by Arno Baker
They went down the stairs to the basement and toward the back door through the garage where two old black sedans were being washed by the driver who glanced up at Al as he kept on wiping the bumpers. The driveway led up to street level and Yashinsky stopped at the door.
“All right, now just walk out to the right and keep going without stopping.” He didn’t shake hands and waited for Al to be completely out of sight. Then Yashinsky ran back upstairs and looked out the window to make sure that Al was not being followed as he went down the quiet tree-lined street. But there was no one following him and no cars or vans were parked in the side streets.
Weeks went by as every Tuesday Al and Dorothy would sit on a bench around the statue reading a book or a newspaper. The money was slipping progressively away and as the season changed into fall they came closer to giving up hope. They were slowly beginning to look haggard wearing the same shabby clothes. Dorothy was becoming increasingly desperate and had even lost interest in sex. Then one day after two months Yashinsky appeared, he walked across the pathway and sat next to Al. He said nothing for a long time and didn’t even acknowledge Al’s presence as he kept staring directly ahead. Then he spoke but away from Sarant as if he didn’t know him and was talking to himself.
“Do not return to your apartment. Across the avenue there is a black sedan parked near the taxi stand, get in but do not speak to the driver. He will take you to a safe house. Now you must go immediately, just as you are and don’t look back at me or in my direction.”
Al and Dorothy walked toward a taxi stand behind a row of trees. The black Buick sedan was there and Al recognized the man who was cleaning the car in the Polish embassy garage. They didn‘t exchange any words. Dorothy grabbed his hand holding it tightly like a frightened child. He now regretted letting her follow him. From the car he could see Yashinsky still sitting nonchalantly on the bench reading a local newspaper then the car drove off.
XXII
A tenement building on East 71st street and First Avenue in Manhattan, on a sunny Sunday morning around 7 a.m. The modest apartment occupied by Morris and Lona Cohen, was a very quiet fourth floor walk up with its windows on the back courtyard insulated from city traffic. A newspaper delivery boy was making the rounds floor to floor dropping stacks of thick Sunday editions. There was a discreet knock on the door and Morris who was only half dressed in his pajama top cautiously opened the door and let a man into the living room. No words were exchanged and they only nodded to one another. The man took a piece of paper and wrote,
“Let’s go into the kitchen.”
He immediately opened the tap and turned on the radio a bit too loud before he spoke to Morris in hushed tones.
“I have specific instructions to shut everything down now! Immediately! Those are the orders.”
“Well, I guess that’s it, then.”
Said Morris looking surprised and suddenly very sad.
“Only one small suitcase each.”
Lona appeared smoking nervously, casually wrapped in a loosely fitting bathrobe. She understood immediately,
“So, today’s the day, then?” she whispered.
“Immediately, yes. Less than twenty minutes.”
She nodded and turned to her husband,
“Well Morris, we gotta get going.”
Morris nodded slowly but still looked bewildered. Had he been alone he would have hesitated and tried to find other solutions. He was unhappy with the short notice but not Lona; she knew the drill and exactly how to deal with him in such situations when he couldn’t make up his mind. She knew that he was just an unruly adolescent who needed strict disciplinary rules and regimentation, something she did very well, making sure Morris never strayed. Thanks to Lona he followed his orders to the letter even though he might have some misgivings. She knew how he could get sidetracked at times and seriously endanger a mission. Morris had to be kept constantly focused on the immediate task and not be allowed to think. Timing was crucial, and Lona would gather enough strength for both of them and simply force him to obey. It was the dominant role she enjoyed and knew how to play in every aspect of their relationship. With her he performed to perfection especially when he was placed in a coercive situation as if he expected to be constantly bullied and actually welcomed the feeling. But if this one time he were suddenly to cave in, which given the drastic nature of those orders, was definitely a possibility, then they would get caught and then...well, the game would be over.
She and her case officers had concluded long ago that if caught and interrogated by experts, Morris could collapse. He would immediately realize that he was deprived of the bullying support of his beloved Lona or of his Soviet case officer and once isolated and completely on his own he‘d probably resist for a short time then simply spill the beans. Lona had told her handlers time and again that Morris was weak deep down and could only function with a very strong teammate. Under extreme stress he would name all the names he knew to the FBI. He worshipped authority and would easily identify with his new “mentor” and collaborate to the fullest just to gain his praise. Morris could then doom networks that had taken decades to build and he‘d probably do so without any guilt feelings because his allegiance would have simply shifted to a new chief.
Ivanov handed them two new Canadian passports, plane tickets and an envelope full of cash, in American and Canadian dollars. Lona put the money and documents on the table and slipped off her bathrobe in front of the Russian case officer. For a split second she was facing Ivanov completely nude and he couldn’t help looking at her statuesque body. Then without any kind of hesitation she got dressed quickly in front of the two men who both looked puzzled by what was going on. She was ready in less than three minutes while Morris got busy packing. He knew Lona and was accustomed to her sexual exhibitionism.
Ivanov was in a hurry to leave but he had a few more important instructions for his agents,
“First you fly to Toronto, the plane leaves two hours from now at 9, be sure you are at Idlewild in advance. On arrival after going through customs, you will exit the airport from the main terminal and pretend that you are looking for a taxi. A man will approach you near the taxi stand. He will be wearing white tennis shoes and have a copy of a French newspaper Le Figaro folded in his right jacket pocket. You don’t have to speak to him just nod because he will know you from your photographs, follow him and get into his car that will be parked nearby. Once you are in the car he will give you your new instructions verbally so you must memorize them very carefully. If you miss that rendezvous or he doesn’t show up for more than twenty minutes take the local bus to the downtown area and go to a restaurant called Angelo’s where you will ask for Vincent. But this is a backup to be used only if you missed the rendezvous at the airport. Those are the instructions. You get new instructions at each stop along the way. The people in Toronto will handle your documents and travel papers. Be sure you don’t linger anywhere and close everything up here as if you were going on one of your trips out of town or on vacation. That’s all. I must go now.”
Ivanov slipped out the door without another word and didn‘t shake hands. Morris closed the tap and turned off the radio. He looked sideways at Lona. She knew that look of his, the unhappy kid who knows he is going to be punished. But this wasn’t the time for those games and he was still in his pajama top! What a lump of a man, she thought.
“Get dressed Morris! You heard what he said.”
“One small bag each. That’s it!”
She could feel him cracking under the sudden strain so after she slipped on her shoes she grabbed one of his shirts and a tie and practically dressed him in a few quick and firm moves that she often used to show him who was boss when they were in bed. His bag was packed so she finished hers and just dumped all the toiletries into a brown paper bag.
“He said to get on the bus at 42nd Street. We gotta go now!” She told Morris as he put on his jacket and raincoat.
“Yeah!” was his only comment.
They closed the door and on the sidewalk Morris gave the entrance one final misty look before they hailed a cab to Grand Central where the airport buses were waiting for their passengers. They sat next to one another but she could see Morris looking out the window, taking it all in one last time. He was very much aware that this was for good. With their antecedents there clearly was no other way out. Either a daring escape or the electric chair and Lona wasn’t even sure they’d make it to the plane or manage to get out of Canada later on.
The offices inside the Lubyanka retained their original drabness over the years: long, dimly lit corridors, doors with numbers on them that you were expected to know in advance, not a single name anywhere. Feklisov was paying Yatskov a visit that afternoon following the latter’s return from a long mission in Paris. They were both expecting new assignments and didn‘t have much to do during those few days. It was precisely at that point that Leonid Kvasnikov knocked and quickly entered looking disheveled and unusually messy, his tie was sideways and his hair went in every direction.
“It’s Harry Gold...the Goose, he cracked under interrogation. The FBI picked him up at his apartment yesterday! He‘s falling apart and spilling the beans giving them everything he knows and more.”
Kvasnikov shut the door behind him and grabbed a chair. He was out of breath but it was only because of the tremendous stress he was suddenly under.
Feklisov asked,
“The Goose, was the courier for Fuchs, right? So what happened?”
“No simple explanation will clear up this problem...an investigation is underway and a special team is monitoring all the ramifications. The consequences could be disastrous.” Said Kvasnikov after he sat down still out of breath.
Yatskov felt personally concerned,
“Who’s on the case?”
“Ovakimian and Semyonov, for the moment.” Said Kvasnikov making a face.
“Those two? But they were in charge of the whole thing in the first place! What a choice…”
“I know, what can I say, I didn’t appoint them! It appears there may have been a major breach of the konspiratzia rules. They approved to have the Goose [Gold] handle both Fuchs and Greenglass on the same day for a pick-up!...Can you imagine that? How derelict and stupid can you get?”
Feklisov was incensed and could see where all this was going,
“Shit! A drunk and an incompetent running agents, what do you expect? When was that pick-up?”
“June 1945 in New Mexico, they were supposed to have a second courier, a woman, but at the last minute she couldn’t take the trip and they wanted to retrieve information from …Kaliber at Los Alamos. Now you can measure the damn mess they created!”
Yatskov shook his head,
“My report on Gold dates way back to 1946. I even recommended that he be liquidated at the time, because I could see where he was going! The man had no backbone and was ready to collapse at any moment…”
Kvasnikov was thinking ahead,
“They are attempting to exfiltrate the others. Some have made it out but in New York we are faced with a major problem: foot dragging and bad attitudes. It may already be too late to save the situation, you can forget about any of the networks, they must be shut down permanently.”
The phone rang at that point and Yatskov picked up saying only “yes” a few times as he listened. He looked at his two visitors and announced solemnly after hanging up,
“We are all expected in Beria‘s office within 20 minutes. This may be it, comrades. If we were under arrest it would have already happened! So, rejoice…”
Lavrenti Beria, the original head of ENORMOZ, the A-Bomb spying project, occupied a vast office on the third floor of the Lubyanka. An oversize portrait of Stalin hung on the wall behind his desk and the carpeting on the floor was said to have to be washed regularly after the NKVD chief had finished personally interrogating top level suspects whom he was said to torture with his own hands. An unsmiling, bloated Beria in civilian clothes, holding a long cigarette holder was pacing furiously up and down behind his desk. In a corner Abakumov, the head of counterintelligence, looked nervous and was fidgeting in his armchair. Everyone knew how he and Beria hated and despised one another. Feklisov, Yatskov and Kvasnikov entered the inner sanctum sheepishly, fully expecting to be arrested within minutes and perhaps even brutalized then and there by Beria himself. All three suddenly began sweating profusely and the room quickly became permeated with those heavy mixed body odors like a dog pound or a stable.
Beria looked at them and bellowed in an angry and thunderous voice,
“I cannot begin to tell you, how thoroughly furious Iosif Vissarionovich is right now! I had to bear the brunt of his very justifiable and understandable anger. This entire catastrophe could and should have been avoided. Some people were either drunk or deliberately wrecking our homeland! There will be hell to pay for those who screwed up or were hidden spies for the capitalists! I want you to know that I am doubly angry. One: for the same reasons as Marshal Stalin, and two: because not one of you geniuses expressed a single ounce of doubt about any of this to me or to Pavel Fitin or Vsevolod Merkulov or anyone else at the time or after.... Everyone was derelict of duty! Well comrades, you three shall have the honor of investigating this fucking mess from the ground up. You are to begin immediately, Kvasnikov you were in charge of the XY line in New York in 1943-46 so you will lead the team!”
Kvasnikov was totally flabbergasted that after such an outburst they were still not handcuffed. He managed to sputter a few words,
“Yes...Yes, Comrade Beria!”
Beria waved him to silence with a contemptuous gesture as he lit another cigarette.
“You three can consider yourselves lucky that the Boss didn’t immediately conclude that you had any responsibility in this disaster...well, at least for now! But I can assure you that if there is any inference of negligence on your part in America during the war...You can say good bye to this Vail of Tears. So, you can immediately begin by giving me and Comrade Abakumov a recommendation regarding the priorities for this inquiry. Kvasnikov?”
Leonid slipped right into his new lease on life as an efficient and uncompromising investigator without any hesitation,
“Obviously our immediate task is to exfiltrate everyone as quickly as we possibly can.”
Abakumov laughed softly looking at Kvasnikov who was practically standing rigidly at attention,
“My dear Kvasnikov, what do you think we have been doing for the past month? Now it may be too late. Our sources, insofar as we still have any we can count on, tell us that the FBI is about to arrest Kaliber---David Greenglass! He was a prize idiot who should never have been recruited in the first place! I read those childish reports and recommendations to promote him and send him to college to become some new Einstein…how absurd! But still, I agree, we must try to get everyone out. After all, it worked with Sarant although what made his escape possible was that silly girlfriend of his. The FBI seems to have been convinced for the longest time that it was a simple case of adultery!”
Beria, now seated, cut into the discussion,
“You shall also proceed with the interrogation of Ovakimian and Semyonov. Those two are not to be treated lightly as you may expect. Comrade Stalin is very specific about that. All NKGB officers are to be informed that both were tortured and have confessed.”
The three case officers looked down in silence at the thought of what could also be in store for them. A messenger entered and handed Abakumov a sheet of paper.
He smiled for the first time and announced,
“Ah! The Cohens are in Paris.”
Beria nodded but wasn’t about to give his rival any credit so he asked,
“Well Kvasnikov, how will you organize the investigation and the action to be recommended?”
Fortunately Kvasnikov was used to such instant requests and had the unusual ability of presenting the appearance of a well structured plan in a matter of seconds.
“Three sections, Comr
ade Beria: Action headed by Feklisov, to shut down and exfiltrate; Historical under Yatskov to explain in detail how and why operations broke down, and I will coordinate and compile the reports.”
Beria was satisfied and stood up,
“Well then let’s get on with it! Not a minute is to be wasted...Everyone’s neck is on the line!”
Poskrebyshev led the way into Stalin’s office in the Kremlin with its oriental carpets, official portraits of Lenin, Marx and Engels and the green felt covering the long conference table on the side, near the wall. There was total silence as the head of the Politburo kept on reading a report while holding his pipe in his bad left hand. Beria and Abakumov were kept waiting almost at attention for minutes as a mark of deep dissatisfaction on the part of the chief. Stalin then took his pipe and emptied it on a piece of blotting paper then neatly disposed of the ashes in a trash can under his desk.
Then he lit a long match and began puffing carefully until the surface he had stuffed once again was evenly lit. The top of his desk was immaculate and totally free of clutter except for the stack of files on a side that he had been examining. Stalin moved to the head of the conference table and sat down. Poskrebychev removed the files then took a seat behind the two intelligence leaders and began taking notes with a pad and pencil. Beria cleared his throat and Stalin looked up at him annoyed,
“Proceed Beria, we can’t wait here all day…!”
“Comrade Stalin, the matter of ENORMOZ will soon explode in America. We know that the Americans are on to Rosenberg and most of his network. Greenglass may be arrested any day now.”
Stalin remained totally inscrutable and kept on looking down as he smoked while Beria explained but then he suddenly injected in Georgian,
“Damn it! Get to the point, Lavrenti.”
Beria also switched to Georgian,
“Iosif Vissarionovich, we will find out what happened and clean up the shit…”
Stalin had now taken a pencil and was drawing doodles on the pad as he listened. Then he interrupted,
