– as it should have been – as of a huge, windowless shell with substantial
walls. All around the immense room were banks of complicated high-frequency
radio panels; opposite each panel were glassenclosed casings with dozens of
detailed maps, changeable by the push of a button. Suspended above the maps
were delicate, thin steel arms – markers, not unlike polygraph needles –
that were manipulated by the radio operators, observed by men holding
clipboards. The entire staff was military, army, none below the rank of
first lieutenant.
Three-quarters into the building was a floor-to-ceiling wall that obviously
was not the end of the structure. There was a single door, centered and
closed. The door was made of heavy steel.
Swanson had never been inside this particular building. He had driven down
to Field Division, Fairfax, many times – to get briefed on highly
classified Intelligence findings, to observe the training of particular
insurgence or espionage teams – but for all his brigadier’s rank and
regardless of the secrets he carried around in his head, he had not been
cleared for this particular
86
building. Those who were, remained within the two-hundredacre compound for
weeks, months at a time; leaves were rare and taken only in emergency and
with escort.
It was fascinating, thought Swanson, who honestly believed he had lost all
sense of awe. No elevators, no back staircases, no windows; he could see a
washroom door in the left wall and without going inside, knew it was
machine ventilated. And there was only a single entrance. Once inside there
was no place for a person to conceal himself for any length of time, or to
exit without being checked out and scrutinized. Personal items were left at
the entrance; no briefcases, envelopes, papers or materials were removed
from the building without signed authorization by Colonel Edmund Pace and
with the colonel personally at the side of the individual in question.
If there was ever total security, it was here.
Swanson approached the steel door; his lieutenant escort pushed a button.
A small red light flashed above a wan intercom, and the lieutenant spoke.
‘General Swanson, colonel.’
‘Thank you, lieutenant,’ were the words that came from the webbed circle
below the light. There was a click in the door’s lock and the lieutenant
reached for the knob.
Inside, Pace’s office looked like any other Intelligence headquarters –
huge maps on the walls, sharp lighting on the maps, lights and maps
changeable by pushbuttons on the desk. Teletype machines were equidistant
from one another below printed signs designating theaters of operation –
all the usual furnishings. Except the furniture itself. It was simple to
the point of primitiveness. No easy chairs, no sofas, nothing comfortable.
Just plain metal straight-backed chairs, a desk that was more a table than
a desk, and a rugless hardwood floor. It was a room for concentrated
activity; a man did not relax in such a room.
Edmund Pace, Commander of Field Division, Fairfax, got up from his chair,
came around his table and saluted Alan Swanson.
There was one other man in the room, a civilian, Frederic Vandamm,
Undersecretary of State.
‘General. Good to see you again. The last time was at Mr. Vandamm’s house,
if I remember.’
‘Yes, it was. How are things here?’
‘A little isolated.’
‘I’m sure.’ Swanson turned to Vandamm. ‘Mr. Undersecre-
87
tary? I got back here as soon as I could. I don’t have to tell you how
anxious I am. It’s been a difficult month.’
‘I’m aware of that,’ said the aristocratic Vandamm, smiling a cautious
smile, shaking Swanson’s hand perfunctorily. ‘We’ll get right to it.
Colonel Pace, will you brief the general as we discussedT
‘Yes, sir. And then I’ll leave.’ Pace spoke noncommittally; it was the
military’s way of telegraphing a message to a fellow officcr: be carefuL
Pace crossed to a wall map, present with markings. It was an enlarged,
detailed section of Johannesburg, South Africa. Frederic Vandamm sat in a
chair in front of the desk; Swanson followed Pace and stood beside him.
‘You never know when a probe will get picked up. Or where.’ Pace took a
wooden pointer from a table and indicated a blue marker on the map. ‘Or
even if the location is important. In this case it may be. A-week ago a
member of the Johannesburg legislature, an attorney and a former director
of Koening Mines, Ltd., was contacted by what he believed were two men from
the Zdrich Staats-Bank. They wanted him to middle-man a negotiation with
Koening: simple transaction of Swiss francs for diamonds – on a large
scale, with the anticipation that the diamond standard would remain more
constant than the gold fluctuations.’ Pace turned to Swanson. ‘So far, so
good. With lendlease, and monetary systems going up in smoke everywhere,
there’s a lot of speculation in the diamond market. Postwar killings could
be made. When he accepted the contact, you can imagine his shock when he
arrived for the meeting and found that one of the “Swiss” was an old friend
– a very old and good friend – from the prewar days. A German he’d gone to
school with – the Afrikaner’s mother was Austrian, father, a Boer. The two
men had kept in close touch until thirty-nine. The German worked for 1. G.
Farben.’
‘What was the point of the meeting?’ Swanson was impatient.
‘I’ll get to that. This background’s important.’
‘O.K. Go on.’
‘There was no diamond market speculation involved, no transaction with any
Zdrich bank. It was a simple purchase. The Farben man wanted to buy large
shipments of bortz and carbonado….’
‘Industrial diamonds?’ interrupted Swanson.
88
Pace nodded. ‘He offered a fortune to his old friend if he could puff it
off. The Afrikaner refused; but his long-standing friendship with the
German kept him from reporting the incident. Until three days ago.’ Pace
put down the pointer and started for his desk. Swanson understood that the
colonel had additional information, written information, that he had to
refer to; the general crossed to the chair beside Vandamm and sat down.
‘Three days ago,’ continued Pace, standing behind the desk, ‘the Afrikaner
was contacted again. This time there was no attempt to conceal identities.
The caller said he was German and had information the Allies wanted; had
wanted for a long time.’
‘The probe?’ asked Swanson, whose impatience was carried by his tone of
voice.
‘Not exactly the probe we expected…. The German said he would come to the
Afrikaner’s office, but he protected himself. He told the lawyer that if
any attempt was made to hold him, his old friend at L G. Farben would be
executed back in Germany.’ Pace picked up a sheet of paper from his desk.
He spoke as he leaned across and handed it to Swanson. ‘This is the
information, the report flown in by courier.’
Swanson read the typewritten words below the Military Intelligence
letterhead; above the large, stamped Top Secret. Eyes Only. Fairfax 4-0.
Nov. 28, 1943. Johannesburg: Confirmed by Nachrichtendienst.
Substratospheric directional gyroscopes perfected.
All tests positive. Peenernfinde. Subsequent contact: Geneva.
Johannesburg contingent.
Swanson let the information sink in; he read the statement over several
times. He asked a question of Edmund Pace with a single word: ‘Geneva?’
‘The conduit. Neutral channel. Unofficial, of course.’
‘What is this … NachrichtendienstT
‘Intelligence unit. Small, specialized; so rarefied it’s above even the
most classified crowds. Sometimes we wonder if it takes sides. It often
appears more interested in observing than participating;’more concerned
with after the war than now. We suspect that it’s a Gehlen operation. But
it’s never been wrong. Never misleading.’
‘I see.’ Swanson held out the paper for Pace.
89
The colonel did not take it. Instead, he walked around the desk toward the
steel door. ‘I’ll leave you gentlemen. When you’re finished, please signify
by pushing the white button on my desk.’ He opened the door and left
quickly. The heavy steel frame closed into an airtight position; a
subsequent click could be heard in the lock housing.
Frederic Vandamm looked at Swanson. ‘There is your solution, general. Your
gyroscope. In Peenemilnde. All you have to do is send a man to Geneva.
Someone wants to sell it.’
Alan Swanson stared at the paper in his hand.
90
DECEMBER 4,1943
BERLIN, GERMAXY
Altratiller stared at the paper in his hand. It was after midnight, the city
in darkness. Berlin had withstood another night of murderous bombardment; it
was over now. There would be no further raids until late morning, that was
the usual pattern. Still, the black curtains were pulled tight against the
windows. As they were everywhere in the ministry.
Speed was everything now. Yet in the swiftness of the planning, mandatory
precautions could not be overlooked. The meeting in Geneva with the conduit
was only the first step, the prelude, but it had to be handled delicately.
Not so much what was said but who said it. The what could be transmitted by