digested all this information for a while, assimilating it into the dossier in his brain.
‘Have we made any attempts to get to the man Oppenheimer direct?’ he asked finally. ‘Our records suggest that in his postgraduate days, at least, he had certain…sympathies?’
Oropov spread his hands in a gesture of resignation. ‘A fact also realized by the Americans. Oppenheimer is a very important man, and a deeply mistrusted one. His every move is closely monitored. It is impossible to get an agent within shouting distance of him.’
‘So we have nothing? No one? No chance of further information. Is that what you are telling me?’
Oropov was beginning to wilt under the mounting attack. ‘It’s not as bad as that,’ he countered, somewhat lamely.
‘No? Then please tell me how bad it actually is, comrade.’
Leveski knew that he had his man on the run now. There was little point in any further pretence at friendliness.
‘There is one man – in England. Klaus Fuchs. We have him as a sleeper. He is not attached to the Manhattan Project, but his work involves him in a closely related field. In a year or two, perhaps, he may be of great use to us.’
‘A year or two?’ Leveski said dismissively. He rose from his high-backed chair, his mouth twitching angrily with barely repressed frustration. ‘In a year or two, comrade Oropov, Russian science will be left behind like a sick, abandoned animal. Out in the cold, waiting to die.’
There was a slight tremor in Oropov’s voice when he finally spoke again. He was acutely aware that Leveski had only just started to show his claws, and the Kremlin rumours were beginning to assume a chilling reality.
‘What is expected of me, comrade Leveski?’
‘You don’t know? Then I had better spell it out for you,’ Leveski sneered. ‘The demands of this war, and sheer Nazi fervour, have resulted in one of the greatest explosions of science and technology this world has ever known. Those scientific breakthroughs are the key to the future – the richest and most precious spoils of war. At this very minute the Allies are picking their way across Europe like scavengers, snatching up the juiciest morsels. Physicists, rocket experts, engineers, designers, the finest brains of Germany – all falling into capitalist hands. Any day now the Western powers may have the secret of the atomic bomb. In a matter of a few years, the power to deliver it across oceans and continents. In a decade, world domination in their pockets. And if that happens, comrade, we might as well sell our bodies and souls back to the Tsars, because we will have lost everything this great nation has struggled and bled for. Something the Russian people would never forgive, General. And perhaps more important to you, personally, something that I would never forgive.’
The gauntlet was down. Oropov struggled to control a nervous shiver, and failed. His voice was little more than a croak.
‘What do you want me to do, comrade Leveski?’
The man was now regarding him with undisguised contempt. ‘I’m glad that you finally realize how high the stakes are, General. And, no doubt, the penalties for failure. I want a short-term plan. A definite and positive strategy to ensure that Russia snatches some worthwhile prize from this war. Give me a phoenix from the ashes, General – that is all.’
Leveski turned on his heel and moved towards the door. He delivered his parting shot over his shoulder, without turning round. ‘You have forty-eight hours, General. I expect to see a detailed report on my desk by Thursday.’
He closed the door quietly, almost gently behind him. Strangely, this seemed to reinforce the aura of menace he left behind him rather than lessen it.
Alone now, Oropov gave up the uneven struggle to stop his hands from shaking. He delved into his desk, pulled out the vodka bottle and uncorked it with his teeth. Holding the bottle directly to his lips, he gulped down the harsh spirit. It did little to thaw out the icy chill he felt in the pit of his belly.
He stared blankly across his office at the closed door through which Leveski had exited, racking his brain for a single optimistic thought. There was nothing. One realization swamped everything else. War, or at least his kind of war, was coming to an end, and a completely new kind of war was about to begin. With a terrible sense of resignation, he knew that he had little if any part to play in the waging of it.fn1
Berlin – June 1945
The two jeeps zigzagged through the rubble-strewn streets on the outskirts of what had once been the thriving city of Berlin. Another brilliant innovation from David Stirling, who had created the concept of the SAS in 1941, the small, nippy and versatile American vehicles were ideal for the war-torn terrain. Gutted, smashed and burned-out buildings formed an almost surrealist landscape which could have come straight from the tortured imagination of Hieronymus Bosch.
Corporal Arnold Baker, known affectionately to his comrades as ‘Pig-sticker’, or usually just ‘Piggy’, in tribute to his prowess with a knife, surveyed the dead city from the passenger seat of the leading jeep.
‘Jesus, this was some savage fucking war,’ he said gravely, shaking his head as though he still could not quite believe the evidence of his own eyes.
His driver, Trooper Andy Wellerby, sniffed dismissively. ‘Save your bleeding pity, Corp. When was the last time you saw London? Or Coventry, for that matter.’
‘Yeah.’ Piggy took the point, tearing his eyes away from the desolation and concentrating once more on the road in front of him. ‘What’s that up ahead?’
Wellerby waved his arm over the side of the battered Willys jeep, signalling for the vehicle behind him to slow down. He tapped lightly on the brake and squinted into the distance. Just over a quarter of a mile further up the long, straight road towards Brandenburg, a line of military vehicles sealed it off. Wellerby could make out a line of about a dozen uniformed figures standing guard beside the vehicles. He groaned aloud.
‘Not another bleeding roadblock? Bloody Yanks again, I’ll bet. It’s about time somebody told those bastards that it was us Brits who invented red tape.’
Piggy was also concentrating on the grey-uniformed soldiers. He shook his head slowly. ‘No, they’re not GIs, that’s for sure. Uniform looks all wrong.’
Wellerby let out a slightly nervous giggle. ‘Maybe it’s a bunch of fucking jerries who don’t know the war’s over yet.’
It was meant to be a joke, but one hand was already off the steering wheel and unclipping the soft holster of his Webley .38 dangling from his webbing. At the same time Piggy was checking the drums on the twin Vickers K aircraft machine-guns welded to the top of the jeep’s bonnet. In the utter chaos of postwar Germany, just about anything was possible. All sorts of armed groups were out on the streets, both official and unofficial, from half a dozen nations which had been caught up in the conflict. Quite apart from regular soldiers and covert operations groups, there were resistance fighters with old scores to settle and ordinary citizens with murder in their hearts. Even a shambling line of what appeared to be civilian refugees or released concentration camp prisoners might conceal one or two still dedicated and still fanatical Waffen
