Red traitor, p.12
Red Traitor, page 12
The General said the words as though he were imparting a social pleasantry. Vasin groped for words that might stay Orlov’s wrath against Tokarev. The man might be a snitch, but he was also Vasin’s only pair of eyes inside the Aquarium. And could it be that some mistake of Vasin’s had given away his connection to Tokarev to his ruthless Army bosses? He almost felt responsible for what was about to happen to the poor handless bastard.
But before Vasin could say anything more, Orlov raised both hands in a gesture that was half-hieratic, half-comic, waved goodbye to Vasin, and disappeared inside the house.
9
3rd Frunze Street, Moscow
20 August 1962
The morning was breezy, with a hint of autumnal freshness. The courtyard of Vasin’s apartment building was scented with the fragrance of the sour green Antonovka apples ripening on the boulevard outside the archways. A competing cacophony of upbeat radio music sounded from open kitchen windows. Vasin strode out his front door and looked up at the cloudless blue sky. For the first time in months, he felt confident and almost happy. Morozov would soon be caught red-handed. Vasin’s personal nightmare would soon be over. As for the rest…Vasin felt, frankly, that he didn’t give a damn. He could forget about missiles, forget Cuba. As long as he got the Morozov case closed.
The second he spotted Tokarev, Vasin knew that something was terribly wrong. The man was leaning by the large archway that led from the courtyard onto the street, his uniform tunic unbuttoned. His body hung limp, like a marionette with cut strings. Vasin flinched. Orlov’s vengeance had come swiftly.
“Tokarev! What’s happened?”
The old cavalryman’s look was wild.
“Vasin. I beg you. Get Saida back. Please.”
“Get who back?”
Vasin steered the older man under the shelter of the archway, out of earshot of the curious babushkas who inhabited the courtyard.
“My wife. They came for her last night.”
“The kontora? What was the charge?”
“Not the kontora. The nuthouse ambulance. Took her to the Serbsky Institute.”
The words hit Vasin like a punch to the stomach. The Serbsky State Scientific Center for Social and Forensic Psychiatry was Moscow’s most secure, and most notorious, psychiatric hospital. Vasin closed his eyes for a long moment. “Consider Tokarev dealt with,” Orlov had said. But…the man’s wife? To the Serbsky? The picture was already horribly clear in Vasin’s mind. Tokarev’s wife, struggling and screaming, the burly orderlies holding her down and jamming needles into her arm until they found a vein. And then—slackness and silence. Terror locked in her eyes only, her body paralyzed. Vasin had seen it done in the madhouses where his poor, crazy sister Klara had ended her short life.
“Vasin, I can explain. It’s true. I talked to Zimin. He made it sound like he knew everything already…”
“That can wait. Just tell me why.”
“Why? You’re saying you had nothing to do with this? Orlov didn’t?” Tokarev was so desperate that he could barely speak. Anger flashed in his eyes.
“I meant, why your wife. Saida? Why did they take her?”
“Because Saida had…” Tokarev flailed to find words. “Something wrong with her head. When she was young, she saw some things during the war that drove her mad. Under Fascist occupation in Kharkov. She was a slave laborer. They made her do…terrible things. Things that broke her mind. Execution pits. Witnessing mass murder. Things you and I can’t imagine. She had a breakdown. Ended up in the durka.”
Durka—slang for durdom, literally the crazy house.
“And so you asked Orlov to help get her out?”
“Don’t pretend you didn’t know, you piece of shit.”
Vasin stepped back, afraid that the powerful old soldier was about to swing at him with his clublike hands.
“I didn’t. Tokarev, I had no idea. I swear.”
Tokarev wiped the spittle from his mouth on his sleeve, visibly willing himself to calm down.
“She was my fiancée then, Vasin. And yes. Back when Orlov first recruited me, I asked him that favor. And he did it. He got her out and gave her back to me.”
“The favor that put you on the hook.”
“Whatever you Chekists call it. But right now we have to get her out. Now.”
“Before they tie her to a cot and pump her full of drugs.”
Vasin was speaking half to himself. The image of his sister Klara, skeletal and delirious on her psychiatric hospital bed, rose from the darkest place in his memory. The indifferent doctors, the rancid stink of the patients’ urine-soaked bedding, the naked fear in Klara’s eyes in the moments when she was not sedated.
“What do you know about the nuthouse?” Tokarev peered at Vasin narrowly, suspecting some trick.
A young woman shepherding a group of boisterous children appeared in the archway, passing between the two men and forcing them into silence as they made their way into the courtyard. Once they had gone, Vasin closed the space between himself and the older man. He drew close enough to breathe Tokarev’s sour breath. The man was unshaved—was it Saida who shaved him?—and his shirt and even breeches were unbuttoned. This smartly turned-out officer, just days before so stiff and proud, had been undone in every way.
“Let’s say family history.”
Tokarev’s taut and furious face sagged, against his own will, into something more tragic and desperate.
“Vasin. You have to understand…”
“No. You have to understand. You fucked with Orlov. What did you expect, for God’s sake?” Vasin felt his anger rising. He had never met Saida Tokareva, but his heart ached for what she must be going through. “Don’t you know Orlov? Did you have no fucking idea of what he does to people who cross him?”
“We were seen together, Vasin. Don’t ask me when or where. But Zimin came to me. He knew all about you. He asked me, ‘We know you’ve been talking to Orlov’s man. This Vasin—who the fuck is he?’ And what could I say? This is your fault.”
Vasin took half a step back and turned to face the sunlit courtyard. It was possible that he had inadvertently exposed Tokarev to danger. And Vasin could think of no earthly reason why Tokarev would go to his bosses voluntarily. Because Tokarev must have known precisely what Orlov was capable of. Shit. Even at one degree of separation from Orlov, Vasin poisoned everything he touched.
“I beg you, Vasin. Get her out. Help me get her out. Do anything. I will do anything. But…I can’t live without her. I can’t.” Abruptly, Tokarev burst into tears. The sight was so terrible that Vasin involuntarily turned away from it. He struggled to find words of comfort, but could think of none. Except for one thing.
“Tokarev. I can’t help you right now. Nothing I can say to Orlov will change his mind. You know him. Or you knew him. He may be an avenger. He’s cold—but he’s logical. Cross him, and he’ll destroy you. Help him, and he’ll reward you. So please. For Saida’s sake, find out something that Orlov can use. Something secret. Something powerful. That’s the only thing you can do to save Saida.”
With another man—a less proud and less valiant man—Vasin might have put a comforting hand on the shoulder. But Tokarev stood almost to attention before him, infinitely pathetic and at the same time dignified in his unbuttoned clothes. He fixed Vasin with bloodshot eyes and nodded, slightly, in acknowledgment of Vasin’s cold, brutal logic. Then he turned on his heel and marched—not walked—out into the sunlit street.
10
VDNKh, Moscow
20 August 1962
There was a chill in the air of the sunny afternoon that made Vasin shiver in his thin raincoat. The Exhibition of the Achievements of the People’s Economy was crowded with groups of schoolchildren and shuffling busloads of workers up from the provinces. A group of janitors in blue overalls, wielding mops and rags, was giving the gold leaf–covered fountain a cleaning before it was enfolded in its burlap winter coverings.
“Are you going to buy me a soda?”
Despite being married to a KGB general, Katya Orlova was terrible at conspiracy. Her idea of being inconspicuous was to wear a foreign-looking bright yellow coat and electric-blue headscarf. Vasin stood wearily to greet her. A sleepless night had drained the strength from his body and the color from his face.
“Sasha. You look terrible. What’s happened?”
“Orlov happened. Serov happened.”
Katya’s face clouded over. She took Vasin by the arm and began walking away from an approaching crowd of tourists.
“Tell me.”
“Serov threatened me. His man did, at least. Told me to lay off Morozov. Claimed that he’s being run as a double agent by the military. Suggested it, anyway. But he’s not.”
“They threatened you with what?”
“With being crushed, like wheat in a mill. Between the kontora and the Aquarium. Your husband already bulldozed the Army man who informed on me. Old cavalryman, war veteran, lost his hands to a grenade. Your husband had his wife committed to a mental asylum. So Christ knows what they’ll do to me.”
“So you’re nervous because you think you’re expendable? A pawn in my husband’s game? Sasha—that’s exactly what you are.”
Vasin stopped in his tracks.
“He said something more to you?”
“Orlov never says much to me. But I promised you to keep my eyes and ears open. And he speaks to his cronies, at dinner. Last night they talked about Cuba again.”
“Operation Anadyr?”
“Be quiet and listen. They said the Cubans have agreed. Castro’s brother finalized the details when he was in Moscow. So it’s now on. That’s the news. Something about our military coming up with a plan for a missile base close to America? Well. The Cubans are convinced. They think it will make their island safe from Yankee attack.”
“And Orlov? His kontora friends…?”
“Think it’s madness. Especially if the Americans find out about it. It will provoke a war, unless it’s stopped. That’s what Voznesensky said. Deputy head of the First Chief Directorate.”
“Stopped how? If the operation is under way it means that the Politburo has already signed off. It’s happening, right?”
Katya shrugged in reply.
“I didn’t ask any questions. I just fetched the cognac.”
“Did they say anything else?”
“That’s not enough for you? I promised to give you the table talk of generals. Sounded important to me.”
“Yes. Katya, it’s very important. But…”
“Sasha. You don’t get to ask the questions. You take what you are given, by those who do. Does that seem brutal? I don’t mean to be brutal. But we live in the world where we live. You take the freedom that you are given. I can give you knowledge, which is also a kind of freedom. Because it is power. Just do me a favor—use it to stay alive. For us.”
So Anadyr was a go. Not even Orlov and the kontora—or at least, his friends in the kontora—had been able to do anything to stop it. Sofia was waiting for Vasin’s coded call, a wrong number from a public telephone to her office line. The signal to pass on the Anadyr file that evening. Vasin could stall no more.
He parted from Katya with as much warmth as he could summon. Then Vasin stared, unseeing, at the soaring golden spire of the Moldavian Soviet Socialist Republic pavilion.
Could it be that Orlov wanted Morozov to tell the Yankees about the Soviets’ catastrophic lack of long-range missiles? About Anadyr?
11
Pioneers’ Ponds, Moscow
23 August 1962
The surface of Pioneers’ Ponds was absolutely still. Even the ducks on their floating islands in the middle of the small lake slept, motionless as decoys. A few citizens hurried home through the late-summer dusk.
Vasin crept across the darkened kontora surveillance apartment and crouched beside Pushkov’s bulk as he sat at his post by the window. In front of Pushkov, a pair of artillery binoculars mounted on a tripod pointed straight at Morozov’s windows on the opposite side of the Ponds. The veteran watcher moved aside, allowing Vasin to peer through into Morozov’s dining room, where the Colonel was stolidly slurping soup with his wife and daughter. The family’s halting conversation about the weather came over a hissing loudspeaker attached to an ever-spinning reel-to-reel tape deck.
“Anything?”
But Vasin could see from Pushkov’s face that their man had not broken cover. He retreated into the lit kitchen of the apartment with Pushkov to pore over the surveillance reports. Office. Metro. Home. Office. Three days since Sofia had passed him the crucial Anadyr file, and still no sign of any variation in Morozov’s daily routine. No sudden disappearances, no attempts to dodge surveillance. And yet there remained huge spaces of blank time when their target was beyond their sight. Whenever he was at work in the Aquarium headquarters, for instance. Or inside the Ministry of Defense. And all the time in between he was moving, moving, brushing past dozens of strangers every day in the office, in the metro.
“A handoff can be a dropped matchbox, Colonel.” Pushkov’s voice was hoarse from smoking, his tone gruffly comforting. The old thug knew the stakes—some of them, at least—for Vasin’s career if he failed to nail Morozov. The tired team had been briefed to be on high alert from the moment that Sofia had handed Morozov the file on Monday night. “A signal can be a raised curtain. A flowerpot in a window, moved about. A bag carried in the left hand or the right. Could be anything.”
Vasin felt the older man straightening to receive an earful of recrimination from a frustrated boss. It would bounce off the old bruiser like dry peas off a wall. But Vasin could feel himself starting to panic and plowed on. “Not your fault if you miss a traitor meeting with his American controllers, correct, Pushkov?”
“No unusual activity reported among any American diplomats, despite reinforced observation. We continue to fulfill our duties to the maximum, Comrade Colonel.”
The older man’s voice had gone very flat. Pushkov’s unspoken message to Vasin was clear. Whatever shit we’re going to be eating if we fuck this up, boss? You get a wagonful. And me? Just a spadeful.
12
Kursky Station, Moscow
23 August 1962
The crowded concourse of Kursky Station was an outpost of southern Russia in the heart of Moscow. The platforms were full of Ukrainian peasant women in bright cotton sarafan wraparound summer dresses. Some hauled suitcases stuffed with dried apricots and raisins while others swigged cloudy homemade fruit juice from bottles. A group of swarthy men were arguing in guttural Armenian over a spilled sack of sunflower seeds whose oil gave off a sweet scent as the kernels were crushed under the feet of the passing crowds. The travelers’ faces were red-brown, scorched by the hot sun of the south.
Vasin kept a hand on Nikita’s shoulder as he steered the boy through the throng. The lanky fourteen-year-old was nearly as tall as his father. He wore a spotless white shirt, black shorts, and a carefully ironed Young Pioneer scarlet tie. His black fore-and-aft pilot’s cap was decorated with good-conduct badges.
The train for the elite Young Pioneer camp at Artek in the Crimea stood in pride of place on platform 1, usually reserved for official delegations and bigwig visitors. A sea of white-and-scarlet-uniformed boys milled about a series of numbered flags held by older boys as they slowly separated themselves into groups.
“You’re in Four Company, right, Nikita?”
“Dad. I know. I’ll be okay from here.”
“Got your documents? Ticket?”
“Dad.”
Nikita took the heavy Army knapsack from his father and hoisted it over his own shoulder. He smiled quickly and gave Vasin a private, belly-height wave as though waving goodbye might be seen as babyish. The kid turned and was quickly lost in the crowd of identical Soviet boys.
Vasin joined a group of parents and chauffeurs who were waiting to see the train off. A well-heeled crowd had gathered for this, the most prestigious of the camp’s end-of-August vacation slots. The housewives of the Party elite were in their summery finery, accompanied by the occasional bodyguard. Vasin had put on his KGB uniform for the occasion—not that it made Nikita any less embarrassed to be seen with his dad. Looking around, Vasin realized that he was probably the only father present. In this exalted company, being a mere lieutenant colonel was positively humble.
A barked order echoed down the platform and the boys’ excited chatter died down as they hurriedly shuffled into rows, standing at an approximation of attention with their right arms raised in the Young Pioneers’ salute. On the next command they broke formation and boarded their respective carriages in obedient silence. Vasin prayed that Nikita would enjoy the camp. According to the lavish brochure, Artek boasted three swimming pools, a stadium, and even its own film studio, Artekfilm. But maybe it had been a mistake to send the boy off with so many mazhory—the not-so-respectful slang for the spoiled kids of the elite.
“You don’t want him to become a mazhor?” Vera had asked sarcastically when Vasin voiced his doubts. “What do you want him to be? A simple Soviet person?”
She had said it like an insult.
Once the throng of children had boarded, a row of smartly uniformed conductresses, one to each carriage, took their positions along the length of the train. Each carried a triangular red flag under her arm. In a charmingly choreographed move, the women all swung left, then right, then raised their flags in unison to signal the all-clear. The guard’s whistle blew, answered by a blast from the locomotive. As the train began to slowly move out, the conductresses stepped on board. Some lingered, riding on the steel-mesh steps for a few moments until the train exceeded walking pace before climbing inside and hauling the doors shut behind them. Some of the mothers politely applauded the girls’ performance and waved their children off south, to the sea and sun.
