In the Company of Spies

by Stephen Barlay

  “In your opinion, Comrade Muratova, why would the captain need an American ‘shoe’?”

  “I had no idea.” So that was it. Either the cobbler had reported the request to the KGB or they had searched Khomenko’s home in Moscow — or both. For Yelena had taken the precaution of hiding the Arthur Foster passport in Khomenko’s Moscow home. If he was captured and interrogated, he would be forced to confess that he had passed the papers on to Yelena — a confession that would not be borne out by the fact that the passport was found in his home. It would prove Khomenko a liar and reduce Yelena to a figment of his imagination.

  “Do you think he might have wanted to use the passport himself?”

  “What for?”

  “Perhaps he was planning to escape.”

  “I wouldn’t know.”

  “Wouldn’t he tell you?”

  “Why should he?”

  “Because he was in love with you, wasn’t he?”

  She knew that she was watched closely by all the men in the room. Boychenko must have picked up some old gossip, and, she had to admit, he had introduced it quite cleverly, quickly and without warning. So she parried it with a carefully controlled slow smile. “Oh, that. Yes, that used to be a standard joke in the section. I mean, when he worked for me. People kept teasing him about it.”

  “Why?”

  “Why not?”

  “Why him? Why not somebody else?”

  “I don’t know. Perhaps once he said something nice about me. Certainly not to me. And I have a feeling that they never tired of teasing him only because he reacted so angrily.” Boychenko did not believe her. There was something here. There had to be. And he could get it out of her in no time. But they would not let him. This was just a routine questioning. One of many to discover if any woman officer had had an opportunity to be Khomenko’s associate and play, for instance, the doctor in the ambulance. This Colonel Muratova seemed to have had at least half an opportunity, even if it was covered by a reasonable alibi. It was killing him that he had to apologize for asking her to notify him if she had to leave the capital for any reason in the next few days. He felt it in his bones, and all his experience was telling him, that her connection with Khomenko could not be just one of those things; her involvement with “setting up the original operation with Rust in ’56” — whatever that secret operation might have been — would be just too much of a coincidence.

  Yelena accepted his apologies with comradely sympathy. No, it was no trouble at all, she would be glad to help in any way if that was required. Of course she would contact Major Boychenko if she planned to leave Moscow for any reason, but at the moment, she had no such plans. Which was not quite true. In the last few minutes, she had begun to think about Odessa. Hotel Tsentralnaya. It would have been very difficult to make the journey with Rust, but she, on her own, could get there and enter even the restricted port area without too much trouble. It was reassuring to know that should she need it, there was at least somewhere to run to.

  *

  Rust tried to swim, but his hands and feet disobeyed him. No, they did not disobey him. It was he himself who could not move them. Though he knew he must be drowning. There was water in his nose and ears, but not in his mouth. He could not open his mouth. Only his eyes would open. More water rushed at him, and he had to shut his eyes quickly.

  “Come on, come on, you’ve rested long enough, come on!”

  The voice reached Rust as he moved and water ran out of his ear. He began to feel pain in his head where he had been kicked, and regained consciousness. He was lying in a pool of water. His mouth would still not open. It was taped firmly. His hands and feet were wired together so tightly that the raw metal had drawn blood at several places around his wrists. Mann, with his back to the window, loomed above him, swinging an empty bucket lazily. Rust had some difficulty breathing. One of his nostrils was blocked. Might be catching a cold — it was just a subconscious reflex thought, and the absurdity of worrying about such a minor ailment in the circumstances almost made him chuckle. It could only be his eyes that gave him away.

  “What’s so funny?”

  Rust could not answer. Mann did not pursue it, because the door opened and George returned. The thin face was completely distorted by the still-swelling lump and the cut at the corner of his mouth where Rust’s backhand had caught him.

  “What happened?”

  “It’s all right.” George spoke with obvious difficulty. It gave Rust the hope that the man had at least a few broken teeth.

  “I said, what happened?”

  “She must have scraped her face against the floorboards until the tape came off. Her face is full of scratches.”

  “Okay now?”

  “Yeah. I fixed her.”

  “You mean … ?”

  “No, no. Just ran the tape around her head. And restricted her movement a little.” George began to laugh, but stopped right away because of the pain it caused.

  “Good. We may need her later.”

  “How about this one?” George kicked Rust in the ribs.

  “I think he’ll be more sensible now.”

  “Shall we start?”

  “No, not yet. He might want to volunteer some answers. Let’s not make it hard on him. Just remove the tape, George.” The tall man pulled off the tape slowly.

  “Where’s Lanigan?” Rust asked.

  “Ugh.” Mann frowned with disgust. “He’s an awful mess. Don’t even mention him.” He turned to his partner. “It’s not nice, George. What’s got to be done has got to be done; there’s no need to overdo it.” He pulled a chair up to Rust and sat down. “Now, Mr. Rust, let’s have your story.”

  “What story?”

  “Don’t make it hard on yourself, please don’t. Ell won’t be pleased when I tell him about the delays you’ve caused.”

  “I don’t believe that you’re reporting to Ell. And I think you’re making a bad mistake, whoever you are.”

  “You hear that, George? He doesn’t believe us. He thinks we’re making a mistake. You know something, Mr. Rust? I know some brutes who wouldn’t allow you to doubt their word. They’d kick your balls until you had three Adam’s apples. You’re lucky that I’m not one of those. So why not tell me what the message is? All right, all right, you want to call it information, although I’m sure that Ell said ‘message’ to me.”

  “Did Ell also mention that you must hurt his wife?”

  “Well, not in so many words.”

  “He loves her.”

  “He used to love her. True. But it’s not a very good marriage these days, as eventually he’ll tell you himself, I’m sure.”

  “Bullshit.”

  George stepped nearer.

  “Not yet, George, not yet. I’m a firm believer in the power of reasoning, and I think Mr. Rust is a reasonable man. So let me just put all my cards on the table, Mr. Rust. After all, you were calling my bluff, weren’t you? Okay, I’ll be absolutely frank with you.”

  Rust was stung by the promise. That was how Yelena would introduce all her fibs, half-truths and absolute vranyo.

  “Yes, I think you’ve guessed it. We’re not what you’d call regular CIA. But you and we are on the same side.”

  “It doesn’t seem to be much fun to be your ally, Mann.”

  “I won’t accept that. Don’t forget, you started the rough stuff. Look at poor George. It’s not nice what you’ve done to him, is it? So be reasonable. We can’t allow you a repeat performance, can we?”

  “Cut out the bullshit, will you?”

  “Right. I like you, Rust. You’re a man of action. Like me. So here you are. We know that you’re bringing a message from Moscow about porokhovyye konfety.” He allowed himself the pleasure of taking gleeful notice of the blood running out of Rust’s face. “Cuban confetti, to be precise. Which, we both know, means ‘missiles’ in that most obnoxious KGB parlance. You once forwarded a stolen document about this, and when a stupid
little Cuban whore died for it, you should have been warned not to dabble in other people’s games. But you failed to read the writing on the wall. Pity. Now you’re trying it again, against all odds. After all, as you see, we already know what’s going on, and we know the message.”

  “Amazing.” Rust expected the pressure to increase. Sooner or later he would have to admit a few things. The question was what to say. And that depended on what they already knew. It was essential to find out more about Mann’s hand. “Okay, tell me what you want to know.”

  “Why did you go to the Soviet Union?”

  “I had an assignment for a magazine.”

  “Just … out of the blue.”

  “That’s right.”

  “And when you got there somebody approached you and asked you to deliver the message.”

  “Sort of.”

  “What sort of?”

  “He said — ”

  “He?”

  “Yes.”

  “One man?”

  “Yes.”

  “Your father?”

  “No.”

  “No. Just a man. A stranger?”

  “Yes. But he seemed to know a lot about me. That’s why he approached me, he said.”

  “What did he know about you?”

  “That my brother was working for the government.”

  “He knew that?”

  “Yes. He wanted me to deliver the message to my brother.”

  “So what was the message?”

  “Just what you said. That nukes are going into Cuba.”

  “And you took his word for it?”

  “Not quite, but it sounded interesting.”

  “You didn’t ask for proof.”

  “I did, but he said no proof was necessary. Only a warning to the American government. They’d know what to do.”

  “And who was the man?”

  “I don’t know. He said he was a friend of America, and he wanted to help.”

  “That won’t do, Rust, and you know it.”

  “That’s all there is. I can’t remember any more.”

  “Well, you’ll have to try harder. George … ”

  The tall man brought in a shabby suitcase and unpacked a large tape recorder, an amplifier, an assortment of wires and adjustable earphones. He half-lifted out a Plexiglass container, about the size of a shoebox, and stared into it. “Poor, poor Fidel, you’re getting very bored in there, my pet, but don’t worry, you’ll soon be out of that box.”

  Rust could not see what Fidel was.

  “Leave it alone and get me the beaker,” rasped Mann.

  The two of them worked with fuss-free, well-rehearsed efficiency. George got out a beaker, Mann filled it with water. Mann dissolved several tablets in the water, George affixed a large bulldog clip to Rust’s nose. His nostrils blocked, Rust had to breathe through his mouth. “That’s how bad little boys are made to drink their medicine, Rust. So be a good boy.” George held Rust’s head firmly, and Mann forced the liquid into his mouth. “Don’t worry, it’s only a laxative. It’ll give you the biggest bowel wash you can dream of. You’ll see how nice it is.”

  Softening up. It must be part of a planned process of softening up. Rust tried to pay no attention to the preparations and forced himself to concentrate. The problem was when to begin to talk and how much to say. People who did not want to give away any secrets and held out under torture would break at some point and confess everything — or die first. Rust did not want to die. He knew that Yelena had taken precautions. “If you’re caught, you tell them everything.” So eventually, he could tell them her lies, everything she had obviously made clear and memorable for him. That she was a cabby. A Dynamo supporter. But not the occasional slips of GRU language. The ambulance? Yes. And the Foster passport. Things these two might already know. But if Yelena had an alibi for these potential confessions by Rust, he must convince them that he had reached the breaking point and was telling the truth at last. Which called for a double bluff. He must feed them with his own lies first, and tell Yelena’s lies as the final version. But how could he gauge the amount of pain he would have to withstand to make it all believable?

  Muffled, distant screams pierced the ceiling. They came probably through several doors. “That’s how you fixed her?” Mann was fuming. Rust thought he would hit George, who now stood up, determined to fix her more effectively. “I’ll do it,” said Mann. “You get on with this.”

  Anna’s screams could still be heard when George removed the nose clip and put the large earphones on Rust. He adjusted the metal strap until the pads became airtight, pressed to Rust’s face and skull. He returned to the tape recorder, threaded a tape through, started the machine, fiddled with various knobs on the amplifier, then flicked a switch. Tons of thunder fell freely on Rust’s eardrums and made him cry out with pain. George nodded. “Just testing,” he mumbled, and switched off the machine. Relieved from the pressure, Rust’s eardrums felt as if they were trying to bulge outward.

  George connected several gauges to the amplifier. He looked up and listened. His hands paused in midair. Then a satisfied nod, and he carried on with his job. Presumably, the screams had stopped upstairs. His pouting indicated to Rust that he was whistling, like so many other good craftsmen, totally absorbed in his work.

  Rust began to shiver intensely. His body had given him no advance warning. As if his guts knew ahead of his brain what was to come. His lungs tried to release an immense bubble of air. His throat wanted to cry. No! Please don’t! He closed his eyes and tried desperately not to think. But his brain cells obeyed his subconscious. “Keep warm. Don’t let yourself be tortured. Beg them to listen. Tell them everything. Admit to yourself what you’ve known since Anna’s first scream, that these men cannot be CIA. They must be Russians. Or working for them. For the people who’ve killed Holly. But Moscow wouldn’t know how or where to find you. Not unless they’ve got it out of Florian or Yelena. Not Florian. Only Yelena. Florian knows nothing about the Craig passport. In which case it’s no good to suffer trying to protect her. But Ell knew the name. And your time of arrival. And Charles might know it. Charles might have tracked you all the way, after all. As Mann tracked you, despite Lanigan’s tactics, from the airport.”

  Rust’s shivering became uncontrollable. Like his father’s in the church. It was not the cold. It was fear. It would be no good to keep warm. He wished they had taped his mouth. It would prevent his cries giving them satisfaction.

  Mann returned. He checked what George was doing, then took a roll of wide adhesive tape and closed Rust’s eyes with it. He stuck on layer upon layer until all the light was excluded. Total darkness and total silence. Disorientation began right away. Then a spasm of colic. The pain was accompanied by nausea. He broke out in cold sweat. What if the drug made him vomit? What if they taped his mouth and it could not come out? He would drown. Without a chance to cry for help, beg for mercy, confess anything and more. Stop it, Rust, stop it at once, he scolded himself. Your own imagination is their strongest weapon. Stop it. Suddenly he was not quite sure if he had talked to himself aloud. So it was dangerous even to think.

  The thunder hit him from both sides once again. The pressure was unbearable, yet increasing. It had a mind-numbing, paralyzing effect. The shivering stopped. His neck muscles tightened dangerously, as if trying to snap in defiance of the blaring onslaught. Cry out! Cry out! Tell them they’ve won! His throat and mouth were too numb to obey. Because for the first time, he was hit by the certainty that once he broke down and told them what they accepted as truth, they could not allow him to live. And what about Lanigan? And Anna? Did Ell want them all dead?

  *

  “Nothing, nothing, fucking nothing.” Schramm brought down his fist hard, intent on hammering the small bar table into the floor, but forcing only the glasses to hop. The few late-night drinkers made a point of paying no attention to him: this was not the place for table-banging or foul language. A worn man, obv
iously disinclined to leave and face home, did not even look up. The middle-aged couple in the corner, with illicit love written all over them, had eyes only for each other. The butch executive, queening over a bunch of office juniors, ordered another round and spared only a glance for the entrance: was it the wind that had banged the door?

  “Fucking nothing,” repeated Schramm, because he hated to be ignored. He had just returned from the telephone, and “nothing” was the summary of information he could offer to Charles. “My guess is that he’s still here. It’s reasonably certain that he hasn’t taken a flight, train or Greyhound to get out of New York. But he might have driven a car. Or walked.”

  “Or taken an ambulance,” said Charles.

  “Right.”

  Schramm waved toward the barman. They had been drinking in there long enough for the man to know their orders. “I’ll have to phone Repson.”

  “Do you think that’s a good idea?”

  “You mean you don’t?”

  “Yes, you could put it that way.”

  “Then why the fuck don’t you say so in the first place, Sir Charles, dear boy?”

  “Because after a full day’s frustration cum drinking, I think we’re getting on each other’s nerves even without sharp pronouncements on right and wrong.”

  “Thank you, Sir Charles. So I take it that you’re diametrically opposed to calling Repson and asking if he knows where Rust is.”

  “Correct.”

  “So what the hell do you suggest we do?”

  “Call Repson, of course. But only because I have nothing better to suggest.”

  “Great.”

  “Just don’t tell him, at least not at this stage, what we know.”

  “Agreed.”

  Repson answered the phone so promptly that it suggested to Schramm he must have been sitting right next to the instrument. “Where are you, Jake?”

  “In New York.”

  “Still on vacation?”

  “How did you know I was?”

  “I called your office a few days ago and they told me.”

  “Anything specific you wanted, sir?”