The Tears Of Autumn

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Christopher was alone, and that was his advantage. He controlled the rhythm of the operation. Driving back to Rome along the Ostia road, he calculated that he had eight days of safe time left. He thought it would be enough. It is almost impossible for a national police force to keep track of a single agent who continues to move, if the agent takes elementary precautions. For Christopher’s opposition, who dared not go outside their own small circle for help, it was hopeless. They could not know where he was going or what he was doing. Their only chance was to catch Christopher in the open and kill him. He didn’t think they would be able to do that.

He parked his car near the railroad station in a no-parking zone. After he had checked his baggage, he called the police and complained that the car was blocking traffic. By the time he made two more phone calls, the police wrecker arrived and towed his car away. He knew it would be under twenty-four-hour guard in the impoundment lot outside the walls of the city. It was the last place the Truong toe’s men would look for it.

He phoned the Hertz rental agency in Milan and reserved a car for pickup in the late afternoon. At the telegraph office in the railroad station he sent a money order to a man in Ajaccio with a terse message that reminded him how little his methods differed from Klimenko’s; the thought caused him to smile as he handed in the cable form and the money, and the clerk gave him a puzzled look: it was odd that a man, sending news of a brother’s death in Christmas week, should look so cheerful.

Finally, Christopher checked the train schedule for Milan again and reserved a first-class seat on the 9:40 express. It was still only 7:30 when he walked out of the terminal and took a cab to the Vatican.

2

Alvaro Urpi had never taken holy orders, but he had come to resemble a monk. He waited for Christopher in a corner of the Vatican library, his broad face still shining with the effect of his morning prayers. Urpi was the son of a Portuguese soldier and a Chinese woman, and his dark features were such a combination of Iberian and Cantonese peasantry that he might have passed in either country as a native. He was twelve, and already sexually corrupted, when the priests took him off the streets of Macao and taught him to read and write. Before he was wenty, the Dominicans discovered his talent for scholarship, and he never for the next forty years lived outside the Church, or wanted to.

Urpi spoke and wrote every known dialect of Chinese. He had all but forgotten Portuguese, however, and when Christopher had brought him a letter from a relative in Macao, Urpi had had to construe it into Latin before he could understand it. Urpi’s relative had wanted him to find a place in a nunnery for one of his nieces. The girl had never taken the veil; she went to live with a policeman. But Urpi had rediscovered his family through Christopher.

“Paul,” he said, “have you brought me some photographs from Macao? How are they out there?”

“Not this time, Alvaro. I’ve come to ask a favor.”

“Ah.”

Urpi moved a stack of books from his desk to the floor, so that he would be able to see Christopher when they sat down. Urpi worked at a carved table, surrounded by battlements of volumes with ideograms stamped on their spines. A great pile of Chinese manuscript, Urpi’s lifework, stood in the middle of the desk.

Christopher handed him the dozen strips of paper he had clipped from the borders of Yu Lung’s horoscopes.

Urpi examined the calligraphy through a magnifying glass. He wore steel-rimmed eyeglasses pushed up on his forehead, but Christopher had never seen him use them. Urpi was very near-sighted. When he read, he used the magnifying glass and put his face close to the print, giving soft grunts of frustration.

Urpi touched Yu Lung’s ideograms with his blunt farmer’s fingers. “Lovely work,” he said. “A very fine brush.”

“Can you translate these for me, Alvaro?”

“Yes, yes,” Urpi said, “but it will take some time. These are complex thoughts, very poetically expressed. This man writes a very old Chinese, and he uses Taoist imagery. How odd. What is he?”

“A horoscoper.”

Urpi looked up, shocked at the word. “Oh, my, Paul.”

“Don’t you want to do it?”

“But of course. I didn’t know you had these superstitions.”

“I haven’t. I just want to know what the manuscript says. In great detail.”

“It will be difficult to render the spirit, you know. This is a rare idiom. May I have a little time?”

“Three days?”

Urpi looked at the long strips of paper again. “All right. But in the end, it may mean nothing to you. You’d have to know what and whom he was writing about and make deductions, even after it was translated. What language do you want it in?”

“Whatever suits you best, Alvaro.”

“Latin is easiest for me-that’s what I’m used to, and I have the Latin equivalents for Chinese words already in my mind.”

“Latin will be fine.”

“Good. The day after Christmas, then. I’ll be here from six in the morning, as always. When do you go to Macao again?”

“Not soon, Alvaro. What do you hear from the family?”

“No Christmas message. I thought you might be bringing it to me. It takes me back, you know-I have grand-nephews now who are as old as I was when th.3 Franciscans took me in. I’m sure they’re as bad as I was-thieves, liars, full of lust. Ah, well, God is waiting for them.”

“I expect so, Alvaro. Please guard those papers well. I’ll want them back.”

“They’re safe here,” Urpi said, indicating the thick walls and the slow figures in black that moved among the books. He waved a hand and put his head down among his books and papers, the magnifying glass against his eye.

3

Christopher slept on the train, protected by three nuns and a schoolboy who shared his compartment. In Bologna he leaned from the window and bought a sandwich and a bottle of beer from a platform vendor. One of the nuns peeled an orange and handed it to him, with the skin arranged around the fruit like the pointed leaves of a lily. She was young, with a sensual face from which prayer had scrubbed all traces of desire. However, the pretty orange, handed across the compartment as if she were feeding a horse and was wary of its teeth, was as much a gift of flirtation as of charity.

When Christopher arrived in midafternoon, Milan was bathed by the nickled light of the winter sun. He stayed long enough to buy two hundred feet of nylon climbing rope, a dozen pitons and a mountaineering hammer, a good camera with a closeup lens, and a small, powerful floodlamp bulb. Then he collected the car from Hertz, making certain that the trunk contained a set of tire chains.

There was little traffic on Route E-9, the road to Switzerland. The car was pushed toward the edge of the road by gusts of wind, and in Como the water of the lake blew over the jetties. At the Swiss frontier, Christopher was required by the relaxed police to show nothing but the green insurance card for his hired automobile. He inquired at Bellinzona, where the road forked, about the condition of the passes, and was advised to cross the Alps through the Splügen pass, since the higher Saint Gotthard and the Furka were closed.

There had been a heavy snowfall in the mountains, and he pulled off the road and attached the chains. It took him a long time to maneuver among the cars that had lost traction on the switchback road leading to the summit. At the top he got behind a Swiss postal bus, equipped with a snowplow and a sander, and followed it down the other side of the mountains into the valley of the Rhine.

It was ten o’clock when he reached Zurich. He drove through the dim streets, past the leaden Swiss architecture, until he found the hotel he was looking for. It stood in the Talstrasse, in a block whose rooftops led into the Bleicherweg.

After he had looked up Dieter Dimpel’s address in the telephone book, he walked along the street until he reached the stone town house that was the bank of Dolder und Co. The bank had a mansard roof, with a steep pitch falling to the eaves but a flat top divided by three tall chimneys. The buildings on either side were twenty feet higher than the bank. Christopher fixed the proportions and the distances in his mind and walked on along the lake shore toward Dimpel’s apartment.

Music filtered through the thick door of Dimpel’s flat. Christopher placed his palm against its polished wood and felt the tremor of drums and tubas. He rang the bell, set in a brass plate on which Dimpel’s name was inscribed in flowing script. There was no response. Christopher pressed the bell again and stepped back from the doorway.

When at last the door swung open, Christopher found himself looking into an entryway lined with timepieces. Grandfather clocks stood in all four corners; wall clocks were arranged edge to edge all around the walls; perpetual-motion clocks stood on the polished surfaces of antique tables. The military music had been turned off. Christopher looked downward and saw Dimpel, so short that the doorknob was above his head.

“What do you wish?” Dimpel asked in Swiss German.

He wore a plum-colored dressing gown and a white ascot. His bare calves were as muscular as a cyclist’s. His blond hair was brilliantined and combed flat on his skull. He had the head and face of a normal man, with wary gray eyes and a long broken nose.

“I’m a friend of Major Johnson,” Christopher said.

Dimpel showed no reaction to the name except to throw back his shoulders and lift his head so that he looked directly into Christopher’s eyes.

“The party-card number was 555,” Christopher said.

Dimpel gave a sharp nod and slapped his bare heels together. “The date was June 4, 1943,” he replied. “I am somewhat occupied just now. Is it urgent?”

“Yes, but I can come back.”

Dimpel ran his eye over his collection of clocks. “Thirty minutes,” he said, winked, and closed the door. As Christopher went down the carpeted stairs, he felt the vibration of band music starting up again on Dimpel’s phonograph.

Christopher went to a café across the street and drank a cup of hot chocolate. It was beginning to snow, plump flakes drifting through the lamplight that fell from the window of the cafe. A girl wearing a loden coat and white knee socks emerged from Dimpel’s building. She looked up and down the wet street for a taxi, shook her head angrily, and strode off through pools of streetlight. Christopher dropped coins on the table and left the empty cafe.

All of Dimpel’s clocks were striking the hour when the midget opened the door. He took Christopher’s coat and went ahead of him through the rooms resounding with chimes and cuckoos. Dimpel now wore a tweed suit with a vest. The red handkerchief in his breast pocket matched his spotted tie.

Dimpel lifted a bottle of brandy from the low table in front of the sofa, showing Christopher the label with an inquiring lift of his eyebrows. Christopher nodded, and Dimpel poured cognac into a large balloon glass. He sat down, pushing himself back into the deep chair by digging his heel into the cushion. His bright eyes followed Christopher’s gaze as he noticed the Dürer engravings on the wall, the porcelain collection on the chimneypiece. There were no clocks in the living room.

“So,” Dimpel said. “How is Major Johnson these days?”

“Very well. He sends you his best wishes.”

Dimpel nodded. “I’m sorry to have sent you away. I’d begun something. It was necessary to finish.”

He had stopped speaking in Swiss dialect, and his German was filled with the mushy diphthongs of Bavaria. Dimpel made no sign that he was less than six feet tall, and Christopher very quickly stopped noticing his size.

He asked to use the toilet, and Dimpel showed him down a long hall, switching on the light for him. The walls of the corridor were crowded with framed photographs of unclothed blond girls, all wearing white knee socks: the pictures were expertly lighted and posed. Because there were so many photographs, the effect was chaste, an arabesque of white skin against whiter cloth, spun hair and closed eyes.

Dimpel slid out of his chair and stood up when Christopher returned. He refilled the brandy glasses and, taking his own in both small hands, thrust his nose into the fumes.

“Are you quite happy with the watch business?” Christopher asked.

Dimpel put his head to one side. “Yes, it’s been a good business. It was an established shop-the old man who owned it had no children, so it went on the market without difficulty. I carry all the good Swiss marks-Omega, Piccard, Rolex, and so on. Also a good line of clocks. I’ve always liked timepieces. What are you wearing?”

Christopher pulled back his left sleeve. “A Rolex.”

“You’re wise to have steel instead of gold-the gold is a waste of money. Your watch will never wear out, but if you should happen to lose it, come and see me. I can save you quite a few francs.”

“Thank you.”

Dimpel waved a hand; the favor was not worth mentioning.

Christopher put down his glass and Dimpel sat straighter in his chair and composed his face, aware that the small talk was over.

“I wonder if you’d consider a proposal,” Christopher said.

“I will consider anything.”

“This is a matter of some urgency. I’m familiar with your work in Berlin.”

“I haven’t done that sort of work for a very long time.”

“I realize that. Have you lost interest in it altogether?”

“It was more interesting than selling watches, I’ll say that. I still climb a little in the summer. Last year I did the Matter-horn-from the Italian side.” Dimpel thumped his chest with a forefinger. “Fifty years old.”

“I compliment you.”

Dimpel decided to stop speaking. He watched Christopher alertly, a look of broad amusement on his face. He flicked his brandy glass with a fingernail and listened to it ring.

“I have a simple job,” Christopher said. “I thought you might undertake it.”

Dimpel pursed his lips, sipped his cognac, made the glass ring again. “What made you think that?” he asked.

“Johnson’s description of the way you worked in Berlin. He thinks you were a genius at what you did.”

“What I did was certainly good for Major Johnson. I was much younger in Berlin. Besides, that sort of thing seems stupid once you’ve stopped doing it. Men like yourself, who go on with it all their lives, find that hard to understand.”

“I’ll describe the job,” Christopher said. “It involves entering a room through a fireplace, opening a file with a simple tumbler lock, photographing documents.”

“What building?”

“A bank in Zurich.”

Dimpel burst into laughter. He had a deep voice. “A bank? In Switzerland?” he cried. “It would be safer to commit sodomy at high noon in the middle of the Bahnhofstrasse.”

“It’s a test of skill,” Christopher said. “However, it can be done, and done cleanly. The security is nothing compared to the headquarters of the GRU in Berlin. Nor are the possible consequences.”

“This is not Berlin in 1946.”

“No. But, with respect, Herr Dimpel, this operation is incomparably more important than anything you did in Berlin.”

Dimpel agitated his cognac glass and again inhaled its fragrance. He seemed deep in thought; then the smile of a man who remembers a pleasure parted his thin lips.

“Let me hear a little more,” he said.

Christopher sketched the roof of Dolder und Co. and the adjoining buildings, showing the distances involved. From memory, he reproduced Klimenko’s drawing of the interior of the bank director’s office.

Dimpel, taking a pair of horn-rimmed reading glasses from his handkerchief pocket, examined the sketches. “What is the access to the roof?” he asked.

Christopher tapped the sketch. “I have a room on the highest floor of this hotel. There’s access to the roof by the fire stairs. One crosses the adjoining roof without difficulty. The roof of the bank will give trouble.”

“Yes. It’s a drop of seven meters from the roof next door, then a climb of what-five meters? On what sort of surface?”

“Copper sheathing.”

“Slippery stuff, and it’s snowing. Then a vertical climb of four meters to the top of the chimney.” Dimpel lifted his cognac and poured the entire contents of the glass into his mouth. “Very challenging,” he said.

“I know nothing about the alarm system, nothing about the internal security,” Christopher said. “This is a high-risk operation, Herr Dimpel. There may be a night watchman. If there is, he cannot be harmed.”

Dimpel folded his spectacles and tapped his front teeth with them. “There is no watchman at Dolder und Co., and certainly no alarms in the chimneys. They’re an old-fashioned firm, and the Swiss have faith in locks. It’s in their national character.”

“Entry has to be made tonight,” Christopher said. “The time element is very strict.”

Dimpel’s clocks struck the half hour, and he gave Christopher a tight-lipped smile full of sly pleasure.

“Why should I do this?” he asked. “Can you explain that to me?”

“I can’t think of a single reason, and if I could I wouldn’t disclose it to you. There’s nothing I can give you, in a material way, that you need. I will say that you’re the only man in the world who can do it.”

“You’re quite right-I have no material needs. Johnson put me beyond the reach of your organization, you know, when he set me up in the watch business. I thought that rather a joke on you people. The British would never have done that, or the Russians.”

“Would you have preferred working for them?”

“An agent always works for himself. It’s a mental disease, that work. Quite incurable.”

The sing-song tone of German sarcasm had crept into Dimpel’s voice, and Christopher thought he had failed. Dimpel went to the window and stood on tiptoe to look out. He carried himself erect and all his movements were stylized; he planted his feet firmly on the Chinese carpet, drank from his glass with soldierly precision. Christopher remembered Trevor Hitchcock’s description of Dimpel: the midget did have the manners of a field marshal. He clasped his hands behind his back and turned to face Christopher.

“The snow is coming down harder,” he said. “Another difficulty.”

“Yes, you’d leave tracks on the roof.”

“Who would see them? I was thinking of the danger of a fall.”

“Then perhaps we’d better talk no more about it,” Christopher said. “I’ve enjoyed meeting you, and the cognac.”

He stood up and held out his hand, palm upward, for his coat. Dimpel looked Christopher up and down and shifted his feet on the carpet.

“One moment,” Dimpel said.

He strode out of the room. When he returned he was carrying Christopher’s coat and a scuffed, bulging rucksack. He wore a leather trench coat and a woolen cap. He nodded briskly to Christopher and slung the rucksack. They went out together into the snowstorm.

4

In Christopher’s hotel room, Dimpel changed into climbing clothes and attached crampons to his boots. He inspected the rope Christopher had bought in Milan with great care and tossed the pitons contemptuously onto the bed.

Dimpel put the camera in the chest pocket of his parka, draped a coil of rope over his shoulder, and handed Christopher the extra rope. He ran up the stairs to the hotel roof; once in the open air, he spread his arms and took deep breaths one after the other, exhaling noisily through his nose. Snowflakes gathered in his thick eyebrows. He showed Christopher with gestures how he wanted him to assist.

Christopher, braced at the edge of the roof with the rope belayed around his waist, felt only a slight strain as Dimpel rappelled down the wall of the building. He was lost from sight for a moment, then Christopher saw him on the roof of the bank, running up the steep pitch of the gambrel, his weight thrown into the slope.

Dimpel reached the top, swung his arms for balance, and walked across the roof, leaving footprints behind him. At the base of the farthest chimney, he uncoiled the second rope and cast it toward the top of the chimney; Christopher heard the faint rattle of the grappling hook. Dimpel tugged on the rope and walked up the bricks, his body nearly horizontal. He sat on the top for a moment with the snow drifting down around him before he adjusted the grappling hook, seized the rope, and dropped out of sight down the chimney.

While Dimpel was inside the bank the storm worsened. Christopher, waiting on the roof, was unable to see the street six stories below, and he glimpsed Dimpel’s climbing figure only faintly when it emerged from the chimney and came back across the housetops.

Dimpel didn’t speak until they were inside Christopher’s hotel room again. Dimpel’s face was blackened like a commando’s as a result of his passage through the chimney and he smelled of coal smoke. He bent his arm with a brisk movement and looked at the large sporting watch on his wrist.

“Thirty-one minutes exactly, from start to finish,” he said with a satisfied nod. He dropped the coil of rope on the floor and handed Christopher the camera.

Dimpel stripped off his climbing clothes and stuffed them in his rucksack. Thick blond hair grew on his chest and shoulders, and his skin, pink and healthy from many baths, shone with sweat. He went into the bathroom, and Christopher heard him clearing his throat and spitting, and then the rush of the shower.

When Dimpel came out again, his hair was slicked down and he had wrapped a towel around his waist. He put on his street clothes, brushing imaginary specks of dust from each garment, and tied his silk necktie with great attention to the size of the knot.

“There were five documents in the file you wanted,” he said. “A deposit slip, a memorandum of identity, an explanation of the withdrawal code, a withdrawal slip, and a police report. I took four photographs of each, as there was no brace for the camera and the light was not good. If the film was fast enough, you’ll have readable copies.”

“Thank you,” Christopher said. “That was very quick work.”

“It was simple work, and therefore very dirty.” Dimpel looked at his fingernails, took a gold penknife from his pocket, and began to clean them.

“The matter of payment,” Christopher said. “How do you want that arranged?”

“I have no need for money.” Dimpel closed his penknife and threw his head back with a snap. “Do you have German blood?” he asked.

“Half, from my mother.”

“I thought so. You look German. You have the manner, the confidence, of a German officer.”

Christopher had never been paid a compliment that he desired less. He made no reply. What Dimpel said next he said in his ordinary brisk tone of voice.

“Major Johnson may have told you about my early connection with Adolf Hitler.”

“Yes.”

“You’re hiding a smile. I see you know the entire story. No, don’t protest-I understand. I’ve thought much about that man. He was an obvious fool. Yet he was permitted to make history-destroy Germany. I mean its architecture, which was a work of art, and its name.”

Dimpel paused and watched Christopher’s face, as if awaiting a reaction to some startling bit of information.

“What I would like from you,” he said, “is something from your government’s collection of booty that belonged personally to Adolf Hitler.”

Christopher saw a glint of humor in the calm depths of Dimpel’s eyes. “Have you any particular item in mind?” he asked.

“Something that he wore or a personal document. Not so large that it will not fit into a good-sized picture frame.”

“You’re going to hang it on your wall?”

Dimpel was grinning now. “Yes, in a gold frame with a light shining on it. After I’ve used it to wipe my behind.”

Dimpel picked up his rucksack, set his cap on his head, shook hands firmly, and left.

5

Christopher started south again at first light, and he was in Rome by early evening. The city was loud with the rough music of the bagpipers.

What had been snow in Zurich was rain in Rome. Christopher turned into the slow traffic along the Lungotevere; the windows of his car were steamed and the wipers could barely keep the windshield clear of the sluicing rain. There were two Vietnamese in his street, one at either end of the block in which his apartment building stood. One of them had draped a sodden newspaper over his head. A third Vietnamese sat in a black Citroen with Paris plates, smoking a cigarette. The eyes of all three men were fixed on the entrance to Christopher’s apartment, and even if they had been able to see into his car they would not have recognized him driving by in the snarl of rush-hour traffic.