by Paul Vidich
The director? “He’ll come. He’ll bring Roger. He has no choice. His family is at risk. It’s not a game for him. There! Look. The Buick is moving. They’re on their way.”
This is what Vasilenko had said. When the Buick left its parking spot, that meant that the Russians and Altman would have entered the tunnel and be on their way. The Buick entered the queue of cars waiting to reach the hotel drive-through.
Coffin rubbed his hands against the chill and nodded at a Cadillac delivering a couple into the doorman’s sheltering umbrella. The man was stout like a penguin in tuxedo and his right-wingism announced itself in a patriotically striped cravat. On his arm was a taller, younger woman wonderfully pleasing to the eye with her doll’s face, pearl skin, topaz teardrop earrings, amber-colored scarf pressed over her shoulders, and a fine head of blond curls sculpted into an updo. Eyes of the curious onlookers followed as she made her way along the velvet rope, indulging all the attention with a coy smile.
“There is a word for all this,” Coffin said. “Sometimes you need the word first and only through the word do you know what you are seeing. Everything is inchoate until you have the right word. The word, George, is diversion. This is all a diversion. There, beyond the tall woman, is a tight group of men. You see that. Our bait and our catch.” He added in a perplexed whisper, “Why are people pointing?”
Under the hotel canopy Mueller saw four men moving behind photographers and onlookers all pressing forward to ogle at the woman. Vasilenko was the first to emerge, hatless, eyes darting, and he was joined by a thinner, shorter man in wide fedora pulled down on his forehead.
Mueller recognized Chernov’s angular face, faint pockmarks, and pronounced clubfoot, which swung around when he moved it forward in his hobbled walk. Mueller felt a tinge of anxiety. Was it fear or concern—or just nervousness triggered by the sound of the gimp? For danger always poked its head out whenever Chernov appeared, as he had done in Vienna and Bern, each time offering another lure in his deprecating manner—and of course one was always tempted. The Soviet colonel had a grim visage and his nose smelled for danger.
Roger Altman was half a step behind, unmistakable by his height, Hollywood good looks, and the double breasted blue blazer he’d been wearing when he disappeared, but different. Humbled, nervous. Eyes alert. Crimson pocket square missing. Here he was, Mueller thought, on his way to the dacha he’d dismissed. He was in the open, vulnerable, and there would be a terrible reckoning. He didn’t look defeated, but then Mueller never thought Roger Altman was a person who allowed himself to look defeated. He was a refined man of good taste who never conveyed the image of a grubby man living a triple life. There was only this picture of confident coolness moving quietly along the perimeter of Washington’s hoi polloi.
“Why are they pointing?” Coffin repeated.
A camera’s magnesium lightning flash went off. One paparazzo and then another snapped Altman’s photograph, and onlookers turned their attention from the tall woman to the discreet Altman and his nondescript companions, and then suddenly the crowd surged in a rabble, pens thrust out seeking a scribbled autograph.
Mueller didn’t say what was on his mind in that instant. Some idiot forgets the plan, or a chance case of mistaken identity disrupts the intelligent working of a self-conscious plan. There is no way to apply coherence to the error and all bets are off. Mueller was already moving across the street in a run, signaling to Downes and two companions, ex-football players recruited for security work when the Agency decided it needed more muscle. They pushed through the crowd to cut off the escape route along the sidewalk. There was shoving and a few indignant protests from women pushed to the side by photographers eagerly clawing their way to snap Altman’s photo. Blind mob frenzy didn’t notice, or care, that the tall man in the blue blazer was someone’s lookalike.
What happened next was this. Chernov saw the trap. He, his two Russian companions, and Altman, hustled through the hotel’s revolving doors and disappeared inside to retrace their steps to the tunnel and the embassy, where Altman would be untouchable. Coffin, Mueller, and Downes convened on the street and agreed on a plan. Downes and his men would enter the tunnel from the hotel, giving pursuit, while Coffin and Mueller would race ahead to a grated manhole and intercept underground.
Mueller’s foot searched beyond the last rung of the iron ladder that descended through the narrow ventilation shaft. From above, Coffin’s flashlight shone into the blackness below and showed Mueller he’d come to the end. Mueller relaxed his grip and dropped to the tunnel floor, knees flexed, but still he crumpled on impact. He pointed his flashlight into the underworld. Noise from the street was far away and he found himself in a dark, confining quiet. Telltale sounds of water gurgling over rocks came from somewhere and he smelled the dankness of old stone. Water droplets on the ceiling gleamed in the beam of his light. As he moved it around, exploring the space, darkness opened up and revealed a vaulted brick ceiling fifteen feet above his head that curved into a wall thirty feet opposite. A creek bed had formed into the grooved channels of old rail tracks laid in the stone floor. He saw rusted iron shackles that lay where they’d been thrown off in a freed slave’s flight.
Mueller saw he’d come down in a spot where tunnel tributaries converged in a roundabout and these dark passageways led outward like spokes on a wheel. Arched tunnels disappeared into darkness, except down one where were dim electric lamps glowed. At intervals, ghostly light seeped into the tunnels through ventilation shafts, making dim, perfectly round spotlights on the floor. Mueller searched for the entrance to the Soviet embassy, which Vasilenko said was an iron door set inside a wall cavity.
Coffin was suddenly at Mueller’s side. “Turn off your light,” he said. “They’ll see us.”
Mueller obliged. He had always disliked the dark, its surliness, its menace. The threat of being seen and not being able to see. It was a childhood fear. Near total darkness surrounded them.
Suddenly, a high-pitched screech filled the space all around them. Far down one tunnel Mueller saw the bulging brow of a modern trolley come around a sharp curve, iron wheels grinding on the rails. Its headlamp pierced the space, sending vast illumination into the dark. Light blinded Mueller, and then as suddenly as it came, the trolley completed its curve and darkness returned.
“Listen. Voices,” he whispered.
Coffin and Mueller pressed against the damp walls, ears alert to approaching voices speaking in an unconcerned register. Mueller’s eyes were of little help in the surrounding obscurity, but he made out a duo of flashlights being used by the men trying to find their way in the dark. Mueller had no idea how much time elapsed before he heard the faint sounds of footsteps. Then he heard it, the slap of leather, and the pattern repeated itself, one footstep followed by the percussive tap of a clubfoot, Chernov announcing himself.
The Soviet colonel appeared in the dim light of a ventilation shaft. He entered the circle of illumination, hesitated, and then drew back into shadow, but for a moment his face was visible. He and his companions moved away from the center of the tunnel and hugged the perimeter, moving toward a wall cavity they’d found with their lights.
Mueller saw his mistake. He and Coffin had entered the tunnel at the roundabout and the embassy door was down a tributary. They weren’t between Chernov and the embassy but catty-corner. Downes and his two men trotted down the tunnel, moving with alacrity, eager to get to the action, recklessly swinging their flashlights in the haste of their pursuit, unaware they were making themselves easy targets. Mueller saw the danger all at once.
“Stop,” he yelled.
The effect of Mueller’s command was immediate. Chernov’s flashlight went dark and Mueller sensed the unmistakable threat of an intelligent adversary.
A gunshot in the dark. A brilliant flash created a momentary burst of light. Explosive sound broke against the solid darkness like a slap on the face. The blast’s echo decayed in the
tunnels and what remained was the plaintive moan of a wounded man.
“It’s Downes,” Coffin whispered. Louder. “David, we’ll get help.”
Hustling footsteps moved in the dark, stumbling on unseen rocks, scrambling on the stone floor toward some destination. More footsteps running, one with Chernov’s distinctive percussive signature. All flashlights had gone dark. There was only the palpable presence of adversaries maneuvering in close proximity to each other, and as hard as Mueller tried, he couldn’t tell foe from friend, or which direction to move.
“George, be careful. He’s got a gun. He won’t play fair.”
It was Altman. Mueller turned his ear to one spot, but then Altman called again, and the sound seemed to come from a different spot. Sound had no direction in the dark. Altman’s voice bounced off the vaulted ceiling and put Altman everywhere. Coffin too had left Mueller’s side and he was now alone, surrounded by muffled whispers, grunts, and the angry curse of someone in pain. He took his Colt service pistol out of his coat pocket.
“George, careful. He’ll shoot me. He’ll shoot you. Look for his cigarette. I’m not sure what they want with me, but I’m glad you’re here. We’ll have a good talk when this is over.”
“Is that what you call it, a good talk?” Mueller said. “There is a lot to explain.”
“You know the line, old boy, ‘Nothing good or bad but thinking makes it so.’”
Altman’s words were drowned by a screeching trolley far down the tunnel, and its headlamp’s dazzling light put everything in stark relief. The men were caught in a petrified tableau, suddenly revealed to each other. Chernov had his gun out, Altman was pressed into a wall cavity, and Vasilenko was making an escape along the center of the tunnel following the tracks. He was startled by the light and momentarily confused. He looked one way then the other, seeking cover, the fox out of his hole.
Mueller yelled to distract Chernov from the fleeing Russian. “It’s over. Finished. Don’t do anything stupid.”
Vasilenko sprinted from one wall cavity to the next, trying the door in each but finding it locked, he moved to the next and the next, until he had exhausted all chances and broke in a run down the tunnel toward the trolley. His thick arms pumped as he presented himself in perfect silhouette.
“No!” Mueller yelled. Chernov had raised his pistol and sighted his 7.62mm Tokarev, one hand stretched out, cigarette dangling nonchalantly from his lips. The shot resounded in the confined space. The first shot seemed to throw Vasilenko forward, the second one made him crumple, and he lay motionless where he’d fallen.
Trolley passengers, who’d disembarked to see what was happening, scattered at the first gunshot. A woman screamed.
Chernov turned to Mueller. He was a dozen feet away. Angry. Livid. “Shithead. You had him sabotage it.” His eyes had a reptile’s beady glint. His pistol whipped around in his hand and he raised it at Coffin, then shifted a few degrees to Mueller.
Passengers who saw what was about to happen dropped to their knees, appalled and curious, the two sentiments existing at once in the bystanders. They pressed against the tunnel for cover. A second trolley car stopped behind the first and those passengers also became witnesses to the man lying facedown on the railroad tracks.
Another report of a gun. And in quick succession a fourth and a fifth. Brilliant strobe flashes from within the dark perimeter tunnels. It was impossible to see who was firing, or being fired at, or how many guns discharged. Stray bullets ricocheted against stone walls and one clanged on the trolley’s iron brow.
Mueller saw Chernov. Heard him grunt. An animal sound that took the wind out of him and he too fell to the floor. Chernov had kept his gun and still, even wounded, he rose to one knee and aimed confidently.
Mueller had never killed a man. Metamorphosis is a painful process. He felt the excruciating agony of the caterpillar turning itself out of its skin, cracking open its hard carapace. Deep within him, in a process he was only dimly conscious of, he left behind the deep-thinking desk man who commanded death with the stroke of a pen. The gun in his hand was immediate and consequential. He lifted the pistol. Aimed. Fired. One shot.
Mueller was at Chernov’s side. He saw crimson stains spread across the man’s tan jacket. Eyes flickered and then became glassy and fixed. Mueller lifted his pistol and fired once more into the lifeless body. Bastard. Mueller confirmed the kill when he put two fingers on the man’s carotid artery and felt no pulse. Mueller looked at the dead man with respectful contempt.
Then quiet. There was a fragile eerie moment that waited to be shattered by another gunshot and for the violence to resume. But the moment didn’t come. Mueller knew things were over, one danger removed. He came up off his knee. He looked at his watch: 9:17 p.m. For some reason that seemed to matter. It had been just a few minutes, but it felt like an eternity.
Mueller went over to Vasilenko and confirmed that the Russian was dead. He took the Russian’s wallet. He wanted something for the man’s son. He lay there bleeding out from a head wound and there was nothing Mueller could do, but the wallet seemed like a good gesture. Though they were adversaries, or because they were adversaries, he respected the man. Friends in a different life.
• • •
Opinions differed later as to what happened in those few minutes of chaos underground near Dupont Circle. An inconclusive investigation by the Metropolitan Police, FBI, and State Department concluded that two Russians killed each other in a spillover of the violent purges taking place in Moscow. A forensics investigation confirmed the chest wound came from an American-made pistol, but the ownership of the gun, indeed the presence of the CIA, never came to light.
It surprised no one in the Agency that Roger Altman was put on temporary medical leave. He was connected to the incident in the rumor mill in the office that always got things precisely wrong but vaguely right. There was speculation that Altman had been working harder than he should on the Berlin crisis, and had been brought home. The process of burning out started with continuous late nights in the office and usually ended in a breakdown. Work pressure had broken other men and now it was breaking Roger Altman. Altman, people in the Agency were told, would be promoted after he returned from rest leave.
21
* * *
THE RECKONING
WILL YOU need me more tonight?” the middle-aged black housekeeper asked.
Roger Altman smiled. “No. I’ll do the dishes. You can go home.”
Altman looked at Mueller. The two men sat at the dining table in Altman’s town house on P Street in Georgetown. They sat in the parlor floor’s formal dining room with tall windows that looked onto the tree-lined street. The curtains were drawn, giving the room an intimate feeling. Warm light from a cut-glass chandelier illuminated a vibrant cubist painting on the wall. The mantel’s clock’s ticking punctuated the solemn quiet of two old acquaintances sharing reminiscences at a table set with china, crystal, and silver flatware.
“She’s been with me four years,” Altman said. “A wonderful cook, don’t you think? Her own recipes. She has two sons she raised alone. So—”
The unfinished thought floated in the air waiting for a conclusion.
Mueller had gone to the window, lifting the curtain, and watched the housekeeper go down the steps. Across the street he saw a couple alone at a tree.
“They’re watching the house,” Altman said. “The director had them follow me after our talk.”
Mueller returned to his seat. “What did he say?”
Altman was slumped in his chair. “He gave me a little speech on how personal compulsions destroy careers. He talked about our work together in Bern and the trust we put in each other. He said it’s his job to see that the Agency is not disgraced. He never confronted me—that’s not his style—but he led me to believe there was no way out. He talked about honor as if it was a suit you take from the closet. It was a pleasant co
nversation, pleasant in tone, but he’d made up his mind. He’s never really liked me. You’re his favorite. I suppose if there is such a thing as a favorite spy. I think he’s impressed by your indifference.”
Mueller fingered the stem of his wineglass filled with milk. “Is that his word?”
“No. Intelligence. That was his word. . . . I have disappointed him. I know that.”
Mueller looked up. “Disappointment is a polite way to put it. What forgiveness can there be?”
“I don’t want to be forgiven, George. That implies I’ve wronged them. They’ve made up their minds about me because it conveniently fits the world they live in.” He looked at Mueller and leaned forward. “You stood up for me. I should be grateful, although, given the circumstances, it’s a little surreal, don’t you think? You, of all people, standing up for me.”
Mueller slowly put down his glass. He felt the unerring stare of the man across the table and an awkward silence descended between them. Mueller’s fingers went cold. Colors in the room washed out in the intensity of the moment.
“I didn’t know how to bring it up, so if this is sudden and tactless, it’s because it only came to me an hour ago, and I suppose, if I had any doubt, your expression now incriminates you. There’s no manual for this. No guidebook you can read. My suspicions came in the tunnel. Chernov knew you. I could see that. His anger was intimate and familiar. So there it is. I’m right, aren’t I? It’s always been you?”
Mueller’s mind was strangely calm. Never in his wildest imagination did he believe this moment would come, but it was happening now, in the present—Altman sloughing his treachery onto him. What makes a man without hope cling to the ledge? Is desperation a good quality or a bad quality? Mueller pondered.
