Miami station. It would have been Miami station that, supposedly, picked up some Russki defector Rust mentioned the last time they met. Schramm had a feeling that Rust had not told him everything he knew.
Every bottle in the office was empty, and Schramm began to rummage in the cupboards, hoping to find some leftover rum somewhere. That again reminded him of Rust. Drinking Bacardi in El Paraíso where the little whore had been killed. Did she manage to sell whatever she had for sale? Or was it left with Rust? Or did her killers believe that it had been left with Rust? Was that what they were searching for when Hal was there? What could it be? And what would Rust have done with it if it was left with him? He wouldn’t keep it in the house while being away for long stretches. He might … well, he just might send it to Washington.
Schramm dialed Elliott Repson’s private number and made his report on Hal Sheridan’s progress. “While we’re at it, sir, there’s something I’d like to ask. Just a long shot, really.”
“Shoot.”
“Way back in August, your … I mean, Helm Rust called me because a Cuban girl had something important for sale. We met in the bar where the girl worked, and found that she’d been murdered. The thing she had for sale was gone.”
“Any idea what it was?”
“No, sir, but if you don’t mind me saying, I had a kinda sneaky suspicion that Rust might have had it in his pocket all the time.”
“You’ll have to ask him.”
“Sure … er … I mean, sure.”
“Come on, Jake, what is it?
“Well, to be candid about it, it was just a thought that he might have, I mean, could have sent it on to … er, you, sir. I mean, just as a gesture of goodwill.” It was no good telling Repson that he had more than an inkling about Rust’s active role in his brother’s career. “I mean, if he did send it to you, it would be in good hands and all, but it could perhaps help to see what Rust might have been involved with. Sir? Are you there?”
“Yes, I’m here. Just checking. You said August?”
“Yes. I mean no, more like July. Yes, definitely.”
“July then. Nope. Nothing. No communication from him, which isn’t surprising, since we haven’t been in touch for several years now, and there’s nothing that came to me in July anonymously or under some name that could be of doubtful origin. Nothing.”
*
Florian was late. Yelena had sent him to pick up a package from a taynik on Sadovoye. The conversation between the two of them had been too fast for Rust to follow in full, and she explained that taynik was a medieval word for some secret hole or compartment in a house or furniture to hide documents or valuables.
“Any sign of him?” Yelena asked.
“Not yet.”
She seemed agitated as she walked restlessly up and down for more than an hour. Rust stood at the edge of the window, hidden by the heavy curtain, watching the wide expanse of Nevsky Prospekt. Not the shabbily dressed crowd of grays and faded blues, not the hunched shoulders and blank faces, not even the lack of glitter or illuminated shopfronts, nothing seemed to be able to eradicate the inherent elegance and grandeur of the street. Yes, No. 17, a green building with white icing, had a choice location, and Rust envied the unnamed friend who had lent this fine apartment to Yelena. He went to the kitchen to get a drink of water and admired once more the miniature park that was the courtyard. A few benches, a couple of classicist statues that had survived revolution, siege and Stalinist purification of the arts, a carved wooden gate, a small fountain, and pairs of stone lions guarding each door caught Rust’s eyes. It was odd how tame these, like all Soviet lions, appeared to be. Just kittens wanting to play in the gently flowing water at the focal point of their sleepy gaze. The fountain, the jet in Lake Geneva, Vati — so Rust’s associations ran. He knew he would never understand better the old man’s secret, long-suppressed yearnings.
Florian arrived at last with a small, carefully wrapped packet. “It wasn’t there,” he complained. “I had to go all the way to the little oak to find it.” Yelena sent him on another errand, and his suspicious eyes bounced like Ping-Pong balls between Rust and Yelena as if trying to figure out what the two might do when he left.
Ever since the morning scene in the bedroom, Rust had known that Florian was just waiting for the right opportunity to challenge him. He knew only too well those glances of “Let’s see just how tough you really are.” And Yelena seemed to know what his thoughts were.
“He doesn’t count,” she said when the door closed behind Florian. “He knows that you’re important to me, so he’d die for you if necessary.”
“I’d prefer not to test your faith in him.”
She opened the package and laid out several documents on a table. She examined them carefully. “That’s nice. Our cobbler’s done a good job.”
“Cobbler?”
“He makes the shoe in which you can walk across frontiers.” She smiled.
“You mean forger.”
“It’s an ugly word. This man is an artist.” She handed him a well-worn American passport, from which his own photograph stared at him. “Pleased to meet you, Mr. Foster.”
“You’re crazy.”
“Maybe. But you’d better learn all the details by heart. If you want to enter America alive, that is.”
“Rubbish. Once I’m out of here I have no problems.”
“You must still get to Washington.”
“And what’s the problem?”
“The neighbors have a very long arm.”
“Why do you call the KGB neighbors?”
“That’s what everybody calls them.”
“Why are you angry?”
“Because you’re wasting time with stupid questions. Study the passport.” She looked at him with growing incredulity. “You really don’t understand, or you don’t care. By now they must be ready to kill you on sight. They must have heard about you when Igor was caught in Cuba. They had contacts in high enough places to get a CIA agent to deliver the message to you just to see your reaction. They must have been watching you when you arrived. And then they had confirmation that you were on a mission of some kind. Because foolishly you delivered our message right into their hands when you talked to Holly, who reported it to his boss. Do you know Who that was?”
Holly mentioned the station chief. It was unimaginable that the chief would be a Russian agent. But it was true, Holly had been told to arrange a second meeting so that both he and Rust could be picked up. The importance of the information was proved quite clearly by Holly’s summary execution. Presumably, Rust was spared so that he could be interrogated and forced to reveal his source. So Yelena must be right. But he was reluctant to give away anything about the embassy to her. “I don’t know who Holly reported to.”
“And I don’t believe you.”
“Do you need to know the truth?”
“No. As long as you understand that they’re looking for you everywhere.”
“Okay.” He opened the passport. “Goodbye, Mr. Rust, hello Arthur Foster, much-traveled high school teacher from the Bronx. We’ll have plenty of time to get acquainted.” He shut the passport.
“No, you won’t. I want you to learn it all now, so that you’ll be ready when you need it. I’ll make sure that you get it in London or somewhere else on your way to America.”
“Don’t I use this for leaving your beloved country?”
The irony of his voice stung her, but she resisted the temptation to hit back. “No, for that you’ll need another shoe.”
“Why?”
“It must be a genuine one with a genuine photo, because at the airport, the passport controller will be looking at an identical copy of the same photo. Remember? You had to hand in three pictures when you asked for a visa. The date and point of your departure are known to our authorities. The photo is already waiting for you there.”
“So where will that other shoe come from?”
“Flo
rian’s working on it. Just concentrate on your passport.” She sorted the documents on the table into two piles. “You won’t need most of these.”
“Can I see them?”
She made an attempt to stop him, but he snatched them away from her. There were “family photos” and fake mementos, employment records and medical cards, and a long detailed history of Arthur Foster, complete with photographs of places where he had spent his childhood and where he had worked. A separate list pointed out the most important details to be memorized in the pictures. These would enable him to “remember quite clearly” what color the walls and curtains were in his lodging as a student. There was enough to set up an illegal Russian with perfect cover for an indefinite stay in the United States.
“Satisfied?” She did not hide her irritation.
“Yours must be a good cobbler.”
“Thank you.”
“And who are you?”
She ignored the question and pushed a bunch of credit cards across the table. “Here. I’m told that in America nothing’s as creditable as having credit.”
“Stands to reason, doesn’t it? It’s like your party membership card over here.” Again she looked hurt. It was pointless to keep needling her, but it helped him retain his self-respect in a situation where he had no chance to gain full control over his fate. “I’m sorry. It must be very difficult for you. You must know you’ll also get your ass shot off if I’m caught.”
“Martyrdom runs in the family.”
“Okay. Let’s see what it’s like. Martyrs must take risks. We’ll take a walk.”
“You’re crazy.”
“Just a long, quiet walk along the canals, then out to the river. Leningrad is tailor-made for ruling the world and falling in love.”
“Are you still in love with that girl?”
“No. Why?”
“Last night when you mentioned her it sounded as if you were. I forget her name.”
“I never mentioned her name.”
“Oh.”
He kissed her, and for a second her lips brought back memories. The room looked different, the year was not 1962, there were no missiles on their way, and Russian soccer fields were not constructed within shooting distance of the United States.
She made a faint attempt to pull away from him. “We have work to do.” Her eyes went misty. “And there’s too little time left for us.”
“Why don’t you come with me? You could deliver your message yourself.”
“If I did that, I could never return. And that or someone would probably kill me.”
“Doesn’t martyrdom run in the family?”
“It does. But we like to survive so that we can savor every minute of it.”
*
Che Guevara was entertained in a grand style throughout his visit, Khrushchev had made sure of that. On this last evening, they dined together aboard the Soviet leader’s yacht, repainted and renamed the Havana to commemorate the occasion. In less than twenty-four hours, the boat might again be repainted and renamed the Aswan to honor Nasser, but Che was not to know that as they sailed slowly along the Soviet Riviera.
The Cuban, not a renowned connoisseur of food or occasion, was itching to get down to politics, but Khrushchev played him with patience, plied him with vodka, and induced him to toast Cuban-Soviet friendship again and again. It was in the middle of these repeated exhortations of eternal and unbreakable camaraderie that he produced a small folder with a theatrical gesture: “And this is to prove that our faith and trust in Fidel is unshakable, despite gossip, despite appearances, despite photography,” Che opened the folder, and his face tightened with embarrassment. There were pictures, arranged in sequence. Raul Castro at an airport. Raul in Paris. Raul with some Chinese. Some Chinese Che knew, too. Raul shaking hands. “Please don’t bother to examine them too much, they’re not worth the time. Just give them to Comrade Castro with my compliments and tell him to forget about it. When it comes to true friends, we Russians believe what they tell us, not what we see. Besides, Raul may be so young that his mother’s milk has hardly dried on his lips, but my dear and beloved Fidel is an old owl who knows that it’s unwise to make friends with the poor and the amateur when the hand of the rich and the professional is offered in all sincerity.” Che tried to give back the pictures, but Khrushchev insisted: “Please, please keep them. Make it a memento. One of the three I wanted to give you.”
“What are the others?”
“One is the news that the first warheads will be on their way within a couple of days.”
“They were supposed to arrive by now.”
“I know, I know, but there were delays, not only on our side, I understand, but on yours, too.”
“The construction of the port is progressing well.”
“But are the launch sites also progressing satisfactorily? Or could it be that there are saboteurs among the workforce assigned to this important task?”
“That’s impossible.”
“I hope so, I do. But of course we’d feel happier if our experienced men could be given a greater opportunity to participate in the selection, vetting and security arrangements.” That was just the opportunity the Cuban was waiting for. “Perhaps you don’t trust us sufficiently, Nikita Sergeyevich. Is that why you don’t want us to have the missiles under our direct control?”
“Not at all! How could you say that? It makes no difference who’s controlling what, not among friends.”
“Fidel would be happier if we had direct control over at least some missiles. After all, the American Mongoose plan is going ahead fast. They might invade us again, and they’d hit us hard if they knew about the missiles.”
“No, they would not. They wouldn’t dare.”
“Are you saying then that the Soviet Union is strong enough right now to fight an all-out missile war?”
“It depends whose opinion you accept on this matter. When a forest is cut down, chips will fly, but there’s no need to take a defeatist view. Not unless you talk to defeatists. So who have you talked to? Perhaps scheming old Mikhail Andreyevich or young and restless Leonid Ilyich?” Khrushchev laughed heartily to emphasize what a good joke the random reference to these names was, but the meaning was not lost on his guest. For Guevara had talked to both of these and others. He did meet Brezhnev the young and restless, and he did visit Suslov, the old and scheming, in his town home above Madame Furtseva’s in Granovsky ulitsa. Khrushchev rested his puffy fingers on Guevara’s shoulder. “What I mean is, there is nothing to worry about. You and Fidel listen to me and you’ll have me as a friend for life. So just to reassure you, take this little note as my third memento.”
It was the translation and photocopy of some parts of a memorandum in English, dated April 19, 1961, the third day of the ill-fated Bay of Pigs venture. “If we don’t want Russia to set up missile bases in Cuba,” it began, addressing President Kennedy, “we had better decide now what we are willing to do to stop it.”
“Why are sections missing?” asked Guevara.
Khruschev turned his palms to the sky in a gesture of helplessness: “That’s how we received it.” There was no need to feed Castro with all the details. “But it should answer all Fidel’s doubts and problems.”
The memo recommended calling on the Organization of American States to prohibit the shipment of arms to Cuba from any source. “At the same time they would guarantee the territorial integrity of Cuba so that the Cuban government could not say they would be at the mercy of the United States.”
“Note the signature,” Khruschev urged his guest.
“Is the memo genuine?”
Khrushchev made no attempt at concealing his anger. “Of course it’s genuine! The original is in the White House, the first copy is in my desk in Moscow, and the second copy is now yours. What the fuck do you expect me to present you with? All the Kennedys on a plate, with bullets between the eyes, and their heads stuffed ready for a butcher’s window display?�
��
*
The visa trace had taken four days, and the delay as well as the outcome infuriated Major Boychenko. It was obvious that there had been some irregularity. Rust’s visa was granted by an accelerated process at the request of a lieutenant commander, a high-ranking GRU agent on the naval attaché’s staff at the London embassy of the USSR. The London KGB Resident was clearly trying to minimize the importance of the incident. Boychenko threatened to create a real stink about it, but received a stiff warning that the officer involved was the son-in-law of the chairman of the Supreme Court, a crony of Khrushchev himself. Although Boychenko understood and played well the advantages of mutual backscratching and nepotism, and although the new legality had probably saved him from a great deal of unnecessary punishment during his arrest, he now resented the protection extended to the lieutenant commander and blamed Khrushchev for it. During the Stalin era it would have been easier to break the man’s career as well as neck. Now he was told to let the matter rest, and he knew it was sound advice. But it did not help him. Not when he was summoned to the First Chief Directorate to receive his orders: Rust must be found and neutralized.
They refused to give him any further information about Rust or his background or his father. That implied to him that he must be working somewhere on the periphery of an intelligence operation at the very highest level, an operation that was regarded as even more important than the message in Rust’s possession. If he uncovered too much it would be more dangerous than uncovering too little.
“I request permission to interrogate Pyotr Nikolayevich Rostonov at the earliest opportunity.”
“Why would you need permission for that? It’s your right to interrogate him. As long as you observe the rules of socialist legality, of course.”
“The doctors tell me that his injuries are very serious and he’s under heavy sedation. If the degree of sedation is reduced, death due to shock may occur within minutes.”
In the Company of Spies Page 15
