In the Company of Spies

by Stephen Barlay

  With tears and fury in his eyes, Rust glanced around to see if anybody could interfere with his throttling her.

  “I’ve been away all day. I’ve nothing to do with this,” Boychenko protested. “Here.” He pulled a revolver out of his pocket. After removing the magazine, he inserted a single bullet. The clicks of safety catches on automatic weapons could be heard all around the room. “Here,” repeated Boychenko, “take it. Just don’t do anything crazy. You want to live. You want to live.”

  The temptation was tremendous to kill one of the men. But which one? And what would it achieve? How would it help the girl?

  Rust accepted the revolver, knelt down again, and kissed her. He then leaned back. Her eyes were on him as he moved the barrel slowly, outside her field of vision, to her temple. “You’ll be all right, don’t worry. You’ll get well and be happy,” he said and pulled the trigger. For her sake, too, he had to survive. With no time to mourn for her. Not now. He forced himself to say thank you to Boychenko.

  Rust’s hands and clothes were full of blood. Boychenko ordered a bottle of rum, a washbowl and a change of clothes to be brought to Rust’s room.

  “I’ll be quite frank with you,” he said while Rust was washing.

  “Why?”

  “I want to give you a chance to choose your own course of action, You must be fed up with people trying to manipulate you.”

  “I am. And I understand.”

  “What?”

  “That you feel left out. You think it’s your turn to manipulate me.” Rust noticed that Boychenko kept looking at his watch.

  “I don’t blame you for being suspicious of everyone. They all cheated you. Even your friends and colleagues. Even Colonel Muratova — I mean, Yelena.”

  Rust filled a paper cup with rum and drank several large gulps. “Go on.”

  “Yes, Yelena, too. She invented your … ” He paused. “You’d better drink some more.”

  Rust nodded. He knew what was coming. To protect Yelena, he had to prepare himself to show sufficient shock.

  “The old man in Moscow was not your father. And he’s dead now.”

  Rust drank. “But then … who was he?”

  “He was Yelena’s invention. It got her immediate promotion. She worked for our military neighbors — I mean, the GRU. Through an informer in the U.S. embassy they heard about you when you came to Moscow in ’56. Then they heard that you wanted to find your father’s grave. Confirmation of this came from our source in the British embassy. Apparently your British friend Sir Charles informed both London and the CIA about your plans and recommended that you should be transferred back home at once. But you weren’t. And you know why? Because of your other friend, Schramm. He suggested using you as a guinea pig to monitor both your and our people. Schramm thought we might try to set up something to trap and recruit you. He wanted to observe our technique and, at the same time, test your loyalty.”

  Rust felt sicker and sicker. “I see,” was all he could say as he poured himself another cupful. Hit back, hit back, hit them all.

  “When you found your ‘father’ instead of the grave, your bosses weren’t sure what to do. After all, if the man was your real father, you’d be a sitting target. Schramm would have to call you back and get rid of you. That’s where Yelena’s ingenious scheme had its basic fault. And not only that. Although she had found a perfectly plausible and dead-scared ex-German inmate of Stalin’s concentration camps to play the part, and although she trained him not to discuss anything but ‘safe’ subjects with you, you would have discovered huge gaps in his ‘memory’ if you had enough time with him. That’s why she planned to move him out of Moscow so that you could see him only once in a while, for a few minutes at a time, secretly at railway stations and places like that. It wasn’t a bad idea, I admit, because it would have helped to get you out of Moscow and set you up.”

  “Yet she’s never tried to recruit me.”

  “She never had a chance. Because we stopped her.”

  “We?”

  Boychenko hesitated, then nodded. “The KGB.”

  “Why?”

  “Because we’re pros while the GRU’s just a pain in the ass.

  “But why did you stop Yelena’s scheme?”

  “My superiors must have seen a reason.”

  “You could have taken over the whole idea.”

  “I suppose so.”

  “Why didn’t you?”

  “How should I know? You can’t expect me to know about every operation, can you?” Boychenko did not sound convincing on this point. It implied to Rust that he was not authorized to say anything about Anna. So they might not know that Anna’s cover had been blown. Boychenko poured some rum for both of them, then gestured toward the tray. “You haven’t touched your food.”

  “No.” Rust chose to drink up. It helped to soothe his seething anger as well as keep down all his questions about the death of his “father,” about Anna, about the beasts who had fed Sylvia to the crocodiles. In the momentary silence he heard those restless bodies moving around under the floorboards: their appetite had only been whetted. Then from somewhere farther out came a high-pitched sound. Like a squeak. “Okay,” said Rust. “Let’s stop playing games. What do you want from me?”

  “I only want us to be friends. I mean, once you see how everybody’s tried to use and cheat you, you might decide to reassess your choice of friends.”

  “Where does Yelena come into this?”

  “She doesn’t. She doesn’t matter. We don’t need her. You can have her if you like. As a sign of goodwill. We’re very loyal to our friends, you know. And if you ever feel the urge to hit back at some people, well, you can tell me, I might even be able to help you.”

  “What if I want to hit back at Yelena?”

  “It’s up to you. But she’s not important.”

  “It was she who set me up in ’56 and again who got me into this.”

  “She had her orders. From traitors.”

  “Do you know who they were?”

  “They’ve been shot.”

  “Who were they?”

  “They had the nerve to insinuate that they had the blessing of some of our leaders at the very top of the party and in government. But they, too, were amateurs. Or else they wouldn’t have used someone like Colonel Muratova, who knows nothing about real tradecraft.” The way he said “tradecraft” revealed the professional’s pride in his work.

  “She certainly knew how to get me to Moscow.”

  “That was easy. All she had to do was to resurrect your file. All right, she helped you, but if it wasn’t for your tenacity, her whole scheme would have collapsed and ended in Moscow, or at least in Leningrad. That’s how we came to admire you. And despise her. And her henchman, who killed himself to avoid capture.”

  Florian. “I wouldn’t have thought that he had the courage.”

  “You’re right. He killed himself out of cowardice.”

  And out of love. He died to protect Yelena, thought Rust, but saw no reason to tell Boychenko, who looked at his watch yet again.

  Boychenko raised his cup. “Shall we drink to friendship?” And when Rust said nothing, he changed the question: “How about a drink to the mutual respect felt by professionals?”

  “We’ll drink to that.” That noise could be heard again. It was nearer now. And yes, it was definitely a squeak. Like a wheel that needed oiling. “Keep warm, major,” said Rust and held out his cup for a refill.

  “Please call me Andrey Anisimovich. Or Andrey, if you wish.”

  “Here’s to you, Andrey.”

  “And to you, Helm.”

  “Let me tell you something, Andrey. You’re right to believe that I’m astonished by that Kennedy memo. And that I’m shaken by what you say about Schramm’s attitude. And Charles. They should have warned me. I can see that. And yes, I do feel like hitting back. But you must understand, I’m no traitor.”

  “Of course no
t. I wouldn’t respect you if you were. But one’s loyalty to one’s country can be influenced by certain ideals. Principles. Even individual leaders. And sometimes it’s more important to fight for principles than remain blindly, unthinkingly loyal. It’s a matter of honesty. A matter of being true to yourself above all — wasn’t that what Hamlet said?”

  “Polonius, actually.”

  “Right. We’ll drink to that.”

  The squeak was quite close now. It stopped outside the door. Rust was about to say something, but the words froze into a lump in his throat. He wished that door would never open. But it did. Two armed guards entered. Their fingers were on the triggers of submachine guns. Behind them the squeak started again. Then the wheelchair appeared. Rust’s muscles tightened. Blood rushed to his head and blurred his vision. Ell’s face was all he could see clearly. He felt dizzy. The implications of Ell’s presence seemed endless. It would certainly explain how Boychenko had come to hear about Yelena’s Ukrainian accent. Keep warm. Keep warm. Rust hid his shiverish shock behind a stony stare.

  Repson seemed to understand. “Don’t say anything, Helm. Just hear me out. Please.”

  “Do I have a choice?” Rust listened to his own cold, cutting voice as if it were a stranger’s.

  “I’m here to help you, Helm.”

  “I’m obliged.”

  “All I’m asking is that you should listen.”

  “What if I don’t want to? Will your friends make me listen? Or will you fly in specialists with a centipede? You don’t know what a show you missed at Long Island.”

  “It had nothing to do with me. It was Anna’s doing. All of it.”

  “What’s the difference?”

  “A lot.”

  “Don’t you work for the same firm?”

  Instead of answering, Repson turned to Boychenko. “Leave us alone.” Seeing that the Russian was reluctant to go, he added: “I’ll be all right.” He hooked his right thumb into his shirt, resting it between two buttons. Rust guessed that the pose gave him easy access to his gun.

  When the men left, Rust had no doubt that they would be just outside the door, should Repson need them. He began to eat with great gusto. He could not think of a better way of showing his contempt. “So you’re a traitor, little brother,” he said munching noisily.

  “Depends on your definition of treason.”

  “Oh yes, your Russki friend’s already treated me to a brief morality lecture as applied by you to the other side.”

  “We won’t go into that, Helm, not now.”

  “No, it’s easier to remain a doer, I suppose, and ignore the meaning of your acts. Let’s say we haven’t got time.”

  “Let’s. Because it happens to be true.”

  “Okay. So how do you propose to help me?”

  “I can try to get you away from here.”

  “All right, try. Just tell me the catch, first.”

  “No catch.”

  “No? Just a sign of reciprocated friendship, right?”

  “Sort of.”

  “Then let me tell you, Ell, your friend Boychenko has already sort of half offered to trade Yelena for my friendly attitude. You know who she is?”

  “Yes. I hope she can be cured.”

  “You think he’d do it?”

  “He might.”

  “And how friendly would I have to be?”

  “It’s up to you. I mean, it depends on how bitter you are. How you feel about your American idols and so-called friends. They cheated you and your Cubans. They used you all. You know that. And they’re furious with you, I can tell you.”

  “Why?”

  “Schramm discovered that you’d come to Cuba.”

  “I didn’t expect it to remain a secret forever.”

  “They’ve never trusted you since your return from Russia.”

  “I know.”

  “They’ll be even more suspicious if you get out of here. It means you could be finished. Even if they let you live. And accidents do happen.”

  “That’s a chance I’ll have to take.”

  “Sure. If you’re all alone, that is. But why take chances? Why risk your life?”

  “Are you proposing some insurance?”

  “That’s why I’m here. To help you.”

  “You mean you’re so concerned about me that you’ve risked everything, blown your beautiful cover in Washington, and run away only to help me?”

  “It’s not quite like that.” Repson looked at the tray. “Do you mind if I have some of that food? I haven’t eaten all day and it’s almost midnight.”

  “Help yourself.” Rust poured some rum for both of them. He was anxious not to reveal his desperation. In the last few minutes he had begun to realize that his despair was not due only to fear and the hopelessness of his situation. His thirst for revenge on everybody was another key factor. Which made it even worse. “How friendly would I have to be to get the deal?”

  “Three things. First you’d have to return home a hero. The man who got his mad girl out of Russia. Of course, if she was cured, she’d be cross-examined a lot, but eventually she could be with you, if that’s what you both wanted. Your second job would be to deliver the bombshell that I’ve defected.”

  “Have you?”

  “I had no choice. I came under suspicion because of you. They were about to arrest me but I was tipped off.”

  “By whom?”

  “I don’t know. But it must be someone very, very high up.”

  “How high up is very, very high?”

  “I don’t know. And wouldn’t tell you even if I did.”

  “Okay. So what’s in it for you if I report seeing you here?”

  “It’ll cause a hell of an upheaval at Langley. Their operations will be paralyzed. Everybody’ll suspect everybody else. Everybody except you. And then it would be up to you. If you wanted to stay friendly with us, we could help you. We have a great deal of influence. My spectacular career would be nothing compared to the height you could rise to. But that would be strictly up to you. And your rewards in power and in the joy of being in the know would be fantastic. Great men on both sides would be your puppets. War and peace might depend on you at times.”

  “Cut out the big words, Ell. What’s the third thing I’d have to do?”

  “That’s simple. Just to support your credentials, you’d deliver a piece of intelligence you’d claim to have picked up over here.”

  “What’s that?”

  “That some of the missiles over here are being hidden in caves.”

  Rust rinsed his mouth with rum. He hoped it helped him to conceal his astonishment as well as the fact that this piece of intelligence was already known to him. But why the hell would the Russkis want him to take that news, as if for once the spooks of this world were united against their own masters on opposite sides?

  Saturday, October 27

  Castro threatens U-2 overflights. OAS backs Kennedy. Anti-U.S. riots in Argentina, Bolivia, Venezuela and European capitals. Kennedy answers Bertrand Russell’s letter and protests against his one-sided criticism: “Your attention might well be directed to the burglars, rather than to those who have caught the burglars.” Huge crowds are lured to London’s great moth exhibition.

  *

  THE MORNING BROUGHT WASHINGTON PALE SUNSHINE AND no relief. Radio Moscow began to broadcast Khrushchev’s letter to Kennedy. Not the one that was sent secretly on Friday. This second letter was in the traditional Kremlin style with all the hallmarks of Presidium group thinking. And Khrushchev was upping the price of missile withdrawal. In addition to the guarantee of Cuban independence, he now demanded the withdrawal of American missiles from Turkey. Had the Presidium found out about Khrushchev’s “private” approach? Had they outvoted him? Was he still in charge at all?

  This open letter went on to offer reassurance that all the Cuban missiles were controlled by Russians and therefore America had nothing to fear, there was no
risk of any unthinking or accidental shooting. The broadcast was still continuing when Kennedy received a news flash from the Air Force: a few minutes earlier, at about 10:15, a U-2 had been brought down over Cuba; the pilot, Major Rudolf Anderson, Jr., was one of the two who had obtained the first pictures of the missile sites; he was now presumed to be captured or dead. So the SAMs were definitely operational. And if the broadcast was telling the truth, the shooting had been no accident, no bungling by hotheaded Latins, but a deliberate act by cool Soviet missilemen firing on the orders of whoever was in charge in the Kremlin at this particular moment.

  *

  The morning heat brought Rust no respite from the strain of the night and the sickly fumes rising from the lagoon. Emotionally drained, spoiling for revenge for himself, Yelena and Sylvia, tortured by suspicions and anxiety, by dawn he had stopped calling his brother a traitor. He listened with sadness to the cripple’s endless explanations and self-justification.

  Repson had the dignity to talk about his misfortunes and handicap without too much self-pity. He coldly recounted how life had cheated him out of so many things, including prospects of success and happiness. Rust disagreed, but Repson brushed aside his argument: “It’s not debatable. That’s how I felt, so that’s what mattered.” He went on to say that some people — though not he himself — held Rust responsible for everything, starting with the toboggan accident.

  “At least they can’t say that I’ve driven you into the arms of the Russkis,” said Rust. They shared a strained laugh. “How long have you worked for them?”

  “Oh, seven years now, just about. It all began when I was still in Monitoring. I sort of misappropriated a piece of information that had come into the office. It was to be no more than a touch of self-glorification, I swear to you. No more than what everybody else was doing in order to get ahead. Except in my case, Moscow Center found out about it. How? I don’t know. But that in itself impressed me a lot. It meant they must have had people in top positions within the Company. They approached me. It was a clever mixture of soft blackmail, hard cash and lots of carrot. And it wasn’t the threat or the money that tempted me. It was the fantastic opportunity. To be in the know. The joy of back-seat driving — having the power of influence without the burden of responsibility for decisionmaking. For a while, I even toyed with the idea of playing their game only to unmask them and be a hero, eventually. But they were too good to me. Good and loyal. They trained me, guided me, turned me into a real professional, and got me promotions through their men at the top. And they never, never treated me as shabbily as your friends treated you. They went to endless trouble to protect me. I never knew that they eliminated you from the Company only to safeguard me.”