“She grew sad, gradually, and most of the bubbles had gone from her voice and mood by the fifth day. She had been constantly writing little ‘I love you’ memos. I kept finding them everywhere. Now she stopped that. She told me what a terrible pity it was and how much it hurt her that we hadn’t met earlier. That week was meant to be her last fling. It was meant to be nothing but cheerful and forgettable. It shocked her that it would not be like that. I was an accident. Because her plans had been made long before that trip. On her return to America, she’d move in with her fiancé and she’d be married within a few months. No, there was no chance to change her plans. For numerous reasons. Including the fact that her fiancé was a wonderful man, she said, and that she loved us both.” On their last night in Leningrad, she got drunk. She dragged him to bed, went wild, scratched and beat his chest in a frenzy, fell asleep in his arms, and woke him up with kisses all the way down to his ankles and back. He remembered her voice and most of the words that seemed to gush from her in a gabbling whisper. “I don’t know what this is,” she repeated again and again. “I’m craving for your sperms. I want them inside me. Everywhere. I want to remember you by their taste.” She persuaded him to return with her to Moscow by train. And she slept on his lap most of the way.
Rust looked down. Yelena seemed to be asleep in an almost identical position. Keep warm, he thought, and covered her legs with his coat.
“Stop shifting,” Yelena said.
“I thought you were asleep.”
“You always think that. Especially when you don’t want to say something.”
“What?”
“You know what. How did it end?”
“We said goodbye in Moscow.”
“And never met again?”
“Only socially.”
“Did she marry him?”
“Yes.”
“Do you know him?”
“Yes.”
She looked away. “We never had a chance to say goodbye,” she mumbled after a long pause. She was thinking of her dead husband, he guessed, but chose not to ask her.
*
The President seemed comfortable in shirt sleeves, but the Oval Office was definitely chilly for a man of Dean Acheson’s age. Fifteen minutes earlier, Kennedy had entered through one of the huge French windows facing the lawn and the rose garden on the east side, and left the door open. He was now seated at his desk, resting one foot on the wastepaper basket, and listened to someone on the phone while jotting down a few notes. “Holly? … Jim Holly? … What was his position in the Embassy?”
Acheson was fuming. The cold breeze and the interruption failed to improve his mood. He rose from his chair, walked up and down vigorously both to warm up and imply impatience. This imperious old man, former Secretary of State, knew perfectly well that he was much respected by the President and his closest associates, that his advice was frequently sought and always valued by the Administration, and that, nevertheless, even his outspokenness must remain within limits. Yet this was not the occasion to test where those limits were. He had something to say and he was going to say it as soon as the phone call was finished. Who the hell was this Jim Holly anyway? He turned on his heels, returned to the south window, and stopped, staring at the purple-and-gold Presidential flag behind and to the right of the desk. He felt a speedy shiver race down his spine. He managed to turn just in time not to sneeze on the flag. Damned chill.
“You think there’s no question of foul play or security infringement?” Kennedy asked and tapped his teeth with his forefinger a few times as he listened to the answer. “Okay, let me know … And one other thing, make sure the widow’s looked after, will you?”
As soon as he hung up, Acheson opened up darkly. “I hear a great many rumors about Cuban rearmament, Mister President.”
“So do I, Dean. Fortunately it’s not Khrushchev’s policy to install offensive missiles on foreign soil.”
“But if he changes his mind, will you accept it and compromise with the new situation?”
“No. No compromise. I’ve stated that publicly.”
“Can I take it then that this is our official military policy?”
“As you well know, it’s not just a matter of military policy,” Kennedy said, crossing the room and then sitting on one of the sofas facing the fireplace. “I can’t just disregard everything that goes beyond military realism. It’s easy for the brasshats because they have a tremendous advantage: If we do what they want us to do, none of us will be here to tell them whether they were right or wrong.”
That was about as much as the old man could take. He sat down on the other sofa, confronting the President. “I have a feeling, Mister President, that you’re referring to some moral anguish which I detest as a moving force of politics. And I have a feeling that it is unworthy of you to be influenced unduly by, if you’ll forgive me, by your brother’s moral clichés about Pearl Harbor in reverse, a thoroughly false and pejorative analogy. It is a silly way to analyze a problem, and I think that the Attorney General is moved by emotional and intuitive responses more than by a trained lawyer’s analysis.” He stopped and took a deep breath. Now that he had said it, he was ready to hear that his advice would never again be elicited.
After a long pause, a boyish smile fleeted across Kennedy’s face. “Thank you for being so frank with me, Dean. I’m lucky to have you on the team, and I’m lucky that Khrushchev is not likely to test my will and nerve ever again. And for that, I have to be grateful to you to a great extent.”
He was referring to the Berlin crisis when Acheson laid down the militant case so brilliantly — the argument to back the only possible winning stance. The acknowledgement brought tears.to the old man’s eyes, and he left the Oval Office hurriedly.
Sunday, September 23
Che Guevara meets Khrushchev in Yalta. At the small port of Mariel, near Havana, a hurriedly built high wall hides the unloading of Russian ships. Bertrand Russell: The Russians “had it from the start. I was in Russia in 1920 and they already had this phobia. A terrible, terrible determination to keep everything secret. It’s an old Eastern attitude, and it’s an irrational thing … ”
*
BOYCHENKO KNEW THAT IT MIGHT TAKE WEEKS, POSSIBLY months, to breach the interdepartmental reluctance to a free exchange of information. And even if it was decided that this case merited some degree of cooperation as well as special attention, it might still take ages to agree which department of which Chief Directorate should be in charge. He resigned himself to a period of captivity and rejoiced when the entire Saturday had passed without further interrogation. On Sunday he was waked up at dawn. He was taken up to a bathroom on the ground floor. “Clean yourself up, major,” said the guard, who handed him some fresh clothes. His own. From home. Things were looking up. He had just finished shaving when the lieutenant arrived and saluted him smartly.
“I’m pleased to report to you, major, that apparently some mistake has been made. I always thought, and I’m on record as saying, that you were no enemy of the people. Please go to your office now. I’m on my way to pick up a Pyotr Nikolayevich Rostonov and bring him to you for questioning.”
It would have been pointless to reprimand the lieutenant or complain about his brutality. It was part of his job. If one was patient enough, one would find one’s own revenge. That was Boychenko’s principle. So for the time being he satisfied himself with a little gesture toward the lieutenant’s neck. The young man blushed and hurriedly adjusted his loosely hanging tie. “I’m sorry, comrade.”
“Rostonov?”
“The American Rust’s father, I believe. At the moment you’ll have to concentrate on discovering if Rust has contacted him.”
“Have we got a file on him?”
“I don’t know. If yes, it’s held by First Directorate. And they will not release it.”
“Then what are you waiting for? Bring him in, you idiot. And no slipups — I warn you.”
Pyotr Nikolayevich was ready to leave
for early service when the bell rang. He opened the door and went pale seeing the three plainclothesmen outside.
“Rostonov?”
He could only nod. All his blood rushed into his feet, and his drained body began shivering.
“Will you please come with us? It’s a minor administrative matter.”
“My kit. I mean shaving gear.”
“You won’t need anything. You should be back in no time.”
No time. No time. His bloodstream bounced and the flood now rose toward his head. It blurred his vision, leaving him with only a slot to see through, a single beam focused on the open elevator door behind the men. He hit out with both hands and ran.
“Stoy!”
Only a few more steps. The metal door. The swish of raincoats pulled aside,
“Stoy!”
A single leap took the old man into the glass cage. He pressed the button. The clicks of safety catches being flicked. The door began to close. The guns went off in quick succession. Some of the bullets whined ricocheting from the closing metal. Others found the narrowing gap to the cage. The old man collapsed and stared without seeing as the elevator began to descend in the glass tube attached to the wall of the house.
Some people in the street saw it coming down. A woman screamed. Two men turned and ran. They knew it was safer not to get involved even as witnesses to whatever had happened. Others just stood, paralyzed, unable to take their eyes away, as the body of the old man descended at a leisurely pace, blood spurting from several angles, obscuring the glass tube with splashes of red all the way.
The old man was definitely alive when three bluecoats ran out of the house. They dragged him inside. Two tried to stop the bleeding; the third raced to a car from which he radioed for an ambulance.
The white van arrived ten minutes later. The writing on its red stripes declared SKORAYA MEDITSINSKAYA POMOSHCH.
“Some quick medical help, pah,” a plump woman mumbled. “A man can die in ten minutes.” She noticed that people turned away from her. She could have kicked herself. Didn’t her daughter always urge her to learn to keep her big mouth shut?
Boychenko heard about the shooting a few minutes after the ambulance had been called. He hoped the wounds were not fatal — he was itching to interrogate the man. But he was not ashamed to admit to himself how pleased he was that the lieutenant would have a great deal to explain whatever happened to Rostonov. Rostonov. The name bugged the major. It sounded so made-up. With an American son called Rust. Rustonov. Roostonov. Boychenko wished the First Directorate had given him full access to the facts on record. He felt sure he could achieve a great deal with a little help. And if there was no other way, he would get it from the old man now in intensive care at the KGB hospital.
*
Bossy, scheming and alluring Yelena proved to be a girlish lover. They had spent some thirty hours together — mostly in bed. She made love with total abandon, and each orgasm seemed to bring her relief, with tears and painful wailing. It was in fact, her voice that drowned the sound of the opening front door. When at last the steps outside the bedroom could be heard, Rust reached under the pillow only to find that the small gun had gone. He stared at Yelena, who fought to control herself and whispered: “I took it. Didn’t want any accidents.”
A hard kick opened the bedroom door, and Rust turned to face Florian’s gun. “I … I heard some noise.” The big man looked first embarrassed, then angry.
“Wait outside,” she snapped. Florian was reluctant to move. He could not take his eyes away from her. “Go.” He backed out of the room but left the door slightly ajar. “Shut it!” she shouted.
Rust smiled. “You won’t be popular.”
“So what? This is not a popularity contest.”
“Is he in love with you?”
She looked genuinely surprised. “In love? Why should he be?”
“I could think of a dozen good reasons offhand, another dozen if you gave me two minutes, and some more if you returned my gun.”
“Thanks.” She kissed him. “That was nice to hear.”
“Except the last part of the sentence, which you chose not to hear.”
“Last part?” They were getting out of bed.
“Come on, sweetheart, where is it?” He held out his hand, and when she still pretended not to understand, his hand moved jerkily. He just managed to stop himself from hitting her. “No more games. Please.”
She reached behind some books on a shelf and took out the Tula-Korovin. For a second she held it, then tossed it to him. “Just no accidents, please.”
“Then warn your gorilla, too, out there.”
“He won’t cause trouble.”
“Not even after this?” He stabbed the bed with his forefinger.
“No.”
It was pointless to argue: probably she had not seen Florian’s eyes catching the two of them in bed. Rust followed her into the marble-covered bathroom. He still could not accept her explanation that she had borrowed the apartment, about the most luxurious he had seen in Russia, from a friend who had kindly packed the pantry and the old-fashioned refrigerator with enough food for two for a week. Would be nice to forget it all and fall freely in love, he thought.
Yelena enjoyed taking long and leisurely showers with Rust, so he could not help noticing in what a great hurry she was this time. She was already dressed when he began drying himself. He reckoned she would have three or four minutes with Florian before he could join them. Dripping and wrapped in a towel, he felt like following her out, but forced himself not to. He knew that the days of waiting and more waiting had begun to fray his nerves.
Yelena entered the living room and closed the door. Florian turned away from her.
“Do you think this is wise?” He nodded toward the bedroom.
“It’s none of your business.” His sulking made her smile. She reached up to his head and touched his hair lightly. “Don’t worry. He’ll go away.”
“When?”
“Soon.”
“How soon?”
“It’s up to us, isn’t it?”
Florian looked at her. His voice was devoid of any emotion, but he leaned forward a little — a sign of close monitoring of her reactions. “He might have to be killed.” He noted the flash of alarm in her eyes.
“Why? What happened?”
“They’ve picked up the old man.”
“He can’t tell them much.”
“Even a little can be too much.”
They both heard Rust moving in the bedroom. “Don’t tell him” — she mouthed the words almost without any sound. And when the bedroom door opened: “So are we getting it or not?”
“Your cobbler’s promised to do his best. I can’t push him too much for obvious reasons.”
*
“Can I talk to him?” Jake Schramm asked. He had never been squeamish about the sights and sounds of any horrid scene, but the smells of hospitals made his stomach turn.
“You can see him if you must, but it’s a risk,” said the surgeon, who had fished three bullets out of Hal Sheridan. “He looked a bit motheaten when you brought him in, and he must have leaked a lot of blood.”
“Sure. Three slugs, three punctures.”
“That’s where you’re wrong, man. He was even luckier than that, because he must have been horizontal by the time the fourth bullet hit him. It went in through his cheek, chipping away a bit of the bone which deflected it, and came out under his chin with just about enough force left in it to make itself comfortable in Hal’s breast pocket. Which made it five punctures in all for us to plug, not to mention the stitching we had to do on his eye.”
“Yuk.”
Hal was in a private room, alone with a small TV set and a large CIA nurse, all arranged for him by Schramm, who asked the nurse to find a vase for the bunch of flowers he had brought.
“Here,” Schramm whispered as soon as the nurse had left. He lifted the sheet and slipped a
flat flask of rum underneath. He was shocked by the sight — Hal bandaged like a mummy except for one eye and the mouth — so he tried to joke. “Can you drink, or do you need a straw?”
A peculiar high-pitched laugh was the answer.
“Hope they didn’t castrate you.”
“Hope not.” The voice remained high-pitched, and Schramm’s joke was not funny at all anymore.
“Can you talk for a few minutes?”
“I’ll try.”
“When I brought you in, you mumbled something about the guy who shot you. Young crewcut, finely cut suit, right?”
“Blue eyes. Dark-blue.”
“Anything else?”
“Yeah. Left-handed. Gun was on his right.”
“Holster?”
“Didn’t see. Possibly pocket. Inside pocket of jacket.”
“Good man.” The nurse returned with the flowers, and Schramm asked her to leave. She was not pleased.
“It’s your show, mister, but you’re taking a big, big responsibility,” she said.
“Do me a favor, Jake,” Hal squeaked, “put her in a big, big vase upside down.”
Schramm waited until she left, then pulled a box of playing-card-sized photographs out of his briefcase. “You said something about Miami station.”
“That’s where Junior said he came from. CIA Miami station.”
“Junior?”
“Yeah.”
“You never mentioned his age.”
“Twenty-four, twenty-five, I guess.”
“Okay. Let’s see if you can spot him here.” They went through all the pictures, paying special attention to the younger, blue-eyed agents, but Hal could make no positive identification.
The nurse returned and, flanked by plenty of medical and administrative muscle, supervised gleefully the visitor’s removal from the premises. She then proceeded to smooth Hal’s sheets for the umpteenth time — and discovered the rum. “Go on, say it, I’m no lip-reader,” she said to Hal. “You may have a big, big mouth, but I bet you can’t tell me no new word I never heard before.”
Back in his office, Schramm was in a foul mood. His desk was about to collapse under the weight of glossy literature advertising his employer’s new venture, a harvester combine, and he removed it all with a swift sweep of great experience. He had long stopped using wastepaper baskets: even large cartons seemed to fill up daily with all the rubbish that was his cover.
In the Company of Spies Page 14
