“This American—assuming he is, as you speculate, an American—has he been here under deep cover and is just now surfacing, or …”
The one-armed officer absently brushes dandruff from his left shoulder. “I suspect he came in on a one-time assignment,” he explains. “Remember the Grani courier who disappeared from his hotel without a trace? Change the part in his hair, add a mustache and eyeglasses, and the description more or less matches our man. “
The marshal takes this all in. “You’re absolutely certain there’s no possibility it’s a KGB operation?”
“None. I’d stake my reputation on it. “
The marshal laughs softly. “You’re staking more than your reputation, Comrade Volkov.” He reflects a moment. “If it is an American, that means the Americans haven’t bought the defection?”
“Not at all,” says the one-armed officer. “If they weren’t buying it, they wouldn’t bother checking it out. No. There may be one faction, or even one man, who hasn’t entirely bought it, and they’re backtracking, as a routine precaution, to see if they can come up with something to indicate Kulakov wasn’t genuine.”
“And will they?” The marshal glances at his appointment calendar, scribbles a note to himself in the margin. “Will they come up with anything?”
“We’ve been over the ground many times,” says the one-armed Volkov. “He can nose around from now to doomsday. There’s nothing to come up with. There was only one weak link—the boy Gregori. We arranged that he will never talk to anyone.”
“I still don’t like it,” says the marshal. “I don’t like the idea of an American digging in our yard. What would happen if he simply disappeared?”
“With all respect, Marshal, that’s the last thing in the world to do at this stage.”
The marshal nods thoughtfully. “If their man disappears,” he thinks aloud, “it will indicate to those in the American establishment who already suspect Kulakov that their field man must have come up with something to support their suspicions.”
“Worse than that, Marshal,” says Volkov. “The Americans won’t take the disappearance of a field operative sitting down. They will raise a very quiet but very efficient storm in intelligence circles. Our KGB friends will be contacted by the Americans and accused of terminating a field man. The KGB will investigate, find that they had nothing to do with it—and turn to us for an explanation. They will want to know why an American agent backtracking on Kulakov disappeared. The answer that will offer itself to their small minds is that Kulakov was, in fact, a fraud; that the American agent discovered this. We must remember, Marshal, that the KGB thinks Kulakov was a genuine defector because we backtracked on him after the defection and assured them he was genuine. No; the disappearance of the American agent will only lead the KGB to our door. The best thing we can do is permit this American field man to check out Kulakov’s story until he is satisfied it is all true, and then let him go quietly back home and convince anyone there who still has doubts.”
There is a soft knock at the door, and a colonel pops his head in.
“I thought I told you no interruptions,” explodes the marshal. “No interruptions means no knocks at the door.”
“I beg your pardon, Marshal.” The colonel stands his ground. “I have an ‘Eyes Urgent’ for General Volkov that I thought he would want to see. Now.” He stresses the “Now.”
The marshal consents with a toss of his head. The colonel hands the metal clipboard to the one-armed officer and leaves the room. Volkov opens the cover and scans the message. His brow furrows. His eyes are grim as he looks up. “I must report to you that the body of Kulakov’s son, Gregori, has been discovered by someone pretending to be an agent of the KGB. The man who found the body used the name and identification number of a retired KGB agent when he signed a receipt for Gregori’s address at the local militia headquarters in Alma-Ata. The KGB assumes that a Grani agent, probably of German nationality, was attempting to locate the son of the defector in order to publish a story on the mistreatment of relatives of a defector. “
The marshal pulls a colorful silk handkerchief from his pocket and mops his brow. When he finally speaks, his voice is not much above a hoarse whisper. “Whatever happens, your American must not be allowed to fall into KGB hands.”
Volkov understands that his ten minutes with the marshal in charge of the Soviet Armed Forces is up. “That doesn’t leave us much room to maneuver in” he says, rising to his feet.
“Comrade General Volkov.” The marshal looks him in the eyes. “I had your personal assurances, when we went ahead with this thing, that we were operating under conditions that left absolutely no room for failure. If anyone becomes suspicious now”—the marshal’s tone is even; he is merely noting the obvious—“it will, of course, be you they become suspicious of.”
CHAPTER
9
Lounging against the side of a kiosk in the underground passage that runs between Gorky Street and Red Square, Katushka still stands out in the crowd. She is wearing an ankle-length printed skirt and an off-white silk shirt (tied, Cossack-style, around her waist with a belt made of braided horsehair) through which her nipples are clearly visible. And almost everyone who passes looks. Stone, watching from behind another kiosk farther along the tunnel, sees her size up a prospective customer who plants his bulky body before her, throws out his barrel chest as he gives her all the reasons (money aside) why she should sleep with him. She listens politely, her head cocked to one side, then says, “No, thank you,” in a way that leaves no room for argument. The barrel-chested hero scowls, makes an unflattering comment on the size of her breasts and stalks off.
Stone has been keeping an eye on Katushka long enough to be certain that no one else is keeping an eye on her. He steps into the flow of Muscovites and drifts down on her. Unaccountably, he finds his pulse racing. When he is close enough to see her eyes, they widen with unconcealed delight.
“Aren’t you worried about the world ending?” Stone asks, pointing to a poster on the kiosk that says the Americans have enough nuclear warheads to destroy the entire population of the planet several times over.
Katushka smiles warmly, links her arm through his. “The world will end,” she says happily, “when the people in it stop making love. Where have you been? You disappeared like a cloud. I looked up and you weren’t there. To tell you the truth, I thought I would never see you again.” In a surprisingly shy voice, she adds, “I am pleased with you for coming back.”
Stone starts to explain that he has come back to say goodbye to her, but before he can get the words sorted out she bubbles over with news. “Ilyador went through some old phone directories in the post office basement and found a listing for the Jew you’re looking for—Leon Davidov. I called the number, but Davidov had moved out several years ago.”
“So that’s the end of that,” Stone comments.
“Not quite,” says Katushka. “The man who answered the phone gave me the name of an old Jew who might know where Davidov is.”
“Did you speak to him too?”
“I tried to,” Katushka explains, “but the moment he saw what I wanted, he closed up like a clam. He refused to have anything to do with me. He was very insulting, actually. He accused me of being unclean. I take a bath at least twice a week!”
“Come on,” says Stone. “Let’s see what I can get out of him.”
They cut through a courtyard not far from the Hotel Rossiya and come out on Arkhipova Street, just down from the only active synagogue in Moscow. In the entrance, two old Jews in black fedoras are bickering politely. They stop talking as Stone and the girl enter, stare at Katushka’s nipples, then look at each other with wide eyes and shrug.
“That’s him,” whispers Katushka, indicating an old Jew dovening in the back row of the almost empty synagogue. He wears a black suit that has seen better days, a black yarmulke on his bald head and a tefillin wrapped around his forehead. Stone places his handkerchief over his own head in place of a
yarmulke, and slides in alongside the old man, who is talking, his eyes half closed, with God. Once again, Stone feels the sweet nostalgia for things he barely remembers. His own father, and his father’s father, might have sat on this very same bench talking with this very same God, whom they blamed for everything, and still honored.
Slowly the old man turns toward Stone, sizes him up, makes no effort to hide that he is not overly impressed with what he sees.
Stone speaks in Yiddish. “Excuse me for interrupting,” he says. “I’m looking for someone, and I was told you could help me find him.”
“You’re looking for someone,” the old man repeats belligerently, “and you were told I would help you find him. Maybe yes, maybe no. The man you’re looking for, he maybe has a name?”
Stone says, “I’m trying to find Leon Davidov.”
The old man studies Stone for a long moment, then mutters in an undertone, presumably so that God won’t hear, “Go get murdered!” With an innocent look on his face, he turns back to resume his conversation with God.
“It’s very important,” insists Stone. Three rows in front, a middle-aged man turns and glares angrily at the intruder. “It’s important,” Stone repeats in a whisper. “I don’t want to hurt him. I only want to speak to him.”
The old Jew looks at Stone out of the corner of his bloodshot eyes. “The why is what you haven’t explained.”
Stone measures his man for a fraction of a second. “I want to tell him what happened to his son.”
The old man mumbles the word “son” several times, starts to tremble. Tears well in his eyes. “It’s me, Davidov,” he mutters. “So where is the good-for-nothing? So what trouble is he in that he admits after all these years he has a father?”
The old man’s pain stirs Stone, and he reaches out awkwardly to touch his elbow. Davidov shrinks back, looking at the hand that almost touched him as if it could contaminate him. “If you have things to tell me, tell them and leave me in relative peace,” he says.
“I have things to tell you,” Stone says, “and I have things to ask you.”
Davidov shakes his head stubbornly. “Nothing is what I’ll tell you,” he whispers dramatically. “People like you is whom I don’t talk to.” He leans toward Stone, his eyes gleaming, his sour breath coming out in excited little gasps; he looks like an emaciated bird about to pounce on a worm. “I was a loyal Stalinist when you were sucking on a tit. I worked in the Ministry of Defense. Stalin once passed within an arm’s reach of me. I could have reached out and touched him, that’s how close he was. It’s the fashion not to talk like this these days, but old clothes are what I feel comfortable in. So you want to tell me news, sonny, so tell it. Me, I’m clean as a whistle!”
In the lobby, Stone tells Katushka, “It’s like talking to a wall.”
“I told you,” she says.
“He’s half mad,” Stone says. “He claims he’s an old Stalinist and has nothing to be afraid of.” Suddenly Stone and Katushka stop in their tracks and look at one another. “Why not?” Stone asks.
“It’s a crazy idea,” Katushka says, “but what do you have to lose?”
“Do you think he’ll do it?” Stone wants to know.
“If it’s me that asks,” Katushka tells him, “he’ll do it.”
Morning Stalin brushes back his mustache with the tips of his index fingers. “I picked the gesture up from the original mushroom,” he says proudly. “I was letter perfect. I once played with Svetlana for an afternoon, and she didn’t suspect I wasn’t the real fig.”
“Maybe she suspected,” says Stone, “and was grateful for the change.”
“Not funny,” snaps Morning Stalin. “Not funny at all.”
“Don’t be nervous,” Stone soothes Morning Stalin. “He’s an old man. Nothing can go wrong.” Stone signals for silence, then knocks gently on the door.
After a moment Davidov calls through the closed door, “So who is knocking?”
“Leon Isayevich Davidov?” Morning Stalin asks. His voice is deep and filled with its own importance.
The door opens as far as the chain will allow. A watery eye stares out into the dimly lit landing. The eye widens. There is a distant choking, a half cry of astonishment. The old man fumbles with the lock, opens the door, sways against the wall for support as he stares at Morning Stalin. “It’s Malechamovitz—it’s the angel of death,” he whispers, backing away from his visitors, sinking weakly onto an unmade bed in the corner of the small dark room.
“Not to panic,” Morning Stalin instructs Davidov in a strong voice. “You are not on any of my lists. I need your help. I need information.”
“Dead is what you are,” Davidov wails, but Morning Stalin silences him with a gesture, walks over to where he is sitting. “Touch,” he orders him.
The old man does as he is told. He reaches out with shaking fingers and touches the back of Morning Stalin’s wrist. The skin is soft with age and moves easily over the bones. Davidov says in a weak voice, “You want to know what? Only ask.”
Stone comes up behind Morning Stalin. “During the war your son, Oleg, took another identity?”
“I had a friend in the Army named Kulakov,” the old man explains, talking to Morning Stalin. “He died a hero’s death. Oleg paid someone at the registry office to file him under K.” Davidov is beginning to enjoy the experience of talking to Stalin. His eyes twinkle. “He was entering the military academy. He thought he stood a better chance with a name like Kulakov than Davidov, if you don’t mind my saying it.” The old man stares up into Morning Stalin’s face. “By any chance, you don’t remember me? In the hall of the Ministry of Defense you once passed me. It was during the Great Patriotic War. Nineteen forty-four. Five at the outside. I was putting new bulbs in old sockets. You passed so close, I could have touched you.”
Morning Stalin glances uneasily at Stone for a cue; Stone nods and Morning Stalin turns cheerfully to Davidov. “Now that you mention it … light bulbs ring a bell …”
“Gray overalls is what I was wearing,” the old man says eagerly.
“Gray overalls; of course,” says Morning Stalin.
“Where is Oleg?” Davidov suddenly asks Morning Stalin.
Again Morning Stalin looks at Stone, who says, “Oleg is in America.”
“On a mission?” the old man asks.
Morning Stalin coughs and clears his throat, and then acknowledges that Oleg is, indeed, on an important mission for the Politburo.
Davidov explodes off the bed. “Ah, I knew it in my heart of hearts,” he tells Morning Stalin. “When that one-armed bandit Volkov came out of the room after Oleg—”
Stone pushes Morning Stalin aside, grabs the old man by his lapels. “Say that again,” he says softly.
Davidov looks Stone full in the face for the first time. “I know you—you’re the Jew with the handkerchief instead of a yarmulke.” He asks Morning Stalin, “Is he one of us?”
Stone lifts Davidov off the ground and gently shakes him. “Say what you said again,” he orders.
Thoroughly intimidated, the old man cackles weakly. “I knew Oleg was going on a mission when I saw that one-armed bandit Volkov come out of the room after him. Volkov is a big cheese in military intelligence. Not many people know that. But I know it. I used to clean fifteen years ago his toilet.”
Stone relaxes his grip, and Davidov sinks back onto the bed. “That’s what I thought you said,” Stone tells nobody in particular.
Morning Stalin snaps his fingers excitedly. “Of course,” he tells Stone. “Now I remember. Volkov. Ha! Volkov was the real name of the mushroom who conducted the investigations for Vishinsky in the thirties. What was the name he used?”
Stone, smiling broadly, says, “It was Gamov. Gamov was the name.”
“Gamov, yes,” says Morning Stalin. “Gamov’s real name was Volkov. I knew I’d get it eventually.”
“Me too,” exults Stone. “I also knew I’d get it eventually.”
“So you’re le
aving,” Morning Stalin says glumly. “I’ll admit it to you frankly: I’m sorry to see you go. You’re an interesting fig. You made me … forget for a few days …” And he adds, “Katushka, too, will be sorry to see you go.”
They pass the zoo park and turn into Katushka’s building. The night watchman, eating cheese off a page of Pravda spread on the desk, salutes Morning Stalin—a bit stiffly, it seems to Stone. He rings for the elevator. “I’m sorry to go,” he tells Morning Stalin as the elevator arrives. He hears himself say it, and realizes how profoundly true it is; deep down he is very sorry to leave.
Morning Stalin is silent for a moment, lost in thought. Then he sighs and shakes his head. The elevator door jars open and they head down the dimly lit hallway toward the apartment. “The world has changed in my time,” says Morning Stalin. “When I was a boy, I worked for a dentist. I pedaled his drill. The patients used to tip me to pedal as fast as I could so that the drill would turn rapidly. Nowadays”—he inserts his key in the lock; the door clicks open—“nowadays—”
Morning Stalin never finishes the thought. As he steps across the threshold, he is grabbed on either side by strong arms and pinned against the wall. Stone, all nerve ends, spins away from the arms that reach for him—only to find two heavies blocking the corridor behind him. Now Stone, too, is pinned against the wall and frisked. One of the men cries excitedly when he feels the passports and money in the lining of Stone’s jacket. Stone is thrust, along with Morning Stalin, down the hallway into Katushka’s room. Katushka stands near the window, her thin wrists handcuffed in front of her, a faint mocking smile on her lips. The broken, lifeless body of a cat lies in a corner, and Stone has to stare at it for a long moment before he realizes that it is Thermidor.
Ilyador, without handcuffs, sits on a cushion whimpering hysterically. “I had to do it,” he pleads with Katushka. “They threatened to put me away in one of those asylums.” The words come between gasps for air. “They said … I was schizophrenic … that I had two personalities … that I was a transvestite. … God help me … I had to do it … I had to do it. …”
The Debriefing Page 19
