Ribbentrop. Lavrenti Beria read the half-dozen pages without comment. Eventually the younger man blurted out the question he had been dying to ask since first hearing of Beketovka. “Who or what is Beketovka?” he asked his father.
“It’s a prisoner-of-war camp near Stalingrad,” Beria explained. “For German prisoners. I don’t have to tell you that Stalin thinks even less about them than he does about the welfare of his own soldiers. I haven’t seen this camp myself, but I imagine conditions there are harsh. Extremely harsh. If this Beketovka File that Hitler talks about documents the camp in any detail, then it would be hardly surprising if he were upset about it. Very likely the Germans gave the file to the Americans in an attempt to support the contention that they are no more morally reprehensible than we are. Most likely Himmler has been concealing this file from Hitler. He must have been well aware of the effect it would have on him, and on these peace talks. The only question, therefore, is if the Americans were aware of that when they gave it to him. For one would then have to conclude that they meant for these negotiations to fail.”
Sergo Beria shrugged. “There must be some Americans who continue to share Churchill’s point of view: that we should not be negotiating with these Fascists.”
Lavrenti Beria picked up the phone. “Get me Molotov,” he told the embassy switchboard. And then to Sergo: “I didn’t see what happened in the conference room myself. Perhaps our foreign minister can tell us which one of the Americans gave the file to Hitler.”
Molotov came on the line and, at some length, Beria explained what had happened, after which there arose the delicate question of who was going to tell Stalin that Hitler was leaving.
“This is a security matter, surely,” Molotov argued. “It’s your responsibility, Beria.”
“On the contrary,” said Beria. “Without question this is a foreign affairs matter.”
“Under normal circumstances I might agree with you,” Molotov said. “But as I recall, it was Himmler, your opposite number, who put out these peace feelers in the first place. And you who dealt with them. Moreover, all matters pertaining to the Fuhrer’s presence here in Teheran have, as I understand it, been arranged by you, Comrade Commissar.”
“That’s true. However, the initial contacts were made by Himmler via Madame de Kollontay, in Stockholm. It’s my understanding that these conversations were cleared by Stalin himself, through you, Comrade Secretary.”
“And it was agreed that all matters relating to the handling of the German legation would be administered jointly by the NKVD and the SS. As I see it, Hitler is going home because of a security breakdown of one sort or another. Either because an American tried to kill him or because another American gave him an intelligence file right under our noses.”
For once, Beria had to concede that Molotov was right. “Do you happen to recall which American it was that gave him the file?” he asked Molotov.
“It was the man who saved Hitler’s life. The interpreter.”
“Why would he save Hitler’s life and then fuck up the peace negotiations?”
“I suspect it was just a mistake. The fellow was confused after what had just happened. I think if I had just saved Hitler’s life, I might feel a little perplexed myself. To put it mildly. Anyway, Hopkins told this fellow Mayer to hand over the American position papers and he handed him something else. As simple as that. It must have been this file you describe, because Hopkins was almost at the door when he realized he still had the position papers that were meant for Hitler. Probably he was a bit rattled himself. That’s what happened. The Americans fucked up, that’s all. They probably thought it hardly mattered that this fellow had just given Hitler the Beketovka File, since they could hardly have imagined that Hitler had never seen an important file prepared by his own SD.”
“Jesus Christ,” groaned Beria. “The boss is going to go nuts.”
“Blame it all on the Yank,” advised Molotov. “That’s my advice. Let him take the heat. There’s not much point in saving Hitler’s life if you then manage to fuck up the peace talks.”
“But how? It was a mistake. That’s all. You said so yourself, Molotov.”
“Look, you know what the boss is like, Beria. And he saw it just as I did. Maybe he’ll decide that it was an accident. But just remember it’s our treatment of German POWs that’s sending Hitler away. In other words, the Americans will find out that this is the reason Hitler’s run home. Now that puts the ball in our court, and the boss won’t like that at all. Better give him something he can throw at the Yanks, just in case he’s feeling bloody- minded.”
“Such as?”
“All right. But this is just a thought. And you owe me, Lavrenti Pavlovich. Got that? A favor.”
“Fine, fine, whatever. What’s this thing the boss can level at the Yanks?”
“Just this. The interpreter. He’s a Jew.”
“And?”
“And maybe he’s a pal of Cordell Hull, the American hostage in Berlin. He might want the talks to fail without Hitler getting assassinated, and his friend Hull’s life being forfeit as a result. Something like that.”
“But you heard Hitler. He’s threatening to massacre the rest of Europe’s Jews. Why would a Jew want these talks to fail?”
“Maybe for the same reason Churchill does. Because the total defeat of Germany will require an American army in Europe. Churchill wants that army in Europe as a bulwark against us, Beria. Churchill knows that if Hitler is left in control there will be another European war, which Stalin will win. Meaning the whole of Europe, including Great Britain, will come under Soviet control. It could be that this Jewish interpreter hates communism more than he hates the Nazis. Like a lot of other Americans.”
“That’s not bad, you know,” admitted Beria. “That’s not bad at all. You’ve got a devious fucking mind, Molotov. I respect that.”
“It’s why I’ve stayed alive so long. One more thing: Hopkins was telling me that this Jew is also quite a famous philosopher. Did his doctorate in Germany. Very likely he’s a kraut-lover. Maybe you can make something out of that as well.”
Beria laughed. “Vyacheslav Mikhailovich, you would have made a fucking good policeman, do you know that?”
“If you fuck this up, Lavrenti Pavlovich, there might just turn out to be a job vacancy.”
1430 Hours
It was a beautiful, mild, sunny Sunday afternoon. Birds were singing in the many cherry trees that grew on the grounds of the Russian embassy compound, and somewhere something delicious was being prepared. But among the president’s immediate entourage, spirits were low and no one felt like eating the late lunch that was scheduled. Hitler’s abrupt departure from the peace talks-he was already aboard his Condor, flying back to the Crimea, and then home-had hit Roosevelt hard.
“Things were going so well,” he said, shaking his head. “We were going to make a peace. Not a perfect peace, but a peace nonetheless. Hitler was ready to withdraw his forces from nearly all the occupied territories. You heard him, Professor. You understood what he said better than any man in this room. He did say that, didn’t he?”
My despair was no less profound than Roosevelt’s, although for very different reasons. “Yes, sir. I think he was ready to do it.”
“We had peace in our hands and we screwed up.”
“No one could have foreseen what happened this morning,” Hopkins said. “That nutcase pulling a gun on Hitler like that. Jesus Christ. What the hell made him do it, Mike? And the water. That was poisoned, right?”
“Yes, sir, it was,” said Reilly. “The Russians gave the rest of the water in that carafe to a dog, which has since died.”
“Goddamn Russians,” said Roosevelt. “What did they want to go and do a thing like that for? The poor dog. What kind of fucking people would do that sort of thing?”
“It’s too early to say what the poison was, however,” continued Reilly. “This country is rather short on proper laboratory facilities.”
“Why the hell did he do it, Mike?” asked Roosevelt. “Has he said anything?”
After the shooting, Agent Pawlikowski had been taken to the American military hospital at Camp Amirabad.
