“The similar event at Lauenbruch was not Werewolves. The Soviets have reported that it was British soldiers caught behind the lines and making mischief. That’s unconfirmed Sir.”
“Bottom line, General?”
“Sir, there seems to be an awful lot more going on behind their lines than we suspected, much of it aimed at their logistical tail. I believe it may account for the changes in tactics we have been encountering.”
“Walt?”
“I concur, Sir.”
Eisenhower became pensive, his mind working the numbers.
“OK, so we may have an opportunity here, is that what you are saying?”
Both officers looked at each other, seeking support and reassurance.
Bedell-Smith took the plunge.
“Sir, we need to work on this a hell of a lot more. But, if the situation is as we believe, well, then the Reds are having a whole lotta trouble with their supplies.”
Encouraged, Eisenhower drew his cigarette virtually down to the filter.
“Firm it all up, Generals, firm it all up.”
Business in USMC Colonel’s office had concluded some twenty minutes beforehand, and Sam Rossiter was sat waiting for his call to French First Army headquarters to come through.
He could not discuss the new knowledge he had acquired over the telephones, but he could certainly advise De Walle that he was on his way. He had no doubt that the shrewd Deuxieme Bureau man would work out why.
A handwritten message was already in the possession of a courier, whose orders took him to a sleepy little hollow called Camp 5A, on the shores of Lough Neagh, Northern Ireland.
Chapter 85 – THE FLAMES
Another such victory over the Romans, and we are undone.
Since her arrest and interrogation, Beatrice Perlo had been watched every second of her day.
The insistence that there be no change to her normal life practices meant that even her liaisons were closely scrutinised, a fact she found strangely invigorating. Far from affecting her, it enhanced her passion, and her lovers became more and more anxious for repeats.
Da Silva, left in charge of the everyday surveillance and running of the turned agent, gathered information on the indiscretions and preferences of a number of senior members of the Manhattan project, information that would become an embarrassment should they be confronted with it in the future.
Given their obvious errors with Perlo, the FBI went through everything with a fine toothcomb, finding a few interesting facts that had previously gone unnoticed.
A lucky break brought an American citizen, one Harold Gold, to their attention.
Observing him highlighted others, and soon a list of other possible problems brought a reasoned response.
Suspected agents were placed under arm’s length scrutiny and moved to areas where they could be less effective in gathering secret information.
Klaus Fuchs, codename Gamayun, found himself back in England. His constant arguing that the secrets of the Atomic Age should not be for nation states, but should be shared across the world, had given a number of people cause to wonder, his association with Harry Gold seen as the final straw.
The FBI intended to remove all possible Soviet assets within the project, leaving Perlo as the sole supplier of information, and therefore, in Soviet eyes, both more valuable and less disputable.
In Washington, the Calderon’s surveillance was watertight, agents having carefully sown the house and surroundings with listening devices.
Teams of watchers followed both women, and anyone who came into contact with them.
Michael Green received more attention, but still he did nothing overtly to draw suspicion.
The programme was controlled from FBI Headquarters in Washington, and from there came a carefully worded instruction.
The knock on the door was not unexpected.
Da Silva always arrived just ahead of schedule, every Sunday evening being set aside for his review of her week and planning for the week ahead.
Emilia opened the door, her breasts deliberately exposed, tantalising the Colonel from Military Intelligence.
“Good evening, Emilia.”
“”Karl, do come in.”
She stood aside in such a way as to ensure he could not enter without pressing himself against her.
Karl Da Silva stood his ground, indicating that she should move into the room first.
“I do wish you would stop this game, Emilia.”
Perlo moved to the table, tying up her robe, sweeping up her Chesterfields, and lighting up, all in the same easy movement.
“I know you like to see them, Karl.”
He could not think of a suitable reply that was truthful, so he remained uncomfortably silent.
“So, I take it you have something for me to send,” she indicated the brown secure message envelope clipped to the folder, previously present when the higher controllers wished her to write to Cousin Victoria.
“Yes indeed, Emilia,” holding up his hand to refuse the offer of bourbon, “It is time for you to start earning your luxurious lifestyle.”
Perlo snorted and raised the glass to her lips, savouring the rich taste.
“Hardly luxurious, Colonel Da Silva,” dropping tetchily into using his rank, as she always did when annoyed.
“Certainly more luxurious than it would have been, had you not chosen to work for the right side, Miss Perlo.”
Da Silva caught the flash of anger in the woman’s eyes.
“And also remember that your continued presence here, working for us, ensures that your Aunt and Cousin continue their safe little existence.”
The anger burned less brightly in her eyes, as proper thought replaced her momentary indignance.
“Oh well, at least I get plenty of cock.”
Da Silva was unready for the sea change and snorted in amusement, but quickly regaining his professional poise.
He returned to the matter in hand, noting the amused triumphant look in Emilia’s eyes.
‘Did you just set me up Emilia?’
‘Gotcha Karl.’
Perlo produced her textbook noting that, as expected, Da Silva took possession of the Bourbon until she had finished composing her letter to Cousin Victoria.
The envelope became the focus of attention as it made its way into Perlo’s hands.
She read it slowly, in the manner of the brilliant mathematician she was, analysing, understanding, ensuring no misinterpretation.
‘Que? You gotta be kidding me!’
Looking up at the Intelligence Officer, she saw only serious eyes.
“You’re kidding, right?”
“Word for word, Emilia.”
“Three years?”
“Three years.”
“Lavincompái!”
Da Silva was taken aback by the profanity.
“Three years, Miss Perlo. We can sell it, and they will buy it.”
“They won’t buy that at all, Karl.”
“They will, for one simple reason, Emilia.”
The spy took a last drag on her cigarette before stubbing it out theatrically.
“And that is what?”
Da Silva repeated a phrase he had heard from the lips of a three-star General, no more than forty minutes previously.
“Because they will want to.”
“Brad, it’s so good to see you.”
The handshake was warm, the friendly relationship between the two men genuine and tested.
Eisenhower looked up, first at the man who stood hovering with coffee, and secondly at Bedell-Smith.