Hitler's peace

“Of course it is.”

“Then suppose they found out we were spying on them? Analyzing their signals traffic. Ahead of the Big Three. How would that look?”

“That, of course, is my major concern. It would ruin everything.”

“Frankly, sir, I can’t imagine why you’re even contemplating it. But there is another factor that perhaps you might not be aware of. Only I shouldn’t like General Donovan to know I told you.”

“This conversation never took place,” said Roosevelt.

“The most vital intelligence sources are the decrypted transcripts known as Magic and Ultra.”

“I couldn’t comment on that, either,” said Roosevelt.

“Those are controlled by General Strong, as chief of Military Intelligence. Strong keeps Donovan and the OSS from seeing Magic and Ultra, and this rankles with Donovan. To get himself included in the loop, he needs to have something that Strong wants. Something to trade. And it sounds to me that these Soviet codebooks might be the answer to his problem. A quid pro quo.

“Now, as you know, Mr. President, Bill Donovan’s a great Anglophile, but he’s also a great Russophobe; and, under the influence of the British, the general holds that preventing the domination of Europe by Russia is almost as important as the defeat of Germany. He wrote a paper on the subject for the Joint Chiefs at the Quebec Conference. It’s my own impression that the general is only paying lip service to the need for cordial relations with the Russians. Really, I wouldn’t be at all surprised if he is already looking for several other ways of circumventing your ban concerning intelligence operations against the Soviet Union.”

“Do you know that for a fact?”

“Let’s just say I have my suspicions. Under the lend-lease agreement, we’re building some oil refineries in Russia. It’s my strong impression that several of the employees, including the chief engineer, are also working for the OSS.”

“I see.”

“Look, sir, I’m not saying the general isn’t loyal. Nor am I saying for a minute that the OSS is a renegade organization. It isn’t. But everyone knows that Wild Bill has a tendency to be a little… overzealous.”

Roosevelt uttered a laconic laugh. “Don’t I know it.”

In all normal circumstances I had already said more than enough, but the plain fact was that I had been rattled by the sight of the intelligence memorandum I still held in my hand, specifically by two of the code names that appeared on it. “Rattled” didn’t really cover the way I was feeling. “Rattled” implied that the doors were still attached to the jalopy that was my life, yet I knew they had just been torn off by the ghost of my own past.

Croesus had been the code name the NKVD had given to me back in Berlin when I had reported to them about my conversations with Goebbels. That might just have been a coincidence, only it looked less so in conjunction with the other name, Sohnchen. A German word of endearment meaning “sonny” or “sonny-boy,” Sohnchen had been the name that Otto Deutsch, the NKVD’s man in Vienna, had called Kim Philby in the winter of 1933-34, when both he and I had helped Austria’s Communists to fight the Heimwehr. I had a terrible feeling that the reported meeting between Croesus and Sohnchen, dated the week commencing October 4, 1943-that could hardly be a coincidence, either- related to the conversation I had had myself with Kim Philby at the house of Tomas Harris, in London.

If I had had more time to think about it I might have drunk the rest of the martini straight from the jug and then laid my head on the fire. Instead, somehow, I kept on talking.

“Perhaps,” I heard myself suggest, “if the president were to order the general to return the codebooks to the Russians, at the Big Three Conference itself, then the Russians might view such a gesture as an act of good faith.”

“Yes, they might just do that,” admitted Roosevelt.

I took a deep breath, trying to allay the chill feeling of sickness that was still in my stomach. If the president didn’t go for my idea, there was a strong chance the Bride material might be decoded and eventually reveal the identity of Croesus. It would hardly matter to the FBI that I was no longer working for the NKVD. Nor would it matter that the spying I had done for them had been carried out against the Nazis. The plain fact of having spied for the Russians at all would be enough when seen alongside my former Communist Party membership. Enough to persuade them to tie me up and throw me in the river to see if I might float.

I had very little to lose by urging the matter further. I helped myself to another martini.

“It might even be an opportunity to give them some other stuff, too,” I said smoothly. “Miniature cameras, microdot manufacturing systems, even some German intelligence relating to Soviet ciphers which troops have captured in Italy. To help bring them into line.”