The Kremlin Letter

by Behn, Noel;

  Janis motioned to a table across the room. There sat Sonia with a stunning Negro girl. The girl was talking with her eyes down. Sonia listened without expression. The girl bit her lip and continued talking. Sonia said a few words every now and then.

  It looked to Rone as if Sonia was trying to console her weeping friend, but didn’t know how. The conversation continued this way for quite some time. Then Sonia took the offensive. She leaned over the table and tried to look into the girl’s face, but the girl turned away. Sonia seemed troubled and hesitant. She looked at her watch. She paused, leaned forward again and said something that made the girl lift up her head and smile. Sonia smiled back, rose and left the coffeehouse.

  After she was out of sight the girl paid the check and started to walk out. When she passed Rone’s table she stopped and looked at Janis.

  “It’s set for Thursday at five,” she told him.

  “Do you think it will come off all right?” asked Janis.

  The girl flashed a captivating grin. “Honey, when you pay for the best you get the best.”

  Potkin’s agents had located one hundred and eight Charles Rones in forty-two states. None proved to be the right man. Now Potkin had his first valid lead. A Czech refugee by the name of Buka had supplied the information.

  Buka specialized in extorting money from American families with relatives behind the Iron Curtain. To do this he needed the cooperation of Communist officials who would provide false verification that if money was paid relatives would be permitted to come to the United States. A great many dollars crossed the ocean, but very few relatives did. Over the years Buka had become friendly with both Iron Curtain and Western officials interested in extra income. He had expanded and diversified.

  Potkin had bought information from him in the past and had always found it worth the price. Still, he did not trust Buka. When the Czech first said he had information concerning Charles Rone, Potkin was quite perturbed. How could Buka even know the Russians were interested in Rone? Then he remembered that often in the past Buka knew what he was not supposed to. Potkin felt him out cautiously. He demanded evidence, and the source of the evidence.

  For five hundred dollars Buka was willing to sell Potkin a copy of Charles Rone’s birth certificate. This, of course, was worthless, since Potkin would have no way of knowing if it was the man he wanted or not. Days passed. Then Buka offered to sell a copy of Charles Rone’s Navy physical fitness report. When Potkin demanded the original report, Buka upped the price to fifteen thousand. They settled for twelve. Potkin’s staff determined that the report was authentic. Now he had a physical description of his man. In short order, and for more money, Buka supplied originals of Rone’s Navy driving test (with the name of the test administrator cut out), his Navy IQ test (administrator’s name cut out), and his request for transfer into Naval Intelligence. All the documents were valid.

  Potkin was convinced that Buka had access to the Rone file. Then Buka made his offer: For two hundred and fifty thousand dollars he would turn over to Potkin the entire Rone file. Russian intelligence traditionally disliked paying money for information, and Potkin liked it less than anyone. He negotiated. The mutually agreed figure was one hundred and seventy-five thousand dollars. Potkin contacted Kosnov for permission. It was granted, with one stipulation: He must find out where Buka got the information. To do this Buka would have to be taken.

  At four o’clock Potkin went to the telephone booth at 71st Street and Ninth Avenue. At four-ten the phone rang. He was instructed to go to a phone booth at 35th and Third, where he would be called with further instructions. Although Potkin was to come alone, he was keeping in contact with his agents by radio.

  By six o’clock Potkin had followed phone booths into the Bronx. His final call instructed him to enter Yankee Stadium through Gate 5. Buka would be waiting for him on the field. As Potkin headed for the rendezvous he radioed his men to take positions around the stadium and wait until he had finished his business with Buka. Then they would close in.

  The sun was down as Potkin walked through the open gate and into the passageway. He walked out onto the field and stopped. Buka was standing beside a helicopter. Potkin made a move to go, but was hit from behind.

  When he regained consciousness he found himself tied in a wheelchair in the center of a large room. The walls, ceiling and floor were painted white. The room blazed with fluorescent lights. Directly in front of him was a table. Behind it sat two men with white hoods over their heads.

  “Comrade Potkin,” said one of the two men behind the desk, “you have something we want and I believe we have something you want.”

  Potkin remained silent.

  “To be brief, we were thinking of going to Moscow next week. And we wondered if you would let us use your apartment. We would pay you rent, of course.”

  Potkin said nothing. He looked at nothing. He was neither tense nor relaxed. He was simply a man waiting, an old hand at games like this. He was unafraid.

  “Now for the rental of this apartment of yours. We could, of course, give you cash. Shall we say one hundred and seventy-five thousand dollars?”

  The valise Potkin had brought to Buka was spilled out on the floor. Wads of ten-, twenty- and fifty-dollar bills fell in front of him. Potkin, unimpressed, shook his head.

  “You’re a very difficult man to please, Comrade Potkin. We need you, but you don’t seem to need us. Let me see if we can find anything else that might interest you.”

  The man sat down and conferred with his companion. Then he rose again.

  “We do have three items that might be more appealing. If you’ll just watch the television screens over your head.”

  With that the lights in the room lowered and two of the screens lit up with the face of Potkin’s wife.

  “Don’t worry, dear—please, please don’t worry. They haven’t harmed, me at all. They told me you would be watching. I hope you are. They’re treating me very well. You must do what you think best. I don’t know where the girls are. They’ve promised that they are all right. But even they will understand if you have to make a difficult decision.”

  Potkin’s eyes flashed for a moment, then regained their previous vacant stare. His body gave a slight heave, but he was in control of himself again. The two screens blacked out and then lit up again. This time it was. Potkin’s youngest daughter.

  “Daddy? Daddy? Can you hear me? Daddy, I’m frightened.”

  The picture shut off and the lights in the room went up.

  “Comrade Potkin, we want that apartment. We want it so badly that we will turn your wife and daughters inside out to get it. What is your answer?”

  Potkin said nothing.

  The lights dimmed and pictures appeared on all six screens. Sonia was seated in an apartment. A Negro girl stood on the other side of the room. The girl walked across and sat next to Sonia. She tried to take her hand. Sonia shied away and stood up.

  “Please, not again. I’ve got to get home,” said Sonia.

  “What’s the matter, honey, don’t you love me no more?” asked the girl.

  “I like you, but I’ve got to get home. You don’t know how my father is.”

  “Well, at least let me kiss ya goodbye?” The girl gently reached out and touched Sonia’s cheek. Sonia’s eyes closed. The girl moved against her and began kissing her lightly. Her lips and tongue slid quickly around Sonia’s face. Potkin’s daughter began to respond. Sonia clutched the girl and kissed her passionately. The girl lay down beside her. They embraced. Their bodies pressed together. The girl began unbuttoning Sonia’s blouse. Sonia unzipped her skirt and slid it off. She pulled up her slip and pushed down her panties.

  “It is a fake!” cried Potkin. “I know how these movies are made. You can duplicate anything. It isn’t even my daughter in the first place.”

  The men came from around the desk and wheeled Potkin through the door and into the large, darkened ballroom. Television cameras with hooded operators encircled the observation apar
tment erected in the middle of the area. The room behind the one-way plastic was lit up like a jewel. Sonia was completely naked except for the slip gathered up at her waist. She tore at the Negro girl’s clothes. She began biting the girl’s lips and twisting her hand in her hair. Slowly she slid down the body, kissing the dark flesh as she moved.

  “Sonia, stop! Stop!” shouted Potkin. “You don’t know what they’re doing to you!”

  “She can’t hear you,” said Ward. “You can shout all day and she can’t hear you, but she can still be saved if you agree. If not, we’ll turn her into the most perverted human being our minds can conceive. And after we’ve finished with her we’ll start on your other daughter—and then your wife.”

  Potkin slumped in his chair. “Even if I gave it to you it would be no good. Kosnov will know.”

  “What will he know?”

  “Too many things. It will never work.”

  “It will work perfectly,” contradicted Ward. “You’ll have the complete Rone file. We want Kosnov to have it.”

  “And what about my family?”

  “They will be kept with our men in this country until either we get back or are caught. No harm will come to them.”

  Potkin was broken. “I will do whatever you say.” He was wheeled back into the other, room.

  Ward slid back a panel, walked into the plastic room, and roughly pulled the two women apart. “That’s enough for now girls,” he said.

  Rone awoke when the doorknob turned. He saw B.A. step into the room and close the door quietly behind her. She stood in the darkness, not moving. Finally she stepped lightly across to the bed. She saw that Rone was looking up at her.

  “He told me they did such things, but I never believed him,” she said nervously.

  “You do what has to be done,” he answered softly.

  “Don’t talk. Don’t say anything. Please.”

  She sat on the end of the bed a long time, looking out into darkness. Then she stood.

  Rone heard the gentle rustle of cloth. She slid under the covers and lay on her back as far from him as possible. Time passed slowly.

  “This will be my first time,” she finally said, moving up against him.

  19

  Alert

  The pace increased. The schedules were longer, the training more intense. Rone’s Georgian accent neared perfection. He mastered the songs and dances of the area. His cover story was complete. Relatives, birthdays, deaths, anniversaries were second nature to him now. More important, he had become Buley’s Georgian farmer. Rone could now distinguish the variation of soils, fertilizers, and irrigation as well as their effects on the produce of the region. He could even tell if grapes had been grown in the valleys or on the mountainsides. His muscles bulged just where Buley wanted them to.

  The tactical briefings had reached thirty-five in number and covered every conceivable facet of Soviet politics and intelligence. The last five of the briefings had been detailed studies on life in Moscow, pinpointing everything from subway routes to the cost of renting a boat in Gorki Park. Special attention was given to identification papers from passports down to burial certificates.

  B.A. had come to Rone’s room almost every night throughout this period. She would always wait until she thought he was asleep before quietly opening the door, undressing and slipping into bed beside him. She would never let him talk, nor would she, for that matter, say more than a hasty good night. She would avoid his glance during the working day, but she would be beside him at night. She had come to him a child; in the dark, at least, she was fast becoming a woman.

  Three weeks from her first visit had passed before she told Rone, “I think I am in love.”

  At eight A.M. one morning Rone was ordered to appear at the dispensary. The Priest injected his left arm with Novocain. While they waited for the numbness to set, Professor Buley took Rone’s other arm and gave him his first series of inoculation shots. When he finished they strapped Rone to the operating table and burned off his vaccination. The Priest seized his left wrist, put a forceps to the thumbnail and pulled it off. Without further explanation they bandaged him.

  All regular training ceased. At noon Rone had his first session with the Ditto Machine. Photographs and fingerprints were taken. A Soviet birth certificate, work papers and travel papers were given to him. He was also issued one hundred and ten Russian rubles and sixty-five kopeks.

  Late that night Rone was assigned a house-cleaning detail. He, Ward and Janis rolled the unconscious bodies of Potkin’s wife and daughters up from their basement rooms and placed each of them in a softly upholstered wooden box marked: Tillinger Fund—Arkansas exhibit.

  When Rone returned to his room he found a new set of clothing laid out. They were much brighter and newer than his others. Buley entered and explained that these were his Sunday clothes, the clothes he would be traveling in. Buley also gave him photographs of his Georgia mother and father and the latest photographs and maps of Tiflis. He must study the changes.

  The next morning Rone returned to the dispensary for additional inoculations. He was also fitted for a plastic thumbnail. His hand was still too tender to put it in place, but he was allowed to see it. It was filled with poison. If he was captured all he would have to do was bite through the nail and suck the liquid into his mouth. Death would be almost instantaneous.

  At supper that night Ward announced that the final selections of those “going across” would soon be made; until then they all were restricted to their rooms unless ordered elsewhere. Rone saw B.A. pale and look over at him.

  For the next three days Rone had his meals in his room and left only for afternoon sessions with Sweet Alice. Every detail concerning Polakov and the letter was reviewed.

  Even though his briefings continued and even though he had his “whoopie thumb,” as the others called it, Rone was not convinced he would be chosen for the trip. He had long since realized that the Highwayman’s methods were unpredictable. Seven weeks ago he had been fed up with the operation and wanted out. Now it was different. He wanted to go into Russia. He wanted to go very badly.

  It was late in the evening when Ward came to his room.

  “There is something you should know about,” he told Rone. “We have decided to get Kosnov out of Moscow for a time.”

  “Before the men arrive?”

  “At about the same time.” He threw an envelope on the bed. “Here’s the list of those who are going.” Before Rone could reach for it he said, “Don’t worry, you’re third in command. In fact, you may damn well end up number two. We may lose a man on the way in.”

  Rone was relieved. Then he weighed Ward’s words. “The Highwayman?” he asked.

  “Could be.” Ward handed him a folder. “Inside is a floor plan of the Potkin apartment in Moscow. Study it and make the room assignments. Also, figure out a communications set-up. Each of the agents will be making reports. I don’t want them to know who is receiving the information.”

  “What about telephones?” asked Rone.

  “Not enough public phones in Moscow. I want something that will work at the apartment itself.”

  “Without them knowing who receives the, information?”

  “Yep.” Ward was sitting on the edge of the bed with one leg thrown over the other. As he talked he seemed to relax. “If I don’t make it then you run the show however you want.”

  “I don’t know enough about the case,” Rone protested.

  “You know almost as much as I do. If I don’t make it an agent stationed in Prague will contact you.”

  “Why don’t you give me the additional information now?” asked Rone.

  “I’m not dead yet,” Ward snapped.

  “Is the girl going?” Rone asked.

  “Why?”

  “Well, she seems a little nervous.”

  “Is that all?”

  “And inexperienced.”

  “So are you.”

  “I just meant—”

  “Look, Nephew, ju
st because you’ve been shacking up with her on the side don’t give you any rights. We pick who we need for what we need. You should have thought about this before you brought her here in the first place.”

  Rone could think of nothing to say except, “When will I be leaving?”

  “That all depends on a snowstorm in Siberia.”

  Ward left. Rone opened the letter and read the typewritten list:

  Highwayman

  Ward

  Virgin

  Whore

  Warlock

  Erector Set

  SECTION THREE

  20

  Embarkation

  The following morning the entire group was called together for breakfast. When they finished eating Ward announced that the selection would be revealed in the next twenty-four hours. Sweet Alice talked next.

  “It must be made clear to all of you, those selected and those remaining behind, that you are in the employ of an independent agency. You have no contact with any country. We have trained in the United States because your organizers had facilities here. It could just as well have been a dozen other countries. You are on your own. If you run into trouble when you’re across do not look for help from any Western embassies. Do not go near them. That is part of the agreement.”

  After the meeting Rone was told to go the basement conference room. Uncle Morris was waiting. Sweet Alice and Ward soon joined them.

  “I would like to continue the Polakov story,” Uncle Morris began. “While he was in Moscow delivering the letter either the White House or Ten Downing Street heard what was happening. One certainly contacted the other when they knew. Both were enraged and ordered the responsible intelligence agency to stop Polakov and get the letter back.

  “It was almost two weeks before he could be contacted. He was told to get the letter back. When he objected he was threatened. A week later he returned to England and said that his contact would agree to sell back the letter for one million dollars.”