† The Krausser dispatch is not among Bristow’s files; neither, evidently, did he have it at hand when he was writing the above passages. Therefore either it was stolen from his files in New Jersey or, more likely, he had it with him in Sebastopol and lost it there along with most of the materials he gathered in Russia in early 1973.-Ed.
7
The fall and winter of 1972 were disagreeably grey and rainy in the Northeast. It was a dreary time of record rainfalls, and after the Presidential election and its post-mortems there were no urgent topics of conversation around the capital. Of course this was before the Watergate revival. I was seeing a good deal of a gangly cheerful divorcee whose name it would be pointless to mention here. Nikki was on my mind almost constantly although it had been a year since we had last seen each other.
In Lambertville around the end of November I had a phone call from Washington. It was Evan MacIver. I was surprised to hear from him; I’d seen him four or five times at parties in the course of the past year but we hadn’t much to say to each other. He called to suggest we have lunch the following week; he named a time and a restaurant. I don’t recall the conversation; in substance he said he had something of interest to discuss with me and he made it intriguing enough for me to accept the invitation.
It was the middle of the week. Heavy rain had brought traffic to a crawl and I was late getting to the restaurant. MacIver was watching for me; he got my eye and waved me to his table and I found him spooning the skin that had formed on his cup of hot chocolate. When I sat down my nostrils informed me there was whiskey in the chocolate.
It was one of those mock-Polynesian restaurants with jungle decor where middle-class women in absurd hats took a lunch break from their holiday shopping; this was the week after Thanksgiving and the Christmas boom had started. Waiters were serving sweet potent concoctions in imitation coconut shells with drinking straws. I ordered a Bloody Mary to keep MacIver company.
He looked rumpled and jowly but there were traces of the old raffish humor in the lines that exploded from his eye-corners. “Well Harry, just between us suspicious characters, how are things going?”
For a while we reminisced about campus days-the bad food in the university cafeteria, the Japanese restaurant he’d taken me to once where I’d gagged on raw fish, the J. D. Salinger stories and Castro and the banning of Lady Chatterley’s Lover and the Powers U-2 incident, and the swap of Powers for the Soviet spy Rudolf Abel. Memoirs which dated us both, and which led-as if by aimless free association-to the subjects of intelligence and espionage. MacIver was pretty good, he was at ease and casual; but the invitation had been his and I had let him guide the conversation and I was aware that it probably was no accident he led us to that point. Each for our own reasons we were interested in espionage but clearly his motives were more specific than that.
I found something vaguely edible from the menu; it was not until we were drinking coffee after the meal that MacIver began to come to the point.
“Well then how’s the little Sabra?”
“Nikki?” I gave him a closer look. I hadn’t spoken to him about Nikki at all since the night I’d first met her. Yet he knew.
There was a crafty gleam of guile in his eyes; I was meant to see it. “You do keep in touch, don’t you?”
Suddenly I was determined to know what he was getting at. I contrived to look curious.
But he refused to be drawn. “Well she wasn’t my cup of tea, I can tell you that.” He put his cigarette on the edge of the ashtray and I watched it smoulder there. He said, “You know I got interested in something you were talking about a couple of months ago. Where was it, Huddleston’s party? You were talking about that far-fetched Russian gold story you’re writing. Sounded like a hell of a yarn. I’d like to know more about it.”
“And that’s why you arranged this lunch?”
“Partly. There was something else, but it can wait. You’re not in a hurry, are you? Am I keeping you from anything?”
“I’ve got some work to do this afternoon up at State. It shouldn’t take too long-no, I’m not in a big hurry.”
“State,” he said, and made the connection. “Sure. You’re still pushing for that Russian research visa, aren’t you? Maybe I could help.”
“You?”
“Us suspicious characters have a few contacts here and there. That’s our main excuse for existence, you know. I might be able to help pull a string or two.”
I knew he wasn’t referring to the State Department; he was talking about the “other side”-OVIR and the Russian Embassy-but you had to be circumspect in MacIver’s line of work. It hadn’t occurred to me that he might be in a position to exercise any influence over there; I still had no idea to which desk he was assigned at the Agency in Langley. All I really knew about his position was what little he had told me a year ago.
He said, “Where is it you’re trying to get to? Moscow?”
“Moscow and Sebastopol.”
“You figure to hunt for the Czar’s gold over there?”
He said it with a smile but he was waiting for an answer and I gave him a truthful one: I was doing a historical research, not chasing wild gilded geese.
“Well sure, Harry, but the way I’ve heard you talk about that gold, you seemed pretty excited about it.”
“It’s an interesting yarn. But that’s all it seems to be-a yarn.”
“What makes you so sure of that? The gold was real enough.”
“Yes …”
“And it’s never turned up, has it?”
“It has, though. The Germans found it during the war.”
“I thought you were telling Huddleston they found it and then lost it again.”
“It’s all speculation,” I said. “I’m getting pretty tired of that gold. It’s threatening to become a tail wagging the dog. This job’s hard enough without distractions.”
“Come off it, Harry. A good strong dose of gold bullion’s just what you need to beef up the book’s appeal. Otherwise who’s going to buy a thousand-page history of the siege of Sebastopol? Who the hell cares about Sebastopol, for Christ’s sake?”
There was truth in what he said. The story of the gold was dramatic and it was completely new; no other historian had come across it at all.
He scowled at me. “You won’t sell eight copies of a book on Sebastopol unless you’ve got a hell of a hook on it. Why kid yourself? I was listening to you at Huddleston’s-you weren’t talking about sieges and politics and Panzer battles, you were talking about gold. You’re trying to make yourself feel like an important scholar with all this serious research, but your stuff wouldn’t sell the way it sells if you were just writing textbooks for history department libraries. You’re a yarnspinner, Harry-you’re an entertainer. And now you want to tell me you’ve got your hooks into the biggest money-caper story in history and you don’t want to be sidetracked by it? Harry, I wouldn’t buy that if it came with an American Motors guarantee.”
He stubbed out his cigarette and beamed at me in triumph. “You know what I think, Harry? I think you get your nocturnal emissions from dreaming you’ll find that gold of Admiral Kolchak’s.”
“You’re pushing it pretty hard, aren’t you?”
“Am I? Why should I?”
“Suppose you tell me.”
“Tell me something first. Would you think of asking me that question if you didn’t know who my employer was?”
I saw his point.
“Okay,” he murmured. “Look, I just think you’re in danger of taking yourself too seriously. You could end up on the wrong track. I think I’ve read every one of your books-I read the first one or two because it was a cheap thrill to say I knew the author, but after that I got to be a fan of yours. I still am. I also think I’m kind of a friend of yours and I hate to see you talk yourself into a mistake.”