Boris was there. Sprawled over the table, a bottle of vodka, half empty, a few inches to one side.
Viktor grabbed him by the head and chin, saw the blood, looked down on the floor, saw the pistol. He paused only long enough to utter a silent prayer for eternal peace for this brave old man.
He went down to the street and back to the metro, headed this time for the locker in the far corner of the university gymnasium. A half hour later he emerged from the building wearing a goatee and glasses and carrying a briefcase with his papers, a biologist with the University of Novosibirsk, to which he was now returning with handbag and books after several weeks’ research at the university.
He took the bus for the airport, looked at his watch. Plenty of time, though he didn’t want to idle anywhere. It was almost an hour later that the flight to Novosibirsk was called. Like most flights within the Soviet Union it was crowded and late. There were two buses outside to take the passengers from the terminal to the aircraft, two hundred meters away. Individual tickets were being carefully checked, and the passengers in front of him directed to the first bus. When it came Viktor’s turn, he showed his ticket to the agent who examined it.
“Please go to the second bus, we will begin filling it up,” he was told. Viktor walked with his bag and briefcase to the bus. Only two other passengers were in it, both standing, holding on to the handrails. The door was open and he stepped up, lugging his two pieces of hand baggage with him. He set them down on the rack and suddenly the bus lurched forward. The two men wheeled and dived at him. He was pinned prostrate on the floor, a foot on his neck, as his wrists were handcuffed. A shout from the driver’s section roared back. “Pin his mouth open! Stick that wood between his teeth! Pull out his tongue. Don’t let him get at any cyanide pill!”
When Nikolai opened the door to their apartment, Andrei was standing, flicking the dials of the television set. The radio was also on.
“Any news?”
“Nothing. No mention. It’s after six; he must have finished with the Politburo meeting.”
“It’s always possible, Andrei, that he won’t return to his desk. Perhaps not even until tomorrow morning. The way the wiring is rigged, no cleaning lady could set it off by merely dusting his desk, no matter how vigorously. Somebody would have to actually sit down and yank the drawer open. Only then.”
Andrei said, “I know.”
He paced up and down the little room. But he had made up his mind. “Nikolai, I don’t think we should take any chances. I think we should go ahead with our escape plans. If they decide to track you down, the accommodating electrical engineer, they’d find this address in—minutes.”
Andrei acted without further talk, and brought down from the closet the carefully prepared small traveling bag, the special papers tied together by an elastic band, and the crutch. He went into the bathroom and emerged in fifteen minutes without a hair on his head. He wore an old uniform, including a faded decoration awarded to disabled soldiers. Nikolai signaled to wait, then put a hat on his friend to hide the newly nude scalp. Andrei extended his arm to Nikolai, who took it, and there was a tight embrace.
“Goodbye, Nikolai. You don’t know where I am going. I don’t know where you are going. But I think you should go quickly.”
Yes, go quickly. Go to the large and anonymous city he knew so well. If it worked out, he would arrive in time to meet Tatyana’s train, scheduled to arrive two days later, permitting her to compete in a university-sponsored English composition tournament for intermediate teachers. Nikolai had surprised her with the news of the competition, which he had entirely improvised, and surprised her with the round-trip ticket; she could comfortably stay the few days of the competition at his Aunt Titka’s. He did not doubt that if he survived the trip to Kiev, he could persuade Tatyana to go with him to the Crimea, and thence to Turkey. If he did not show up, Aunt Titka had been instructed to meet the train, take Tatyana home, and wait for Nikolai.… What if he never showed up? It mattered only that neither Tatyana or Titka knew anything of the Narodniki.
Twenty minutes later an elderly man left Nikolai’s apartment carrying a modest-sized bag. He took the room key from his pocket, stared at it for a moment, then walked to the hollow elevator shaft and dropped it down. He heard a tinny scratch a few seconds later. He went down the stairs and across the crowded yard to the entrance of 2 Kutuzovsky Prospekt. He had walked only a step or two when he heard the sirens behind him. He turned. Three cars stopped and what seemed like eight men, some of them conspicuously armed, poured out. Four of them went racing into the courtyard. Four others moved to surround the building. One of them brushed by him. “Move along, old man. There is likely to be action here.”
The old man obligingly crossed the street, and walked slowly toward his destination, even as he wondered whether fate would permit him to go much farther, and whether he would ever be an old man.
CHAPTER 35
DECEMBER 1987
President Reagan sat alone in the Oval Office. Soon he would climb up the staircase for a private dinner with his wife. He thought about the certain-to-be-hectic events of the next few days.
There would be opposition to ratifying the INF treaty he’d be signing tomorrow with Gorbachev. I love my conservative friends and they’ve been good and faithful to me, but dammit sometimes they don’t see the important things, and some of the important things I can’t very well remind them of, at least not publicly. It isn’t going to help to pull Gorbachev in the direction we’re trying to pull him to say, Look, gang! What that fool is giving up is five times as many missiles as …
Five?
Four.
Or is it three times? Doesn’t matter. But more missiles than we’re giving up. Well it would be just great for him in the Kremlin if I were to say, “Look what a bad bargainer this guy is.”
As far as I’m concerned, the direction he’s heading is the direction we want him to head, and if he reverses? So he reverses, and so do we. National Review said we’d never succeed in getting the Pershings and cruise missiles back into Europe once we pulled them out. Well, we got ’em in in 1982 and 1983. And anyway, we have plenty of submarines in case Gorbachev or some successor goes crazy and starts to threaten Europe. It ain’t going to happen.
And anyway, Gorbachev isn’t giving away anything he isn’t prepared to give away. He doesn’t know how much I know about how much he’s hurting. Wasteland, the Soviet economy. He’ll give his usual eighteen speeches about how I should give up Star Wars, and I’ll simply say No. And maybe have one more shot at reminding him that if we make progress in an anti-missile system, we’ll share that progress with him, then both of us would be safe against Qaddafi types. I wonder if I should tell him Ken Adelman’s crack, that the Soviet Union is the only country in the world entirely surrounded by hostile communist states? I love that one. But no, probably not. Not unless he gets into a joke-telling mood, like he did for an hour or so at Reykjavik.
First time a Soviet chief of state has come to Washington since Brezhnev in, when the hell was it? Nixon was President. I remember, he gave Brezhnev a Cadillac or something. Wonder what I could give Gorbachev, apart from the usual things? Maybe a prototype of a Brilliant Pebbles missile! For fun I’ll suggest that. Maybe. I might check with Nancy. George would say No.
It was probably a good idea that we pulled away from the idea of having him address both houses of Congress. Hell, what would people like Bob Dornan do? Probably not show up, but if they did, they’d look for an opportunity to boo or—well, no, they’d behave. But it would be a pretty cold greeting, and you can’t be all that surprised—the son of a bitch still heads up the biggest tyranny in the world. Well, I suppose China’s is bigger. But in terms of a threat, the Soviet Union has been number one and still is.
And yes, I keep promising myself, no matter what, absolutely no matter what, I’m going to give him a list of those political prisoners we want to try to get some relief for, and once again the petition on the Russian Jews. Go
rbachev—Mikhail, I got to remember to call him—sort of lets you know, at least I think I know, whether he’s listening just to go through the motions of listening, or whether he’s actually taking it in. I think I can tell the difference at this point.
Well, tomorrow we sign the treaty, and the day after that is the state dinner. And then before he goes off to New York we have a scheduled meeting here, and a farewell lunch. Oh God, I hope he brings another interpreter. If it’s that same guy with five syllables to his name, he’ll shout at me every time Gorbachev raises his voice. Maybe I can just ask him this time please not to feel he’s got to interpret what Mikhail says in hi-fi.
—The house buzzer. He picked up the phone. “Yes, dear. Be right up.”
The President turned off the desk light, and then the overhead light. He thought for a moment about what he was doing. Probably most of my predecessors—except for Lyndon—left it to somebody else to put out the lights in the Oval Office. Well, that wasn’t the way Ronald Reagan was raised.
Everything had gone off as scheduled. The people who were against the Intermediate Nuclear Force treaty simply said that they would fight against its ratification, and that didn’t surprise the President. He was confident it would be ratified, and told Gorbachev it would be. Now for the farewell session, then lunch, and off he goes to New York, first stop.
The President looked at his watch. He pushed a button on his desk. “What time was Gorbachev supposed to be here?”
“Twelve, Mr. President,” the voice came in through the little amplifier.
“Well, it’s twelve-fifteen.”
“He’s pressing the flesh on Pennsylvania Avenue. Do you want me to put on the television for you, Mr. President?”
“Yeah. Sure.”
In thirty seconds he was viewing Gorbachev. He wore his fur-lined coat and hat and was smiling broadly and shaking hands at the rate of one every two or three seconds. The President enjoyed the paradoxical sight, the leader of the most powerful tyranny on earth exchanging affectionate greetings with the men and women who stoked the defensive machine designed to frustrate his designs, but got progressively irritated. “Hal, I’m not going to upset the whole schedule on account of this. Lunch was called for one o’clock. At exactly one o’clock you open that door and announce that it’s ready. I don’t care if we’ve just been together for five minutes. A schedule is a schedule.”
“Yes, sir.”
At that moment the television showed Gorbachev reentering his car. His caravan proceeded at a quick pace up Pennsylvania Avenue toward the White House. Reagan’s schedule called for him to greet Gorbachev at the entrance to the White House. Reagan decided he would skip that—let the aide bring him right into the office. He picked up the telephone and gave instructions.
Five minutes later, Mikhail Gorbachev walked into the Oval Office. The President rose and shook hands warmly. The two interpreters filed in, and the door was closed. Reagan gestured Gorbachev to the couch opposite his own, and the interpreters took their places.
Gorbachev was flushed by his democratic exchange with the people of Washington. He told the President that he very much appreciated “the friendliness of your people.”
“Well, Mikhail, they obviously like you. I’m glad you’re not a Democratic candidate for President! I assume you saw the polls this morning. You have a favorable rating of fifty-nine percent. I am only four points ahead of you. I hope the Russian crowds treat me half as enthusiastically as the Americans have treated you!”
Gorbachev smiled. The smile that communicates That’s-enough-of-that-kind-of-thing. “Ronald, I wish to ask you a very direct question. And I wish to pledge to you my word that your answer to that question will never be given to any other human being alive, not even to Raisa.”
What on earth could Gorbachev have in mind?
“Why of course, Mikhail. If I can answer your question, I most certainly will. Just don’t ask me how many spies we have in Moscow.”
Gorbachev did not smile. “My question isn’t that, but it is not entirely unrelated to that. Ronald, you are aware, even though we have not given it publicity, that two attempts have recently been made on my life.”
Reagan was cautious. “Yes,” he said. “We were told about it. We were all very pleased that they weren’t successful. But things like that are hardly surprising, Mikhail. I nearly died a few years ago from an assassin’s bullet, and President Ford was shot at two times, and of course there was Kennedy.”
“Yes, Ronald. I know there are always risks in being a chief of state. But what I want to hear from you is one thing: that you were not personally involved in either of those two attempts on my life.”
Ronald Reagan paused. He would give himself the few seconds’ time he desperately needed. He leaned over and touched a buzzer on the coffee table between them. Instantly the door opened and an aide said, “Mr. President?”
“Er, bring us a little tea. I think that would be nice, Mikhail, no?”
Gorbachev nodded.
Well, this is it, Reagan thought.
He did not know what evidence the Kremlin had got together on Cyclops. He decided he dared not risk saying to Gorbachev anything that Gorbachev could establish to be false. So he said, “Mikhail. Let me give you, in turn, my personal and most solemn word that no American official was in any way involved in the attempts on your life.”
“Did any American official know there would be attempts on my life?”
The killer question. But he could handle it by just the slightest shift in perspective. “I can tell you this, Mikhail. That when at one point I got wind of what was being planned I sent our top man to Moscow with instructions to take any measure necessary—including the betrayal of our Soviet contact—to abort the operation. That he did not arrive in time I deeply regret. There now, you have my word, and I know that you will never uncover a scintilla of evidence that contradicts anything I have told you. I would therefore appreciate it if we could call it quits on this discussion.”
The tea materialized at this moment, and Gorbachev was now making routine comments to his interpreter, or so Reagan judged, because they were not relayed to him by his own interpreter. A steward served the tea.
Reagan said, “Mikhail, let me show you something Frank Sinatra showed me. Here”—Reagan advanced his freshly poured tea to within reach of Gorbachev. “Stick your finger in my tea. Yes, your finger, your index finger. Go ahead! Don’t hesitate.” Gorbachev did so, and quickly withdrew his finger.
“Now look,” Reagan said, lifting the teacup to his lips. “Watch me. I can drink from the teacup”—he took a few sips. “It’s quite incredible. The tissues in the mouth are stronger, more resistant to heat than even the finger of somebody like you and me … both of us men who, in our youths, toughened our hands with hard work. Quite amazing, no?”
Gorbachev nodded. “Yes. It is quite amazing.” He looked directly at Ronald Reagan. “I shall try it on Raisa.”
CHAPTER 36
JUNE 1995
Ronald Reagan dictated most letters, but often he liked to compose letters he particularly cared about by hand—on yellow legal pads, to be typed later by his secretary. This sunny California morning, after reading the reports on Senator Blanton’s speech in the Senate, on reaching his office in Los Angeles he pulled out a pad from his drawer. “Dear Mikhail,” he began.
Ten days later he was handed a letter—unopened, because the sender’s name was among the dozen his staff knew were privileged. These letters went to the former President’s desk.
Reagan took the ornate, jeweled mini-sword, a gift from King Hassan, and slit open the envelope, on the back of which was engraved in English, THE GORBACHEV FOUNDATION * MOSCOW.
He read first the covering letter, then the second letter. The first letter read, “Dear Ronald: I quite understand, and indeed I agree with your analysis. Accordingly, I am enclosing a second letter. Do with it as you like. Raisa joins me in warmest regards to you and Nancy.”
Reagan
called in his secretary, indicating that he wished to dictate. She turned on his dictaphone.
“Dear Senator Blanton: I have read the newspaper accounts of your speech on the matter of the Blanton bill and your arguments to forbid covert operations. In that speech you said that although you had no concrete evidence to back you up, you were morally certain that a covert operation undertaken during my Administration ‘shook the Kremlin to the point that President Gorbachev actually contemplated a demonstration nuclear strike in protest.’
“I thought these to be matters of common concern, not only to Americans but also to Russians, and others who were once a part of the Soviet Union. Accordingly, I wrote to Mr. Gorbachev, forwarding the account of your remarks.
“I have today a reply from him touching on the matters you raise. Since the vote on your bill is scheduled for sometime in the next few days, I am faxing you a copy of the letter from Mr. Gorbachev. A copy is also going to the editor of the Washington Times.
“With all good wishes,
“I am sincerely,
“Ronald Reagan”
The next day’s headline in the Washington Times ran across the entire front page. Directly under it the text appeared of the letter from Mikhail Gorbachev to Ronald Reagan dated June 10, 1995. The letter read:
President Ronald Reagan
11000 Wilshire Boulevard
Los Angeles 90024
Dear Ronald:
Thank you for sending me the notice of the speech by Senator Hugh Blanton. What the Congress does about the bill is, needless to say, entirely the business of Congress. But since you solicit my own views on the question, they are that covert activity is a very useful weapon of defense in a world in which there are both terrible tensions, and terrible weapons. I have previously acknowledged that your covert U-2’s discovery of the nuclear missiles Mr. Khrushchev dispatched to Cuba was a fine example of useful covert action. Both of us, when we occupied high offices, were objects of attempted assassination. I am sure that you wished, as I certainly did, that covert action had protected us against these attempts by disorderly men. If our agents in America had learned that an attempted assassination was in prospect, we would certainly have advised you even as, I am certain, as much would be true in reversed circumstances.
A Very Private Plot Page 21
