Red traitor, p.13
Red Traitor, page 13
As Vasin turned to go he froze. A group of soldiers in camouflage battle dress and the maroon berets of the Spetznaz stood on the concourse. All carried sidearms and new-model folding-stock Kalashnikovs. At their head, standing squarely with his hands on his hips and staring directly at Vasin, was General Zimin.
Involuntarily, Vasin looked from side to side for escape routes. But no—a voice of reason in his head told him that even the GRU would never dare to try to arrest him in the middle of Moscow’s busiest rail terminal. Steeling himself, he forced his body into a slow and steady walk, right up to the glowering Zimin.
“What are you doing here, General?”
“Kid get off okay to Artek, Colonel?”
Vasin struggled to suppress a blinding wave of rage and fear that swept over him like nausea.
“God damn it, Zimin. If you even think…”
“What’s that, Vasin? You going to tell me that women and children are off-limits? After what your motherfucking boss did to poor Tokarev’s wife?”
Zimin’s barked profanity caused heads to turn in disapproval. Surrounding passengers waiting for trains began to watch the growing confrontation with interest. Vasin’s anger burst like a popping balloon.
“That’s between your chief and mine. Nothing to do with me. Or you.” Vasin had moved closer to Zimin, his voice a furious whisper. He was half a head shorter than the General, but transported by his rage, Vasin stuck a finger in Zimin’s broad chest and held it there as he spoke. “And you are right. My man Orlov is an evil motherfucker. But he’s my man. Do you have any conception of how utterly and completely the KGB can fuck you and your family up if you touch me? Or my kid? So listen to me very carefully. I was there when Orlov decided to destroy Tokarev. He didn’t think about it more than he would swatting a mosquito. Orlov has files full of dirt on every Politburo member and Army bigwig. He’s picking some kind of death match with your boss. You and I are merely under orders. You think our chiefs give a shit about either of us? Our kids? I can speak for Orlov: he really doesn’t, I promise you. Both of them will toss us to the dogs if they need to. We’ll just be collateral damage. But just think about this, Zimin—you don’t fight dirty with the guys who invented dirty fighting. We listen in on half the country as they screw their wives at night. We know every person you call and every movie you see. Your kids’ teachers, your doctor, your wife’s friends? They’re ours. The kontora runs over two thousand gulags. We have torture chambers. We have nuthouses. And we have a whole army of very expert, very experienced sadists at our command. Believe me when I say that I’ve seen what they can do to a man. Or a woman.”
Zimin had retreated a step before Vasin’s rage. His eyes had widened, as though a puny kid he’d being expecting to bully easily had suddenly waved a switchblade in his face. Vasin pressed on, relentless.
“So here’s what’s going to happen, General. We’re both going to walk away from here. We’re going to do our jobs as honorable Soviet officers, and nothing more. That way everyone stays alive. And maybe one day both of us get to work for normal human beings instead of a pair of hate-fueled maniacs. Have I made myself clear?”
Both men looked around at the crowd of spectators who had gathered in a circle, at a wary distance, to observe the scandal. Zimin’s men shifted nervously at their commander’s obvious discomfiture. Vasin’s and Zimin’s eyes connected once more for a moment of what could have been mutual understanding. The General gave a barely perceptible nod and turned on his heel.
As Zimin and his men retreated across the concourse, Vasin found that he could barely move. Every part of his body was trembling with exhilaration at his own audacity. And with fear.
PART FOUR
THE MAIN ADVERSARY
And remember: you must never, under any circumstances, despair. To hope and to act, these are our duties in misfortune.
—Boris Pasternak
1
CIA Station, US Embassy, Moscow
3 October 1962
The view from the CIA Moscow station chief’s office was even more depressing than the October weather. Wallace Baker’s barred windows faced the Embassy courtyard and looked directly onto a boxy accommodation block and a row of jerry-built garages. The afternoon was overcast and gray, and Baker’s lights were already on as gloom crept up the building. Even the Stars and Stripes that hung on a pole at the rear of the Embassy compound seemed to have given up on active duty and hung, sodden and limp, in the steady drizzle.
“Sir?” The young officer who hovered in Baker’s doorway was a relatively new boy. Dick Jacob, pale beanpole of a guy. One of the new intake, less than six months on station. But the kid was keen and, as far as Baker could tell, decently competent.
“All good?”
Picking up the dead-letter drops of Agent HERO was the most nerve-racking part of Baker’s week. Especially now that Langley was taking such a keen interest in what their star spy in Moscow had to say.
“We collected the drop just now, sir, via the usual cutouts.”
Baker swiveled his banker’s chair upright and snatched the envelope Jacob was holding out. He peered in to inspect a tiny steel microfilm canister that nestled inside. It appeared intact. Baker opened a desk drawer and removed a normal-sized thirty-five-millimeter film canister filled with cotton wool. He picked out half the padding, carefully placed the microfilm inside, replaced the cotton, and screwed the canister’s aluminum lid tight. HERO film had to be delivered to CIA headquarters undeveloped—and undamaged.
“Good work. Is it Walters who’s up for the diplomatic bag run?”
“On his way up now, sir. Car’s waiting.”
“He’s heading out when?”
Jacob checked his watch.
“With this traffic he won’t make the Aeroflot flight to Paris. But there’s a Royal Dutch Airlines flight to Amsterdam just before eight p.m., sir.”
“Fine. Get the connections worked out and have someone meet Walters at Dulles.”
With the advantage of time difference, the message might just be in Washington in time for the President’s morning briefing. As Jacob darted down the corridor, Baker busied himself filling in codes on the canister’s label, duplicating them on the cover of a padded cardboard box into which he carefully placed the film. For good measure he added, in underlined capitals, rush—eyes only, director of operations. Baker remembered Wild Bill Donovan, the crazy old bastard who had been his first chief at the old Office of Strategic Services. “Never underestimate the capacity for screwups” was Donovan’s First Law, coined when they’d been running agents into occupied France during the war. Over the years Baker had seen its wisdom. Comms fail. Parachutes fail. People fail. Always play for the miss.
Once the package had been safely handed over to the courier, Baker stood and flexed his shoulders, stiff around the scar tissue from a Chinese shell fragment picked up at Inchon. His waistcoat sat tight across his belly. It had been, what, six months since he’d been on a tennis court? A year and a half in Moscow, and the place was getting to him. Especially with the added headache of kid-gloving HERO product.
HERO. The legendary asset that Baker had been briefed about but whose identity he didn’t know. Except he could guess that HERO was pretty damn senior—enough for his intel to go straight to Langley in a rush pouch, unopened and always by hand.
Of Baker’s CIA staff, only he and his deputy station chief had been cleared to even know about the existence of HERO, and of the agent’s importance. And Baker knew from his old boss Ambassador Llewellyn Thompson, now temporarily assigned to the President’s personal advisory team in Washington for the duration of the Cuban crisis, that Kennedy relied heavily on HERO’s reports.
Baker knew he wouldn’t sleep until he’d had confirmation that his package had safely touched down in Amsterdam. He crossed the office and peered upward into the lowering Moscow sky. The wind was picking up. A rainstorm was coming in.
2
Vnukovo Airport, Moscow
3 October 1962
Moscow’s Vnukovo Airport in the autumn rain, the sky hanging low and oppressive. Vasin stood on the windswept open terrace that adjoined the rooftop cafeteria, sucking on a cigarette and scanning the horizon for signs of an incoming aircraft. A white dot appeared in the sky, then three—the nose and wing lights of a plane swinging wildly like a child’s spinning top teetering off-balance. The outline of the aircraft grew clearer through a shifting curtain of mist as it squared up to the runway. The pilot was fighting a strong crosswind and the plane fishtailed as it came in to land, the tail snapping from side to side with alarming violence.
Would the wind flip the fragile thing into a fireball, cartwheeling down the asphalt trailing a shroud of flames? These days Vasin found himself shocked by the things that went through his mind. It had been more than six weeks since Sofia had handed over the first set of Anadyr documents to Morozov. More had followed. And yet the infuriating bastard had shown no sign of breaking his routine. The stress of the fruitless surveillance of Morozov was getting to him. But at least Zimin had had the good sense to stay out of Vasin’s business. So far.
Vasin shook his head and forced himself to look away from the aircraft’s bouncing progress. He lit another cigarette from the butt of the previous one.
By the time he had turned back, the Royal Dutch Airlines Douglas DC-8 was bunny-hopping down the runway as it braked. The airframe was still bucking on its suspension when the pilot brought the plane to a swaying halt in front of the terminal building. There, done. Vasin felt a small tug of admiration for the pilot. As a ground crew in oilskins rolled a set of steps toward the aircraft and a refueling tanker pulled up, Vasin turned to descend to the arrivals hall.
As he trotted down the stairs, Vasin passed the last passengers hurrying to catch the plane on its return journey to Amsterdam. Among them was a face he half recognized—an American diplomat, evidently, with no luggage but a black briefcase embossed in gold with the spread-eagle seal of the US Department of State. The diplomatic bag was attached to the courier’s wrist by a chrome chain and handcuff. The man was accompanied by a heavyset thug in a civilian suit but sporting the unmistakable buzz cut of a US Marine. Vasin thought for a moment. Of course. He’d seen the face on a kontora circulation list of all the suspected CIA agents under diplomatic cover in Moscow. Vasin turned to follow the fellow’s retreating back. A colleague, of sorts.
Naturally Kuznetsov was one of the first passengers to clear passport control and customs. His kontora ID would spare him most of the formalities. Vasin spotted Kuznetsov’s squat, strutting figure as soon as he emerged onto the nearly empty concourse. His face was even more deeply tanned, and the broad lapels of his capitalist’s beige suit peeked immodestly out from under his heavy Moscow overcoat. Vasin advanced, his hands spread in greeting.
“Kuznetsov! Vadim! How are you doing?”
“You have to be kidding.” Kuznetsov looked bleary-eyed after his long journey, his face puffy and his shirt crumpled. “The Ride of the Valkyries all the way down, and when I finally return to God’s good earth, the first man I see is Alexander fucking Vasin.”
“Great to see you too, Vadim. How was fraternal Cuba?”
“Maybe we crashed and I’m now in hell. Is that what this is?”
“Welcome to Moscow.”
“Maybe that’s the same thing. Listen—I’ve been on three planes in twenty hours. Thought the last one would be my last foray into the heavens. Can’t whatever terrible thing you’re about to share with me wait until I’ve had a bath and a nap?”
“Sure. Give you a lift into town? Know where you’re staying?”
“Actually, no. Was planning to call in to the kontora and ask my boss’s secretary to book me a place in the bachelor’s quarters at the—”
“Rhetorical question, Vadim. Don’t worry. I got you a suite at the Hotel Ukraine. Mind holding off checking in with the office for one day?”
Kuznetsov made no answer but allowed his shoulders to go slack. He raised his eyes to the roof, loosened his grip on his suitcase, and let it drop to the marble pavement.
“Fine. Whatever you say, Vasin. Resistance is useless. I know you.”
Kuznetsov walked toward the exit, leaving Vasin to pick up his suitcase and follow.
3
Hotel Ukraine, Moscow
3 October 1962
Major Vadim Kuznetsov emerged from the plush oak-paneled elevators and into the lobby looking sleek, healthy, and foreign. He wore a fresh shirt and his hair and beard glistened with exotic-smelling oil, and he had changed into a suave gray check suit. Vasin peered over his copy of Izvestia and looked his old handler up and down.
“Feeling better? How’s the plumbing in this place?”
Kuznetsov flopped down in the low armchair next to Vasin’s.
“Beats the kontora hostel in Sagua la Grande. Weather’s worse over here, though.” He returned Vasin’s appraising look. “And you look fucking terrible. I say that as a concerned colleague, by the way. What happened? It’s been, what, two months since I had the pleasure of your company? You ill or something?”
Kuznetsov’s tone was more concerned than mocking. Was his old comrade feeling sorry for him? Vasin straightened in his chair, pulled in his belly, and attempted a smile.
“Put it like this. I was all set to catch a big beast. Got some juicy bait to prime the trap. But…the beast never broke cover. So I’m still waiting. Every day.”
“Trap? Beast? This about the spy the kontora has you chasing?”
“Something like that.”
“You’ve only got yourself to blame, Vasin. Mister big-game hunter. They expect nothing but a masterly performance from Special Cases’ hotshot young investigator.”
Kuznetsov had folded his hands and was scrutinizing Vasin across his steepled fingers. Vasin struggled to narrow his eyes and stiffen his spine. He realized it had been a while since anyone had teased him to his face.
“You’re right. Master spy catcher. That’s me.”
“Vasin, you’re starting to worry me. When we first met, you were keen. Tight. Had a torch burning in your ass. Now you look like you’re some kind of ancient apparatchik who’s failed to make the cut for candidate member of the Politburo. Like a wedding cake that’s been left out in the rain. I was almost looking forward to hearing your latest outrageous demand. But it seems like you’re about to ask me advice on the best kontora sanatorium to check in to.”
“You done with your charming personal critique? Not annoyed. Just curious.”
“Not yet. But my next salvo will need some fuel. Which is why you’re going to take me to a lavish dinner, over which you are going to quiz me about the affairs of a certain tropical island which I have recently left for a week of consultations in our great Socialist metropolis. To my great regret. Did I guess right?”
Vasin felt a genuine grin spreading across his face for the first time in weeks. Kuznetsov may have been an arrogant jerk. But he was a jerk with whom he’d been through a lot. It was almost like having a friend.
“You guessed right. I got us a table at the—”
“The National?”
“Aragvi.”
“Outstanding. Lead on, Mephistopheles. I’m ready to be tempted.”
* * *
—
The Aragvi’s officious headwaiter led Vasin and Kuznetsov through the crowded tables on the restaurant floor and up to the gallery with the grave, dignified air of a high priest. Which in a sense he was. The stiff-legged old man was on nodding and even hand-shaking terms with Central Committee members, cosmonauts, and prima ballerinas. The Aragvi’s maître d’hôtel wielded sufficient power to easily humiliate mere colonels and majors. But Orlov’s secretary held this guy in particular thrall. Exactly how, Vasin had never asked. But at the favored Georgian restaurant of Moscow’s elite, Orlov’s name was sufficient to command an immediate reservation. Which was as good a measure as any—and better than most—of the real status that Special Cases held in the world.
Both officers slowed their pace as they passed booths five and six—the most central of the row of curtained-off private alcoves which overlooked the other, more humble tables. Both were occupied by boisterous groups of well-dressed bureaucrats. Vasin and Kuznetsov exchanged a glance. Both knew that these were the wired booths, the ones the kontora reserved for conversations meant to be recorded. Though, of course, thought Vasin as he pressed himself against the brass rail to allow a group of fur-clad young ballerinas to pass, it would be just like the kontora to bug every other booth instead, and just put out word. Except, as Vasin also knew, the ubiquity of kontora ears was an urban myth. Manning a listening station was a gruesomely labor-intensive job. Hundreds of hours of boredom, smokes, tedium in stuffy rooms heated by the humming engines of slow-turning tape recorders. They were shown to a cozy, pine-lined booth at the end of the row, decorated with carpets and Caucasian daggers on the walls.
“Just bring us everything that’s good tonight, Mikheil.”
The headwaiter smiled broadly, gathering the typed menus in their heavy leather cases back from the table with bowing approval. Only rubes studied the menu—on which the best dishes were in any case never listed.
“And we’ll have…cognac?” Vasin glanced across to Kuznetsov. “And…some rkatsiteli for the white?”
“Mukuzani for the red,” added Kuznetsov.
So it was going to be one of those evenings. Boozy. Maybe, Vasin thought, he needed it. He’d been drunk pretty often over the weeks of waiting for Morozov to break cover—but always melancholy and alone. It would be a treat to get good and pissed with someone like a confidant. But first, business. Vasin waited until the waiter had withdrawn and decorously drawn the heavy velvet curtain before he spoke.
