Hollis looked around. A few people straggled past him, apparently headed for the cemetery. He slid his hands in his overcoat pockets and leaned back against a thick rowan tree. His right hand let go of the candle and found the silenced 9mm Polish Radom automatic, another Colt-Browning knockoff. His left hand slid through his coat to the handle of the knife in his belt sheath. Hollis watched awhile, then fell in behind three young couples and followed them down to the gate church. He passed through the portals into a tunnellike passage and found himself in the quiet cemetery.
The convent grounds, like the Kremlin, had been built on a rare high spot on the banks of the Moskva, and Hollis could see down the slope out to the south and west over the brick cemetery wall. The Olympic complex and Lenin Stadium were five hundred meters to the south, nestled in the loop of the Moskva on reclaimed bog land. Beyond the stadium was the river, and rising from its south bank were the Lenin Hills and the towers of Moscow University. He could pick out the observation platform where he, Lisa, and Sasha had shared a brief and pleasant moment.
Hollis followed a brick path into the sloping cemetery. It was heavily treed, and most of the graves were overgrown. The tombstones were higher than a man, in the old Russian style, creating a maze of limestone and granite. The cemetery was as wide as the convent grounds but not as deep, and Hollis estimated it covered about six acres. It would take some time to find Gogol's grave here.
There weren't many people in the cemetery, which was good for privacy, but there were enough so that he and Surikov wouldn't stand out. Surikov had picked a good Sunday spot.
The visitors were mostly students apparently looking for the graves of the famous. They stood in knots in front of tombstones, pointing and discussing the man or woman interred there. Hollis saw the graves of Chekhov, Stanislavsky, and the painter Isaac Levitan. Six young men and women, Bohemian types in peasant-chic vatniks, baggy corduroys, and high boots, sat on the path and talked in front of the grave of the filmmaker Sergey Eisenstein. Hollis walked around them.
An old lady in a dirty red coat stood facing the gravestone of Nikita Khruschev. The woman crossed herself, bowed to the stone, and walked off. Hollis wondered if she was a relative.
He turned up an intersecting path and found himself in a patch of ground mist. A tall, attractive woman, smartly dressed in a long, black leather coat, came out of the mist toward him. As she drew close, Hollis asked her in Russian, “Gogol's grave?”
She looked him over, then said in an unusually cultured accent, “You might try over there. Near that very tall pine tree. I think I passed it.”
“Thank you.” Hollis moved past her.
She said to him or to herself, “But you never know. Even the dead disappear here.”
Hollis kept on walking. A week ago, he thought, he'd have stopped and spoken to the woman. But his quota for Russian adventures was filling up fast, and he hadn't even spoken to Surikov yet.
Hollis saw him standing on the path under the spreading boughs of a tall pine tree, smoking a cigarette, contemplating a decaying slab of lichen-covered limestone. Hollis stood beside him and looked at the tall stone.
Surikov said, “Do they read this fellow in the West?”
“Not so much. Colleges, I guess.”
“Can I get things to read in Russian there?”
“Yes.”
“Dead souls,” Surikov said. “Dead souls.” He stared at the grave a while longer, then looked Hollis up and down through his cloud of cigarette smoke, and a thin smile came to his lips. “Do we dress so badly as that?”
“I'm afraid so.”
“It looks worse on you.”
“Thank you.” Hollis added, “Why are you dressed badly today?”
Surikov ran his hand over his stubble. “It's Sunday.” He turned and walked away. Hollis waited a full minute, then followed.
Surikov stood near the base of the corner battletower where it joined the brick wall of the cemetery. There were ancient tombstones along the wall with old Cyrillic that Hollis couldn't read.
Surikov pulled a Pravda-wrapped parcel from the pocket of his baggy coat and said, “Do you want to buy fresh carp?”
Hollis could actually smell the fish. “Perhaps.”
Surikov tapped the package as if extolling the virtues of the fish. He said, “So, my friend, Pravda tells me you are leaving Russia. I was quite shocked to hear that. I didn't know if you would come today. I was worried.”
Hollis could well imagine what was worrying Surikov. Hollis replied, “My diplomatic immunity is in some doubt right now. So you don't have to ask me if I'm sure I wasn't followed, because today I'm as worried as you are.”
“Yes? I could lose my life. You would only go to prison.”
“I would envy you a bullet in the head if I was sent east for five or ten years.”
Surikov shrugged. “So, how will this affect our deal?”
“We have no deal.”
“We will. When are you leaving?”
Hollis replied in a sarcastic tone, “It was in your Pravda, wasn't it?”
“They didn't say when you were leaving.”
“Really? Well, I'm leaving Wednesday.”
Surikov's face seemed to show some surprise. He asked, “Who will replace you as air attache?”
“I'm not certain.”
“Will I deal with the new air attache or someone else?”
“We'll discuss that before we part.”
A young couple appeared on the path and moved over to the worn tombstones. At the base of the wall the man knelt and traced his fingers over the lettering. The woman held a notebook. The man said, “This was a nun. Gulia. I don't hear that name much anymore.” The woman made some notes in her book.
Surikov waved the carp under Hollis' nose. “I caught them this morning in the Setun. My wife cleaned them so a lazy bachelor would pay good money for them.”
The young couple moved down the row of stones.
Surikov said, “I think you're telling me little lies. I know you are leaving tomorrow, and I know the name of your replacement is Colonel Fields.”
Hollis nodded. It may have been the embassy listeners, who heard him telling the Kellums, or it may have been the Kellums, who told the KGB directly. Whatever the route, it was a little scary to hear that from General Surikov. Hollis said, “The KGB told you that.”
“Yes. They told me the name of the new air attache. They told me you were leaving Monday, not Wednesday.”
“Why did they tell you any of that?”
“They like to impress people with their knowledge. I'm not a military intelligence officer, if that's what you're thinking.”
Hollis never thought Surikov was. He didn't have the moves or the jargon of a GRU man.
Surikov added, “Actually, the KGB wanted to know if I or my staff or any of our overseas air attaches knew a Colonel Fields. The KGB is apparently having trouble building a dossier on him, so they came to me.” Surikov smiled. “Perhaps you can help me impress them.”
“What exactly is your position with the Red Air Force, General?”
“I am what you would call a G-I. Chief of Air Force personnel.”
“For what command?”
“The whole Red Air Force, Colonel. I keep the files and paperwork of a half million men. Not so glamorous a job, but interesting things come across my desk. Don't you agree?”
“How did the KGB know the name of Colonel Fields?”
Surikov looked Hollis in the eye and replied, “I think they've penetrated your embassy.” He studied Hollis' face for a reaction.
Hollis asked, “How was this KGB inquiry directed to you? Memo? Phone call?”
“In person. I was summoned to Lefortovo. The KGB can even summon generals. They take delight in asking us to stop in to see them at Lubyanka or Lefortovo. One never knows if one will leave there alive. This happened a few days ago.”
“Were you frightened, General?”
“Very much.”
“T
o whom did you speak at Lefortovo?”
“A colonel named Pavlichenko.”
“Tall, blond, pouty lips, blue eyes?”
Surikov's eyebrows rose. “Yes. You know the man?”
“By a different name.” Hollis realized that Surikov was in an answering mood for a change. It was often so when the final deal was at hand. Hollis didn't know if Valentin Surikov, a Christian, was any more trustworthy than General Surikov of the Red Air Force, but he was willing to gamble that he was.
Surikov said, “After Lefortovo, I am more resolved than ever to leave here.”
“I know how you feel.”
“Can you get me out?”
Hollis had no authorization to say yes, but the time had come to bring this whole thing to a head. “I can if you have the fare.”
“Half now, half in the West.”
“I understand.”
“Is it dangerous? The getting out, I mean.”
“Of course.”
“It's not for me that I'm worried.”
Hollis already knew that. “Is she your granddaughter?”
Surikov's head snapped around, and he opened his mouth, but no words came out.
Hollis continued matter-of-factly, “It's dangerous, but it doesn't require much from you except nerve. Does she have nerve?”
Surikov drew on his cigarette. “She has faith.” He glanced at Hollis but did not hold eye contact. “You saw us?”
“Yes.”
“Then you know why I want to leave.”
“I suppose.”
Surikov stared stupidly at the wrapped carp in his hands and spoke, but not to Hollis. “I curse the day I found God. My life has been a misery ever since.”
Hollis didn't know quite how to respond to that statement, but he understood it.
Surikov said, “Yes, my granddaughter. Natasha. My only daughter's only daughter. The light of my life, Hollis.”
“She's a beautiful girl. Does she speak English?”
“Yes.”
“She'll do well. She'll marry a rich American or Englishman and live happily ever after. Do you believe that?”
“I would like to. Unfortunately, she wants to become a nun.”
“Does she? Well, she'll do what she wants, General. That's what it's all about over there.”
“Is it? And me?”
“We'll find something for you to do.”
“Yes.” Surikov wandered away, down the line of tombstones. The sky was more overcast now, and a few drops of rain fell, splattering the headstones and the damp leaves. A wind came up, and the rowan and birch trees swayed.
Hollis walked past Surikov, then stopped to look at the next tombstone. “Borodino, General.”
Surikov spoke. “Some kilometers north of Borodino was once located a Red Air Force ground school. Classroom instruction on American fighter tactics, capabilities, and weaponry.” Surikov paused for effect, then said, “The instructors were Americans.” He looked briefly at Hollis. “This is an incredible story, and you must listen closely.”
Hollis drew a long breath. The one prayer he'd allowed himself in church was that Surikov would confirm what he and Alevy had discussed. Hollis said abruptly, “That's the half secret? I know all about that.”
Surikov turned his head toward Hollis. “What…?”
“You can't get to London on that fare. I'm sorry.” Hollis walked away. He kept walking, like a man walking away from a bad deal or an unfaithful lover, hoping that the deal or the lover would get better in the next ten steps.
Surikov caught up with him. “You can't… but how do you …?”
“I was out to Borodino. That's why I'm being kicked out. I know there are Americans out there. I'm sorry. I thought you knew more—”
“I do!”
Hollis stopped and turned toward Surikov, who still held the carp in his hand. “What were you going to give me in London? What is the other half of the secret?”
Surikov licked his lips. “The school… you know they don't train pilots there any longer…”
“Yes. I know they train KGB men to be Americans. How do you know that?”
“I… I supply the students. They're not actually KGB. The KGB doesn't trust its own recruiting methods. They get very odd personalities who want to be KGB, and they know that. They want honest Russian patriots. Men who had volunteered to be Air Force pilots. Men, I suppose, who would have something in common with their American instructors.”
Hollis nodded. “Like when it was a training school for pilots.”
“That's my understanding. From what I've heard, when it was a Red Air Force training school, our pilots seemed more interested in asking the Americans about America than in learning their fighter tactics. The political commissar was very angry and worried about this situation and reported several pilots to the KGB. It was then that the KGB had their brilliant idea. They eventually took over the school. There was no formal announcement to the American prisoners, but gradually the nature of the school changed from fighter tactics to what it is now. A spy school. This is what I heard.”
“And how are you involved with this school now, General?”
“I'm not directly involved, but Air Force Personnel has to handle the paperwork on the candidates for this school, since they are all members of the Red Air Force. So I—” Surikov stopped. “There's more. Much more. Is it worth it to you, Colonel, to get me out of here?”
“Perhaps. But you know, General, we don't need any more information on this school. We know where it is, and we have enough information already to precipitate an international crisis.” He looked at Surikov. “You know what I need.”
Surikov didn't reply.
“The names,” Hollis said. “The names of Soviet agents already in America. I assume you have some sort of list, or you wouldn't still be trying to make a deal. The names. That is your ticket west, General.”
“But… if I got that for you… how do I know you wouldn't abandon me and my granddaughter? I have nothing to offer for my passage if I gave you the list of names here.”
“You simply must trust me.”
“I cant.”
“You must. Listen to me, General. You are, as we say in English, a babe in the woods. You understand? Once you took that first step you were as good as dead. And so is Natasha. I could expose you here, or shoot you in London. I can also give you back your life. I could be lying, but you don't know if I am or not. You simply have no choice but to do what I say, to understand that the game is being played on my terms now.”
General Surikov's body seemed to sag. Beneath the erect military man was a tired old grandfather trying to do one last thing right and cursing himself for it. Surikov said, “We don't understand faith and trust here. We're not taught those things as children. Here we trust no one but family. We have faith in nothing.”
Hollis said, “Do you understand that if you gave me that list, and I let something happen to you, I could not live with myself? Do you understand that concept? Conscience. Did you listen to the priest, or was your mind somewhere else?”
“I heard him,” Surikov snapped. “It's all new to me. Less than two years. Do you expect me to become a saint in two years? Do you think I believe you are a saint because you go to church and use saintly words?”
Hollis smiled. “I'm no saint, my friend.” Hollis didn't think the words trest, vera, and sovest—“trust,” “faith,” and “conscience”—were particularly saintly words, but he supposed if one rarely heard them, they could be jarring or moving or both.
“I need time to think this over. I'll meet your replacement next Sunday—”
“No. There is nothing to think about. It would be best if you made your decision now and gave me your word on it. Then I will give you my word, and I will see to it that you get out of here. I'll meet you in the West if you wish.”
General Surikov seemed to rediscover his backbone and stood straight. “All right. You're a lot more ruthless than I thought, Colonel. But perhaps you d
o have a conscience. Here is what you're getting: a microfilm of the personnel records of every man who's gone to the American Citizenship School—that's what the KGB calls it. On the microfilm you will find photographs of the men, their Russian names, their fingerprints, places of birth, birthdays, blood types, identifying scars, dental records, and so forth. A complete personnel file. You will not find their new American names or addresses, and I cannot even tell you how many of them actually made it to America. Only the KGB has that information. So your people over there—the FBI—will have to do a great deal of work. That's all I can give you.”
Hollis nodded. It was a start. “How many?”
“A little over three thousand.”
“Three thousand…? All on microfilm?”
“Yes. These men, incidentally, are all officially dead. Killed in training accidents. The Red Air Force gave them military funerals. Closed coffins. We buried a lot of sand. We also paid out a lot of death benefits. The KGB finds it convenient to use our logistics, our money, our pilot candidates, and the cover of military deaths for so large an operation.”
Hollis nodded to himself. Three thousand military training deaths in the States would cause something of a national scandal. Here, not even one such death ever made the newspapers. The three thousand families of the supposed deceaseds only knew of their own loss. Amazing, Hollis thought. Only a totalitarian society could mount an operation such as that. The world's largest Trojan horse, the biggest fifth column in history, or whatever Washington would call it. Hollis asked, “Where is the microfilm?”
“I'll tell you where you can find it when I get to London. That was the deal. Half now, half in London.”
“I told you, I already have the first half. You'll give me the microfilm now.”
“Why now?”
“Because you may be arrested anytime between now and the time we try to get you out of here. Because I want it now. That's why.”
Surikov stared off into space, and Hollis could see he was angry, but that didn't matter.
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