And then Keller hung up.
4
For Jeff the waiting until eight o’clock was painful. To be a bearer of bad news was unpleasant enough, but to have to do it by appointment was intolerable. He tried reading the Toynbee he’d borrowed from the Mission information library a month before. The history of civilizations had stirred and fascinated him, and at the same time had awed and humbled him with realization of his own ignorance. A future Toynbee would be able to dismiss his century and all its wars and hatreds and mass aberrations simply as a Time of Troubles, to be measured in the space of man’s full journey upon the planet only as a single step backward in unnumbered miles of progress. If you absorbed Toynbee you became a philosopher. Yet he found himself rebelling against his own conclusions. He didn’t want to admit that he was fated to live in a bad time. He didn’t want to admit the inevitability of the descent of his time into darkness.
He found he was pleased with himself because in this moment he could concentrate on Toynbee.
At six-thirty Madame Angell brought him a tray, and the latest news. The BBC quoted Drew Pearson, whom Madame Angell called “your spokesman,” as saying the Russians would soon be able to harness cosmic rays, and cosmic rays would kill more people quicker than atomic bombs, biological warfare, or radioactive clouds. Radio Moscow said a Trotskyite plot had been crushed in the Ukraine. This sounded more factual, and potentially as interesting. A Stockholm dispatch to Berne quoted travelers from Finland as saying the Reds were testing trans-polar V-2 rockets. That wasn’t unlikely. The uranium production in the Czech mines in Bohemia had doubled since the Russians placed German engineers in charge. He didn’t doubt it.
He forced himself to eat. His stomach protested each mouthful, but he made himself eat because he needed strength.
It may have been the food’s impact on his raw nerves, or the uranium, or the cosmic rays, or simply the tension of waiting. Jeff’s hands began to shake again. With both hands he had difficulty lifting his coffee to his lips. He knew that in this condition he shouldn’t see Fred. Fred would think he had gone to pieces. He telephoned the dispensary and asked for Major L’Engle. He wasn’t there. He tried L’Engle’s house, and the Park Club, and the mess. He wasn’t at any of those places.
Jeff put on his overcoat and went outside. The walk and the air should help him. It should untangle his guts. He turned towards the Szabadzag-tér, with its old monuments to the four lost provinces—and the new one to the Red Army towering over them. The dispensary was on the second floor of the Mission. Maybe he’d find L’Engle there now. He hoped so. He needed him.
At this hour—it was seven o’clock now—the Mission was usually empty except for the doorman and guards and charwomen and the people in the code room and radio monitoring section. He went up to the second floor and tried the door of the dispensary. It was open, and the lights were on inside, but L’Engle wasn’t there.
He sat on a white metal stool and tried to read a month-old copy of Newsweek. The type kept jumping out of focus. He wished L’Engle would hurry up and come back. He looked up at the rows of square bottles on the shelves. Probably better stocked than any hospital in all Pest, he thought. His eyes stopped at the bottle of Blue Eighty-Eights. There was no mistaking them, and the label was plain—Sodium Amytal.
He wanted one of those Blue Eighty-Eights.
Maybe L’Engle would be out for another hour. Maybe L’Engle wasn’t coming back at all. He couldn’t wait.
Jeff slid off the stool and reached up and took the bottle of Blue Eighty-Eights and Miss Ellis, the nurse, opened the door and said, “Put that down, God-dammit!”
Miss Ellis had had a hard day. As a matter of fact Miss Ellis had had a hard year. She had volunteered for overseas duty in the belief that she would find a husband, for certainly the American men in such an unlikely place as Budapest would appreciate an old-fashioned American girl, even if she was a bit thick through the middle and in the ankles. She found she was mistaken. The competition was rougher than in New York, or St. Louis, or Omaha. It was even rougher than in her home town, Hyannis, Nebraska, where the slim and pretty girls outnumbered the eligible males two to one. It looked as if she would never find a husband in Budapest—unless she married a Hungarian anxious to emigrate—and she had developed a grudge against the men in the Mission.
And here was one of them—Baker who had never even asked her to dance—stealing her drugs. He was standing there looking at her with his mouth open, caught red-handed. A filthy hophead. “So you’re the thief who’s been taking my morphine and penicillin!” Miss Ellis said.
“Now wait a minute, Miss Ellis,” Jeff said. “I just came up here to find Major L’Engle and get a Blue Eighty-Eight. I need it and I know he’d give me one if he was here.”
“Put that down!” Miss Ellis tried to get her hands on the bottle.
He saw that there wasn’t any sense arguing with her, and he turned his back so she could not interfere and shook out a Blue Eighty-Eight and popped it into his mouth and swallowed.
“Why, you filthy thief!” Miss Ellis spat at him.
He couldn’t answer because he was having a hard time swallowing.
“I hope they put you in Leavenworth for ten years. You’ll never get away with this, you know. Why, it’s the most brazen thing I’ve ever seen!”
He got it down, but it still felt like a lump under his breastbone. “All right, Miss Ellis,” Jeff said, “just take it easy. When you see L’Engle tell him I came up here and took one Blue Eighty-Eight. Just one, mind you! And I don’t think you talk like a lady, Miss Ellis.”
He hurried out. It was quicker to walk to the motor pool than call and wait for a vehicle. If he walked right over he’d be at Keller’s on time.
5
Miss Ellis didn’t scream, because there wasn’t anyone on the floor to hear her, and anyway Miss Ellis wasn’t the screaming type.
She sat down at the desk in the dispensary and began to write a report for Major L’Engle. She tore it up and started again, this time addressing it to the Admiral. For months she had complained to L’Engle that the drugs were being stolen. You could get a thousand dollars, counting the forint at par, for 300,000 units of penicillin—enough for one Romansky shot—on the Black Bourse. Also she was sure some morphine was missing. When she had beefed about this, Major L’Engle hadn’t paid proper attention to her. Sometimes she even suspected L’Engle. She’d bet he’d been passing out her drugs to the indigenous personnel. She’s seen Major L’Engle with some very pretty indigenous personnel. It was absolutely forbidden to allot the medical stores to the indigenous personnel. Now that she had something definite to squawk about she might as well squawk to the Admiral himself and get the whole thing off her chest. Maybe next time—if he was still here—Major L’Engle would pay some attention to her. She made her report hot. She concluded it with:
“In my professional opinion Mr. Baker behaved like a drug addict crazed by an uncontrollable desire for narcotics.”
6
When Jeff walked into Keller’s apartment he found Fred at ease in a maroon lounging robe, the faultless lapels faced with black satin. Fred was smoking a pipe and there was a brandy snifter and an open book on the table beside his big chair. He was wearing horn-rimmed glasses. Jeff had never-seen him with glasses before. He seemed like a man whose thoughts were only on a book and an undisturbed evening, until you looked closely at his face. Then you saw all the muscles were taut, and new lines showed around the mouth. “Hello, Jeff,” he said. “Do you want to eat first, or talk?”
“I’ve eaten, thanks,” Jeff said. “I think we’d better talk.”
“I haven’t any appetite, myself,” Keller said. “My man ran up some chops for me. Wasn’t able to touch them. Now what’s this all about?”
“Your butler still here?” Jeff asked.
“No. I sent him home.”
“All right,” Jeff said, “here goes.” He folded himself into a chair and lighted a cigarette. He was re
lieved to see the Blue Eighty-Eight had dispatched his jitters. “Atlantis Project has been penetrated. The Russians know about it. We’ve had it, Fred.”
Keller’s tan faded to yellow. “How do you know?”
“A Russian told me.”
“I don’t believe you!”
So Jeff told him the story. He started in the beginning at Bari. He told him everything, but he did not mention Leonides’ own secret. He didn’t mention Leonides’ anti-regime resistance movement. He was still mindful of Leonides’ warning.
As he talked he became aware of a change in Keller’s expression. The unnatural calm vanished. Jeff thought, he’s taking this terribly hard. The penetration of Atlantis was a blow, yes. But it could be infinitely worse. At least the project, in this stage, could be called off without catastrophe. The friends of the Western powers here would not be compromised. Henceforth the MVD would waste its men and its time watching a scheme that no longer existed.
7
What Jeff could not know, of course, was that for Keller the news was the most terrible of personal disasters. Keller had staked his career on Atlantis, and his career was his whole life. There was nothing else.
Keller’s career had been happy from the beginning. The Department delighted and fascinated him. In the intricate supra-world of diplomacy everyone was polite and gracious, and culture and breeding were understood and welcome. The world that was sordid and violent and treacherous was another world with which he had severed contact. The Department was made for him. It provided the catharsis for all his energy.
He was lucky in the Department. He was lucky enough to get in on the ground floor when the New Deal came. His basic political, social, and economic beliefs were superficial, but he found it easy to get along with the men who came into power with the New Deal. For one thing, under the New Deal the Department expanded and increased in importance, and Fred liked that.
He was lucky to get the Berlin assignment. In Berlin one could see the way the wind was blowing and judge what was to come. His reports on Nazi ambitions went to the very highest levels. He was promoted to Second Secretary before he was thirty, and sent to Budapest. After that there was Bucharest, Paris, and Istanbul.
After Pearl Harbor he was brought home. He worked on the North African desk in Washington, an assignment involving the greatest discretion and secrecy. When Paris was captured he was one of the Department’s team sent to reorganize the American Embassy. He remained overseas for the duration of the war, and be-became a FSO, Class I. From this springboard there was no limit to where he could go. He could become an Ambassador, an Assistant Secretary, perhaps even the Undersecretary of State.
Fred was one of the first to recognize and analyze the Soviet danger. He had developed a finely tuned perception of public opinion, and he early forecast Russian designs in the Balkans, Germany, Austria, France, and Italy. He was the first man to make a study of the parallels between Soviet expansion and the Haushofer theory that had been Nazi dogma. It was a startling document.
By the beginning of 1948 he was climbing steeply up that perilous incline that separates those who make national policy from those who only carry it out. He was no longer one of the Department’s “bright young men.” He had become an adviser to those at the top. Soon he would be at the top himself.
It was Fred Keller who conceived the Atlantis Project. As a model and precedent (should anyone be squeamish about using such tactics in preparing for war) he had Bob Murphy’s operations in North Africa. Murphy’s Consuls and Vice-Consuls had worked among the Vichy French in much the same way Keller’s team now worked among the Hungarians.
It had not been easy to sell Atlantis to the Department. It had been necessary to use all his persuasion, and stake all his influence. There were doubtful ones. Some felt Atlantis might commit the Department too far. It was in the nature of a military operation, and a military operation is not a flexible thing. Once started, it is difficult to stop, as every commander knows at H-Hour. There were others who said it was premature, and some who complained it was too late. A few even questioned its usefulness, but these were of little importance.
He had found a powerful ally in Matson. Matson claimed Atlantis was essential immediately, not only in his own area, but throughout Europe. It was Matson who had nominated Hungary for the experiment, and suggested that Fred take charge in the field. So Fred had told the Secretary he would assume full responsibility.
If he failed—but failure was not possible. He could not face the Secretary with a failure of such magnitude. Atlantis had to be successful. He had to prove to them all that he was a successful man.
8
Keller’s pipe was out when Jeff finished talking, but he was still puffing at it. He looked at Jeff, estimating, analyzing, searching. He said, “Well, it’s not as bad as I thought. I really don’t see any reason to discontinue Atlantis.”
“You don’t!” Jeff didn’t think he’d heard correctly.
“No, I don’t. But I do see reasons why if what you told me became known—say, to the Admiral—you’d be fired. I’m surprised, Jeff, that a man of your background and experience should fall into such an ancient trap. I’m honestly surprised.”
“Are you sure you listened carefully to what I told you?” Jeff asked.
“I digested every word. I’m only worried about one thing. How much did you leak to the Russian?”
Jeff knew he was growing angry. “Leak to the Russian! Nothing, of course.”
“I hope not. I wouldn’t like to lose you, Jeff. I think you’ve been doing a good job, except for this one thing.”
“But don’t you see that this one thing finishes us?” Jeff demanded.
“You are dense,” Keller said. He rose and paced to the bar, and poured a measured ounce of brandy into the fat-bellied glass. He swished it around, and warmed the snifter with his long-sinewed hands. He seemed to have forgotten to offer a drink to Jeff.
“Don’t you see?” Keller continued. “Don’t you honestly? Don’t you see that the Russians are on a fishing expedition? Oh, they may know something. They may even know the name of our project, although I honestly don’t see how they’d even know that.”
“It seems to me that they know everything,” Jeff said, “and they picked it all up right in Washington.”
“That’s ridiculous. As I said, they may have heard the name. So they assign this chap—what’s his name?”
“Leonides Lasenko.”
“They assign your friend Lasenko to pump you. Why did they pick you, and not me, or one of the others? First of all, you’re fresh out here, and obviously don’t know enough to stay away from Russians. And secondly, Lasenko knew you. That’s the important thing. Lasenko got your name from customs, and he recognized it, and went after you. Perhaps you were the only approachable American in Budapest.”
“I’m sure of that, anyway,” Jeff said. He wanted desperately to tell Keller the rest of it. He wanted to tell how Leonides felt, and what Leonides was doing. But if Keller believed Leonides was lying about the MVD penetrating Atlantis, then Keller would also say Leonides was lying about the rest of it. Keller would only say Leonides was very clever. Keller would say Leonides was trying to get Jeff’s confidence by pretending to be a member of an anti-regime revolutionary group. And Keller’s reasoning would sound logical. That was the hell of it. It was all so perfectly logical. There was no use saying any more.
“Now I’ll tell you what I’m going to do,” Keller said, and Jeff could see he was composed again. “You’re just to forget about this whole thing and let me handle it. You’re not to mention it to anyone else. You’re just to forget about it. And nothing is going to happen to you, except for God’s sake, Jeff, don’t see that Russian again.”
Jeff was silent, but he knew what presently he was going to say.
“Yes, I’ll handle it all,” Keller went on. “I’ll change the name of the project. If the Russians have heard anything about Atlantis, and are trying to find out what it is
, we’ll just eliminate the name.”
“It won’t work,” Jeff said. “They’re not watching a name. They’re watching people.”
“Nonsense. I’ll just tell the Admiral it’s best for security that we change the name. Time we changed it, as a security measure, anyway. You go right ahead with your work. How’re you getting along with Miss Genghis Khan?”
Jeff said, “I’m not going to see her again, and you’re not going to see her again.”
“Now Jeff, don’t be difficult.”
Jeff leaned back in his chair. He was quiet and calm now, and it wasn’t the Blue Eighty-Eight that had given him this steadiness. “It’s easy for you, Keller,” he said. “You know the Russians won’t kill you. You’re safe, because if you were killed that’d be an incident, and at this time they don’t want such an incident. But if they grab Rikki, and snaffle out her life, that doesn’t hurt you, Keller. Back home the papers will just mention that the Hungarian police arrested a Hungarian girl, and there was a closed trial, and she was hung for treason. And all you would say would be, ‘Too bad.’”
“That’s enough, Jeff!”
“No, it’s not enough. You known damn well the way the MVD operates. You know damn well you’re safe. You know they’ll watch—are watching now. And every Hungarian you see often enough, or I see often enough, that Hungarian is as good as dead. Do you want to be a murderer, Keller?”
Keller said, “One last chance, Jeff. I know you’re unstrung. The bomb—that explosion.”
“I’m not unstrung.”
“I’d hate to believe that you were a coward. The Admiral thinks you’re a coward. One last chance, Jeff. I directly order you to continue with your work.”
“I’m not going to do it.”
Keller shook his head. He seemed older than forty, now, and he had lost his spruceness, his straightness. “You will go to your apartment. I will have to see the Admiral.”