by Allan Topol
Philadelphia’s Spectrum was sold out for the exhibition hockey game between the Philadelphia Flyers and the Hungarian national team. It was a loud, angry crowd determined to make the evening into a Cold War statement.
They were an army of fifteen thousand strong, on their feet loudly singing the “Star Spangled Banner.” It was a hostile and belligerent crowd, displaying their animosity toward Russia.
The intensity and ferocity of the “boos” from the crowd had startled Peter Toth, the starting center for the Hungarian team, when he and his teammates emerged on the ice.
A great crescendo of emotion was building as the song came to its end, and the whole crowd was singing fervently. With the last note, a huge animallike roar went up from one end of the Spectrum.
“Kill the Commie bastards,” they shouted.
The referee dropped the puck to start the match. Two minutes later, Peter Toth stole the puck from an American player. He was racing along the right, the puck on his stick heading toward the goal, when he saw a small, bright orange object flying toward him.
Peter raised his hand reflexively to block the object, but it was too late. The speeding orange projectile crashed into his groin with a terrible ferocity, smashing against his genitals. An excruciating look of pain consumed his face as he collapsed. He lay motionless on the ice.
The rock, painted orange, rested beside him where it had dropped. Its message was spelled out in dark blue letters: “Free Central Europe.”
A horrified silence settled over the arena as he lay prostrate, and the team’s physician rushed out to assess him. Peter’s head began to move back and forth, and he strained to sit up, but the pain was too much.
A stretcher was called for, and there was a flurry of activity in the tunnel leading to the locker room. Finally a stretcher was brought out and Peter was carefully placed on the dark green canvas, and then carried off the ice.
“Good God!”’ Hal Cross, the sports reporter for the Bulletin called out to me. “He got it right in the nuts!”
Only moments before I had framed the opening lines of this article: “The Spectrum was a carnival of madness, a celebration of insanity.” Those lines now seemed apt.
The injured hockey player disappeared into the tunnel on the way to the locker room. Another gladiator skated out to take his place on the ice. The crowd remained silent. The match would go forward.
“Did you catch the guy’s name who was hurt?” Cross asked.
I had heard him announced as Lazlo Suslov, but didn’t respond. I was already on my feet shoving my pad and pencil into a large brown canvas purse and bolting for the exit to the press box. Here was the best story in town. All I had to do was find out where they took the Hungarian hockey player. Then I’d get an exclusive.
Using my press credentials, I learned that the Hungarian team was staying at the Wings Hotel, ten minutes from the spectrum. I found Peter there in the hotel dining room.
“Mind if I join you for dinner?” I asked. “There seems to be a shortage of tables, and I don’t want to wait.”
Before he had a chance to respond, I introduced myself and told him I was sorry for the way the people at the hockey match had behaved.
Over dinner I asked him about his life in Hungary. He gave short factual answers—but no opinions.
I wanted to make him feel comfortable talking to me, so I told him about how I had been active in the anti-war movement during the Vietnam War. I told him about how we were constantly harassed by the same kind of people he might have dealt with in Hungary.
Deep furrows appeared on Peter’s brow, and he glanced around nervously at these words. Abruptly, he lowered his head and leaned across the table. His eyes were very serious now, and his mouth tightened into a grim expression. His right hand was stretched out on the table—it trembled with excitement. “I need your help,” he whispered tensely. “Will you help me?”
We agreed to discuss the situation in private, but we couldn’t be seen going to his room together. Peter said the team’s security was watching him.
He dropped a room key on the blue carpet near his feet, then kicked it over to my side of the table.
Back in his room, Peter turned the deadbolt and slipped the chain on the lock. Without saying a word he turned on the radio, skipping two rock stations until he found a Mozart concerto.
“Do you still want to help me?” he asked. “My name is Peter Toth. Not Lazlo Suslov. That was the name that Russian bastard gave me. Tonight, I’m planning to defect.”
When I agreed to help him, he explained his plan to me.
“Listen carefully. Go to the lobby. First, make certain there is a taxicab outside. Talk to the driver and have him stand by. Call me here on the house phone when you’ve done that.”
“And then?” I replied quickly.
“I’ll call Boris in the lobby and tell him to bring a pain killer to my room.”
“Boris?”
“One of my two Russian guards. You saw those two big men in the lobby playing chess?”
I nodded.
“As soon as Boris starts toward the elevator, call me here. I’ll go down the stairs as fast as I can. Once I get to the lobby, you have to distract Igor, the other guard, long enough for me to get out of the front door and into the cab.”
“How do you want me to distract him?”
“That’s up to you, but be careful. He’s got a gun and they’re taught to do what’s necessary in every situation.”
“I’ll be able to handle him,” I replied. “Don’t worry. What happens to you then?”
“The Russians will think I’m just another Central European defector, escaping from their great prison. They’ll file a complaint with your government, but not much else will happen.”
I told him he was kidding himself, that it wouldn’t be that easy. More than likely the US government would make an effort to find him. But he was prepared to take his chances.
“Are you ready to go downstairs?” he asked me.
“Ready. Just one question first. How will you get around? Did they give you money?”
He hadn’t thought of money. The players hadn’t been given American money to cut down on their chances of defecting. I reached into my wallet and gave him what I had, but he refused to take it until I gave him my number so he could repay me.
In front of the hotel, I found an empty cab waiting for a fare. “Can you take a passenger?” I asked the driver. “He’ll be down in a couple of minutes. He’s blond with a foreign accent.”
The cabbie nodded and turned on his “in service” light.
Back inside the hotel I grabbed a scotch and soda from the bar, then called Peter to report on the waiting cab.
A few seconds later, the bellman called one of the Russian guards to the house phone. I heard him talking in Russian, but couldn’t understand what he was saying. He took a small bottle of pills from his pocket, then walked over and conferred with his comrade. When he started toward the elevator, I called Peter again. “He’s on his way up.”
Then I walked into the lobby and approached the other Russian guard, who was sitting next to the chess table. I stood next to him and tried to engage him in conversation, acting drunk, slurring my words, and leaning on his shoulder.
Through the corner of my eye, I spotted Peter moving swiftly from the stairs to the front door. Immediately, I dropped my drink on the chess table, then collapsed on the Russian guard, embracing him and touching his cheek with my mouth. I whispered for him to come upstairs with me, but suddenly he caught sight of Peter. He pushed me roughly away and ran after him.
“Halt,” he shouted. “Halt.” He pulled a gun from a small holster belted to his chest.
On my knees where the man had shoved me I watched Peter. He was already through the front door when the guard reached it. The door was closing, but the Russian kept running, gun in hand, expecting the door to open again. His legs were driving his bulky frame like a powerful engine.
It was too late
when he realized he was wrong, that the door wasn’t going to open again in time. He struck it broadside at full speed. His head hit first, then he bounced backward to the floor, instantly unconscious.
As I headed to the lower level parking garage to retrieve my car, I thought about how I had the best damn story in Philadelphia, but couldn’t write a word of it for fear of endangering the Hungarian hockey player.
I never expected to hear from Peter Toth again, but three days later . . .
Elizabeth heard the front door open.
“Hi Elizabeth, we’re home,” Craig called out.
She checked her watch. It was five minutes to two. She put her iPad down and met them in the entrance hall. “Did you two have a good time?” she asked.
“Great,” Nick said. “He took me to the Spy Museum, and then we had lunch at a wonderful cafe.”
Elizabeth smiled, enjoying his enthusiasm. “Okay,” she said. “Time to go to the White House.”
Craig, Elizabeth, Nick, and Betty met in a small room in the White House close to the Oval Office.
“Dealing with President Worth can be tricky,” Betty said. “He has a lot on his mind, so it may be necessary to bring him along slowly to get him on board.”
Recalling his past interactions with Worth, Craig didn’t disagree. “So how do you want to handle this?”
“My suggestion is that you, Craig, and I begin with the president, providing him with background, while Elizabeth and Nick remain here. At the appropriate time, we’ll call for Elizabeth and Nick to join us.” “Makes sense,” Craig agreed. He also imagined that unspoken by Betty was a concern that the president wouldn’t want to say too much in front of Nick, who after all was still a child, while he would want to hear what the boy had to say.
A few minutes later, the president’s secretary led Craig and Betty into the Oval Office. It had only been fourteen months since Craig had last seen Worth in this same room, but as Worth got up from his desk and came forward to greet Craig and Betty, Craig was struck by how much Worth had aged in that time. His brown hair had markedly turned gray, and there were deep creases in his forehead that Craig had never noticed before. He looked tired. He had certainly paid a price for being the most powerful man in the world.
“It’s good to see you again, Craig,” Worth said, holding out a hand. “With the passage of time, I hope you’ve forgiven me for how I handled our last operation together.”
“There is nothing to forgive, Mr. President. I would have acted the same in your position.”
“I’m glad to hear you say that.”
“I appreciate your agreeing to meet with us,” Craig added.
“I know you, Craig. If you weren’t involved in something important to the United States, you wouldn’t be here. Would the two of you like something to drink?”
Worth was being gracious. Craig didn’t want to take any more of his time than necessary. “No thank you, Mr. President.”
Worth pointed to the living area and moved toward a straight chair. Craig took one facing him, while Betty sat on a sofa off to one side.
“Okay, what’s this about?” the president asked.
While Craig and Nick had eaten their lunch, Craig had rehearsed in his mind how he would summarize this complex situation, beginning with the Potomac fire and the murder of Amos Neir. Craig had it down to about fifteen minutes, and Betty didn’t interrupt.
At the end, he said, “I am convinced that Kuznov and Szabo have reached some type of agreement that will have adverse consequences for our European allies and for the US. I am also convinced that before his death, Peter Toth set in motion a plan to have Omar Basayev assassinate Szabo, most likely in Brussels on September 1, to block this agreement from going into effect. We wanted you to know about this situation so you could take appropriate action.”
Worth leaned back in his chair and closed his eyes. As he did, he removed a small white rubber ball from his pocket and began squeezing it. After a minute, he opened his eyes and leaned forward, looking troubled.
Worth turned to Betty. “Do you accept Craig’s two conclusions?”
“I do, Mr. President.”
Craig saw that Worth had trouble accepting what Craig had said, but in fairness to the president, it was a lot to come out of the blue. Craig had one more card to play to convince the president. “I brought Nick and Elizabeth with me. They’re in the office down the hall. I think it might help if you heard directly from Nick.”
“That’s a good idea.” Worth put the white ball back into his pocket and buzzed for his secretary to bring them in.
Craig could tell that Nick was nervous about entering the Oval Office. The president must have sensed that as well because he said, “Craig told me what you did. You are a very brave boy, and I’m honored to meet you.”
That made Nick smile. “Thank you, sir.”
Worth reached out a hand to Elizabeth, which she grasped. “I’m one of your best readers,” Worth said. “I gave my aides an order to include your articles in my morning briefing book.”
“Thank you, Mr. President.”
Craig pulled over two more chairs and they all sat down.
“I hear you’re a Nats baseball fan, Nick.”
“For sure.”
“I am, too. Will we win the World Series this year, you think?”
“I think so.”
“I do, too, but you can never count the Dodgers out,” Worth said with a smile.
“I’m worried about the Red Sox, too,” said Nick, his nervousness beginning to fade.
“Craig told me that you were watching a Nats game a couple of weeks ago when you heard your grandfather say something about Hungarian Prime Minister Szabo and Russian President Kuznov. Do you remember what it was?”
“Yes, sir. My grandpa told Emma that they couldn’t let Szabo and Kuznov get away with something, that it would take them back to 1956 with Russian troops in Hungary again. My grandfather sounded upset. . . . He suffered a lot under the Russians in 1956.”
Worth was now looking at Elizabeth. “Do you share Craig’s conclusions about the agreement and about Omar?”
“Yes. I was just in Budapest where I obtained support for these conclusions from Peter Toth’s closest business associate and from the justice minister.”
“I have no doubt that you did probing interviews with them. I’ve never been on the receiving end, but I can imagine.”
She laughed. “When this is over, I’d be honored to interview you.” Worth laughed as well. “I’m sure you would.”
“Well, unless you have something else to ask Nick or me, Mr. President, we’ll return to the office outside and wait for Craig.”
Thanks, Elizabeth, Craig mouthed silently.
When they were gone, Craig said, “Nick is a great kid.”
“He is,” Worth responded. “And I like Elizabeth a lot. When are you going to marry her?”
Betty chimed in. “Yeah, when?”
Craig blushed. “Can we return to Russia and Hungary?”
“Fair enough,” Worth said. “You have me convinced that Peter set up this assassination attempt on Szabo before his death. Do you think Omar has or will abort because of Peter’s death? Generally these assassins receive a partial payment up front. He could keep the payment without needing to go through with the deal.”
“I don’t think Omar will abort,” Craig said. He was determined to find and to kill Omar because of Amos, and he’d do anything to get the president’s support. To retain credibility, he added, “At any rate, it’s too risky to make that assumption.”
Worth took out the white ball and began squeezing it again.
“Unfortunately,” the president said, “we’ve received some independent evidence corroborating your conclusion that Kuznov and Szabo have entered into some type of agreement and that Peter Toth was right. It could be 1956 all over again.”
“What evidence?” Craig asked.
“Tell him about the satellite photos,” Worth told Betty.<
br />
“Yesterday from routine surveillance we obtained photos showing Russian troop movements on the Russian border with Ukraine. This could be a staging area to move them into Hungary once the agreement is signed by Kuznov and Szabo. President Worth and I have been worried about Kuznov’s plans for further aggression and were wondering what the reason was for these troop movements. Your report provides the answer.”
“Sorry to be the bearer of bad news,” Craig said.
“Of course Kuznov will still have to move his troops and equipment through Ukraine,” the president remarked.
Craig shook his head. “He’ll fly over.”
“And risk Ukraine shooting down a Russian plane in their airspace?”
“Absolutely. This Hungarian ploy means too much to Kuznov. He’ll play chicken with the Ukrainians. He’ll gamble that they’d never have the guts to do that and risk an all-out Russian attack, with Kuznov claiming the plane was in Russian airspace. And I think he’ll win his gamble.”
“Once those Russian troops are in Hungary,” Betty said, “they’ll be a threat to Germany. This isn’t some obscure Middle Eastern country. It’s Europe, and it’s contrary to US interests.”
“I won’t be like President Eisenhower,” Worth said. “I won’t stand by and let Russia dominate Central Europe.”
This was good news to Craig, but he wondered how far Worth would go to stop it.
As if reading his mind, Worth added, “I know Kuznov well enough to realize that calling and demanding that he not pursue this ploy in Hungary would be a waste of time. All he understands is brute force. I’ll give the order to move US ships and other military resources into the Mediterranean. He’ll notice that. My hope is he’ll back off when he sees our show of force.”
And if Kuznov didn’t back off, Craig wondered whether Worth was prepared to go to war over this issue.
Betty spoke up. “We may have another alternative. Suppose we let Omar assassinate Szabo? Szabo’s death would throw a monkey wrench into Kuznov’s plan.”
The president raised his hand to his face and stroked his chin. For a whole minute he thought about Betty’s proposal. Finally he said, “I don’t like it for two reasons. First of all, I can’t knowingly let another world leader be assassinated for reasons of foreign policy. In the long run that could put every occupant of this office at risk of assassination by foreign leaders. And second, it’s hard to predict the fallout from Szabo’s assassination, especially if it comes out that we had advanced knowledge. Don’t forget, the First World War was started because of an assassination. I think if we can prevent Omar from assassinating Szabo, we should.”
