from the British navy, posing as art students, up the Danube, to sink a line of barges and block the river. Since almost all Roumanian oil is barged to Germany, a logical solution.”
“That was in the newspapers. A loud snicker from Dr. Goebbels.”
“A justified snicker. The Germans fooled them—got them to go ashore, then stole their fuel. A
débâcle.
And there were other attempts; a plan to bribe fifty river pilots, to disappear, and murder the other ten. A guerrilla raid on the Tintea field, which is the high-pressure field, thwarted by diplomatic concerns. Some other plot, betrayed by an oil executive in London. There may have been more, that I don’t know about and never will, but the lesson is clear, this is harder than it looks.”
“Encore merde?”
“With pleasure, a Wagnerian chorus of it.”
“And, when they’re done, I have a rather simpleminded question.”
“Ask.”
“Why don’t the Germans simply double their synthetic output?”
“Certainly there is such a plan in the economic ministry, and if they could wave a magic wand, they would. However, these plants take time and resources to build, and the Bergius process demands an extraordinary tonnage of coal—you don’t want to starve the Krupp forges. No guns if you do that. They will certainly build more refineries, but they will also lose capacity to British bombing. So, today, they must have the Roumanian oil. And, tomorrow. And, I believe, for a long time to come.”
“Mademoiselle Dubon. Tell me, what would you do?”
She thought it over for a time, then said, “Well, I leave the miserable details to you and your friends, but there are only two possibilities, as far as I can see. If this is to be a secret operation, sabotage, then there must be, at some level, Roumanian complicity. The only other choice is waves of British bombers, willing to accept an obscene casualty rate from the antiaircraft protection. It took Empire Jack and his Roumanians ten days to do their work, so the small-unit commando raid isn’t an option. And then, you are surely aware that the Roumanians and their German friends know you’re coming. They are waiting for you, my dear.”
There was a silence when she stopped talking. He could hear typewriters in other offices, a telephone rang. Finally she said “So,” raised an eyebrow, and left it at that.
“You’ve been very helpful,” Serebin said. She didn’t, he could see from her expression, especially believe it.
A man appeared in the doorway, a dossier under one arm. “Ah, excuse me,” he said, “I’ll...”
Serebin stood up. Mademoiselle Dubon said, “You can come in, Jacques. This is Monsieur Blanc from the finance ministry, he was just leaving.” Over the man’s shoulder, as he shook hands with Serebin, she mouthed the words
bon courage.
29 December. When Serebin returned to his hotel, in late afternoon, there was a letter waiting for him at the desk. When he saw the Turkish stamps and the handwritten address, each letter carefully drawn in blunt pencil, he knew what it meant. He took the letter up to his room and sat on the bed and, after a time, he opened it.
“
Gospodin,
I am grieved to tell you that Tamara Petrovna was taken to the hospital. Doctor says it will only be a few days.” Serebin looked at the postmark, the letter had taken three weeks to get to Paris. “She wanted me to write that she says farewell to you, that you must take care, that you are right in what you do.” The words Tamara had spoken were underlined. The letter went on. Could they stay at the house, for now? They must look for work. This was life. God watched over them all.
That same afternoon, in Istanbul, on the second floor of a waterfront lokanta called Karim Bey, Janos Polanyi ate a bland stew of chicken and tomatoes. Seated across from him was an English businessman, long a resident of the city, who owned entrepôts in the port of Uskudar, on the Asian shore. The Englishman was known as Mr. Brown.
“That was in the newspapers. A loud snicker from Dr. Goebbels.”
“A justified snicker. The Germans fooled them—got them to go ashore, then stole their fuel. A
débâcle.
And there were other attempts; a plan to bribe fifty river pilots, to disappear, and murder the other ten. A guerrilla raid on the Tintea field, which is the high-pressure field, thwarted by diplomatic concerns. Some other plot, betrayed by an oil executive in London. There may have been more, that I don’t know about and never will, but the lesson is clear, this is harder than it looks.”
“Encore merde?”
“With pleasure, a Wagnerian chorus of it.”
“And, when they’re done, I have a rather simpleminded question.”
“Ask.”
“Why don’t the Germans simply double their synthetic output?”
“Certainly there is such a plan in the economic ministry, and if they could wave a magic wand, they would. However, these plants take time and resources to build, and the Bergius process demands an extraordinary tonnage of coal—you don’t want to starve the Krupp forges. No guns if you do that. They will certainly build more refineries, but they will also lose capacity to British bombing. So, today, they must have the Roumanian oil. And, tomorrow. And, I believe, for a long time to come.”
“Mademoiselle Dubon. Tell me, what would you do?”
She thought it over for a time, then said, “Well, I leave the miserable details to you and your friends, but there are only two possibilities, as far as I can see. If this is to be a secret operation, sabotage, then there must be, at some level, Roumanian complicity. The only other choice is waves of British bombers, willing to accept an obscene casualty rate from the antiaircraft protection. It took Empire Jack and his Roumanians ten days to do their work, so the small-unit commando raid isn’t an option. And then, you are surely aware that the Roumanians and their German friends know you’re coming. They are waiting for you, my dear.”
There was a silence when she stopped talking. He could hear typewriters in other offices, a telephone rang. Finally she said “So,” raised an eyebrow, and left it at that.
“You’ve been very helpful,” Serebin said. She didn’t, he could see from her expression, especially believe it.
A man appeared in the doorway, a dossier under one arm. “Ah, excuse me,” he said, “I’ll...”
Serebin stood up. Mademoiselle Dubon said, “You can come in, Jacques. This is Monsieur Blanc from the finance ministry, he was just leaving.” Over the man’s shoulder, as he shook hands with Serebin, she mouthed the words
bon courage.
29 December. When Serebin returned to his hotel, in late afternoon, there was a letter waiting for him at the desk. When he saw the Turkish stamps and the handwritten address, each letter carefully drawn in blunt pencil, he knew what it meant. He took the letter up to his room and sat on the bed and, after a time, he opened it.
“
Gospodin,
I am grieved to tell you that Tamara Petrovna was taken to the hospital. Doctor says it will only be a few days.” Serebin looked at the postmark, the letter had taken three weeks to get to Paris. “She wanted me to write that she says farewell to you, that you must take care, that you are right in what you do.” The words Tamara had spoken were underlined. The letter went on. Could they stay at the house, for now? They must look for work. This was life. God watched over them all.
That same afternoon, in Istanbul, on the second floor of a waterfront lokanta called Karim Bey, Janos Polanyi ate a bland stew of chicken and tomatoes. Seated across from him was an English businessman, long a resident of the city, who owned entrepôts in the port of Uskudar, on the Asian shore. The Englishman was known as Mr. Brown.
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