Kolchak's Gold

She lifted her chin. Very soft: “Are you the only one with principles? Are you the only one with a private line to God? How are things on Mount Olympus, Harry? Will you let me talk to you? Will you listen to what I came here to say to you?”

“When you’ve said it, you’ll go,” I said. “And you’ll take MacIver and his wolf pack with him.”

“I’ll go, yes. I can’t answer for him.”

“You sicced him onto me. You can get him off me.”

“It’s not like that. We had the plan but it was MacIver who provided you. That wasn’t my idea. I’d never heard of you.”

“Sure. I was a total stranger. That made it a whole lot easier to play your badger game—you didn’t have to worry about feelings. All you had to do was act like a hooker, the hundred-dollar kind who says I-love-you between humps.”

She squeezed her eyes shut. “Please. That’s not true. Dear God it wasn’t like that, Harry. Falling in love was the worst thing that could have happened, but it did happen and I wasn’t acting. It wasn’t supposed to happen. All I was supposed to do was to get you to Israel so that——”

“So that Haim could work on me. He wasn’t really retired from the Mossad at all, was he. He was right up in the top echelons—right up to the day of his death.”

“Yes. That’s true.”

“Fifty years he schemed to get at that gold.”

“No. It wasn’t until the nineteen fifties. After there was an Israel.”

“It had to be someone above suspicion. Someone acceptable to both the Americans and the Soviets. Certainly not a Jew. Someone who could get access to the records in both countries—and someone who had an interest in the gold so that he’d know what to look for, and look for it. Was it MacIver who picked me? Or was it Haim? He knew my books.”

“I don’t know, Harry. I can’t answer that. I wasn’t there when they had their first meetings. It was several years ago, I’m sure. I only came into it a little while before you met me.”

“Well you sure as hell made up for lost time, didn’t you?” I swung away heavily; I couldn’t bear to go on looking at her.

“Wait.…”

“I won’t leave,” I said. “Not until I’ve heard the whole story. You’ve got the floor.”

Her words came in a headlong rush as if she were talking compulsively to hold herself together.

It must have seemed an even more fantastic scheme at the outset than it had proved to be in actuality. The fountainhead was Haim Tippelskirch.

“Haim said there must never be forgetfulness or forgiveness of evil,” she said. “He said it was a debt we owed the dead and the living equally. The Russians must not have that gold. Nor the Germans. Too many Jews died for it. I remember one of those foolish old men saying something about God’s will. Haim reminded them of their Torah—God does not intervene to redeem man’s duties to his fellow men.”

The gold belonged to Israel by moral right. That was Haim’s idealism. His realism was that it would be a cold day in hell before the Soviets would let a Jewish researcher into their archives. An i

It was all such a long chance. Haim was the only one with faith in it because he was something of an amateur historian himself: a student of military history, a student of Germans and Russians. He knew the German penchant for record-keeping and he knew if they’d moved the gold they’d have left paper tracks. He also knew one other thing he’d never told me:

“Our people went into Siberia in nineteen sixty-two to look for that old iron mine. It was empty. That was how we knew the gold had been moved.”

Another thing they hadn’t told me: Haim himself had sought access to the American files, on the pretense of writing an article for some European quarterly on the subject of World War II in Russia. They hadn’t let him in because as soon as the security check began they discovered he was an agent of the Mossad and that was what put MacIver on him.

MacIver wanted to know what interest the Mossad had in those records and Haim told him the truth because he knew it was never going to work without outside help; and the United States was the firmest ally Israel had, despite suspicions and reservations on both sides. Clearly the dupe had to be an American historian and sooner or later the American authorities would have to be brought into it because too many of the documents were classified.

It was no wonder I’d got access to so much material that had never been exposed before: The CIA had been opening all the doors ahead of me, unseen by me.

It was CIA agents in Moscow who confirmed that the Soviets were ignorant of the gold—its original hiding place as well as the fact that it had been moved sometime between 1920 and 1962. Since the Soviets didn’t have it and no other country or individual had produced it, it could only have been rehidden, and probably still inside Russia. All this merely confirmed what Haim had already intuited.

I had to be kept ignorant of the scheme because there was always the chance the Soviets would tumble to what I was doing; that they would either shut down the archives to me or interrogate me. In either case the gold would be lost again but if the Soviets interrogated me and found out that the CIA and the Mossad had put me up to it there would have been hell to pay. At least if I didn’t know who was calling the shots I couldn’t tell the Russians.

The best my puppeteers could do for me was put me under the protective wing of Vassily Bukov because he had a far more viable organization in the Crimea than the CIA had. Unfortunately this had backfired because my visit with Bukov had inflamed the Soviets’ suspicions.

In the end I was to have been persuaded by the CIA to turn over to them whatever I discovered about the gold. Originally this debriefing was not to take place until I was safely out of the Soviet Union after having completed my research there. But Bukov had reported that Zandor was breathing down my neck too closely; that the Russians might lock me up at any time; and therefore Ritter had gone in, ahead of schedule, to find out as much as he could.

“What if I’d told him I knew where the gold was? What if I’d specified a location?”

“What do you mean?”

“He’d have killed me, wouldn’t he? To keep the Russians from squeezing me.”

“No,” she said vehemently. “He had orders to get in contact with Vassily. Together they were to smuggle you out safely.”

Something had convinced Ritter that I’d found it. Probably the poor way I handled the meeting with him. I’d given it away, or Ritter thought I had—it amounted to the same thing. The screw was cranked a few turns tighter and I did what I had to do: I broke and ran, and was delivered onto MacIver’s doorstep, or Nikki’s, on schedule.

“All right,” I said. “What’s supposed to happen now?”

“To you? You were supposed to tell us where the gold is.”

“I didn’t find it, Nikki.”

She had nothing to say to that.

I said, “Suppose I’d found it. Suppose I told you, or MacIver, where to find it. What would have happened then?”

“They expect to make a trade with the KGB. It’s a lot of gold, Harry.”

“Yeah. I know it’s a lot of gold. One million pounds of it. Troy. What was the trade for?”

“Gold.”

“Trading gold for gold?”

“Have you ever heard of washing money?”

“Like gangsters?”

“Yes. That was the plan.”

Organized crime takes in enormous sums of money but it can’t be spent overtly because that would bring the Internal Revenue people down on the spenders. It has to be “washed” first—fu

Nikki said, “The Russians have five hundred tons of Spanish gold in the Ural vaults.”