In the Company of Spies

by Stephen Barlay

  She wriggled a little with a mixture of “We’re late” and “Wish we had more time for this,” and he understood. They were to dine with her big white chief himself. He zipped her up, and she kissed him. “Let’s move, honey, we’ll be late.”

  “We have to stop off at the White House for a few minutes in case I’m wanted at the COMOR meeting.”

  “Oh no.”

  “It’s unlikely. We’ll miss our cocktails, perhaps. You just wait for me in the car.”

  The Committee on Overhead Reconnaissance met in McGeorge Bundy’s office. Chaired by the President’s security assistant, the very existence of COMOR was a most closely guarded secret, and tonight they had an exceptionally important decision to make. Only the previous day a Chinese Nationalist U-2, flying from Taiwan, had been shot down by the Communists over the mainland. The implication was clear: the Russians had done it once, the Chinese did it again, the Cubans must also be capable of doing the same. After a lengthy clash of opinions, the “restrict the flights” campaigners won. U-2 missions would be shorter and only peripheral, even though it meant that western Cuba would not be directly overflown.

  Orders were issued to “those concerned.” It meant that even in the White House, very few people would be made aware of the new position. The officer in charge of the U-2 missions sighed with relief. Elliott Repson was free to leave. Anna, too, would be relieved: they would not be late even for pre-dinner drinks.

  Repson wheeled himself fast along the wide corridor. The presidential aide who had the room with the best view of the south lawn caught up with him.

  “What do you think, Elliott?”

  “I haven’t been invited to think.”

  “You are now.”

  Repson shrugged his shoulders.

  “Aren’t you worried?”

  “I would be, if it was my decision. But it wasn’t.”

  “Come into my office for a moment, will you?” He noticed that Repson was looking at his watch. “It shouldn’t take long.” He held the door open for Repson and shut it firmly as soon as the wheelchair was through. “Right.” He sat at his desk but jumped up impatiently two seconds later. “Okay, I’m worried.”

  “And I don’t think that the members of COMOR have taken their decision lightly.”

  “No, I don’t think so. But McCone is away. The pro-U-2 camp is weaker at the moment. And limiting the flights means that we’re losing our last source of hard intelligence. You agree?”

  “I do,” said Repson with an eye on his watch.

  “Our best sources seem to be drying up or offering hearsay. The CIA passes us tidbits without too much conviction. The entire intelligence spectrum is as bleak as if someone’s blown all the fuses.”

  “I’m just as worried and annoyed as you are, believe me,” said Repson. “And I agree about the quality of intelligence reaching us. Just this evening I’ve had an anonymous call about the Russkis constructing soccer fields in Cuba. Yes, the implication can be serious, but no, it can’t be accepted as evidence of anything. And I agree, hard facts don’t seem to reach us. The channels must be blocked somewhere — or else we may be worried about the nonarrival of information concerning facts that do not exist. But we’ve been through all this before, and right now Anna is waiting for me in the car.”

  “I’m sorry. I really am. I only meant to ask you if it would be a good idea to inform McCone.”

  “You mean a good idea for me? No, I don’t think so. The Company can function perfectly well in the absence of its head. Besides, it’s not for me to guess at what point the old man should be informed.”

  “True. But if our guesses are wrong, we may have to accept an embarrassing compromise.”

  “I thought the President made it clear that we’d never compromise.”

  “He has. But are you sure?” The aide paused to let his doubt sink in, then corrected himself, mainly for the record. “What I mean is that if Khrushchev manages to sneak nukes into Cuba and succeeds in making them fully operational before we know about it or have a chance to interfere, the threat to our cities may become so acute that we may be forced to reconsider everything.”

  “Better than to start World War Three, I guess.”

  “Maybe.”

  Friday, September 14

  Kennedy states at news conference: currently, American military intervention in Cuba is not required or justifiable. Pravda appeals to people of the world to prevent U.S. aggressors from engineering war. Moscow celebrates record-breaking Vostok space flight (94 hours, 35 minutes). Kennedy backs race to the moon. Soviet grain harvest “a disaster” — Khrushchev is responsible but other heads roll.

  *

  “NO, SIR, I’M AFRAID SIR CHARLES IS NOT AVAILABLE, but at eleven A M., he’ll be at the North London Crematorium.”

  “Dead or alive?”

  “I’m afraid he didn’t specify it, Mr. Rust.”

  Rust attended the brief and perfunctory service only because it was raining outside. When it was over, Charles Stoker put on his gray Homburg and centered it meticulously. He apologized for dragging him all the way there.

  “That’s all right, it’s fun to meet in cemeteries,” Rust said, then controlled himself. “I’m sorry. Was it a friend or relative?”

  “Only a colleague — not even quite that.”

  “And you represented the department.”

  “Wrong again. I came of my own accord.”

  “And arranged to meet me here because you thought I got my kicks out of attending strangers’ funerals.”

  Charles smiled, and somehow it only made him look more solemn. “No, but if we stop honoring our dead, how can we ask the next generation to die for this or that cause?”

  “One of your men?”

  “No, no. Not really. Just a businessman. Attended some trade fair or other in Leningrad. Came back very sick. Vaguely remembered a peculiar little pinprick in the crowd milling around the Malachite Room of the Winter Palace. Or do you call it the Hermitage?”

  “Was he … ?”

  “We don’t know. His illness was serious and never fully diagnosed. He suffered a great deal.”

  “And you are warning me?”

  “But my dear boy, what on earth gave you that idea?”

  “You won’t help. And I’m here to understand why.”

  “You’re here to be driven to a delightful little country pub where we have a table booked.”

  Charles drove a converted London cab with a door added to enclose the luggage rack, where a bucketlike contraption with adjustable straps served as a front passenger seat for a child. She must be an adult by now, thought Rust. He declined Charles’s offer to sit in the back.

  On their way to Hertfordshire, Charles asked about O’Connor, the agent who had brought the sailor’s message to Rust. “Have you seen him again?”

  “No. Schramm couldn’t find him for me.”

  “Oh.”

  “Schramm says there’s a tremendous turnover in junior men at Miami station. There’s nothing significant about it.”

  “No, I didn’t say there was. It’s only odd.”

  “I didn’t want him to attach too great importance to my request.”

  “Naturally. I only meant that Schramm is a good man, and it’s, well, a hit unexpected that he’s never heard about your defector-messenger.”

  “Not at all. Even Schramm wouldn’t know everything. Especially now that they’re more than a little busy with the Cuban problem.”

  “Problem, dear boy? Problem? I’d call it an obsession.”

  “If you like.”

  “Don’t you think that you Americans make too much fuss about it?”

  “Too much or too little. I wouldn’t know.”

  Charles dropped the subject and proved himself an attentive host throughout a very liquid lunch that ended with Irish coffee for good measure.

  The rain had stopped, a pale sun came out, and Charles suggested a leisu
rely country walk to vent the surplus alcohol. Rust guessed that the quiet stroll would give Charles the opportunity to talk without facing him and broach a subject the older man might consider too personal and therefore embarrassing. Rust decided to make it easier for him. “So what about my trip to Russia?”

  “Now that you ask, well, I have certain reservations about it, I must say.”

  “You think it’s too dangerous.”

  “No. Not too dangerous. Not if you must go.”

  “You mean I don’t have to.”

  “Nobody’s going to shoot you if you stay.”

  “I know.”

  “And don’t forget, whatever scheme you have in mind, you’ll run into all sorts of unexpected problems over there.”

  “I expect so.”

  “In which case you may never pull it off. And with all his Russian experience, your father ought to be the first to understand.”

  “He probably does. But he must be desperate. And I don’t think I could live with myself if I didn’t even try to help.”

  “All I mean is that you can’t assume responsibility for everything and everybody around you. Nobody can.”

  “No? My father used to do just that, I’m told.” It was the simplicity of the countryside, the gentleness of the sun and the casualness of the breeze that urged Rust to air some thoughts that were not used to daylight. “I don’t think you can understand.”

  “You’ve explained it once. I haven’t forgotten.”

  “I haven’t told you all. I couldn’t. How hard it was to live with the compulsion that I must see his grave. And how much harder it was actually to talk to him when I found him.”

  “Yes, it must be difficult to have a relationship that ends before it has a chance to begin. But I suppose you had to try to win a father and see what made him tick.”

  “Him? No, it was me I was trying to understand. What I was made of. To see if I could blame that stranger for anything bad in me. To see what he might have given me apart from my German origin. After all, he was a shadow I had tried to shed all my life.” The Scotch, the wine and the Irish joined forces to raise his voice, but his tone remained low, without self-pity. “It was because of him that I had no school friends and they all called me ‘the Nazi.’ It was no good to argue that he was known as a tough man with strong anti-Nazi views. The kids would only laugh. They kept chasing me around and shouting, ‘Come on, Nazi, let’s see how tough you are,’ and I couldn’t tell them that I wasn’t tough at all, that I hated fights and hated my father. I had to fight. And to survive I had to win. Then my face was cut. It healed badly. I was marked. Just the thing to make me look sort of fierce. And if you look fierce, you’re assumed to be fierce. So let’s see what you’re made of. It follows you everywhere, and if you try to run away, it travels ahead of you like a gunslinger’s reputation. Those who don’t challenge you wish they dared to.”

  “Like your brother?” Charles’s voice was unnaturally soft, as if to give a chance not to be heard.

  “Maybe. Yes, probably he, too.”

  It was Elliott who had insisted on that toboggan race. He had heard the name somewhere and took to calling Helm “Gatsby.” He would run around the house all day shouting, “Come on, Gatsby, race me, Gatsby, race me, Gatsby, race me, race me.” So he raced him. They hit a clump of snow-camouflaged trees almost simultaneously. But Elliott yelled a warning at the last second. Rust ducked and had only a finger broken. He told no one about it, and it healed leaving him with a bumpy knuckle. Elliott injured his back. Irreparably.

  “So it wasn’t your fault, was it?”

  “Our mother didn’t see it that way. I was the older one. I should have had more sense. She never forgave me.”

  “How old were you?”

  “Just turning ten.”

  Charles knew that the incident must have left Rust with a self-imposed debt that would never dwindle no matter how frequently the interest was paid. You should be entitled to some remission at least for good conduct, he meant to say, but chose to chatter lightly about the conduct of the Romans whose footsteps they had been following for an hour. Rust said nothing. His silence was infectious. It was only when they had returned to London and were approaching Rust’s hotel in Knightsbridge that Charles spoke again. By then his voice had been cleansed of all traces of emotions it was not trained to handle.

  “I’ve arranged a magazine assignment for you, dear boy. It’s a tremendous opportunity to travel on behalf of the Wonderful World of Transportation.”

  “Thanks.” Deep down he had always known that Charles would help him. “It’s been my lifelong desire to work for them.”

  “You don’t seem to be impressed.”

  “I am. What’s the gimmick?”

  “They’re about to open a new subway in Moscow. Khrushchev himself will cut the throat, I mean the ribbon. Sorry. Lapsus linguae. Showing my Freudian slip.”

  “Will the job speed up my visa application sufficiently?”

  “That in itself won’t. And, of course, I can’t be seen helping you directly, but there’s a chap, an osteopath.”

  “As long as he leaves my bones alone.”

  “Don’t worry. Most of his manipulations are not concerned with bones at all. He has some excellent social contacts among Russki diplomats.”

  “Will he be doing you a favor?”

  “Definitely not. It’s the magazine that’s going to be obliged to him.”

  “I understand.”

  “But, on the other hand … yes, come to think of it, you could do me a favor.”

  “Shoot.”

  “You once said your father spent a few years in the special camps near Volochanka, somewhere in the Arctic region.”

  “You have a terrific memory.”

  “Did he ever mention which particular camps?”

  “Yes. VS 389/2-5 and 2-7, then BV 523/5-4 and AN 243 as well as — “

  “Ah. Say no more. That’s a spot of luck, luck indeed. Could you ask him to answer a couple of questions for me?”

  “I could do better than that. Once we’re out of Russia, I’ll introduce you and you can ask him yourself.”

  “Lovely. That’s just fine. Except … well, what I mean is, just to be on the safe side … “

  “You mean if anything goes wrong and I make it but he doesn’t?”

  “Well, sort of. Not that I’d expect anything to go wrong, but, well, you know me, I’m selfish, I must admit.”

  “Okay, okay. What do I ask?”

  “I’m fascinated by the security and layout of the VS 389 camps. Just roughly, how many guards are on duty at night? How deep is the outer safety perimeter in 2-5? What could be the distance between the foundry and the nearest watchtower in BV 523? And it would be particularly exciting to know if it’s possible to see from the towers what’s happening inside the foundry. I mean, if Papa happens to remember such useless details.”

  Charles made it all sound light and apologetic. Rust asked no questions. He was prepared to pretend that he had taken the request as something to satisfy an eccentric’s curiosity rather than an escape planner’s need of information.

  Monday, September 17

  Kennedy warns: Ships of NATO allies carrying Soviet cargo to Cuba could cause dangerous problems. Pravda warns: U.S. preparations for “armed provocation” against Cuba-bound Soviet ships could cause nuclear missile war.

  *

  MAJOR ANDREY ANISIMOVICH BOYCHENKO YAWNED AT the day’s list of Moscow arrivals and fought back the urge to swear. It was a bloody insult to him and a stupid, even criminal, waste of KGB manpower to have a highly trained man like himself assigned to duties of the Second Directorate, Tourist Department. All right, all right, the job required experience and sharp eyes to spot dangerous visitors and, even more, to recognize their weaknesses. One could then select potential targets for the Anglo-American and other area departments of the First Directorate. But what on earth was there to be gain
ed from compromising a man like Helm Rust? True, even such a trade magazine reporter could become useful one day, but it was a long shot at best. The work would certainly be well below Boychenko’s level of skills. He was, after all, trained for some of the most specialized tasks, including “wet affairs,” the actual physical elimination of enemies.

  Still, what had to be done had to be done. Boychenko had too many mouths to feed, too many troublesome relatives to nurse toward more rewarding lives, too many strings to pull to get his daughter into the Foreign Trade Ministry and more to get young Yuri Andreyevich, that playboy soldier son of his, off that rape charge. He could have strangled the boy with his own hands for failing to understand that for far, far less, without an influential father, the whole family might have been arrested. If he must rape someone, couldn’t he rape someone other than a fairly important party apparatchik’s only daughter?

  “Kolya!” he yelled in cold fury and noted with satisfaction that the son of a whore orderly got the message all right, because the door opened almost immediately. The man tried to tidy his slovenly hair and uniform on his way in. But using both hands for the more urgent tasks left Kolya with nothing to take the cigarette butt out of the corner of his mouth. His eyes recognized the mistake, but he had no time to do anything about it. Boychenko, whose small fat frame camouflaged exceptional agility, was already on his feet and landed a blinding slap that threatened to dislocate Kolya’s jaw and make him half swallow the cigarette at the same time. The blow had been earned, of course, by his son and it was only the orderly’s misfortune to get it, but Kolya should have nothing to complain about: office work was a much cushier number than “other duties” Boychenko could assign him to.

  “Here.” Boychenko picked up a slip of paper with Rust’s name on it and tossed it toward Kolya. “See if Records has anything on him.” It should have been done before the visa was issued, he thought angrily, and his impatience only grew as he watched the man leave with that irritating shuffle. Damn him, damn the whole system, damn them all. Why, this was 1962, not the Dark Ages, and rumor had it that not only the CIA but also the British and German secret services had their records pushbuttonized, while he might have to wait for hours if he was lucky, while the dust was blown away from old files.