The Folks at Fifty-Eight (26 page)

Towards the end of the week, when his money was getting low, he swallowed his pride and telephoned his father. He asked for some money and said he needed a vacation. He’d met a girl. They wanted to go skiing. He said she was special. He said he was in love with her. He said when he came back from his vacation he would need to find a new apartment and a new job. Alan Carlisle, conscience-ridden, wired him five-thousand dollars the same day.

But when Mathew returned from the bank, he found her looking miserable.

“What’s wrong?”

Her eyes were red; she had obviously been crying.

“I just spoke to my mother on the telephone. I have to go back to Vienna. I’m sorry, darling. I’m going to miss you so much.”

Mathew felt a surge of panic at the thought of losing her.

“What do you mean? Don’t worry, I’ve got plenty of cash.” He held out a hefty wad of American dollars. “Look, we’re rich; you don’t need to go.”

She smiled a weak smile and shook her head.

“I can’t stay, darling. I’ve already stayed longer than I should. I have a job to do, and my mother needs me. When I’m not there she has to manage the business and do my job as well. It’s not fair on her and I have to go back some time.”

He stuttered more objections.

“But I need you, too. I love you. I thought we were going skiing; you were going to teach me. You said. You promised. I can’t let you go. Stay here with me. I’ll get another job. We’ll be fine. We’ll get married. I’ll look after you.”

She clung to him, and they made love again. Later she told him how much she loved him and didn’t want to lose him. Then she suddenly sat up in bed.

“Come with me. To Vienna. Come with me. Why not? There’s plenty of work, and plenty of room. Say you’ll come? We can go skiing. We can make love all the time. We can be together. Please say you’ll come?”

Mathew voiced a concern.

“What about the Russians? I thought they controlled it all?”

She shook her head.

“Not in Vienna. They control the surrounding areas and some sections of the city, but the British control the airport and my family lives in Neubau. That’s the seventh district; it’s controlled by the Americans. It wouldn’t be a problem. Darling, please say you’ll come.”

“You know I will.”

The following morning they took flights on an Air France Dakota, and touched down at Schwechat just after lunch. The British official hardly looked at Mathew’s passport as he waved them through. It was all so easy. They caught a bus outside the terminal, and settled down to the forty-minute journey to the city centre. Then they hit the first roadblock.

A couple of bedraggled-looking Red Army soldiers standing outside the Soviet headquarters in Favoriten flagged them down at gunpoint. Two more stood waiting to board the bus. The bus driver looked nervous. He turned to Lara and said something in German. She turned to Mathew and translated the driver’s concern.

“He said this is unusual. This is District Ten. It’s Favoriten; it’s Russian-controlled. He said the Russians don’t usually stop the bus until we get to District Four. That’s Wieden; it’s much closer to the city centre. He thinks something must be wrong.”

The first soldier went straight to Mathew. He held out his hand and asked for Mathew’s papers. Mathew showed him the passport. The soldier shook his head and asked again for his papers. Mathew shrugged. He didn’t have any papers. Not for Austria. He hadn’t thought it necessary. He was after all an American. They had won the war, hadn’t they?

The soldier immediately arrested both Mathew and Lara. He took them from the bus and marched them into the local headquarters. Mathew protested. He understood that he should have obtained the correct papers. He hadn’t realised he needed them, but the girl had done nothing wrong. She was an Austrian; it was her country. She had the right papers. They had no cause to detain her. They should let her go.

The soldiers ignored him. One marched Mathew along the left-hand corridor, to a cell at the far end. The second marched Lara along a similar-looking corridor to the right. Mathew called out to her. He told her not to worry. He said his father was important. As soon as his father found out about this, the Russians would release them. Lara Scholde didn’t answer.

The guard shepherded Lara up the stairs, along the corridor, and into an office at the far end. A thickset man in civilian clothing sat behind a desk. The man ignored her and continued writing. Only when the guard had retreated and closed the door did he acknowledge her presence.

“Ah, the lovely Lara Scholde.” He looked up at her and smiled a smile of sorts. “Well done, my dear. Now, tell me everything you did and everything he told you. Miss nothing out.”

Lara Scholde studied Sachino Metreveli, in disgust. Metreveli was an old-school chekist, a thug and a bully who took delight in abusing and tormenting his victims. Post-war Vienna offered Metreveli and his MGB cohorts an ample supply of those.

Lara spoke of Mathew Carlisle in glowing terms. She said he was a decent young man. She said he was naive. She said she had felt so ashamed to have used and tricked him in such a way. She spoke of their time in the hotel on the Rue de Beri, and how sweet he had been. Metreveli showed no interest in that, but when Lara spoke of the problems Mathew had experienced with his mother, his brutish features broke into a smirk.

Lara Scholde finished her report, and then asked the most important question.

“And will you now release my father?”

Metreveli assumed a pained expression.

“That will be difficult. He is a subversive. His crimes are more serious than I realised.”

She spoke evenly and deliberately.

“You gave me your word. I have kept to my side of the agreement. Now you keep to yours.” She paused before adding, “Or is the word of a Russian man not worth the breath it takes to give? Is it not worth as much as the word of an American boy?”

Metreveli glared at her, but the barbs had clearly found their mark.

“I am Georgian. We always keep our word.” She held the determined posture. He relented. “Very well, my dear. I will have your father released.”

She nodded.

“Good. Can I go now?”

“Not just yet.”

Metreveli stood up and rounded the table. Lara Scholde prepared herself.

He grabbed her by the arm and spun her around, then kissed her hard on the mouth, while his hands dragged her skirt to the waist and his tongue forced its way between her lips. He shoved her back on to the desk, and then held her pinioned with one shovel-like hand. The other hand reached up and tore open her blouse. It mauled at her breasts, and then moved lower to drag down her knickers. Sachino Metreveli gave a snarl of triumph as she lay spread-eagled before him. He scrambled to open his fly, pushed her thighs wider, and then fell on her.

Lara Scholde said nothing and did nothing to prevent the rape. She murmured no protest, and offered no resistance. She gave no cry of anguish, no whimper of fear, as he lunged and groped and ravaged, no sign of unwillingness or shame. She merely lay crushed beneath him and allowed him his moment of brutish triumph and vile dominion.

But when it was over she allowed a tear to fall. Metreveli saw and snarled an order.

“Now you may go, but I may decide to visit you tonight. Make sure you are at home.”

Lara nodded as she got to her feet and collected her strewn clothing. She dressed, self-consciously, and then looked back at him as she sought one final reassurance.

“My father. You will release him soon?”

“Yes.”

“And the American boy? What will you do with him?”

“Not that it is any of your concern, but no harm will come to him. You have my word. There is a jeep waiting outside. Go home, Lara Therese Scholde. You have done well today.”

He picked up the telephone. As she left the room, she heard him say, “Comrade Metreveli, for Comrade Deputy Premier Beria.” Then the door slammed behind her.

Adjusting her skirt, she walked back along the corridor and down the stairs. She gathered her tattered blouse in trembling fingers, and then hung her head in shame as she left the building. She didn’t dare look at the group of Red Army soldiers, who grinned at her dishevelment, for fear of further abuse. She shuffled past the leering faces, and then hurried to where the jeep and its driver waited to take her back to the Scholde family’s patrician house in the Russian zone of Wieden.

“How do we contact Paslov?”

Much to Hammond’s surprise, Carlisle had asked the question on the journey to Frankfurt. He had previously assumed Carlisle to be familiar with such matters.

“He’ll know where we are. We just have to make it easy for him to contact us.”

“And what does that mean?”

“It means we take in the sights.”

Hammond had no interest in spending any more time with Carlisle than necessary, but Paslov saved any further friction by appearing on the first evening. Hammond spotted him from the foyer as they were about to leave the hotel. He was sitting outside a café, on the opposite side of the road, calmly reading an out-of-date Soviet newspaper and nursing a beer. When they left the hotel, he called to them. He asked them to join him for a drink and stood up to shake hands when they wandered over.

Hammond was watching Carlisle. He seemed ill-at-ease as he scanned the surrounding area.

“Isn’t this all a little too public?” he asked.

Paslov smiled. He seemed relaxed; too relaxed.

“What would you have us do, Mr Carlisle? Meet in your hotel room so the MGB can listen in on their wireless receivers, or meet in mine so the CIG can listen in on theirs? Look around you: there is not a car parked for fifty meters, and not a bush or a tree to hide behind for over a hundred. None of the other customers are foolish enough to sit out here in the cold. Look, even the waiter seems intent on ignoring us.”

Carlisle still looked nervous. Paslov still looked too relaxed. He stood up and walked to the entrance, put his head around the door and ordered two more beers. A taciturn waiter delivered them to the table. The Russian spymaster eyed him disparagingly and shook his head, then shrugged an acceptance and raised his glass.

“In my jurisdiction he would be dispensing water in the Gulag. . .
Za
vashe
zdorovye
.”

The two Americans nodded politely and waited. Paslov seemed intent on pleasantry.

“There, now, what could be more natural than this? Celebrating the new spirit of co-operation between wartime allies, with a glass of excellent German beer? So let us sit, enjoy our drinks, and take in the evening air.”

“You said you wanted to defect?”

Carlisle was clearly impatient. Paslov seemed in no hurry.

“All in good time, Mr Carlisle; all in good-time. First there is something I would like Gerald here to do for me.” He leaned across the table. “I take it I may call you Gerald?”

Hammond shrugged his indifference. Carlisle leaned closer.

“What is it you want?”

Paslov stopped smiling.

“Heinrich Müeller. I want him found, and I want him dead.”

Offended, Hammond cut in.

“I’m nobody’s assassin.”

Paslov condescendingly patted his arm.

“I understand that, Gerald, but you do have to admit you are good at it.”

“Only as part of my job; when necessary. I’m nobody’s hired killer.”

Carlisle asked the obvious.

“What’s the matter, Paslov? Doesn’t Abakumov run Smersh teams any more?”

“Not for this.”

To Hammond’s fury, Carlisle considered the request before shaking his head.

“Müeller doesn’t work for us. He works for the U.S. Army. It’s all top secret. Even if we wanted to, we probably couldn’t get any closer than you.”

Paslov looked hard at him before answering.

“Müeller now works for Beria. I assumed you knew?”

Carlisle looked surprised.

“He defected, again?”

The Russian shrugged.

“This month for us; next month, who knows?”

“Well, it’s the first I’ve heard of it, but then it’s not my province.”

“Yes, I did hear that your departments have problems communicating.”

“At least we’re not here asking for asylum in Moscow. Where is Müeller now?”

“In Berlin, I understand. Probably still manipulating both sides as we speak.”

“And if we did manage to find a way of helping you? What do we get in return?”

“You would get a name.”

“From The Poplars?”

Paslov shook his head.

“No, not there, not yet. But if you perform this service for me, I will give you the name of Beria’s man in the State Department. Perhaps we can talk about The Poplars after that.”

Carlisle’s was clearly only interested in The Manhattan Project.

“No, Hammond’s right, we’re not murderers. We leave that to people like Beria.”

“Very well, Mr Carlisle; if that is your final word.”

The Russian obviously had no intention of negotiating.

“You’re not here to defect, are you, Paslov? You never intended defecting.” An apologetic shrug of the shoulders met the accusation. Carlisle scowled. “So, why waste my time?”

Paslov again shook his head.

“I am not wasting your time, Mr Carlisle. I had to make sure that you came in person, and I know how passionate you are about that particular subject. We must talk, in private. I am sorry, Gerald. I do not wish to be rude, but. . .”

Carlisle nodded his agreement. Hammond reluctantly stood up.

“I’ll wait over at the hotel.”

Hammond ignored Paslov’s outstretched hand. He turned and crossed the street, then stopped and looked back when he reached the hotel entrance. He felt angry, incensed that Carlisle would consider using him as an assassin, but curious to know why Paslov wanted to talk in private. He wondered, too, if he should ready himself for a rescue.