Red traitor, p.7
Red Traitor, page 7
“Not for him. For his boss, naturally.”
“His boss?”
“Don’t play games with me, Colonel Vasin. We both know.”
Control your face, Vasin. He studiously maintained a moment of silence. When Vasin spoke, he made his voice deliberately flat.
“Speak his name, please. For the record.”
Sofia glanced around, as if looking for hidden listeners.
“Colonel General Serov.”
Involuntarily Vasin shot a look at Pushkov, who stood invisibly concealed behind a large mirror that hung over the sofa.
“Ivan Alexandrovich Serov?”
Sofia sensed the surprise in Vasin’s voice and drew strength from it. She straightened her back, smoothing her skirt.
“Yes, Colonel. You didn’t know? Morozov is working for Serov. Personally. And so, I suppose, am I.”
8
Frunze Embankment, Moscow
4 August 1962
“Ivan fucking Serov?”
Tokarev and Vasin sat out a summer shower in Vasin’s Moskvich car, watching sheets of rain ripple across the surface of the Moscow River. Tokarev turned to look at Vasin as though he were a village idiot.
“You’re seriously asking me, what if your alleged spy works personally for Ivan Serov?
“You heard me right.”
“Then I say, you’re very fucked, kid.”
“Why?”
“Oh—only because Serov is the most powerful man in the Soviet security apparat. Start with that. You know he used to head the kontora, right? Director of the KGB for eight years. Now—director of the GRU.”
“I’m not a fool, Tokarev. I know the history.”
“Right. Good to know. Well, think about this. Serov personally sent tens of thousands to their graves during the Stalin years. And yet he’s still here. What does that tell you about him? How many of his own colleagues and bosses did he have to sink to remain alive? He’s ruthless. Follows no principle but his own survival.”
“I know a few people like that in the kontora.”
Meaning one in particular. General Orlov.
“Glad you do. Hope this ruthless person is on your side.”
“Why wouldn’t he be?”
“Because you said that your suspected spy is a close personal associate of General Serov’s. So—if this man is indeed an American spy, then Serov himself is in for the high jump. If he’s not, then what? You’re taking a potshot at Serov’s man. Which means you’re attacking Serov, too. And he won’t take kindly to that. You take a shot at the boss, make sure you don’t miss.”
“I have no intention of taking shots at anyone, Tokarev. I don’t care about Serov, I care about my spy. But I need to know something. I need to know…”
As Vasin searched for the right words, Tokarev finished his sentence for him.
“You need to know, might your guy actually be pulling this spy shit on Serov’s orders? Is he actually being run by Serov? Is your man—what do you spooks call it—a dangle? Trailing his coat in front of the Yankees to feed them disinformation? That your question?”
Tokarev was smart. Alarmingly smart. Vasin wondered how much he really knew.
“That’s my question, precisely, Major.”
“Well. You can start by telling me your supposed spy’s name. Guessing Orlov has authorized you to.”
Again a moment of disquiet for Vasin. That morning Orlov had just authorized that very thing.
“Fine. Oleg Morozov. Colonel in the GRU.”
Tokarev let out a long, low whistle.
“Morozov?”
“Know him?”
“Seen him. Know of him. Chose a tough one, there, chum.”
“Tough, why?”
“Because—yes. He is a protégé of Serov’s. Morozov gets invited to jolly lunches at his boss’s dacha, goes on hunting trips with top Army brass.”
Which would make Morozov the most dangerous kind of spy, Vasin had long ago realized. To learn the USSR’s deepest secrets, Morozov simply needed to pour the drinks for his superiors and listen to their loose talk.
“Anything else I need to know, Tokarev?”
“Maybe. But I don’t trust you. Yet.”
“So how can you help me?”
Tokarev held up his plastic hands in a gesture of powerlessness.
“Please, Tokarev. Morozov is guilty. I know it. I just need to prove it.”
The old cavalryman crooked his head with a look of deep skepticism.
“You know it?”
“Okay. Put it this way: Morozov has to be guilty. Orlov has ordered me to nail him. Therefore I have to nail him. You know how it works.”
The older man nodded curtly. The shower was abating. Tokarev fumbled with the stiff door latch and levered himself out of the tiny car, gesturing Vasin to follow. They walked a few yards from the car to a bus stop, where Tokarev stopped and looked about him conspiratorially.
“You know Orlov and Serov have a history, right?”
“What history?”
“Long story. But you’re caught between two big beasts who despise each other. Ever considered that you might be our friend Orlov’s pawn? A sacrificial pawn?”
“What makes you say that?”
“Consider this. Whatever else he might be, Morozov is the great man’s friend. You think of that as your main problem in investigating him, right? But what if it’s not the problem but the point?”
“Orlov wants to bring down Morozov just to embarrass his old enemy?”
“Embarrass? To destroy his old enemy, more like. Get him fired. Get him jailed. Get him shot, maybe. That’s the game. Those are the stakes. Still want me to go ahead and join you as you jump into the meat grinder?”
9
KGB Headquarters, Moscow
4 August 1962
Kuznetsov marched down the fourth-floor corridor of the Lubyanka, chatting loudly with a group of colleagues. All four men wore new-pattern uniforms and sported deep tans—ineradicable evidence of their membership in the kontora’s elite Cuban detail. Kuznetsov was in mid-anecdote when he spotted Vasin heading down the corridor toward him. He stopped abruptly, muttered an excuse, and turned on his heel to scuttle back into the meeting room from which the group had just emerged.
“Kuznetsov—you can’t escape. I spotted you.”
Vasin leaned on the door frame, blocking Kuznetsov’s exit from the now-empty room.
“Fuck off. Leave me alone.”
“That’s not very friendly.”
Vasin closed the door behind him.
“I need another…”
“Favor? You always do. That’s why I said fuck off, in advance.”
“Know anyone working Miami for the First Chief Directorate?”
“What part of ‘fuck off’ didn’t you understand, Vasin?”
“I’ll take that as a yes. We need some information. On a Soviet citizen of Spanish origin, living in Miami, Florida. Vladimir Lenin Guzman. Here’s his address. We need background. Photos. Dirt, ideally. And we need it very fast. And before you say it again—yes, I will fuck off. After you do this for me. But right now, I need that info. That guy is the brother of someone working inside Anadyr, right here in Moscow. We need to know what he’s up to.”
“Vasin…” Kuznetsov gestured desperately around him at the high-ceilinged room with its heavy net curtains. “You know you actually work for the Committee for State Security, right? As in, we are actually in the fucking Lubyanka? If you want this info from the First Chief Directorate, why not ask them yourself? Why do you always have to brush your teeth through your asshole, Vasin?”
“Like I told you last time. We don’t want our guy tipped off.”
“Bullshit. This is some private thing you’ve got going. Or your evil boss has got going, more like. My advice—get yourself out of it. And…”
“Fuck off?”
“Exactly.”
“I’ve already promised you I will do just that. Like I said—right after you do this last thing for me. Here are his details. Oh—and here’s something I picked up for you. Special Cases had a few going spare.”
Vasin reached inside his tunic and pulled out a postcard. It bore the scarlet trident logo of the AZLK car factory, a stamped number, and a set of printed instructions.
“Looks like your number in the kontora’s car queue has come up early. Not 1971, as scheduled, but 1962. Next month, in fact. You need to pay your deposit of eleven hundred and thirteen rubles by the fifteenth of August. You should have the cash, with your overseas pay, right?”
Kuznetsov snatched the card from Vasin’s hand, peering suspiciously at his own name and date of birth written across the top.
“A Moskvich?”
“Only astronauts get a Volga sedan, pal.”
“No…I mean, this is a bribe.”
“Not a bribe. You’re paying for the car with your own money. We just moved you up the list a bit. Because we think you deserve it.”
Kuznetsov screwed up his face in a grimace of distaste.
“ ‘We’ being…?”
“Special Cases. Welcome to the family.”
10
KGB Headquarters, Moscow
6 August 1962
The surveillance photos Kuznetsov rustled up from the First Chief Directorate two days later were grainy but clear. They showed a fine-boned young man, indecently handsome, with a lick of greased-back hair and a fashionably baggy suit. There was something unmistakably familiar about the high arch of his brows, the long, noble Spanish nose. Sofia’s brother, Vladimir, photographed on a Miami street corner by a KGB goon team a month before.
In the picture Vladimir leaned forward, snapped in the act of handing a flyer to a passerby. The next photo was an image of the flyer itself, and on the back a helpfully typewritten translation. “Cubans for Peace and Justice,” read the top line. “Responsible citizens of America! Join us to rid our continent of the scourge of Communist dictatorship.” At the bottom was a grotesque cartoon of Fidel Castro and Che Guevara as wild animals feasting on the carcass of Cuba. Then more surveillance photos of Vladimir entering the headquarters of Cubans for Liberty—apparently an anti-Castro émigré group. Vladimir carrying bales of freshly printed newspapers with a lanky young American by his side. Vasin turned the photo to examine the caption. “Subject with Cubans for Liberty fellow member identified as LEE H OSVALD—State Security Person of Interest: See Case File KZ1862-78-TS.”
Whoever the hell this Osvald was, Vasin didn’t need to know the full story—he had more than enough. He picked up the phone and dialed an internal number.
“Pushkov? Bring Guzman in. Here, to the Lubyanka. Right now.”
* * *
—
Vasin glanced at his watch. Half past nine in the evening. Forty minutes had passed since Pushkov called up to say that Sofia was in the building. She’d been waiting long enough. He gathered up his papers and took the elevator to the Lubyanka’s ground floor. The “soft” interview rooms—not the cellars, as Pushkov had wanted.
The interrogation room had a single, narrow window that looked out over the central courtyard through a sturdy steel grille. As he walked in, Vasin could almost smell the tension in the air of the dusty, airless space. Sofia sat, hunched forward, on a plain wooden chair. Opposite her sat Pushkov, his face grim. It was clear that he had smothered the woman into quiet with his own menacing silence.
“Sofia Rafaelovna. I am so sorry to keep you waiting.”
Pushkov looked up, contemptuous of his boss’s politeness. Vasin dismissed the man from the room with a nod.
“Forgive me for the location. I didn’t mean to alarm you.”
By which he meant, I brought you here to alarm you. Just a little. Please Sofia, Vasin wanted to say. Make this easy for both of us.
Sofia straightened and raised her head defiantly.
“Colonel, I’m expected. At a friend’s house. They’ll be missing me.”
“Would you like me to get someone to telephone your friends?”
Sofia’s lip curled in a sarcastic smile.
“Tell them I’m detained in the Lubyanka?”
“Sofia Rafaelovna, you are not in any trouble. On the contrary. We need your help.”
“So you said.”
“You need to know that he’s lying. Morozov isn’t working for Serov. He’s working for the Americans. He’s a spy and a traitor.”
Sofia looked sullen.
“You said that, too. But if he’s a traitor, why not let us deal with it, Colonel?”
“Us”—meaning the GRU. The tribal instinct of every intelligence service: keep your secrets close, wash your dirty laundry in private.
“Comrade Lieutenant. I do not wish to make this difficult for you. This is not a betrayal of your service. You are just sharing information with another of the Motherland’s very secret services. It will go no further. And we are all on the same side.”
The glibness of his own lies made Vasin’s mouth go dry. Sofia unclenched her hands and sat straighter. She seemed to come to a private decision.
“No.”
“No?”
“I will say no more. Do your worst, Colonel. So, I have a brother I last saw when he was a tiny child. Now you claim that he is in the West, without showing me any proof. And even if what you say is true, he made a bad choice. This has nothing to do with me. What will you do, Colonel? Tell my superiors? What will you tell them? That I am responsible for the actions of my lost brother? I made a mistake not calling my bosses immediately.”
She stood, and Vasin with her. Sofia was nearly as tall as Vasin, and looked him straight in the eye. She seemed to be drawing strength from her own righteousness.
“Lieutenant. Not so fast.” Vasin heard the harshness in his own voice. “You need to see these. Sit. You asked for proof. Here it is.”
After a moment’s hesitation, Sofia obeyed. She took the photos that Vasin handed her, one by one, and examined them minutely before putting them gently on the table. The family resemblance in the two siblings’ haughty, handsome faces was undeniable. She said nothing. The joy of seeing her brother for the first time in her adult life crossed her face first, followed by cold shock as another realization crystallized, photo by photo. Vladimir was a counterrevolutionary, an anti-Communist, a traitor. A fatal threat to her and the life she had made for herself in the USSR. This, at least, Sofia understood without being told. Her face was suddenly haggard, her eyes puffy with welling tears.
“There is more.” Vasin forced himself to be merciless. “As you see, he is working for a counterrevolutionary group dedicated to the downfall of our Socialist brothers in Cuba. But I have not told you that he has been targeted. He is on a list, Sofia. Our list. A kontora list. For liquidation.”
Vasin tried to make his eyes hard enough to resist Sofia’s penetrating gaze. He winced inwardly at the pitiless lie that had just come from his own mouth. But he said nothing more. They sat in silence in the gathering gloom of the interview room, listening to the ticking of an ugly wall clock, letting time do its work.
“Is that true?”
Her voice had cracked. Vasin sensed that Sofia was finally close to breaking.
“Yes, Sofia. It was confirmed to me yesterday. A kontora team is in place in Miami, waiting for orders. The gunmen are armed and briefed. Only you can save him. But to do that you must agree to show us all the documents that you pass to Morozov concerning Operation Anadyr. You will bring every paper to me for vetting, first. Work with us, Sofia, to keep our country safe. And to keep Vladimir alive.”
Was there a better way to do this? Vasin glanced in the wall mirror, from behind which Lukyanov was filming the scene. He saw himself, shabby in his sweaty uniform. A blank notepad squared on the table. A scattering of photographs. Microphones on the underside of the table. Opposite him, a weeping woman caressing the images of a sibling she had not seen since early childhood. But what neither the mirror nor the camera could see was Vasin’s profound sensation of absence, of not recognizing himself as he sat impassively before the storm of human emotion he had conjured up from the dead paper of the files and photographs. Sofia’s tearstained face as Vasin laid out his cards, one by one. A visible sag in her body as she realized that her life was being taken away from her and gathered into alien hands.
Christ, Vasin thought. What have I become? Was he becoming a native of Orlov’s shadowlands where lies and secrets were just weapons in a war to break human will? Vasin felt the power of the lie inhabiting him like an evil spirit, curling around his conscience and his reason and infecting his life.
11
Smolensky Boulevard, Moscow
11 August 1962
A hot Moscow summer afternoon, the sidewalks baking and the courtyards full of citizens escaping from the stuffiness of their apartments under the shade of the poplar trees and the angular shadows of buildings. Vasin wore a short-sleeved cotton shirt, a straw porkpie hat that was a souvenir from a holiday in Gagra, and a pair of German gold-framed sunglasses he’d bought in the commission store. He caught sight of himself in a shop window and saw a man he half recognized—only this simulacrum was fatter, older, slower. A midranking apparatchik in too-tight trousers. Vasin hurried along Smolensky Boulevard and turned down the hill toward the trolleybus stop.
Sofia waited among a crowd of bickering families on Saturday afternoon expeditions to the park. Her cotton sarafan dress was the simplest and most unflattering kind, a droopy bag of cheap printed cotton. She wore no makeup and her hair, under a plain cotton worker’s cap, was tangled and lank. Despite Vasin’s instructions that they should ignore each other, Sofia fixed him with a glare as soon as she spotted him.
