“It’s a risk you’ll have to assess, of course. Nobody here has seen the doctors or the patient. You’re the one who’s most familiar with the problem — you must make the decision. And we have complete faith in you, of course.”
Of course, of course, of course — damn you. Boychenko tried to make sure that his face would not reveal his reaction to everybody’s usual tactics of dodging responsibility. But this total lack of help and guidance did help and guide him. It indicated that he, in turn, must avoid the crushing weight of making irrevocable decisions. If he insisted on getting the opportunity to conduct an interrogation and then the old man died, it would be his responsibility irrespective of the direct cause of death. If the old man died, the trigger-happy lieutenant would be held responsible in any case. But if the old man died before Boychenko had a chance to interrogate him, some of the blame could be laid on the doctors whose overanxious care of the patient had prevented the authorities from gaining invaluable information through asking some harmless questions. To vindicate his own position in this way, Boychenko would have to be at the man’s bedside, applying hard, though not too hard, pressure for permission to ask those questions. The degree of pressure to go on record could be adjusted later on, in retrospect.
Monday, September 24
Castro announces on TV that Soviet Union plans to build new port in Havana Bay purely as a base for its “Atlantic fishing fleet.” Teddy Kennedy wins Democratic nomination for JFK’s vacant Senate seat; opponent claims: “If your name was Ed Moore, your candidacy would be a joke.” Muscovite is sentenced to three years’ hard labor for remark about space flight: “A bathroom would be worth fifteen orbits to me.”
*
“IT WON’T WORK,” REPORTED FLORIAN, WHO WAS LATE, yet again, from his errand. “You’ll have to think of some other way to get him out or get rid of him.” He nodded toward Rust.
“Damn you!” For the first time, Yelena appeared to be on the brink of losing her self-control.
“It’s not my fault,” Florian protested like a child. His eyes avoided Yelena’s. He thrust four fingertips in his mouth and chewed the well-worn stumps vigorously until they began to bleed. “It’s not my fault.”
“What’s wrong?” asked Rust.
“Oh, it’s just that we seem to be having a bit of a problem.”
“Listen, sweetheart … ”
“Why do you call me sweetheart every time you’re angry with me?”
“I might call you many other things, too, if you try to treat me like that gorilla.” He was itching to hit the man to vent some of his frustration. He was not to be disappointed. Florian threw himself at him blindly. Rust had an easy chance to slip out of his way at the last second and kick his shin in the same move. Florian crashed against the wall howling. But he managed to whip out his gun before Rust could reach him.
“Stop it.” Her voice was almost inaudible. “At once. And put that gun away.” She turned to Rust: “And you’re a fool.”
“Then you’ve made a bad choice, sweetheart. So will you tell me what the problem is?”
“Okay, I’ll be completely frank with you.”
“Anything but that, please. Every time you offer to be completely frank with me, you give me another pack of lies.”
“All right. We’re having problems with your exit passport. I thought we had it all worked out.”
“Had what worked out?”
“There was an American tourist here. He was taken to hospital with, er, some sudden illness.”
“Food poisoning,” Florian volunteered. And he was much too keen to explain it. “Can happen to anyone anywhere. I had nothing to do with it. Honestly. It’s just that it would have been so convenient — ”
“That’s enough,” she interrupted him and turned to Rust: “We were hoping to use his passport for you. There was a quite passable likeness between the two of you. We’d have tinted your hair and supplied you with a neat mustache.”
“You’re crazy!” Rust grabbed her shoulders and squeezed her furiously. “You want to gamble everything, including my fucking life, on the strength of a fucking false mustache?!”
“You don’t understand. You’re against it only because disguises may sometimes look ridiculous. But it would work in this case. You’re not to go unrecognized by some friend of yours. It would only be scrutinized by a border guard for a few seconds. His main job is to compare your picture in front of him with the picture in your passport. He’s trained to make the identification by looking for similarities, not the possible differences. He’s conditioned to see what he’s supposed to see. Believe me. I’ve — I mean, I know how they’re trained.”
“Ridiculous,” said Rust, twiddling his nonexistent mustache, but he did not sound fully convinced by his own doubts anymore. “What happened to the man with the food poisoning?”
“Intourist flew him to a Moscow sanatorium. We’ll have to find another one. That’s all, but time is, well, not running out, but pressing. You understand?”
“I do. You should have taken me to Odessa right away, just as I suggested.”
“It wouldn’t have worked. Going by boat the delay would have been too great. There could be war by the time you arrived.”
Rust turned away and walked to the window. He pressed his forehead against the cold glass and stared out on the Nevsky. Florian began to say something, but the American’s back twitched impatiently and silenced him.
“We’ll sort out something. Don’t worry,” she said.
“I have a feeling that right now you’re more worried than I am, and that’s quite something, I tell you. No, don’t interrupt. I’m impressed by all that you’ve done, and I’ve been good, I haven’t asked many questions. I don’t know what your game is, and I don’t know if this is simply a government-backed charade to pull off some monumental bluff and plant some disinformation on us. Are you working for dezinformatziya?”
“Now you’re being silly.”
“That’s right. Maybe it’s silly not to press you more for the source of your missile information, for an explanation of how you could help Igor or whatever the name of that sailor was, how you obtain marvelous facilities like an empty room in overcrowded Moscow, various false papers and an ambulance, and why you talk about America as the ‘probable enemy’ — remember?”
“You play guessing games.”
“That’s right. There’s nothing else I can do. Only to use the little I know, remind myself that in KGB parlance America is always the ‘main enemy’ while the ‘probable enemy’ is the GRU’s phrase for it. Shall I go on?”
“Only if you’re trying to avoid doing what I’ve asked you to do.”
“Now who’s silly? You know only too well that you’ve got me by the balls in more ways than one, even if I overlook the literal interpretation.” Florian moved, and Rust pointed a finger without looking at him. “And you stay out of this.”
“It must be your decision,” said Yelena.
“Sure, sweetheart. Like it was my decision to come here in the first place and now to risk my father’s life or not. Apart from that, I must admit, you put forward a pretty convincing argument when we first met. So it seems I’ll have to go through with it. I’ll need my own clothes.”
“Florian can get them.”
“Then tell him to get on with it. And get my money. Anybody’s money, as long as it’s American. Then we’ll go for a walk.”
“You can’t.”
“Can’t I?”
“The risk is too great.”
“It’s even greater to stay here. We must get a passport, and as you said, it must be the real thing.”
“They must be looking for you everywhere.”
“All right, we’ll reduce the risk. You’ll watch my back, and if it looks as if I’m running into some sort of trouble or getting myself arrested, you tell your ape to shoot me.” He walked across the room and touched Florian’s nose with his fingertip. “You’ll have o
nly one chance, but I’m sure you won’t miss, will you, darling?”
Florian grabbed Rust’s wrist, squeezed, digging his thumb into the artery, and let go of it — all in two seconds. “I’m looking forward to saving you from interrogation and prison, Mr. Roost.”
*
All traffic at and around Kharkov’s grand railway station was at a standstill. Even express trains were halted and shunted onto sidings. Armed guards lined the platforms. People in the know stared down the tracks southward. They had almost an hour to wait for the special from Yalta for which the route had been cleared. When it arrived, it swept through the station without slowing down. Those who were quick enough would be able to tell their children and grandchildren how they caught a glimpse of a cheerful Comrade Nikita Sergeyevich. They might even add, “He was not more than a good arm’s length away, fresh from Crimean sunshine and smiling at all of us with loving warmth in his eyes.” They would never know that the loving smile was permanent on the wax face of a dummy and the warmth shone unerringly from the glass beads embedded in unblinking eyes. The effigy traveled first-class. It was positioned strategically at the rear window to beam at all good citizens, all the way to Moscow.
Khrushchev was, indeed, on that train, only a few yards away from his benevolent alter ego. Raving about fascist bastards, he promised to crush the Turkish government, which had decided, according to confidential advance information, to request Turkish shipowners to stop carrying Soviet cargo to Cuba.
“I’ll show them, I’ll show the bastards. Is that what they call democracy? Is that the freedom of the sea? They must be acting under American pressure. But we’ll soon see who can apply the greater pressure. I want an immediate report on our options to counter this … this insult.” He suddenly stopped and threw himself back in the red velvet armchair. “You … you don’t think that the Americans are pressing them because they know?”
Everybody in the study compartment of the train tried to look somewhere else, as if the question could not possibly be addressed to him, but there was not enough room to exclude the leader from anybody’s field of vision. Khrushchev swung around to face Semichastny, a tall figure on the verge of flabbiness but not yet overweight.
“Do you think the Americans know?”
“According to our information — ”
“Never mind your information. I asked what you think.” Semichastny had been head of the KGB for only ten months. He was still riding, as in every previous job, on Shelepin’s coattails, still trying to feel his way, still dreading moments like this, still unprotected from this fat peasant and his hare-brained schemes. “I do not think they know about our Cuban konfety, if this is what you’re asking, Nikita Sergeyevich.”
“Why not? Are they stupid?”
“I wouldn’t think so.”
“Then what?”
“First they’re experiencing a scarcity of reliable information. We have friends who can cut out a lot in time, as you know. Then there’s the question of wishing to know — I mean, really wanting to know the truth. Many of the American hawks would, in fact, welcome missiles on Cuban soil. They think it would give them a chance to invade, this time in force. But of course we must remain vigilant.” This was an excellent opportunity to snipe at the GRU and make another step toward restricting intelligence operations by the military and expropriating all their resources. “This is why I believe that the entire security arrangement should go through my own Residents in every country involved rather than through the less reliable representatives of our military neighbors. One of them, for instance, has just helped to accelerate a visa request for a foreigner’s visit to Moscow.” Khrushchev was waiting, but Semichastny paused for effect, combing his sandy hair with outstretched fingers. “That foreigner obtained some information in Moscow about our shipments to Cuba and tried to pass it on to the American embassy.”
It was as if even the train had gone silent.
“Tried?”
“Yes, tried. We were, luckily, in a position to intercept.”
“Why wasn’t I told?” Khrushchev whispered.
“It didn’t seem important enough.”
“Not important enough? Not important enough?! Are you out of your mind? Everything about Cuba is of extreme importance. Our preparations are delayed. We may not be ready until late October. If we’re caught out before we’re operational we could be humiliated by Kennedy. We’d get no guarantees, nothing, just a good spanking. And I won’t be spanked, you understand? I won’t be spanked publicly, not without some good reason.” He laughed heartily. “Not without something that would show both Fidel and his beloved Chinks who’s boss and who can deliver. Who was that foreigner?”
“Some American journalist.”
“Has he confessed his sources?”
“He, er, he hasn’t been caught yet, but his arrest is imminent, I’m told.” That, of course, could later be denied and somebody could be punished for misleading information.
“Good.” Khrushchev turned to his side. “Gromyko is lunching with Dean Rusk next week. If Cuba is mentioned, he must deny most vigorously any shipment of missiles. Later he could claim that I never tell him anything.”
Everybody laughed, and Semichastny wondered if there could be a grain of truth in the joke. Was Gromyko on his way out? He decided this was another good moment to score and demonstrate his efficiency. “The question of arming Cuba with modern weapons has just been discussed by Kennedy’s inner security council. Through our ‘contact’ we managed to introduce the argument that it’s not Soviet policy to station missiles on foreign soil, because if it was, we could have installed them easily in East Europe.”
“You managed to introduce this point in their discussions?”
“Yes, we did.”
“You’re a fool. They’d argue that it would be too dangerous for us to have konfety even at Soviet bases in Poland, for instance. If we’d had them in Hungary in ’56, they might have fallen into enemy hands and they could have turned them around to threaten Moscow. But it can’t happen in Cuba — it’s too far from us and too near the Americans. That was very stupid. It may give them ideas about our plans. Make sure that Gromyko denies everything, and that nothing happens in respect to the Cuban operation without my personal approval.” Krushchev got up and walked to the tinted glass, behind which the University Hill and the outskirts of Kharkov were receding fast. Some people waved toward the train and Khrushchev almost waved back, forgetting that he would not be seen anyway. He thought of his tireless effigy in the last window of the carriage, and that reminded him of Potemkin, the prince, who had erected fake village fronts along the road where Catherine the Great used to travel. His aim was to conceal the squalor of the real villages behind the hoardings and to please her majesty. We create figures to wave to and sights to please our people — that’s Communism for you, thought Khrushchev, and it amused him. He was still smiling when he turned back to the Chairman of the KGB: “Let me know when that journalist has confessed. The source of his information interests me.”
*
Rust could not stay any longer in the marble-paneled, marble-pillared, marble-floored hall of Aeroflot. Not if he did not want to attract undue attention. He had already managed to chat with half a dozen British and American tourists and businessmen. Only one of them was of similar build to his own (a pair of heavy black-rimmed glasses would have probably created a sufficient semblance to the man’s passport photo), but then it turned out that he was traveling with a group, which ruled out the possibility of stealing his identity.
Rust was walking toward a Beryozka store when he spotted a likely solution. The man was about his own height, five foot ten, with a massive, bushy beard, wearing an unmistakably Western anorak. He went into the store, where it would have been easy to talk to him, but as the shop sold select goods only to Westerners for hard currency, identification had to be shown at the door. Rust walked on, stopping to tie his shoelaces, looking at some buildings, and fin
ding it difficult to hang about unobtrusively because there were hardly any shop windows, the easy excuse, in the Soviet Union. He observed that Yelena and Florian had the same problem watching him.
At long last the man came out and walked down toward St. Isaac’s Cathedral. In the square he looked at his watch, turned again and went into the Hotel Astoria. Cocktail time. An excellent opportunity. Rust glanced at Yelena and started toward the hotel. She seemed alarmed. Rust would be stopped and questioned at the door. Rust smiled as he came face to face with the elderly doorman.
“And how are you today?” he asked in his imitation of broken Russian.
The doorman nodded, obviously confused by the clash between a stranger’s face and the key word, “today,” which had implied that they knew each other, that the same question had been asked by the same foreigner on perhaps several previous occasions. He would still have to ask for the man’s pass to authorize entry to the hotel. Embarrassing. Fortunately, the familiar stranger knew the rules and reached into his pocket for the hotel spravka.
But Rust’s hand stopped halfway. He asked the doorman about those Victory Ball invitation cards. “I’ve just heard about them,” he said. “Could you tell me what happened? I mean, is the story true?”
It was a perfect choice. A true citizen of Leningrad, he could not miss the chance to regurgitate that glorious nonevent.
The doorman talked for a good five minutes — and by then, even the two plainclothesmen watching the doorman had lost interest in the foreigner coming through the door.
Rust ordered some tea in the somewhat faded grandeur of the corner lobby. From the comfort and privacy of his highback armchair he could watch the entrance, the reception desk and the door to the garish, fully modernized — that is, plastic-coated — bar where an illuminated glass panel listed the only bona fide currencies — anything but those circulated by Russia and fellow Communist countries.
There was no sign of the bearded man. Rust talked to several other tourists. He knew he had to be patient in his search because his basic requirements were exact: he needed to find a man of similar build and not too different face structure, someone traveling on his own and planning to leave the country soon. The timing was essential: date and time of departure would already be known to the border guards and airport authorities.
In the Company of Spies Page 16
