you bullshit. Don't be clever, Harry."
"The bullets came from a Browning automatic pistol carrying a magazine of fifteen rounds. There's only one man I know who carries that weapon as well as a very deadly stiletto."
"Why did your man not go to the American Embassy? Surely that was the place to go …unless, of course, he was hiding something from the Americans."
"General, we are both aware why your men were in the room. They were looking after his back."
"Why would our men be looking after him?"
"Because they were making sure Liebermann didn't do anything stupid."
"And what is it that Babcock…or Ravelle as we know him, is doing that arouses such a lot of interest?"
"Perhaps they were going to, shall we say, dispose of Liebermann's services after he had carried out his contract."
"I don't know what you are talking about," said Zalesky sharply.
"Don't you? Let's talk hypothetically."
Zalesky sat back into his chair. The sun was streaming through his window half across the desk, the warmth making him feel uncomfortable in his uniform. "What about?"
Harry spoke slowly, knowing he had caught Zalesky's attention and began reeling him in. "There might be some people with information that would solve a great mystery. Information held by others that would lead the General to a slice of Russian cultural history of such significance that the Kremlin would do almost anything to get it back. However, those other people searching for such a treasure might not be too keen to give it back once they found it."
The General breathed deeply. "Go on."
Harry continued. "If I was in your shoes and such a piece of information came my way, my first reaction would be a great sense of duty to my President and fellow Russians. Of course, the thought of recognition for such an act of great duty would cross my mind although firstly, I would have to make sure that the information was absolutely correct and follow those looking for the treasure. Then I would think to myself, should I tell the President or act on my own without telling him, so saving him embarrassment if my quest were to fail. So what would I do to make sure I could cover my rear if anything went wrong or cover myself in glory if it went right?"
Harry paused for a reaction.
"Does this fairy story go on for much longer, Harry?"
"Just a little, General. You would need to make a decision. Who would you trust? The answer would be no-one. But there is someone who could verify the information, take care of unforeseen problems and lead you to the end of the rainbow. What happens then? You would need a little insurance, a couple of foot soldiers to make sure that this someone delivered properly. Of course, the men need not know what was going on. Just follow the individual and when the time came, deal with him."
"If such a situation existed, Harry, believe me, I wouldn't need any outside help. There is nothing I would keep from my President and service to my country would be reward enough."
"All right," replied Harry. "Let's say I'm wrong. So if I knew something that might help you retrieve a national treasure, you wouldn't be interested?"
Zalesky felt uneasy. Cohen was leading him down a one way path and there was no way to escape. He couldn't say no. "I would naturally be curious."
"Okay. Supposing I said I could find that treasure and guarantee delivery to you without any fuss after what we can call an arranged negotiation between the Kremlin and whoever it is? Of course, you are the one man in the Kremlin that they would trust, insisting you handle the affair. Your President would be very pleased with you."
"There would be a price." Zalesky tapped the desk blotter in front of him, apprehensive.
"No, I doubt that. As you say, we're all friends now and long may that continue. No, no, there wouldn't be a price. It might take a little while for the negotiations to agree on how the transport and handover take place. Then, of course, there's the wording of all the press releases and who would make the initial announcement about the discovery -"
"Time, Harry. That's the price. It would cost time."
"You may well be right. It could take as long as, oh…"
"Two years."
"You read my thoughts, General, or did you hear them?"
"I don't know what you're talking about."
"Well, it doesn't matter, does it? The point is, if this item of great importance was found, you'd get it, eventually."
"If all this made any sense to me, Harry, I would say we would be at the mercy of a blackmailer."
"Not entirely. Imagine another hypothetical situation. Just supposing the source of the information you have received is a person asking for a favour. It could be someone trying to, shall we say, reach a safe haven; a place where they can elude war crimes charges and NATO justice."
Zalesky had heard enough. Cohen knew it all. "All right, Harry, let's stop playing poker. Put your cards on the table and talk to me."
