In the Company of Spies

by Stephen Barlay

  “I know. That’s why my first shot failed to kill her.”

  “Fortunately, I’d say. Because you know as well as I do that it’s important to have a chance to interrogate her.”

  “I know. Anyone but her husband would think of that right away. But I am her husband, I’m sorry to say.”

  “Did the bullet go right through her throat?”

  “Almost. She may lose her voice.”

  “I’ll always remember her screams.”

  “So will I. I heard the tape.” Repson’s voice was hardly audible.

  “Pity they didn’t tape me, too.” Rust turned to Schramm: “Are you sure there wasn’t a tape of the interrogation?”

  “Pretty sure. Why?”

  “It would be good to know how much I told them. I can’t even remember their questions. Do you think they might have forwarded information to Moscow right away?” None of the men volunteered an answer. “I didn’t give Yelena away. I couldn’t. I don’t even know her real name. Or anything about her. She was careful. She knew I’d give away everything if caught. That’s why I wasn’t supposed to know anything that wasn’t essential.” Fears, doubts and halfhearted self-assurances were gushing out of him. Schramm watched him sadly. For a second or two, Rust appeared to be on the verge of tears but then pulled himself together. The two counterintelligence men listened impassively. The one calling himself Peter asked Rust: “Would you like to go through it again?”

  “I’ve told you everything I could remember.”

  “It’s worth a try,” said the man calling himself Paul.

  Their double act was annoying. They maintained a disinterested, strictly nonemotional attitude so zealously that it began to resemble the disguised hostility of a policeman trying to appear objective toward a child molester. Rust stared right through them. His eyes looked inward, reflecting some old horror. His knuckles whitened as his grip on the arms of his chair grew tighter. Schramm decided he would not like to bet whether Rust or the chair would crack up first. Peter and Paul noticed none of this. Noting but not noticing was part of their interrogation technique. Rust began to sense that their duty might not be pure debriefing. But he dismissed the thought. It was ridiculous.

  “Did you get me a copy of the pictures?” he asked Schramm. “No. Er, not yet.”

  “They’re still being processed,” said Paul, and Peter nodded in agreement.

  “Just don’t be long with them. There’s no time.”

  “We realize that,” said Peter, and this time it was Paul who did the nodding.

  “No, you don’t. You don’t seem to realize that every minute may count. If the information is correct, those ships are coming in as fast as they can burn their diesel, the erectors are all trying to win their Stakhanov medal for overfulfilling their norms, and missiles may be raising their nuclear warheads all over Cuba before you could say ‘being processed’ three times. Yelena was clear about that.” He paused, but nobody reacted. The silence seemed to disturb him. Schramm noticed that he was getting dangerously agitated as he continued his monologue. “She knew the timing. She knew that Khrushchev was in a hurry. That’s why she risked everything. Even her life.” The memory of her face brought him a smile. “And believe me, she might romanticize the thought of martyrdom, but she’d hate to be an actual rather than potential martyr.”

  “Then why would she risk her life?” Peter asked.

  “I’ve told you. She hates Khrushchev.”

  “Millions and millions of Russians do, but they do nothing about it,” said Repson.

  “Perhaps she hates him more.”

  “Why?”

  “I don’t know. Perhaps because he once ruled the Ukraine and she’s convinced that he was personally responsible for her husband’s death in Kiev. Yes, come to think of it, her accent might have been Ukrainian. Which could explain it. But then maybe she’s driven even more by her love of peace. It sounded pompous and pretentious when she talked about it. But she meant it. She cared about peace. And she cared about her country. And she cared a lot about Khrushchev’s grip on her country. That’s why she was anxious to help us. To force Khrushchev’s missiles out of Cuba before they become operational. Because if we’re late, it will be disastrous.”

  “You mean war?” asked Schramm.

  “No. Compromise.”

  Repson shook his head. “Out of the question. The President was most emphatic about that.”

  “Yelena thinks the President is bluffing. She thinks that Khrushchev is convinced that the odds are in his favor. He’s going to win something on this gamble unless Kennedy puts his foot down now!”

  “Your Yelena wasted time by turning to you,” said Peter.

  “Weeks. She wasted weeks,” added Paul.

  “She was desperate. She had already tried to send us the information through various channels, including a suspected CIA agent.”

  “How would she know about anybody like that?” asked Repson.

  “I don’t know.”

  “She must be KGB or GRU.”

  “Maybe. I’ve already discussed this with Peter and Paul. Several times. And we haven’t got anywhere with it.” Rust’s hand began to shake. He had to loosen his grip on the arm of the chair.

  “We don’t mind talking about it again,” said Paul.

  “Let’s,” said Peter.

  “You think she wants to work for us?” asked Repson.

  “No. Definitely not.”

  “But she’s ready to help us.”

  “She doesn’t give a shit!” Rust laughed. “Not a shit.” He seemed unable to stop laughing. “That’s what she said — and I believe her.”

  “I wouldn’t,” said Schramm.

  “Neither would I,” chimed in Repson. “She must care a lot if she’s willing to become a traitor.”

  That stopped Rust’s laughter. “She’d kill you for that word. She doesn’t see herself as a traitor. She sees it as her patriotic duty to help oust Khrushchev, who’s wrong for her country. When I called her a traitor, it made her cry.” He looked from one man to another. He thought he saw nothing but animosity in their eyes. “It did, I’m telling you.” He felt cold. He did not seem to realize that the shakes had spread from his hand to all over his body. “Is there no heat in this damned room? Jake, you look shiverish. You must keep warm.” Their silence made it even worse for Rust. He tried to retreat, pushing his chair back. He almost fell off it. “She’s no traitor. We shouldn’t treat her like one. She’s honest. Don’t you believe me?”

  Peter had already pressed a panic button. A doctor and a nurse came running. They gave Rust an injection. “You’d better let him sleep now,” the doctor advised.

  “See you later,” said Peter, and Paul nodded.

  “I’ll be around if you need me,” said Repson.

  Rust’s eyes were desperately scanning the room: was there a centipede anywhere in sight? Schramm wanted to say something but could not. He was about to leave the room when Rust called him back. “Jake!”

  “Yes?”

  “What chance do we have to get them out?”

  “Who?”

  “Yelena and my father.”

  “I don’t know.”

  “I might have a way. I mean they know the way.” Rust’s voice sounded tired. “She knows the way. And with a little help from us, from me I mean, when the time comes … ” His speech slurred slightly. The jab had begun to take effect.

  “Do you think he’d want to come over?” Schramm was thinking about the misleading information Rust had gotten from his father.

  “I don’t know. Talk to Chles. He’s a gdm.”

  “A what?”

  “A gdm.”

  Schramm guessed he might mean “good man.” It was pointless to press him. Or to tell him that the Company had not authorized Charles to come and visit him. “I’ll talk to him.”

  Sunday, October 7

  Guatemalan President reveals deal: He permitted
use of his country as training ground for Cuban invasion — now it’s America’s turn to honor its half of the bargain and support him in dispute over British Honduras. New York attorney negotiates with Castro in Havana to swap captured Bay of Pigs invaders for drugs and baby food. U.S. Assistant Naval Attaché is “caught red-handed” examining “military targets” and carrying spy equipment (camera and maps) in Leningrad; he is roughed up and made persona non grata.

  *

  MAJOR BOYCHENKO WAS WELL SATISFIED WITH HIS PRESTIGIOUS new office. Thanks to his progress with the investigation, his transfer to the Spetsburo had been finalized, and the difference it made to his status could be felt everywhere: in the information he suddenly had access to, in the way people greeted or saluted him, in the privileged purchases he could now make in the KGB store, in the quality of his chair and the size of his desk, in his own family’s new respect for him, but above all, in the things he could do with no questions asked. While waiting for the file he was at last to see, he decided to attend to three minor matters that had been tucked away in his subconscious for weeks. A thought made him smile. He had always prided himself on his memory. From now on, nobody, but nobody, would be entitled to count on his forgetfulness.

  First he signed a “recommendation of transfer.” A young lieutenant, who had been in charge of the arrest and shooting of old Rostonov, causing a bloody spectacle in the glass cage of an elevator, was to be transferred to camp duty in Siberia. It could be almost as bad as being an inmate of those camps. Too bad, thought Boychenko, and reassured himself that it was a mere coincidence that the same lieutenant had been in charge of his own interrogation.

  The second minor matter concerned Zemskov, the retired Records clerk. Boychenko signed a note, already typed, saying that Zemskov’s handling of certain documents six years ago had not been in strict accordance with regulations, and therefore “his continued residence in Moscow is undesirable.” Boychenko did not particularly care where they would send him: the man would be expelled from the capital and deprived of the luxurious accommodation he clearly did not deserve.

  Finally, he made a telephone call. He thanked his daughter’s boss in Foreign Trade for the comradely help and encouragement she had been given. It would ensure quick promotion for her.

  There was a knock at the door. He grunted approvingly and his orderly brought in a file. Boychenko scrutinized Kolya and found that the man’s spic-and-span appearance was an accolade to his own new status. He dismissed him with an impatient wave of two fingers, then concentrated on the dossier: RUST, Helm, 1956. It was essential to know the facts before starting a potentially lengthy interrogation that might lead to revenge on the man who had almost ruined his career.

  *

  The missile photographs and the report on their source were studied by members of COMOR, and although there were certain doubts about their validity and the circumstances of their delivery, there seemed to be a sufficiently strong argument in favor of moving the next committee meeting up to October 9.

  *

  The consensus of medical opinion was satisfied with Rust’s health. He had come out of heavy sedation in the morning, and appeared to be sufficiently cheerful and hungry throughout the tests. His mood changed considerably when two strangers from the CIA were brought in to see him.

  “Just a few questions to clear up, hope you don’t mind,” they said. “For simplicity, call us Peter and Paul, if you wish.”

  “What happened to the other Peter and Paul?”

  “Transferred to other duties, I suppose,” said the senior of the two, who laid a thick file on the table and opened it.

  Rust noticed the markings on the top sheets inside. One was a “201,” his overt biographical data kept by CIA archives. The other was marked T for “trace.” It would set out all known facts, allegations, suspicions, confidential reports and assessments concerning his past.

  “Am I under some sort of suspicion?”

  “Not at all. Just routine. We have to verify a few points and clarify the role you’ve played in this affair. You understand, I suppose.”

  “What’s happening to the info I’ve brought out?”

  “Let’s get these papers out of the way first, shall we?” From the details of the first few questions Rust could tell that this was not going to be a quickie. These two were bent on covering the entire ground all over again.

  Tuesday, October 9

  Cuban President Dorticos at the UN claims the country can defend itself with “weapons we’d have preferred not to acquire and which we do not wish to employ.” U.S. Ambassador Stevenson: “The maintenance of communism in the Americas is not negotiable.” U.S.-assisted Alpha 66, an exile organization, raids Cuban port.

  *

  ELLIOTT REPSON WAITED IN THE PRESIDENTIAL AIDE’S ROOM for the session of COMOR to end. At last the aide returned with the news that the decision had been made: the U-2 flights were to be resumed all over the island. “Trouble is that the weather isn’t all that favorable just now,” he said. “But it’s high time we got some real surveillance instead of those peripheral flights, agree?”

  “Sure.”

  “I hear it was your brother who brought back those microdots.”

  “Half brother.”

  “You think that Keating’s seen those pictures?”

  “No idea.”

  Senator Kenneth Keating, who had just stirred up Congress with a statement that according to his “one hundred percent reliable” private sources six intermediate-range missile sites were under construction in Cuba, refused to disclose those sources to anyone. The presidential aide did not quite believe that Repson had “no idea.” He was not alone in the suspicion that somebody at the CIA had leaked the pictures to the Senator. Damn spooks, damn cripple, he thought. He had never forgiven Repson for Anna’s refusal of his advances. “How’s Anna?”

  “Fine, thanks.”

  “See you both at the party tonight.”

  “She can’t go. I’m sorry. She has some trouble with a, uh, bunion. It hurts.” Repson could not bring himself to attributing anything more serious to her state of health. He was not supposed to divulge the truth as yet. For it was a policy decision by CIA Security not to reveal to anyone that Mrs. Repson had been unmasked as a Russian agent. For the same reason, Repson was to continue all his normal duties and activities despite the shock he had suffered.

  *

  “And you say that this doll, this Yelena, referred to the KGB as the ‘neighbors,’ right?”

  “Right.”

  “And she used the word taynik for mail drops, right?”

  “Right. We’ve been through this umpteen times.”

  “And the guy who called himself Florian — you think that was his real name?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “What’s your guess?”

  “I can’t guess. Put a yes and a no in a hat.”

  “And you say he used a Tokarev 7.15.”

  “Yes.”

  “You’d recognize it if you saw one.”

  “Right.”

  “Can you describe it?”

  “For Chrissake, I know the damn gun. I’ve looked down its barrel from both ends.” Rust was pleased with himself that he was able to control his temper. But he was less and less sure how long he would be willing to. This kind of detailed interrogation ought to be concentrated on Anna if anyone.

  Wednesday, October 10

  Russian assassin on trial in Karlsruhe, West Germany, demonstrates to court the working of poison gas pistol, his weapon from the KGB. British shipowners, Brazil and Sweden disapprove of U.S. restrictions on non-military trade with Cuba. Alpha 66 threatens to fire on merchant ships trading with Cuba. Izvestiya criticizes great “glamour wear scarcity”: Moscow (population 5 million) receives only 650 pairs of nylons a day.

  *

  RUST WAS ABOUT TO REACH THE END OF HIS TETHER. One set of Peter and Pauls had been replaced by another, but the quest
ions and the ground to be covered remained the same. They were checking only his memory, they claimed. No, it should not take long now. No, he was not a suspect, of course not. Why should he be? Could he think of any reason why he should be? Or at least the reason that made him think that he might be? No, there was no news for him from Sir Charles or Repson or Hal or Schramm, nothing about Anna or the fate of the microdots.

  Then Repson arrived. The hallmark of sleepless nights was stamped all over his face. He had stunning news for Rust: “Anna’s been turned.”

  “You mean she’s ready to work for us?”

  “Yes.”

  “She may be a plant.”

  “Maybe. But she’s singing. Well, it’s a mixture of writing things down and whispering. They don’t want to rush her. Or push her too hard. She’s too important.”

  “Wish I was, too.”

  “You must understand. She may become an active double for us.”

  “You mean she might get away with it and escape the chair?”

  “Right. I can imagine they’ll prosecute me instead for damaging her!”

  “She’s a traitor.”

  “But right now, she’s on our side. She’s already given us the name of a KGB agent at the UN. He has diplomatic status, but he’ll be declared persona non grata.”

  “Makes you puke.”

  “It’s the game, Helm. One must be pragmatic about these things.”

  “Not me, mate. In my book, she’s just a common criminal.”

  “That’s just the point. They don’t want you to show her — well, not too blatantly, at least — how you feel.”

  “I don’t want to see her. Not without a nine-inch centipede in my hand.”

  “You’ll have to. Security wants you to question her about your own involvement with her.”

  “No.”

  “I’ll also have to be present.”

  “Even more disgusting.”

  “We’ll have to be impersonal about it.”

  Her room was in a clump of bungalows, not far from Rust’s. It was bright, full of flowers, with a good view of the forest. Heavily bandaged, her figure gently outlined on the crisp white top sheet, breathing cautiously as if timed by the steady drops of the intravenous tube, Rust found her so beautiful that it hurt. Hurt because it would have made a simpler, more manageable world if bad character were always twinned with inevitable ugliness. She smiled when the duty officer opened the door to let the brothers in, Rust pushing Repson’s wheelchair. Neither of them could help wondering to whom her supposedly dying confession of love had belonged. But the question was not asked and she did not volunteer an answer.