It was to be a trial after all.
He was in the Lubyanka, that much he knew, which was located on Dzerzhinsky Square downtown. In the old days, before the war, this building had housed the All-Russian Insurance Company. Nazi POWs had been made to build a big new addition to the building which was then used to house the NKGB and NKVD which were the forerunners of the modern-day Soviet Secret Service.The elevator opened onto another corridor, this one like the one below, deserted. They turned right, marched to the end and suddenly they were outside in a narrow lane that led up from a broad courtyard. It was very cold. A black windowless van was waiting for them, and McAllister was hustled inside, and the doors slammed shut before he had a chance to savor the frigid air and bright afternoon sun, his first for a very long time. As on the elevator, his guards carefully watched him as the van lurched forward, turned, slowed, turned again, and then accelerated, the driver crashing through the gears.
He hadn’t really expected to stand trial at the Lubyanka. It would have been like holding a trial for an accused Russian spy at CIA headquarters in Langley. Where exactly he would be tried, however, would depend upon how important they thought he was, and how out of the eyes of the foreign press they wanted to keep it. His answer came fifteen minutes later when they finally stopped and the back doors were opened. McAllister instantly recognized the place from his briefings. It was the Lefortovsky Military Prison in Moscow’s northeastern district. The most ominous of any trial location for him. Security was tight here, and in the rear courtyard they executed people.
Here, he realized, his life could very well end. They entered through a back door, walked down a short narrow corridor and took one flight of stairs up, where they were made to wait in a large office at which a half a dozen military clerks were busy at their desks. None of them bothered to look up. McAllister watched the secondhand on the clock above the door, suddenly fascinated with time. It had been weeks since he had had any notion of the hour or minute. It was a few minutes before three now. In the afternoon. He tried to imagine what was happening at the embassy, and what Gloria would be doing.
The door opened and Tarasenko, his attorney, beckoned to them. McAllister’s guard accompanied him inside. At the head of the large room was the raised bench for the three judges, called tribunals in the Soviet judicial system, flanked by the Soviet flag and the State Prosecutor’s flag, and backed by a photograph of Lenin. The Moscow District Prosecutor was seated on the right with Chief Interrogator Miroshnikov and General Suslev, the man who had arrested him. William Lacey, the American charge d’affaires, was the only person in the gallery. When McAllister was ushered in he jumped up. “You have just a moment or two before it begins,” Tarasenko said. Lacey was a tall, slightly built, angular-faced man, with thinning gray hair, who always dressed impeccably in three-piece suits. His overcoat and Russian fur hat were lying on the bench beside him. He made no move to come over. McAllister tried to read something in the man’s expression, but he could not. Tarasenko moved off to the defense attorney’s table to the left of the bench, and McAllister stepped over to where Lacey was waiting.
“Christ, am I glad to see you, Bill,” McAllister said, keeping his voice low.
“How are you, are you all right?” Lacey asked, searching McAllister’s face.
“I’ve been better. How about getting me out of here?”
“We’re working on it, Mac. But listen, Langley says for you to plead guilty to whatever you’re charged with.”
McAllister stiffened. This wasn’t what he had expected at all. “Listen to me, goddamnit. Plead guilty, and you’ll probably be sentenced to immediate expulsion from the Soviet Union. We grabbed one of their people two weeks ago in New York. He was operating out of the UN, and they’ve been making all the right noises to get him back. They’ll trade. You’re going to have to trust us on this one. With luck we can have you out of here within the next twenty-four hours.”
“My ass is hanging out there,” McAllister said. His stomach was tight. He glanced over at the defense attorney who was watching them. “They say they have my confession.”
“It doesn’t matter, Mac. Just plead guilty and we’ll get you out of here in one piece. Soon. I promise you.”
McAllister looked at Lacey. He compressed his lips and nodded slightly. “You’re the boss,” he said. “How’s Gloria?”
“Worried,” Lacey said. “She’s back in Washington. We thought it best under the circumstances, to get her the hell out of here.”
“Good…” McAllister started to say, when a door at the head of the chamber opened and the three tribunals filed in.“All rise,” a clerk intoned.
“This will be over in a couple of minutes,” Lacey whispered. “Hang in there.”
“Sure,” McAllister said, and he moved with his guards to the rail for the accused, directly in front of the bench. A set of headphones hung on a hook for the translation. He didn’t bother with them. By now they knew he spoke Russian.
The tribunals looked down sternly at him as the clerk read out the charges specified against him before the Moscow Northeast District -1 People’s Special Court. Spying against the People’s State of Bulgaria, the German Democratic Republic, the People’s States of Czechoslovakia and Poland, Afghanistan, and the Union of Soviet Socialist Republics. He was also charged with carrying a deadly weapon, and with assault on an officer of the KGB who was, at the time of the assault, conducting lawful business of the State.
The tribunals sat down, and then everyone else sat except for McAllister and his guards.
“In the matter before the court, comrades,” the District Prosecutor said getting up, “the State has prepared several items of evidence including the accused’s sworn confession, the accused’s deadly weapon which he was carrying at the time of his arrest-sworn to by Comrade General Suslev-and of course Comrade Colonel Miroshnikov’s own testimony of the assault made on his person.”
Attorney Tarasenko got to his feet. “If it pleases the court, we would like to make a brief statement before we proceed.”
All three tribunals had shifted their gaze from the prosecutor to Tarasenko.
“My client wishes to plead guilty to all of the charges specified against him, without mitigating circumstances.” The attorney turned and dramatically pointed a stern finger at McAllister. “There, comrades, stands an American spy. An agent for the Central Intelligence Agency, by his own admission. A puppet of a State gone terribly.. oh so terribly bad.” He turned back to the tribunals, a new respect in his voice. “Acting on orders from his masters, he has admitted that since 1975, when he began spying against the People’s State of Bulgaria, he has engaged in the systematic assault on all good Soviet peoples … in fact upon all peace-loving peoples of the world. By his own admission, comrades… and with remorse, I might add. the accused stands humbly before this court begging understanding and forgiveness for his heinous crimes against mankind.”
“Are you pleading guilty to these crimes, Comrade Tarasenko?” the chief tribunal asked. He was an older man, his voice as dry as winter grass.
“Yes, comrade, I am, with the fervent wish that compassion and mercy will be shown here.”
“The District Prosecutor’s office has no animosity toward this unfortunate man,” the prosecutor said.
“What of you, Comrade Colonel?” the chief tribunal asked. Miroshnikov smiled sadly as he glanced at McAllister. He shook his head. “No, comrade, I hold no animosity toward Mr. McAllister. In fact he has become my friend. Believe me when I tell you that I genuinely care for this man. I see a good and kind person beneath the trappings of his professiona load, I might add, that he no longer wishes to carry.”
“You are a generous man, Comrade Colonel,” the chief tribunal said.
McAllister felt as if he were in a very bad high school play parodying a Russian kangaroo court. The kids couldn’t have done a worse job than the real participants.
“May I speak?” McAllister said in very good Russian. The tribuna
ls seemed genuinely surprised. The chief tribunal’s eyes knitted. “Only if you wish to contradict the very fine words that have already been spoken on your behalf.” He leaned forward. “Everyone in this room is on your side, young man.” McAllister glanced back at Lacey who sat without expression. “Well?” the chief tribunal demanded.
McAllister turned back. “I wish to enter a plea of guilty.”
“That has already been done,” the chief tribunal said impatiently. “Have you anything else to add?”
“Nyet,” McAllister said after a moment.
The chief tribunal continued to stare at him for several long seconds, then he leaned over and said something to the other two tribunals. He nodded and straightened up again.
“The death penalty is indicated for a crime so vast as yours,” he said, addressing his remarks to McAllister’s attorney. But even the prosecutor has had very kind words to say about you. However, it cannot be forgotten that you carried a deadly weapon-here in Moscow of all places-and that you assaulted the body of a good and just man while he was engaged in the performance of his lawful duties.”
McAllister might not have been there. His attorney was the object of the chief tribunal’s mounting wrath. Only Bill Lacey’s presence behind him buoyed his spirits.
“It is the unanimous opinion of this court that you be sentenced to life imprisonment at hard labor in the Autonomous Republic of Yakutsk. It is also the unanimous opinion of this court that your imprisonment shall commence immediately, and shall be without possibility of parole or exchange.” The chief tribunal rose up a little higher in his seat, and now he looked directly at McAllister. “Here you shall live out the rest of your days as a reminder to all foreign interventionists and adventurers that the Soviet peoples are a peace loving peoples who want nothing more than to live without interference.
Yarasenko and Miroshnikov were smiling. When McAllister turned around Lacey was gone from the courtroom.
Evening had come to Moscow, and with it the first few flakes of an approaching snowstorm whipped by a building cold wind. General Alexandr Borodin sat alone in his Lubyanka office, his ashtray filled, his mouth foul from too many cigarettes, and his uniform tunic off, his tie loose and his shirt collar open. He pressed the earphone more tightly against his left ear as he worked the tape recorder controls with his right hand.
At first he could hear the sounds of a door opening and closing, and then footsteps. He could hear the rustling of fabric as McAllister was undressed.
He had listened to all of these sounds over and over again a dozen times or more in the last two hours since the edited interrogation tapes had finally been sent up to him.
He leaned forward and closed his eyes as if by these actions he could hear better. He turned the volume up as high as it would go.
“Look to Washington. Look to Moscow. Zebra One, Zebra Two.“There it was again. No mistaking the words this time. No mistake at all. “What?” Chief Interrogator Miroshnikov had asked. A pause.
“Fuck you,” McAllister’s words again.
General Borodin reached out and savagely snapped the machine off. He was reminded of an old Russian proverb: Once a word is out of your mouth, you can’t swallow it again. Had Miroshnikov heard? Had he understood what McAllister had babbled in his delirium?
Look to Washington. Look to Moscow. Zebra One, Zebra Two. Fuck your mother, but this wasn’t going to turn out so good. He reached out for the telephone on his desk, but then stayed his hand. There had to be a way out. But how? Where? To whom could he turn without starting in motion the machinery of his own destruction?
Chapter 4
It was very late at night, but they were flying west so that the dawn for them would be delayed. They were seated alone in the first-class section of Air France’s nonstop service to Paris. Behind them, in coach class, the other passengers were quiet, most of them sleeping, their seat backs reclined, their overhead lights switched off. There was nothing to be seen below, in any event. Since this was an overnight flight out of Moscow a regular meal had not been served; snacks had been made available, and of course drinks. In coach class passengers were served in plastic cups, in first class they were served in crystal. The first class stewardess stepped around the corner from the galley and smiled.
“Care for another drink, Monsieur McAllister?” she asked. her pretty white teeth flashing.
“No. Thanks,” McAllister said tiredly. “I think I’ll try to get some rest. How soon will we be in Paris?”
“A little more than an hour.”
McAllister glanced across the aisle at his two escorts. Langley had sent them out from Washington last week and they had waited around the embassy until he was released. Other than introducing themselves at Sheremetyevo Airport when he had been turned over to them, they’d said little or nothing to him. Now, as before, their reticence was bothersome.
Mark Carrick, seated on the aisle, glanced up from the magazine he’d been reading. “It probably would be for the best if you got some shut-eye, sir.”
McAllister looked up. The stewardess had returned to the galley. “What the hell happened back there? One minute I’m on my way to Siberia, and the next thing I know I’m handed over to you two at the airport. I couldn’t believe it.”
“Believe it, sir. You’re going home.“The other agency legman, Thomas Maas, turned away from the window and stared across at McAllister. His expression, like Lacey’s yesterday afternoon in the courtroom was unreadable. But it wasn’t friendly. “Are you feeling all right now, sir?”
“They were drugging my food. It’ll probably take a little while for the stuff to work itself out of my system.”
“They’ll take care of that in Washington,” Carrick said. “They’re all set up for you.”
“But what happened back there? Was a trade made after all?” Carrick shrugged. He was a heavyset man, with short-cropped gray hair, steel-blue eyes, and a no-nonsense air about him. “I couldn’t say, sir. Our orders were to wait for your release and then get you home.”
“You knew about my trial?”
“No, sir,” Carrick said.
“Then who sent you out here? Was it Bob Highnote?”
“Why don’t you try to get some rest, Mr. McAllister,” Maas said. “There’ll be a layover in Paris, and again in New York before we can catch the D.C. shuttle. It’s going to be a long trip.”
“You’re probably right,” McAllister mumbled laying his head back and closing his eyes. He wasn’t thinking straight. Everything had happened so fast, with so much finality. After his trial he had been taken back to the Lubyanka where after dinner the clothing he had been wearing the night of his arrest had been returned to him, freshly laundered and pressed. No one came to see him, or even to remove the dishes from his meal, or the suit he’d worn to the trial, until very late.
He had felt betrayed. Lacey’s disappearance at the end of the trial had deeply shaken him, so when his guards came for him around midnight, he was convinced that this was one predicament that wouldn’t be so easy to get out of. All of his life he had relied on his own abilities; he was responsible for his own well-being and safety. Only this time he had absolutely no control over what would happen to him next.
Walking up the familiar corridors and out into the waiting van, he had gone meekly. You can’t fight the whole Russian Army, boyo. The words came to his mind in a familiar yet distant voice. Survival, that’s the name of the game. Hang on, maybe the cavalry will be coming after all. He wondered what his father would have done in the same circumstances, or how his grandfather would have reacted. They’ll break your will sooner or later, he’d been taught at the Farm. It is inevitable. Your job is to hold out for as long as you possibly can.
But they had his confession. Miroshnikov had won after all. The Soviet system had won. They had finally ground him down to nothing, so that he was even incapable of helping himself or offering anything but a token resistance. Attacking Miroshnikov had been nothing more than the pitiful last-di
tch stand of a man totally overwhelmed by the odds.
He managed the slightest of smiles. But, damn, it had been worth it.
Voronin’s face swam into view, and McAllister knew that he was drifting now, half in and half out of sleep, the muted hum of the jetliner’s engines lulling him. Voronin had been the gold seam after all. The mother load, in the parlance.
Look to Washington. Look to Moscow. Zebra One, Zebra Two. What did it mean? Where was the logic? Why hadn’t they asked him about Voronin? Why?
He’d been to Moscow, so now the answers were waiting for him in Washington. Did he want to pursue them? Or was it time to step down?
Someone touched his arm and he opened his eyes and looked up into the smiling face of the stewardess.
“We’re coming in for a landing, monsieur,” she said. “Please, fasten your seatbelt.”
Charles de Gaulle Airport had always resembled, to McAllister’s way of thinking, a space station of aluminum, glass, and acrylic elevators and moving walkways and brightly lit notice boards directing passengers to the various functions and shops. The airport was divided into two sections: Aerogare 1 which served mostly foreign airlines, and Aerogare 2 which was for the exclusive use of Air France.
They carried no luggage, so customs and passport control were accomplished in a few minutes. The airport was very empty at this early hour and what few French officials were on duty were sleepy and inattentive.
McAllister walked with Carrick and Maas across the terminal where they got on one of the moving sidewalks that took them up into the circular Aerogure 1, for the Pan Am flight to New York. They had a little more than an hour to wait. Most of the shops and restaurants were closed, so they went into a small stand-up cafe near the boarding gate and ordered coffee. Maas went off to make a telephone call leaving McAllister and Carrick alone for a few minutes.
The Zebra Network Page 4
