Kolchak's Gold

by Brian Garfield

  Assumption: Zandor had put a third man and a car on me immediately after he’d extended my visa. That had the earmarks of giving a man enough rope to strangle himself: they’d given me a longer tether but they’d strengthened it.

  Assumption: When I had dropped out of sight for nearly four hours yesterday Zandor would not accept it as an innocent lapse. He might assume I had slipped my leash in order to make contact with Zionist agents. Whatever he took it to mean, it could only increase his suspicions.

  Up to that point I was on firm ground. Those assumptions were sensible and conformed with the facts. The next assumptions were far more shaky since they were based on nothing more substantial than guesswork, intuition, knowledge of espionage history and practice, and odds. All these assumptions could be challenged easily; but standing together they made an imposing whole.

  Assumption: Zandor knew who Karl Ritter was.

  I had no idea what cover Ritter was using; he hadn’t told me. From his look and his background I thought possibly he was in the Crimea in the guise of an East German minor official. From what Ritter himself had told me I knew he hadn’t operated behind the Iron Curtain very often, and not at all in the past six or seven years; nevertheless he was a ranking CIA agent and I could not safely take it for granted that he was unknown to the KGB. Obviously he thought his cover was secure or he wouldn’t have been in Sebastopol, but I didn’t put much faith in Ritter’s feelings; he had illustrated his ineptitude more than once in his clumsy attempts to make contact with me—and if an amateur like me could see the weaknesses in his game-plan then it was a fairly good bet the professionals of the KGB had tumbled to him by now, or would do so in short order. That being the case I couldn’t count on the fact that the KGB wouldn’t trace Ritter back to that safe-house apartment in the suburbs, and find witnesses who’d seen us enter or leave the place together, or who’d seen me in Ritter’s car. There had been people who’d seen us in the tavern near the archives, and Zandor’s own agents had seen Ritter trying to fit his key into the door lock of the Moskvitch beside me; perhaps up to now those agents didn’t realize what they had seen but if Zandor showed them a photograph of Ritter and asked them if they had seen this man with me, they’d remember it: they were trained to.

  It was a shaky assumption—that Ritter’s cover was blown—and there was a good chance I was wrong. But Ritter was a fool and I couldn’t count on his competence. If I acted on the assumption that he had not been blown, and it then turned out I was wrong.… It was safer to assume the worst.

  Assumption: Ritter was right when he said the KGB would soon discover my interest in Kolchak’s gold. It is not true that the CIA and the KGB are riddled with each other’s agents but it is true that there are leaks, which each organization makes constant attempts to caulk, never with complete success. In my opinion there are advantages to these rifts in secrecy because they provide safety valves and often they prevent either side from springing unpleasant surprises on the other. But they also lead to a situation in which wherever Mary goes, her Lamb cannot be far behind her. The speed with which Zandor got word of my search for the gold would depend largely on how much importance the CIA attached to it; the fact that MacIver—a functionary of high rank—had been assigned to the case made it clear enough that The Firm took my search seriously indeed. (Evidently they had been taking it more seriously than I had, at first.)

  I therefore had to accept the probability that the KGB would learn of my interest in the treasure. The moment that happened, I was locked in; there was no chance they would let me out of the country before they squeezed me like a lemon. And the operative factor here was my total inability to put a time limit on it. If I could be sure it would be two weeks before the KGB caught up with this business then I still might be safe in applying for an early exit. But I couldn’t be sure of anything of the kind. For all I knew the word was already on the wire from Moscow to Zandor. There simply was no way to guess; and therefore I had to assume the worst and act accordingly.

  Finally, although this was perhaps of lesser importance, there was the fact that I couldn’t go to Zandor with a request for early exit without further arousing his suspicions. Two days after my visa is extended? He wouldn’t buy it unless I had an ironclad reason, and there was no excuse I could think of that would convince him. At the very least, such a request from me would only persuade Zandor to redouble his efforts to find out what chicanery I’d been up to. If he did that he might find the real answer—and once again the result would be my incarceration and interrogation.

  I went endlessly up one side and down the other and the answer usually came out the same. There were too many ways for them to nail me, too many risks in staying put and waiting for the bureaucratic machinery to convey me legally out of the country. If nothing else, I wasn’t sure I could stand the constant terror of never knowing when they would reach out for me.

  The alternative was to escape illegally—a breakout—and while the risks here were as great as the other, at least I had the spiritual advantage of having made the decision myself, having taken the initiative and having been able to weigh known risks.

  Also there was a bleak satisfaction in using Nikki’s organization to get me out of this mess: in some emotional way which I deliberately avoided analyzing, I blamed Nikki for having got me into this.

  There was snow. I moved back and forth like a caged animal taking exercise—aimlessly, looking at my watch, waiting; I drank a beer from Bukov’s cupboard, moved an ashtray on the desk, stood at the window growing sick with tenseness.

  Then I saw him coming across the square in the snowfall and I tensed like a runner in the starting chocks because he wasn’t alone.

  An older man walked with him, in step; they were deep in conversation. An argument, from the gestures. A local friend—or one of Zandor’s people? It was a feeling like ice across the back of my neck.

  I watched them come toward the downstairs door to the building; suddenly I broke out of my paralysis. I couldn’t take the chance. I backed away from the window, picked up my things and strode across the room: in the darkness I barked a shin on something—made a small racket and whispered sibilant invective through my teeth, and wheeled out into the corridor. I pulled the door silently shut and crept quickly to the ascending stairs and went up to the next landing, the top floor. I heard the main door open, heard their voices and shrank back against the wall opposite the balustrade. They wouldn’t see me unless they came partway up the top flight of stairs and if they did that I had no escape anyway unless I chose to burst into someone’s flat.

  They came up the stairs two flights below and I tried to listen to their conversation—to identify the man with Bukov—but I only understood about one word in five because they were speaking in a Crimean Tatar dialect but then I heard Bukov pronounce my name. I couldn’t make out the context and in my present condition I was not prepared to make fine distinctions among tones of voice. I froze; I felt an insistent hammering behind my eyes.

  I heard Bukov open the door to the flat and they went inside. I did not hear the door close; I stayed where I was with the pulse shaking me like a pneumatic drill. And then I heard Bukov, very distinct, in Russian: “He has been here.”

  There followed the other man’s short grunt and then footsteps into the hall.

  Bukov said, “Harry?”

  I didn’t stir.

  He started up the stairs.

  I turned, ready to break into the nearest door but his voice arrested me:

  “He’s a friend, Harry. It’s all right.”

  Only half trusting him I went down slowly and he retreated to the landing to wait for me; he was talking to the other man who was inside the flat: “Draw the drapes before you switch on the light.” Then turning to me: “Where did you leave the car?”

  I had to swallow and clear my throat. “Behind that row of shops.” I pointed through the wall to my right.

  I heard drape cords slide; a light came on, splashing a yellow fan alon
g the floor through the open door. Then Bukov’s companion appeared there, blocking the light. He was a big greying old man who had been red-haired; he had coarse features, there was a heavy roll to his lips. Bukov was arctic and aloof. “You’d better give the keys to Pudovkin.”

  Without objection I produced them and handed them to the old man. They disappeared into his fist; Bukov ushered me toward the door and Pudovkin went down the stairs quickly, still in his overcoat.

  Bukov shut the door behind us. “Pudovkin spent ten years of his life hunting down Germans in Johannesburg and Buenos Aires. He’s one of the best we’ve got.”

  “You expected to find me here.”

  “Don’t be so awed. Your escape stirred things up. The first thing they did was alert all border stations, and I have people at several of those. I’ve had the word for several hours.”

  “They moved fast. I left my driver in the middle of a dirt track in the wheat farms. I didn’t see any telephone lines.”

  “He picked up a ride with a lorry. It only took him twenty minutes to reach a telephone. Was it that same fellow who came here with you?”

  “Yes. Timoshenko.”

  “Pity. He’s an inoffensive sort. They’ll have his hide for this.”

  “It wasn’t his fault. They ought to see that.”

  “I’m sure they will—but they’ve got to have someone to vent their rage at. Would you like another glass of beer?” He asked it drily; he’d picked up the glass I’d left near the window.

  “You offered me your help,” I said. “That’s why I came.”

  “I hope you’ve got a first-class reason. You’re putting us all in jeopardy.”

  “I had very little choice. I’m sorry.”

  “I’m sure you’ve considered what you’re doing—the consequences. You’ll be an outsider forever, you know. You’re consigning yourself to exile—a blind wandering to an unknown destination. You’re not the type, Harry.”

  It took me a moment to catch up with him: then my head rocked back. “How do you know that, Bukov?”

  “You found the gold, didn’t you.”

  It was Karl Ritter all over again. I sank into a chair, raging in hopelessness.

  “You’ll be an outsider everywhere until you share the secret with someone.”

  Someone entered the building and Bukov listened to the climbing footsteps because he knew the tread of each of his neighbors and acquaintances. He relaxed before I did. The steps went on up the second flight. Bukov said, “Comrade Litvinov,” in a tone Napoleon might have used in pronouncing Wellington’s name.

  I said, “I didn’t find anything. But they think I did. I won’t be tortured for something I haven’t got.” It was the story I’d decided on—to use in case I had to. It had become necessary far earlier than I’d anticipated.

  Bukov was remarkably uninterested. “In any case it’s still my job to assist you. I gather you wish to get out to the West.”

  “It’s a terrible imposition.”

  “Don’t apologize. I offered our help. We’ve rather expected you to accept the offer.”

  I didn’t want to think about that at the moment; it had too many implications I wasn’t prepared to face.

  Pudovkin came up the stairs and Bukov, recognizing his step, met him at the door. “Where did you put it?”

  “The railway motor-pool garage. I smeared the number plates. It’s just another official car—they’ll be a while noticing it.” Pudovkin shrugged out of his coat. “There’s a man standing by the station trying not to look like an agent. I think I know his face—I’ve seen him in Yalta.”

  “Naturally. They know their man might come here for help.”

  I half rose from my seat; Bukov waved me back. “It’s taken into account. But we’d better not stay here any longer—he may take it into his head to come up and inspect the premises. Come along—bring your things.”

  Thinking he had a rear exit in mind I began to put on my coat but he said, “You won’t need to wear it.” I gathered up the hat and my case, hung the coat over my arm and followed them out of the flat.

  We went up the stairs, Bukov several steps ahead of me; he reached the landing and surveyed the hall before he motioned us to follow.

  A key from his pocket: he unlocked a door and let us into a dark room, stuffy with disuse. Pudovkin silently closed the door and Bukov hit a light switch—a ceiling fixture flickered and brightened.

  The room was windowless and not more than twelve feet square. It contained an old desk, four straight wooden chairs and a row of shelves on which stood dusty bound volumes of postal and railway regulations. “My office,” Bukov explained. “I rarely use it. I’m afraid you’ll have to sleep on the floor. There’s no heat but we’re in the center of the building, it won’t freeze here. You’ll have to rough it.”

  “For how long?”

  “Until we can make the arrangements.”

  “I feel like such a bloody fool,” I whispered.

  “No need to keep your voice down. Litvinov is stone deaf and there’s no one else on this floor. The railway department uses most of it for storage of records. But one word of caution—don’t let Litvinov see you, he’s the sort of old woman who loves to inform.”

  “Is it risky living in the same building with someone like that?”

  “Quite the contrary. He’s a good cover.”

  There was a door in the wall behind the desk. He went to it and opened it. There was a cupboard the size of an ordinary clothes closet with shelves across it at two-foot intervals. The upper shelves held rows of green metal file-card boxes; the lower two shelves were empty. Bukov knelt and pulled the lowest shelf out. It slid away easily in his hand. He pointed at the back of the cupboard.

  “If you hear someone approaching, slide through. The rear wall is a door on spring hinges. You’ll find yourself under the eaves. It will be very cold but they won’t find it if you remember to slip the shelf back into place behind you.”

  I nodded. It wasn’t the first time he’d used this room as an underground railway station. He’d designed the cupboard for that purpose.

  Pudovkin had a heavy voice like lumps of coal rumbling down a metal chute. “You’d better keep your things in that cupboard while you’re here—in case you have to hide them quickly.”

  I put the briefcase, hat and coat on the floor of the cupboard and Bukov closed the door on them. “You’ll have to wait until morning to use the lavatory. Can you hold out?”

  I said I thought I could. “After Litvinov goes to work you’ll be free to move around during the day.”

  “Tomorrow’s Sunday. Will he go to work?”

  “Yes.”

  Pudovkin said something in dialect; Bukov gave it a moment’s thought. “It might be wise.” He turned to me: “How committed are you?”

  “To what?”

  “This nineteenth-century romantic gesture of yours. How great is your rage to survive? Greater than your rage to escape?”

  “I don’t follow.”

  “If they cornered you—would you prefer death or capture?”

  I said, “What are you offering me? A cyanide capsule?”

  “A pistol. Do you want one?”

  “I’m not much good with them.”

  “It doesn’t take much marksmanship to put the muzzle in your mouth and pull the trigger.”

  I pictured myself sitting in this room for an indeterminate time, counting the walls; I foresaw the increasing waves of depression and anxiety; finally I said, “I think I’d rather take my chances without it.”

  “Very well. I’ll bring food and drink.” Momentarily his austere features softened. “Don’t break yourself on the wheel of fear. There are places where the borders are quite porous—with any luck we’ll get you out. We’ve done it with hundreds, we know the drill. Does it matter to you where you break through?”

  “I’d assumed you had a limited number of routes—I thought I’d better leave it to you.”

  “All right.”
He glanced briefly around the room. “I’m sorry you’ll have to be incarcerated here. I know you’d rather be a moving target. It can’t be helped, for the moment. Arrangements must be made—it takes time. Now. What about your linguistic aptitudes?”

  I gave him a list of the languages I spoke; he needed that because it limited the identities he could manufacture for me.

  I brought out my wallet. “I’m not offering a bribe. But I’ve got some money, in dollars. Can you change them into rubles without too much trouble?”

  “Of course—and for a good deal more than you could.” He counted the bills. “Would you like some sort of receipt?”

  “Don’t be ridiculous. I meant the money for your use. There’ll be expenses getting me out.”

  He divided the bills into two stacks and proffered one of them. “You’ll want money after you’re out. You’d better keep this.”

  I took it back without arguing. His eyes went beyond me to Pudovkin but it was to me that he was speaking: “When you go, Pudovkin will accompany you partway. You’ll want to get to know each other a bit.”

  Instead of leaving the room then, Bukov settled into one of the chairs and crossed his thin silk ankles. Specks of dust twirled in the light. “Please try not to concern yourself with too many details. Under great stress you will naturally find yourself worrying about trivialities but I must ask that you leave everything to us. Our organization has several people in it who know where many bodies are buried—we’ll be able to obtain bumagi for you but you must leave the choice of identity to us. If you balk at anything at the wrong moment it could set us all right back to the wrong side of square one—you understand?”

  “I put myself in your hands,” I answered. “I’m very grateful.”