Kim Philby once remarked about his colleague in subversion, Guy Burgess, that he was incapable of dissolving into a crowd. Intelligence agents are trained to be inconspicuous, but Philby did not have that skill in dissimulation when among Russians. In almost every situation he stood out. He was tall, his gray hair moderately long, his cheekbones high, his attitude at once compliant and independent. The most he could do was dress other than as a British don or banker. He wore a Western-style suit, and a fedora like Khrushchev’s.
The effort to disguise his singularity was, in one respect, simply abandoned. In 1963 the KGB had assigned him the Russian name Andrei Fyodorovich Fyodorov. But this quickly proved an impossible impediment to workaday life. The first time he used his new name was at a dentist’s.
“What’s your name?” the nurse asked.
Philby attempted to pronounce “Fyodorov” athwart his conventional stutter.
What emerged brought merriment. The nurse remarked with some impatience, “Who would take you for a Russian?”
His handler quietly noted the episode, and the next day Andrei Fyodorovich was invited to select a new surname. He chose “Martins,” more appropriate, more pronounceable. A new passport was issued. Andrei Fyodorovich Martins. It recorded that Martins was Latvian, born in New York, December 20, 1917. Comrade Martins was left with the problem of answering a question directed at him in Latvian when he found himself at a hotel in Riga. He knew not one word of the language identified in his passport as his native tongue. That was a problem. But there were always problems, Kim Philby had reminded himself.
On that first visit to the Lubyanka he was greeted by a uniformed officer who had been waiting in the ground-floor hallway. He was taken to the third floor and led into an office with three desks, occupied by two women and a man. And through that, to what he took to be the head office.
His host, almost bald but with the face of a forty-year-old clerk, arose and extended his hand. “You may call me Colonel Bykov.” He spoke using basic English, here and there egged on by an interpreter. Bykov came quickly to the point. The KGB wished Comrade Andrei Fyodorovich to deliver a lecture to three hundred top KGB agents.
Philby replied in English, speaking slowly. He had never denied a request by his superiors in the KGB, he said. What especially did the colonel wish him to speak about?
“We have given that some thought. There is no one more experienced than you in our great profession, in the service of so great a cause. We would expect you to give time to recounting your own experiences. I read your book—in English.” Philby was tempted to ask the colonel why the authorities had taken so long to bring out a Russian-language edition of that book. But that would have been special pleading; to be avoided. “You became interested in Communist doctrine at age seventeen, resolved at age nineteen to lead an active life on behalf of the Party. You began your long and remarkable career.”
Philby nodded, managing something of an appreciative smile. “You would not expect me to talk about any matters I believe to be still confidential, surely?”
“You would certainly be free to mention any subject already treated in your book. We detected no … serious … indiscretions there, and no security lapses. I think it would be interesting to our agents to hear your personal experiences. What is the best conduct for an apprehended, or suspected, agent? We of course have lectures on the subject, but it would be more refreshing if it came from you.”
Again Philby nodded. “Yes, comrade, yes.” He had resolved to be entirely compliant, but he decided against suppressing one question obviously on his mind. “Colonel Bykov, you will perhaps understand my next question, under the circumstances. I have been here fourteen years without being asked to address so distinguished an assembly. Is it contemplated that this should be an annual assignment?”
The colonel looked up and, in Russian, spoke to the interpreter, who quickly gave the colonel’s reply. “An annual lecture, meaning the same text as you will use this time at Yasenevo, you are asking?”
“I simply wondered whether this lecture represents a new regimen in my services for you.”
“That is a question we would wish to weigh after hearing your lecture.” Colonel Bykov was speaking rapidly now, in Russian immediately interpreted. “To which we very much look forward. If you are left wondering why you were not called upon before, I can only answer that it is always possible that one director of our agency is better than another at taking advantage of unique opportunities.” He smiled. And stood up.
“Your case officer will keep you informed. Meanwhile, if there is anything you are … wishing for … which we can provide, you have only to advise us.”
Philby stood, shook hands again, nodded at the interpreter, and followed his guide out of the office.
His case officer was waiting for him in front of the building. The sun was very bright. As if to shield his eyes from it, Kim Philby turned to stare up at the great stone building and its prominent front entrance. Those who entered by the other great door, around the corner from Dzerzhinsky Square, were mostly never seen again. Philby wondered whether any of his case officers of the past few years had been led through that door. What might have been their offense? Some omission in overseeing Andrei Fyodorovich Martins?
Well, that was life. He was certainly not going to let himself get tied up on any such question, not at this stage in his career.
CHAPTER 26
The telephone rang before 8 A.M. It was Gus. He spoke in general terms about the cultural-exchange program in Gorky and managed to pass on the code that specified where they would meet and when. Café Atelier, nine fifteen.
Gus was already there in the booth. He told the story of his meeting with Ivan Pletnev. “I thought of going back to Galina and telling her Pletnev was a little wacko and she should forget the whole thing—just forget him, forget the general, forget the plot, forget everything.
“But I was just plain too tired. It was after two. Meanwhile—hear this—a bulletin from Party headquarters I saw before coming here: General Leonid Baranov has been removed as Commander, Warsaw Pact Forces, to become superintendent of the Frunze Military Academy—their West Point. That’s better than going to Gulag, but it’s a demotion, pure and simple. Gorbachev is on to something, or else he pried something out of Dmitriev.”
Blackford took a pen from his pocket and made little nicks on the table napkin.
“Okay, here’s what we’ve got, Gus. What exactly the Kremlin is up to, we can’t say. We know Pletnev wants revenge, but we don’t know whether there was a high-level overthrow plot that went any further than a hypothesis. We do know that the main players in the plot that came to our attention have been pulled out: Dmitriev and Baranov. If the demotion of General Baranov is going to touch off a general revolt by the military loyal to him, it will probably happen quickly. Whatever happens, there is no reason for any suspicion of U.S. involvement.”
“But listen, Black.” Gus’s blue Ukrainian/Iowan eyes were wide with curiosity and suspicion. “There are links floating around. General Baranov did talk to Ivan Pletnev. He did tell Pletnev what he knew about ‘Singleton,’ the name Boris had disclosed to both him and Viktor. Security records, patiently pursued, will reveal that Mr. Harry Singleton—you—and his son Jerry—me—arrived in Moscow three days before the bomb went off in Gorbachev’s desk. The records will reveal that one of those Singletons was in bed with an American girl—”
“You.”
“Yeah, okay, me. And that they pulled him in on suspicion of dope. The U.S. ambassador fired a lot of volleys and they let the kid out, and he and his father left the country.
“Now. Maybe they want to de-ball Dmitriev and Baranov just over intramural disputes. But maybe they’re suspected of plotting. And since Baranov was a member of the commission that investigated the October plot, maybe they’re wondering what ever happened to those Americans, the Singletons, who flew into Moscow and out, at either end of the attempted assassination.”
“
Sure, Gus. But it does help a little that the reason we were in Moscow was to abort the assassination. Boris knew that, and got that message through to Viktor. The USSR isn’t going to concoct a false story this time around. They might as well accuse Reagan of it. Now here’s what’s going to happen.”
Gus listened and made a note or two.
From his suite at the Metropol, Blackford called the hospital and got through to Ursina. He felt a tension in her voice, but she didn’t let him probe. “What are you calling about, Harry?”
“I have to go back”—the change in the tone of his voice communicated to her that his language was Aesopian—“to report on developments in the cultural exhibit. I have reservations for Washington, the Tuesday Pan Am flight. I don’t know the exact day that I’ll be back, but—it will be very soon, Ursina.”
“I see. All right. I see.… Harry?”
“Yes?”
“The culture minister wants a copy of my welcoming remarks for the opening of the peace conference tonight.”
“That’s not surprising.”
“Well, there is a problem. Because what I propose to say is very very surprising.”
Blackford wasn’t alarmed. They had talked in Sevastopol about Ursina’s small but prominent part in the ceremonies launching the International Peace Forum.
“You’re a leading woman medical researcher and author. You’re representing the Scientists’ and Scholars’ Union. You are welcoming to Moscow prominent visitors who are here at the invitation of the general secretary. So?” He stopped, and suddenly wondered. Was Ursina thinking to choose this moment to profess her ideological doubts? “Ursina Chadinov! I must talk to you about it. Do you have your script?”
“Yes, but I have not given … them … a copy of it.”
“When can I see it?”
“You will have to come to the hospital. Meet me at the cafeteria at twelve forty-five. Sixth floor.”
He looked at his watch. He would set out in twenty minutes. The telephone rang. He was confirmed out on Pan American to New York, connecting with Washington, arriving at 2115.
The telephone rang again. It was Gus. “Artur Ivanov, the deputy minister, wants to see you, says it’s important. Says 5 P.M. would be good. Now, Black, I haven’t told anybody you’re leaving tomorrow, or for how long. Is this trip off the record? I mean, if the USIA guys call wanting to see you?”
“Tell them I’ve been called home for a few days. And I’ll see Ivanov this afternoon.”
Ursina was wearing her hospital dress. Blackford thought that it left her with the profile of an astronaut. But she smiled, illuminating her entire body. She nodded and sat down at the nearest table.
“I’m not hungry. You go over to the counter and pick out whatever you want. Here is a chit.” His profile, unlike those of most others in line, was not encumbered by an amorphous cotton uniform. She studied it as Blackford filed away toward the buffet counter. She loved it. She loved it even more when he had no clothes on at all. Harry’s physique, she thought, showed how Soviet men just didn’t make it, when they reached middle age. That is, once they were a few years away from Olympic fitness. Harry was still beautiful.
He was back now with stewed fruit, a roll, and a hunk of country cheese. “Well, dear Ursina, what do you have in mind for tonight to advance the theme of the conference, which is …”
“‘A Nonnuclear World for the Survival of Mankind.’”
“So can I see what you’re—what you want to say?”
“Only after you finish your lunch. I don’t want you wasting away in my hospital.” She chatted on, her usual self now, it seemed.
He had already eaten half the cheese, and he put his spoon now into the stewed fruit. “Was this a pear once?”
“A very sick pear. It died before it could receive treatment.” She smiled, the coquette, and handed him two pages of text. “We’re not supposed to take more than 2.5 minutes each. There are twelve welcomers. They—we—give the welcomes representing the writers, artists, scientists, the professions. Then Gorbachev speaks. He tends to speak for a long time. I have heard him. A very long time. But I am distracting you.”
Blackford read hurriedly. He reached the third paragraph. “Uh-oh.”
It was a plainspoken criticism of repressive Soviet practices blocking foreign news, research, and literature.
Blackford pursed his lips. “What will the culture minister say to this? Ursina, he will certainly object to this paragraph.”
“Probably. I don’t know. Do you think I should just eliminate it?”
“Yes! Nobody at this conference is eager for criticism of the Soviet regime, the sponsor of the conference.”
“I’ll think about it. Rufina called this morning. She plans to be there. She asked if it was all right to bring Andrei. You are coming, of course, Harry?”
“I very much want to, at least for your part of the program. But I’ve got a meeting with Ivanov about the Gorky exhibit, and I don’t know whether I will be done in time.”
“Harry. The Gorky exhibit is four months away. The peace conference is now. I would think you’d want to be there. I mean, I would want you to be there. Some of the introducers and Culture Ministry people will be speaking in English. And they’ll have the interpreters working full time. I will leave a ticket at the box office in your name.”
“Where will you be seated?”
“Well, onstage, until after my talk. When the intermission comes, before the general secretary speaks, I’ll sneak down and sit by Rufina and you.”
“Will you be required to stay for Mr. Gorbachev’s address?”
“If I’m no longer onstage, maybe I can—”
“Plead a surgical appointment?”
“Yes! So. After I have spoken, you get up, shake hands with Rufina and Andrei, and go out and wait by the ticket office. I will work my way there. I will have to make an excuse later to Rufina. But she has lived with me, she knows about medical emergencies.”
“Then the next time I see you will be at the Great Kremlin Palace, at seven o’clock.”
“Harry. I will be a little nervous. Are you one of those Christians who say prayers?”
“As a matter of fact, I am.”
“Will you say one for me?”
He promised, and wafted her a kiss.
CHAPTER 27
Culture Minister Roman Belov had instructed his staff to bring to his personal attention every detail of the program for the International Peace Forum. It was very important to the general secretary that the forum should go well, and it was Belov’s job to see to it that this cosmopolitan exposure of the Gorbachev government should serve its purposes.
The general secretary had been three years in power and had traveled and conferred with world leaders. But this international forum would place him in close contact with people other than world leaders. Moreover, it was not to be entirely routine. It would not be like the pro-Communist conventions the Kremlin had had a hand in a dozen times, in Paris, Rome, Frankfurt, New York. The participants here were individually invited, selected with some care, and some of them came from outside the ranks of regular Communist apologists and Moscow-firsters. What Gorbachev really wanted was a public step forward, aimed at the consolidation of sentiment among liberal internationalists against the U.S. program for an anti-missile missile.
The list included some of the usual people, but this could not very well be avoided. There was no way to ignore Armand Hammer, old warhorse pro-Soviet industrialist, so go ahead and invite him—he accepted immediately. The same for American writers Norman Mailer and Gore Vidal, and British iconoclast Graham Greene. The Soviet ambassador to Ottawa personally called on Pierre Trudeau, recently retired prime minister of Canada, to urge him to attend. He was pleased by the invitation and accepted without demur.
However, Culture Minister Belov thought it especially important to invite some new faces from cultural redoubts in England and America. He succeeded in getting American actors Gregory Peck and Kr
is Kristofferson, and Peter Ustinov of Great Britain. Belov reached out for Professor John Kenneth Galbraith, who was wary of cooptation by Soviet-front enterprises, but whose attention was easily attracted to any gathering that deplored military expenses. Egon Bahr, the West German Social Democratic leader, was an important political catch.
A total of seven hundred people accepted. Quarters were found for them in two hotels. Minister Belov was eager to give participants every opportunity to speak and to contribute and to express their concern for a world without nuclear weapons. He drew up a schedule with a carefully worked-out distribution of time and attention to Russian, Italian, French, British, and American speakers. The major address, of course, would come on opening night, from Comrade Gorbachev. He would be introduced at about eight thirty, after the intermission. This would follow the twelve special Soviet hosts, allotted two and a half minutes each to say their piece, welcoming the delegates on behalf of their professions.
Roman Belov had an immediate problem. Just after four in the afternoon, the opening-night program clerk called. “Comrade Belov, I need to consult with you. Professor Chadinov is in my office—you will remember she is one of the welcomers scheduled for tonight? She has filed the text of her proposed remarks.”
Ursina, seated in the clerk’s office, could hear what he was saying, and clearly he intended that she should do so. “I have read the text and find it … unacceptable.… Yes, I have it right here. Professor Chadinov is in my office.… Yes it is brief, within the allotted six hundred words.… Yes, I will bring it right up.”
He turned to Ursina. “Kindly wait here, Professor.”
She felt her head flushing. Had she made a terrible mistake? How would she explain it all to Harry? What would he say about her deception at lunch, where she had shown him a different text? Harry was her sea of tranquillity. She had wanted to avoid any unpleasant disruption—keep the storm away, if she could.
Last Call for Blackford Oakes Page 11
