Monday, October 1, 1956

Chapter 1 — Vienna, Austria

The iconic art nouveau limestone steps of Vienna’s Strudlhof were an easy climb for the 33-year-old, tall and lean man. Despite his heavy overcoat, October’s chilly air prevented him from breaking a sweat. A homburg topped his blond hair, de rigueur for Viennese fashion. Most Americans had abandoned hats, except for Texans who demanded 10-gallon Stetsons with their boots. Frederich Zellner, known by his nickname of Zelly, was both American and Texan. Nothing about him would reveal either identity. On a landing in the steps made famous by Heimito von Doderer’s 800-page novel, he hurried around a young mother holding hands with a toddler.

“Prostite,” he said, with as much Russian arrogance as possible. The liberators of most Eastern European nations demanded concessions from their conquered lands.

“Nix passiert.” The lady took his apology with an icy stare.

Zelly spotted his new boss at the staircase top, behind the Swedish embassy. He recognized the man by picture and understood his reputation. Black hair combed back from a receding hairline capped Peer De Silva’s rail-thin frame. During World War II, he headed security for the Manhattan Project. Any man who could keep the atomic secrets deserved the utmost respect. Despite Peer’s six weeks in the post as Central Intelligence Agency, Vienna Chief of Station, the men hadn’t met.

Zelly was under deep cover since 1940, when the United States planted him in Nazi Germany. He predated both the Office of Strategic Services (OSS) and the CIA. A spy before the U.S. operated spies.

De Silva recognized Zelly’s reputation, too. While undercover in Nazi Germany, Zelly was a perfect Nazi, serving in the Sicherheitsdienst as a personal spy of Heinrich Himmler, the Reichsführer-SS. Any man who mastered that masquerade was an accomplished spy. Following the war, Zelly joined Germany’s Gehlen Organization, headed by Reinhard Gehlen who previously headed Nazi military intelligence. For the past six months, the organization had operated under the name Bundesnachrichtendienst—the Federal Intelligence Service.

The eyes of the two men met for a second, and they exchanged a smile.

Vienna was a rat’s nest of spies. The occupation of Austria by the victorious nations ended last year, and Austria became independent and sovereign. While troops went home, spies remained. Some estimates claimed over ten thousand spies prowled the city streets, representing most nationalities, including a poor chap from Ireland.

Zelly paused at the head of the stairs and opened an edition of the Wiener Zeitung, an Austrian newspaper. The local German dialect was easy to understand. He’d spoken Deutsch all his life, growing up with the language at home in Fredricksburg, Texas, a German enclave. As De Silva ducked in the embassy’s rear door, Zelly pretended to read the paper and waited until the CIA security team checked to see if he had a tail.

Soon, a shrill whistle called a pinscher away from a tree the dog had been nosing. The all-clear signal. The security precaution wasn’t for De Silva. Every spy in Vienna would understand his role as station chief. The extra sensitivity was to protect Zelly’s cover as a Russian. An American pretending to be a West German agent and masquerading as a Soviet.

Spy work had more costumes than America’s Halloween. The thought made him chuckle, realizing that his 12-year-old son, Gunny, would miss the festivities again. The boy and Zelly’s wife, Meg, were with him in Vienna. A consequence of being a spy’s family.

So the clandestine meeting was in the neutral Swedish embassy.

When Zelly entered the building, officers escorted him to a small conference room. He entered as his boss uncapped a thermos bottle and poured two cups of coffee.

“Hills Bros. A taste of home.” He placed a sack between coffee cups. “Buchteln. Sorry, donuts aren’t available.”

Zelly took a cup and one of the Austrian plum-filled rolls. “Speaking English is refreshing. We use German in our apartment.”

Peer bit into his roll. “You’re so deep undercover, the bedbugs don’t suspect your existence.”

Zelly sighed. “I’m here for a task to do, I’d bet.”

“Budapest. You’re the Technical University’s visiting professor of electrical engineering and rocketry. The previous one disappeared under the typical Soviet pretenses. You’ll use an apartment on Pushkin Street, rented from a prominent Austrian business executive with ties to the Austro-Hungarian Empire. Consider it bugged.”

“Why doesn’t the school hire a Russian substitute?”

“With the occupation’s end in Austria, Hungary thinks they’re next for independence. They hoped for fresh blood, and the agency brought your name to the top of the list.”

“I’ve never taught before, but getting back into rocketry interests me. I might be rusty. Over 10 years since I served on the guidance and control team at Peenemünde.”

Peer nodded. The Germans led the world in rocketry, mostly because of an analog computing device invented by the man sipping coffee at his elbow. And if the Germans ever paired their atomic bomb with the rockets, everyone from New York to Los Angeles would speak German.

“Your current cover is perfect. You’ll be what you appear to be. German. Ex-Nazi SS officer. Himmler’s spy at Peenemünde. Your wife, Trudl, died in the war. Your son, twelve-year-old Guenther. Take him along.”

“Impossible.” Zelly choked on the plum pastry. “Too dangerous for a kid.”

“He’s a critical component of the mission.” De Silva hid behind his coffee cup. “The Soviets are aware of your background. The only thing they miss is how you escaped without surrendering to us with Wernher von Braun or being captured by them.” He offered a folder.

Zelly scanned the contents—a certificate of denazification from the British zone, records of work in rebuilding German infrastructure, offer of a position as a civil engineer, and current employment record in Munich. A fresh passport, made to look old, stamped with a Hungarian visa, residence permit, and employment stamp. He checked the second forgery—Guenther Zeller. The picture was recent, taken from the Vienna school, but aged.

Peer noticed his frightened expression. “To keep him alive, you worked hard through the abject poverty of post-war Germany. You wouldn’t go to Budapest without taking him. You have no German relatives with whom you can leave him.” Quickly, he changed subjects. “What do you make of the June protests in Poznań, Poland?”

“Metalworkers demanded better working conditions. Soon, over a hundred thousand protesters gathered. They demanded local control instead of programs set by Moscow. The Army attacked, killing hundreds and wounding more.”

De Silva nodded as he chewed. “I want the next protest in Budapest. Hell, I want more than a protest. I want an uprising. Unlike Poznań, the youth must start this one, explaining why you’re a university professor.”

“And my boy?”

“Perfect connection to local kids.”

“He’s too young for CIA’s payroll.” Zelly laughed at the joke, uncomfortably.

“I’m not offering him employment. I’m sending you on a mission.”

“What makes you think Budapest is ready?”

“First, Stalin’s death. Second, Khrushchev’s speech On the Cult of Personality and Its Consequences. Third, the end of Austrian occupation. Budapest’s eyes always turned toward Vienna and not Moscow.”

“The Red Army will crush it, like Poznań.”

“Everything at Poznań surprised us. No one believed the protest possible. This time, things are different. Radio Free Europe will encourage Hungarians to take arms. America will help.”

“Who said ‘fan the flames of revolution’?”

“Do you mean before me?” Peer joked.

Zelly went slack-jawed. “You want me to take my son to cause a rebellion?”

“Once you light the kindling, skedaddle. Going in, they’ll suspect you, a West German. Who would take their boy to incite a riot? He’s the perfect finishing touch to your cover.” De Silva packed the coffee and tossed the paper sack into the trash can. He stood and started for the door. In two steps, Peer turned. “If you’re caught, hope it’s by the Hungarians. The Russians might send you to Baikonur in Kazakhstan to work on their space program or to a gulag.”

“And for Gunny?”

“We have an exchange prepared. Peter Deriabin, the KGB officer who defected in ‘54. A Soviet court gave him a death sentence in absentia and would love to execute him.”

“The Russians will torture him before you can ever propose a trade.”

“Simple. Don’t get apprehended.” The door closed behind Peer.

As Zelly left the room, a security officer handed him the Budapest apartment lease, code pads to use for private communication, and two train tickets for Budapest.

How to tell Meg? He wondered as he descended the limestone steps. He contemplated instant job loss and impending divorce as he traveled home. Assuming Meg’s Irish temper doesn’t lead to murder.

He turned his thoughts to Trudl, his Peenemünde girlfriend who died under Allied bombs. Gunny will have to learn about his pretend mother. And Meg will—.

Chapter 2 — Sofia, Bulgaria

During lunch, Andrei Novitsky took a walk in Freedom Park, the largest of Sofia’s grand parks. Slightly over five-foot-six and weighing over 250 pounds, his short legs gave the picture of a ball rolling through the park.

The stroll’s purpose was to buck his courage to confront his captain. On Friday, his last comrade from Moscow’s KGB Red Banner Institute received a promotion to lieutenant, making Andrei the oldest junior lieutenant at 36. After lunch, he hoped to remedy the situation.

At first, his twelve-year-old son, Yuri, was by his side. He had finished his day’s instruction at the Russian Lyceum. In the afternoon, the school taught English and dance—neither subject suited for the son of a KGB agent. Andrei’s long deceased wife had been a dancer, but he preferred a different path for his slightly effeminate son, and learning English was nearly treasonous.

Yuri grew bored with the broad avenues among the acacia and chestnut trees. He pointed to the playground, and Andrei nodded, glad for the few moments of concentration a son made impractical. As Yuri scampered toward fun, his tall and lithe figure was the image of his ballet mother, with hints of girlish curves and a penchant for running on his toes.

Andrei walked among the acacias and built a convincing argument toward promotion. He bought a cup of coffee at a kiosk and started down chestnut lane, anticipating every counter argument and inventing answers to diffuse them. A second coffee came on the linden walk while he rehearsed the story of his accomplishments since graduation. The third cup came in the rose garden, where the once-beautiful blooms carpeted the path with petals.

Hyped for a hostile meeting, he marched through the round-a-bout and down the boulevard to the embassy where he worked. In the KGB’s section, he entered the door marked — Second Directorate, Counter-Intelligence — and knocked at his captain’s door.

The captain waved him in without looking up from his work. Andrei took a seat in the horse-hide upholstered guest chair of a superior officer who self-styled as an Ukrainian Cossack. Andrei remembered First Secretary Khrushchev was born near the Ukraine. Perhaps my captain will flourish under Khrushchev. I must be careful not to alienate him.

The horseman peered over his wrinkled nose with a frown. “What do you want, Andrei Nikolaevich?”

Hearing his patronymic made his well-rehearsed reasons and arguments vanish. Andrei’s mouth dried and turned to sawdust. He shifted in the chair. “I am the last of my class. The others have received promotions, but not me. I wondered if you might tell me why?”

The Cossack studied him for a moment. “Well. You are smart and insightful. You perceive solutions to problems with a clear vision where others discern only muck and cloudiness.”

“Thank you, sir.” Andrei hadn’t expected a compliment. His planned words returned to him, fueled by a caffeine-induced confidence.

“I didn’t mean to compliment, instead to challenge. Why not use your insight to solve the problem?”

“Sir?”

The captain shook his head. “Answer yourself. Why were you passed over?”

Andrei fidgeted at receiving questions instead of answers. His nose flared at the sudden aroma of horse. “I don’t grasp the reason, sir. I hoped you might enlighten me.”

“At the least, give me a theory!”

“Perhaps I lack field experience?” Andrei speculated, but his thoughts were entirely different. Do you hold my Byelorussian roots against me? The captain’s eyes stared at the hook nose centered in his round face. Do you think I’m Jewish?

“Excellent, you recognize your problem. You ride your desk like a Cossack on a Don. When you read reports, the insights you draw from them are superb. Your analysis includes clear summaries of action items, but nothing more. You leave the doing to someone else.”

“I’ll do better,” he promised.

The man grinned at the ease with which he’d snagged a fish. He pulled a file folder from a bin. “Read this and do something.”

Andrei rose and took the documents, already promising himself a change. He would charge the field like a Russian Don Quixote, remembering the Bolshoi ballet his wife once danced as Dulcinea. A noble quest for glory and grand adventure would provide his needed promotion. “Thanks.”

He hurried to the toilet as the coffee caused cramps. Ducking into a stall, he dropped his gray flannel trousers. He sat on the pot, letting the flatulence escape his belly as he opened the folder.

He found Khrushchev’s secret February speech. Titled On the Cult of Personality and Its Consequences, the oration rebuked Stalin. Next, an analyst explored the implications for the zones of Soviet occupation.

After the cramps subside, he pulled up his pants and took the reading material to his office. Hanging on the wall beside his desk was a Eurasian map. Dead center on it was Moscow, of course. The analysis predicted unrest because of the speech, particularly in Poland, which was the most precarious Soviet satellite. The Poles considered Soviet troops as conquerors, not liberators. Sixteen days after the Nazis invaded Poland in 1939, the Soviet Union joined the invasion. A secret pact between Russia and Germany divided the country. To the Polish people, we are no better than the Germans. And, since we didn’t return the seized parts of Poland, they consider us worse.

The second document detailed events of June in Poznań, things unknown to Andrei. The news never reached the radio or appeared in the pages of Pravda. Over 100,000 Poles protested for better working conditions and a government not serving as a Moscow puppet. The army attacked the demonstration, killing many. Concerned, Andrei wondered where might similar events transpire.

Such a demonstration was impossible in Bulgaria. Historically, the nation gazed east—to the Russians or the Ottoman Turks. He let his eyes flow over the map, searching for likely hot spots. He found one quickly–Hungary.

Hungary gazed west—to Vienna and beyond. Budapest, its capital city, called itself the Paris of the East. Once, Hungary was part of the Habsburg Empire, a co-equal capital to Vienna. Only a year ago, Soviet occupation troops withdrew from Austria.

Andrei smiled. Hungary doesn’t want to be a Soviet satellite. This is the place.

He dialed his phone. “I’d like a car for a trip to Budapest.” I’m going into the field, exactly as the captain hinted. Andrei dreamed of the celebration for his promotion—golden imperial ossetra caviar on blini, thin mini-pancakes, with pickled vegetables and vats of vodka.