Robert Conroy - Red Inferno

“You’ve charmed him,” Natalie said, continuing to laugh. Burke decided he was glad he had brought her, although he would now have to have his uniform cleaned. Korzov had spilled a drink on his pants and there were food stains on the front of his Eisenhower jacket as well.

“Everybody loves me,” he said and then froze. There was something wrong with his jacket. Carefully, he patted his chest and confirmed what his mind had told him. There was something inside his jacket. Korzov had slipped him what felt like a sheet of paper.

“Steven, is something the matter?” Natalie looked worried at the sudden change in his behavior.

He leaned down and whispered in her ear. She nodded understanding. “Excuse me, please,” he said loudly. “I have to go to the restroom. I don’t think I should have had that shrimp.”

He had said that last part for anyone who might have been listening, although common sense told him that it wasn’t necessary and no one could possibly be eavesdropping on them in the din.

The men’s john was almost empty and he had no problem finding a stall. Deciding to play the role to the hilt, he closed the door, dropped his pants, and seated himself on the fairly clean commode before retrieving the document. The paper was a folded sheet of loose-leaf on which a message had been written by hand and in Russian. He scowled and tried to read it. The penmanship was crude and not at all like the scholarly works he was used to perusing.

The words came slowly and, as he translated them in his mind, shocked him and filled him with dread. He read them a second time, and then a third before he was satisfied that he had made no mistake. With shaking hands, he folded the paper again and stuck it in his pants pocket. Now he felt the enormity of what he knew and the preposterousness of his own situation. If there was a more vulnerable position for a human being than enthroned on a toilet, he couldn’t think of one. Yet here he was in the men’s room of the Soviet embassy with his pants literally down around his ankles and a message from a traitor in his pocket. The NKVD could burst in and kill him without his lifting a finger or his pants.

Fearing the tramp of footsteps, he flushed the toilet, straightened his clothing, and stepped quickly out into the hall. Natalie was speaking with several Russians and they were not pleased to see him return. When she took his arm again, the Soviets grudgingly departed toward the bar.

“Are you all right?”

“No. It’s my stomach,” he lied, again speaking for any unseen listeners. “I think we should leave immediately.”

She blinked and nodded understanding, and they stepped out into the cool of the night. “I’ve got to contact Marshall,” he said, and her eyes widened.

“The chief of staff? Now? My God, Steve, what was in that message?”

They had found his car and he opened the door for her. He deferred answering until they were well under way. “The Reds,” he finally told her, “are mad as hell that we are sending those two divisions toward Berlin and are going to attack them at first contact.”

They drove in silence in the direction of the Potomac River and Arlington. Steve concentrated on his driving while Natalie sat stunned. Finally, after several glances in the rearview of his ’36 Buick, Steve nervously broached a concern.

“Natalie, I think we’re being followed.” It was a line out of a dumb movie and he felt foolish for saying it, but the lights of the same car had been behind him for some time. Natalie turned and looked behind her.

“Turn right on Constitution,” she commanded. It would take them past the White House and toward the river. The Soviet embassy was only a few blocks from the White House. Ironically, they had driven around the White House on their way toward Constitution Avenue. He obeyed and saw the mystery car turn as well.

“Okay,” she said. “Keep going in this direction until you hit the road that leads to the Memorial Bridge and the cemetery.”

Steve did as instructed and watched as the car kept pace with them. “Natalie, could someone have seen Korzov give me the message?” The answer did not have to be spoken. If he was being followed then someone had indeed seen it pass. It also meant they were in danger. Whoever was following them had no real idea where he was headed. However, they would figure it out in a couple of minutes.

They made the bridge and crossed over into Arlington. There the road split. Turn right and they would be in a civilian area. Turn left and they would be headed toward Fort Myer and the newly constructed Pentagon. It would be a clear signal of intent to whoever was following them. He turned left.

The car followed and seemed to speed up. “Hang on,” Steve yelled. Hang on to what? he thought inanely as he jammed the accelerator to the floor and felt the big car’s surge of power.

The other vehicle continued to gain. For what seemed an eternity, the chase went on. Now he could see the lighted gate to Fort Myer and two guards, probably armed. He urged the Buick forward and leaned on the horn. In the mirror he saw a couple of winking lights and realized to his horror that they were being shot at. Something clanged. The car had been hit.

As the car careened wildly toward the gate, Steve saw the first two guards drawing pistols and two more men with rifles appearing from the shadows. He waited until the last second and slammed on the brakes. The mystery car did an abrupt and high-speed U-turn and sped away.

An MP with a. 45 automatic drawn and aimed at them approached cautiously. He lowered the weapon only slightly when he saw Burke’s rank. “Sir, just what is going on?”

“Get the officer of the guard,” Burke ordered.

A second MP took up station on the other side of the car. “He’s on his way, Colonel.”

A few moments later, a very young lieutenant arrived and seemed stunned when Burke told him to contact General Marshall immediately.

Despite the MP lieutenant’s understandable reluctance to call the general at that late hour, they finally did make telephone contact with someone at Marshall’s residence, and Burke insisted that it was extremely important that a lowly lieutenant colonel see the chief of staff immediately.

Marshall received them in his library and in uniform. The short drive from the gate had given the man a chance to dress.

Marshall glanced at Natalie and seemed to glare briefly at the stains on Burke’s uniform. Whatever Burke had, he clearly thought it both too important to wait for morning and to change into a clean uniform.

“All right, Colonel, what do you have for me?”

Burke quickly explained about the party and how Korzov had delivered the message. He handed the folded paper to Marshall, who looked at it briefly while Burke gave a summary translation and then put it aside.

“Burke, you are certain this says what you think it does?”

“I am, but please have the translation confirmed by others.”

Natalie interrupted. “I’ve read it as well and I agree with Steve’s interpretation.”

If Marshall thought it strange that she, a civilian and a female, had been allowed to see such an important document, he didn’t show it. “You have a Russian background?” the general finally asked her.

“I was born there,” she answered. “My parents were minor nobility and what are now referred to as White Russians. Those of us who survived the revolution and the wars left in the 1920s and made it to the United States. My first language was Russian and I am now employed at the State Department.”

Marshall nodded. “What do you think of Stalin?” he asked her.

“He is a thief and a murderer.” She said this with a venom that caused Marshall to blink. “He had several members of my family, including my father and sister, executed for the crime of being born.”