by Craig Thomas
The highest security areas was glassed off from the rest of the computer room. Unnecessarily, but with habitual, obsessive KGB thoroughness. Status, too, played its part. KGB officers who could operate a remote terminal but who did not understand, and therefore despised, computers and their programmers and operators, would enjoy this sense of separation, of distance from the people in white coats. Civilians.
The engineer was talking over the telephone landline to Moscow Centre's Records Directorate. In his hand, flapping like a fan, was a transistor-board he must have just changed. In a similar room another trusted, security-cleared engineer would be checking the line at his end. From terminal to scrambler to modem to telephone line — the two men hurrying the miles towards each other. Feeding signals of known frequency down the line and through the system and checking the read-out at each end.
The fault was less than a mile of telephone line from the Hradcany, Hyde thought. He should have found it… Intermittent — calm down, it's not staying around to be found. Should already have disappeared, he reminded himself. Ten fifty-six.
The engineer put down the telephone and turned to Hyde. His round face was red and he was perspiring. His lips formed an obscenity in silence before he realised that he, rather than Hyde, remained the outsider of the group around the remote terminal.
Yet he persisted in his anger, saying, "Not as much fucking trouble as that lot!" He pointed to the telephone. On the screen, green symbols — a simple piece of information, perhaps—? Yes, football scores from Moscow. Hopelessly scrambled. A jumble of Cyrillic letters, gaps, half-lines.
Then, as if by magic, resolved. At the engineer's nod, the KGB Officer cancelled then re-summoned the scores, and they unrolled obediently. Dynamo Tblisi 2, Dynamo Kiev 1.
"See?" the engineer said demandingly. "See? What a bloody cock-up, Comrade system tester! It's too intermittent to trace. They keep telling me the fault's here, not in Moscow — not even in the Russian section of the line — but here in Prague! I ask you, how can they know that? Just bullshit!"
"Calm down, Jan," one of the guards told him. "Want another coffee?"
It was obvious they knew the man well. His freedom of expression and abuse appeared to be tolerated; even amusing to the KGB personnel. The officer appeared a little disapproving, but wished not to appear prudish or petty.
"My insides are silting up with that muck out of the machine!" the engineer grumbled.
"I'm making some real stuff now — won't be long," the guard bribed.
"Bless you, Georgi!"
Hyde saw a Moulinex coffee-maker on a desk-top in a glass cubicle. "For you, too, Comrade?" Georgi asked Hyde, startling him. His expression melted into a grin.
"Thanks." Hyde yawned theatrically. "How long, mate?"
"I've been here an hour — dragged off a military job for this, and even then the buggers wouldn't let me leave until I'd spun them ten miles of bullshit… nothing so far. Comes and goes."
"What's it doing?"
"You saw — can't reproduce anything properly one minute — then the next, perfect."
"I came over," Hyde began, tasting his cover-story like the bitter stickiness of envelope gum on his tongue, "because we got your report…?" He looked at the officer, who nodded. "About eight, was it?"
"Eight-five." The officer was punctilious but not unlikeable. His men evidently kept him human. "I got one of our senior managers to look at what was coming out, and he suggested it was a fault on the landline. So, we let you know at the embassy, and sent for the reluctant Comrade Zitek here." He smiled. Hyde returned the expression, and waited. "We haven't met before," the officer observed lightly, with mild, polite curiosity.
Hyde shook his head, sucking his cheeks in to moisten his dry throat. "Just got here — duty-roster's got my name on it and I'm here — all night by the look of things."
"Bad luck. I'm Lieutenant Stepanov."
"Radchenko," Hyde murmured in reply, shaking the lieutenant's hand. The familiarity folded itself about him like a drying leather shroud. It would suffocate him if he wasn't careful. "Yuri Radchenko." Tread carefully, he warned himself. Acquaintance is as dangerous as lack of sleep or the shit-and-sugar interrogators working in harness. Watch what you say, what you think.
"Zitak?"
"Yes?"
"Any time factor — any regularity…?"
"Don't waste time asking. I haven't learnt a bloody thing since I've been here — an hour and a half! Didn't even get the bloody dinner they promised at the barracks! Typical of your fucking army, Lieutenant!"
Stepanov smiled thinly, genuinely trying to be amused and aloof. "I'll get some sandwiches made up for you, if—"
"Ballocks to sandwiches, Lieutenant," the engineer muttered, checking the reading on the measuring instrument. Shaking his head, muttering, raising his hands in dramatic gestures.
Georgi had moved into his glass booth and was smoking slyly. His hand waved the blue smoke periodically towards the air-vent set high in one wall — the one plastered wall of his booth— while he watched his coffee percolate. Hyde was mesmerised by his watch.
Eleven — eleven-two, eleven-three, four, five… Priceless minutes vanished as he listened to Stepanov.
Finally, Stepanov broke off from a description of his last leave on the Black Sea coast, just before the summer ended, and smiled at Zitek. The engineer checked his watch once more, then picked up the telephone. He dialled the Moscow number, consulted briefly with his Russian counterpart, nodding vigorously as he spoke, then turned to them as he replaced the receiver and announced: "That's it! Good luck to you, but that's it! Eight minutes without a single problem. That's twice as long as any other remission. I am announcing that the bug in the system has gone away."
"You hope," Hyde remarked, grinning, holding his hands firmly together to prevent an outburst of nerves. To listen to Stepanov, to sip at the coffee, to watch Zitek's broad, overalled back — to wait, wait, wait—! Had been close to intolerable. Worse than the storeroom, this public control of nerves and imagination.
"I hope? My word as an employee of our wonderful post office service. It's gone."
"I suggest—" Stepanov began, but Hyde interrupted him.
"Give it another five minutes — OK? I'll run the first test in five minutes."
"OK," Zitek replied in a grumbling tone.
The telephone rang, making the engineer's hand jump with surprise. Dampness was chill in Hyde's upper arms and sides.
"Bloody Moscow," Zitek growled, making faces at the receiver as he lifted it to his ear. "Yes, it's Zitek — what?" He held the receiver towards Stepanov. "It's for you."
Stepanov's face was thinned, prepared as if to confront a superior officer in person. His back was straight. He adjusted his uniform tie.
"Yes? Yes, Comrade Colonel-yes, yes…"His ear, in profile to Hyde, had reddened. Hyde carefully rubbed his hands down his cheeks, easing away the tension of facial muscles. "It — it appears that the fault may have — may have rectified itself. Yes, I understand — of course I realise the importance of speed… yes, he's here—" Stepanov had turned with evident relief towards Hyde, who expressed nothing more than reluctance in his features. His hand jumped in the pocket of his lab coat. Stepanov offered him the receiver like a poisoned drink.
"Y — yes," Hyde said, clearing his throat. "Radchenko, Colonel — yes, system tester." He waited. The voice from Moscow Centre was brusque, authoritative. Radchenko was indeed on the complement at the Soviet embassy, a recent posting. There's a lot ofto-ing andfro-ing in security computer circles throughout the Eastern bloc embassies… Godwin's reassurances seemed transparent now. Hyde felt more thoroughly scrutinised by the voice of the KGB colonel than when he entered the computer room.
"System test — I want Prague back on-line tonight. In the next hour. Understand?"
"Comrade Colonel — a full test will take more than three or four hours — "
"Don't give me that! Do the test in stages. Then we can get terminals back into use quickl
y. Begin with — Education Records. You have such a test?"
"Yes, Comrade Colonel. The embassy staff roll-call—"
"Very well. Try that. I want to know how much work we're going to be involved in, and I want to know within an hour. Understand?"
"Yes, Comrade Colonel."
"An hour to be back on-line. Say midnight. No, I'll be generous. Five minutes after midnight. And keep in constant touch. Understand, Radchenko?"
"Sir."
The telephone in Moscow clicked down onto its rest. The secure line crackled then purred. Hyde replaced his receiver.
"You heard the man," he said, smiling and shrugging.
Zitek stared at the VDU. Its screen registered a column of football scores with unerring accuracy. "Good luck to you, son," he murmured. He looked ostentatiously at his watch. "That's fourteen minutes since the last noise on the line. I told you — the fault's buggered off somewhere else."
"But, what was it?" Stepanov asked.
"Who knows?" Zitek shrugged. He stood up and stretched. "Anyway, I'm off. They've got my number if you need me— don't ring unless it's an emergency, mate!"
"I'll try," Hyde murmured. Eleven-twelve. He slid the cuff of his lab coat over his watch. "I'll try." The football scores remained unaltered, unaffected. The short-life battery in the metro tunnel had at last died. The operation was still running.
He watched Zitek pack his equipment, kneeling by his toolbox. It was old, even ornately carved and beautifully jointed. His father's? Grandfather's? It was incongruous on the carpeted floor near an air-inlet grille and a bouquet of wires. Scraps of Stepanov's irritating, half-heard account of his Black Sea leave floated in Hyde's mind, but there was nothing else there. Only Godwin's voice, the terminal keyboard and screen, and the small group of people around him. Begin—
Zitek stood up, nodded to his companions, winked at Hyde, and left. Stepanov turned expectantly to Hyde. Godwin said in his head: 'The chances are you'll be expected to start with Education Records, Something low-security, innocuous. That's why you've got the roll-call of Prague embassy personnel. It's one of their standard system tests—'
Eleven-thirteen.
Hyde lifted his briefcase onto the table and opened it. He removed a thick sheaf of print-out paper and a metal ruler. Stepanov said: "More coffee?" and Hyde shook his head. "I think I will," the Russian murmured, staring into his empty mug. "And perhaps make use of the smoking-room." He smiled disarmingly. Hyde was again suddenly alert to the danger he presented. Urbane, intelligent, pressured by his superiors in Moscow. He would remain in the vicinity, watching. Hyde felt the hair rise on the backs of his arms, on his wrists and neck. Education Records. Neutral area. Innocent. "The password," Godwin had added with a broad grin, "is easy. Everyone knows it. Dominusilluminatio mea — Latin. The motto of Oxford's coat of arms. They used to use Cambridge's motto, but now, since Blunt dropped dead, they've updated it. For the next generation of recruits. Not without a sense of humour at Moscow Centre, are they? Every defector we've had for the past couple of years has told us that joke."
Hyde placed the ruler across the top sheet of print-out. Checked that the tape streamer and the printer for hard copy were both on-line. Then the screen. He cancelled the unchanged, unchanging football scores. The screen became empty; pale green. Georgi was seated in a chair beside him. The other guard had joined Stepanov and they were smoking in the glass booth, behind the No Smoking sign in Cyrillic. The red circle of the sign hid part of Stepanov's face like a birthmark.
Begin — Log on using the embassy code.
The guard, Georgi, was unwrapping sandwiches — some thick Czech sausage that smelt of garlic and was pressed in slices between doorsteps of white bread. And unfolding a copy of the evening newspaper. He was comfortable, in a satisfied mood. Easy work. Hyde glanced back down the long room. Two figures moving distantly beyond the glass of the highest security area. Inside the glass, only figures in uniforms. One, Stepanov, alert and intelligent.
He used the password to gain access to the Main Menu, then summoned the Education Records from the Menu presented to him on the screen. As Godwin had said, these remote terminals were permanently on-line to Moscow Centre for ease and speed of access to the records. After all, no one expected an illegal, someone unauthorised like himself, to tap at this keyboard. Access was permitted to permitted staff and only permitted staff knew the passwords.
The room stretched away on his right, towards the corridor and stairs. To his left, perhaps fifty feet away, Stepanov was smoking and drinking coffee. Georgi bit into a thick wedge of bread. Hyde smelt garlic sausage once more, until the air-conditioning whisked the odour away.
Hyde typed the first of the names on his list, Abalakin, I.P. A moment, then the screen spilled his education record and qualifications. Hyde checked them against his print-out — Godwin's own compilation supplemented by the official SIS roll-call for the Soviet embassy in Prague. Correct. He typed the next name, Aladko, I.A. Waterfall of facts. Correct. Antipin, V.V. Correct. Baranov, I.K. Correct.
Georgi munched, rustled the newpaper. Hyde studied his watch as Boyko's mediocre education achievements appeared on the screen. Eleven twenty-one. He selected the hard copy option, and the printer startled Georgi in mid-bite. Hyde stood up, leaned over the printer and checked the information against that on the screen. Boyko was dim, but his record was flawlessly presented. Chobotov, Dedov, Didenko, Fatayev, A.G. Correct, correct, correct.
Georgi folded his sandwich-bag with fastidious care. Hyde turned to him. Grim Party faces stared up at him from the newspaper.
"Sorry, Georgi," he said. "You're not allowed to see this. Not cleared, mate. I'll even have to shred it myself." Hyde shrugged. "I have to check up on their assignment histories now. Sorry."
Georgi glanced at his officer, still smoking, enjoying some kind of joke behind the birthmark of the No Smoking sign. Smoking Absolutely Forbidden, it read. The smoke did not escape into the computer rooms, thus they ignored the sign. Absolutely Forbidden. His hands hesitated over the keyboard. He had to make the transfer before Stepanov returned; he was cleared to supervise.
Before Stepanov, before Moscow discovered, before the telephone rang — go on, go on—!
Georgi got up slowly, wiping his mouth with a grey handkerchief. He nodded, cleaning his teeth with his tongue, bulging his right cheek into an abcess. "I'll get the lieutenant," he muttered thickly and walked away casually. As slowly as some ruminant animal.
Fifty feet.
Godwin had warned him to be prepared to snatch at any chance that offered itself. But not to make a mistake—
Now?
Now. He stared at the Cyrillic keyboard, momentarily baffled by the strange alphabet. Then it was as if he had refocused his gaze; the keys swam into clear meaning. Last three assignments, in reverse order, without break. He could almost hear Petrunin, feel his blood-wet lips against his cheek and ear. He shivered.
He cancelled the Education Records. The Menu presented itself, requesting usage of the Centre's records computer. For Assignment History, he needed the passwords that Petrunin had given him; his thread into the labyrinth. Forbidden, Absolutely Forbidden. He requested Assignment History, and the screen requested the passwords that would indicate his security clearance. What—?
He typed: WHITENIGHTS WHITEBEAR WHITE-RUSSIAN.
ERROR, the screen replied, and requested he submit the correct password. Three times, Godwin had said — you get only three chances. He heard Petrunin's voice, dammit—! That awful, empty whispered growl. Hatred, delight in destruction, fear of his imminent death. The bastard had lied—!
He glanced towards the glass cubicle which was misty with blue cigarette smoke. Georgi was pointing at him and Stepanov was nodding. Then the lieutenant studied the amount of coffee left in his mug and the length of cigarette yet to be smoked. Hyde, sweating freely, waved in a casual, delaying manner in their direction.
Cancel it — back away…
He wasn't lying.
He typed: WHITENIGHTSWHITEBEARWHITERUSSIAN — without breaks, just like the final secret password to what Petrunin had stored in the computer. Without breaks—!
ERROR, the screen offered implacably. Hyde felt his temperature rise, his body quiver. Critical, the reactor out of control, the organism terrified. Georgi, Stepanov — the telephone… Moscow couldn't cut him off now, they had to let it run—
He concentrated, screwing up his eyes and face as if in pain. Bending his head over the keys, as if about to begin some intense recital. Petrunin's voice whispered hollowly, as if echoing in the abandoned cave of his own body. What—?
Hyde listened, then, as if he had communicated with some lost spirit rather than his own memory, he typed trancelike on the keyboard.
WHITENIGHTSWHITERUSSIANWHITEBEAR
The screen cleared. He opened his eyes. PASSWORD CORRECT. The screen asked him what he wished to know, how he wished to be helped, what he required.
He typed in Petrunin's name, then rank, then given names. Then KGB number. He glanced at the glass booth. Stepanov showed no sign of movement, other than the lifting of his mug to his lips. To his right, the outer room stretched away into vagueness — his distance to run. Petrunin's assignments appeared on the screen, in summary. Hyde did not even glance at them. He knew the last three. London, Moscow First Directorate HQ, Kabul. Yes, Petrunin would have used Kabul, savouring and hating the irony. Or would he? Would he? When had he corrupted the computer?
In response to another password request, and in place of the valid password, Hyde typed: KABULMOSCOWLONDON.
Blank. Blank screen—!
He knew, almost by telepathy or spiritualism, that Petrunin had used Kabul as his final assignment. He would have changed the password sequence to include it, if necessary. Oh, yes, he would have—
Come on, come on, come on—
Behind the blank screen, Hyde sensed the bypass occurring, felt the computer seek for the tumour that Petrunin had lodged within it. Seek, seek, seek — find!
A poem. Not information. A poem in Russian. Petrunin's record continued to unfold, and then it broke off. Became these fourteen lines of verse rolling down the screen like gentle green water. Malfunction, of course. Petrunin had warned him. Even so, his hand hovered over the keyboard. He wanted to depress the Break key and return to the Menu, as anyone stumbling across Petrunin's secret by accident would now have done. This was the disarmer. Tears, was that? A sad parting. Something about career and love, and the conflict thereof. Petrunin in maudlin, self-indulgent mood. Hyde had no doubt of the poem's authorship. A younger Petrunin. Much younger. A single tear, the scenery about the lovers, a swan gliding into the distance. Hyde wrinkled his nose.
